The haunting pictures of human frenzy, that mark the memory of November 9^th 1989, are immortalised in our memory as the day that changed the shape of Europe forever.

For on that ordinary, cold November day in Germany, its people toppled not only a 140 km wall, but also a communist and Soviet regime that had spanned for decades.

East Germany was suffering in desperate poverty, while West Germany sat next to it, guiltily rich in comparison. Forbidden from building houses or even repairing broken ones, the place fell into disrepair and slums. Families were separated by the divide, the nation was held breathless in the grip of communism.

Guarding the divide was not only the Berlin Wall, but also a continuous line of high metal fences, barbed wire, watchtowers, booby-traps and minefields.

The guards with rifles slung over their shoulders sat on roof tops and in their observation towers. Only old people were allowed to live closest to the wall because they were too frail to make any attempts to escape. On top of the wall with the broken glass cemented in place, a brave soul might make it through all the obstacles only to have their hands shredded to pieces. If that wasn’t grizzly enough, the crosses on the Western side showing how far someone had made it before being shot down, painted a picture of heartless repression.

A prison, more then a border, citizens were murdered trying to cross it. Gamblers of luck tried sneaking over, the frustrated and fatalistic tried jumping it, angry plotters smashed trucks and cars into it, attempting to knock it down. It was a virtual and a visible barrier, a nightmare they never woke up from.

Among the colourless landscape, the lack of colour and billboards, the empty silence of very little traffic, lived the army of Stasi who pried into every aspect of the East Germans lives. The Stasi possessed spies, both paid and unpaid. Some estimates say there was one for every six and a half members of the population. Success was unheard of in East Germany and involved a pact with the devil – if you wanted to attend a university, enter a sports-club, become a lawyer or marry a foreigner, you would pay with your soul.

For anyone who didn’t experience the Germany in that time, it is hard to imagine what an overwhelming feeling of relief, joy, and unreality took over them the day the Berlin wall was finally brought down.

Suddenly, the years of degrading searches at border crossings like Checkpoint Charlie, the separation of loved ones, walled in on the Eastern side, ended in an instant.

There was a man who had been working in West Berlin on the day the wall went up in August 13, 1961 – he never got back to East Berlin that night. He was seen walking to the wall every so often wearing a bright red shirt. One Easter morning on the other side his wife and daughter, held up some babies for him to see as he peered through his binoculars at them – that was how he saw his grandchildren. Moments later the women put the children back in the prams and hurried off. Not long after an East German police car went by.

Most people on both sides were unquestioningly aware something wasn’t right with this way of life. Others blindly followed, afraid to speak up. For decades the dogs and soldiers with machine guns guarded the main streets of Berlin, cut off by this cold, hard cement wall symbolic of Soviet control.

Images of people standing on the wall the day it came down are rife. An image of revolution as the guards looked on, powerless to stop them. There were those who carried sledgehammers to smash the wall. There were tears and laughter, joy and celebration. And finally a large chunk of the wall was knocked down. The reign of power was over.

Poland, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria and Czechoslovakia all saw a revolution of their own not long after that. Then the inevitable happened: the dissolution of the USSR and the Eastern Bloc countries joining of the EU.  
It was a turning point for our cosy little Europe as countries queued to be allowed in. The Czech Republic and Estonia, Hungary and Poland, Romania and Bulgaria and many others. Suddenly Europe wasn’t so cosy anymore – we were stronger.

Europe’s freedom of expression, rights and courage, suddenly rested on the unity and democracy of both our Eastern and Western countries.  
A united Germany became the economic wheelhouse of Europe. The young moved on and some never looked back. But some of the old never could. Even the Stasi themselves were somewhat victims. The old Stasi men have been found living in the same drab houses in compounds on the outskirts of Potsdam; the same stained high rise blocks in East Berlin, frequenting the same pubs they did when they were members of the Stasi. They show it’s hard to change what you’ve known for so long. But Germany has moved on.
Like Ireland, it owes much of its present success to Europe. Throughout history the EU has never been more united. Together with Europe, and while going it alone too, we are doing well.
The past will never be forgotten by Germany or the rest of Europe affected by the Soviets communist clutches. The Berlin Wall may have been smashed down, but it helped build the Europe of the future.

Panel

The European Commission Representation in Ireland:

• Is part of the Commission’s network of representative offices throughout the Member States of the European Union.
• Ensures that citizens’ voices are heard in the corridors of power in Brussels.
• Communicates EU affairs at both national and local levels.
• Provides information to Irish people on the changes and recent developments in Brussels.
• Gathers information and keeps the Commission in Brussels informed of various political, social and economic developments in Ireland.
• As part of their expanding listening function, the Representation plan to conduct public consultations on various ideas that the Commission is developing.

The Lives of Others

Rating: *****

The Lives of Others is a 2006 German political drama and it was the film debut of writer and director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck. The film is set in 1984 East Germany and is essentially about agents from the Stasi monitoring the activities of artists. It won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film and received wide critical acclaim upon its release.

The film starts with a prisoner being taken into an interrogation room where he is questioned regarding suspicions that he knows the names of people who helped someone flee East Germany, it then cuts to the interrogator, Weisler, stopping a tape and explaining to a class the different interrogation techniques that he is using. The class finishes and he is joined by Grubitz who invites him to the theatre to see a new play written by political conformist Georg Dreyman that also stars Christa-Maria Sieland.

Grubitz thinks that Dreyman is completely supportive of the countries regime but Weisler has his reservations, Grubitz goes to talk to Minister Bruno Hempf and when he asks him what he makes of Dreyman, Grubitz takes Weisler’s point of view, Hempf agrees and orders Grubitz to have him monitored. Grubitz gives his close friend Weisler the job and within a day Dreyman’s home is fully wired and the surveillance room is set up. Weisler begins 24 hour surveillance of Dreyman and from here this utterly compelling story unfolds.

Whilst watching Dreyman and his partner Christa-Maria, Weisler begins to realise that Dreyman lives a good life; he has a gorgeous girlfriend, reads wonderful books and listens to beautiful music. It slowly dawns on him that in comparison his life is very dull, he proceeds to enter Dreyman’s home and steals a book, he then hires a prostitute to try and make his own existence more exciting. He soon begins to take an added interest in the couple and when Dreyman begins work on an article that could end up with him being locked up he begins to fabricate reports and eventually ends up going to extreme lengths to protect the couple he is watching.

The film shows us that even when we are subjected to extreme oppression free will can still be used and we can still take action to seek justice. Weisler falls in love with the music he hears, he is touched by the lives of the people he is watching and he chooses to deny his superiors and the regime he works to enforce.

The film is extremely well made, it seems quite simple but it is the small details and subtleties of the plot and characterization that make the film so utterly compelling. Weisler becomes attached to the people he is watching but he never really shows it, he remains the same throughout the film, we never know how far he is willing to go to protect the artists he spies on, we can never guess his next course of action, what will he do the next time he sees Grubitz? Will he confess to his fabrications or will he continue to protect Dreyman?

The plot is brilliant as the film slowly builds layer upon layer. It is not the actual events that drive the story on however, it is the characters emotions and how they react to the events that are unfolding around them. The characters are constantly being placed in unbelievably difficult positions. Positions that could determine how the rest of their life goes, whether they can continue with their work, continue writing or acting or continue in the career they have worked all their life for.

The meticulous plotting by writer Donnersmarck is definitely the films biggest strength, you can’t look away for fear of missing something. It allows the tension to build without the characters actually doing much, it is the emotional reactions of Weisler in particular that allow the plot to move forward, the new emotions sneak up on him and it is almost unknown to the audience and it only makes it more convincing.

It’s not just Donnersmarck’s scriptwriting that impresses here though, his direction is also brilliant. The film is slightly stylised but it only adds to the entertainment. It is never shot in over complicated ways and stays pretty simple throughout. The dull colours and drab lighting he uses fit the mood of the film perfectly and it must come close to perfection.

Weisler is played by German actor Ulrich Muhe, an actor scarcely heard of outside Germany before this film, quite how I don’t know. To say his performance in this film is magnificent is a massive understatement, and like the film itself it is the subtleties of his performance that make him so convincing. He rarely shows any emotions but it’s the slight changes in expression, the slight raising of his eyebrows that make his performance so brilliant.

Weisler is without a doubt the best performer but the other actors involved are all brilliant. Martina Gedeck as Christa-Maria is excellent; she fits the role perfectly, and portrays the emotions of the character perfectly. Sebastian Koch is great as Dreyman and again he portrays the emotions and his uncertainties perfectly.

There isn’t much wrong with this film, the ending is heartfelt and you may well notice a lump in your throat as the final credits roll. The direction is great and the script is awesome. It is the subtleties of the film that make it so good, it is a tense political drama and I don’t think anyone should dismiss it. It is most certainly a must see.

Recently I’ve discovered a volume devoted to exploring the development and experience of life in East Germany. Katherine Pence and Paul Betts, Editors of the volume entitled East German everyday culture and politics (University of Michigan Press, 2008), write in the Introduction that

The reunification of Germany in 1989 may have put an end to the experiment in East German communism, but its historical assessment is far from over.

East German everyday culture and politics

They indicate that most of the literature over the past two decades has been driven by the desire to uncover the relationship between power and resistance, but now the study of the everyday history of East German citizens advances to the forefront.

One of the articles in the book is written by Dagmar Herzog and entitled ‘East Germany’s Sexual Revolution’ (p. 71). The issue of FKK (Freikörperkultur), an important part of GDR culture, is touched upon as well. I’d like to give a few quotes from the article that may shed some light on the place nudism occupied in the life of East German people.

Starting in the middle of the 1960s nude bathing became acceptable for growing numbers of GDR citizens, and by the 1970s full nudity was clearly the norm at GDR beaches, lakeside or oceanside. Early attempts by municipal authorities to prevent this practice were simply overridden by the adamant masses, who stripped and would not move.

I found out a wonderful formulation dating back to 1956 (?): “… Nudism is a threat to public safety and it harms our workers. It is a life style of intellectuals and artists, not of workers.”

Berlin, Strandfest am Müggelsee

Nakedness for the whole family also within the home became increasingly standard practice as well, especially for that generation that had grown up together with the GDR…

The researcher writes that from the point of view of West Germans, the East German habit of naked display at the beach was variously interpreted as quaint and odd, as a trifle disturbing, or as (misplaced) compensation for East Germans’ lack of political independence.

After the reunification of Germany, the West Germans achieved what the GDR police had failed to do decades earlier.

The flood of Western pornography effectively demolished the Eastern culture of nakedness. … Many East German women no longer felt safe going naked now that they were viewed with Western men’s “pornographically schooled gaze” (pornographisch geschulter Blick). And they did begin to cover themselves.

I’ve chosen only a few quotes from the article and hope that this citation will not deprive the whole article of interest. The article is informative and allows to see the issue from the wider perspective.

Comments also at: billhoner9@gmail.com

Lou finds his dreams of world travel fulfilled by a wild ride that takes him to Hong Kong, the magical “El Fna” square in Marrakech, Kuala Lumpur, the Amazon River, the jungles of
northern Guatemala, and many other destinations. He often travels with his good friend Carl, a brilliant chemist by profession who ingests homemade chemical compounds while living slightly
to the left of sanity. Lou rides the “Magic Bus” between Istanbul and the Serbian city of Nis, meets beautiful ladies from Northern Europe while living on the Spanish island of Mallorca, and
experiences adventures, the comic, and the erotic as he enjoys the sexual freedom of the sixties and seventies. He learns of the dangers facing an American traveling alone behind the “Iron
Curtain” of Eastern Europe as he crosses the Berlin Wall into East Germany and Czechoslovakia. Readers will hopefully find pleasure in sharing the ride. Although a work of fiction, the novel was inspired by the author’s independent travels to more than fifty counties throughout the world.
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The Queens Traveler
By Bill Honer
Copyright 2000
2009 edition
Pages: 186
Reader screens: 706

This novel is dedicated to my father John Honer, with gratitude for providing his children with loving affection and encouragement, along with a philosophy of life based on compassion, social justice, and the sensibility that life is to be enjoyed, not simply endured. Bill Honer, 2009                                                                                                            3

Introduction

Lou is a New Yorker who makes the most of life in the late sixties and early seventies, an era  known for sexual freedom,and for some Americans, world travel. A social worker who has
worked inside some of New York’s most infamous prisons with hard-core murderers and other violent offenders, Lou travels with Carl, a brilliant chemist by profession who spends
considerable time ingesting homemade chemical compounds while living slightly to the left of sanity.

Dreams of world travel are fulfilled by visiting Hong Kong, the wild “El Fna” square in Marrakech, Kuala Lumpur, the Amazon River, the jungles of northern Guatemala, and many
other places. Lou attends a major trial of heroine smugglers in Hong Kong, rides the “Magic Bus” between Istanbul and the Serbian city of Nis, meets beautiful ladies from Northern Europe
while living on the Spanish island of Mallorca, and has his share of exotic experiences. He learns the dangers facing an American traveling alone behind the Iron Curtain of Eastern Europe during
the seventies as he crosses the Berlin Wall as he visits the former East Germany and Czechoslovakia.

While all characters in the novel are fictional, the novel was inspired by my experiences traveling independently to more than 50 countries around the world. I had considered writing a
memoir, but decided that some readers might well reject some of the more outrageous events in my life as sheer fiction; writing a fictional novel eliminates such concerns.  The novel is a wild ride that I hope will prove enjoyable for the reader. Bill Honer 2009
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Part I: New York City
5
Chapter I
Queens 1969: Lou Shares the Moon landing with the Mafia

Lou lived in Forest Hills; his apartment was located on Burns Street and Yellowstone Boulevard. The view from the terrace included Forest Hills and Middle Village. For a city location, there
were many trees to admire on a spring day.

New York in the sixties was highly segregated. The primary difference between Johannesberg and New York was that apartheid had not been formally codified into law, but New Yorkers in
the sixties knew the unwritten rules of discrimination. Black people in Forest Hills were largely a rumor, while White people in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn were a miracle.
Forest Hills had good Jewish delicatessens and restaurants; there were also numerous cocktail lounges along Queens Boulevard, most of which were believed to be mob-controlled.
Lou had his phone number listed in the Queens directory. Sometimes, he received from former inmates who wanted to talk to their old social worker.

Margot, his lady friend, was getting ready to leave with him to attend an antiwar rally at United Nations Plaza. Thousands of people were taking the day off from work to protest the
Vietnam War. Peter, Paul, and Mary, the folk singers, would be there. The protest leaders would no doubt have ample criticisms of President Nixon’s policies. Lou and Margot considered the
President a craven politician with limited sensibilities; they had labored hard to convince friends at college to vote for the Democratic candidate Hubert Humphrey, but to no avail. It promised to be an interesting day.

They were an attractive couple; Lou was six feet tall, with blue-green eyes and a slender build,while Margot was a brown-haired beauty with a hint of Asian features.
6
As they were leaving, the phone rang; it was Johnny Manning, an ex-convict that Lou had worked with inside Dannemora prison; he wanted to get together that evening. They agreed to
meet at a bar on Queens Boulevard. This seemed a good idea because it happened to be the night of the moon landing; they would be able to see history made on a good television screen rather than the old Salvation Army purchased television sitting in the living room.
Lou had met Johnny while doing research with multiple felony offenders; there was a directness about him which was reflected in his crime of choice, which was armed robbery.

“Look Lou, Johnny had once said to him, “I’m not going to try to present myself other than how I am. I am a thief, and I am not likely to change; it may not be the greatest thing in the
world, but that is what I am.”

Johnny had first been arrested when he was sixteen years old. Due to prior convictions for theft, he was labeled “incorrigible” and sent to the Auburn State Prison for men. He was not
released until he was twenty-one. Johnny once spoke about the day that he was freed.

“They gave me a white shirt, black suit and shoes, and two hundred dollars; then the bulls drove me down to the train station. When I was sitting in the train, I felt that everyone was staring at
me because of the suit; local people knew that was the station where prisoners boarded the train.”

“Sometimes, the bulls bring a con handcuffed because they are taking him to a funeral in the city, so anyway there I am feeling like everyone is looking at me. I just kept staring out the
window and avoiding eye contact. When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I still felt that everyone was staring at me and could tell I was a con because of that fucking suit. I called home
and told my Mom to send my cousin Joey over with pants and a shirt for me. I went into the men’s room and changed; then I took a cab over to Greenpoint. I swear to God, Lou, it was only
when I was out of that suit and into other clothes that I felt like I was out of prison.” he said.
7
The Enchanted Evening Lounge looked like a connected place; it was dimly lit, with a beige satin dropped ceiling. The seats were oversized white leatherette and were very comfortable.
Upon sitting, one descended ten inches. Sinatra was singing “There’s a Small Hotel” from the juke box. Other than two men seated at the bar, the place was empty. Lou ordered two Schaefer
beers, their New York brew of choice.

Lou discreetly observed the two men at the bar; both were wearing black suits and white shirts; the expensive clothes suggested Wall Street. However, the large hands, heavy eyebrow ridges,
and long sideburns indicated ties to the mob. One said, “Hey Gizzooch. I bet you five bucks you can’t name the seven dwarfs!”
The other gangster looked at his colleague carefully to make certain that he wasn’t bullshitting him; he wasn’t. “Joey!” he yelled to the bartender. “Did you hear what Frankie said? I
win five bucks for naming the seven dwarfs. Okay, you animal, listen good you animal, Dopey, Grumpy,
Sleepy…” Frankie shook his head and opened his wallet to retrieve a five dollar bill, saying “I didn’t think you were that smart, go figure.”

Lou and Margot sat quietly sipping their Schaefer beers. It was becoming clear why Johnny had chosen this bar; his “homeboys” from Attica and Dannemora congregated there. Their sense
of civic responsibility was limited to a monthly visit to the office of their respective parole agents. Rather than make Margot and Lou nervous, it had precisely the opposite effect. They felt

safe and secure; no one would be robbing a “connected” establishment. In the early seventies, there were three streets in the Bronx named Fox, Simpson, and Tiffany which were known to be very rough places to live. Crime statistics revealed that a person living on those streets had a one in eighteen chance of becoming a homicide victim, not even a twenty-to-one shot! On the otherhand, persons living where the Mafia did in the Bensonhurstsection of Brooklyn had a one in twelve                                                                          hundred chance of becoming a crime victim! Lou and Margot continued to talk softly, although it was more fun to overhear the mobsters’ conversation.

“Hey, Frankie, my cousin said to me that he thought he seen you working at a store on West Thirty-seventh Street. I told him he gotta stop eating those mushrooms.” said Grizzooch, as he
gave everyone his best Cro-Magnon smile.
Frankie laughed “Working? Ya gotta be kidding me. I ain’t worked since that time in the fifties when Carmine got us that job painting one of the bridges. I think we lasted three days.
This friend of Carmine’s comes over with an Irish guy and says that Mike is our crew chief and that if we got any questions, all we gotta do is ask Mike. So me being a smart ass, I say to him,
‘Listen, Mike. Do you think Ericco can get that pig he is riding home first in the sixth at Aqueduct?’ So the Mick just looks at me with a hard stare and says, ‘This is a bridge, not the
track. So get to work.’ I look surprised and says, ‘You mean this ain’t the track? I must a taken a wrong turn and I’m in the wrong place; thanks for telling me.’ You shoudda seen the look on the
Irishman’s face when I walked off. He started yelling ‘Where are you going?’ I yelled back, ‘I’m going to the Big A, where do you think I’m going?’ said Frankie.

Even the bartender laughed at that one. Finally Johnny entered the club, shook hands with the mobsters, and came over to the table.
“Margot, this is my old friend Johnny.” said Lou.
“Hi Johnny, I’m glad to meet you.” said Margot.
“Same here Margot, I hope you don’t mind spending the evening with these goombas,” said Johnny, pointing to the gangsters at the bar.
“This place has a colorful atmosphere. I’m enjoying myself.” said Margot.
“I go back a long time with those guys; we are all graduates of the University of Sing-Sing.”
he added.
9
“What was your major?” she asked.

“Armed Robbery,” replied Johnny.

“I heard that you were indicted last year for that two million dollar armored truck robbery at Aqueduct racetrack.” said Lou.
“That is true, but not at this moment; it seems the District Attorney had trouble getting a trial date and finding witnesses, so the case was dismissed with the right to represent.” he said with a
tight smile.

Johnny leaned over in conspiratorial fashion. “About two months ago, my lawyer calls me and tells me to get down to La Fontana restaurant on Queens Boulevard at one o’clock. He had
arranged a meeting with Carmine Mosca, who has a lot of political connections. There we are having some pasta and wine. My lawyer turns to Carmine and says, “Carmine, I want you to
know that Johnny is a good boy, but he has a very big problem with the Aqueduct armored truck indictment. I thought that we might at least let you know about it,’ he said. Carmine just kept
eating his penne pasta, not saying much at all. My lawyer was doing most of the talking. After drinking his espresso, Carmine walks out. My lawyer turns to me and says, ‘It will cost you
twenty-five grand to get the indictment dismissed.’ I said to him ‘How do you know that?’ He picks up Carmine’s napkin and shows me a small 25K printed in the corner. I couldn’t figure out
how he wrote it; he must have done that many times. All I know is that the case against me was dismissed yesterday.” he said.
“It’s too bad that one of the guards had to be a hero and go for his gun.” Johnny continued .

“He shot Billy Jackson in the chest; his brother Eddie freaked out when he saw his brother lying there dead, and he began pumping bullets into the guard. So for playing a hero protecting
someone else’s money, that guard wound up dead.” he said shaking his head.

“Two million was a lot of money, but it never brought anyone luck.” he added.
10
The television announcers were busily building the suspense of the moon landing. The gangsters at the bar were even beginning to pay more attention to the event.

Margot was originally from a small community in western New York. This was her first meeting with a professional criminal. She found him charming in a boyish way; it made her
forget that he made his living by sticking a thirty-eight in people’s faces. “Johnny,” said Lou, “please tell Margot about the candy store incident.” asked Lou.

Johnny laughed. “So you want me to be the one to corrupt Margot’s view of New York’s finest? All right.” he said.
“I had been out on parole for a while; the Green Point cops were always busting my chops for the sheer fun of it. They had nothing on me and that made them mad; not that I was leading a
clean life, but we won’t go into what I was doing. One night I was with a woman whom I had known for awhile. It was Saturday night, we visited some clubs in Manhattan, and got back to
Green Point around four in the morning. Now I have a routine that I follow. On Sunday mornings, I go to my Mom’s candy store and help her with the Sunday newspaper inserts. The
problem was that Margie just kept hanging around the store, pestering me to pay attention to her; when I kept working, she started pushing on my shoulders.” said Johnny.

“That made me mad, so I grabbed her arm and pushed her out of the store and locked the front door; then I pulled the shades down so she couldn’t see me.”

“Margie started banging on the door so hard I thought she would break the glass. Meanwhile, she was out there on the street calling me every name in the book. After awhile, things went quiet outside; I figured that she got tired and went home. Well the next thing I know, two cops are pounding on the door. When  I opened it, they grabbed me and tell me that I am being arrested for assault against one Margie Riordan. I told them what happened and that it was
nothing but a bum beef, but these guys knew all about my past, and were not about to give 11                                                                                                               11
me a pass. I said to them, ‘Look, guys. Can I at least make a phone call before you take me in?’ They weren’t happy about it, but they weren’t bad guys. I called a good friend named Joey and told
him to meet me at the station house with a thousand in cash. Joey was a player, he knew that money could grease the wheels of justice with the Green Point detectives.”

“They put me in a holding cell after they booked me; I was a little worried because I was still on parole. Then I saw a detective named Schuster walking toward the cell; that was when I knew
my problems would soon be over. Schuster couldn’t be straight with the help of a fucking ruler, excuse my French Margot. He took me to an interview room and closed the door. At first, he
didn’t say anything. He just read the paperwork on me slowly. Finally, he looks up and says, ‘Johnny, it looks like you’ve been a bad boy again. Aren’t you still on parole? This won’t look
good. No sir,’ he said shaking his head.”

“Look Detective Schuster, this is a bad rap. I swear to God all I did was shove her outside because she was pushing on my shoulders while I was trying to get the Sunday papers ready for
my Mom, I said to him.”
‘Oh yeah,’ says Schuster. ‘You were always a fucking boy scout.’
“Look detective,” I says “Can’t we do something to work this out? I’m telling you there is nothing to this case. Couldn’t five hundred wrap this up? I mean for the inconvenience and
everything?”

“He looked at me real hard. ‘I think you are minimizing the inconvenience Johnny.’ he says.

“The greedy fuck, excuse my language again Margot, wanted the full yard, so I tell him Joey has the money in the waiting area. Schuster left me and went out to see Joey; he was stuffing the
envelope in his pocket as he returned to the interview room.” continued Johnny.
12

“Now the son of a bitch is all smiles. He picks up the inkwell on his desk and proceeds to pour the ink onto the police report. Then he looked up at me, smiled and said. ‘See, Johnny,
accidents happen.’ “That’s great, Schuster,” I said. “Can I go home now?”

‘Sure, no problem, but you still gotta go to Court. he says.”
“Go to Court? I screamed at him. I just paid you a grand to handle this piece of bullshit, and I gotta go to Court?”
“He said ‘Look Johnny, calm down and relax. You got my word the case will be dismissed.

‘It’s just that there is already some paperwork for a court date, but I guarantee you the witness will not show up. I’m telling you can forget this ever happened.’ Sure enough, he was right. I
went to Court and the case was dismissed for lack of evidence; Margie didn’t show up.” said Johnny.

“Later, I found out what really happened that day in court. Schuster and his partner went to see Margie early in the morning. They told her I had been spotted on Staten Island. ‘We need
you to make a positive identification; can you come with us?’ they told her. So they gave Margie the grand tour of Staten Island and she never made it to Court.” said Johnny.

“Johnny, do many New York police take money?” asked Margot.
“Only those who are offered money accept. It is considered bad etiquette to refuse, and New York cops like to be polite.” said Johnny smiling.

Margot became pensive. “That is awful; I had no idea things were so bad.” she said.
“I knew a man whose uncle was a detective with the New York City police. He said his uncle told him that on the first day of each month, a cop would walk through the squad room and slap
an envelope filled with cash down on each desk.” said Lou.
“My only complaint about them is that they are so greedy,” Johnny lamented. “No matter how much you give them, they always want more.” he said.
13

“This was not discussed in my criminology class.” said Margot shaking her head. The bartender raised the television volume; the first astronaut from the earth was stepping onto the surface of the moon. Even the two gangsters appeared to be engrossed in the historic  moment.

“Hey Gizzooch! Look at this.” said Frankie.

“Frankie, you wonder how they can tap a phone?” said Gizzooch. This was the relevance of the moon landing to the Mafia.
The evening passed quickly and pleasantly, with a few more mobsters arriving; the juke box appeared to be dedicated exclusively to Frank Sinatra. When it was time to leave, Johnny stayed behind with his friends.

“That was different.” said Margot, as they walked hand-in-hand down Queens Boulevard. It was a beautiful night; the lights from apartments in the high-rise buildings dotted the urban
landscape. It was a pleasant walk home.

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Chapter II
Albany 1969: The “Psycho-ceramics” Weekend

Lou often visited friends in Albany on the weekend. His friend Beth’s apartment in Albany was illuminated exclusively by colored lights; there were green, red, and orange bulbs. Even the
refrigerator contained a rose colored lamp. If smoking grass resulted in the munchies, the subdued lighting enabled them to conduct a search and destroy mission in the food box without
having their bloodshot eyes assaulted by white light. Since they liked to read, two white light bulbs were kept in a handy location and could be screwed into a light fixture when needed.

Beth was lovely and gracious; she made Lou feel as though it was his apartment whenever he came up from the city. The relationship between Margot and Lou was not exclusive.
Beth was a graduate student at the state university; Lou was strongly attracted to her. In fact, he had a difficult time keeping his hands off her well-rounded bottom. Fortunately for Lou, she
never complained; the attraction was reciprocal.

The big weekend was starting that night; Carl the chemist was coming from the North Country, along with Bob the mathematician, while Jim and Lorraine were coming from New
York City. Even Nicko was taking the weekend away from his work at Broadway Burlesque to join the party.

Beth performed a final inspection of the premises. After viewing the supplies of grass, wine, cheese, coffee, bread, pasta, sauces, and salads, she was satisfied. The party should start around
seven on Thursday and continue until Sunday evening. Past experience had taught them that a Friday to Sunday party was simply not long enough.

Nicko was the first to arrive. His long black hair extended over his leather jacket, he was wearing rose-tinted glasses and wore a facial expression that was even more haggard than usual.
15

“What a night! I worked the Lexington for eight hours. Two of the strippers did not show up, so everyone else was mad about having to do extra shows; then I went home with Helen Bed; it
was a long night with her. She lasted two hours with the vibrator after we took some Jamaican ganja weed. I woke up at about eight-thirty this morning, and there was Helen was pushing on
my shoulders saying ‘C’mon, Nicko you promised to whip me this morning.’ And you know, I hadn’t even had my coffee.” he said, pleading for understanding.

Lou sympathized with Nicko on the rigors of an evening with Helen. He had done it one time and thought he might have to undergo physical rehabilitation in order to walk erect again.
Lou offered Nicko some food, wine, and smoke, placing a Bill Evans album on the stereo.

Nicko was an electronics specialist by profession; however, he was going through an unpleasant divorce and preferred to earn less these days, lest his soon-to-be ex-wife receive any additional
money from him before the final decree.

He was kind and generous, except when his former consort was concerned. She still lived in the same three-story brownstone building in Brooklyn. Nicko took a hit off a thick joint Lou
had rolled for his companions. “I nailed the old lady and her Japanese boyfriend last night with a pincer movement.” he said happily.

When pressed for an explanation, Nicko replied “Well you see, we have been plagued with roaches. So I sprayed my own first floor apartment and also the one on the third floor. It drove
all the roaches into her apartment on the second floor. It was beautiful!” he said joyfully.

It was time to change topics. Nicko could discuss art, jazz, French literature, and a wide range of philosophy, but it was important to avoid conversations about his ex-wife.

Carl was the next to arrive. He was smoking his pipe as he cheerily strolled in and said, “Hi, everybody! I hope you are. If not, I have something that could put a smile on John Mitchell’s
face.” he beamed.
16

Nicko smiled. “What is the world like these days in the North Country?” he inquired.

“It’s still colder than a witch’s tit! There are fools who are still taking their Cadillacs out on the ice in Lake Champlain.” he said.
“What do they do out there?” asked Lou.
“They cut a hole in the ice, fish, drink beer, and feel like they are in paradise because their wives never go along.” answered Carl.
“It really gets cold up there.” said Nicko.
Carl was now waxing on an inescapable topic for the Plattsburgh residents of the North Country; it could not be ignored any more than a heart attack.

“I’ll tell you a true story Nicko. As you know, there is a prison outside of town called Dannemora. Several years ago a convict escaped in January. There were roadblocks all over the
place, with dozens of police carrying shotguns. The first day went by without a trace of the prisoner. On the second day, a squad car was about a mile away from the main road. Suddenly,
they saw the escapee running up to them, waiving his hands frantically.”

‘I never thought you would get here, I’m freezing!’ he said. They couldn’t get him back inside the walls fast enough to for his liking. That’s why the inmates call the place Little
Siberia.” said Carl.

Lou decided to roll another joint as they reflected on the meteorological vagaries of the North
Country. The doorbell rang; Lorraine and Jim had arrived. They had seen the latest Woody Allen comedy called “Sleeper”; everyone was interested learning whether it was a good film.
“It was funnier than hearing Nixon sing ‘Mammy’.” quipped Loraine.

“How is life in the City?” Lou inquired.

“Well, it isn’t easy getting gas, I can tell you that. I had to get up at five o’clock to get some.

The oil companies are making the shortage appear worse than it is by not unloading the oil from

17

the ships. I visited my family in Bensonhurst yesterday. From the Fort Hamilton parkway, you could see the tankers sitting low in the water; they are holding a lot of oil.” he added.
“It’s a shame.” Said Carl.
“This is good stuff” said Beth “I think it put half the campus to sleep last night.”

Everyone took a toke and passed it to the next person. Lou put John Coltrane’s “Equinox” on the stereo; the group grew silent as they became absorbed in the music.

“I had a funny thing happen to me last night at the Broadway.” said Nicko. All present knew Nicko was the backstage floor director at Lexington Burlesque who provided audio and lighting
support for the show.

“It was about two-thirty a.m., we had just completed the last show. There was Misty Lake, Golden Shanna, and Gimme More.”
“Gimme says, ‘Listen, Nicko, here we are baring our asses all night long; the least you can do is give us a little dance.”
“So I put on a G-strong and pasties. I showed them how to work the audio and microphone and went out onto the stage and did a five-minute strip number for them. They were yelling and
cheering me on to continue the strip routine until I was naked.” said Nicko.

“I am very pleased to report that my genitals received a standing ovation! Then I feel asleep in the boss’s office. The next morning, Murray, the manager, shows up.” Continued Nicko.
“There I am, asleep in his easy chair, and all I’m wearing are the pasties and the G-string.”

‘Nicko!’ he yells at me ‘For Christ’s sake, I know boys have to be girls, but not on my time!’
“You can imagine the bullshit I put up with the rest of the day. He kept telling all the ladies ‘Nicko didn’t take a walk on the wild side, he took a five-mile run.’ From now on, I’m sticking
strictly to floor directions and ass-grabbing, no more dancing.” Nicko said emphatically.

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Lou sympathized with Nicko in having to deal with Murray. As an occasional weekend announcer and stage manager himself at the Broadway, he knew that Murray enjoyed being a
ball-breaker when he was not occupied trying to convince a new dancer to lay down on the ‘casting couch,’ which consisted of an old green sofa that he had no doubt rescued from his most
recent divorce. In his free moments, Murray would walk around the theater like the lord of an English manor. His only regret was that he was not fluent in Japanese and was therefore unable
to communicate with the majority of the club’s patrons.
He was short, fat, and sloppily dressed. Murray did not walk, he waddled. If a group of young ducklings ever took a wrong turn and wound up on Lexington Avenue when Murray was
out for a stroll, they probably would imprint and waddle right behind him. He was unfamiliar with the art galleries and museums New York had to offer, viewing an excursion to Aqueduct
race track in Queens as a cultural activity.

Lou remembered a day when he and Nicko were talking in the control room at the Broadway. They were discussing Solzenhitzyn’s book, “The First Circle.” Murray came into the room and listened to the conversation for a few seconds. “Solzenhitzyn?” said Murray. Isn’t he the guy that the Giants traded to the Raiders last year?” he asked.he only book Murray had been known to read was “Lesbian Cowgirls at the Lavender Corral”; it took him six months to read it.
Explaining the writings of Alexander Solzenhitzyn to Murray would not be easy. Lou had taken the easy way out. “Murray, you have it wrong about Solzenhitzyn. It wasn’t last year the
Giants traded him, it was two years ago.” Lou said.
“Oh,” replied Murray. “I thought it was last year.” Murray replied as he waddled back to the plate of cold spaghetti in his office.
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Lorraine had a story to tell. She worked as a nurse in Manhattan, often visiting patients in their homes. One of my elderly patients has a daughter named Marsha. She and I became friends; sometimes we go to films and concerts together, especially when Jim was visiting his family in Brooklyn.” said Lorraine.
”Marsha never married; her greatest passion in life was listening to the Beatles. We went to a showing of the “Yellow Submarine” at the Regency Theater. There were several people in the
row behind us who were making some mildly critical comments about the acting ability of John  Lennon. Suddenly, Marsha stood up and turned to face them, saying ‘John Lennon is a great
man!’ It was touching to see such a normally mild-mannered person rise to a level of dignified passion.” said Lorraine.
Jim nudged Lorraine ”Tell everyone about Marsha’s mother.”
Lorraine laughed.

“Well, her mother’s name is Erma. I went with Marsha to visit her at the nursing home. She is frail, but her mind is very sharp. She is opposed to the war; Erma never refers to Nixon by
name. It is always ‘that creep in the White House.’ She told me ‘Never trust anyone who goes on television with a dog on his lap.’ Marsha thought it was wonderful that her mother kept up on
politics.” continued Lorraine.

“What bothered Marsha was that her mother, despite her advanced age, seemed obsessed with sex. While we were sitting in the dining room, another resident came in; he looked to be in
his early seventies. His name was Harry; he wore a gray suit and a tie, and looked as if he paid considerable attention to his appearance.” continued Lorraine.

“‘Good morning Erma, good morning folks, nice day.’ he said graciously.”

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‘Erma winked at him and said, ‘Harry, I would really like to get something straight between us!’ Well! Marsha almost lost her Viennese coffee.” said Lorranie.

“Harry looked at her quizzically. ‘What would that be, Erma?’ he asked innocently.”
“She looked at us and shook her head. ‘Harry may be seventy-two, but he is still a babe in the woods. He thinks “Deep Throat” is a medical condition, but he is nice looking and presentable,
don’t you think?’ she inquired of us. Harry did not seem to know what to make of the conversation. ‘Erma is a great kidder.’ he said.”
‘Listen, sweetie pie, when it comes to you, I am as serious as a brain tumor. Let’s take a trip to Paris, shall we? The left bank is so colorful.’ she added brightly.”

“Harry appeared inclined toward the literal. He relied ‘Well, Erma, my grandchildren are coming from Texas next month.’ This acknowledgement of familial ties seemed to irritate Erma.
‘Screw the granchildren! It’s time you began to live Harry! Before you know it, you’ll be too old to enjoy yourself.’ Erma cautioned.”
‘Well, I suppose that is true, Erma. Hum-ah-well, perhaps we can discuss this another time.’

“Erma smiled at him. ‘You are right, Harry. We need to talk about this in private.’ she said seductively.”

“I thought it was pretty funny, but Marsha was upset. ‘Mother, you can’t go about throwing yourself at men like that.’ she told her.”
“Erma gave Marsha a warm smile. ‘Well, dear, I really don’t throw myself at them. I just sort of nudge a little closer.’ she said”
“Marsha shook her head. ‘Mom, you are hopeless.’ said Marsha.”
“‘No, dear, that’s not true. I still have quite a bit of hope for Harry and me; I would bet he is a tiger in bed!’ Erma said enthusiastically.”

“Erma is special.” said Lorraine.

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“Lou, you got the gas mask here?” asked Nicko.
One outrageous feature of the parties was the presence of a World War II gas mask. The smoke from the grass would fill the mask, producing a very nice high.

“Great idea! Let’s use the gas mask?” said. Carl, who was sometimes referred to as the mad chemist.
“I’ll get it Nicko, but the thing should be outlawed!” said Lou.
“It is outlawed.” added Jim. “Don’t worry about it.”

The doorbell rang, it was Bob. He was a mathematician by profession; his favorite field of exploration was topology, which addressed theories of limits. He had certainly chosen the right
group of friends, since limits often posed challenges for them.
Snow was falling outside. Lou put Wes Montgomery’s “Bumpin” on the stereo. The snow was intensified by the bright street lights. Occasionally, the rush of the wind could be heard; it
was good to be with friends in a warm and cozy place.
“Mrs. Thompson was her usual weird self tonight,” said Beth. “I cannot believe how this woman spends her life. She has a ham radio and listens to the police communications. That is all she does; then she goes to work and spends her time telling us about the latest burglary. It would not be so bad if it were New York City, where strange things happened, but this is Albany!” she lamented.
Lou agreed. “You are right about that, Beth. Do you remember when I did research for a crime victimization project? Even for a jaded New Yorker like myself, some crimes had me
shaking my head in disbelief,” he added.

“What were some of the stories?” asked Carl.
“Let me roll another joint. These stories are going to take a while,” said Lou. He changed the music to “Mort’s Report” by Red Garland. The tune was named in honor of Mort Fega, a jazz
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announcer who had a program called “Jazz Unlimited” on a New York City radio station in the early sixties.
“It was one of the hardest jobs I have ever had. The most difficult part of it was interviewing the next of kin in homicide ca ses. I will tell you this; there is not enough money to pay me to do
that again. I tried to offer the victims something, such as telling them about the Crime Victims’  Compensation Board.” he added.
Joan, a friend of Beth’s arrived from the Albany suburbs to spend the night.

The hour was growing late. As Joan entered the apartment, Carl, Bob, and Nicko were sitting in the kitchen talking; Beth and Lou had gone to sleep.

“Listen fellows, could you keep the noise down? I have to get up early tomorrow to teach a class.” she said.
“Sure, no problem.” said Carl. “What kind of class are you teaching?”
“I teach ceramics.” she responded.
“Oh!” said Nicko. “Do you teach psycho-ceramics?”
Puzzled, she repeated the word ‘psycho-ceramics?’
“Yes!” said Nicko “Crackpots!” After that little exchange, Joan was rather cool to the group.

The party would be referred to in the future as the ‘psycho-ceramics weekend.’
Beth and Lou came out after awhile and rejoined the party.
“Hey Lou.” said Jim. “How is Jack doing?”
Jack was a mutual friend. He was only twenty-three years old, but had already worked as a bassist with Art Blakely and Horace Silver.
“Nicko, you are not going to believe what happened to him earlier this year. Let me tell you all about Jack and his dead dog.” said Lou.
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“Jack makes his living as a jazz musician, but augments his income by apartment sitting for some wealthy people in Manhattan.”

“One weekend, he was due to sit in a beautiful apartment on Park Avenue, where the doorman had a uniform similar to a high-ranking general in the Guatemalan army. The apartment
itself was spacious and elegantly furnished. His main job was to feed and walk a large German Shepard named Klaus.”
“When Jack awoke on Saturday, he discovered a major problem. Klaus had died, apparently in his sleep. He was lying there peacefully, but also quite dead. Not wishing to spend the
weekend with the deceased canine, he called New York City Animal Control.

‘Hi. I am calling to ask you to come pick up a dead dog at 730 Park Avenue, Apartment 10. My name’s Ferguson’ Jack said nervously.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferguson, but we don’t pick up dead animals over the weekend. We used to do it seven days a week, but we have had cutbacks in our budget,’ was the patient but firm reply
from New York City officialdom.” Lou continued.
“Jack was starting to panic, even though the dog’s untimely demise was not his fault. The inescapable fact was that Klaus died while in his care, he felt guilty about that. What would he
tell the Seldrige couple when they returned on Monday?
‘Listen.’ he pleaded, ‘You gotta’ help me. I can’t spend the weekend with a dead dog.’

“New York City officialdom was growing impatient with Jack. ‘Listen, fellah. I’m sorry, but what do you want me to do, call up one of the workers at home and say, ‘Listen Joe. I know you
have two tickets to the Jets’ game, but Jack’s dog has died, and he needs a rescue squad to come to Park Avenue right away. How about coming in on your day off as a volunteer? You know the
Bronx is especially beautiful on weekends. Now I’ll tell you, Jack. If I made that call to Joe,  there would not be a single word he would say that I could repeat to my mother, and her
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language is not always the best, so what you gotta do is bring the dog up there by five o’clock today. OK?’ he said.”
“Jack started searching frantically for a covering. In the kitchen closet, he found a large burlap bag that could accomplish the task. After pushing Klaus inside, he hauled the bag over his
shoulder. To his horror, the right leg of the dead dog broke through the bag, stopping just under his chin, scaring the hell out of him.” continued Lou.
‘I have to put him in something!’ thought Jack. A frantic search of the bedroom closet produced a large cloth suitcase. With Klaus now suitably encased, he took the elevator down to
the street and started hailing cabs. New York City Cab drivers have two rules; the first is to never wear body deodorant, the second is never go to the Bronx.”

“After waiting forty minutes for a cab without success, Jack decided to take Klaus on the subway to his final resting place. He deposited a subway token, then struggled to lift the case
over the turnstile; the dog weighed a ton! A man came up behind him and cheerfully said, ‘Can I help you with that?’ Jack looked at him gratefully and said, ‘Hey, man, I really appreciate that.’
Jack went through the turnstile. When he turned around to pick up the suitcase, he saw the man running like hell out of the station with the case!” said Lou.

“Jack couldn’t believe it. A Good Samaritan thief had saved him a trip to the Bronx. He laughed as he thought of the thief’s amazement and horror upon opening the suitcase. Then he
tried to imagine what the thief would do when he opened the case.” said Lou.

“Jack’s scenario for what happened next was as follows: The thief ran out of the subway and caught a bus to Harlem, which was only a few minutes away. He would have wanted to put a
little distance between himself and the subway station.”
“Jerome, as Jack envisioned him, was nineteen years old and a veteran thief. He had the build of an athlete, the result of exhaustive weight lifting, compliments of the New York State
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Correctional System. This suitcase weighed a ton; what could be inside? After getting off the bus, he entered a back alley and went behind a dumpster. He opened the case. ‘Sheet!’ he
screamed. ‘I don’t believe this.’ Jerome didn’t scare easy, but the glazed eyes and frozen grin of that dog sapped the strength from those over-developed biceps. As he stared transfixed at the
open case, he was spotted by one of his home boys, Jason, who walked down the alley to see what was happening. ‘Jerome, how you — what the fuck is that? That motherfuckin’ dog look like he dead.’ Jerome just shook his head in disbelief.”
Lou continued, narrating Jack’s description of subsequent events.
‘What kind of pervert goin’ to take a dead dog for a subway ride?’ said Jerome. ‘Ain’t much to be seen on a subway train. The guy looked like he was on his way to Miami; a dead dog don’t
need no suntan. When I opened that case, I’m thinking ‘Maybe he got a stereo inside cause it was heavy. Stereo my ass! Ain’t getting no music from a dead dog. Thing look like it was smiling at
me and taking me off, like we sure fooled you mother-fuckin’ ass, didn’t we? Running out of that station like you carrying gold bullion! Well, the bull on you, stupid. I mean that’s how he
was smiling with this shit-eating grin on his face. This city getting stranger by the day, that the last time I boost a suitcase from a white dude. Black folk got more sense than be carrying
something like that around. Listen bro, you think that Chinese place on 135th pay me anything for this? He be a pretty big dog. Mystery meat over rice, what cha think man? It be worth a try.’
“The muscular thief trudged his wares over to the Golden Dagon restaurant.

Ten minutes later, he emerged without Klaus, looked both ways, then hurried down the street.” said Lou.
“How long were you at Knosole Insurance company, Lou?’ asked Beth. “Five years, it was definitely the nadir of my existence.” said Lou.
“What made it so bad?” asked Lorraine.
26
“It was demanding work. I went there immediately after high school; in fact, it was as regimented as school and involved more hours.” said Lou.

“The thought of still being there sends chills down my spine. There was a little bell that sounded at eight-thirty in the morning to signal the start of the work day; that was followed by bells for lunch and quitting time. The work of processing claims was endless.” he said.

“How come you stayed there so long?” asked Bob.
“That’s a good question,” said Lou. “I received free tuition for New York University as a condition of employment; that was the primary reason.” replied Lou.

“Most of the men and women who worked there smoked cigarettes and drank substantial quantities of alcohol on a daily basis. For the most part, they lived out on Long Island. In addition to the demands of the job, they had an ugly commute every day; they had total economic responsibility for the family. The wife was on Long Island with the kids and the house.”

“By the time many of them reached the age of forty-five, they were dropping dead like flies from heart attacks.” he said.
“Some of the old-timers urged me to leave.” said Lou.
“God, that sounds terrible.” said Jim.

“The one redeeming quality of the place was the people; there were some real characters, like Honest Roy.” said Lou.
“Hey Lou, why don’t you tell everybody about the time that Honest

Roy took his wife to Atlantic City?” asked Carl.
“Sure Carl, that is one of my favorites.” said Lou.
“I met Honest Roy when I was eighteen. By the time I reached twenty, his wife Dora, accused me of corrupting her husband. There was no basis for this accusation since Roy was
quite debauched at the time of our first meeting. On my first day on the job, he tried to convince

27
me that he had a disability claimant from the Bronx of Jewish-Irish lineage whose name was Turalura Lipshutz.” said Lou.
“He was thirty-two years old and had worked for Knosole for twelve years. Other than smoking, drinking, gambling, and visiting brothels, Roy was a clean living guy.” continued Lou.
“On Saturday mornings, he would wake up, pour himself a beer, light up a Pall Mall cigarette and watch cartoons with his two young daughters. After a while, he would be there by himself
watching the cartoons! The girls had gone off to play; there he was still watching Yogi Bear!” said Lou.

“On one occasion, he took his bride of eleven years to Atlantic City. Roy was a pure city boy who only felt at home around concrete and asphalt. In a typical week, the only grass he saw was
the turf course at Aqueduct Racetrack. After breathing the brisk ocean air, he needed to restore his system to its normal state of dissipation with a few drinks; the problem was his wife Dora
was not interested in spending her vacation inside a bar.” continued Lou.

“Roy’s mouth was watering at the thought of a Seagram Seven and ginger ale. As he looked at the crowded boardwalk, he noticed there were plenty of available pedal cabs pushing people
up and down the boardwalk.” continued Lou.
‘That looks like fun, honey.’ he said to Dora. ‘Would you like to try it while I take a nap?’ said Roy.”

“Dora thought about it. Somewhat doubtfully, she said she would give it a try. Roy gave the pedal cab driver a large tip and told him to ‘give her a nice long ride.’ With Dora safely ensconced in the cab, he crossed the street and headed into the nearest bar. Taking a window table, he had an excellent view of Dora’s travels up and down the boardwalk. He lit a Pall Mall and ordered a Seagram Seven and ginger ale. Roy was amazed when, two hours later, Dora
emerged from the pedal cab in high spirits. She had loved it!” said Lou.
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‘I think I would like to do that again tomorrow, honey.’ she told him. Honest Roy was  ecstatic at this fortunate turn of events.”
‘Sure you can honey!’ he told her. ‘Only the best for my girl,’ he added”.

“Roy had a great sense of humor. One afternoon, we were at the Metropole café on Seventh Avenue. There was a copy of the New York Daily News on the bar; Roy looked at it and said
‘Hey, there is my brother Joe; I have not seen him in years.’ I looked at the paper. On the front page, there was an electrical worker with his head sticking out of a manhole! What a way to see a
long-lost relation, but that was Roy. He gave me a many laughs; I miss him.” said Lou.

“Didn’t you tell me about another guy who worked there who was also very funny?” asked Beth.

“Oh yes! His name was Arturo; he was even funnier than Roy. I have to tell you all this story if it is all right.” said Lou.
“Lay it on us! Then we will turn up Coltrane and blow the walls off!” said an enthusiastic Carl.

“My middle name is William; Arturo always called me ‘Billy Boy.’ He worked for Knosole as a claims investigator; Arturo was married and had three children. Before he took on those
responsibilities, he was a minor league baseball player in the farm club of the Dodgers. However, the family required more stable earnings than those of a minor-leaguer, so he joined the ranks of
the employed at Knosole Insurance Company, Mother Knosole, the mother of them all, at least that was how the majority of the Workers at Edison thought of their employer.” continued Lou.

“Knosole had seven thousand workers employed in one building; it was office work in the early sixties, a dehumanizing experience. Unlike some who became broken men due to the work
and the dismal ambience, Arturo kept his spirit and soul intact. His humor was legendary.” Lou continued.
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“One day, Arturo was walking down a very crowded Avenue of the Americas at lunch time with Honest Roy and me. We were all brothers of the turf and no strangers to Belmont and
Aqueduct Racetracks; I continued to place bets through my contacts even after I quit working there.” said Lou.

“Arturo was walking in the middle, his arms draped over our shoulders. Suddenly, he screamed out, ‘And they’re off! It’s Billy Boy in front by two lengths, Honest Roy is second, and
old Arturo is last. Moving down the back stretch, Billy Boy continues in front, Honest Roy inches a little closer to the lead, and old Arturo continues to trail.’ Now Arturo is really
screaming loudly, ‘As they turn for home, Honest Roy joins Billy Boy for the lead, they are running neck and neck, and here they come down the stretch!’ yelled Arturo.”

“He then started pushing our shoulders back and forth as a jockey would urge a horse to go forward. Some lunch time strollers were becoming alarmed at the sight of this agitated man
jerking the shoulders of his companions.” continued Lou.
‘As they pass the sixteenth pole, it’s Honest Roy on the outside, and closing fastest of all is old Arturo! They are nose and nose, as they hit the wire, it is old Arturo by a head!’ he
screamed.”

“By the time we returned to our gray skyscraper, we were all in great spirits thanks to Arturo.” said Lou.
“He sounds like a good man.” said Nicko.
“Let me tell you, brother. We did not make a lot of money, but we had some good times.” said Lou.

The party went on for three days. People would get tired, go to sleep, then rejoin the party. There was usually someone around. On Saturday at six a.m.  Everyone was asleep except Nicko;

30

he walked over to the twenty-four hour supermarket called the Price Whacker. Business there was slow; the clerk was grateful to talk with Nicko. By Sunday afternoon, Carl and Bob had headed back to the North Country. Lou and the others said goodbye to Beth and made their way back to the city. The psycho-ceramics weekend had come to a close.
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Chapter III
Brooklyn 1969: Social Work in the City
The Brooklyn Family Court was a true chamber of horrors. The popular legal phrase of the seventies was a “neglect petition.” If a judge granted the social agency’s request for a two-year
continuance, the parents would have visitation rights, but only at the discretion of the agency.
For many parents, the availability of visitation far exceeded their actual interest in seeing the children; their siblings who had remained at home gave them sufficient problems. Out of guilt,
shame, or another set of complex emotions, some of them would show up in court and proceed to do what they had not done for the past year or more by manifesting a deep and abiding concern
for their children in placement.

More often than not, the theatrics took place in the office of the social worker. On court day, many failed to appear. For those who did make an appearance, it was like witnessing a group of aspiring thespians playing the roles of devoted parents before the judge and others who processed poverty’s children in the Brooklyn Court.
Lou was there on an easy case today. Billy Jones, a surly seventeen year old with few redeeming qualities, was up for continuance. At least he would not have to witness any perverse
theatrics today. The circumstances of his entrance into placement had been extraordinary. His own mother had decided to resolve a dispute with Billy in a less-than-motherly way. It seemed
that one day he had his caustic wit turned full-blast on Momma. Billy was good with words, certainly a better debater than his mother. However, Momma had the last word that day when she
went to her dresser, took out a loaded thirty-eight, and placed the barrel under Billy’s chin.

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According to the police report of the incident, Momma’s exact words were “If you say one more jive-ass word to me Billy, I’m gonna blow your fucking head off!”

Although Billy had not gone to church in years, he became a believer that day. Something in his mother’s eyes convinced him that only complete silence would allow him to reach his
sixteenth birthday. Afterwards, Billy was highly incensed at this seeming lack of maternal affection. He had rights. Later that night, he went down to the local police precinct and asked for protection from his gun-toting mama.

The powers of the City of New York subsequently determined that pulling a thirty-eight revolver on one’s child was an act that neglected the child’s welfare, no matter how much of a
smart-ass he may have been. Billy had become a ward of the City of New York and Lou’s client.
Last week, Lou had taken the A Train to Nostrand Avenue in Brooklyn to visit Mrs. Helen Jones. She greeted Lou coolly and asked him to come inside. Helen had prepared a chicken
dinner for him. Lou did not know what to make of her; she appeared to be brusque when she spoke at first, but then she invariably softened up.
The apartment was typical of Bedford-Stuyvesant. There were holes in the floor, paint peeling from the walls, and roaches bold enough to make daytime appearances. For these squalid
conditions, the landlord was kind enough to charge a monthly rent higher than the one that Lou’s parents paid for a clean and spacious six and one half room apartment in Queens in a nice
neighborhood.

Lou thought of the conservatives who were constantly bemoaning welfare fraud. “The poor are really leading beautiful lives here.” he thought to himself.

“”Well Mrs. Jones, Billy’s case comes before the court next week on a one-year continuance. What are your feelings about having him return home?” he asked.

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She looked at him and her eyes started to tear. “Do I have to take him back?” she asked.
“Oh no, not at all!” said Lou hopefully. After seeing what a true pain in the ass Billy could be, he was genuinely concerned that Mrs. Jones might kill him if he pushed her too far.
And make no mistake, Billy could piss off the Pope. Six months earlier, a cop had arrested him and put him in Riker’s Island, not because he committed the offense of jumping a subway
turnstile, but rather due to his hostile manner and superior attitude. Normally, the cop would have just given a youth a citation to appear in court. However, Billy was indignant that the
officer had apprehended him and let the cop know it with a full blast of sarcasm, suggesting that arresting teenagers was a pathetic way to make a living.

The cop had heard enough; Billy had done what he did best, making people angry. The police officer had found a reason to jail him; it
was the first time he had ever done so to a subway fare-evader during his ten year career. “Well, I don’t want you to think I’m a bad momma. I’m good to my two other children, and I
was good to Billy, but that child get nasty. The older he get, the nastier he get.” Mrs. Jones said.

This was beautiful; she did not want him to return. Lou had earlier visions of a New York Daily News headline: “Mother Kills Seventeen Year Old Son: Full Investigation of Private
Social Agency Demanded by Community Leaders!”
Normally, he worked hard to reunite the children in his care with their families, but a cocked  thirty-eight placed under the chin?

Billy had told him once, “My momma isn’t so bad most of thetime, but she gotta hell of a temper when she get mad.”“Mrs. Jones” said Lou, “You just go to work as usual. I will take care of everything in court. Billy will be an adult in less than two years; there will be no more court dates.” he said.

Now all that remained was to make the petition for a continuance of placement with the judge.

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The waiting room was crowded with mothers and children; Lou was the only adult male in the room. One heavy set woman kept hitting her children and screaming at them. She had a huge
button on her blouse that read “God is the answer.” For the sake of her children, Lou hoped that El Senor would be just that. If their salvation rested with her, they were in serious trouble.
Finally, Billy’s case was called. Placement was uncontested and Lou walked out in two minutes.

He was already in Brooklyn; Lou therefore decided to stop by Marvin’s house. Other than reports of heroin use and packing a thirty-two, Marvin was making an excellent adjustment to
living in the East New York section of Brooklyn.
The options were dismal. If Marvin stayed on the streets, he could well become an addict.

Should he be convicted of a felony, he would be sent to a reformatory which would enable him to return “bigger and badder” than when he left. Marvin’s mother, Alice, was a friendly lady who was doing her best with five kids. The brick tenement looked like a mugging about to happen. Lou raced up the four flights of stairs and knocked on the door, announcing himself.

Alice opened the door and Lou entered. Another slumlord special, he thought.There were holes in the living room floor; several rodent traps in the room.

“Hello Alice. It’s nice to see you.” said Lou.
“Well, Lou, come on in. It is meaner than my landlord’s heart in that hallway.” she said.
She ushered him through to the kitchen. There were two place settings; he could smell fried chicken. A second lunch appeared to be in his future; he would not risk offense by declining.
Lou thought how the poor gave him more to eat than many middle-class Americans he knew. Indeed, many middle class individuals were likely to decline offers of food when visiting others, as if they were part of a perverse fasting society; when one visited them, a drink was all one

35
could expect. As they dined, Lou inquired about her other children.He then broached the business of the day.
“Alice, we have to work something out for Marvin; I see big trouble in his future unless we do something quickly.” he said.
She shook her head sadly and started to cry softly. “What can I do? He too big for me to whip him anymore, don’t do no good anyway.” she said.

Lou felt the time was right for his proposal. “Alice, I do not want Marvin living in a reformatory; at the same time, I do not want him using heroin. If you sign some papers petitioning the family court to have him returned to my agency, I can help him begin a work study program that has helped some other boys like him.” Lou said.

He did not want to press her on this suggestion; Lou sat silently and waited for her to speak. She looked at him for a few seconds. “Lou, will you promise me you get that boy in some kinda work-study?” she asked. Lou assented.

“All right, give me the papers; I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said.
“Don’t worry Alice; you could be saving his life.” said Lou.
“Marvin don’t like that group home; he say the food is good and the neighborhood real nice, but it got too many rules.” she said.
“Well, Alice, I will do my best to make it better there for him. You can visit, but due to the heroin problem, I cannot allow him to make weekend visits home for some time. I will provide a
drug counselor for him as well, and will also give you cab money to visit him in Queens.” said Lou.
“That be nice.” she said.
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It was a successful morning. On the surface, all he had done was separate mothers from their children, but in these cases, the decisions were not difficult. Lou left the apartment and walked back towards the IND subway If a pirate cab drove by, he would take it. The neighborhood looked like a disaster area. Some tenement buildings were uninhabited, with the windows blown out. It looked like a scene from post-world war two Dresden. “What a disgrace.” thought Lou.

Yet this was hardly new for the “greatest nation” in the world. He had once read a report by a commission, written at the turn of the century, that concluded that the animals in Hell’s Kitchen,
a notorious section of New York City’s west side, enjoyed better housing than the people.

America, he reflected, remained a crude and brutal society, with indications that things might get worse. With that happy thought, Lou’s focus turned to an afternoon drink. He made his way back to Queens Boulevard and Continental Avenue in Forest Hills.
Looking up at the sleek skyscraper apartment buildings and the wide expanse of the boulevard, it was hard to believe that he was in the same city as the East New York section of Brooklyn. Lou
enjoyed a chocolate egg cream at a luncheonette before returning to the office.

He had one hour before his meeting with his next client. Lou bought a New York Times and began reading. The news was not good; Nixon was still talking about a secret plan.
It was time to return to the office; Lou walked along the well-ordered streets of Forest Hills, enjoying the sunshine and blue skies. The good weather was providing him with increased
vitality.

Lou kept thinking about his recent conversation with Margot. He had proposed that they quit their jobs and spend five or six months living on the island of Majorca. She seemed to be quite
willing to make the move. It was becoming painfully evident that city life was driving her crazy.
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That evening, they came to an agreement to give thirty-days notice on their jobs. In little more than a month, they would arrive on the island of Mallorca.
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Part II: The World

—————————-

Chapter IV
Majorca 1971: The First Time

In November, Lou and Margot traveled from New York to Luxembourg on Icelandic Airlines. It was a very inexpensive way to fly to Europe; from there, it was only a few hours by
train to Paris. They found a hotel on the left bank along the Rue de la Huchette. It was operated by Algerians, who were apparently people of few words.

After placing the luggage in the room, they went for a walk by the Seine, which was only one block away. They stopped at the Cafe Mozart, which offered a view of Notre Dame, where they ate croissants, sipped café cremes, and read Le Monde.
“Look! Judy Collins is playing at the Olympia Theatre; let’s go see her.” said an elated Margot.

Lou enjoyed the folk singer and readily agred. Later that night, they found a small restaurant not far from the hotel. Afterwards, they strolled down the Boulevard St. Michel, where they went
inside one of the many bookstores. Margot was a minimalist in her needs; if she had cigarettes, books, and coffee, she was quite content. Encouraging Margot to enter a bookstore was
effortless; asking her to leave was quite another matter.
Lou bought an English translation of “One Hundred Years of Solitude”, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, while Margot picked up “L´ Etrangere” by Albert Camus.

On the way back to the hotel, they stopped at the Mozart and ordered a bottle of wine. There were lights illuminating Notre Dame; the cafe was warm and cozy. It was a romantic setting.
Several hours passed in quiet conversation. It was late, but there were no thoughts about when to get up in the morning. They would not be working for the next six months; it was a pleasant
prospect. After the wine bottle was empty, they slowly walked back to the hotel.
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They slept late the next morning; their plan was to see the matinee performance of Judy Collins, then take the overnight train from Paris to Barcelona. From there, they would board a
ferry to the island of Majorca Judy Collins was in excellent form; the audience was enthusiastic in its appreciation. After
the concert, they made preparations for the next leg of their journey.

At nine o’clock that night, they arrived at the Gare du Sud; Lou booked couchettes. On many European trains, the six person compartments could be converted into sleeping bunks. It lacked
the plush comfort of a Pullman sleeping berth on an American train, but it was a major improvement over sitting up all night.

Margot and Lou found their compartment; there were two North African men and a Spanish couple already seated. The Moroccans were guest workers named Mustafa and Mohammed.Everyone introduced themselves and used French as the common language of communication. As was customary on trains in Western Europe at the time, bread, cheese, wine, and mineral water were shared by everyone. Before long, the conductor prepared the sleeping berths and everyone climbed into bed; the rhythm of the train clicking along the tracks was hypnotic. Soon, Lou was asleep.

In the morning, they arrived at Port Bou. After clearing immigration, they boarded a Spanish train bound for Barcelona. The trip along the Costa Brava was beautiful, filled with outstanding
views of coastal villages and the Mediterranean.
After arriving in Barcelona, they took the one hundred twenty mile ferry ride to Palma de Mallorca. While they were in Paris, Lou’s friend Nicko had called from Frankfurt, where his
lover, Helen Bed, had been performing her strip-tease act at a nightclub. It was agreed that they would meet at the Hotel Europa in El Arenal, which was located just outside of Palma de
Mallorca.
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As the ferry entered the harbor, the bay of Palma afforded views of the cathedral and other sights of the city. When they arrived at the Hotel Europa, they were astonished to find that their
room and two four-course meals a day plus breakfast cost merely the price of two cappuccinos in a Greenwich Village cafe. This was even better than Lou had imagined; it would be easy to live a
very nice life here for a long time. As if that were not enough, the island was beautiful. The place was filled with mountains, almond groves, and terraced hillsides of palm and olive trees.

Mercifully, Americans were viewed more favorably here than in Paris. Lou thought that Nicko and Helen would be happy here as well. Nicko generally had low expectations; in fact, he
sometimes made Edmund Cioran, his favorite philosopher, appear to be an optimist. Helen would be pleased as well. From what Nicko had said on the phone, Helen was working extremely hard as a stripper in Frankfurt.

Shortly after breakfast the next day, Helen and Nicko appeared in the lobby of the Europa. “Lou, this place is great!” exclaimed Helen. “I needed to get away from Frankfurt; they worked me to death.” she said.

“They loved her!” said an enthused Nicko. “Helen would open with thigh-high leather boots and a bull-whip; she would crack that whip and those Germans were running towards the stage
begging her to hit them. Helen was the star of the show!” he added proudly.

“Well, I did work hard on my Marlene Dietricht routine.” said Helen modestly.
“Do you still do your Judy Garland routine?” asked Lou.
“Yes, that is one of my favorites.” said Margot, who occasionally joined Lou at the Lexington Burlesque when Nicko took a night from his regular job there as stage manager and
Lou replaced him.

The quartet of Americans settled into a lifestyle of reading, playing cards, drinking copious quantities of champagne, and spending time at the harbor cafes. They felt comfortable in each
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other’s company; Lou compared this harmonious life to the backbiting described in Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast.” Those characters seemed to be a dismal lot of humanity to be
around; he felt lucky to have good friends.

By Spanish standards, they were rich; there was no doubt about it. The weeks went by with ease. November had brought a chill to the night air, but the short days were marked by blue skies
and sunshine.

Nicko sipped a cognac, smiled, and said, “Well, another day at the office.”
The fast pace of New York was becoming a dim memory to them all; they talked about feeling blissful. For those readers unfamiliar with New York City, bliss is not a wholesome characteristic to possess; it is associated with, among other things, decreased vigilance and a general level of comfort with one’s environment. Put simply, blissful people walking around Central Park or Times Square could quickly arrive at a permanent state of bliss, followed by an obituary.

The best was yet to come. A fellow graduate student at City University had once told him about a small village on the north coast of Majorca that was his favorite place in the entire
Mediterranean; it was called Puerto de Soller.
After a few weeks, the four Americans decided to visit the village on the north coast. In order to visit, they had to take an old but charming electric railroad called the “Ferrocarril de Soller.”
The train ride took them through the mountains to an elevation of four thousand feet.

They rented an apartment in the port of Soller from a very friendly woman named Isabel. Their evenings were spent drinking champagne and playing cards. During the day, they walked
in the hills, read literature obtained at the English lending library in the village, and sipped coffee  and cognac at the cafes; Lou also used the cafe time to work on his Master’s thesis.
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The sun failed to rise above the mountains until about nine o’clock in the morning. Everyone  would then gather on the terrace and enjoy the sunshine. The foothills of olive and pine trees
were quite green. The medieval looking Es Port Hotel stood below the stone terraces which covered the adjacent hillside.

“This is so different from Manhattan; I can’t believe it. The weekly cost to live here is about what I was paying for my therapy at the Fifth Avenue Center,” said Margot. “Not only is this
more fun, but I no longer feel I need therapy.” she said.
Lou appreciated Margot’s comments; he was thinking how she had been suffering from considerable anxiety in the final days before departure; she had indeed changed in a short time.

In Manhattan, she was popping valiums daily. Here she was sitting on Lou’s lap in cafes with a San Miguel beer in her hand, her arm around Lou, and a broad smile on her face; it was a
powerful argument for the importance of the environment in one’s life.

In some ways, it reminded Lou of how she had been in college at the State University in Plattsburgh. They would
go dancing in Montreal, stay up all night, and then cut classes the next day; the absence of stress worked wonders for her.
They invited Isabel to have coffee one afternoon at their apartment. It proved to be a culture shock for this friendly and well-read Majorcan lady who spoke five languages. Everyone had remained awake until seven in the morning, having played hearts while drinking champagne throughout the night.

Isabel arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon, only to be greeted by silence. She knocked again; this time Lou went to the door.
“Hi, Anita, It’s good to see you!” he said as he waived her into the living room.

“The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”
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Lou brought the coffee and cakes to the table. They talked quietly for a while, then Helen joined them.

“Isabel, I am sorry I am a little late getting up; these depraved friends of mine are giving me terrible habits.” said Helen.
“Isabel, I am afraid that Helen is not telling you the truth; she used to be dressed for bed very  early before she came to Majorca.” said Lou, cheekily alluding to Helen’s afternoon strip shows
in Germany. When Isabel wasn’t looking, Helen playfully stuck her tongue out at Lou.

After twenty minutes, Nicko arose from the dead and joined the group. Finally, Margot came out of the bedroom at about three o’clock. Isabel thought to herself “Are these Americans
vampires? Two o’clock in the afternoon and the drapes are still drawn! Don’t they enjoy the sunshine and the beauty of the harbor?” she thought. As a matter of fact, Lou was thinking that radical action needed to be taken to recapture the day. That evening, a family conference was held.

“The card games and champagne have tossed our lives upside down. I would like to visit Palma and check to see if I have mail at American Express. As things stand, I have not been to
the library in Soller in more than a week.” he said.
“I have a great idea!” said Helen. “Let’s stay up for twenty-four hours. Nicko, go buy some extra champagne for tonight. Let’s play hearts till about nine tomorrow morning, then we will go
to Palma for the day. By the time ten o’clock comes around tomorrow night, there won’t be a problem sleeping.” she said.
“I like it! It sounds like fun!” said an unusually enthusiastic Margot.
“How about you, Nicko?” asked Lou.

On a good day, Nicko appeared dissolute; today was not a good day.
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He was feeling slightly hung-over from the champagne and the cognac. Also, the black tobacco Spanish cigarettes made a drag on a Camel seem like a breath of springtime. He would
have to try one of those filtered cigarettes that Margot smoked. On top of that, Helen had insisted on making love at seven this morning. It was good sex, but he was exhausted. Helen’s suggestion
to stay up around the clock struck him as less than an inspired thought.

“The way I’m feeling right now tells me that I might not make it.” he said. Helen moved behind him and began massaging his temples. “Poor baby, did Mama wear you out this morning?” she said in an amused fashion. Nicko said nothing. Instead, he picked up his copy of essays by Emile Cioran. Given Nicko’s dark mood, Cioran was a highly questionable choice.

“Let’s go see the chimpanzees this afternoon; then we can catch the sunset at the Cafeteria Nautilus.” said Margot.
Lou agreed to the plan; Helen somehow convinced Nicko that he would enjoy the physical exertion involved in walking up a path that ascended into the hills surrounding the village. They
left the apartment and began the beautiful walk through the olive and pine groves. It took about forty minutes to reach the farm of an eccentric woman who had four chimpanzees in an
enormous cage. She was not a sociable person and the four hikers viewed the primates from the road.

After a few minutes, they continued their walk through the stone terraced hills. “I’ll be glad when we get to the Nautilus café; this physical exertion has made me thirsty.” said Nicko.
“It’s the fault of philosophers like Cioran that Nicko has no energy. They insist upon searching for the meaning of existence. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that; I’m curious about
it myself, but all they do is raise questions without giving answers. No wonder Nicko is short on energy; those philosophical fuckers aren’t giving him the raison d’etre he’s seeking.” she said.
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“Tonight, I’m going to give him the reason myself; if he wants to keep himself out of trouble, he’ll give me a good reason in return.” she warned. With that little speech, she nibbled his earlobe, and everyone smiled, except Nicko. “Helen, you are certainly the soul of erudition this afternoon.” said Lou.

“I’ll tell you the meaning of life; we are about to see the sun sink into the Mediterranean while we are listening to Jobim and enjoying the warm companionship of good friends. There is
time to feel love for the beauty of nature and for the people whom we care about. Now there is meaning to life.” she said with conviction.

Nicko was the first to respond. “You are right about that. Friends of mine in New York told me I was escaping from reality by coming to live over here, but this is as real as Manhattan.” he
said.

He lifted his glass of Pernod and water, his preferred drink, and gave a toast. “To good friends and to beautiful sunsets shared t ogether.” he said. The Nautilus café had been built on a cliff that over-looked the Mediterranean Sea. From a window table, one could watch the sun sinking into the sea.

Martin, the Mallorcan owner, delivered a fresh round of drinks to the table. The sea turned a dark blue as the sun made its descent. No one spoke as they savored the colors of the late
afternoon sky.
“Lou, do you keep in touch with any of the people with whom you grew up?” asked Margot.

“I still see the boys from the neighborhood in Glendale. Several times a year, we get together on weekends to play touch football. What a cast of characters! Did I ever tell you the story of
free Ford Day?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, tell us about it.” said Margot.
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“Let me first share something about the cast of characters who comprised my friends. It was Queens in the fifties; Elvis was God and the Ford Thunderbird was king. Most of them were
eighteen or nineteen years old. One Saturday, we decided to spend the day at Lake Brewster outside the city. While some of us were still using the subways, a few of the boys had cars. In
fact, Henry Moser had just purchased a 1956 Ford during the week.”

“We met at Allen’s house early Saturday morning. He said to Henry ‘You are lucky; today is Free Ford Day on all the thruways.’ Henry gave him a disparaging smirk and replied, ‘Don’t give
me any of that bull-shit.’ Norman carelessly shrugged his shoulders and said ’Suit yourself.’

I climbed into the back of Allen’s Volkswagen with Larry and Frank. Bob, Artie, and Dave climbed into Gerry’s Cadillac. Henry yelled over, ‘Hey, who is coming with me?’

“Everyone started making excuses for staying where they were.” said Lou. “Dave said ‘you must be kidding Henry, I’m sitting in a comfortable Cadillac and you want me to travel in a Ford? No thanks’. Charlie tended to be somewhat morose under the best of
circumstances; his good mood was not elevated by this apparent lack of sensitivity on the part of his buddies. ‘Fuck youz all’ was the last we heard from him as the three cars started on the
excursion to the lake.” Lou continued.

“The weekend was a great time to travel through the city; the view of the Manhattan skyline from the Tri-boro Bridge on a sunny day was exhilarating. Without the usual weekday
commercial traffic, the roads were fairly open and the skyline of the city could be enjoyed. Gerry led the way, with Allen’s car following; Henry’s car was last.

“When they arrived at the first toll booth on the New York State Thruway, Allen handed the toll taker twice the normal amount and said to the attendant, ‘I’m paying for the car behind me.
Please just wave him through. OK?’

“The attendant nodded his head in agreement” said Lou.
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“Charley pulled up to the toll taker, but the attendant merely waved him through the booth. Allen proceeded to do the same thing at all the toll stops.”

“When they arrived at Lake Brewster, Henry exclaimed, ‘I can’t believe it. They waived me through at every toll stop!’
“Gerry said to him, ‘Yeah. It was in all the papers. I guess you didn’t see it.’

“Henry walked off with a puzzled look on his face.” continued Lou.
“It was a gorgeous day at the beach; everyone ate and drank their fill. The picnic spared everyone the usual lengthy and agonizing debate on where to eat which followed most of the gettogethers
and poker games. On those occasions, it would have been easier to achieve peace in the Middle East than to ge t the group to agree on a restaurant.” said Lou.

‘Let’s go for Italian.’ cried Gerry.”
“Hey, we ate Italian last week. What about Chinese?’ pleaded Dave”
‘I’m not in the mood for Chinese. Let’s go to the diner.’ suggested Henry.”

‘Go to the diner? Are you serious?’ said Bob”
“The debate had about as much chance of a resolution as Abbot and Costello’s ‘Who’s on First?’ routine. I used to dread those discussions, especially if I were hungry.” Lou lamented.
“When early evening arrived, everyone had enough of sand and sun. The cars returned to Queens in the same order as in the morning. When they arrived at the first toll station, Allen paid
the normal fare. As Henry approached the toll booth, he failed to slow down, driving right through the booth. Within a minute, we could hear the sirens of a state trooper’s car going after
him. said Lou.

“Henry’s first words to the state trooper were ‘ But it’s Free Ford Day today!’
“The cop shook his head, got out his ticket book and said, ‘Sure it is.’
“I’m sure that Henry was grateful to have such good friends.” said Margot wryly.
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“I did not approve of this, but if I had told Henry about their plan, I would have been walking home from Lake Brewster.” Lou said.
“Lou, I would not mind hearing more about your dad.” said Margot.

“My dad held the opinion that no matter how good he was to me, he could not be as good as his father was to him. Although I have never had children, I feel that I could not give as much hedid. His love, encouragement, and willingness to share his philosophy with me enabled me to feel enjoyment and satisfaction in life. When I think about my father, I wonder how many sonsreceived a similar message of having a good time.” said Lou.

“He was a big man at six foot two and weighed about two hundred twenty pounds. He was born in Atlanta, Georgia, where he lived for the first ten years of his life. His father, a family
legend who reportedly suffered two hernias from lifting horses to entertain the children, worked as a newspaper stereotype worker for thirty-seven years. He then moved to New York, where he
proceeded to do the same work for the New York Journal American for another twenty-five years. My grandfather died at seventy-seven from a fall in a New York subway; the doctor who
performed the autopsy said that he had the heart and lungs of a man in his thirties. Relatives on my father’s side had a lot of spirit, along with varying degrees of outrageousness.” said Lou.
“Dad was the youngest of eight children; he had his own steam fitting and plumbing business until the Great Depression arrived. After that, he became an insurance agent with Regal Insurance,
where he met my mother, Elaine. Dad was active in helping to form the first white collar union with the AFL-CIO. He spent many years working as an insurance agent in the Bushwick section
of Brooklyn.

He used to love to repeat the words of several women in the district, who said to him ‘Getting a visit from you is like getting a visit from a priest.’ The remark was an acknowledgement of his sage advice and sincere interest in their problems.” said Lou
“He sounds special.” said Margot.
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Margot then introduced the topic of defining the sacred and the profane. Despite the fact that they had spent considerable time together during the last five years, they could still enter
discussions that would last hours; Lou thought it unlikely that he would ever meet another woman like her. He loved her very much, even though her emotional insecurities drove him wild.
“Do you really love me?” she would constantly ask. He would say, “Yes, I love you”, but the question was likely to be repeated the next day.

Helen offered her ideas on the subject. “I’m not sure that I can describe the sacred, but the profane was definitely Nicko when two Jehovah’s Witnesses woke him up at nine o’clock on a
Sunday morning in his Brooklyn apartment. Those poor people witnessed something other than Jehovah, I can tell you that!” she said laughing.

“On the last occasion, they ran down the block; Nicko was at the door screaming at them ‘You religious people are responsible for more than half of the problems in the world; now you
are waking me up!’ he told them.”

Margot and Lou laughed; Helen had an easy way of approaching life, and a very welldeveloped sense of humor. The contrast between Nicko and Helen assured a steady stream of
observations, particularly from Helen.

The four friends continued to be comfortable in each other’s presence. After leaving the Nautilus café, they walked home down the hillside. Helen’s plan of staying up all night would
now be placed into action. They fortified themselves with a superb paella de pescado at the Restorante Baleares; then proceeded home to begin the all night session of cards. Last night, they
had finished five bottles of champagne; Lou thought that this could well prove to be a seven bottle soiree.

Things went rather well until about eight o’clock in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it.” said a tired Margot.
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“I have a suggestion!” said Lou excitedly. “Let’s go to the bakery for some of those almond pastries over cappuccino at the Bar Mallorca,” he said.

In the port, it was acceptable to purchase baked goods elsewhere and consume them at an outside table at one of the cafes that lined the harbor. Puerto de Soller had been described in one
guidebook as a large swimming pool surrounded by a dozen hotels.

It was a pleasant experience  to have breakfast at a harbor cafe and watch the village come to life. After buying the baked
goods, they sat down at the Bar Mallorca and enjoyed a very good café con leche and a 103 cognac.

A German tourist entered the café. He looked to be about forty-five years of age. Very few people had ever entered Puerto de Soller wearing such an unusual attire.The short leather pants
revealed legs which were burdened with a skin disorder. The lederhosen contained suspenders
which extended over a red shirt. To complete his outfit, he wore an alpine hat with a feather in it.

At the table nearest the entrance, two young French ladies were having an animated conversation. They were fashionably dressed and had expensive haircuts; as the German moved
through the crowded café, they looked up and stared rudely looked at him.

When he noticed their wide-eyed and curious stares, he stopped and turned towards them. The German then captured everyone’s attention in the café by doing a complete pirouette in front
of their table. Following that, he tipped his hat and moved gracefully toward the back of the café.

In a simple gesture, he brought considerable dignity to his actions. It was as if he was saying, “Yes, I do appear unusual, perhaps even a tad ridiculous. My legs are not a pretty sight, but I am
doing what I can to improve the situation. Stare at me as you wish; I will proceed with or without your approval; it is all the same to me.”
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Above the green foothills, the mountain peak de L’ofre was visible. The fishing boats were now entering the harbor, having been away since the early morning hours. The dogs of Puerto de
Soller were perky little creatures who paraded unleashed in the streets as if they owned the place.

Lou suggested that they take the eleven o’clock train to Palma. This excursion would not only be a change of pace, but it would also allow them to stop at the American Express office to
see if any mail from the United States had arrived. The telephone system in Spain was both costly and tedious; mail was the better alternative.

The port and the village of Soller were connected by a tram-via, known simply as “the tram.” An old-style orange trolley car in appearance, the tram moved through the port along the harbor
road, continuing through the orange groves of the Soller Valley, which was surrounded by stone terraced hillsides. The final destination in the village was the Palma-Soller train station.

It was always a big day to take the train to Palma. The old-style brown wood railway cars appeared to have been built in the 1890’s, with a very comfortable parlor car for first-class
ticket holders. The station was a stone building housing a café located at the platform level.

One could have a coffee cappuccino and enjoy the beauty of the nearby cyprus trees and surrounding stone mountains that enveloped the village.

It was after noon when they arrived in Palma. American Express closed its doors at one o’clock; it was important to get there quickly. They walked through the narrow streets of the Via
Sindicato; when they arrived at American Express, everyone had at least one piece of mail waiting for them. People had remembered; they were not forgotten. The group found a nearby
cafe where they spent time absorbing the news from home; mercifully no one received news of a dramatic nature. Lou did, however, receive a rather terse letter from his thesis adviser who
referred unenthusiastically to Lou’s “peripatetic lifestyle.” Lou had been sending manuscripts back to New York at his own pace. The  coursework for the M.A. had been completed, and he
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saw no rush to complete the thesis. In any event, all New York City concerns were disappearing as quickly as the champagne.
Nicko received a letter from Stormy Night”, one of the star strippers at Lexington Burlesque, which he read aloud.

“Dear Nicko, Majorca your orca, where the fuck is this place anyway? What can I tell you? We are still shaking ‘T and A’ six nights a week here, packing in the amateur gynecologists,
especially the Chinese and Japanese. The new stage manager says strange things like, ‘Good afternoon! How are you today?’ All the ladies were asking him if those words were part of a
foreign language, since you never fucking used them, you morose bastard. But just to show you how perverse we are, we miss you. I miss you; my vibrator misses you. I haven’t recharged the
thing since you left.

As for Murray, what can I tell you about that degenerate capitalist that you don’t already know? By the way, he banned Salome’s snake “Oscar” from the stage. Last week, it sought the
company of a brother reptile and slinked into Murray’s office while a new debutante was giving Murray a private performance. I was in the control room when Murray came waddling out with
his pants around his knees. Now that was a sight worse than anything I’ve ever seen on acid.

Murray was yelling and cursing at Salome; she had to spend an hour calming the snake after it saw Murray in the flesh.
Other than that, things have been pretty dull here. Hope you are having fun. I have no idea why we all miss a ball breaker like you, but we do.
Love, Stormy

“That’s very touching, Nicko. It is nice to know you are missed”, said Margot. “Very touching indeed, I was particularly moved by the reference to the vibrator.” said Helen acidly.
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Margot received a letter from her mother that pleased her. The entire group was in good spirits after receiving the letters from home. They ordered a paella and wine at a restaurant on the
Rambla, topping it off with coffee and cognac, then caught the last train back to the village.

The months passed quickly; the idyllic life was not hard to take. There was time for walks through the barrancas, visits to the English lending library, and just relaxing at a harbor café.
The locals genuinely appeared to like Americans. For this, they had to acknowledge a debt of gratitude to the difficult French and German tourists who were more demanding than the
Americans and the British, and were poor tippers in the bargain.
One day, Helen and Lou took a walk together, the others preferring to remain at home.

Helen, ever interested in matters sexual, asked Lou “ Tell me about your first time making love. He thought about the island of Jamaica, the first place that he had traveled to outside of the
United States. “ It happened in Jamaica: I had chosen that island because I had been a youth worker in Brooklyn and was very impressed with the young people from Jamaica and their parents.
There was a graciousness about their speech and mannerisms that appealed to me. When I arrived there, I told the cabdriver that I would pay money to a family in a private house
for room and board rather than staying at a hotel.” Said Lou.

The driver said “ I know just the place. When you see me again you will buy me a drink; in fact, you’ll buy me two.”
“He took me to a beautiful home with a large terrace overlooking Commonwealth Stadium in Kingston. There was a wide veranda in front surrounded by palm trees. I was greeted by an
attractive woman in her early twenties who was wearing what look like a baby doll outfit. I took one look at her and thought to myself ‘if this is what Jamaica is like, I may never leave.’ Her name was Meriam; she and her mother Sheila operated the small guest house.”
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“A maid lived in a cottage behind the main large house; I arranged for my stay at a reasonable rate, which included two meals a day. The next night, I went to the local Kingston Hilton, where
Jamaicans were sliding underneath the limbo bar. The orchestra was playing good jazz music; I approached the trumpeter and complimented the playing, explaining that I was a jazz
aficianado from New York City. He pointed to a man with a beard who was wearing a Sherlock Holmes cap, saying ‘go with him,’ which I did. Soon I was sitting in a small Volkswagen driving
off with my new friend Marcus to a section of Kingston called Crossroads.” Lou added.

“Above the Crossroads Theater, there was a night club where trumpeter Sonny Red was playing with his quintet. When I entered, the group was performing Thelonious Monk’s
‘Round Midnight’, offering an excellent rendition in the process.” continued Lou.

I sat down and ordered a rum and water, quickly becoming engrossed in the music. Suddenly a woman with a pretty face and dark eyes appeared next to me.” continued Lou.
“Her name was Andrea; she owned a beauty shop in Kingston. Between sets we shared about our lives. She said ‘I like you, I like you a lot. Let’s go up on the roof; we can look at the stars and moon together. We left our drinks and walked up the back staircase to the
roof. It was a clear night, with the stars twinkling above in the night sky.

To my utter amazement, she proceeded to go down on me right there on the roof; Helen , I thought I was in heaven.” said Lou.
“We returned to the club and caught the last set of Sonny Red. After that, we took a cab to her beauty salon. She said ‘I live with a family and have my own room, but it is late; it is better if we
go to the beauty salon.’

“When we were inside her shop, she pointed to the barber chair. Andrea tilted the chair backwards until I was in a reclining position; she then climbed on top and

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straddled me. Believe it or not, this was my first time making love. My teenage years had been spent at a private all boys Catholic prep school, so I missed the normal school day interaction
with girls. I was so scared that I lasted for a long time. ‘You are good!’ moaned Andrea. The truth was I was too frightened to come. Sadly Helen, I was probably better on my first time than
afterwards!” Lou lamented.
“Andrea loved foreigners; she had Swiss and British lovers; the time with her was wonderful. Jamaica was an amazing place for me. People would suggest that I go somewhere on the island
and I always agreed, trusting people to treat me well, which indeed they did. Once I wound up at the racecourse at Caymanas Park, compliments of one of the judges who was a friend of Sheila.
By the way, the horse races in Jamaica are unique. The lilting voices of people screaming ‘come on mon, move the horse mon!’ was quite a sight; some people became so excited they ran
out onto the course during the race.” continued Lou.

“There were many special moments during that first trip. Claudette, a close friend of Sheila, lived up in the Blue Mountains on the Newcastle Road. We had to walk down a steep hillside to
reach her home, which was surrounded by lush vegetation; it was truly a setting in paradise.

On another occasion, I somehow wound up playing poker in Chinatown for a few pennies. Finally, she was able to open her own shop. Andrea had pictures of the British and Swiss lovers
her bedroom. Foreign men had enormous appeal for her. Lucky me.” said Lou.
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Andrea added my photo to the collection in her bedroom. For years I did manage to keep in touch, but we lost contact over time; I hope she is doing well.” said Lou.

Helen reflected on Lou’s tale. “I am glad I asked you about your first time; that was a pretty dramatic screw; it beats hell out of Robbie and me doing it on the backseat of his Buick when I
was fifteen.” said Helen.

On Sundays, they would visit the trotting races in Palma. The farmers from around the island would bring their horses to the Hipodromo at Son Pardo; Margot and Helen would make the
sandwiches, while Lou and Nicko would buy some vino tinto for the picnic at the racecourse. It seemed as though life would always remain like this.

Of course it would not. Most had money for six months living expenses; they would be required to return home and replenish their savings. Margot was heading to California to spend
time with her sister and possibly relocate. Lou thought he would eventually join her, but that could take time; he would be traveling to North Africa on his next trip, compliments of an
inheritance from a favorite aunt.

On the final day in the port of Soller, they took the tram to the train station. Lou looked back longingly at the village as the train for Palma ascended the mountainside; it was hard to leave the
idyllic life behind.
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Chapter V
Casablanca 1973: Carl Makes New Friends in the Animal Kingdom

Lou was slowly preparing to leave for Casablanca and Marrakech; Carl, often in a hurry when it came to agreeable activities, wanted to depart for Morocco the following week. Lou
was ambivalent concerning the impending trip; Carl was mad, which invariably created problems. It could get dangerous in Morocco.

He reflected there were strengths and limitations attached to either traveling alone or with someone. The solitary person has a broader range of new experiences; people reach out more to a
single traveler, yet there are special moments that occur when traveling with someone, such as sharing beautiful scenery together. Kindness alone dictated traveling with Carl; there simply was no compelling reason to refuse.

This was Lou’s fifth trip to Morocco. He had traveled to more than forty countries around the world; some were worth a return trip. People would sometimes ask why he was going to a
particular country; his usual answer was “I have not seen it.”
After flying from New York to Madrid, the two New Yorkers took a train south to the Spanish seaport of Algeciras. The plan was to take the ferry to Ceuta, a Spanish outpost on the North African coast. Among the many pleasant features of Spanish travel were the bars that could be found everywhere, from hospitals to the ferry terminal.

The bar was surrounded by picture windows with a breathtaking view of Gibraltar. As the sun rose above the hills, they ordered coffee and cognacs and sat down to enjoy the view.
“This is impressive.” said Carl.
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“Carl, I never tire of looking at Gibraltar from here; as my dad would say, it’s like seeing an old friend,” said Lou.
“Was your Dad here?” asked Carl.

“Never, Canada was the extent of his foreign travel, but that was how he described the trees
in Highland Park in Brooklyn. The park contained a huge reservoir. We often took walks there; it was quite beautiful. From the sidewalk surrounding the reservoir, one could see the skyline of
Manhattan. The park had old style street lamps; on a misty morning, the park assumed a surreal quality reminiscent of a painting by Monet.” said Lou.

“Did you take walks like that often with your Dad?” asked Carl.
“From the time I started to walk until my early thirties, I took long walks with Pop,” he answered.

“As a child, I can remember walking with him through the quiet streets of Glendale in Queens with him; he also liked to walk in the cemeteries.”

“Cemeteries?” inquired Carl curiously.

“Glendale had so many it was known as ‘cemetery alley’; he chose them because they were quiet places with greenery. That is a commodity hard to come by in New York City. We also
spent time at Rockaway Beach in the winter when no one was around; my dad would look out on the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, take a deep breath, and feel part of a bigger world than
just New York. ‘Little bit of heaven, eh Lou,’ he would say contentedly. On a certain level, he was a yogi. There he was living in a big city, working five days a week; but he did not lose sight

of the fact that there was a big world out there. Amazingly, he never lost contact with nature; for someone who had lived in New York City since the age of ten that was no easy task.” said Lou.

The ferry boat was now boarding; it was a mixed bag of passengers. There were expensively dressed Spanish couples, no doubt on their way to a day of shopping at the free port of Ceuta,
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along with Moroccan men in hooded jelavers. Veiled women practicing purdah also moved silently on the decks.
Carl went off to explore the boat. After a few minutes, he came back and said, “I can’t believe it; they have a full bar on two different levels. Let’s go have a cappucino and a soberano,” said
Carl.

Lou agreed. He ordered “103” instead of the stronger Soberano brandy. They took a table near the window in order to obtain a good view of Gibraltar; the sky was a pale blue except for a
puffy white cloud which crowned the top of Gibraltar. It was an extraordinary sight.

The trip from Algeciras to Ceuta took about three hours. The waters in the strait were calm; it was a smooth ride. As the ferry approached the old fortress of Ceuta, Lou had a feeling of
stepping back in time.

Ceuta is a blending of western and Arab worlds. After lunch, they changed money in order to obtain a supply of Moroccan Dirhams. The two travelers took a bus to the Moroccan border.
After passing through immigration, they shared a communal taxi which was headed to the nearby city of Tetouan.
When they arrived there, Lou paid two young Moroccans the equivalent of two dollars to carry their bags to the Hotel Central, where Lou had stayed on previous occasions. It was clean,
had a nice view of a square, and was only six dollars a night for two persons. After resting, Lou and Carl visited the Medina, the oldest section of the city, where Lou introduced Carl to his old
friend Ahmad the Snake-Charmer.

It was evident that Ahmad’s problem with cataracts was getting worse, but his joyful spirit remained. His snake basket contained a de-fanged cobra and a very large, but harmless, snake.
Just as the first time Lou had met Ahmad, the snake-charmer removed the harmless six foot

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snake he called Mahmoud and proceeded to wrap it around his neck until Lou had a live snake necklace extending from his chin to his stomach.

“Hey, Lou what’s he doing?” asked a concerned Carl.
“Relax, Carl.” said Lou. “Mahmoud and I are old friends; Ahmad is just helping us get reacquainted. In a minute, you can get to know him better yourself!” said Lou.

“Hell no!” yelled a frightened Carl.

In truth, Lou was not fond of the reptile. What if it became scared and tightened his grip around Lou’s neck? However, it was all Ahmad had in the world; Lou had to accept the offering.
At least it was preferable the cobra. Lou gave Ahmad twenty Dirhams as a small gift; the snakecharmer put his two hands together, as if to pray, and touched his forehead.

They made their way through the narrow streets until they arrived back in the newer section of the city. That evening, they dined on couscous and sipped mint tea. Both fell asleep early; the
long bus ride to Casablanca would begin at six in the morning.
At five a.m., they went to a cafe for breakfast, where Lou ordered rolls and café cremes. He looked around the café; most of the tables were occupied by solitary men who wore hooded
jelavers. They projected an aura of anticipation, as though something momentous might occur any minute, but in Morocco not much happens.

The bus station was bustling with activity; the driver’s assistants were on the roof of the buses packing suitcases and other luggage. Lou and Carl boarded the bus and took their seats.
The driver was wearing a suit and tie. The vehicle bus looked like a vintage 1960 Greyhound bus; soon it slowly moved out of the bus station.

Lou looked appreciatively at the blue-green hills above Tetouan. The driver put on a cassette of Arabic prayer music sung by a haunting male voice.
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The bus wound its way around the hills, passing date palm trees and small huts.It was a sunny day, with only a few clouds in the otherwise blue sky. Some of the women passengers
allowed their eyes to move in their direction. Foreign travelers were even less common in the interior than in the major cities on the coast. The driver removed the Arabic prayer music from
the cassette deck and replaced it with some vintage Lester Young. Listening to ‘Pres’ while riding in the Rif Mountains was more than surprising, it was astonishing.

“Hey man! Isn’t that Lester Young? That’s amazing!” said an elated Carl.

“This is a former French colony; the French have a long history of appreciating American jazz artists. I remember visiting the ‘cave’ jazz clubs on the on the left bank in Paris; American
jazz artists like Al Gray played before very enthusiastic audiences.” said Lou.

The driver had a singular approach to the donkey carts which often appeared on the road; he would lean forward, push his hand down on the horn, and increase speed. The carts invariably
were forced off the road; as the bus went by, Lou could see the clenched fists of the victims.

It was time to stop for a rest break; even rural cafés in Morocco served excellent coffee. Everyone re-boarded the bus after a while, except for the driver, who was involved in a heated
argument with another man; arms were flailing and voices were now raised. The argument seemed to be centered on the pair of pants the other man was holding. After several minutes, the
driver leaped onto the bus smiling; he was carrying the pants he had just purchased at the desired price. The bus then continued on its way.

Occasionally villagers would flag down the bus. The driver’s assistant would load the new passengers’ baggage on top of the bus. If passenger had goats or sheep, they would be tied up
and thrown into the compartment under the passenger seats; animal rights had not arrived in Morocco.
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The bus continued on its way through the Rif mountains. Lester Young had been replaced by the Arabic religious music. Suddenly the bus stopped; there were a dozen policemen standing in
the road.
Carl looked alarmed. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s a police check; they are looking for smugglers.” Lou said.
A policeman in a blue uniform boarded the bus and began walking down the aisle. He stopped in front of a large veiled woman and asked her to open her coat. He started pulling
various household items out from her coat pockets; the cop was smiling and laughing. The woman looked worried at first, but when the policeman started laughing, she laughed and
covered her face. The policeman then remembered he was a cop, became serious and gave her a stern warning before moving on to others in the bus, allowing her to keep the smuggled items.
Lou and Carl had their passports out, but the policeman walked by them. After a few minutes, the bus was again on its way; police checkpoints are part of travel on buses through Morocco.
The bus stopped at a mountain village, where a beautiful blonde woman boarded the bus.

From her clothes, she looked American. This was extraordinary, an American woman traveling alone in the Rif mountains. Lou decided to exhibit restraint; instead of waiting ten seconds to sit
next to her, he waited fifteen.

Her name was Delores. She was from Madison, Wisconsin; this beauty no doubt had Scandinavian ancestors.

“How long have you been traveling in Morocco?” Lou asked.

“I have been here about a week; I was tired of living in toy town,” which was her way of describing Torremolinos, a trendy tourist Mecca on Spain’s Costa del Sol.
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Lou enjoyed hearing those words. After traveling more than two thousand miles crisscrossing Spain, the Costa del Sol was the only place he did not like. Here was a soul mate who
would hopefully be a bedmate before the day was over.
For Lou, the five remaining hours to Casablanca flew by. Carl had tried to join them in the back, but Lou quietly signaled him to leave them alone.

Lou said to Delores “The pleasure of traveling in Morocco is that it is such a major cultural change. Much of Europe is about as foreign to an American as Hackensack, New Jersey; such is
not the case with Morocco. Hooded men, veiled women, the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the minarets in the middle of the night, and the souks on the narrow streets of the
Casbah all fail to remind me of Queens.” he added.
Delores smiled at him with her blue eyes. Every now and then, Lou tried to discreetly sneak a peak at her curvy hips. She had short blonde hair and full lips. If Lou was not in love, he was at
the very least in lust. “I agree.” she said softly.

Lou continued sharing his reflections on Morocco. “When I am riding on a bus looking out upon the scenery and the Moroccan people, I have a feeling of being truly alive; there is no past
and no future, only the moment. I feel a heightened sensibility to my surroundings; part of it is the knowledge that Morocco can be dangerous. You need to know what you are doing here.
Could the absence of the familiar require an increased sense of vitality?” he asked. As he gazed at her legs, he hoped he would be vital tonight.

“I feel that way somewhat, perhaps not as intensely.” she said.
“I grew up in Queens in New York City. When I was nineteen years old, I took a philosophy class at night; the class did not begin until eight o’clock. One evening, I sat on a bench on the
Brooklyn Bridge and watched the sun set behind the New York skyline; it was beautiful. I kept thinking: are we here to get married, have children and struggle to support them so they, in turn,
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can grow up to do the same thing? Why not strike out and do some different by having a wide range of experiences? That night, I decided I would seek those adventures for myself.” Lou
added.

“Has it made you happy?” she asked.

“Yes, it has. I wanted to see the world; so far, I have seen more of it than most people do. I am not rich; I worked and saved money, although my travels have also been aided by a
small inheritance. When the inheritance is gone, I will have to deal with some economic uncertainty and start all over again, but I feel it is worth it because I am doing what I want to do
with my life.” he added.

The bus stopped in Rabat; there was time for a café creme. Delores and Lou joined Carl at a table.

“This bus driver has a driving style which I respect. He pays as little attention as possible to obstacles, such as pedestrians, donkeys, and stop signs; he is truly a free spirit.” said Carl.
Delores smiled at Carl. “I think he may have created some new spirits back in Essouima, when he ran those two carts off the road and into a ditch.” she added wryly.

“Back in New York, Carl’s driving style has gained him a certain notoriety among both his friends and people who have never met him personally, but who would pay serious money to
obtain his name and the telephone number of his insurance carrier.” said Lou.

“Listen, Delores, do not believe a word of what Lou just said; he is jealous of my panache behind the wheel.” Carl said.
“Delores, I’m going to tell you a story about a wild night in Brooklyn last year, providing Carl gives me permission.” Lou said while looking at Carl for approval.

“Go ahead Lou, I don’t mind; tell her the story, man.”

“All right, Delores. Do you want another coffee? This story will keep us going until the bus

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is ready to leave, which will be in ten minutes.” he said.
Delores shone her beaming baby blue eyes in his direction and accepted another coffee.

Lou began his story. “We have a good friend named Leila who is from the island of Jamaica; she invited a number of our friends to a party in her apartment on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn.
We were told to be prepared for a big crowd. Well, she wasn’t joking; there must have been a hundred people in that one-bedroom apartment. There were dozens of people dancing in the kitchen and living room. Some were enjoying their drinks while sitting on the edge of the bathtub. There was enough ganja weed being smoked to give everyone a contact high. Not many
people are aware of this, but Carl’s ex-wife, in her divorce papers, cited Carl’s unwillingness to leave parties as an example of his mental cruelty.” continued Lou.

“A complete fabrication!” cried Carl.

“Sorry Carl, perhaps I did exaggerate. Some of us had come with Carl in his car. It was approaching three a.m.; the rest of us wanted to leave the party. Meanwhile, Carl was just getting
started. He had a beer in one hand, a joint in the other, and was holding forth on aspects of chemical bonding with a strikingly beautiful lady from Montego Bay. All signs were pointing
away from an immediate departure. We decided the only approach was to give Carl a firm ultimatum: we would be leaving at 3:30, with or without him. After all, we could take the IRT
subway back to Manhattan.

Somewhat to our surprise, Carl left with us. Rather than this being
the end of the evening, it turned out to be the beginning of a wild adventure that almost drove two friends into psychotherapy.”
“Here is what happened. When we returned to the car, Carl observed that the vehicle had been sandwiched between two parked cars. Ever the optimist, Carl told everyone ‘No problem, just climb in.’ As you may recall, Delores, there have been gasoline shortages; Carl had a five-gallon
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oil drum resting in the back seat. When we were all seated, Carl proceeded to retaliate against the interlopers who had insolently imprisoned his Mustang.” said Lou.

“He placed the car in reverse and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. Bam! He slammed the bumper of the car behind us. Then he moved the gear into forward and smashed into the car in front of us, relentlessly repeating the process until space for exiting was created.”

“At this point, I think it would be a good idea to paint a more detailed picture of the situation. Here were four white persons in a car in the middle of the Bedford-Stuyvesant ghetto at three
o’clock in the morning; the driver was smashing two parked cars with all the power the Mustang could muster. The three passengers were still a little high from the ganja, which only added to
their sense of terror of the situation since this was a high crime area. If a resident decided to venture forth to confront the person who was so rudely hitting his car, it was probable he would
bring a gun.” said Lou.

“Fortunately, no one came. Carl took off in the direction of the Manhattan Bridge; there were frequent traffic lights on the road, but Carl thought fifty miles an hour was a reasonable speed. I
was in the front passenger seat and could see that a traffic light three blocks away was due to turn red. As we approached within a block of the signal, I yelled to Carl to slow down and stop
for the light. At the last second, he did so with a loud screech of the car’s brakes. He then turned to me and said ‘What a place to put a traffic light!’ There was dead silence from our friends Don
and Jan in the back of the car; the five gallon oil drum was hardly a reassuring sight for them. In fact, Jan had expressed some concern about Carl’s driving only the week before.”

“Carl continued to drive toward the Manhattan Bridge. What happened next will never be forgotten by those who were there. As for Carl here, it is doubtful he remembered much beyond
the beauty of Leila. For most people, the signals on the bridge were quite clear; a green light

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meant that one had an open lane from Brooklyn heading into Manhattan. A red light indicated a lane currently available only to Brooklyn-bound cars leaving Manhattan. “Now Delores, can you guess which lane Carl chose, the red or green one?” asked Lou.
“The red lane?” she offered hesitantly.

“Perhaps you know Carl from a previous life. You are quite correct; our intrepid driver had decided to make our return to Manhattan memorable.” said Lou.

Carl nodded in agreement.

“Sure enough, Carl was driving over the bridge in the wrong direction. He had made an irrevocable decision; there was a barrier that prevented us from joining the Manhattan-bound
traffic.

“Don and Jan were still deathly quiet; they had been silent since Carl began playing bumper cars’ back at the parking space.”
“Don was the first to react. He yelled, ‘Carl, you crazy bastard! What are you doing?’ he exclaimed.”

“I yelled ‘Let’s be quiet and hope there’s no traffic.’
“Carl” I urged, “Please move over to the slow lane.”
“No sooner had I said that than Carl swung to the right. Since we were traveling in the wrong direction, the fast lane was to our right, and the slow lane to our left. Carl had therefore moved
into the fast lane, and we had yet to approach the center of the bridge. Fortunately, there was no sign of on-coming headlights. It was almost four in the morning; if one had to be traveling the
wrong way on a bridge, this was a good time to do it. Finally we arrived back in Manhattan, but there were three stomachs lying back on that bridge.” Lou concluded.

“That’s quite a story!” Delores said. “Is that how you remember it, Carl?”
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Carl looked a little sheepish. “Well, to tell the truth, I don’t remember too much of that night, but I do recall the pretty lady from Montego Bay. I also have a vague recollection of adding a shot of coca-cola to a large glass of rum.” he replied.
The bus was nearing the end of the journey as it moved through the crowded streets of Casablanca. At the bus terminal, Lou was surprised there were no hustlers or guides asking if he
wanted a hotel. It was a good feeling to move around unsolicited and unmolested, like the local passengers. They took a taxi to Ain Diab, a coastal area in the suburbs that Lou had read about.
They entered the “Quatre Vents” Hotel. As they entered the lobby, Lou put his hand on Delores’s shoulder and whispered, “I will secure a room for us.”

Delores rubbed her cheek into Lou’s hand as it rested on her shoulder. She said nothing, nor did she look at him; the soft brush with her skin left him aroused. He could not wait to make love
to her.

The next morning, they met Carl at the hotel café that was situated on an outside terrace, offering a magnificent view of the white sand beach below and the aquamarine colored South
Atlantic. The sky was a pale blue; the setting spectacular. They ordered the usual café cremes and croissants; the well dressed patrons were local, but French was the language of choice.
It reminded Lou of descriptions of nineteenth century Russian drawing rooms in Doestoyevski novels, where French was a favored pretension of the Russian middle class.

“How far is Marrakech?” asked Carl.

“Not far.” Delores responded. “The Marrakech Express takes just a few hours.”

“Let’s do it!” Carl said.

That suggestion was not well received. “Carl!” said Lou, “here we are in a beautiful place on the south Atlantic, and you want to leave?” Lou inquired.

“It is too quiet here.” Carl sulked.
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At that point, Delores went up to the room. Lou had been in this situation before. He understood Carl’s frustration that he was without a lover and spoke neither Arabic or French.
Lou had invited him on the trip, and he genuinely wanted to find a compromise where they could both be content.
“Carl, we will leave for Marakkesh late tomorrow afternoon; that will give us the better part of two days here in Casa.” said Lou.
Carl brightened. “O.K, that’s fair.” he said.
“Carl, I know you are not happy about Delores. I will spend all day with you; she is probably going to spend some time in central Casablanca, but after six o’clock, my time is my own.” Lou
said emphatically.

Carl agreed.

Linguistic dependency is frustrating for all concerned. Carl later admitted he felt, at times, like a little boy being led around by a parent. Delores decided to spend part of the day taking a
bus into the central city. For Lou, walking along the wide avenue high above the ocean and feeling the brisk salt air br zes on his face was an exhilarating delight. Carl appeared somewhat
lost as he tagged along. They stopped at an outdoor café with an ocean view; young Arabs were sitting at the tables, talking quietly and sipping espresso. The women were either beautiful or
quite plain.

“Lou, those two ladies over there are total foxes. Let’s go say ‘hello’ to them.” he said.
Lou shook his head at the enfant terrible. “Let us ignore the fact that you speak neither French nor Arabic. Instead, let us focus on the cultural problem; this is not France or Scandinavia. Do you think those ladies act upon their desires? Women here are third-class citizens. My old buddy Jimmy Johnson once told me that Arab men like to sodomize their women just to show them what they can expect from life.” said Lou.
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“On my last trip to Morocco, my friend Mohammed took me to his brother’s house in Fes. Only the men and one foreign woman dined with him. The wife and the daughters all stayed in
the kitchen. When his daughters brought in food, the father received them in silence. After several courses, we moved our cushions back to the edge of the room. One of the daughters then
entered the dining area with a wet towel; she knelt down and cleaned the tile floor, picking up the dirty dishes and returning to the kitchen.” said Lou.
“Not a single word was spoken to her; the treatment of women is one dark side to a visit to North Africa. Some of these ladies are beautiful, elegant, and have money to come to seaside
resorts while living the life of the idle rich. But brother, they are not making any key decisions about their lives.” said Lou with feeling.
“I see what you mean, Lou. Listen. How about a threesome tonight with Delores? Do you think she would go for it?” Carl asked hopefully.
Lou had to handle this question with some tact. “I promise you if she appears open to that, I will let you know, but I think it is doubtful.” said Lou gently.
“Is Marrakech very different from Casablanca?” Carl asked.
“Marrakech is less industrial; tomorrow morning, we will visit the old section of Casablanca, where the Bogart movie was made. I think you will enjoy seeing it; but you are likely to enjoy
Marrakech more.” Lou said.
“Why is that?” Carl asked.
“Well, for one thing, Marrakech gives you a special opportunity to step back in time more than a thousand years when we visit Djeema El-Fna. Translated from the Arabic, it means ‘Assembly of the Dead.’ Lou added.
“What is it?” asked Carl.
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“It’s a huge square enclosed by old stone walls; most travelers find it a very exotic venue.” replied Lou.
“Why?” Carl asked.
“The marketplace at Djeema El-Fna is located at the crossroads of the Sahara; it attracts dancers with purple-dyed faces who come from Mauritania and move to exotic rhythms. There
are water sellers with elaborate brass cups, monkey sellers, snake charmers, and a host of other characters. The square is located inside a walled section of the city; there are no cars, just burros
and perhaps an occasional camel. To visit El-Fna is to step back in time two thousand years.”
“After returning from a previous trip there, I remember taking the ‘D’ train over the Manhattan Bridge and enjoying a brilliant view of the Manhattan skyline on a clear morning, with the sun
reflecting brightly off the glass skyscrapers. Two days earlier, I had been standing in the middle of that square in Marrakech. Carl, I felt I had swept over a time span of two thousand years in
that forty-eight hour period.” said Lou.
“I can’t wait to see it; do they sell hash there as well?” Carl asked.

“Brother. I have a friend there; his name is Mohammed. He always invites me to his home for an evening. In Morocco, a host will offer you kif in the same way an American would offer

a glass of wine or a cognac. If you attempt to buy hash from a stranger, the chances are excellent you will spend time in a Moroccan jail, which cannot be confused with Mohammed’s living room.” added Lou. “I see what you mean; perhaps we should wait until we visit Mohammed.” Carl agreed.
The next day, Delores, Carl, and Lou took the Marrakech express. After awhile, the terrain became desert as they approached the Sahara.
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The train stopped at a rural village. About two hundred soldiers, no doubt out on army exercises, boarded the train. Within five minutes, they were all smoking black tobacco cigarettes;
the atmosphere was suffocating.
“I wish they were all smoking weed; at least we could get a contact high.” said a discouraged Carl.
Lou and Delores for once fully agreed with the mad chemist. It was going to be a long ride to Marrakech under these conditions.
When they arrived at the city center of Marrakech, they proceeded to the Hotel Mohammed V. Lou paid for a room for Delores and himself, and reserved another room for Carl. They then
went to a nearby restaurant that served an excellent couscous.

After the satisfying meal, Lou hoped he and Delores could have each other as an after-lunch treat. “Well, I’m sleepy, I think I will take a nap.” Lou said.
Delores said she was tired as well. They went up to the room. Miraculously, privacy elevated their energy levels; they made
love, falling asleep in a state of pleasant exhaustion.
That evening, they visited Mohammed; he was a reporter for a local paper and enjoyed talking about social philosophy and current events. Mohammed spoke English with greater
fluency than Lou’s French.

It was obvious he was enchanted by the blonde beauty from the American heartland. For the first twenty minutes, he asked Delores a span of questions about herself. In contrast, he failed to ask Carl a single question.
Carl, however, was not concerned about this lack of interest. He was too busy watching Mohammed soften up the fingers of kif he had placed on the table. Mohammed filled the pipe
bowl, lit it and started passing it around. Lou enjoyed the aroma and drew deeply on the pipe.
Then he passed it to Carl; Lou was holding his toke for as long as he could without exhaling.
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Carl took his hit and began a coughing spree that was farcical. Lou couldn’t believe it.  Carl had been so pre-occupied with getting high; now that he had the chance, he could not hold down
his toke!
On top of that, his exaggerated coughing was so hilarious that it was costing Delores and Lou their own tokes! Even Mohammed was laughing at Carl’s reaction to the kif. After a while, Lou
noticed Carl was holding the smoke down for a longer period of time before he went on another coughing tear. The last one threw everyone else into a coughing frenzy; of course,
after several bowls of kif, they were ready to laugh at anything.
Mohammed put on some Moroccan music; his wife came out from the kitchen with some mint tea. The tall glasses were filled with green leaves and hot water from the boiling kettle.
When served with sugar, it was a delicious drink; it also tasted very good when served with kif.

Delores was basking in all the attention from Mohammed. She talked freely about her life in Wisconsin and her desire to support herself on the Costa del Sol by playing guitar at a popular
restaurant. Lou noticed that she had not bothered to ask Mohammed a single question about his life or his world in Marrakech. She was gentle in her communications with Lou, but he noticed that she had used sarcasm in talking to Carl.

The next morning, they walked down Mohammed V in the direction of Djemma El-Fna. It was nine o’clock; the “crossroads of the Sahara” was already living up to its reputation. Carl
engaged a monkey-seller in a serious conversation; Lou had visions of spending the next month with a primate.
“That monkey has a lot of soul.” said Carl.
“Are you serious about buying her?” inquired an astonished Delores.
“Delores.” said Lou, “Carl is as serious as a heart attack, which is precisely what I am going to have if Carl brings that primate back to the hotel!” said Lou anxiously.
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Carl had done a lot of crazy things, but buying a monkey in central Morocco? Surely, the hotel management would deny entrance to Carl and his new consort.
“Listen, brother.” said Lou in a soothing tone, “Did you smoke any kif this morning?”
“Hell no, man! You told me it was dangerous.” said Carl in a credible tone.
“Well Carl, how are you going to maintain this animal? Do you think the authorities at the hotel will let you keep it in your room? I will admit you can probably bribe the hotel staff to keep
him in a cage in the back yard, but when the Spanish customs police say to you, ‘Esto mono is suyo, señor?’ what do you think will happen next?” asked Lou.
Carl said, “What does that mean in Spanish, Lou?”
Lou was becoming exasperated with the enfant terrible. “I’ll tell you exactly what that means, Carl. ‘Is that your fucking monkey, mister?’” screamed Lou.
“The men from Generalissimo Franco’s office have a great deal of latitude in enforcing the laws. As in most dictatorships, the law is whatever the people in power say it is at any point in
time. If there aren’t formal laws against importing primates into Spain from North Africa, they will make up a law just for you Carl. You can count on it.”
“Normally, the Spanish are quite fond of Americans. The police, however, are not so fond of Americans who look like ‘hippies.’ Spain is a conservative society; to quote Woody Allen, the
place is ‘worse than California’ when it comes to being a police state. Make no mistake about it Carl, that monkey will receive the proctology exam of its life to ascertain the presence or
absence of plastic bags containing illegal substances.” said Lou.
“It is not likely the primate will take kindly to such an examination. He may bite one of the Guardia Civil. That could result in you receiving a long vacation in a Spanish prison from those
wonderful folks who gave the world the Inquisition.” added Lou.
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“I guarantee you this. An Attica prison cell will look like a room at the Hilton by comparison with a Spanish prison cell. If you really irritate them, they just might put the monkey in the cell
with you. Wouldn’t that be nice?” said Carl.
Carl took a longer, deeper look at the monkey, perhaps imagining what it would be like to share a dark prison cell with the restless primate.
“Maybe I should reconsider.” said Carl.
Lou was visibly relieved. Delores found the entire incident bizarre; why would anyone want to travel with a fractious monkey?
“Are those the dancers from Mauritania mentioned in the guidebooks?” Delores asked, pointing to a group of dancers moving to the complex rhythms of the drummers. The beat was
infectious; the spectacle within the huge walled square was thrilling on this sunny day. Who could believe such things were going on in 1973? There were people actually selling water,
although it seemed they made more money from having their pictures taken with the tourists than they did from water sales.
Delores noticed there were cafés on the rooftops overlooking the square; they appeared to be excellent places to sip a mint tea or coffee and absorb the atmosphere. She proposed they visit a
rooftop café after they finished exploring the rest of the square. Delores found herself entranced by the drums, the flutes and the snake charmers, as well as by the eerie movements of the cobra
snakes as their heads emerged from their baskets. Most of all, she was intrigued by the veiled women, whose eyes were so dark and expressive.
Delores liked Lou, but she didn’t want to become too close to him. Before long, they would say good-bye; it was doubtful they would ever meet again. For that reason, she would not let him
penetrate her. When they made love, she insisted they satisfy each other in other ways. Lou accepted this arrangement without argument. For reasons she couldn’t understand, his
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willingness to comply so readily bothered her. She thought of being in bed tonight with Lou, and began to feel excited. Casablanca, Djemma El-Fna, and Lou, it was all so romantic.
Then there was Carl; what a crazy son of a bitch! Who would want to buy a monkey three thousand miles from home, or even one living around the corner for that matter ? He looked like
a deranged Groucho Marx!
They continued to walk through the marketplace. Each one had his picture taken with the water seller, who was colorfully adorned with gold colored clothes and the brass objects of his
trade. Delores was getting hungry. “Let’s have lunch at one of the rooftop cafés.” she said.
“Let’s do it!” said the mad chemist.
The view from the Café El-Fna was superb; it was possible to see not only the huge square, but also the ochre-colored buildings in the surrounding neighborhoods beyond it. They dined on
couscous, sipped mint tea, and became mesmerized by the drum rhythms and the aroma of kif emanating from some of the surrounding tables.
Around five o’clock, the tired, but satisfied trio made their way down Avenue Mohammed V towards the hotel. When they were alone, Delores said to Lou “This has been one of the most
extraordinary days of my life. I feel as if I spent the day in the eleventh century!”

“El-Fna has that feeling.” said Lou.
They made love, falling into an extended sleep afterwards. At nine

o’clock, they went downstairs to the dining room, where Carl was sipping a postprandial glass of beer. He was not
alone; two Northern European men were sitting with him.
Carl made the introductions. Lars and Eric were from Sweden. There were a number of check stubs next to their beers, suggesting that a substantial amount of alcohol had already been
consumed. This did not surprise Lou; Scandinavians often drank large quantities of alcohol in
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foreign countries, where the cost was a small fraction of the expensive prices back home. However, they appeared to be sober and alert despite the heavy drinking.
“Your President seems to be involved in a scandal. How bad is it?” Lars asked.
“It looks like he and his staff gave orders to spy on the Democrats, and the spies got caught. What idiots! The polls indicated Nixon was likely to win re-election. They probably wanted
records of the names of the call-girls the Democrats were screwing in Washington; Republicans don’t get laid often; it is a big problem that tends to make them mean-spirited.” said Carl.
Lou and Delores laughed at Carl’s analysis.
“It’s a dream come true; Nixon is a paranoid and cunning politician who has confused shrewdness with intelligence; those are his best qualities. The closer one looks, the worse he appears. I cannot believe our good fortune; he may actually be impeached, which means he will be charged with obstruction of justice and dancing naked with John Mitchell, the Attorney General.” continued Carl.
“What is this dancing naked? We haven’t heard about that in Sweden!” Eric remarked.
“Just kidding Eric,” said Carl.
The Swedes are serious-minded people, thought Lou
“Delores, how do you like Marrakech?” asked Lars.
“It’s fascinating; we spent today at Djeema El-Fna; have you been there?” she asked.
“Not yet, we just arrived from Fes today.” he said.
“Fes is a very traditional city; I have a friend there who lives in the medina. Did you have a good time?” Lou inquired.
Lars smiled. “We had a good guide who obtained excellent hash; we still have some if you want to have a smoke.” he said.
“That is a very good idea,” Carl agreed.
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“ No thanks.” said Lou. He was not about to smoke kif with foreigners. The subject was dropped. The Swedes were teachers in the city of Malmo. The school break gave them time to travel to
North Africa. Eric could not stop looking at Delores; even when the conversation focused on someone else, he kept looking in her direction.
“Do you think America will stop fighting in Viet Nam soon?” asked Lars.
“It’s difficult to tell what will happen with that disaster. There is evidence through the Pentagon Papers that the military lied to President Johnson about actual conditions. A generation
will be scarred, public funds hemorrhaged, defense contractors will have become rich, and the American people will suffer from the fiasco.” said Lou.
He changed the subject. “Do you like Selma Lagerlof?”
Lars answered. “Selma Lagerlof is one of Sweden’s most famous writers and storytellers.
“The Story of Gosta Berling is famous in Sweden. Is she admired in America?”
“I read her works when I stayed on the island of Majorca. Her books were at a small English lending library. I enjoy reading foreign writers, since I have concluded American culture has
little to inspire me.” said Lou.
“What do you do in Majorca?” asked Eric.
This was a somewhat delicate question in view of the presence of Delores. He wanted to say that he had spent much time in the cafés talking to the pretty ladies from Northern Europe, which
was the truth.
Instead, he said, “I have never worked abroad. When I live in Majorca, I spend time in a fishing village on the northern coast. There is an English lending library in the village, a variety
of cafés, and an idyllic lifestyle for a foreigner. I read, take walks in the hills, and spend time with friends.”
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“Why do you like Morocco?” asked Eric.
“It has an aura of strangeness and adventure. While I don’t walk around with a sense of imminent danger, I do feel as if I need to be aware of my surroundings. As a result, I experience
life more intensely here. Majorca has peace, beauty, and charm in a safe environment. You can tell a woman that she can take a walk to the harbor at three o’clock in the morning if she so
desires. I would not make the same recommendation in Casablanca or Tangier.” said Lou.
“No,” said Lars. “That would not be wise.”
Delores was thinking about her prospects for work in Torremolinos. She was not ready to go back to Wisconsin; she would miss Lou, but that crazy chemist was another matter.
She had met some characters along the way, but Carl stood out. This guy was nuts! He needed a day pass, not a passport. She would simply have to put up with him to be with Lou.
Carl was telling the group one of his favorite stories.
“I have a good friend in Sacramento named Joe. His step-dad, Rudy, is a world-class party animal. He’s in his fifties and has probably visited every bar between Reno and San Francisco at
least once.’ said Carl.
“Well, one night, he decided to have a few drinks in a bar in Truckee, east of Sacramento between Donner Summit and Reno, Nevada. Rudy took a friend named Jamie along for the ride.
It was wintertime, and it was snowing through the mountains. Fortunately, the road had been open all the way from Sacramento. This meant they could enjoy ‘happy hour’ at Hoopers; his
favorite bar in Truckee. They celebrated their arrival with lots of margaritas. After five hours in the bar, it was clear neither of them was capable of driving home through the Sierra Mountains
where it was, reportedly still snowing heavily.” Carl continued.
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”Jamie suggested they find out how much a cab would cost from Truckee back to Sacramento, so Rudy called the local cab company; he was told the cost would be two-hundred
twenty-five dollars.” said Carl.
“Rudy never liked paying too much for anything that did not contain alcohol. After another margarita, he had an inspired thought. Why not see what an ambulance would cost? The cost
turned out to be only one hundred and fifty dollars. Rudy ordered the ambulance to come to the bar; he and Jamie climbed inside and reclined on the gurneys. When the ambulance reached
Highway 80, they discovered the road had been closed due to heavy snow. Just then, a police car stopped next to the ambulance which had its flashing red lights on. The ambulance driver
explained he was taking two patients to Sacramento. ‘No problem.’ said the officer. ‘I’ll give you an escort through the mountains.’ Now picture this, it’s a blizzard. A police car, with its siren on
and lights flashing, was racing through the Sierra Mountains in a snowstorm with two drunks stretched out in the ambulance.” added Carl.
“Rudy told me later it was one of the nicest rides he had in his life. When the ambulance reached the outskirts of Sacramento, the cop gave the ambulance driver a wave and turned off
the highway. Rudy directed the driver to an after-hours bar, where he and Jamie celebrated their arrival in Sacramento with more margaritas. The long ambulance ride had brought them
dangerously close to sobriety; action was needed.” said Carl.
“Jamie said to him, ‘Listen Rudy, do you think that cop would have been pissed off if he had known about it?’ Rudy answered ’he would have been as happy as Richard Nixon at an anti-war
rally.’
Lou said, “I met Rudy a few years ago. I think the last time he was sober was 1943.”
All were growing tired; they soon said good-bye and went to their rooms. The next day would be a long one. Lou had planned on staying longer in Marrakech, but the thought of
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accompanying Delores to Tangier was appealing. Of course, he would have to discuss it with Carl, who usually showed flexibility about most things. The next morning, Delores slept later than usual; Lou decided to join Carl for café creme and
a croissant.
“Listen Carl, how would you feel about our leaving tonight for Fes? We can spend time there, and then proceed to Tangier to see Delores off on the boat to Malaga. After that, we can
take a ferry to Algeciras.” said Lou hopefully.
“Let’s do it,” said Carl.
They took a bus to Fes that evening. It was a long trip through the mountains. The hills in Morocco often take on a purplish hue that was at once beautiful and mystical. Delores snuggled
in his arms and gazed out the window. Typical of Morocco, the bus was full, yet there was very little talking among the passengers. They arrived in Fes late at night.
After securing a hotel room and a good night’s sleep, the trio went to the Fes Medina, an old walled section of the city the following morning. They walked along the narrow paths that wind
around hundreds of souks, including silversmiths and barber shops. The first order of business was to visit Mohammed, who had been Lou’s friend for many years. Mohammed had worked as a textile worker in Holland. Like many of the guest workers
who went to Northern Europe in the seventies, he performed one of the jobs that the Dutch, Danes, Germans, or Swedes preferred to avoid in favor of better-paying jobs. In Amsterdam, he
lived in a small, crowded hotel room with five other Moroccans. The money sent home appeared a small fortune to those awaiting it. Lou had met him several years before on a train
traveling from Madrid to Algeciras. He was tall and brown skinned, with curly hair and a handsome face. He was quiet and gracious; his French was clear and easily understood by Lou.
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Delores, Carl, and Lou arrived late morning at the home of Mohammed. He welcomed them warmly and invited them inside for mint tea and pastries.
“When did you arrive in Fes?” asked Mohammed.
“Last night.” said Carl.
“Carl is an admirer of kif.” said Lou. “Could you indulge him in his passion? I have had to work hard at keeping him out of the hands of friends of the police in Casablanca and Marrakech.” said Lou.
Mohammed smiled. “It can be dangerous to deal with strangers.” he said.
He left the room for a moment; when he returned, he had a pipe and a finger of kif. Mohammed passed the pipe to Delores first. The room became silent as everyone sipped tea and
passed the pipe around. The smoke had a slightly sweet aroma which made breathing a more conscious activity than normal.
Time passed pleasantly, with the conversation turning to Mohammed’s future plans. “I have an opportunity to return next month to my former employer in Amsterdam. If I go, I will
probably stay for one year before returning to Fes.”
“Do you like working in Amsterdam?” asked Delores.
“I would prefer to work in Fes, but it is a better life for my family if I go to Amsterdam,” he said.
“Is the King popular?” asked Carl.
“He is popular with many people, but certainly not all. There have been several attempts to kill him; none has been successful.” replied Mohammed.
“What happened to the people who tried to kill him? Carl asked.
“They no longer live.” said Mohammed.
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“Mohammed is an excellent story-teller. Will you tell us the story of the reluctant cobra?” asked Lou.
“Of course. A man named Hassan lived near Medina. He was young and did not have much money; he decided to buy a cobra from an itinerant snake charmer in order to earn a living. The
old man removed the top of the basket and waved a wand slowly, causing the cobra to move its head out of the basket. Hassan was impressed with the performance and bought the snake, taking
him away.”
“The next day, he went to the town square to practice his new trade. People gathered around him to watch the snake charmer at work. Hassan removed the basket cover and waved the wand
over the top, just as he had seen the old man do.” continued Mohammed. When the snake failed to appear before the crowd, he panicked. Hassan poked the snake, fearing he had died; the snake moved around in the bottom of the basket but did not lift his head
up. As the crowd laughed, Hassan left the square feeling ashamed and went in search of the old man.”
“He found the old snake charmer camped outside the city. Hassan rushed toward him angrily.
“You are a liar and charlatan! The snake refuses to perform!’ he cried.
“The old man took the wand from Ahmad, opened the basket, and waved the wand several times; soon the head of the cobra rose out of the basket.” said Mohammed.
“The old snake charmer said ‘There is nothing wrong with this cobra; the problem lies with you. Due to your obsession with performing before crowds, you failed to inquire whether any
knowledge was first required before giving public performances. I can give you guidance in learning how to coax the snake from its lair; but first, you must accept the fact that you need a
teacher. Then you must ask a person of knowledge to assist you; it is not the task of the teacher to beg for help.’ he said.”
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“How do you interpret this story?” asked Delores.
“There are many interpretations to the story; any analysis depends upon the perspective and understanding of the listener.” replied Mohammed.
It was soon time to leave; Carl wanted to take pictures of everyone. Lou noticed that Mohammed always averted his eyes from the camera lens. They said good-bye to Mohammed and walked back to their hotel in New Fes, which looked one thousand years newer than any building in the Medina, which indeed it was. Women in the
new part of the city were not veiled; instead they were wearing mini-skirts and riding in sports cars. It may have lacked charm, but it offered better amenities for the traveler.

The next day, they left by bus for Tetouan. The sun shone on the lush green hills. As the bus climbed upwards through the Rif Mountains, landscapes of orange groves and date palm trees
appeared. By late afternoon, they arrived in Tetouan. They celebrated the end of the journey by stopping at one of Lou’s favorite cafés, El Sirocco.
Lou wanted another night with Delores. He proposed they remain in Tetouan; no one objected to the plan.
Lou leaned over and whispered to her, “Let’s take a nap.”
They went upstairs to the room; they made love with the passion of two people who knew this would be their last full day together.
Carl decided to take a walk; he stopped at a nearby restaurant for a meal. As he sipped a coffee, he was approached by an attractive veiled woman. This lady of the night made Carl a
proposal that was very much to his liking. He took her back to the hotel room, where she transported him to a state of ecstasy.
The following morning, the trio of Americans took a communal taxi from Tetouan to Tangier. After arriving, Delores booked passage on the noon boat to Malaga. Carl and Lou

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walked with her to the dock. Delores and Lou embraced for the last time; she walked away, never looking back. Lou and Carl walked to the Algeciras ferry.
“Lou, I think I am ready to go back to New York.” Carl announced.
They boarded a train in Algeciras bound for Madrid, where Lou visited a travel agency and purchased a ticket for Istanbul.
At the airport, they gave each other a hug before walking to their respective departure gates.

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——————————————————–

Chapter VI
Istanbul: Lou Visits the Underground City and Meets Isabel and Francoise

At sunset, Lou walked across the Galata Bridge; sunlight had settled on the water in the shape of a golden horn, with the minarets of several mosques visible on the shore; it was a scene
Lou thought he would never forget. He found a hotel near the Mosque of Sultan Mehmet, usually referred to as the Blue Mosque.
After taking a siesta, he walked down to the harbor, which offered a view of the Asian section of the city. A ferry carried him from Europe to Asia in a matter of minutes. The bad news about
Istanbul was that, while three million people might have lived there comfortably, five million persons called it home.
In preparation for this trip, Lou had learned about fifty Turkish phrases. On the second day, he asked a man for directions to Topkapi; the man used hand signals to show him the way.
Afterwards, Lou said, “Teshekur Ederim.”
The man looked at him, smiled, cupped his hands on his chest, pushed the hands toward Lou, as if to say “I give to you from the heart.” It was a simple gesture, yet Lou would never forget it.
Two great architectural works of the city were located within a short distance. Aya Sofia was built by the Emperor Justinian in the sixth century; many centuries later, Sultan Mehmet
constructed the Blue Mosque.

On his second night, Lou attended the sound and light show held in front of the Blue Mosque, where he met Sylvia and George, an American couple from Boston who were on their
way to New Delhi. They invited him for a late night snack at Yener’s restaurant, a popular spot for young international travelers who were often termed “hippies” if they had long hair and were
casually dressed.
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Tom and Jean were teachers; they practiced Kriya Yoga and planned on visiting some of the spiritual centers founded by their spiritual teacher Paramahansa Yogananda. They were gentle
people and somewhat reserved, a quality often found in those who practiced deep meditation. After a final cup of Turkish coffee, Lou said good-bye to them and returned to the Hotel
Bursa. The following day, Lou went for a walk in the direction of Aya Sofia, which was now called a “museum” in modern-day secular Turkey. He saw a man lying on the grass who
appeared to be seriously ill. There were literally hundreds of people passing by, but no one was paying any attention to him.
Lou went in search of a police station to report the situation. However, no one there spoke English and Lou’s Turkish was insufficient to communicate the problem. It was curious that no
one had taken an interest in the man.

At lunchtime, Lou shared the strange story with Tom and Jean at Yener’s. One Turkish customer had been listening to the conversation. “Oh, I know the man you are talking about!” he
said breezily.
“He is dying of starvation.” he added.
The Americans looked at each other-wide-eyed, as if to say, “What bizarre vision of hell is being presented to us?’’
The man was lying near a busy sidewalk; surely no less than a thousand people passed him that day, yet no one had helped. Lou decided it was time to leave Istanbul. His plan was to travel
to Izmir; from there, he would visit the seacoast village of Kusadasi.

The Turkish inhabitants of Kusadasi proved to be some of the friendliest people on the planet. Lou would learn this was generally true of Turkish people everywhere in the country. He
checked into the Hotel Samos, which offered him a room with a balcony overlooking the Aegean.
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It was Sunday; Lou went to a park filled with olive and pine trees. He sat on a bench on a hillside, where he observed a group of people below having a picnic. When one of them saw
Lou, he climbed up the hillside and insisted that Lou join the party. Armed with his vocabulary of fifty phrases, he proceeded to make conversation in fractured Turkish. It was a gathering of
teachers and their partners; all of whom were from the city of Izmir. They appeared to be delighted at his attempts to speak Turkish since it was unusual for foreigners to do so. They
enjoyed barbecued fish and passed a pleasant afternoon. He did not understand most of the conversation, but goodwill was easily shared. That night, he ordered a coffee in the lobby of the Hotel Samos.

Meeting a lady would be nice.” he thought to himself.
Two French speaking women sat down at a nearby table. Both were quite attractive; Isabel and Francoise were on hol iday from Lyons.
“How are you enjoying your time in Turkey?” Lou asked in his best Parisian accent.
The two ladies looked knowingly at each other and smiled.
“Turkish men are impossible.” said Isabel.
“A man meets you at ten o’clock in the morning and invites you for a cup of tea. In less than an hour, he is swearing his undying love for you. By noon, he is asking you to marry him; it is
sad and tedious.” she added.
Francoise leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner and said in a soft voice, “this is our plan for keeping the Turks away from us. We now tell them we are scheduled to join the convent of
the Sisters of Mercy next month, and we had to take a vow to avoid the company of men during our trip. You should see the looks they give us. And this one! pointing to Isabel, she puts on a
sanctimonious face like a seven year old choir girl! I almost gave our little game away today by laughing.” she said.
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Lou gave them both a frankly appraising stare.
“Two beautiful ladies such as you living in a convent would be the greatest tragedy since Richard Nixon.” Lou said.
Francoise put a saucy look on her fully and pretty lips; she touched her right ear lobe with two fingers. “This is the part of my body that I am saving for our Dear Lord. The rest of my
body, I intend to share with men who appeal.” she added.
Isabel shook her head and waved her finger at Francoise as though she was a naughty little girl. “As you can tell, Francoise is in need of a drink.” she said.
After several hours passed and numerous glasses of wine had been consumed, Lou whispered.
“The simple truth is that I want you both.”
The two ladies looked at each other with closed lip smiles. Francoise was the first to speak.
“I am a little tired tonight. I will meet you here tomorrow at seven o’clock.” she said.
She leaned over and gave Isabel a kiss on both cheeks, then kissed Lou in the same way and left.
Lou asked Francoise if she wanted another drink; the answer was no. Lou placed his hand in hers. Isabel squeezed his hand in return.
“Let’s go back to my room.” he said softly. She said nothing as she got up from the chair.
Turkey was a wonderful country!
They made love immediately upon entering the room, then engaged in the quiet talk of lovers before making love again. Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
They didn’t wake up until morning. Lou said to her, “Can I see you tomorrow night?
Isabel laughed. “Well Lou, after your night with Francoise, you may not wish to see me,” she said in a teasing fashion. Lou protested. “Well, I don’t know what our plans will be for traveling
to Cappodocia. We will see,” she said in a non-committal fashion.
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Lou spent the day at a small café that had a view of the sea. He wrote letters to friends and family while sipping strong Turkish coffee and listening to Miles Davis on his portable player.
He was looking forward to seeing the beautiful Francoise that evening. For a brief moment, he thought about finding a drug store that might sell vitamin E, but he was far too comfortable looking at the turquoise Aegean to seriously consider a move. Perhaps
his thesis adviser Professor Harmon had been right when he said, “You appear to be approaching life in a reverse manner. You have gone into semi-retirement in your youth and will no doubt
work hard after you reach fifty.” Lou wondered if such would be the case; his early adult years at the insurance company had taught Lou that nothing was more valuable than his time.
The advantage of being an American at the time was the dollar was a strong, enabling one to live a simple, carefree, and pleasurable life in other countries for many months at a time. The key
was staying out of debt and not having an acquisitive nature. It was Lou’s nature to ‘travel light’ at home and abroad. As he looked at the open sea and blue sky, he thought to himself, “Well as
Nicko would say, here’s another day at the office.”
It was now two o’clock; there was a stillness in the mid-afternoon that existed in most of the countries of southern Europe; in Spain it was called siesta time. The feeling was the same here in
Turkey. The streets were empty; a dog was sleeping against the side of a building. Time appeared to be suspended.

One had the sense of neither past nor future, only the moment; Lou felt a sense of bliss. He had known that feeling many times in Majorca; it was nice to know it in a new place. At seven o’clock, he met Francoise. Lou suggested they take a walk down to the harbor to watch the sunset. The harbor promenade was filled with many local residents who were enjoying the early summer evening. Lou had made a decision not to mention Isabel’s name, correctly assuming that

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would be a bad idea. He was therefore surprised when Francoise quickly began to discuss Isabel.
“You can be sure Isabel had a good time with you. She spent most of the day talking about nothing but you. So tonight, we must find a different topic.” she said firmly.
“Do you know what Isabel did? She asked me if she could meet you tonight. I told her she could be with you tomorrow night, which will be our last night in Kusadasi. I also said it was her
fault about tonight; if she hadn’t spent the whole day talking about you, I might have said yes. I decided to find out more about you myself.” she added.
They held hands and watched the sunset; Fortunately, Francoise was also eager to return to the hotel and into bed.
After making love, they sipped wine and ate bread and cheese. Francoise gave Lou a card with her address. “If you want to see me again, you must come to Lyons. After all, you are
booked for tomorrow night.” she said.
Lou smiled and said “Please stay away from the convent!” He took her hand, kissed it, and opted for some non-verbal communication.
Unlike Isabel, Francoise did not spend the night with him; they said good-bye to each other at around 2 a.m. The lovemaking had been good, but when is it not so? However, the emotional
connection had not been as strong with her as with Isabel.
After the days with Isabel and Francoise, he experienced a feeling of emptiness after their departure; it would take time to recover from their absence. He would be in Kusadasi for another three weeks before traveling to Bursa, Cappodocia and
the underground cities near Urgup. Lou began reading Dostoyevsky’s “The Idiot”. The days slipped by in idyllic fashion, with the usual extended breakfast of pastries and thick coffee, walks
in the hills around the harbor, and evening conversations with the other hotel guests.
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One afternoon, while walking in one of the parks near the harbor, a man started a conversation with him. His name was Seljut; he was a waiter and it was his day off. He invited Lou to come home to meet his family; Lou accepted the invitation. As they began walking along the main road near the harbor, Seljut took Lou’s arm. It was a common sight in Turkey to observe persons of the same gender walking arm-in-arm down the street, although it took Lou a
few minutes to feel comfortable with the practice.
They reached Seljut’s home; Lou removed his shoes at the door, where he was given a pair of slippers. After introductions to his wife Sulima and their two young children, the two men sat in
the living room. The young boy and girl peeked into the room, then ran away giggling. Seljut spoke some English, translating parts of the conversation for Sulima when she returned with tea.
She had dark eyes and a beautiful smile; Lou asked her in Turkish if she liked Kusadasi; she assented, clearly pleased and amused at Lou’s efforts to speak Turkish. Sulima prepared a delicious lunch; Lou was experiencing how the “guest is God” to many
Turks. There would be many such moments of kindness and hospitality that he would receive in Turkey. Already, he considered the Turks the friendliest people he had met on earth. After coffee, Lou left the warmth of the family household; he promised he would return to visit them.

A month passed with ease; after having lived in a Majorcan fishing village for many months, this was an easy and peaceful transition for him. On a quiet Sunday morning, he took a bus to
Bursa. From there, he traveled to the underground cities in Urgup and Neveshir in the region of Cappodocia.
The underground cities protected the residents of ancient times by affording them a communal area that extended seven stories below ground; it was an intriguing structure. Lou descended the dirt passageways to the seventh level, while noting the placements of the air vents.
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Nothing could have prepared him for Cappodocia, with its pinnacled rock houses. It had the appearance of an apartment house complex on the moon. Lou walked inside some of the
pinnacled rock houses, walking up several stories. The entire area bore little resemblance to the rest of the planet; he passed the afternoon walking in solitude in this strange and desolate terrain.
There was no one to be seen; the landscape before him was reminiscent of the lunar landscape.

The schedule for the local bus service back to town extended into the early evening; he decided to stay until dusk. Lou thought about the lives of the people for whom this stark  environment was once home. At seven o’clock, he began the long walk to the bus stop.
The next day, he arrived in the city of Konya, considered a holy city by Sufis and others.

While sipping his morning coffee, he met Barbak and Mustafa, two Turkish guest workers living in Denmark who were home for vacation. They invited Lou to have a tour of Konya with them
the following morning.

It was Lou who arrived first at the cafe; he always enjoyed the life of the cafés, especially in the morning. Armed with the jazz pianist Bill Evans and the Dostoyevsky novel, he was quite
comfortable as he awaited their arrival. The café was crowded with men, not a single woman was present. The television was blaring loudly; it reminded Lou of Majorca, where televisions were
also less prevalent in homes and men went to the cafes to watch television programs.

Lou was seated against the back wall near the window; he observed a black parking outside. Four men with dark leather jackets entered; suddenly, everyone was standing up. Lou noticed an
arm reaching up to turn off the television set, which was suspended from the ceiling. Lou took out his passport; the police frisked him in the same manner as the other patrons. They were
looking for guns. Fortunately, no one had any; the police left as quietly as they had entered.
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The television was soon blaring away, but the café was otherwise silent. The morning ambience had been violated; everyone felt it. Had he not been waiting for his new friends, he would have left immediately. About twenty minutes later, they arrived. “Lou, my friend, how are you today?” said a cheerful Mustafa.
“Fine, thanks, I am looking forward to seeing Konya. Please sit down and let me invite you
to something to eat and drink.” said Lou.
The two Turks were horrified at the suggestion. No, they would buy him breakfast. It was intriguing; the Turks were as friendly as the Moroccans he had met, but the difference was that
unlike the Moroccans, the Turks wanted nothing in return.
The tour of the city was interesting. Barbak and Mustafa took him to a park located high above the town that offered an impressive view. Lou insisted on buying them tea; this offering
was accepted.

Barbak and Mustafa then insisted they go to a jewelry store because they wanted to buy Lou a gift. Lou did not want them spending money on him, but courtesy required that he acept the
present. The risk of offending them was too great; he chose a ceramic charm that cost roughly an American quarter.
“Now, please to excuse us, Lou, but we must take the dolmush (communal taxi) to our village.” said Mustafa.
Lou thanked them both. They had taken a morning of their relatively briefly vacation to share their city with him. Years later, he would reflect fondly on their simple act of kindness.
After another day in Konya, Lou began the return trip to Istanbul, where he would take the “Magic Bus” to Serbia, with Mallorca his ultimate destination. Lou needed more time in the Port,
and he knew it.
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Chapter VII
The Balkans: Lou Rides the Magic Bus

In the seventies, an underground bus service referred to by some travelers as The Magic Bus connected London with New Delhi. When Lou arrived back in Istanbul from the interior of the
country, he immediately went to Yener’s restaurant to learn the time of the next bus heading west. He planned on taking the bus to Nis in Serbia, a train through Montenegro to Bar, an
overnight ferry to Bari, Italy, followed by a train to Rome and a plane to Majorca. He was in luck; there was a magic bus scheduled to leave that day at five o’clock.

Lou arrived about thirty minutes before departure time. The bus was filling up rather quickly with long-haired travelers, most wearing jeans and back-packs. Martin, the driver, was a huge
man with white hair and a full beard; his shirt failed to cover at least a third of his sizable stomach. He looked deranged.
A young man, possibly Iranian, climbed onto the bus.
“So this is The Magic Bus.” he asked Martin hopefully.
“What will be bloody magic is if I can get this bus to London.” Martin replied gruffly. It was time to leave. Benny, Martin’s fourteen-year old assistant, was placing the baggage in
the hold. He was on summer vacation and had traveled all the way from London to New Delhi with Martin, and was now making the return trip home. Lou wondered why Benny’s parents
hated the child so deeply that they were willing to entrust his young life to this vision from hell called Martin.
The bus itself was by no means a new one; it had probably transported people around London in the fifties.
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The land-locked Captain Ahab started the engine and proceeded to move the bus as if it were a huge ship surrounded by little rowboats that were getting in the way. He hunched his body over
the wheel, pushed down hard on the horn, and looked on silently as people, burros, carts, and bicycles were forced to the side of the road by the larger vehicle. It was now time for Martin to make one of his memorable announcements. The public
address system consisted solely of his booming voice, which he rarely subjected to modulation.
“All right, whoever is smoking that bloody hash can get rid of it right now! In Greece, they are going to bring the dogs on the bus; if I can smell it, so can the dogs.” said Martin in a
thundering voice. The aroma of hashish, which Lou had been enjoying, rapidly diminished; order had been
restored on the four-wheel land yacht. The bus made its way to the Greek border; after a brief stop, it proceeded towards Thessaloniki. It was midnight, no matter how he tried, Lou could not
find a comfortable position in the seat for his six-foot frame. Perhaps it would be better to engage the steward of the road in conversation than to struggle for sleep that might not come.
Lou walked to the front of the bus and sat on the metal engine cover.
“How are you feeling, Martin?” asked Lou.
“Not bad, I’m tired, but then again, I’m usually tired.” he replied.
His conversational tone was sincere and amicable; Lou thought he might be less unfriendly than he initially appeared.
As Martin continued guiding the bus along the winding road, they talked about his business and about the condition of the roads between Istanbul and New Delhi.
“When will you get some rest?” asked Lou.
“I won’t sleep until I get to London.” he answered.
Surely London was a few days away. How was this possible?
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Martin was very interested in Lou’s future travels to the jungles of Central and South America. They talked until sunrise. Lou finally felt sufficiently tired to sleep; he said goodnight
and returned to his seat. Suddenly, people were pushing on Lou’s shoulder, frantically yelling “You have to get up,
he’s falling asleep at the wheel! Martin likes talking to you, you must keep him awake.” Lou started towards the front, but progress was slow because the bus kept leaving the road and onto
the soft shoulder.

Lou sat down again on the engine cover and started conversing with the bleary-eyed driver. “Don’t worry, we will be in Nis by noon.” he said.
“Tell me more about New Delhi, Martin.” asked Lou.
The bus skidded along the soft shoulder; Martin once again steered the wandering bus back onto the highway.
“‘I can’t talk, Lou, but you can talk to me.” he added.
Martin exemplified the dangers of having a compulsive personality; he could not stop driving until he reached Nis.
The bus entered Yugoslavia; Martin’s face was looking more haggard as the day wore on. When they pulled into Nis, Lou was quite content to say good-bye to Martin and the gang.
The Serbian city of Nis was filled with large and drab green high-rise apartments. He was surprised to see that the supermarkets contained a wide variety of items since shortages were reported in some Eastern European countries. There were enough cashiers; one did not have to endure a long period of waiting in line.
Lou spent the afternoon walking through a large park near the river. When he stopped in a restaurant, the staff was friendly. After the arduous trip on The Magic Bus, it felt good to be
walking. Nis was proving to be more pleasant than anticipated; he left his shoulder bag at the 99
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restaurant and proceeded to look for a hotel. Lou spoke English, French, and Spanish, none of which was helpful in this city; people would occasionally answer his inquiries in German.
Eventually, Lou found a government hotel and booked a room for the night. The next stop was the train station, where he purchased a ticket to the seacoast city of Bar in Montenegro on a
train that would leave the following morning.

The train ride through the mountains was very picturesque; there were many little villages  nestled in lush green mountains and valleys. Balkan trains were not known for their amenities,
although this one was a major improvement over The Magic Bus. Lou thought of Martin. It was insane traveling non-stop to London; the man simply needed to rest. However, Martin had no
doubt done it many times before.

A veteran of The Magic Bus had said that Martin usually took a long nap in Belgrade; Lou hoped he would do just that.
Lou struck up a conversation with Ivan and Laslo, two railway engineers; people here appeared open and relaxed. To Lou’s amazement, he had been in the country for more than a day
and he had yet to see the police; it was a far cry from Spain, where members of the Guardia Civil were numerous and highly visible.
The train moved slowly, winding its way through the mountainous terrain. The conversation with Ivan and Laslo was enjoyable; both spoke fairly good English. At five o’clock, the train
pulled into Bar. The two men were very helpful; not only did they arrange for Lou to purchase a sleeping berth on the midnight ferry to Italy, but they also invited him to a pleasant cafe to share
a bottle of very good beer. Lou appreciated their spontaneity and their apparent satisfaction with their family life and their jobs. From the little Lou had seen, life appeared to be better here than
elsewhere in the Eastern Communist bloc. His new friends then left to return to their families.

Lou consumed several additional beers before heading to the ferry pier.
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By eleven, a large crowd was waiting to board the ship. Lou was inno hurry to be the first on board; he had read night crossings on the Adriatic could be rough. He tried not to think about his
past ferry rides on the Mediterranean between Majorca and Ibiza. They had been terrible, but those trips were in the winter; this one would hopefully be better.

Most of the waiting crowd of passengers was comprised of Serbian and Montenegro guest workers on their way to jobs in Italy or elsewhere in Europe. However, there was one other
obvious foreigner, a tall youth dressed in a stained and disheveled black suit.

Several of the passengers moved closer to Lou, openly inspecting this bearded and longhaired traveler. They were not being offensive; it was rather the open curiosity of simple persons
who lived in areas not usually frequented by tourists.
“Ah-May-Ree-kan?” asked one intrepid soul. When Lou acknowledged his nationality, another man said, “Richard Nixon no good.”
Lou had purchased a packet of cookies in Nis, the plain type the British call digestive biscuits. He liked to keep a supply of these because they were safe to eat and would stave off
hunger at times when restaurants were unavailable. He opened the package and started passing the cookies to the workers. “I’m not Richard Nixon.” he said smiling.
The men began smiling and laughing; language difficulties precluded much conversation, but goodwill clearly prevailed. Lou noticed that the young man in the black suit had been watching
these events with close interest. Lou called over to him and asked him where he was going.
His name was Jim; he was from Australia, and was on his way to London. The trip had been complicated by his family sending money to London instead of New Delhi. As a result, he had
no choice but to take the cheapest transit from India to England. There had been little money for food and none for hotels; his clothes were dusty and rumpled. After hearing his story, Lou
invited him to have breakfast the following morning when the boat arrived in Bari.
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Lou’s stateroom was small, but it had a cozy quality. The bed was soft; Lou read part of a novel by Francoise Sagan, he then fell asleep. By the time he woke up, the boat had docked in
Italy. Lou went to a travel agency to book his flight from Rome to Palma de Mallorca.
For a rather quiet day in Bari, the scene in the travel agency was chaotic. Four Englishmen were trying to communicate their needs in English to an uncomprehending travel agent.
Lou asked if he could help since they clearly needed help. He communicated in French to the agent and quickly resolved the ticket problems. While Lou was engaged in this, the Australian
walked through the door and started looking around. One of the British tourists called out to Lou, “Hey Lou! Now that you have helped us with the ticket problem, can you get us some women in
this town?” he said.
Lou laughed. “Listen gentlemen, I was glad to assist in your return to the motherland, but when it comes to the ladies, you are on your own.” he said firmly.
Another said to Lou, “It looks like the Australian bloke is down on his luck; do you think he would mind if we helped him out?” he asked.
“Not at all, in fact I know that things are difficult for him at the moment.” said Lou.
“Why don’t you keep him here for about 10 minutes? We’ll be back.” he said.
When they returned, each was carrying something for the Australian. One had a suit, another a shirt, others had socks and a pair of shoes. The travel agent let the young man change clothes in
the back of the office; when he emerged, Jim looked like a different person. It was a touching act of generosity and caring, but it did not end there.
“Lou,” said one of the Englishmen, “how much is a rail ticket from here to London?”
“About thirty dollars.” replied Lou.
“What do you say, boys? Five quid each.” one said.
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Another one collected the money and gave it to Lou.
“Lou, we trust you, would you be good enough to buy the lad a ticket? We will stay here and keep him company until you get back.” he asked.
Lou returned one half hour later with the ticket; the Australian would probably be in London by tomorrow night.
The British left in search of wine and women. Lou said good-bye to the Australian and returned to the train station, where he boarded a train bound for Rome. The next afternoon, Lou
arrived at the airport in Majorca.

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Chapter VIII

Majorca: The Second Time

The airport music system was playing a happy tune; Spaniards rarely played music at a low volume. It fit Lou’s upbeat mood as it he approached the main terminal towards the bus stop for
the autobus to the center of Palma de Majorca at the Plaza Espana. In a short while, he would be having a café con leche at the Hotel Madan. It was now Sunday evening; the last train for Soller
had already left Palma; there would not be another until tomorrow morning. The trotting races were still running at the Son Pardo Hippodromo, but he was feeling too worn out from the trip to
attend.

The bus would arrive soon for the fifteen minute trip to Palma. There were about two dozen people waiting for it, including a small attractive brunette. She looked like the ideal person to sit
next to. As Lou boarded, he saw that two young Spaniards had positioned themselves on each side of her. Disappointed, he proceeded toward the empty space at the back of the bus. On the
trip to Palma, he enjoyed the view of the Majorcan windmills and the pretty lady. Suddenly, someone dropped a package on the floor of the bus. As he looked up, the lady moved to the back
of the bus and sat in the seat in front of Lou. Turning her head towards Lou, she gave him a smile accompanied by an appraising look.
Her name was Nadine; she had been vacationing in Ibiza and was leaving for Paris late that night. Nadine was short, with plenty of curves, curly brown hair, and a cupid bow mouth that
demanded kissing upon first sight. Her brown eyes were soft and appealing. In short, Lou thought she was adorable.
The bus moved along the wide avenida toward the Plaza España. The Bar Crystal was filled with local Majorcans enjoying a drink before going to the movie theater across the street. Nadine
and Lou exited the bus, walking along the avenue past the Bar Crystal. It was a beautiful

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evening. Her English was superb; Lou told her they could speak in French if she became tired, but it was obvious that her English was effortless. They stopped at a café near the Iberia office;
there were only a few customers, and the television was not on at full volume, a rarity in Spanish cafés. They sipped café con leches and looked as if there was no place they would rather be than
in this quiet café with each other, speaking softly and looking into each other’s eyes.
Nadine worked for a socialist newspaper in Paris; travel was an important activity for her. They spoke about his impending travels to Central and South America and her upcoming trip to
Bali. She asked some thoughtful questions about Lou’s many stays in the little fishing village of Puerto de Soller; he asked her about her life in Paris.
Lou moved his face closer to hers and said, “My recommendation for dinner is to buy some bread, cheese, and wine and have a picnic in my hotel room.”
They strolled back to the Hotel Madan, holding hands.
The room had twin beds; a picnic spread was set out in the middle of one bed; Nadine filled two glasses with wine. They discovered jazz was a mutual love; Lou put on an Ahmad
Jamal tape in his cassette player. Having finished the last sip of wine, he reached over and kissed her.

After making love, Nadine poured refills of the wine. They cuddled together, listening to Kenny Rankin singing “When Sunny gets Blue.” Less than three hours before, Lou was still on
the flight from Rome; such were the sweet surprises of life. Nadine had about six more hours before her plane to Paris; they made the best use of their time by making love again, emptying
the bottle of Spanish wine, and learning what was important to each of them. Nadine asked Lou to visit her in Paris, and he assured her that he would do so. She did not want him to accompany
her to the airport; they parted at the taxi stand across from the Plaza Espana.
“Airport good-byes do not appeal to me.” she had said with finality.
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After Nadine left, Lou felt exhausted. The last two days had been largely spent traveling, but after the wonderful time with the lovely French lady, he was in no mood to complain; sleep came
quickly.
The Hotel Madan was not only convenient, but it had very quiet guests. Unfortunately, such quietude was more than offset by the traffic which rolled noisily past the Plaza España. The
morning rush hour interrupted his slumber at six-thirty. He went downstairs to the café for breakfast, then crossed the street and entered the Soller train station. The ten-thirty a.m. train was
known as the “Turista”; it was usually filled with two hundred tourists.

The railroad company had built a special platform stop about fifteen hundred feet above the village of Soller; from
that vantage point, it was possible to see Puij Major, the highest peak, as well as many parts of the Soller valley. The village was surrounded by mountains; the view was magnificent and a
major tourist attraction on the island.
A first class compartment was located in the engine car; the leather seats were plush and comfortable. As the train engineer entered the car, he stopped to greet Lou and shake hands,
recognizing the American from previous stays in the village. A group of British tourists entered the compartment. Most of the major hotels were located in or near Palma; their guests took day
trips to the scenic places on Majorca. Including the train ride to Soller.

Lou exchanged greetings with the other passengers. Before long, the train was moving through the streets of Palma. Traffic police stopped cars as the wooden electric train moved
along on its tracks through the center of the avenue, this early twentieth century train sharing the  road with cars.
Arriving in the valley, with its terraced mountainsides filled with olive and pine trees, always made Lou feel as though he had entered another world, which indeed he had. Sometimes he
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could see sheep grazing on the mountainside. The landscape appeared unchanging through the years; the view was comforting. He felt very much the weary traveler returning home.
The train stopped at the station platform built for the tourists. The sky was overcast, and this gave greater clarity to the various shades of green surrounding “Peak de L’Ofre and Puij Major,
the highest peaks. The rapid and violent changes which occurred in the world failed to permeate the tranquility of the valley; he found peace whenever he visited there. After the lumbering trip through the winding tunnels, the train continued its descent into the
village of Soller. Lou decided to stop and have a cognac and coffee at the Bar Turismo, which was only a short walk from the station.
At two-fifteen in the afternoon, it was a quiet hour in the café. The regular patrons from the English-American colony had already departed; only a few locals were spending the siesta time
there. The tram heading to the port of Soller passed by with its cargo of locals and tourists from the morning train. The tourists would spend a lovely afternoon at the beach and take the evening
train back to Palma.

After leaving the Turismo, he walked around the town square before taking the next tram to Puerto de Sollier, which he usually called “the Port.”
Isabel was in her office, where she was frequently called upon to speak five languages, conversing in French, Spanish, English, German, and Majorcan on a daily basis in her role as a
property manager for foreign clients. They had become good friends through the years.
Lou was given the key to his rented apartment, agreeing to meet Isabel the next day for coffee. He slowly made his way home. Lou preferred to live in the port rather than Palma. The
Port of Soller was a quiet place; the tourists disappeared with the departure of the evening train for Palma.
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There was still time to visit the “Punta” before sunset. The “Punta Grossa,” or big point, was a promontory on the Mediterranean coastline which was located just behind the village. It was
necessary to walk up hills and through a valley to reach it. No one was around. As Lou looked out on the Mediterranean, he felt that it was his alone at that moment as he enjoyed the beauty of
this isolated place.

At the highest promontory, there was a small pine grove. The strong winds had bent the
branches over into a horizontal position, providing a canopy over the cozy grove. The fallen pine
needles formed a bed on the ground. In the past, he had sat there in the stillness, just listening to
the howling winds that penetrated inside the grove. It was a natural retreat from the world. He had made love to Margot and other women there. At other times, Lou had meditated in solitude;
the silence broken only by the wind and the waves crashing into the shoreline.
After returning from the Punta Grossa, Lou walked by the Cafe Belgica. There was an attractive blond-haired lady sitting inside. As he entered the café, he was disappointed to find
that a man had just started talking to her. However, she soon left him, moving to a table by herself. This was Lou’s chance; he immediately walked over to her.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?” he asked.
She nodded her head negatively.
“Parlez-vous francais?” Lou asked hopefully.
“Oui, monsieur.” she said.
Lou asked if he could join her; she agreed, waiving her arm toward the empty chair.
“Je parle le francais un petit peu.” said Lou in his best Parisian accent.
“Ah oui, c’est bien.” said the embodiment of Lou’s current desires. Her name was Pauline. She was from Liege, Belgium, and was spending more than a month in the port of Soller.
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She was tall and very well endowed. Some New Yorkers would have been inclined to suggest that she was “zoftic,” which is not easily translated. Her manner was casual and
somewhat off-handed. She was a young widow; the family of her late husband owned an apartment in the port and had suggested that she might like to spend part of the off-season there
since it was vacant until the summer season.
After they finished their coffee, Lou invited her to visit his apartment. She accepted.

They walked slowly through the streets of the village; in the tradition of Mae West, they had nothing special to do and lots of time to do it. It was early afternoon; the sun was shining on the hills and mountains that surrounded the village. They sat on the terrace, talking of life in America and Belgium. Lou was surprised when Pauline said she had spent two years living in Boston; she had indicated she did not speak English. They continued to communicate in French.
The hours passed quickly in easy conversation. Lou suggested they go to the restaurant Baleares for paella. A paella meal takes time to prepare; they ordered a bottle of tinto and ate
bread as they sipped the full-bodied wine. Afterwards, Lou walked Pauline to her apartment. She invited him inside, and they sat together on the sofa.
Lou kissed Pauline and began to fondle her. She offered no resistance to his widening exploration, but was not reciprocating.
“Let’s make love,” he whispered into her ear.
“No, I don’t think so.” she said.
Lou rubbed her back. She leaned over his lap and he continued to caress her back and bottom, which was well-rounded and a tempting sight. He gave her a brisk smack.
“Merci, encore,” she said to him.
He gave her several more spanks. Again, she thanked him.
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Since Lou had been sexually aroused for quite some time, he was feeling an intense desire to move from the very enjoyable preliminaries to the main event. He kissed her passionately, but her response was mild.
“Do you want more spanking?” he asked.
“Not right now.” she said.
“Well, then, let’s make love.” he said in the pleading tone of a randy young man.
“No.” she said shaking her head.
“Well, Pauline, it would have been great to spend time with you, but I find you very attractive, and it would be too painful to just see you as a friend.” said Lou. “I’ll have to leave.”
At the conclusion of his little speech, Pauline stood up, took her blouse off, and nodded in the direction of the bedroom. She quickly undressed and hopped on the bed with a wry smile. “With
men, it is always the same, you are all animals,” she said reproachfully.
Lou fell into a deep sleep that night; when he awoke, he realized that he had been dreaming in French. Pauline announced that she preferred a program whereby they would spend evenings
together, but remain apart during the day. This seemed to be a good plan; he could visit his friend Isabel at her office, have a coffee and cognac in the village of Soller, and drop by the English
lending library for a book and conversation with either the Majorcans or the foreign colony.
At six o’clock the next evening, he walked over to Pauline’s apartment. As he ascended the long outside staircase, she was waving to him from her balcony. Her presence on the terrace
became a pleasant ritual; she was waiting to see him arrive each night.
They settled into a nice routine. First, they would choose a restaurant for dining, then they would go to the Es Port hotel for an after dinner espresso. The hotel cafe was a former grain mill,
and was appointed with a big fireplace and open-beamed ceilings; it was a comfortable place to spend hours in conversation.
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Unfortunately, Pauline was not much of a talker. She communicated more through her
feelings and mannerisms. Pauline could, however, show impatience with Lou’s French. He spoke
correctly, but rather slowly, as if he were a well-mannered child. One day he said to her, “I may
speak French like a nine year old, but if we were talking in English, it would be a very different
story.” After that, she started showing more patience.
Lou had several colored lights in his living room; the drapes had been removed for cleaning
several weeks earlier. The apartment was on the fourth floor of a complex known as “Little
America” since many American military families lived there; the husbands were stationed at an
American radio relay station located near the highest mountain. The American military is
everywhere, thought Lou. Although the rooms at the Es Port hotel were set back from the road,
Lou wondered whether he and Pauline had become the featured evening entertainment for some
of the hotel guests. Lou used to put on the Steely Dan tune, “Do It Again.” and Pauline would
start chasing him as they romped around the room stark naked.
Pauline was never shy about making her needs known to him. It was a frequent occurrence
for Lou to enter the living room and find Pauline bent over in the penitent position. He would
give her a mild slap across her bottom. She would then kiss him and say, “Merci.” Lou made the
most of her mild masochism. He would find minor faults and ask her to position herself across
his lap. He would bare her bottom and give her a few mild spanks. This invariably led to a
vigorous session of lovemaking.
“Tu me comprend.” she said softly.
The weeks passed by quickly; there were no worries about work or money. With Nixon as President, it was a good time to be out of the country. The protests and work moratoriums were
continuing despite Tricky Dick’s secret plan.
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One day, Lou suggested that Pauline take a long walk with him to the Punta Grossa. She was hesitant at the prospect of physical exertion, but finally agreed to join him. On the following morning, they began the ascent into the hills beyond the scenic cafe
Nautilus and continued walking on a steep section of the road. As the road leveled off, they could see the aquamarine waters of the circular harbor of Puerto de Soller. It looked like a
gigantic swimming pool from a distance. They soon entered the dirt road that served as a sheep path; this was the entrance to the pathway which led through the barranca and out to the pine
grove of the Punta Grossa. Halfway down the barranca, they passed an old Moorish cistern that must have been eight hundred years old. Pauline and Lou continued to walk on the rocky paths until they reached the pine grove. Only the hush of the wind and the sound of the waves hitting the shoreline could be heard. The two
lovers stooped to enter the grove; the branches made horizontal by the incessant winds created a natural canopy overhead.
Lou motioned to Pauline to crawl closer to the edge of the cliff and look down at the lagoon below.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know we were so high above the sea.” It was probably a one hundred and fifty foot drop to the rocks and the pale blue waters. They sat down
on the bed of pine needles; Lou caressed her face, smiled and said, “We have enough privacy here to take off our clothes and make love ‘au natural.”
“See!” she exclaimed. “I told you that you were a beast! Now you want to make love just like the animals in the open!” Having made her position clear, she wasted no time in removing her
clothes. The setting had a very good effect on her, as she was more passionate than usual.
Afterwards, Pauline said “You are a very naughty boy. All the time you spent convincing me how beautiful the view was from here, you were thinking about making love.”
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“I cannot say that the prospect did not occur to me, but I did think you would enjoy the view of the sea and the cliffs.” replied Lou.
Lou was lying naked on his stomach. “You talk of the sea, but what you show me is “la lune”, said Pauline laughing as she pinched his exposed bottom. They were hungry and decided to go back to town to the Terranova Restaurant for a seafood paella.
“Do you miss home?” asked Pauline as they walked through the barranca.
“I’m glad to be away from the long winters in New York, but I miss seeing friends and family. A mean spirit prevails in America. The “silent majority”, with its sensibility of individualism and closet racism, has indeed found a voice in Washington. Spain hardly has an exemplary political and social system, far from it. Under Franco, the people have no political freedom. You can see the presence of large numbers of black capped members of the Guardia
Civil, or as I call them, ‘the men from the Generalissimo’s office.’ Franco never permits them to work in their own province.
If a young Guardia was born in Sevilla, he might be sent to Bilbao for duty. I have never been bothered by them. My friends and I assume that our bank accounts are routinely examined.
When it comes to the local culture, I remain uninvolved. As a result, there is ample opportunity to get close to nature, the people I care about, and myself. Some days I walk through the little
village of Binaraix, then follow a narrow path through a long barranca and climb to the base of the Peak de l’ Ofre, which is about four thousand feet above sea level. Above one thousand feet,
all one can hear is the whistling of the wind and the occasional tinkling of sheep bells. I find peace here in Soller.” he said.
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After dinner, they were invited to Andre and Eric’s apartment for dinner. Eloise, who was Eric’s lover, would be there. Pauline had met both men briefly at the cafe in the Es Port Hotel,
yet she seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of being with other people.
This was somewhat intriguing to Lou because Andre and Eric were highly unpretentious and were very easy to be with. It surprised him to see, by comparison, how relaxed she was around
him.
That night, there was an incident that revealed Pauline’s love of what some Europeans refer to as “theatre”. When Pauline learned that Eloise worked for a travel agency, she asked her if she
would send a telex to her lover in Belgium.
Eloise replied that she would be happy to do so if Pauline would dictate the words.
Pauline proceeded to astonish the group by saying “Alain, come quickly, am missing you desperately, all my love, Pauline.” She said this in a matter-of-fact tone and asked Eloise how
much she thought it would cost. Everyone looked at Lou with an expression of wonder; he simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The likelihood of Alain arriving in Majorca was
apparently on a probability level with the second coming of Christ. Most striking about the incident was that Pauline did not think that anyone would find her behavior extraordinary; she
seemed to view it as a perfectly normal communication.

The final week of Pauline’s stay arrived. Neither of them talked about it, other than her comment that she would have to see about getting a cab to take her to the airport.
“I’m really going to miss you, Pauline.” Lou said truthfully.
“Listen darling,” she said. “I have to ask you something and you must say ‘yes’.”
“Well I will try, what is it?” he asked.
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“My boyfriend in Belgium may come here next year; he is very jealous. If he knew I were sleeping with you, I don’t know what he would do to me, or what he would do to you for that
matter.” she added.
“I want you to ignore me if you ever see me again; please tell your friends not to talk to me. If I see them, I will pretend they are complete strangers; it must be so.” she said with finality.
“All right, I promise, but on one condition, tonight you are mine.” he said.
“Listen, we will play tonight; but this conversation is serious.” she said nervously.
“Don’t worry Pauline. I will do what you ask of me.” he said.
“Lou, this has been very good for me; you do not know how much. You understand me, most men do not. I can relax with you and not have to act in a certain way. After today, we will
never again be lovers, but I will always remember our time together.” she said.
“I will always think fondly of mon petite Pauline.” he said.
“Avec sa gros derriere!” she added.

The next day, she left for Brussels; Lou felt a sense of emptiness. He would have to find another lady; that would not be easy. The local women were from conservative Catholic families.

An American with honorable intentions could well be accepted. However, Lou was certain that nude romps with Steely Dan in the background would not meet the local population’s definition
of honorable. Another tourist influx from Northern Europe was only a few weeks away; his fortunes might improve then. Meanwhile, he began doing a great deal of reading. The English
lending library carried books by Solzhenitsyn, Hugo, Balzac, Hardy, Sartre, Camus, Turgenev, Wolfe, Faulkner, and many others.

The routine was agreeable; he would wake up at nine o’clock, have a café con leche, croissant, and cognac, then take the eleven o’clock tram ride from the port to the village of
Soller. He would visit the Bar Turismo that housed the

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There was something comforting about the scene, with the same American and British residents appearing every morning. Most would sit in the same chairs; there would usually be a copy of the
International Herald Tribune to provide a connection with the outside world. The tram tracks were located on the same street as the café; the setting was both unique and charming. Lou would often remain in the café until it was time for lunch; there were also French and Spanish newspapers on the tables, gi ving Lou an opportunity to improve his language skills.

One morning, he met James, a retired British chartered accountant who lived with his wife Theresa in a hamlet called Binaraix, which was located about five miles from Soller. Some members of the local English and American foreign colony found it odd that James and Theresa would lunch weekly with the long-haired American who had a reputation as a libertine. Such attitudes aside, the friendship flourished. James was a superior storyteller. As with many tellers of tales, the experiences during his
childhood and early youth provided some of his best material. He was a small and unimposing man of seventy-five; his biggest vice was eating french-fried potatoes at lunch once a week at the
Café Madrid.

Theresa was considerably younger than he. She treated him as a mother would treat a child to whom she was deeply devoted. Their life was simple and civilized; they traveled into Soller three times a week to the English lending library at the Bar Turismo, where they
conversed with the other expatriates, picked up additional books, and went to the Café Madrid for lunch.

Most of the other residents knew nothing about James’ earlier life in South Africa for the simple reason that they failed to take the time to ask him. Many in the British colony largely
focused on gossip, status issues and cocktail parties. They were an arrogant group; despite the fact that the average British resident had lived more than ten years on the island, few bothered to
learn more than a few words in Spanish. They expected the locals to speak English.
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Had they been aware of James’ stories, it is uncertain whether they would have been interested. After all, who wants to hear stories about natives and God-knows-what else? Coldness, combined with an ethnocentric arrogance and precious little to report of interest did not make them Lou’s favorite group. He preferred to sit with the locals, talking with them in French.

James was simply the most interesting person he had met among the foreign community. One day, he told Lou a fascinating story.
“Lou, my father managed a tobacco plantation at the turn of the century. I was a small boy at the time and used to follow him around while he did his job. The male members of a local tribe
performed most of the work.
“One day, the tribal chief developed a growth on his lip. My father recognized that it was a serious problem and arranged for him to be transported to Cape Town, several hundred miles
away. After a month, one of the tribal leaders approached my father and said, ‘Boss. I just heard from the Chief. He says he is in a room with white sheets and everything is fine.’
“My father told him that he did not understand.”
“The tribesman answered ‘Why, the chief is dead.’
“Transportation and communication were very slow in those days.

We did not learn of the Chief’s death until weeks later. He died on the very day the tribal leader spoke to my father. I
have never forgotten that experience.” said James.
It was time for James and his wife to return to Binaraix. Lou decided to take the tram back to the port. He did not have long to wait before he heard the bells announcing the approach of the tram
via.
Lou received a letter from Carl indicating he was ready to leave for the trip to Central America. Within a week, Lou booked his ticket for New York City. As he sat in the train heading for
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Palma, he looked back longingly on the village of Soller, feeling a sense of loss at leaving the place he had grown to love. On every departure from there, it seemed as though a chapter of
his life had closed.
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Chapter IX
Central America 1974: A Poorly Coordinated Carl Climbs the Pyramids

The bus waded through three feet of water between Belize City and Belmopan; it had been raining for several hours and the road had not been visible for miles.
“Hey man, we’re really cruising!” said an elated Carl, as he moved his body in time with the funky soul music on the vehicle’s sound system.
“I only wish we had some weed.” he lamented.

“Carl, this isn’t California! Somebody could pull a Moroccan gambit on us; please do not think of buying anything.” Lou pleaded.
“They tried it on Nicko and me once in Northern Morocco in the city of Tetouan.”
“Here is how it happened. After we arrived at the bus station at Tetouan, there was a man who approached us asking us to be our guide. When arriving in Morocco, I usually offer five Dirhams
to a guide to take me to an inexpensive pensiòn. He took us to a very nice hotel that offered a clean room and bath with a small balcony for only three dollars a night.” Lou said.
The guide followed us into the room, reached down into his sock and pulled out a brick of hashish the size of a Hershey chocolate bar, offering to sell it for a low price. Nicko and I
immediately pushed him outside, threw the five Dirhams at his feet and slammed the door shut.” continued Lou.
“Had we been foolish enough t buy hashish, our guide would have proceeded directly to visit his friends on the local police force. We would then have been arrested and put in prison
until money arrived from friends and family to secure our release. At that point, the police would give the guide some money and return the hash to him in order that he could entice another
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foreigner into the trap. We would then be expelled. For those who cannot secure the money for release, the prison conditions in Morocco are likely to result in a shortened life span.” said Lou.
“Maybe it’s not worth the hassle,” said a disappointed Carl, who was clearly dismayed at the prospect of long-term lucidity. A friend had once told him “Carl, you’re crazy.”
“Only part of the time.” was his response.
The passengers on the ancient Bluebird bus were Afro-Caribbean; other than the music, there was no noise from the passengers. It was extremely hot; the windows had been closed to keep
out the rain. It was still twenty-five grindingly slow miles to Belmopan as the bus waded through
a road that had been inundated with 12 inches of water. Lou decided to meditate to escape the suffocating heat. However, Carl was in a talkative mood.
“I have an idea for an experiment I would like to send to the Journal of Irreproducible  Results. It involves four Trappist monks and Richard Nixon.” said Carl.
Lou shook his head. “Carl, you are a very sick man. Let me tell you this; I had a buddy named Charley Evans. After having been a New York City cop for sixteen years, he joined a Trappist monastery in Georgia. He is one of the happiest men I know.” Lou said with grave
conviction.
The bus continued on its way through western Belize; at least it was still moving. The heat was intense; a passenger in the front seat rolled his window down for a moment to allow air to
enter; however, the sheets of rain that poured in caused an immediate protest from the other passengers on the jungle bus.
Finally, the bus passed through Belmopan and arrived at the Guatemalan border. The goodneighbor policy was clearly not operating here; a huge sign above Guatemalan customs read
“Belize is Guatemala!” To underscore this claim, a large colored map showed Guatemala encompassing the entire area of Belize.
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Carl looked concerned. “I hope we don’t get caught in a war.” he said.
“I wouldn’t give that much thought. The external affairs of Belize are handled by Great Britain. Belize is the former British Honduras; Guatemala is not about to go to war with
England.” said Lou.
“That’s good.” said Carl cheerily. “I have never considered war zones to be superior vacation venues.” said Carl.
The bus arrived at the town of Flores. From there, they proceeded to the Mayan ruins of Tikal. Monoliths one hundred feet high jutted above the tree line. Spider monkeys could be seen
moving among the tree branches. This place was once home to a large civilization, but was now reduced to jungle where an uncoordinated chemist could climb to the very top of what may once have been a sacred altar.
“Far out!” yelled a happy Carl as he stood in the middle level of a tall monolith. On the return bus to Flores, they met two attractive graduate students from the University of Florida. Lou made an easy connection with the blond-haired lady named June. Carl, with the intensity of a character in a Dostoyevsky novel, was being tolerated by Alice, a pretty brunette. Carl’s best chance of winding up in bed with her would be if she took mercy on his eagerness.
June seemed to take a maternal approach to the “enfant terrible.”

If this kept up, Carl’s fondest dreams would come true this evening. Lou was certainly rooting for him; Carl could be a
major nuisance when he began complaining about his lack of a love life, which was often. Two years ago, Lou’s compassion for Carl’s difficulties with women had cost him a lover.

Carl had been complaining about his problems in finding a sex partner. Lou decided to talk to Carol, a married woman whom he had been seeing regularly on Sunday afternoons for more than
two years. They rarely talked during the week; it was simply assumed that Carol would be knocking on the door at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon. He would have the Merlot, Swiss
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gruyere, and French bread waiting. She had other male friends who, Lou suspected, were also her lovers. They seemed to be mutually satisfied with the limited relationship. The regularity of
the affair had one bizarre exception.
One Sunday afternoon, Lou opened the door and found Paul, who was Carol’s husband, standing there with a note in his hand.
“Hi Lou!” he said warmly. “I’m sorry, but Carol’s not feeling well and won’t be able to see you this afternoon, but she wanted you to have this note.”
Had her husband actually consented to delivering an excuse note to her lover? How could this be? Lou invited Paul in for a cup of tea. They talked about Watergate, as well as recent films
they had seen. ”Well Lou, I have an appointment in a little while, so I had better leave.” said Paul.
“Well Paul, ” said Lou, “please tell Carol I hope she will be feeling better soon, and thanks for bringing the note.” Where but in California would a husband bring his wife’s lover a letter
excusing her absence from an afternoon of lovemaking? Lou just shook his head and smiled.

What were the odds against this happening in New York? Of course, Lou thought Paul’s “appointment” was one of his own lovers.
One day, Lou told Carol about Carl; he clearly needed sexual therapy. For Carol, sex and yoga were the key elements to a balanced life. By helping Carl, she could perform karma yoga.
The fact that this good deed might be enjoyable was not lost upon her.
“Why don’t you have him call me?” she said.
Lou telephoned Carl and told him the good news; Carol and Carl quickly became lovers.
That was fine with Lou; after all, he helped make the connection. What was not so pleasant was that Carol began comparing Carl’s daily attentiveness to Lou’s weekly glass of Merlot followed
by a quick move to the bedroom.
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One of Lou’s friends commented that Carol was talking openly about Lou. “Carl calls me several times a day! Lou rarely telephones me.” she complained to friends. Carol probably did
not want to dwell on the fact that Lou was involved with other women; Carl was not.
She was also thinking back to what had happened several years ago. she had just met Lou. Things seemed to be going well; they would meet once a week. She would have liked to have
seen him more often, but understood that he had other involvements. Of course, so did she; after all, she was married.

Then one day, Lou called and said he had to see her.
“Look Carol, I really like you, but I cannot go on seeing you right now. On top of three other relationships, a European lover I met in Majorca is arriving for a ten-day visit. I have reached my
limit with relationships both emotionally and physically. Since you are the newest of the relationships, it seemed fairest to stop seeing you. I’m sorry, I have enjoyed every minute of it,
but I can’t keep up this way.” he explained in a pleading tone.

Carol was angry at this turn of events. “I don’t see why I have to be the one that gets cut. I knew seniority applied to bus drivers, but this is different.” she snapped.
However, it happened. She did not hear from Lou for two years. Then he called her. He had broken up with a lady that he had been living with in Sacramento. Carol went over to his
apartment; the Merlot and Swiss gruyere were in place, as was Lou’s hand on her bottom as he guided her to the waterbed.

Now that Carl was in her life, Carol thought that her current situation was similar to Lou’s old one; she simply had too many lovers. Carol telephoned Lou and apologized for having to
stop seeing home. She liked him, but her dance card was filled.
Only one thing puzzled Lou. Carl was intelligent and funny, but he had suffered more than a few moments of madness. He appeared to approach reality as a tourist, tentatively exploring a
new country. Had Carol failed to recognize this?
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The relationship lasted six months, ending badly. The final act was played out on a ten day Caribbean cruise. Ten days at sea with the mad chemist! Carl paid a visit to Lou the night before
they left.
“Ten days at sea! This is going to be great. I have made up a special seagoing kit of grass, ludes, and some angel dust. I want to keep stabilized and ship-shape.” he chatted breezily.
“You couldn’t be stable in a straight-jacket; you will no doubt be partying twenty-hours a day.” Lou teased.
Carl looked at him strangely, “What about the other four hours? I intend to do some world class partying.” he added.
“Carl, Carol practices yoga on a daily basis; I hope you won’t wear her out.” Lou cautioned.
Carol returned from the cruise with the determination never to see Carl again. Much later, she told Lou, “Carl is such an interesting person, it is too bad he is insane.”
“Only part of the time.” replied Lou with a wry smile.
Back in the jungle, Lou watched Carl climb the top of a monolith. Good grief, he was uncoordinated! Carl came close to falling off the exterior iron ladder which had been imbedded
into the stone monolith. It was easy to see how he had lost his grip. Unlike the other climbers, who were showing respect for the enormous height, Carl had engaged the climber behind him in
a running conversation, which is to say that Carl was conducting a monologue. The other climber may or may not have responded. With Carl, a response was clearly optional; Carl was quite
happy to keep up both ends of the conversation. However, unlike most people who talked a great deal, Carl was a genuinely good listener, with the capability of sustaining a topic for quite some
time.

Of course, trying to converse while climbing to the top of the monolith was madness. He turned to say something while reaching for the next rung. His hand slipped from the rung, which
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landed him in a free fall. The person below him reacted quickly, pushing him against the stone until Carl regained his grip. Whenever he was moving, no one was truly safe.

A few minutes later, he successfully negotiated the descent. “The view is great from up there.
Let’s sacrifice some maidens this afternoon; I would sacrifice myself for that fox from Florida.” he added. “I think she likes me.”
“That’s good Carl.” Lou said with finality. He wanted to avoid any discussion of Carl’s tortured love life.
“No man. I mean she really likes me; she even asked me some questions about chemistry. I kept stressing the importance of bonding. Do you think she picked up on the S/M allusion?” said
Carl.
“Listen Carl, I’m going to ask June back to our room. Can you please stay in the bar until about eleven? I’ll join you there.” Lou said.
“How do you know she’ll come?” Carl asked.
“Well I don’t know for sure, but I think she will say yes. If the four of us have dinner together, I am going to ask June if she wants to take a walk.” Lou said.
The ride back from Tikal was uneventful; the heat and humidity had drained everyone’s energy. Even Carl was taking fifteen-second pauses before speaking.
Lou sat with June; he asked her how she was feeling. “Tired,” she sighed. He put his lips to her ear and said softly, “You can sleep on my shoulder if you like.” She didn’t look up, turning
toward him and curling up in his arms. Lou let his hand slide down and started softly stroking her legs; it was a lovely ride back to Flores.
The dinner turned out to be hilarious. Carl started telling stories about his cousin Johnnie; Lou told some of his Marvin stories from his days as a social worker in New York. The ladies
laughed a lot. New Yorkers often had something to share; people from other parts of the nation
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often believed that New York City natives had dropped in from another planet. Of course, New Yorkers were highly provincial; for many of them, all locations beyond the Hudson River was
“the west.”
Alice was also telling very funny stories.
“I had this Instructor for a social work class who stressed the importance of being focused during client evaluations. The only problem with this was that she was Filipino. Like many
Tagalog speakers, the pronunciation of ‘focus’ gave her lots of trouble. “You must fuck us when you are attending assessment meetings! We all need to do that.” she would say.
“Some of the guys in class couldn’t keep straight faces. They started to cough, which made the rest of us laugh. The poor lady thought we were laughing at the coughing. ‘You must fuck
us!’ she said sternly.”
“Well, that did it, pandemonium reigned. People were falling off their seats; one student even said to her, “Yes, Professor, I will do just that at every opportunity!” which totally destroyed any
remaining order. She had to let us go; I felt sorry for her, but it was really comical.” Alice admitted.
Everyone laughed. “That’s a good story, Alice. I wish I could tell a good story, but I’m not very good at it.” said June.
“June, good listeners are important.” Lou said.
After a few minutes, Lou asked June to take a walk; she agreed and they walked outside.
“What’s important to you, June?” Lou asked.
“Well, right now, getting my M.A. is important. I’m afraid my goals are rather conventional; I would like children, but I want to have some interesting experiences before I have a family.”
she said.
“How about you Lou, what do you care about?” asked June.
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“I value my freedom right now. For every day that I work in America, I am looking to buy three days of leisure in some other part of the world. I wasn’t always that way. In my twenties,
doing social work and making a contribution to humanity was most important. I attended the New School for Social Research in Manhattan, where I had lecturers ranging from the writer
John Killens to Dr. Martin Luther King. I ran a pool room in a settlement house in Greenwich Village. During the day, I worked as a claims examiner for the Knosole Insurance Company;
they paid for my college tuition. I quickly found that I was enjoying the volunteer work more than my job, so I changed careers and began working with emotionally disturbed youth and hardcore
prisoners. When I became twenty-eight, I decided that I needed to devote time to having more enriching personal experiences, such as traveling, living abroad, and relationships. I
approached those activities with as much enthusiasm as I had used in pursuing social work.”
“One other thing the insurance company work did for me was to help me understand that I am a free spirit. From my desk, I would look out at the sky and think, ‘There is a whole world
out there, and here I am stuck inside this building.’ When I quit, I vowed to myself I would never again have a job where I wasn’t free to take a walk outside and have a coffee or do something
else. If I ever have to live that type of life again, I know a part of me will die.” Lou said.
“You seem lucky; you have already lived out some dreams, and you are still young.” she said somewhat wistfully.
“Have you read Alexander Solzenhitzyn?” he asked.
“I read the Cancer Ward.” she replied.
“I learned something important from him. We all have a certain capacity for joy and sorrow that transcends our life situation. The taste of a lobster dinner at an expensive restaurant may
have given a wealthy person less joy than a Zek prisoner in a camp in the Gulag received from receiving a second ration of black bread. I try to put little joys in my life every day and also try to
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learn something new, whether it is hearing beautiful jazz tune, having a sip of good cappuccino, or enjoying the smile of a pretty lady.” he said smiling at her.
“That’s nice.” she said softly. “Not everyone can do that.”
“My father had that quality. He made a modest living, but I suspect he could have earned considerably more had he not chosen to limit his work hours as an insurance agent to 30 hours a
week. He knew how to enjoy simple pleasures. I remember when he retired. He was sitting in his kitchen smoking a Robert Burns panatela cigar and listening to WPAT radio, his station of
choice. One of his favorite songs came on the air. He puffed on his cigar, looked up at me with a smile, and said “A little bit of heaven, eh Lou?”
“Some days he would ride the Staten Island Ferry. He would return and tell me about the ships he had seen in the harbor; he was an avid reader, and always had something to share.’
continued Lou.
“He gave my sister and me a philosophy of life based on compassion and social justice, which was a great gift. As for other important elements in my life I find that yoga meditation is
important, but I would rather not talk about that tonight.” he said.
“How about other desires?” asked June.
Lou stared at her in a frankly appraising manner, biting back a smile.
“You are wrong! That’s not what I meant! She slapped his shoulder lightly.
“I am guilty with an explanation, your honor. You are lovely. I throw myself on the mercy of the court!” he said.
“We will see how things go over the next few hours.” said June.
“Did you say a few hours? June, I believe you are an optimist.” he whispered. “I hope I brought enough Vitamin E.”
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Hours later, they entered the hotel bar, where Carl and Alice were sipping beers at a table. Alice looked mildly bored and seemed relieved that the others had returned. The next morning, they all went back to the ruins; the ladies were heading back to Florida
that evening. They made the most of the final day together.
June and Lou talked about making a trip together to Majorca. He said he would write her and keep in touch.

“Carl, I would like to visit the Amazon. There is a cheap excursion fare between Guatemala City and Lima. I have extra money because of the inheritance. You can pay me back when you
can; how about it?” said Lou.
“Great, let’s do it!” replied Carl.
That night, they set off for Guatemala City and took a flight to Lima.
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Chapter X
The Amazon 1974: Lou and Carl Embrace Jungle Life
Agreeing to go with Carl to Central America and North Africa was questionable. Lou worried that taking Carl into the Amazon region bordered on the irresponsible. Carl would do anything for Lou; what choice is there are but to accept the strengths and
limitations of our friends? Lou had to admit that as long as he wasn’t spending time with a lady, it was nice have the company.

“Carl, this is not the type of trip where you are likely to meet ladies or even party. You will be staying in a lodge on a tributary of the Amazon, sleeping with mosquito nets in intense heat,
surrounded by wild animals. Does that sound like your idea of a good time? If you understand that this is an adventure and not a party, it is fine with me should you decide to come.” said Lou.
“Count me in!” said an elated Carl.
Lou thought the neighborhood of Miraflores would be a nice place to stay in Lima. The guide books indicated they would be approached at the airport by persons operating guest houses,
which would be convenient. Whenever possible, Lou liked to live with local people. Lima had a Hipodromo with quality horse racing, but the Amazon would be the big adventure.

The flight from Mexico City to Lima proved to be quite illuminating. Another passenger was reading an underground travel guidebook for South America; Lou asked if he could borrow it. It was painting a picture of a far more predatory South American landscape than the one described by the conventional guidebooks Lou had been reading. One Section read: “Hepatitis is a serious health risk, given the poor standards of hygiene in most South
American countries. Many travelers go to Quito to recuperate. Gamma globulin can help somewhat, though it does not guarantee protection from the disease.”

The guide book then proceeded to discuss personal safety:
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“Pickpockets are especially prevalent at bus stations and crowded squares. Armed robberies occur both in the cities and the more remote areas as well. Be careful with your possessions.”
Carl had been busily writing away for most of the flight.
“What are you writing, brother?” asked Lou.
“I’m preparing an article for submission to The “Journal of non-reproducible Results.” he said.
Carl continued. “It involves gas spectrometry of a highly esoteric nature. The people at The Journal should love it. The idea is brilliant, yet totally insane.” he said eagerly.
“Well let me tell you what else is insane! This guidebook I have been reading. It is providing a very different description of South America, especially Peru. We must obtain a shot of gamma
globulin to help protect us from hepatitis; I recommend that we do not keep more than thirty dollars in cash when we are walking around town. The travelers’ checks are safe enough; we will
clearly have to be quite vigilant to avoid being crime victims.” he said.
After clearing immigration in Lima, Lou began looking around for someone who might be running a guesthouse. A woman saw him looking around and walked over to him.
It was perfect; her home was located at La Herradura, just on the edge of Miraflores, offering access to transportation and decent restaurants. The poorer the country, the better class restaurant
Lou chose for dining; he viewed the additional cost as health insurance. This often resulted in paying the same price as one would pay for a meal at a medium-priced restaurant at home. The
woman asked them to wait in front of the airport entrance while she went to retrieve her car. Carl and Lou had taken one carry-on bag each, thus eliminating long waits for baggage as well
as the possibility of the airline losing the baggage.
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As they waited for their new hostess, Lou noticed a Germanic-looking woman pass by. Her features were rather severe. He could not help wonder what she had been doing in 1943; South America was a haven for many German war criminals.
The house in Miraflores was very comfortable; it overlooked a rocky bay called La Herradura, the horseshoe. Lou appreciated nature; perhaps it was all those trips to the harbor in Flushing in Queens with his family. At least twice a week after school, his dad would drive them to the ocean or to a boat harbor, where they would remain until sunset. That night, they went to La Colmena, the beehive, in the center of Lima. The huge plaza was quite a spectacle, with singers, dancers, and actors performing small pieces of theater. Carl was most interested in the ladies of the night. He brought a dark-skinned lady of the night back to the guest house. Lou was not pleased with this development; what Carl did in hotels was one thing,
but this was a private home. Lou felt the proprietor would be annoyed at the prospect of early
morning visitations by hookers. Lou, however, said nothing; there might be a need to take a
strong stand on something even more serious, although this was certainly bad enough.
The return to the guest house was a wild ride; Carl had the hooker on his lap and was fondling her and crying out, “God, you are beautiful! I’m going to screw your brains out!”
Lou shook his head and laughed. The girl seemed to be enjoying the attention from Carl, whom she called “gringo loco.” The taxi took a sharp curve, and she wound up in Lou’s lap. “I love Peru!” yelled Carl joyfully. Lou thought that perhaps an hour with the prostitute would bring some temporary peace to Carl’s restless psyche.
The next day was initially devoted to obtaining the gamma globulin injection. They went to a
public health center and obtained a prescription for it. Next, they purchased some from a pharmacy, where they were directed to, of all places, the local convent.

A rather attractive nun extracted a small sum of Peruvian money from them and then injected their bare bottoms.
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“Lou! I have had my ass grabbed by both saints and sinners in the last twelve hours! If this keeps up, I may never leave Peru!” said an elated Carl.
They left the convent and started walking toward the bus station. They turned right at the corner, only to see three tanks and a group of soldiers coming towards them.

“Oh no!” cried Lou “Let’s get out of here!”
They turned around and ran nonstop for two blocks. There are times to ask questions and occasions to immediately run away; this was clearly the latter. Fortunately, the tanks turned
in the other direction.

“Well Carl, it looks like we almost walked into a revolution” he said.
“What is the current political situation here?” asked a worried Carl.

“As a matter of fact, a leftist military coup is in power; it has made improvements in health
and education, but in the end it is still a dictatorship.” Lou added.
“Should we be worried?” asked Carl.
“I don’t think so; I have been reading the news carefully during the last two months. Nothing
significant has occurred during that time,” he said.
“I need a drink; tanks in the street, I don’t like that.” said Carl nervously.
Carl had confidence in Lou, it tended to make him even less responsible; he knew Lou would
bail him out of a bad situation. It was true Lou did his homework; research was a big part of the
fun of traveling.

It was still early; Lou proposed a trip to the racecourse. Carl was amenable to the idea,
although he was a surprisingly cautious gambler. He presented such a contrast. Often, he was
outrageous, yet there were times when he was unexpectedly reserved. They had a few winners,
bet modestly, and came away a little ahead.
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The two travelers left the next morning for Iquitos, where Lou made arrangements to stay at
a lodge run by anthropologists who were studying the Yagua Indians. It was time to have a serious talk with Carl.
“Listen brother, as we used to say in Glendale in Queens, this is for the wurst. When we
arrive at the lodge, we will be in a dangerous environment. Have you been taking your chloroquine
tablets? There will be crocodiles nearby; it will be too dangerous to walk around without a
guide. The river contains pirhanas; there are also some dangerous snakes. As long as we move
around with a trained guide, we should do quite well. I would not drink too heavily if I were you;
we will be literally living in a sauna.” he added.

“No problem, Lou. You told me it would be rough and dangerous before we left. I appreciate  our thinking of me. Don’t worry man. I’ll be fine.” said Carl.
Lou hoped he meant what he said.

The boat looked like a larger version of the boat used in the movie The African Queen. It had
a motor in the middle and chugged down the river in a leisurely fashion. There were only three other passengers, a couple from South Africa and a government administrator from Lima who
was on holiday.

The South Africans told a familiar story. Someone had used a knife to cut into their knapsack
while they were traveling on a bus in La Paz Bolivia. They had lost money, but not their passports. Of the twenty foreigners Lou had encountered in Peru, at least half of them had been robbed, some at knifepoint. It was  not surprising that Lou felt safer in the jungle than in Lima. If Carl was worried, he didn’t show it; but it was hard to tell with him. He usually maintained the breezy manner of a confident New Yorker. Lou examined him carefully; his beard and hair were as wild as his own. Carl looked like a deranged Groucho Marx; wait until the Yagua Indians get a look at the two of them, thought Lou.

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It was hot and muggy on the river. The jungle landscape on shore included a missionary
compound and some temporary settlements. After ten hours, the boat turned into a tributary and
soon stopped. The passengers climbed into a small motor boat and were taken to the lodge operated by the Anthropologists Leonard and John, who were present to greet the new arrivals.

The new guests were taken into the dining area, where Leonard presented an overview of “ Adventure Lodge.”
“John and I hope this will prove to be an interesting and enjoyable experience for you. If you
follow the rules, it is likely you will have a safe and healthy stay. When visiting the Yaguas,
please do not offer them money. If there is something you wish, please offer to barter something
in return for it. Most importantly, please do not leave the lodge area without a guide. Please drink
lots of liquids; there is a bar next door for your convenience.” said Leonard.

“Well, that is where I’m heading right now.” said Carl.
He stood up and left for the lounge. As Lou walked to his room, he passed a bright green macaw sitting on the railing.

“Hello,” said the bright red and green bird.
“Hello to you.” said Lou in return.
After passing the friendly bird, his eyes turned towards a strange scene in the garden. A huge
rodent, certainly the largest Lou had ever seen, was munching on plant leaves. His dining was
frequently interrupted by a playful kitten that stalked the larger animal and was pouncing on its
back. The rodent remained undeterred from eating the lettuce. Lou later learned that he had been
in the presence of “Charley” the pet capybara and “Elmo” the cat.
Their hotel room was unlike any he had ever experienced. The walls did not reach the ceiling. Mosquito netting was draped on top of the bed in tent-like fashion. Lou put his clothes away and decided to wander around the grounds.
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Charlie was still consuming plants. Lou noticed a sign posted on a tree:
NOTICE
Do Not Go Beyond This Point!!! It is dangerous to do so.
This is not an amusement park. Please remain inside
the garden area unless accompanied by a guide.
He went to the main lodge in search of a guide and found one. Marco had been retained by the Peruvian civil servant, but was available for short erm excursions. It was a fairly long walk through the jungle to the encampment of the Yagua Indians. The guide was of Peruvian Indian ancestry; he wore short pants and was constantly slapping mosquitoes away from his legs.
Lou asked him how to say a some phrases in the language of the Yagua Indians. When they
arrived at the bamboo house of the Chief, the Shaman was sitting with him. As Lou entered, he
said a few words of greeting to the Chief in the language of the Yaguas.
The Indian pointed to Lou and waved his arm towards the Shaman, as if to say, “Will you listen to this guy!” Both men laughed. The guide smiled and said “They think you are pretty funny.”
All members of the tribe wore grass skirts; the men often carried their bamboo blow guns.
They used curare tipped darts to kill animals. Recently, a pregnant boar had been killed; a piglet
had been saved and was being fed and nurtured by the tribe. A nine-year old boy was walking around with a monkey perched on his head; women nearby had decorated their faces with a paste found inside red berries. The women were beautiful, with very dark eyes and beautiful smiles when they chose to share them.
The Indians greeted him with only mild interest since visitors were common. He found he was free to roam around as he wished, with the nine year-old with the monkey perched on his head tagging along. Communication tended to be limited to pointing and smiles. Soon the guide
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appeared, indicating it was time to return to the lodge. Lou noticed the guide had a rather broad
smile on his face. He had previously explained to Lou that every few months, the entire adult
tribe took a euphoric drug and held a party that lasted several days. Lou wondered whether the
guide had perhaps decided to get an early start on the party.

When he returned to the lodge, Lou knew precisely where to find Carl, assuming the bar was
open. Carl had seven empty beer bottles lined up in front of him. “Hey man, how you doing?” he
said with his usual bonhomie.

“Great thanks, I have seen a great deal and we have only been here a few hours. Why don’t you visit the garden, or maybe there is a guide who will take you to visit the Yaguas?” said Lou encouragingly.
“Oh sure, but you heard Leonard discuss the importance of drinking liquids. I’m just following instructions.” said Carl.
Oh well, thought Lou, the animal kingdom remains safe while Carl is in the bar. Lou ordered a beer and sat down beside him. The cold drink was a relief from the incessant heat and humidity. Meanwhile, the empty bottles in front of Carl were now approaching double digits.
Lou returned to the room and tried to take a nap. He climbed under the mosquito netting and
stretched out on the bed. It was so hot; the humidity rendered the air suffocating. Outside, the
jungle was noisy from the sounds of the macaws and monkeys. Lou had slept in Times Square in
New York City and in the jungle; the former was the more peaceful place. After much tossing
and turning, he fell asleep.

In addition to the cacophony, a new sound had been added; Carl was snoring away. Lou dressed quietly and left the room and went to the dining room, where the meal exceeded his
expectations.
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He was on his second cup of coffee when Carl arrived. “Hey man, let’s go visit the natives tomorrow.” he said cheerfully.
The next day, the guide took them to the Yagua village. Another group of tourists were already there. The guide explained that some of the men would demonstrate their proficiency with blowguns in a few minutes.
“These guys remind me of Dizzy Gillespie when they blow those darts,” Carl said as he walked over to one of the Indians. “Hey fellows, how’s it going?” he said breezily.
The Indians glanced at him quizzically; they had seen many tourists but none had looked remotely like Carl, who appeared to be a cross between Rasputin and a ganja-smoking Rastafarian.
“Can I see that blowgun?” asked Carl.
When the Indian understood what Carl wanted, he smiled and handed him the bamboo weapon along with several darts.
“Oh no, he has given those darts to one of the least coordinated people in the world.”
thought Lou.
Carl had injured friends while playing basketball, racquetball, and volleyball. He had never
meant to harm anyone, things just happened. Now these Indians had foolishly given him the
darts!
They were pointing to a stake that had a bunch of cigarettes tied to it. They were encouraging
him to hit a target ten yards away. These poor men did not know what havoc they were in the
process of creating.
Carl held the dart between his lips and moved the blowgun towards his mouth. Then he swung around looking for other possible targets. As he turned, he hit one of the Indians in the head with the blowgun.
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“Hey man, I’m sorry; it was an accident.” he said apologetically.

Lou looked at the dart tips. At least the Indians had not laced it with curare. Carl finally aimed at the target. When he was unable to muster the wind to get the dart to travel through the blowgun, the Indians laughed. Carl handed the blowgun back to the Indian, who proceeded to make the dart come close to
the target.
“Hey man, good shot!” yelled Carl.
Lou walked around the village, observing the life of the Yagua. The women were preparing
food, and the men were working on their blowguns.
“Hey Lou, they just put on a show with the blowguns. It was great!” said Carl.
“Well, I’ll probably see it tomorrow. Are you ready to head back for lunch?” asked Lou.
“Sure man, why not?” said Carl.
After lunch, they went out with a guide in a rowboat. They traveled along one of the tributaries to the Amazon.
There were orchids growing sixty feet above ground. The butterflies were huge; some were the size of Lou’s hand. The guide pointed to a school of pirhanas.
It was proving to be a good trip; one more day in the jungle would be sufficient. Lou began checking on boat departures for the return trip down the Amazon to Iquitos.
That evening, Lou and Carl went for a walk with one of the guides. The jungle was so thick with vegetation that it made walking a slow process. The guide suddenly stopped and motioned
them to be still.
As Carl and Lou approached him, they could see him staring intently into a stream. Finally, Lou saw the eyes peering out from the water; it was a crocodile.
Carl whispered, “What is it?”
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“A crocodile.” replied Lou.
“No!” whispered Carl.
The guide turned to Carl with an anxious expression and pointed to his lips to maintain silence. After viewing the mostly submerged creature, they continued the walk quietly through the jungle. The colors were intense; Lou had never seen such bright yellow bananas.
“Too bad the Yaguas don’t speak English; one of those ladies was an absolute fox.” said Carl.
Lou thought to himself, ‘This tribe has survived many adversities; but allowing Carl into the
gene pool would surely be a major disaster.
“I’m getting thirsty. Let’s head back and have a beer.” said Carl.
Lou agreed willingly; it was so humid in the jungle that even small exertions proved highly enervating.
They passed two hours in the bar area; Lou could not finish his second bottle of beer. However, Carl was at that moment draining the remnants of his fourth.

“We take the morning boat to Iquitos, Carl.” said Lou.
Both Americans slept restlessly under the mosquito nets. It was great to see the Amazon, thought Lou; but it was also nice to leave it.
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Chapter XI
California 1974: Lou and Carl Live Out Fantasies

Shortly after returning from the Amazon, Carl received a job offer to work in a government
laboratory from a former supervisor who had moved to Sacramento, California. Carl accepted
and made the move to the west coast. Not long after that, Lou received the following letter from
him:

Dear Lou,
THE UNITED STATES IS SIX AND ONE HALF JOINTS WIDE!

Actually, the trip across the country was no problem. I tried to maintain a comfortable
cruising speed of eighty-five miles per hour. Unfortunately, a state trooper in Indiana failed
to understand my need to reach California with quick dispatch. Moreover, the man had
absolutely no sense of humor. As for sympathy, I could have found more in a Tijuana bull
ring than from that cop.
I am happy to report there were no other encounters with the police. If any did notice me, I
suspect they simply admired my panache behind the wheel and allowed me to proceed
unmolested.
California is great; it is my kind of place, lots of ladies and dope; it is also sunny and
warm. Why don’t you come out here for good rather than for the usual long stays? You can
share my place; I will put your favorite Coltrane tunes on the stereo and we will blow the
walls off!
Can you believe it? Margot’s still here! She has found work, but I guess you know that
anyway. Johnny Troisi is also here; the place is like a colony of ex-New Yorkers.
Please write when you can. Love,
Carl
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Lou thought about his life in New York; the city appeared to be getting crazier by the day.
Not only did he miss Margot and the other friends who had left, but he was also tiring of the cold
weather and the dingy subways. He knew he was happiest in Majorca, but he had enjoyed
extended visits to California. America was a good place to make some money for more time in
Mallorca. Lou decided to accept Carl’s invitation.
Within a month, he was living in Sacramento.
Lou quickly found work with a local government agency as a program analyst. Between Carl
some other ex-New Yorkers who had moved there, he would have an immediate social life.
Living in Sacramento was a dramatic change from New York City; the most common
expression was, “Have a nice day!” This was not a widely used phrase in the Big Apple.
Carl’s apartment was located in a complex that contained a swimming pool, hot tub,
landscaped grounds, and other amenities; it felt like he was living in a resort.

Carl had made some new friends who were quite entertaining. One friend Edward held
regular get-togethers at his large secluded home, where there was plenty of grass and friendly
people. Clothes were decidedly optional; massages, given and received, were quite popular. Lou
attended a get-together there with Margot. After smoking a joint, Lou stripped down and went
for a swim in the pool. As Lou waded into shallow part of the pool and began sun-bathing on the
pool steps, he noticed a nude lady laying on one of the massage tables located in the shade; she
was receiving a sensual back-rub from Carl. Although the woman’s face was turned away from
him, the derriere was definitely familiar. It was Margot; observing Carl massaging Margot’s
back was a sensual experience. He was already feeling euphoric from the grass. When the
massage was completed, he would suggest that Margot join him for some fooling around on
Edward’s waterbed.
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The ease of life in California was highly appealing, with most days filled with blue skies and
sunshine.
Carl usually wore cut-off jeans and was rarely without his pipe; with his large beard, glasses,
and curly hair, his rastafarian look was unusual even for California.
One day, Lou returned to Carl’s apartment: Carl was already home from work.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Carl welcomed him.
“Fine Carl. Anything exciting on for tonight?” said Lou.
“As a matter of fact, I met this nice lady named Elvira last night. Let’s go visit her; I told her
about you and she wants to get together.” said Carl.
Lou was surprised he wanted company since Carl seemed determined to make love to every
woman he met.
He asked, “Carl, aren’t you interested in her?”
“Is Nixon a liar? Does Miles play the trumpet? Of course I’m interested in her. In fact, we
screwed each other’s brains out last night.” he said.
That answer failed to clarify the situation. Lou was hardly the great lover of the western
world, but he had more success with the ladies than Carl. Perhaps he wanted to repay Lou for
some introductions he had made in the past.
Lou agreed to meet go over to her apartment.
Elvira was a small attractive brunette who appeared to be highly intelligent. For once, Carl
had struck the mother-lode.
She poured coffee, soon the three began a lively discussion of Ken Kesey and Gabriel
Marquez. To enhance the prospect of new insights into these subjects, Elvira produced some
blond Lebanese hash; they smoked and continued sharing thoughts on a wide range of topics.
Suddenly, Carl stood up and said “Why don’t we continue the discussion in the bedroom?”
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Elvira stood up, “Sounds good to me” she said as she walked towards the bedroom, removing
her blouse and bra along the way. It was Lou’s first menage a’ trois; he did not like it. There was
something about seeing a naked man in bed. As if Carl’s presence were not enough, Carl was
giving a play-by-play description of the lovemaking that reminded Lou of a baseball game
announcer. He was relieved more than satisfied when the frolics ended.
After the lovemaking, they fell asleep for the night. When Lou awoke, he looked over at
Elvira and started caressing her. Carl was sleeping rather soundly; this time, he enjoyed making
love to her; the mad chemist continued to sleep despite the rolling movements of the waterbed.
“Welcome to California!” he thought.

His relationship with Margot had elements of a Mexican hat dance; when one moved closer,
the other pulled back. They had never discussed having an exclusive relationship, although they
had spent considerable time together. Given the ease of sexual relationships in California, Lou
was hardly inclined towards monogamy.
Life in California was clearly exceeding expectations.
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Chapter XII
1975: Lou Makes New Acquaintances inside San Quentin Prison

Lou attended the Board Meeting of the Friends of Prisoners Society, a social organization dedicated to assisting the families of convicts. Those in attendance were community-minded persons who were being held hostage by one Director’s boring presentations.
The last meeting had been the best ever for Lou because he had spent most of it in jail. It started two weeks before when he went to buy a coffee in a cafe across from the Sacramento courthouse. A woman stopped him, introducing herself as an attorney for the Public Defender’s Office. She was representing a client who had been arrested for armed robbery and needed volunteers for a police lineup. In Sacramento, the procedure for lineup volunteers required them
to be processed in the same manner as any jail inmate.

Lou was taken into the “fish tank”, a cylindrical plexiglass room with the appearance of a fish bowl, having already stripped to his shorts and given his clothes, ring, and shoes to his temporary keepers.
“Well, it could be worse.” he thought. “Manson could have been brought in tonight for a hearing.” Sheriff’s Deputies passed by, escorting prisoners and trustees, but there were no other prisoners brought in to the tank.

After about thirty minutes, he was led out and taken to the line-up room. There were four inmates, one guard, and one other free-person volunteer in attendance. The conversation between the guard and the prisoners could have been taken from gangster movie. If he didn’t ook at who was talking, it would have been impossible to distinguish the guard from the inmates.
“When did you get here? I seen you lots of times.” the guard inquired politely.
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“No, not me, man. This is the first time I been in this place.” answered the inmate.
“What’s your beef?” asked the guard.
“Hey man, it’s a bum beef. I didn’t do a thing, and they hauling my ass in here.” complained the prisoner.
“Sure, man, I know,” the guard spoke softly. “You a victim.”
They both laughed.
Lou turned to the other volunteer, who looked very uncomfortable. “How did Margie convince you to help?” he asked.
“I had no choice, my name is Jack, I am an attorney in the Public Defender’s office. She helped me obtain two line-up volunteers last month when I needed them for one of my clients.” he said grimly. A door lock turned, and another guard entered the room. “Everyone through this door, freepeople first.” Free people was a favorite expression of the guards; he had heard it many times in Dannemora and San Quentin prisons. It gave him a strange feeling when he heard it, but nothing like the horror he felt once in San Quentin when a guard stopped him in a corridor and yelled
“Hold on, two dead men coming through.” as two heavily-shackled prisoners facing death sentences shuffled by wearing wrist and ankle-chains. Another order given out frequently by the Sergeant at San Quentin was “let’s move some guns!” He wondered if perhaps much of this macho talk was designed to intimidate outside visitors.

Lou and Jack walked into the lineup room and took their places facing the two-way mirror; the lineup session did not take very long. “Face right, face left, face the wall!” barked an unseen voice through two speakers. After that, Lou and Jack were led back to the holding tank, where the situation took a bizarre turn.
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Lou sat down and smiled. As he looked around the fish tank, he thought “this is actually better than sitting in that Board meeting where someone is probably demonstrating the value of organizational charts, which might have been acceptable if there were names of actual volunteers occupying the little boxes with titles, but sadly there were none. It was hard to believe, but Lou felt this was a better way to spend his time. He relaxed as he waited for his clothes to be
returned.

Jack had become impatient with the delay in releasing them from the tank. “What’s going on here? Have they forgotten us?” he yelled.
“Jack, I’ve never been around a prison setting where the staff moves quickly. It will probably be thirty minutes before they remember there are two free people sitting in the fish tank. By the way, Jack, have you seen any good films lately?” Lou asked sympathetically.
Jack chose to ignore the question, deciding his time would be more profitably spent banging on the plexiglass. Guards passed by, looking at Jack quizzically; it was common for recently arrested persons to bang on the window. His efforts were, of course, ignored; Lou saw signs of panic on Jack’s face that alarmed him. His banging and screaming grew louder by the minute.

Finally the guards brought their clothes and released them. It was unlikely that Jack would be
volunteering for a lineup in the near future.
His work as a government analyst was exposing Lou to some new ethnic groups, including Chicanos, Filipinos, and American Indians. One of the clients in the federal jobs program was an American Indian named Lighthair. He had been released from an Arizona prison after serving eighteen years for the murder of two people. According to Lighthair, the Judge had sentenced him to death, but the execution was blocked because he was a U.S. Marine at the time of the killings that resulted from a drunken bar fight.
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Lou decided that this forty-five year old Indian with a gray beard and pony-tail would need condsiderable to remain outside the prison walls after spending 18 years inside prison. He began inviting him to lunch. Lou also started meeting Indian leaders in the Sacramento community. Lou and Lighthair were invited to visit an American Indian prisoners’ group inside San Quentin prison. The first visit went so well that the two became regular participants in the
“Friday Night Meeting.”

They often left San Quentin prison at ten o’clock, having spent four hours with the inmates. One inmate named Sammy was a giant; he was at least 6 ft. five inches and weighed close to 300 pounds. After Lou’s presentation concerning possible job opportunities in his program in the Sacramento area for inmates upon their release, Sammy approached him.

“Well Lou you can come to our meetings anytime that you want, but as far as what you said tonight, it all sounds like bureaucratic bull.” he said.
“I respect your feelings about the talk.” said Lou, who was not inclined to prolong the conversation with the behemoth. However, Sammy was clearly in the mood for talking.

“I am due to leave here in four weeks. I don’t have a job right now; if I don’t find one, I might have to hurt somebody to get some money. Maybe it will be your mother; maybe it will be you.” said Sammy with a disturbing gleam that suggested hurting people was a pleasurable prospect.

Lou looked up at Sammy; it was indeed a long way up, saying “Sammy, let me tell you about a prisoner I knew in New York; his name was Johnny. When his counselor asked him what he wanted to do after release, Johnny said “I want to rob $1 million.”

The counselor replied “Johnny, I only wish you had said ‘I want to rob $1 million and get away with it. So let me say this to you; whether you go to work or whether you steal when you

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leave here, please do it well and do it right in order that you do not come back to a sad place like
this again.’ said Lou.
Sammy nodded his head and walked away. After that encounter, he avoided Lou at subsequent meetings.
There was also Sanchez, an Apache Indian with black hair, beard, and a long ponytail. Another defining feature was a pair of rose colored sunglasses that he wore constantly; they appeared to symbolize his worldview.
After the meeting ended, Lou approached him, aware that he had been recently granted parole. “Sanchez, I know you are being paroled. Do you have any plans?” In his cheerful manner, Sanchez replied “Lou, I have it all figured out; I have been studying baking in here for
five years and I am now a very good baker. When I am released, the first thing that I am going to
do is rob a bank. With the money I receive, I will be opening my bakery shop in Fresno.”

Lou thought that perhaps Fresno was quite possibly the biggest mistake of all in Sanchez’s plans. Of course, within six months, Sanchez was back at the Friday night meetings in San Quentin, but his arrest, conviction, and subsequent incarceration resulted in a very different attitude than the former Sanchez. The rose-colored sunglasses were gone, along with the smiling face. Sanchez spoke to him about the change

“I want to make this my last time in prison. Willyou help me if you are still around in seven years? I have a 10-year sentence, but I could be ouin seven with good behavior.” he said. Lou promised that he would do all he could for him, and he meant it. The trip home followed a routine. Lighthair and Lou walked for about one quarter of a mile to the main gate; the pathway offered a view of the prison and the night skyline of San Francisco in the distance across bay. The unrelenting wind could not be ignored; in the winter, it cut through the clothes and skin. It was a pleasure and a relief to enter the “Lighthair mobile,” a
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bright red 1969 Thunderbird. Lighthair would take highway 101 North to Route 37, then pick up
Highway 80 for the ride home to Sacramento. Often there was a stop at Denny’s restaurant in Vacaville for coffee. Sooner or later, most people in California wound up at Denny’s.
As they sipped coffee, Eagle adjusted his headband, and said, “When we get back to Sacramento, I have to pick up Chi-Chi at the county jail; she gets out at midnight.”
When a prisoner receives a thirty day sentence, the sentence is over at one minute after midnight on the night of the thirtieth day. For reasons of convenience, many prisoners spend an extra night in jail if they cannot find someone to pick them up at midnight. When we arrived, Chi-Chi was waiting outside; she was a Native American lady in her late forties, although  she could easily have passed for sixty. She entered the car quickly and put on one of Eagle’s Native American music tapes; soon Lou was longing for the sound of chalk scraping on a blackboard.
“I hear your son is sniffing gas for that beef in Fresno.” said Lighthair. A translation of this would be ‘I understand your son has been indicted on a murder charge in Fresno and is facing the
death penalty.’
“Yeah” she replied. “I am kinda worried about that.”
No doubt sensing he might be treading on delicate ground, Lighthair decided to change the subject and asked, “How’s Pinkie doing?” Pinkie was Chi-Chi’s oldest daughter.
“She’s right here! Chi-Chi said pointing to the jail with some amusement. “She’s got sixty days more to do on a shoplifting beef.” she said.
“How about your brother Ralph? How’s he doing?” asked Lighthair.
“Not too bad; he just transferred to Folsom. Ralph is due for parole in two years.” answered Chi-Chi. Apparently Lighthair knew the family reasonably well.
ey! What about your cousin Joey?”
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“Oh, Joey just got out of Soledad two months ago; he’s living in the Bay Area now.”
They were now close to the center of downtown Sacramento, where the middle-class worked
and the poor people lived. “Goodnight, Chi-Chi, stay cool now.” Lighthair said gently.
She sauntered into the house; Lighthair and Lou stared at each other in astonishment. All her
family appeared to be at some point on the continuum of the California criminal justice system.
“The cops should get down on their knees and pray for that family; they sure as hell are keeping
the system in business.” Lighthair said.

The downtown area of Sacramento was covered with huge trees. The summer days were extremely hot, but the mornings and evenings were often cool and pleasant. Lou enjoyed walking to work.

He thought about Kristen, a lover he met in Mallorca. She was due to arrive from Norway for a weeklong visit. Lou had been seeing several ladies; he continued to share the rent at Carl’s place rather than secure his own apartment. One of the women was a married lady in her early forties named Julie. She arrived at Carl’s promptly at four p.m. every Sunday. Carl was
sensitive about staying away from the apartment during that time. Julie’s visits had been going
on for about five months; then one Sunday, there was a considerable departure from the normal
course of events. At the appointed time, there was a knock at the door; rather than Julie appearing, it was her husband Frank. Lou had met him on several occasions; he was a huge man, well over six feet, and solidly built.

Frank was standing there with a note in his hand.
“Hi, Lou!” he said cheerily. “I’m sorry, but Julie’s not feeling well and she won’t be able to see you this afternoon. She wanted you to have this note.” he said.
Lou invited him inside and poured a cup of mint tea for him. After a few minutes, Frank announced he had an appointment and needed to leave.
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California was truly an amazing place. A wife writes a letter of apology to a lover for her absence at a lovemaking session, and her husband delivers it! Perhaps Frank had his own lovers.
Lou attempted to estimate the odds of this happening in New York; it was a doubtful proposition.
Lou’s work as a government analyst was interesting and satisfying. As a social worker in
New York City, he had been able to help only a few people. Here, Lou was a staff member for a
40 million-dollar public jobs program, where he had an opportunity to have an impact on the
entire community. It was an unusual situation; he did not threaten his coworkers because he was
not interested in a permanent position or promotions.
Lou was pleasantly surprised when his supervisor asked him if he wanted to return to work
after his next trip instead of resigning. He said yes, highly pleased to have a job waiting upon his
return, particularly one that he enjoyed.

Meanwhile, Lou continued to see Margot, along with other some ladies. However, it was becoming clear that her priority in life was spiritual growth. One day she announced that she would be going to live in a spiritual commune in Northern California. The news did not come as a surprise to Lou; she had been moving in that direction for some time.

Several months later, he met Carol. Over a cappuccino at a downtown cafe, they discussed social conditions in America and their mutual desire to make a contribution to the poor.

Afterwards, Lou invited her to come back to his place, where he played an album by Michael Franks. They made love that night; Lou immediately felt this could develop into a long-term relationship.
It lasted almost three years.

There was a very strong physical attraction between the two. However, Lou was unwilling to
move-in with her, nor was the prepared to terminate his other relationships; yet he found each
himself spending more time with her each week.
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Carol did not appear to have a wide range of friends; although she had been living in Sacramento for over a year, her contacts with others appeared rather limited. Lou introduced her enthusiastically to his friends, including the mad chemist.

The first month together was wonderful; Lou could not wait to spend time with her after work. Occasionally, she would meet him for lunch; they would stroll down Sacramento’s K Street Mall. Carol seemed to take particular pleasure in public affection, to the point of desiring to make love in the great outdoors.

The prior week they had taken a trip to Nevada City, a small town in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. Carol parked the car in a secluded area, suggesting they head into the bushes. They made love on soft grass; it seemed to excite her. Lou did not mind as long as the place was sufficiently private where they would not be spotted by the local police or the California Highway Patrol, who were always a heavy presence in California. Lou was very happy being
with Carol; the days with her were simply more fun. She had a great sense of humor, and the strong physical attraction was mutual.
Carol seemed more relaxed than Margot, who, like many New Yorkers, had long been in therapy. In the late sixties and early seventies, tens of thousands of New Yorkers were in therapy. One friend confided to Lou that he was the only person she knew who was not seeing a psychologist or other therapist. In the big apple, one paid to be understood.

Then it happened. Carol sat Lou down for a conversation that profoundly changed the
relationship. “I know you like me as I am right now, but that is not the way I truly feel. I have
had my share of problems in the past, including attempting suicide twice, and have also been
hospitalized for psychological problems. I’m sorry, I know you see me as doing well, but the
truth is I could be doing better.” she said.
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For three years, Lou denied that he changed his behavior after this conversation, but years
later he admitted to himself he had. After dealing with Margot’s emotional problems, he had taken a more detached approach with Carol.

From the beginning, Lou proposed they spend one night a week apart; what happened during
that night was not to be a part of their relationship; Carol accepted this proposal, with the obvious implication that such nights would include other sexual partners for either of them. She was not pleased with the suggestion, but did not want to terminate the relationship.

Lou was ready for another trip; he first asked Carol about traveling to Hong Kong, but she said she was not interested. He then proposed the trip to Carl, who of course accepted. Lou made the ticket arrangements; Carol drove them to Oakland airport for their flight on Thomas International Airlines (TIA). There was a strange incident in the elevator leading from the parking garage to the departure terminal. Three apparent members of the Oakland Raiders football team joined them in elevator.

Although Lou, Carol, and Carl tr ed to continue their
conversation, the presence of the three giants was intimidating, even though they were talking
quietly. It was a strange start to the trip. After the first 10 hours in the air, Lou felt that the acronym TIA was short for “travel in agony”; extra seats had been squeezed into the plane, with legroom. The plane stopped for refueling in Anchorage, Alaska. Lou looked over at Carl, who was sleeping like a baby; he had no doubt ingested some homemade chemical compound that insured pleasant dreams for the entire flight that consisted of an exhausting 20 hours.
When Carl finally awoke, he asked “I know you had some strange experiences in Singapore
and Malaysia; tell me about them.”
Lou proceeded to share stories about that trip. “The train ride from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, also known as ‘the rubber train’ was a very enjoyable one in first class,

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without being expensive; the parlor car had plush red seats with armrests. A staff comprised of
several attendants was available to bring a wide variety of food and beverages. As the train
approached the Malaysian border town of Johor Baru, many mosques were visible.” Lou continued.

“Malaysia has a large Moslem population, it was therefore not surprising to see that most of
the women were practicing purdah. I settled into my comfortable seat, put some jazz on in my
cassette system, sat back and began to enjoy the passing countryside of rubber plantations and
jungle. I knew that I would not have to worry about finding a room in Kuala Lumpur since there
was a modern hotel located inside the train station at KL.” continued Lou.

“Unfortunately I had to change plans abruptly upon arrival. The hotel had closed for refurbishing; it was midnight and raining heavily. This was hardly a prime time to be seeking hotel accommodations. I quickly checked one of my guidebooks and noted the restaurant in the Hotel Coliseum had been highly recommended ‘in spite of the outrageousness of the hotel,’ the guidebook had added. However, it was raining, the hour grew late, and I needed a room. When I told the taxi driver I wanted the Hotel Coliseum, he did a double take, giving me a look of
surprise bordering on astonishment. Within five minutes, he stopped the car in the middle of a
side street.” said Lou.

“The driver pointed to a front door with a bare light bulb lit above it. I looked back at the driver; he pushed his hand forward as if to say, ‘It is wet out here, get inside!’ There was silence on the street except for the rainfall and the quiet hum of the taxi’s engine.” continued Lou.

“I pushed the door open and was surprised to find a noisy, brightly lit bar which was doing a brisk business at 1;00 a.m. in the morning.
“Behind the circular bar, two clerks were processing paperwork. ‘Where you from, partner?’ said a tall and rather drunk American patron in his sixties. ‘I see you found the best place in

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‘K.L.’ he added without waiting for me to tell him my country of origin. ‘Let me buy you a beer. Chin, another beer here for my friend.’ he yelled gruffly.”
“His name was Charley. Whatever he may have needed at this point in life, it was not another
beer, but that was precisely what he was having. ‘What are you doing in Malaysia, Charley?’ I inquired.”
“‘I’m just traveling around; I retired a few years ago from the Company.’ he said.
“I congratulated him on his retirement. Then I asked, “What work did you do for the CIA, Charley?’ He tilted his head to the side and said in a tone lower than usual, ‘I used to kill people.’ At that point, I looked closely at his eyes. If there was indeed a crazy bastard who had retired from the CIA and spent his evenings drinking beer and telling complete strangers he used
to kill people for a living, it was Charley.” continued Lou.
“They all come to me. How do they find me? All I wanted was a bed, any bed, in a room that
had a lock on the door; my lodging requirements were becoming more modest with each swallow of beer.” said Lou.
“Listen Charley” I said. ‘I have to see about getting a hotel room; it has been a long trip from Singapore, and I’m very tired.’ He took a big swig from his glass, burped loudly, and yelled out to the bartender, ‘Hey Chin, old buddy. You got a room for my friend here?’ The news wasn’t good. Chin started shaking his head, ‘No, No, No maw room, all filled. maybe Royal’, replied Chin.”
“I turned to Charley and asked how far the Hotel Royal was from the Coliseum.  Unfortunately, I did not get an immediate answer. Two attractive European ladies had just entered the bar and had taken a table. Charley staggered over to meet them. As soon as he opened his mouth, they looked at each other with raised eyebrows, closed ranks and totally
ignored America’s good-will ambassador to Southeast Asia.”
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“He sauntered back to the bar. ‘I don’t think they spoke English, probably French.’ It was imperative I help Charley focus on the location of the Royal, for it appeared that advertising wasn’t a priority in the neighborhood.” continued Lou.

“I suggested Charley point me in the direction of the Royal. It appeared it would take another beer before my inebriated guide would aim his torso towards the elusive hotel. Finally, we left the Hotel Coliseum and were soon at the door of the Hotel Royal. Charley explained that all these hotels had bars; he promised to treat me to another beer at the Royal Bar, which would be waiting for me after I checked in. The Royal
turned out to be another Chinese establishment. The price was a mere six dollars for a clean, but
Spartan room. It was tempting to just stay inside the room, but I wanted to buy Charley a beer
since he had helped me.” said Lou.

“I returned to the bar, where Charley was chatting with an attractive Indian lady. She gave me a warm smile, which seemed to irritate Charley. I quickly drank my beer and bid good night to both of them. Returning upstairs to my room, I pushed the bed against the door, put the light out, and hoped my tiredness would win out over the sweltering heat.” continued Lou.

“At the time, Kuala Lumpur was experiencing world class pollution due to out of control jungle fires on the island of Borneo. The next day, I ventured fort into the smoke filled atmosphere, deciding to try the Malay-Indian buffet at the Coliseum. Several guidebooks had praised the food, and they were correct in doing so.” said Lou.

“The city contained both well-maintained colonial structures and modern buildings that appeared well poised for the twenty-first century.” Lou continued.
“That evening, I decided to dine once again at the Coliseum restaurant. The place was crowded; I shared a table with a gracious Malaysian man in his forties. His English was quite good; we spoke about life in both Malaysia. He was going through a divorce and seemed to
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enjoy the company. The food was both cheap and well prepared; I had a second coffee before leaving my dining partner.” said Lou.
“During the day, the neighborhood surrounding the Royal and the Coliseum was a bustling hub of shoppers and shopkeepers, with an emphasis on silk and fabric shops; at night, the streets were quite deserted. Wisdom dictated a quick, short walk back to the Royal for a quiet evening of reading. In the morning, I would fly to Bangkok for a few days.” continued Lou.

“I saw an old woman about to lie down on a piece of cardboard in a doorway. I decided to give her some money. Although the street contained a handful of pedestrians, the traffic on this one-way street was quite heavy. I took advantage of a break in the wave of cars to cross the street, gave the woman some money, and decided to walk up that side of the street to a nearby traffic light nearly opposite the Royal Hotel; my humanitarian detour had not taken me out of my
way.” said Lou.

“As I approached the light, I passed a large man in black clothes: his face was heavily pockmarked.
I waited for the traffic light to change; he walked over to the pedestrian crossing and stared at me. Pretending not to notice him, I walked quickly across the street and then ducked into the Royal Bar since I felt it was important this menacing individual not know where I was staying.” continued Lou.
“The bar entrance was separate from the door to the hotel. After ordering a beer, I took a table and positioned myself so I could see anyone who entered.” continued Lou.

“The glass window pane in the door was covered with colored plastic, making it possible to look out, but very hard for anyone to see inside. After about five minutes, I saw the ugly thug’s face peering into the bar. He quickly removed his face and another face appeared. The door opened and two men entered; the second man appeared as mean and ugly as the first.” continued Lou.
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“After walking to the back of the bar, they strolled out again without buying a drink. They were clearly targeting me. I was safe inside the bar and was fully prepared to wait them out. However, events began to unfold rapidly.” said Lou.

“The two men again entered the bar, this time with a third companion who was also tall and powerfully built. They ordered drinks and sat at the table behind me; I waited for their order to arrive. After another five minutes, I stood up, walked out of the bar, and ran up the stairs to the Royal Hotel. When I reached the top step, I looked back downstairs. There was no one on the sidewalk; it was over. If they followed me from the bar, I would have appeared to have vanished
into one of the numerous Chinese hotels located on the street. They would have to find someone
else to rob that night. Needless to add, that was my last night at the Royal; it was time to move
on.” said Lou.
“That’s quite a story.” said Carl.
At long last, the pilot announced the descent into Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.
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Chapter XIII1976: Hong Kong: Lou Winds Up In Court and Carl Meets Lulu

Lou and Carl arrived at Kai Tak airport at seven in the morning. It was a spectacular day; the hills above the skyscrapers of Victoria were a bright green. The harbor was filled with junks and Star Ferry boats; the two travelers took a taxi to their hotel in Kowloon.
“I wonder if they have a Chinatown here.” said Carl.
“Believe it or not, they do. It is rarely frequented by tourists or by the British residents, but it is a worthwhile place to visit; we will go there tomorrow night.” said Lou.

The hotel was located in an office building that included three other hotels and a number of
import/export companies. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, where they were greeted by
an array of soft red and green lights, along with the pungent aroma of Indian cooking.
“This building is weirder than California; maybe there’s a hot tub on the roof,” said Carl.
“Why don’t you visit the roof while I visit Bombay west on the fourth floor.” said Lou.
The elevator deposited them on the eighth floor, which was the Happy Fortune Hotel. It was
almost as dark as the Indian Hotel, but it lacked the mysterious atmosphere of that establishment.
A Chinese gentleman of indeterminate age stared at the two travelers and said absolutely
nothing.
“Hi;” said Carl breezily. “We would like a room, please.”
The clerk looked at the two bearded Americans with a distasteful grimace. “Ninety Dollars.” he snapped.
That amounted to eighteen dollars in American currency; Lou did not care for the man’s less
then congenial demeanor. “Show us the room.” he told him.
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The man slapped the bell on his desk. A maid came out of a room and looked up at the
manager; he barked something at her and motioned them to follow her. The whole world was a
bureaucracy, including the eighth story of this building on Nathan Road in Hong Kong.
The maid opened the room for viewing; there was not much to see, other than four walls and
two beds.
“Just like home.” said Carl.
“Sure, if home happens to be San Quentin; at least the street noise lends a certain ambiance.
Sleeping in this room should be a real treat.” said Lou acidly.
They went back to the manager to pay for the room; he accepted the money with his usual
lack of warmth.
Later that evening, they made their way to “Chinatown,” which consisted of a midnight street
fair on the back streets of Kowloon. One vendor stood behind a huge vat of boiling water. A
large table was filled with a variety of seafood; the customers simply pointed to the plates of
their choice. The cook threw the contents of the plate into the boiling water, scooped it out
moments later, then banged the plate down on the table.
Carl and Lou opted for the shrimp and two large bottles of beer. They found a seat and
proceeded to devour dozens of delicious shrimps. Afterwards, they walked over to a crowded
circle to see what the featured entertainment was for the evening. It was a bizarre sight. A man
was holding a snake; people were paying him to shoot snake milk into their mouths. By pressing
the snake in a certain place, he was able to extract the snake milk. Carl immediately went for his
money.
“I have to try this, maybe people get high from it.” he said hopefully. He waved his hand to
attract the attention of the snake handler. Soon, he was rewarded with a shot of snake milk.
He licked his lips. “I’m not feeling a rush yet, maybe it takes a while.” he added.
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Carl did not get high from the snake milk. He decided to inspect the other stalls filled with an
assortment of goods. Lou did not enjoy shopping.
“Carl, I’m going to repair to the seafood place for another beer. I will see you when you are
finished, but if you aren’t back in an hour, I shall go home.” said Lou.
From past experience, he had learned that waiting for Carl was a painful experience. His exwife
would have used that as grounds for divorce had she needed more ammunition against him
than she already possessed. Somewhat to Lou’s surprise, Carl came back before he had finished
his beer; they went home together.
The next day was gorgeous. The sun was shining; it was not too hot. Lou wanted to visit a
Buddhist monastery on Lantau Island. He did not mind Carl going with him to the island, but he
wanted to avoid the terrible karma likely to befall anyone who brought Carl to a monastery.
Should a monk working on solving his koan accidentally meet Carl, the result could result in a
major setback for the hard working monk.
“Carl, I have some business on Lantau Island tomorrow. Although I have to go alone to the
place, how would you like to come along and explore the island?” asked Lou. Carl agreed.
They boarded the Star Ferry from the Kowloon side at about eleven o’clock in the morning.
The view of Victoria was spectacular; there were many junks in the water with colorful sails.
The harbor voyage seemed to bring momentary peace to Carl’s twisted psyche. He lit his pipe,
puffed on it, and studied the scenery, which was indeed beautiful.
The trip to Lantau Island was interesting; the ferry stopped at other islands along the way,
picking up and discharging passengers. Finally, the boat docked at Lantau. Lou left Carl in the
harbor area and proceeded to take a bus to the monastery; there were some workers from central
Hong Kong who were also taking their vacation at the monastery. Lou learned on his prior visit
to Hong Kong that it was possible to stay overnight at the monastery; those who did often awoke
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early and walked to the top of the mountain to view the sunrise over the South China Sea. After
working amidst the craziness of Hong Kong, it made sense to spend one’s vacation in a tranquil
setting that was convenient and inexpensive.
After leaving the harbor, the bus traveled through banana plantations and lush tropical
forests. The monastery was located at a high elevation, perhaps five thousand feet or more above
sea level.
It was early afternoon when Lou arrived there. A light mist and a gentle breeze was blowing.
Lou walked through the grounds; a solitary monk was meditating inside the temple. He was
uncertain of the protocol for entering the temple, so he remained outside. Time seemed
suspended.
He sat down a bench and meditated; an hour passed by quickly. Rousing himself from his
meditative state, he headed toward the dining area where he made arrangements for a simple
meal. It was hard to believe that millions of people were noisily going about their business just a
few miles away. Hours passed before he returned to the ferry terminal. For once, Carl was
waiting for him; the two travelers boarded the ferry and headed back to Victoria.
“Lou! Look at the phosphorous in the water!” yelled Carl. It was an unusual sight; blue
creatures seemed to be darting through the water. Lou found himself mesmerized by the
spectacular light show coming from the sea.
“This has been an impressive day.” said Carl.
“Well, be prepared for an extraordinary one tomorrow; we are going to Aberdeen.” said Lou.
“Where’s that?” asked Carl.
“It is located on the other side of Victoria. Aberdeen is a junk village located entirely on
water; people contend that some of its residents have never been on land, with their entire life
spent on the sea.” said Lou.
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The ferry pulled into Victoria; another Star Ferry took them to Kowloon and they proceeded
to walk to their hotel; it had been a long day.
The next morning, they started off for Aberdeen. Soon, it began to rain heavily; this was not
a good day to see the junk village.
“Listen brother.” said Lou, we have to change our plans; this day is worth spending indoors.
How would you like to see a British trial? It could prove interesting.” said Lou.
“Sure, maybe they will let me be the judge for the day.” replied Carl.
“Knowing you, they would be more inclined to let you be the ‘defendant for the day’.” Lou
said.
“That’s O.K. I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the court and ask the judge for a joint.” said
Carl.
“Let’s do it.” said Lou.
It was the worst appointed courtroom Lou had ever seen; it made even the Brooklyn Family
Court look like a palace. There were plastic bags piled on the spectator benches filled with
everything from kitchen utensils to heroin. The judge and the attorneys were wearing the
traditional gray wigs, which prompted Carl to whisper “Are these guys drag queens in
mourning? Last year, I saw a couple in the Castro District who were dressed the same way, but I
don’t think they are the same people.” said Carl.
Who but Carl would assume the Lord Judge and the Barrister were refugees from last year’s
Halloween party in San Francisco’s Castro District? They sat down on a bench and began
listening to the proceedings.
Three people were being charged with conspiracy to manufacture two million dollars worth
of heroin. The jury was listening to the testimony of the arresting officers who described how
they found heroin in the apartment of Chong Li. Apparently Mr. Li had already been convicted
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of the crime and sentenced to twelve years in prison. The prosecution was now attempting to
convict the three defendants for being in the apartment at the time the police arrived. As Lou
learned the next day, having a key to premises is sufficient evidence in Hong Kong for
prosecution for possession of drugs.
The defendants were all Chinese, two men and one woman. The latter appeared frail and
quite overwhelmed by the proceedings; the two men wore blank faces devoid of emotion. The
jury was composed of six White and six Chinese jurors, with both genders equally represented.
The Clerk of the Court was Chinese, while the Lord Judge and the two barristers were White.
The testimony of the last detective ended and court was adjourned until the next day.
Lou and Carl found a cafe near the courthouse and ordered coffee.
“Well Carl, how do you feel about your morning in court?” asked Lou.
“I liked it, how about you?” he inquired.
“Given my graduate study in criminal justice, I was fascinated by the spectacle. I developed
sympathy quickly for the woman defendant; she seemed to have trouble understanding the
translator. Her husband was sentenced to twelve years for producing the heroin; I doubt that he
discussed his business dealings with her. She looked helpless and pathetic.” said Lou.
“I agree.” said Carl, “Bye the bye, that prosecutor is an absolute fox! I would love to
prosecute her for several hours! I bet she looks even better without that wig.” he added
enthusiastically.
“She is indeed a beauty, but I wonder if all that legal training has drained the passion from
her. I haven’t had much experience with lawyers, but legal training seems to breed a soulless
group of humanity. I do not know if they were leaning in that direction beforehand or if the
training itself saps any sense of humanity from them.” said Lou.
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The trial took most of the day. Afterwards, they went to a Filipino restaurant where the food
was exceptionally good. It was the first time Carl had tried Filipino cuisine; he found he liked it.
“Let’s party tonight!” said Carl.
“Brother, you go ahead. I want to go home and read.” said Lou. This was not a town for
meeting ladies, unless one wanted to meet bar girls. Lou knew there were clubs where Asian
businessmen spent considerable sums of money for the pleasure of having a skimpily clad lady
sit at the table. Lou decided to let Carl find his own way in Hong Kong. Thus far, he had been
easier to deal with than in Morocco. He thought of Carl’s attempt to purchase the primate at El-
Fna and shuddered; the two friends left the restaurant and went their separate ways.
The next morning, Lou bought the China News to see if there was a story about the trial; he
wasn’t disappointed. The story was right there on the front page; it appeared this was the second
time the Colony was putting the wife, the boarder, and the merchant marine sailor from the
Chinese providence of Kwantung on trial for possession of heroin. The first time it ended in a
mistrial; the newspaper noted that Jason Greenly, a barrister with thirty years experience, was
handling the defense, with the prosecution directed by Jane Anster.
Lou looked across at Carl. “It’s raining again. I know we talked about Aberdeen and Macao,
but the weather is not good for visiting either place. Let’s go back to court and follow the trial.”
Lou suggested.
“That is all right with me; the prosecutor is really cute. I think I’ll strike up a conversation
with her during the break. We can discuss crime and punishment, especially the latter. I’ll tell her
she can punish me tonight, I wouldn’t mind.” he said.
“Good luck, Carl; as far as I am concerned, she is all yours.” added Lou.
They finished breakfast and took the Star Ferry to Victoria and the courthouse; it was a good
solution for a rainy day.
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As the proceedings began, Lou felt the trial was taking on the atmosphere of a desperate
drama. The defense barrister first called the woman defendant to the witness stand. He asked her
to explain what happened; her words were then translated into English:
“My name is Long Li. I did not know what was going on. I smelled something strange and
ask my husband ‘What smell?’ He tell me pay no attention to his business. Then he give me
money and tell me go play Mahjong. So I go play; when I come back, I cook food and police
come.” she said.
“Did you help your husband make heroin?” asked the barrister.
“I do not know heroin; I only cook food and keep house clean.” she said.
“No more questions.” said the barrister.
What happened next was remarkable, clearly depicting the gap between the Chinese and
British residents of Hong Kong.
The prosecutor stepped forward and showed the defendant photographs of her apartment.
“Is that a photograph of your apartment?” she asked.
“I do not understand photographs.” replied the defendants through her translator; this was
accepted.
“Do you have a key to your apartment?” the Prosecutor inquired.
“Yes” said the defendant. Under Hong Kong law, persons can be convicted of possession of
drugs if they have a key to the premises where drugs are found.
“No more questions.” said the prosecutor.
The next witness for the defense was the lodger.
“What is your name?” asked the defense attorney.
“Queh” he said.
“Will you tell the Court what happened on April 25, 1970?” he asked.
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“My name is Queh. I live at the apartment where the drugs were found, but I knew nothing
about drug manufacturing. I pay three hundred dollars rent for a cubicle in the apartment; I am a
teacher and live a respectable life. I am a widower, that is all there is to say.” he replied.
“Were you in the apartment when the police came?” asked the attorney.
“Of course, I live there.” he answered indignantly.
“No more questions.” said the defense attorney.
The silver-wigged beauty of a prosecutor moved forward for cross-examination.
“You say you are a teacher, yet the school where you claim to teach was closed by the
government five year ago. Can you please explain to the Court how you are still able to teach at a
school that has not been open for five years?” she inquired in a challenging tone.
The defendant looked at her with mild curiosity. “Government close school, but school
continue as underground Chinese school.” he said.
This response went unchallenged; it seemed as though the underground activity in Hong
Kong went beyond the scope of the court.
The frustration was evident on the Prosecutor’s face; there was nothing to add.
“Do you have a key to the apartment on King Road?”, she asked.
“Yes I do.” he replied.
“No more questions” she said.
The defense attorney called the remaining defendant to the stand.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Le Chung.”, he said.
“What is your occupation?”
“Merchant seaman” he said.
“Where do you live?” asked the attorney.
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“Kwantung Province, China,” he replied.
“Why were you at the apartment?” he asked.
“Chong Li is a friend of mine. I went to visit him.”
“Did you know anything about the manufacture of heroin?” asked Jason Greenly.
“No, I knew nothing.” he said.
The lovely Jane declined cross-examination; the defendant had admitted he was present in
the apartment. Of course, it would have been better if he had possessed a key to the premises.
The next scene was one Lou would never forget; the husband of Long Li was brought
shackled into the courtroom. As soon as husband and wife saw each other, they began to cry.
Both were probably about fifty, with leathery faces and gaunt expressions. He took the witness
stand in chains.
“What is your name?”
“Chong Li” he replied. (Long Li wept constantly after her husband was brought into court.)
“You have been sentenced to prison for the manufacture of heroin. Is that correct?” asked
defense attorney Greenly.
“Yes” he answered.
“Did your wife know you were manufacturing heroin in the apartment?”
“No, I work alone; I did not want anyone to know what I was doing because I was afraid.” he
answered.
“No more questions” said Greenly firmly.
The Prosecutor then began her cross-examination. “Did you have a buyer for the heroin?”
“No” he replied.
“What were you going to do?” she asked.
“Find a seller, of course.” he replied.
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“When the police came to your apartment, you lied to them. How do we know you are telling
the truth now?” asked the Prosecutor.
He pointed to his wife and looked at the Prosecutor. “Look at her! Look at her!” he
screamed. “Do you think she knows how to cook anything but food?” He flashed an angry snarl
at the prosecutor that was powerfully dismissive. The prosecutor walked away, waiving her arm
in dismissal of the witness; she appeared somewhat shaken by the ferocity of the chained
prisoner.
The Judge’s reaction was interesting; he smiled with closed lips and stared at Jane, as if to
say, ‘he does have a point.’
It had been obvious to Lou that the Judge’s sympathies lay with the defendants. Although his
bias against the prosecution was subtle, it was present nonetheless. The prime suspect had been
arrested, convicted, and sentenced to twelve years in prison; the case against these three
individuals was weak. The first attempt to try them had ended in a mistrial. Perhaps the Judge
felt the matter should have been dropped at that point, although the merchant sailor looked as
though he could easily be on the wrong side of the law. However, the remaining two defendants
appeared to be most unlikely candidates for the drug trade. They gave every indication that a
nightmare had entered their lives from which there seemed to be no escape; the judge appeared
to take pity on them.
The remainder of the morning was spent dealing with procedural motions. The Judge
announced that summations would take place the following morning, and adjourned court for the
day.
The weather improved; Lou asked Carl if he wanted to visit the junk village in Aberdeen in
the afternoon. The rest of the day was spent walking around on the junks, having a few beers,
and eating some very good shrimp; it was a relaxing afternoon.
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“Tonight, I’m going back to the same bar I visited last evening. I met a girl named Lulu. We
really hit it off. It was one of the best nights of my life!” he said excitedly.
”Do you want to go to Macao tomorrow?” asked Lou.
“Would we have to stay overnight?” he asked apprehensively. “I might want to see Lulu
again.”
“As a matter of fact, we would; Macao is about forty miles from here by jetfoil. The closing
arguments are scheduled for tomorrow; I want to be there to hear the summations.” said Lou.
“You are really hooked on that case, aren’t you?” said Carl.
“I want to see that woman set free; she could not make heroin or arrange a drug deal with a
gun pointed at her head. If she walks free, I will be a happy man. Here is what I think happened;
the husband and the merchant seaman were in it together. Perhaps Chong Li asked the seaman to
find a buyer. The wife and the lodger simply had the misfortune to be residents of the apartment.
I think the judge is disgusted with the case; the overzealous prosecutor, like others of her breed,
wants convictions wherever she can obtain them. The jury appears to be comprised of middleclass
persons, while the defendants are poor; that does not increase the prospects of an acquittal.”
said Lou
That night, Lou went to Chinatown, where he ate shrimp and chatted with a San Francisco
businessman; Lulu and Carl entertained each other in a different part of town.
In the morning, Carl was dead to the world; Lou didn’t disturb him. He decided to go to court
alone. When Carl finally awakened, he would know where to find Lou.
It was hot and humid, but at least the ferry from Kowloon was not too crowded. Lou admired
the dark blue waters and the sunlight shining on the skyscrapers of Victoria; it was a brilliant
morning.
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As Lou entered the courtroom, all the actors in the drama were assembled in their appointed
places. The defense attorney nodded his head in Lou’s direction as he entered. Curiosity had
overcome British reserve as the defense barrister opened a conversation with him in the lobby.
When Lou explained he had studied criminal justice on the graduate level, the barrister warmed
to Lou.
“The chances of acquittal are good if the judge gives the jury favorable instructions.” he
said.
‘The Judge doesn’t like the case; moreover, he is not particularly fond of Jane. His views on
the status of women appear antiquated.” replied Lou.
The trial resumed and the prosecutor began her summation to the jury.
“You have heard many inconsistencies that strongly challenge the defendants’ versions of
events. For example, Le Chung has testified that the slips of paper found on him were phone
numbers of bar hostesses; yet those same numbers corresponded to the serial numbers of
morphine bottles in the apartment.” she said.
Greenly rose immediately.
“Your honor, I don’t know what to say; this is most extraordinary. Although the issue of the
paper slips was raised at the first trial, it was never reintroduced as evidence during these
proceedings. I must ask your honor for guidance as to how to proceed in this matter since these
comments are highly prejudicial to my client and I have been denied cross-examination of any
witnesses testifying to the finding of that evidence.” he implored.
Lou thought it would now end in a mistrial, with Judge not allowing the prosecution to retry
the case for the third time. Long Li and the others will go free. Within an hour, the Judge
declared a mistrial.
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Lou walked down to the harbor; he sat on a bench, feeling happy, and watched the ferries and
junks pass by. He thought of all the characters in the courtroom drama and realized he had been
provided with a glimpse of the culture of Hong Kong through attending the trial.
The next day they left for Macao; the jetfoil ride was a little bumpy, but it was a quick trip.
When they arrived, they took a short walk to the Chinese border.
The border crossing was not open at the time. The trial of the “Gang of Four” a pathetic
political show trial that starred Mao’s wife, was in full swing. They would have to remain in
Macao, with its Jai Lai fronton, casinos, and dog racing.
The fronton was one of the finest in the world; Lou recognized one of the players from Palma
de Majorca. He bet on him and won a little money; that night, he treated Carl to dinner at the
Hotel Central. After the meal, they took a stroll around the tiny colony; the architecture reflected
its recent status as a Portuguese colony.
By the next afternoon, they were ready to return to Hong Kong.
The next few days were spent in the area of Sha Tin, where monkeys roamed freely. They
also took the Kowloon railway to the Chinese frontier. They viewed the green mountains from a
distance, and wondered about life inside the forbidden country.
“Well Carl, are you enjoying this great scenery?” said Lou inquired enthusiastically.
“Absolutely, but what time do we get back to Hong Kong? I would like to see Lulu tonight.”
he said with concern.
“Don’t worry, brother. You will be back in plenty of time to see her.” said Lou.
The remaining days in Hong Kong went by pleasantly. Lou tried to absorb the scenery and
the cultural ambience, while Carl continued to focus upon Lulu. They returned to California.
The following week.
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The day after arriving in California from Hong Kong, Lou began working and saving for a
return trip to the Port of Soller; it would take some time as his savings were now depleted.
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Chapter XV
!979: Lou Returns to Mallorca, Visits Hana in Berlin, and Travels behind the Iron Curtain
Shortly after returning to the island, he met Hana, a Czech lady who lived in Berlin.
Unfortunately, it was her on her final day on Mallorca. She invited him to visit her in Berlin;
Lou had accepted the invitation.
He had taken a morning flight from Palma de Mallorca to Frankfurt, then transferred to
a plane for Berlin. Hana was at the airport to meet him, along with her ex-husband Heinrich. She
smiled, gave him a brief hug, and proceeded to introduce Heinrich, who was pleasant and
apparently unperturbed by Lou’s presence. Where was the sexual attraction she manifested on
her last day in Mallorca? Could she be using Heinrich as a chaperone?
The trip to their neighborhood of Charlottenburg was brief. Upon entering the apartment, he was
introduced to Johan, Hana’s son. Upon being introduced to

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Chapter VI
Istanbul: Lou Visits the Underground City and Meets Isabel and Francoise
At sunset, Lou walked across the Galata Bridge; sunlight had settled on the water in the
shape of a golden horn, with the minarets of several mosques visible on the shore; it was a scene
Lou thought he would never forget.
He found a hotel near the Mosque of Sultan Mehmet, usually referred to as the Blue Mosque.
After taking a siesta, he walked down to the harbor, which offered a view of the Asian section of
the city. A ferry carried him from Europe to Asia in a matter of minutes. The bad news about
Istanbul was that, while three million people might have lived there comfortably, five million
persons called it home.
In preparation for this trip, Lou had learned about fifty Turkish phrases. On the second day,
he asked a man for directions to Topkapi; the man used hand signals to show him the way.
Afterwards, Lou said, “Teshekur Ederim.”
The man looked at him, smiled, cupped his hands on his chest, pushed the hands toward Lou,
as if to say “I give to you from the heart.” It was a simple gesture, yet Lou would never forget it.
Two great architectural works of the city were located within a short distance. Aya Sofia was
built by the Emperor Justinian in the sixth century; many centuries later, Sultan Mehmet
constructed the Blue Mosque.
On his second night, Lou attended the sound and light show held in front of the Blue
Mosque, where he met Sylvia and George, an American couple from Boston who were on their
way to New Delhi. They invited him for a late night snack at Yener’s restaurant, a popular spot
for young international travelers who were often termed “hippies” if they had long hair and were
casually dressed.
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Tom and Jean were teachers; they practiced Kriya Yoga and planned on visiting some of the
spiritual centers founded by their spiritual teacher Paramahansa Yogananda. They were gentle
people and somewhat reserved, a quality often found in those who practiced deep meditation.
After a final cup of Turkish coffee, Lou said good-bye to them and returned to the Hotel
Bursa. The following day, Lou went for a walk in the direction of Aya Sofia, which was now
called a “museum” in modern-day secular Turkey. He saw a man lying on the grass who
appeared to be seriously ill. There were literally hundreds of people passing by, but no one was
paying any attention to him.
Lou went in search of a police station to report the situation. However, no one there spoke
English and Lou’s Turkish was insufficient to communicate the problem. It was curious that no
one had taken an interest in the man.
At lunchtime, Lou shared the strange story with Tom and Jean at Yener’s. One Turkish
customer had been listening to the conversation. “Oh, I know the man you are talking about!” he
said breezily.
“He is dying of starvation.” he added.
The Americans looked at each other-wide-eyed, as if to say, “What bizarre vision of hell is
being presented to us?’’
The man was lying near a busy sidewalk; surely no less than a thousand people passed him
that day, yet no one had helped. Lou decided it was time to leave Istanbul. His plan was to travel
to Izmir; from there, he would visit the seacoast village of Kusadasi.
The Turkish inhabitants of Kusadasi proved to be some of the friendliest people on the
planet. Lou would learn this was generally true of Turkish people everywhere in the country. He
checked into the Hotel Samos, which offered him a room with a balcony overlooking the
Aegean.
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It was Sunday; Lou went to a park filled with olive and pine trees. He sat on a bench on a
hillside, where he observed a group of people below having a picnic. When one of them saw
Lou, he climbed up the hillside and insisted that Lou join the party. Armed with his vocabulary
of fifty phrases, he proceeded to make conversation in fractured Turkish. It was a gathering of
teachers and their partners; all of whom were from the city of Izmir. They appeared to be
delighted at his attempts to speak Turkish since it was unusual for foreigners to do so. They
enjoyed barbecued fish and passed a pleasant afternoon. He did not understand most of the
conversation, but goodwill was easily shared.
That night, he ordered a coffee in the lobby of the Hotel Samos. “Meeting a lady would be
nice.” he thought to himself.
Two French speaking women sat down at a nearby table. Both were quite attractive; Isabel
and Francoise were on holiday from Lyons.
“How are you enjoying your time in Turkey?” Lou asked in his best Parisian accent.
The two ladies looked knowingly at each other and smiled.
“Turkish men are impossible.” said Isabel.
“A man meets you at ten o’clock in the morning and invites you for a cup of tea. In less than
an hour, he is swearing his undying love for you. By noon, he is asking you to marry him; it is
sad and tedious.” she added.
Francoise leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner and said in a soft voice, “this is our plan
for keeping the Turks away from us. We now tell them we are scheduled to join the convent of
the Sisters of Mercy next month, and we had to take a vow to avoid the company of men during
our trip. You should see the looks they give us. And this one! pointing to Isabel, she puts on a
sanctimonious face like a seven year old choir girl! I almost gave our little game away today by
laughing.” she said.
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Lou gave them both a frankly appraising stare.
“Two beautiful ladies such as you living in a convent would be the greatest tragedy since
Richard Nixon.” Lou said.
Francoise put a saucy look on her fully and pretty lips; she touched her right ear lobe with
two fingers. “This is the part of my body that I am saving for our Dear Lord. The rest of my
body, I intend to share with men who appeal.” she added.
Isabel shook her head and waved her finger at Francoise as though she was a naughty little
girl. “As you can tell, Francoise is in need of a drink.” she said.
After several hours passed and numerous glasses of wine had been consumed, Lou whispered
“The simple truth is that I want you both.”
The two ladies looked at each other with closed lip smiles. Francoise was the first to speak.
“I am a little tired tonight. I will meet you here tomorrow at seven o’clock.” she said.
She leaned over and gave Isabel a kiss on both cheeks, then kissed Lou in the same way and
left.
Lou asked Francoise if she wanted another drink; the answer was no.
Lou placed his hand in hers. Isabel squeezed his hand in return.
“Let’s go back to my room.” he said softly. She said nothing as she got up from the chair.
Turkey was a wonderful country!
They made love immediately upon entering the room, then engaged in the quiet talk of lovers
before making love again. Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
They didn’t wake up until morning. Lou said to her, “Can I see you tomorrow night?
Isabel laughed. “Well Lou, after your night with Francoise, you may not wish to see me,” she
said in a teasing fashion. Lou protested. “Well, I don’t know what our plans will be for traveling
to Cappodocia. We will see,” she said in a non-committal fashion.
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Lou spent the day at a small café that had a view of the sea. He wrote letters to friends and
family while sipping strong Turkish coffee and listening to Miles Davis on his portable player.
He was looking forward to seeing the beautiful Francoise that evening.
For a brief moment, he thought about finding a drug store that might sell vitamin E, but he
was far too comfortable looking at the turquoise Aegean to seriously consider a move. Perhaps
his thesis adviser Professor Harmon had been right when he said, “You appear to be approaching
life in a reverse manner. You have gone into semi-retirement in your youth and will no doubt
work hard after you reach fifty.” Lou wondered if such would be the case; his early adult years at
the insurance company had taught Lou that nothing was more valuable than his time.
The advantage of being an American at the time was the dollar was a strong, enabling one to
live a simple, carefree, and pleasurable life in other countries for many months at a time. The key
was staying out of debt and not having an acquisitive nature. It was Lou’s nature to ‘travel light’
at home and abroad. As he looked at the open sea and blue sky, he thought to himself, “Well as
Nicko would say, here’s another day at the office.”
It was now two o’clock; there was a stillness in the mid-afternoon that existed in most of the
countries of southern Europe; in Spain it was called siesta time. The feeling was the same here in
Turkey. The streets were empty; a dog was sleeping against the side of a building. Time
appeared to be suspended.
One had the sense of neither past nor future, only the moment; Lou felt a sense of bliss. He
had known that feeling many times in Majorca; it was nice to know it in a new place.
At seven o’clock, he met Francoise. Lou suggested they take a walk down to the harbor to
watch the sunset.
The harbor promenade was filled with many local residents who were enjoying the early
summer evening. Lou had made a decision not to mention Isabel’s name, correctly assuming that
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would be a bad idea. He was therefore surprised when Francoise quickly began to discuss Isabel.
“You can be sure Isabel had a good time with you. She spent most of the day talking about
nothing but you. So tonight, we must find a different topic.” she said firmly.
“Do you know what Isabel did? She asked me if she could meet you tonight. I told her she
could be with you tomorrow night, which will be our last night in Kusadasi. I also said it was her
fault about tonight; if she hadn’t spent the whole day talking about you, I might have said yes. I
decided to find out more about you myself.” she added.
They held hands and watched the sunset; Fortunately, Francoise was also eager to return to
the hotel and into bed.
After making love, they sipped wine and ate bread and cheese. Francoise gave Lou a card
with her address. “If you want to see me again, you must come to Lyons. After all, you are
booked for tomorrow night.” she said.
Lou smiled and said “Please stay away from the convent!” He took her hand, kissed it, and
opted for some non-verbal communication.
Unlike Isabel, Francoise did not spend the night with him; they said good-bye to each other
at around 2 a.m. The lovemaking had been good, but when is it not so? However, the emotional
connection had not been as strong with her as with Isabel.
After the days with Isabel and Francoise, he experienced a feeling of emptiness after their
departure; it would take time to recover from their absence.
He would be in Kusadasi for another three weeks before traveling to Bursa, Cappodocia and
the underground cities near Urgup. Lou began reading Dostoyevsky’s “The Idiot”. The days
slipped by in idyllic fashion, with the usual extended breakfast of pastries and thick coffee, walks
in the hills around the harbor, and evening conversations with the other hotel guests.
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One afternoon, while walking in one of the parks near the harbor, a man started a
conversation with him. His name was Seljut; he was a waiter and it was his day off. He invited
Lou to come home to meet his family; Lou accepted the invitation. As they began walking along
the main road near the harbor, Seljut took Lou’s arm. It was a common sight in Turkey to
observe persons of the same gender walking arm-in-arm down the street, although it took Lou a
few minutes to feel comfortable with the practice.
They reached Seljut’s home; Lou removed his shoes at the door, where he was given a pair of
slippers. After introductions to his wife Sulima and their two young children, the two men sat in
the living room. The young boy and girl peeked into the room, then ran away giggling. Seljut
spoke some English, translating parts of the conversation for Sulima when she returned with tea.
She had dark eyes and a beautiful smile; Lou asked her in Turkish if she liked Kusadasi; she
assented, clearly pleased and amused at Lou’s efforts to speak Turkish.
Sulima prepared a delicious lunch; Lou was experiencing how the “guest is God” to many
Turks. There would be many such moments of kindness and hospitality that he would receive in
Turkey. Already, he considered the Turks the friendliest people he had met on earth. After
coffee, Lou left the warmth of the family household; he promised he would return to visit them.
A month passed with ease; after having lived in a Majorcan fishing village for many months,
this was an easy and peaceful transition for him. On a quiet Sunday morning, he took a bus to
Bursa. From there, he traveled to the underground cities in Urgup and Neveshir in the region of
Cappodocia.
The underground cities protected the residents of ancient times by affording them a
communal area that extended seven stories below ground; it was an intriguing structure. Lou
descended the dirt passageways to the seventh level, while noting the placements of the air vents.
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Nothing could have prepared him for Cappodocia, with its pinnacled rock houses. It had the
appearance of an apartment house complex on the moon. Lou walked inside some of the
pinnacled rock houses, walking up several stories. The entire area bore little resemblance to the
rest of the planet; he passed the afternoon walking in solitude in this strange and desolate terrain.
There was no one to be seen; the landscape before him was reminiscent of the lunar landscape.
The schedule for the local bus service back to town extended into the early evening; he
decided to stay until dusk. Lou thought about the lives of the people for whom this stark
environment was once home. At seven o’clock, he began the long walk to the bus stop.
The next day, he arrived in the city of Konya, considered a holy city by Sufis and others.
While sipping his morning coffee, he met Barbak and Mustafa, two Turkish guest workers living
in Denmark who were home for vacation. They invited Lou to have a tour of Konya with them
the following morning.
It was Lou who arrived first at the cafe; he always enjoyed the life of the cafés, especially in
the morning. Armed with the jazz pianist Bill Evans and the Dostoyevsky novel, he was quite
comfortable as he awaited their arrival. The café was crowded with men, not a single woman was
present. The television was blaring loudly; it reminded Lou of Majorca, where televisions were
also less prevalent in homes and men went to the cafes to watch television programs.
Lou was seated against the back wall near the window; he observed a black parking outside. t
Four men with dark leather jackets entered; suddenly, everyone was standing up. Lou noticed an
arm reaching up to turn off the television set, which was suspended from the ceiling. Lou took
out his passport; the police frisked him in the same manner as the other patrons. They were
looking for guns. Fortunately, no one had any; the police left as quietly as they had entered.
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The television was soon blaring away, but the café was otherwise silent. The morning
ambience had been violated; everyone felt it. Had he not been waiting for his new friends, he
would have left immediately.
About twenty minutes later, they arrived. “Lou, my friend, how are you today?” said a
cheerful Mustafa.
“Fine, thanks, I am looking forward to seeing Konya. Please sit down and let me invite you
to something to eat and drink.” said Lou.
The two Turks were horrified at the suggestion. No, they would buy him breakfast. It was
intriguing; the Turks were as friendly as the Moroccans he had met, but the difference was that
unlike the Moroccans, the Turks wanted nothing in return.
The tour of the city was interesting. Barbak and Mustafa took him to a park located high
above the town that offered an impressive view. Lou insisted on buying them tea; this offering
was accepted.
Barbak and Mustafa then insisted they go to a jewelry store because they wanted to buy Lou
a gift. Lou did not want them spending money on him, but courtesy required that he acept the
present. The risk of offending them was too great; he chose a ceramic charm that cost roughly
an American quarter.
“Now, please to excuse us, Lou, but we must take the dolmush (communal taxi) to our
village.” said Mustafa.
Lou thanked them both. They had taken a morning of their relatively briefly vacation to share
their city with him. Years later, he would reflect fondly on their simple act of kindness.
After another day in Konya, Lou began the return trip to Istanbul, where he would take the
“Magic Bus” to Serbia, with Mallorca his ultimate destination. Lou needed more time in the Port,
and he knew it.
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Chapter VII
The Balkans: Lou Rides the Magic Bus
In the seventies, an underground bus service referred to by some travelers as The Magic Bus
connected London with New Delhi. When Lou arrived back in Istanbul from the interior of the
country, he immediately went to Yener’s restaurant to learn the time of the next bus heading
west. He planned on taking the bus to Nis in Serbia, a train through Montenegro to Bar, an
overnight ferry to Bari, Italy, followed by a train to Rome and a plane to Majorca. He was in
luck; there was a magic bus scheduled to leave that day at five o’clock.
Lou arrived about thirty minutes before departure time. The bus was filling up rather quickly
with long-haired travelers, most wearing jeans and back-packs. Martin, the driver, was a huge
man with white hair and a full beard; his shirt failed to cover at least a third of his sizable
stomach. He looked deranged.
A young man, possibly Iranian, climbed onto the bus.
“So this is The Magic Bus.” he asked Martin hopefully.
“What will be bloody magic is if I can get this bus to London.” Martin replied gruffly.
It was time to leave. Benny, Martin’s fourteen-year old assistant, was placing the baggage in
the hold. He was on summer vacation and had traveled all the way from London to New Delhi
with Martin, and was now making the return trip home. Lou wondered why Benny’s parents
hated the child so deeply that they were willing to entrust his young life to this vision from hell
called Martin.
The bus itself was by no means a new one; it had probably transported people around London
in the fifties.
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The land-locked Captain Ahab started the engine and proceeded to move the bus as if it were
a huge ship surrounded by little rowboats that were getting in the way. He hunched his body over
the wheel, pushed down hard on the horn, and looked on silently as people, burros, carts, and
bicycles were forced to the side of the road by the larger vehicle.
It was now time for Martin to make one of his memorable announcements. The public
address system consisted solely of his booming voice, which he rarely subjected to modulation.
“All right, whoever is smoking that bloody hash can get rid of it right now! In Greece, they
are going to bring the dogs on the bus; if I can smell it, so can the dogs.” said Martin in a
thundering voice.
The aroma of hashish, which Lou had been enjoying, rapidly diminished; order had been
restored on the four-wheel land yacht. The bus made its way to the Greek border; after a brief
stop, it proceeded towards Thessaloniki. It was midnight, no matter how he tried, Lou could not
find a comfortable position in the seat for his six-foot frame. Perhaps it would be better to engage
the steward of the road in conversation than to struggle for sleep that might not come.
Lou walked to the front of the bus and sat on the metal engine cover.
“How are you feeling, Martin?” asked Lou.
“Not bad, I’m tired, but then again, I’m usually tired.” he replied.
His conversational tone was sincere and amicable; Lou thought he might be less unfriendly
than he initially appeared.
As Martin continued guiding the bus along the winding road, they talked about his business
and about the condition of the roads between Istanbul and New Delhi.
“When will you get some rest?” asked Lou.
“I won’t sleep until I get to London.” he answered.
Surely London was a few days away. How was this possible?
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Martin was very interested in Lou’s future travels to the jungles of Central and South
America. They talked until sunrise. Lou finally felt sufficiently tired to sleep; he said goodnight
and returned to his seat.
Suddenly, people were pushing on Lou’s shoulder, frantically yelling “You have to get up,
he’s falling asleep at the wheel! Martin likes talking to you, you must keep him awake.” Lou
started towards the front, but progress was slow because the bus kept leaving the road and onto
the soft shoulder.
Lou sat down again on the engine cover and started conversing with the bleary-eyed driver.
“Don’t worry, we will be in Nis by noon.” he said.
“Tell me more about New Delhi, Martin.” asked Lou.
The bus skidded along the soft shoulder; Martin once again steered the wandering bus back
onto the highway.
“‘I can’t talk, Lou, but you can talk to me.” he added.
Martin exemplified the dangers of having a compulsive personality; he could not stop driving
until he reached Nis.
The bus entered Yugoslavia; Martin’s face was looking more haggard as the day wore on.
When they pulled into Nis, Lou was quite content to say good-bye to Martin and the gang.
The Serbian city of Nis was filled with large and drab green high-rise apartments. He was
surprised to see that the supermarkets contained a wide variety of items since shortages were
reported in some Eastern European countries. There were enough cashiers; one did not have to
endure a long period of waiting in line.
Lou spent the afternoon walking through a large park near the river. When he stopped in a
restaurant, the staff was friendly. After the arduous trip on The Magic Bus, it felt good to be
walking. Nis was proving to be more pleasant than anticipated; he left his shoulder bag at the
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restaurant and proceeded to look for a hotel. Lou spoke English, French, and Spanish, none of
which was helpful in this city; people would occasionally answer his inquiries in German.
Eventually, Lou found a government hotel and booked a room for the night. The next stop
was the train station, where he purchased a ticket to the seacoast city of Bar in Montenegro on a
train that would leave the following morning.
The train ride through the mountains was very picturesque; there were many little villages
nestled in lush green mountains and valleys. Balkan trains were not known for their amenities,
although this one was a major improvement over The Magic Bus. Lou thought of Martin. It was
insane traveling non-stop to London; the man simply needed to rest. However, Martin had no
doubt done it many times before.
A veteran of The Magic Bus had said that Martin usually took a long nap in Belgrade; Lou
hoped he would do just that.
Lou struck up a conversation with Ivan and Laslo, two railway engineers; people here
appeared open and relaxed. To Lou’s amazement, he had been in the country for more than a day
and he had yet to see the police; it was a far cry from Spain, where members of the Guardia Civil
were numerous and highly visible.
The train moved slowly, winding its way through the mountainous terrain. The conversation
with Ivan and Laslo was enjoyable; both spoke fairly good English. At five o’clock, the train
pulled into Bar. The two men were very helpful; not only did they arrange for Lou to purchase a
sleeping berth on the midnight ferry to Italy, but they also invited him to a pleasant cafe to share
a bottle of very good beer. Lou appreciated their spontaneity and their apparent satisfaction with
their family life and their jobs. From the little Lou had seen, life appeared to be better here than
elsewhere in the Eastern Communist bloc. His new friends then left to return to their families.
Lou consumed several additional beers before heading to the ferry pier.
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By eleven, a large crowd was waiting to board the ship. Lou was in no hurry to be the first on
board; he had read night crossings on the Adriatic could be rough. He tried not to think about his
past ferry rides on the Mediterranean between Majorca and Ibiza. They had been terrible, but
those trips were in the winter; this one would hopefully be better.
Most of the waiting crowd of passengers was comprised of Serbian and Montenegro guest
workers on their way to jobs in Italy or elsewhere in Europe. However, there was one other
obvious foreigner, a tall youth dressed in a stained and disheveled black suit.
Several of the passengers moved closer to Lou, openly inspecting this bearded and longhaired
traveler. They were not being offensive; it was rather the open curiosity of simple persons
who lived in areas not usually frequented by tourists.
“Ah-May-Ree-kan?” asked one intrepid soul. When Lou acknowledged his nationality,
another man said, “Richard Nixon no good.”
Lou had purchased a packet of cookies in Nis, the plain type the British call digestive
biscuits. He liked to keep a supply of these because they were safe to eat and would stave off
hunger at times when restaurants were unavailable. He opened the package and started passing
the cookies to the workers. “I’m not Richard Nixon.” he said smiling.
The men began smiling and laughing; language difficulties precluded much conversation, but
goodwill clearly prevailed. Lou noticed that the young man in the black suit had been watching
these events with close interest. Lou called over to him and asked him where he was going.
His name was Jim; he was from Australia, and was on his way to London. The trip had been
complicated by his family sending money to London instead of New Delhi. As a result, he had
no choice but to take the cheapest transit from India to England. There had been little money for
food and none for hotels; his clothes were dusty and rumpled. After hearing his story, Lou
invited him to have breakfast the following morning when the boat arrived in Bari.
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Lou’s stateroom was small, but it had a cozy quality. The bed was soft; Lou read part of a
novel by Francoise Sagan, he then fell asleep. By the time he woke up, the boat had docked in
Italy.
Lou went to a travel agency to book his flight from Rome to Palma de Mallorca.
For a rather quiet day in Bari, the scene in the travel agency was chaotic. Four Englishmen
were trying to communicate their needs in English to an uncomprehending travel agent.
Lou asked if he could help since they clearly needed help. He communicated in French to the
agent and quickly resolved the ticket problems. While Lou was engaged in this, the Australian
walked through the door and started looking around. One of the British tourists called out to Lou,
“Hey Lou! Now that you have helped us with the ticket problem, can you get us some women in
this town?” he said.
Lou laughed. “Listen gentlemen, I was glad to assist in your return to the motherland, but
when it comes to the ladies, you are on your own.” he said firmly.
Another said to Lou, “It looks like the Australian bloke is down on his luck; do you think he
would mind if we helped him out?” he asked.
“Not at all, in fact I know that things are difficult for him at the moment.” said Lou.
“Why don’t you keep him here for about 10 minutes? We’ll be back.” he said.
When they returned, each was carrying something for the Australian. One had a suit, another
a shirt, others had socks and a pair of shoes. The travel agent let the young man change clothes in
the back of the office; when he emerged, Jim looked like a different person. It was a touching act
of generosity, but it did not end there.
“Lou,” said one of the Englishmen, “how much is a rail ticket from here to London?”
“About thirty dollars.” replied Lou.
“What do you say, boys? Five quid each.” one said.
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Another one collected the money and gave it to Lou.
“Lou, we trust you, would you be good enough to buy the lad a ticket? We will stay here and
keep him company until you get back.” he asked.
Lou returned one half hour later with the ticket; the Australian would probably be in London
by tomorrow night.
The British left in search of wine and women. Lou said good-bye to the Australian and
returned to the train station, where he boarded a train bound for Rome. The next afternoon, Lou
arrived at the airport in Majorca.
VIII
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Majorca: The Second Time
The airport music system was playing a happy tune; Spaniards rarely played music at a low
volume. It fit Lou’s upbeat mood as it he approached the main terminal towards the bus stop for
the autobus to the center of Palma de Majorca at the Plaza Espana. In a short while, he would be
having a café con leche at the Hotel Madan. It was now Sunday evening; the last train for Soller
had already left Palma; there would not be another until tomorrow morning. The trotting races
were still running at the Son Pardo Hippodromo, but he was feeling too worn out from the trip to
attend.
The bus would arrive soon for the fifteen minute trip to Palma. There were about two dozen
people waiting for it, including a small attractive brunette. She looked like the ideal person to sit
next to. As Lou boarded, he saw that two young Spaniards had positioned themselves on each
side of her. Disappointed, he proceeded toward the empty space at the back of the bus. On the
trip to Palma, he enjoyed the view of the Majorcan windmills and the pretty lady. Suddenly,
someone dropped a package on the floor of the bus. As he looked up, the lady moved to the back
of the bus and sat in the seat in front of Lou. Turning her head towards Lou, she gave him a
smile accompanied by an appraising look.
Her name was Nadine; she had been vacationing in Ibiza and was leaving for Paris late that
night. Nadine was short, with plenty of curves, curly brown hair, and a cupid bow mouth that
demanded kissing upon first sight. Her brown eyes were soft and appealing. In short, Lou
thought she was adorable.
The bus moved along the wide avenida toward the Plaza España. The Bar Crystal was filled
with local Majorcans enjoying a drink before going to the movie theater across the street. Nadine
and Lou exited the bus, walking along the avenue past the Bar Crystal. It was a beautiful
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evening. Her English was superb; Lou told her they could speak in French if she became tired,
but it was obvious that her English was effortless. They stopped at a café near the Iberia office;
there were only a few customers, and the television was not on at full volume, a rarity in Spanish
cafés. They sipped café con leches and looked as if there was no place they would rather be than
in this quiet café with each other, speaking softly and looking into each other’s eyes.
Nadine worked for a socialist newspaper in Paris; travel was an important activity for her.
They spoke about his impending travels to Central and South America and her upcoming trip to
Bali. She asked some thoughtful questions about Lou’s many stays in the little fishing village of
Puerto de Soller; he asked her about her life in Paris.
Lou moved his face closer to hers and said, “My recommendation for dinner is to buy some
bread, cheese, and wine and have a picnic in my hotel room.”
They strolled back to the Hotel Madan, holding hands.
The room had twin beds; a picnic spread was set out in the middle of one bed; Nadine
filled two glasses with wine. They discovered jazz was a mutual love; Lou put on an Ahmad
Jamal tape in his cassette player. Having finished the last sip of wine, he reached over and kissed
her.
After making love, Nadine poured refills of the wine. They cuddled together, listening to
Kenny Rankin singing “When Sunny gets Blue.” Less than three hours before, Lou was still on
the flight from Rome; such were the sweet surprises of life. Nadine had about six more hours
before her plane to Paris; they made the best use of their time by making love again, emptying
the bottle of Spanish wine, and learning what was important to each of them. Nadine asked Lou
to visit her in Paris, and he assured her that he would do so. She did not want him to accompany
her to the airport; they parted at the taxi stand across from the Plaza Espana.
“Airport good-byes do not appeal to me.” she had said with finality.
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After Nadine left, Lou felt exhausted. The last two days had been largely spent traveling, but
after the wonderful time with the lovely French lady, he was in no mood to complain; sleep came
quickly.
The Hotel Madan was not only convenient, but it had very quiet guests. Unfortunately, such
quietude was more than offset by the traffic which rolled noisily past the Plaza España. The
morning rush hour interrupted his slumber at six-thirty. He went downstairs to the café for
breakfast, then crossed the street and entered the Soller train station. The ten-thirty a.m. train was
known as the “Turista”; it was usually filled with two hundred tourists. The railroad company
had even built a special platform stop about fifteen hundred feet above the village of Soller; from
that vantage point, it was possible to see Puij Major, the highest peak, as well as many parts of
the Soller valley. The village was surrounded by mountains; the view was magnificent and a
major tourist attraction on the island.
A first class compartment was located in the engine car; the leather seats were plush and
comfortable. As the train engineer entered the car, he stopped to greet Lou and shake hands,
recognizing the American from previous stays in the village. A group of British tourists entered
the compartment. Most of the major hotels were located in or near Palma; their guests took day
trips to the scenic places on Majorca. Including the train ride to Soller.
Lou exchanged greetings with the other passengers. Before long, the train was moving
through the streets of Palma. Traffic police stopped cars as the wooden electric train moved
along on its tracks through the center of the avenue, this early twentieth century train sharing the
road with cars.
Arriving in the valley, with its terraced mountainsides filled with olive and pine trees, always
made Lou feel as though he had entered another world, which indeed he had. Sometimes he
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could see sheep grazing on the mountainside. The landscape appeared unchanging through the
years; the view was comforting. He felt very much the weary traveler returning home.
The train stopped at the station platform built for the tourists. The sky was overcast, and this
gave greater clarity to the various shades of green surrounding “Peak de L’Ofre and Puij Major,
the highest peaks. The rapid and violent changes which occurred in the world failed to permeate
the tranquility of the valley; he found peace whenever he visited there.
After the lumbering trip through the winding tunnels, the train continued its descent into the
village of Soller. Lou decided to stop and have a cognac and coffee at the Bar Turismo, which
was only a short walk from the station.
At two-fifteen in the afternoon, it was a quiet hour in the café. The regular patrons from the
English-American colony had already departed; only a few locals were spending the siesta time
there. The tram heading to the port of Soller passed by with its cargo of locals and tourists from
the morning train. The tourists would spend a lovely afternoon at the beach and take the evening
train back to Palma.
After leaving the Turismo, he walked around the town square before taking the next tram to
Puerto de Sollier, which he usually called “the Port.”
Isabel was in her office, where she was frequently called upon to speak five languages,
conversing in French, Spanish, English, German, and Majorcan on a daily basis in her role as a
property manager for foreign clients. They had become good friends through the years.
Lou was given the key to his rented apartment, agreeing to meet Isabel the next day for
coffee. He slowly made his way home. Lou preferred to live in the port rather than Palma. The
Port of Soller was a quiet place; the tourists disappeared with the departure of the evening train
for Palma.
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There was still time to visit the “Punta” before sunset. The “Punta Grossa,” or big point, was
a promontory on the Mediterranean coastline which was located just behind the village. It was
necessary to walk up hills and through a valley to reach it. No one was around. As Lou looked
out on the Mediterranean, he felt that it was his alone at that moment as he enjoyed the beauty of
this isolated place.
At the highest promontory, there was a small pine grove. The strong winds had bent the
branches over into a horizontal position, providing a canopy over the cozy grove. The fallen pine
needles formed a bed on the ground. In the past, he had sat there in the stillness, just listening to
the howling winds that penetrated inside the grove. It was a natural retreat from the world. He
had made love to Margot and other women there. At other times, Lou had meditated in solitude;
the silence broken only by the wind and the waves crashing into the shoreline.
After returning from the Punta Grossa, Lou walked by the Cafe Belgica. There was an
attractive blond-haired lady sitting inside. As he entered the café, he was disappointed to find
that a man had just started talking to her. However, she soon left him, moving to a table by
herself. This was Lou’s chance; he immediately walked over to her.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?” he asked.
She nodded her head negatively.
“Parlez-vous francais?” Lou asked hopefully.
“Oui, monsieur.” she said.
Lou asked if he could join her; she agreed, waiving her arm toward the empty chair.
“Je parle le francais un petit peu.” said Lou in his best Parisian accent.
“Ah oui, c’est bien.” said the embodiment of Lou’s current desires. Her name was Pauline.
She was from Liege, Belgium, and was spending more than a month in the port of Soller.
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She was tall and very well endowed. Some New Yorkers would have been inclined to
suggest that she was “zoftic,” which is not easily translated. Her manner was casual and
somewhat off-handed. She was a young widow; the family of her late husband owned an
apartment in the port and had suggested that she might like to spend part of the off-season there
since it was vacant until the summer season.
After they finished their coffee, Lou invited her to visit his apartment. She accepted.
They walked slowly through the streets of the village; in the tradition of Mae West, they had
nothing special to do and lots of time to do it.
It was early afternoon; the sun was shining on the hills and mountains that surrounded the
village. They sat on the terrace, talking of life in America and Belgium. Lou was surprised when
Pauline said she had spent two years living in Boston; she had indicated she did not speak
English. They continued to communicate in French.
The hours passed quickly in easy conversation. Lou suggested they go to the restaurant
Baleares for paella. A paella meal takes time to prepare; they ordered a bottle of tinto and ate
bread as they sipped the full-bodied wine. Afterwards, Lou walked Pauline to her apartment. She
invited him inside, and they sat together on the sofa.
Lou kissed Pauline and began to fondle her. She offered no resistance to his widening
exploration, but was not reciprocating.
“Let’s make love,” he whispered into her ear.
“No, I don’t think so.” she said.
Lou rubbed her back. She leaned over his lap and he continued to caress her back and
bottom, which was well-rounded and a tempting sight. He gave her a brisk smack.
“Merci, encore,” she said to him.
He gave her several more spanks. Again, she thanked him.
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Since Lou had been sexually aroused for quite some time, he was feeling an intense desire to
move from the preliminaries to the main event. He kissed her passionately, but her response was
mild.
“Do you want more spanking?” he asked.
“Not right now.” she said.
“Well, then, let’s make love.” he said in the pleading tone of a randy young man.
“No.” she said shaking her head.
“Well, Pauline, it would have been great to spend time with you, but I find you very
attractive, and it would be too painful to just see you as a friend.” said Lou. “I’ll have to leave.”
At the conclusion of his little speech, Pauline stood up, took her blouse off, and nodded in the
direction of the bedroom. She quickly undressed and hopped on the bed with a wry smile. “With
men, it is always the same, you are all animals,” she said reproachfully.
Lou fell into a deep sleep that night; when he awoke, he realized that he had been dreaming
in French. Pauline announced that she preferred a program whereby they would spend evenings
together, but remain apart during the day. This seemed to be a good plan; he could visit his friend
Isabel at her office, have a coffee and cognac in the village of Soller, and drop by the English
lending library for a book and conversation with either the Majorcans or the foreign colony.
At six o’clock the next evening, he walked over to Pauline’s apartment. As he ascended the
long outside staircase, she was waving to him from her balcony. Her presence on the terrace
became a pleasant ritual; she was waiting to see him arrive each night.
They settled into a nice routine. First, they would choose a restaurant for dining, then they
would go to the Es Port hotel for an after dinner espresso. The hotel cafe was a former grain mill,
and was appointed with a big fireplace and open-beamed ceilings; it was a comfortable place to
spend hours in conversation.
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Unfortunately, Pauline was not much of a talker. She communicated more through her
feelings and mannerisms. Pauline could, however, show impatience with Lou’s French. He spoke
correctly, but rather slowly, as if he were a well-mannered child. One day he said to her, “I may
speak French like a nine year old, but if we were talking in English, it would be a very different
story.” After that, she started showing more patience.
Lou had several colored lights in his living room; the drapes had been removed for cleaning
several weeks earlier. The apartment was on the fourth floor of a complex known as “Little
America” since many American military families lived there; the husbands were stationed at an
American radio relay station located near the highest mountain. The American military is
everywhere, thought Lou. Although the rooms at the Es Port hotel were set back from the road,
Lou wondered whether he and Pauline had become the featured evening entertainment for some
of the hotel guests. Lou used to put on the Steely Dan tune, “Do It Again.” and Pauline would
start chasing him as they romped around the room stark naked.
Pauline was never shy about making her needs known to him. It was a frequent occurrence
for Lou to enter the living room and find Pauline bent over in the penitent position. He would
give her a mild slap across her bottom. She would then kiss him and say, “Merci.” Lou made the
most of her mild masochism. He would find minor faults and ask her to position herself across
his lap. He would bare her bottom and give her a few mild spanks. This invariably led to a
vigorous session of lovemaking.
“Tu me comprend.” she said softly.
The weeks passed by quickly; there were no worries about work or money. With Nixon as
President, it was a good time to be out of the country. The protests and work moratoriums were
continuing despite Tricky Dick’s secret plan.
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One day, Lou suggested that Pauline take a long walk with him to the Punta Grossa. She was
hesitant at the prospect of physical exertion, but finally agreed to join him.
On the following morning, they began the ascent into the hills beyond the scenic cafe
Nautilus and continued walking on a steep section of the road. As the road leveled off, they
could see the aquamarine waters of the circular harbor of Puerto de Soller. It looked like a
gigantic swimming pool from a distance. They soon entered the dirt road that served as a sheep
path; this was the entrance to the pathway which led through the barranca and out to the pine
grove of the Punta Grossa. Halfway down the barranca, they passed an old Moorish cistern that
must have been eight hundred years old.
Pauline and Lou continued to walk on the rocky paths until they reached the pine grove. Only
the hush of the wind and the sound of the waves hitting the shoreline could be heard. The two
lovers stooped to enter the grove; the branches made horizontal by the incessant winds created a
natural canopy overhead.
Lou motioned to Pauline to crawl closer to the edge of the cliff and look down at the lagoon
below.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know we were so high above the sea.” It was
probably a one hundred and fifty foot drop to the rocks and the pale blue waters. They sat down
on the bed of pine needles; Lou caressed her face, smiled and said, “We have enough privacy
here to take off our clothes and make love ‘au natural.’”
“See!” she exclaimed. “I told you that you were a beast! Now you want to make love just like
the animals in the open!” Having made her position clear, she wasted no time in removing her
clothes. The setting had a very good effect on her, as she was more passionate than usual.
Afterwards, Pauline said “You are a very naughty boy. All the time you spent convincing me
how beautiful the view was from here, you were thinking about making love.”
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“I cannot say that the prospect did not occur to me, but I did think you would enjoy the view
of the sea and the cliffs.” replied Lou.
Lou was lying naked on his stomach. “You talk of the sea, but what you show me is “la
lune”, said Pauline laughing as she pinched his exposed bottom.
They were hungry and decided to go back to town to the Terranova Restaurant for a seafood
paella.
“Do you miss home?” asked Pauline as they walked through the barranca.
“I’m glad to be away from the long winters in New York, but I miss seeing friends and
family. A mean spirit prevails in America. The “silent majority”, with its sensibility of
individualism and closet racism, has indeed found a voice in Washington. Spain hardly has an
exemplary political and social system, far from it. Under Franco, the people have no political
freedom. You can see the presence of large numbers of black capped members of the Guardia
Civil, or as I call them, ‘the men from the Generalissimo’s office.’ Franco never permits them to
work in their own province.
If a young Guardia was born in Sevilla, he might be sent to Bilbao for duty. I have never
been bothered by them. My friends and I assume that our bank accounts are routinely examined.
When it comes to the local culture, I remain uninvolved. As a result, there is ample opportunity
to get close to nature, the people I care about, and myself. Some days I walk through the little
village of Binaraix, then follow a narrow path through a long barranca and climb to the base of
the Peak de l’ Ofre, which is about four thousand feet above sea level. Above one thousand feet,
all one can hear is the whistling of the wind and the occasional tinkling of sheep bells. I find
peace here in Soller.” he said.
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After dinner, they were invited to Andre and Eric’s apartment for dinner. Eloise, who was
Eric’s lover, would be there. Pauline had met both men briefly at the cafe in the Es Port Hotel,
yet she seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of being with other people.
This was somewhat intriguing to Lou because Andre and Eric were highly unpretentious and
were very easy to be with. It surprised him to see, by comparison, how relaxed she was around
him.
That night, there was an incident that revealed Pauline’s love of what some Europeans refer
to as “theatre”. When Pauline learned that Eloise worked for a travel agency, she asked her if she
would send a telex to her lover in Belgium.
Eloise replied that she would be happy to do so if Pauline would dictate the words.
Pauline proceeded to astonish the group by saying “Alain, come quickly, am missing you
desperately, all my love, Pauline.” She said this in a matter-of-fact tone and asked Eloise how
much she thought it would cost. Everyone looked at Lou with an expression of wonder; he
simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The likelihood of Alain arriving in Majorca was
apparently on a probability level with the second coming of Christ. Most striking about the
incident was that Pauline did not think that anyone would find her behavior extraordinary; she
seemed to view it as a perfectly normal communication.
The final week of Pauline’s stay arrived. Neither of them talked about it, other than her
comment that she would have to see about getting a cab to take her to the airport.
“I’m really going to miss you, Pauline.” Lou said truthfully.
“Listen darling,” she said. “I have to ask you something and you must say ‘yes’.”
“Well I will try, what is it?” he asked.
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“My boyfriend in Belgium may come here next year; he is very jealous. If he knew I was
sleeping with you, I don’t know what he would do to me, or what he would do to you for that
matter.” she added.
“I want you to ignore me if you ever see me again; please tell your friends not to talk to me.
If I see them, I will pretend they are complete strangers; it must be so.” she said with finality.
“All right, I promise, but on one condition, tonight you are mine.” he said.
“Listen, we will play tonight; but this conversation is serious.” she said nervously.
“Don’t worry Pauline. I will do what you ask of me.” he said.
“Lou, this has been very good for me; you do not know how much. You understand me,
most men do not. I can relax with you and not have to act in a certain way. After today, we will
never again be lovers, but I will always remember our time together.” she said.
“I will always think fondly of mon petite Pauline.” he said.
“Avec sa gros derriere!” she added.
The next day, she left for Brussels; Lou felt a sense of emptiness. He would have to find
another lady; that would not be easy. The local women were from conservative Catholic families.
An American with honorable intentions could well be accepted. However, Lou was certain that
nude romps with Steely Dan in the background would not meet the local population’s definition
of honorable. Another tourist influx from Northern Europe was only a few weeks away; his
fortunes might improve then. Meanwhile, he began doing a great deal of reading. The English
lending library carried books by Solzhenitsyn, Hugo, Balzac, Hardy, Sartre, Camus, Turgenev,
Wolfe, Faulkner, and many others.
The routine was agreeable; he would wake up at nine o’clock, have a café con leche,
croissant, and cognac, then take the eleven o’clock tram ride from the port to the village of
Soller. He would visit the Bar Turismo, which housed the English lending library. There was
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something comforting about the scene, with the same American and British residents appearing
every morning. Most would sit in the same chairs; there would usually be a copy of the
International Herald Tribune to provide a connection with the outside world.
The tram tracks were located on the same street as the café; the setting was both unique and
charming. Lou would often remain in the café until it was time for lunch; there were also French
and Spanish newspapers on the tables, giving Lou an opportunity to improve his language skills.
One morning, he met James, a retired British chartered accountant who lived with his wife
Theresa in a hamlet called Binaraix, which was located about five miles from Soller.
Some members of the local English and American foreign colony found it odd that James
and Theresa would lunch weekly with the long-haired American who had a reputation as a
libertine. Such attitudes aside, the friendship flourished.
James was a superior storyteller. As with many tellers of tales, the experiences during his
childhood and early youth provided some of his best material. He was a small and unimposing
man of seventy-five; his biggest vice was eating french-fried potatoes at lunch once a week at the
Café Madrid. Theresa was considerably younger than he. She treated him as a mother would
treat a child to whom she was deeply devoted. Their life was simple and civilized; they traveled
into Soller three times a week to the English lending library at the Bar Turismo, where they
conversed with the other expatriates, picked up additional books, and went to the Café Madrid
for lunch.
Most of the other residents knew nothing about James’ earlier life in South Africa for the
simple reason that they failed to take the time to ask him. Many in the British colony largely
focused on gossip, status issues and cocktail parties. They were an arrogant group; despite the
fact that the average British resident had lived more than ten years on the island, few bothered to
learn more than a few words in Spanish. They expected the locals to speak English.
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Had they been aware of James’ stories, it is uncertain whether they would have been
interested. After all, who wants to hear stories about natives and God-knows-what else?
Coldness, combined with an ethnocentric arrogance and precious little to report of interest did
not make them Lou’s favorite group. He preferred to sit with the locals, talking with them in
French.
James was simply the most interesting person he had met among the foreign community.
One day, he told Lou a fascinating story.
“Lou, my father managed a tobacco plantation at the turn of the century. I was a small boy at
the time and used to follow him around while he did his job. The male members of a local tribe
performed most of the work.
“One day, the tribal chief developed a growth on his lip. My father recognized that it was a
serious problem and arranged for him to be transported to Cape Town, several hundred miles
away. After a month, one of the tribal leaders approached my father and said, ‘Boss. I just heard
from the Chief. He says he is in a room with white sheets and everything is fine.’
“My father told him that he did not understand.”
“The tribesman answered ‘Why, the chief is dead.’
“Transportation and communication were very slow in those days. We did not learn of the
Chief’s death until weeks later. He died on the very day the tribal leader spoke to my father. I
have never forgotten that experience.” said James.
It was time for James and his wife to return to Binaraix. Lou decided to take the tram back to the
port. He did not have long to wait before he heard the bells announcing the approach of the tram
via.
Lou received a letter from Carl indicating he was ready to leave for the trip to Central America.
Within a week, Lou booked his ticket for New York City. As he sat in the train heading for
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Palma, he looked back longingly on the village of Soller, feeling a sense of loss at leaving the
place he had grown to love. On every departure from there, it seemed as though a chapter of
his life had closed.
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Chapter IX
Central America 1974: A Poorly Coordinated Carl Climbs the Pyramids
The bus waded through three feet of water between Belize City and Belmopan; it had been
raining for several hours and the road had not been visible for miles.
“Hey man, we’re really cruising!” said an elated Carl, as he moved his body in time with the
funky soul music on the vehicle’s sound system.
“I only wish we had some weed.” he lamented.
“Carl, this isn’t California! Somebody could pull a Moroccan gambit on us; please don’t
even think of buying anything.” Lou pleaded.
“They tried it on Nicko and me once in Northern Morocco in the city of Tetouan.
Here is how it happened. After we arrived at the bus station at Tetouan, there was a man who
approached us asking us to be our guide. When arriving in Morocco, I usually offer five Dirhams
to a guide to take me to an inexpensive pensiòn. He took us to a very nice hotel that offered a
clean room and bath with a small balcony for only three dollars a night.” Lou said.
The guide followed us into the room, reached down into his sock and pulled out a brick of
hashish the size of a Hershey chocolate bar, offering to sell it for a low price. Nicko and I
immediately pushed him outside, threw the five Dirhams at his feet and slammed the door shut.”
Continued Lou.
“Had we been foolish enough to buy hashish, our guide would have proceeded directly to
visit his friends on the local police force. We would then have been arrested and put in prison
until money arrived from friends and family to secure our release. At that point, the police would
give the guide some money and return the hash to him in order that he could entice another
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foreigner into the trap. We would then be expelled. For those who cannot secure the money for
release, the prison conditions in Morocco are likely to result in a shortened life span.” said Lou.
“Maybe it’s not worth the hassle,” said a disappointed Carl, who was clearly dismayed at the
prospect of long-term lucidity. A friend had once told him “Carl, you’re crazy.”
“Only part of the time.” was his response.
The passengers on the ancient Bluebird bus were Afro-Caribbean; other than the music, there
was no noise from the passengers. It was extremely hot; the windows had been closed to keep
out the rain. It was still twenty-five grindingly slow miles to Belmopan as the bus waded through
a road that had been inundated with 12 inches of water. Lou decided to meditate to escape the
suffocating heat. However, Carl was in a talkative mood.
“I have an idea for an experiment I would like to send to the Journal of Irreproducible
Results. It involves four Trappist monks and Richard Nixon.” said Carl.
Lou shook his head. “Carl, you are a very sick man. Let me tell you this; I had a buddy
named Charley Evans. After having been a New York City cop for sixteen years, he joined a
Trappist monastery in Georgia. He is one of the happiest men I know.” Lou said with grave
conviction.
The bus continued on its way through western Belize; at least it was still moving. The heat
was intense; a passenger in the front seat rolled his window down for a moment to allow air to
enter; however, the sheets of rain that poured in caused an immediate protest from the other
passengers on the jungle bus.
Finally, the bus passed through Belmopan and arrived at the Guatemalan border. The goodneighbor
policy was clearly not operating here; a huge sign above Guatemalan customs read
“Belize is Guatemala!” To underscore this claim, a large colored map showed Guatemala
encompassing the entire area of Belize.
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Carl looked concerned. “I hope we don’t get caught in a war.” he said.
“I wouldn’t give that much thought. The external affairs of Belize are handled by Great
Britain. Belize is the former British Honduras; Guatemala is not about to go to war with
England.” said Lou.
“That’s good.” said Carl cheerily. “I have never considered war zones to be superior vacation
venues.” said Carl.
The bus arrived at the town of Flores. From there, they proceeded to the Mayan ruins of
Tikal. Monoliths one hundred feet high jutted above the tree line. Spider monkeys could be seen
moving among the tree branches. This place was once home to a large civilization, but was now
reduced to jungle where an uncoordinated chemist could climb to the very top of what may once
have been a sacred altar.
“Far out!” yelled a happy Carl as he stood in the middle level of a tall monolith.
On the return bus to Flores, they met two attractive graduate students from the University of
Florida. Lou made an easy connection with the blond-haired lady named June. Carl, with the
intensity of a character in a Dostoyevsky novel, was being tolerated by Alice, a pretty brunette.
Carl’s best chance of winding up in bed with her would be if she took mercy on his eagerness.
June seemed to take a maternal approach to the “enfant terrible.” If this kept up, Carl’s
fondest dreams would come true this evening. Lou was certainly rooting for him; Carl could be a
major nuisance when he began complaining about his lack of a love life, which was often.
Two years ago, Lou’s compassion for Carl’s difficulties with women had cost him a lover.
Carl had been complaining about his problems in finding a sex partner. Lou decided to talk to
Carol, a married woman whom he had been seeing regularly on Sunday afternoons for more than
two years. They rarely talked during the week; it was simply assumed that Carol would be
knocking on the door at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon. He would have the Merlot, Swiss
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gruyere, and French bread waiting. She had other male friends who, Lou suspected, were also
her lovers. They seemed to be mutually satisfied with the limited relationship. The regularity of
the affair had one bizarre exception.
One Sunday afternoon, Lou opened the door and found Paul, who was Carol’s husband,
standing there with a note in his hand.
“Hi Lou!” he said warmly. “I’m sorry, but Carol’s not feeling well and won’t be able to see
you this afternoon, but she wanted you to have this note.”
Had her husband actually consented to delivering an excuse note to her lover? How could
this be? Lou invited Paul in for a cup of tea. They talked about Watergate, as well as recent films
they had seen. ”Well Lou, I have an appointment in a little while, so I had better leave.” said
Paul.
“Well Paul, ” said Lou, “please tell Carol I hope she will be feeling better soon, and thanks
for bringing the note.” Where but in California would a husband bring his wife’s lover a letter
excusing her absence from an afternoon of lovemaking? Lou just shook his head and smiled.
What were the odds against this happening in New York? Of course, Lou thought Paul’s
“appointment” was one of his own lovers.
One day, Lou told Carol about Carl; he clearly needed sexual therapy. For Carol, sex and
yoga were the key elements to a balanced life. By helping Carl, she could perform karma yoga.
The fact that this good deed might be enjoyable was not lost upon her.
“Why don’t you have him call me?” she said.
Lou telephoned Carl and told him the good news; Carol and Carl quickly became lovers.
That was fine with Lou; after all, he helped make the connection. What was not so pleasant was
that Carol began comparing Carl’s daily attentiveness to Lou’s weekly glass of Merlot followed
by a quick move to the bedroom
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One of Lou’s friends commented that Carol was talking openly about Lou. “Carl calls me
several times a day! Lou rarely telephones me.” she complained to friends. Carol probably did
not want to dwell on the fact that Lou was involved with other women; Carl was not.
She was also thinking back to what had happened several years ago. Carol had just met Lou.
Things seemed to be going well; they would meet once a week. She would have liked to have
seen him more often, but understood that he had other involvements. Of course, so did she; after
all, she was married. Then one day, Lou called and said he had to see her.
“Look Carol, I really like you, but I cannot go on seeing you right now. On top of three other
relationships, a European lover I met in Majorca is arriving for a ten-day visit. I have reached my
limit with relationships both emotionally and physically. Since you are the newest of the
relationships, it seemed fairest to stop seeing you. I’m sorry, I have enjoyed every minute of it,
but I can’t keep up this way.” he explained in a pleading tone.
Carol was angry at this turn of events. “I don’t see why I have to be the one that gets cut. I
knew seniority applied to bus drivers, but this is different.” she snapped.
However, it happened. She did not hear from Lou for two years. Then he called her. He had
broken up with a lady that he had been living with in Sacramento. Carol went over to his
apartment; the Merlot and Swiss gruyere were in place, as was Lou’s hand on her bottom as he
guided her to the waterbed.
Now that Carl was in her life, Carol thought that her current situation was similar to Lou’s
old one; she simply had too many lovers. Carol telephoned Lou and apologized for having to
stop seeing home. She liked him, but her dance card was filled.
Only one thing puzzled Lou. Carl was intelligent and funny, but he had suffered more than a
few moments of madness. He appeared to approach reality as a tourist, tentatively exploring a
new country. Had Carol failed to recognize this?
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The relationship lasted six months, ending badly. The final act was played out on a ten day
Caribbean cruise. Ten days at sea with the mad chemist! Carl paid a visit to Lou the night before
they left.
“Ten days at sea! This is going to be great. I have made up a special seagoing kit of grass,
ludes, and some angel dust. I want to keep stabilized and ship-shape.” he chatted breezily.
“You couldn’t be stable in a straight-jacket; you will no doubt be partying twenty-hours a
day.” Lou teased.
Carl looked at him strangely, “What about the other four hours? I intend to do some world
class partying.” he added.
“Carl, Carol practices yoga on a daily basis; I hope you won’t wear her out.” Lou cautioned.
Carol returned from the cruise with the determination never to see Carl again. Much later,
she told Lou, “Carl is such an interesting person, it is too bad he is insane.”
“Only part of the time.” replied Lou with a wry smile.
Back in the jungle, Lou watched Carl climb the top of a monolith. Good grief, he was
uncoordinated! Carl came close to falling off the exterior iron ladder which had been imbedded
into the stone monolith. It was easy to see how he had lost his grip. Unlike the other climbers,
who were showing respect for the enormous height, Carl had engaged the climber behind him in
a running conversation, which is to say that Carl was conducting a monologue. The other climber
may or may not have responded. With Carl, a response was clearly optional; Carl was quite
happy to keep up both ends of the conversation. However, unlike most people who talked a great
deal, Carl was a genuinely good listener, with the capability of sustaining a topic for quite some
time.
Of course, trying to converse while climbing to the top of the monolith was madness. He
turned to say something while reaching for the next rung. His hand slipped from the rung, which
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landed him in a free fall. The person below him reacted quickly, pushing him against the stone
until Carl regained his grip. Whenever he was moving, no one was truly safe.
A few minutes later, he successfully negotiated the descent. “The view is great from up there.
Let’s sacrifice some maidens this afternoon; I would sacrifice myself for that fox from Florida.”
he added. “I think she likes me.”
“That’s good Carl.” Lou said with finality. He wanted to avoid any discussion of Carl’s
tortured love life.
“No man. I mean she really likes me; she even asked me some questions about chemistry. I
kept stressing the importance of bonding. Do you think she picked up on the S/M allusion?” said
Carl.
“Listen Carl, I’m going to ask June back to our room. Can you please stay in the bar until
about eleven? I’ll join you there.” Lou said.
“How do you know she’ll come?” Carl asked.
“Well I don’t know for sure, but I think she will say yes. If the four of us have dinner
together, I am going to ask June if she wants to take a walk.” Lou said.
The ride back from Tikal was uneventful; the heat and humidity had drained everyone’s
energy. Even Carl was taking fifteen-second pauses before speaking.
Lou sat with June; he asked her how she was feeling. “Tired,” she sighed. He put his lips to
her ear and said softly, “You can sleep on my shoulder if you like.” She didn’t look up, turning
toward him and curling up in his arms. Lou let his hand slide down and started softly stroking
her legs; it was a lovely ride back to Flores.
The dinner turned out to be hilarious. Carl started telling stories about his cousin Johnnie;
Lou told some of his Marvin stories from his days as a social worker in New York. The ladies
laughed a lot. New Yorkers often had something to share; people from other parts of the nation
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often believed that New York City natives had dropped in from another planet. Of course, New
Yorkers were highly provincial; for many of them, all locations beyond the Hudson River was
“the west.”
Alice was also telling very funny stories.
“I had this Instructor for a social work class who stressed the importance of being focused
during client evaluations. The only problem with this was that she was Filipino. Like many
Tagalog speakers, the pronunciation of ‘focus’ gave her lots of trouble. “You must fuck us when
you are attending assessment meetings! We all need to do that.” she would say.
“Some of the guys in class couldn’t keep straight faces. They started to cough, which made
the rest of us laugh. The poor lady thought we were laughing at the coughing. ‘You must fuck
us!’ she said sternly.”
“Well, that did it, pandemonium reigned. People were falling off their seats; one student even
said to her, “Yes, Professor, I will do just that at every opportunity!” which totally destroyed any
remaining order. She had to let us go; I felt sorry for her, but it was really comical.” Alice
admitted.
Everyone laughed. “That’s a good story, Alice. I wish I could tell a good story, but I’m not
very good at it.” said June.
“June, good listeners are important.” Lou said.
After a few minutes, Lou asked June to take a walk; she agreed and they walked outside.
“What’s important to you, June?” Lou asked.
“Well, right now, getting my M.A. is important. I’m afraid my goals are rather conventional;
I would like children, but I want to have some interesting experiences before I have a family.”
she said.
“How about you Lou, what do you care about?” asked June.
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“I value my freedom right now. For every day that I work in America, I am looking to buy
three days of leisure in some other part of the world. I wasn’t always that way. In my twenties,
doing social work and making a contribution to humanity was most important. I attended the
New School for Social Research in Manhattan, where I had lecturers ranging from the writer
John Killens to Dr. Martin Luther King. I ran a pool room in a settlement house in Greenwich
Village. During the day, I worked as a claims examiner for the Knosole Insurance Company;
they paid for my college tuition. I quickly found that I was enjoying the volunteer work more
than my job, so I changed careers and began working with emotionally disturbed youth and hardcore
prisoners. When I became twenty-eight, I decided that I needed to devote time to having
more enriching personal experiences, such as traveling, living abroad, and relationships. I
approached those activities with as much enthusiasm as I had used in pursuing social work.”
“One other thing the insurance company work did for me was to help me understand that I
am a free spirit. From my desk, I would look out at the sky and think, ‘There is a whole world
out there, and here I am stuck inside this building.’ When I quit, I vowed to myself I would never
again have a job where I wasn’t free to take a walk outside and have a coffee or do something
else. If I ever have to live that type of life again, I know a part of me will die.” Lou said.
“You seem lucky; you have already lived out some dreams, and you are still young.” she said
somewhat wistfully.
“Have you read Alexander Solzenhitzyn?” he asked.
“I read the Cancer Ward.” she replied.
“I learned something important from him. We all have a certain capacity for joy and sorrow
that transcends our life situation. The taste of a lobster dinner at an expensive restaurant may
have given a wealthy person less joy than a Zek prisoner in a camp in the Gulag received from
receiving a second ration of black bread. I try to put little joys in my life every day and also try to
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learn something new, whether it is hearing beautiful jazz tune, having a sip of good cappucinno,
or enjoying the smile of a pretty lady.” he said smiling at her.
“That’s nice.” she said softly. “Not everyone can do that.”
“My father had that quality. He made a modest living, but I suspect he could have earned
considerably more had he not chosen to limit his work hours as an insurance agent to 30 hours a
week. He knew how to enjoy simple pleasures. I remember when he retired. He was sitting in his
kitchen smoking a Robert Burns panatela cigar and listening to WPAT radio, his station of
choice. One of his favorite songs came on the air. He puffed on his cigar, looked up at me with a
smile, and said “A little bit of heaven, eh Lou?”
“Some days he would ride the Staten Island Ferry. He would return and tell me about the
ships he had seen in the harbor; he was an avid reader, and always had something to share.’
Continued Lou.
“He gave my sister and me a philosophy of life based on compassion and social justice,
which was a great gift. As for other important elements in my life I find that yoga meditation is
important, but I would rather not talk about that tonight.” he said.
“How about other desires?” asked June.
Lou stared at her in a frankly appraising manner, biting back a smile.
“You are wrong! That’s not what I meant! She slapped his shoulder lightly.
“I am guilty with an explanation, your honor. You are lovely. I throw myself on the mercy of
the court!” he said.
“We will see how things go over the next few hours.” said June.
“Did you say a few hours? June, I believe you are an optimist.” he whispered. “I hope I
brought enough Vitamin E.”
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Hours later, they entered the hotel bar, where Carl and Alice were sipping beers at a table.
Alice looked mildly bored and seemed relieved that the others had returned.
The next morning, they all went back to the ruins; the ladies were heading back to Florida
that evening. They made the most of the final day together.
June and Lou talked about making a trip together to Majorca. He said he would write her and
keep in touch.
“Carl, I would like to visit the Amazon. There is a cheap excursion fare between Guatemala
City and Lima. I have extra money because of the inheritance. You can pay me back when you
can; how about it?” said Lou.
“Great, let’s do it!” replied Carl.
That night, they set off for Guatemala City and took a flight to Lima.
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X
The Amazon 1974: Lou and Carl Embrace Jungle Life
Agreeing to go with Carl to Central America and North Africa was questionable. Lou
worried that taking Carl into the Amazon region bordered on the irresponsible.
Carl would do anything for Lou; what choice is there are but to accept the strengths and
limitations of our friends? Lou had to admit that as long as he wasn’t spending time with a lady,
it was nice have the company.
“Carl, this is not the type of trip where you are likely to meet ladies or even party. You will
be staying in a lodge on a tributary of the Amazon, sleeping with mosquito nets in intense heat,
surrounded by wild animals. Does that sound like your idea of a good time? If you understand
that this is an adventure and not a party, it is fine with me should you decide to come.” said Lou.
“Count me in!” said an elated Carl.
Lou thought the neighborhood of Miraflores would be a nice place to stay in Lima. The guide
books indicated they would be approached at the airport by persons operating guest houses,
which would be convenient. Whenever possible, Lou liked to live with local people. Lima had a
Hipodromo with quality horse racing, but the Amazon would be the big adventure.
The flight from Mexico City to Lima proved to be quite illuminating. Another passenger was
reading an underground travel guidebook for South America; Lou asked if he could borrow it. It
was painting a picture of a far more predatory South American landscape than the one described
by the conventional guidebooks Lou had been reading. One Section read:
“Hepatitis is a serious health risk, given the poor standards of hygiene in most South
American countries. Many travelers go to Quito to recuperate. Gamma globulin can
help somewhat, though it does not guarantee protection from the disease.”
The book then proceeded to discuss personal safety:
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“Pickpockets are especially prevalent at bus stations and crowded squares. Armed
robberies occur both in the cities and the more remote areas as well. Be careful with
your possessions.”
Carl had been busily writing away for most of the flight.
“What are you writing, brother?” asked Lou.
“I’m preparing an article for submission to The Journal of Irreproducible Results, he said.
Carl continued. “It involves gas spectrometry of a highly esoteric nature. The people at The
Journal should love it. The idea is brilliant, yet totally insane.” he said eagerly.
“Well let me tell you what else is insane! This guidebook I have been reading. It is providing
a very different description of South America, especially Peru. We must obtain a shot of gamma
globulin to help protect us from hepatitis; I recommend that we do not keep more than thirty
dollars in cash when we are walking around town. The travelers’ checks are safe enough; we will
clearly have to be quite vigilant to avoid being crime victims.” he said.
After clearing immigration in Lima, Lou began looking around for someone who might be
running a guesthouse. A woman saw him looking around and walked over to him.
It was perfect; her home was located at La Herradura, just on the edge of Miraflores, offering
access to transportation and decent restaurants. The poorer the country, the better class restaurant
Lou chose for dining; he viewed the additional cost as health insurance. This often resulted in
paying the same price as one would pay for a meal at a medium-priced restaurant at home. The
woman asked them to wait in front of the airport entrance while she went to retrieve her car. Carl
and Lou had taken only one carry-on bag each, thus eliminating long waits for baggage as well
as the possibility of the airline losing the baggage.
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As they waited for their new hostess, Lou noticed a Germanic-looking woman pass by. Her
features were rather severe. He could not help wonder what she had been doing in 1943; South
America was a haven for many German war criminals.
The house in Miraflores was very comfortable; it overlooked a rocky bay called La
Herradura, the horseshoe. Lou appreciated nature; perhaps it was all those trips to the harbor in
Flushing in Queens with his family. At least twice a week after school, his dad would drive them
to the ocean or to a boat harbor, where they would remain until sunset.
That night, they went to La Colmena, the beehive, in the center of Lima. The huge plaza was
quite a spectacle, with singers, dancers, and actors performing small pieces of theater. Carl was
most interested in the ladies of the night. He brought a dark-skinned lady of the night back to the
guest house. Lou was not pleased with this development; what Carl did in hotels was one thing,
but this was a private home. Lou felt the proprietor would be annoyed at the prospect of early
morning visitations by hookers. Lou, however, said nothing; there might be a need to take a
strong stand on something even more serious, although this was certainly bad enough.
The return to the guest house was a wild ride; Carl had the hooker on his lap and was
fondling her and crying out, “God, you are beautiful! I’m going to screw your brains out!”
Lou shook his head and laughed. The girl seemed to be enjoying the attention from Carl,
whom she called “gringo loco.” The taxi took a sharp curve, and she wound up in Lou’s lap. “I
love Peru!” yelled Carl joyfully. Lou thought that perhaps an hour with the prostitute would
bring some temporary peace to Carl’s restless psyche.
The next day was initially devoted to obtaining the gamma globulin injection. They went to a
public health center and obtained a prescription for it. Next, they purchased some from a
pharmacy, where they were directed to, of all places, the local convent. A rather attractive nun
extracted a small sum of Peruvian money from them and then injected their bare bottoms.
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“Lou! I have had my ass grabbed by both saints and sinners in the last twelve hours! If this
keeps up, I may never leave Peru!” said an elated Carl.
They left the convent and started walking toward the bus station. They turned right at the
corner, only to see three tanks and a group of soldiers coming towards them.
“Oh no!” cried Lou “Let’s get out of here!”
They turned around and ran nonstop for two blocks. There are times to ask questions and
occasions to immediately run away; this was clearly the latter. Fortunately, the tanks turned
in the other direction.
“Well Carl, it looks like we almost walked into a revolution” he said.
“What is the current political situation here?” asked a worried Carl.
“As a matter of fact, a leftist military coup is in power; it has made improvements in health
and education, but in the end it is still a dictatorship.” Lou added.
“Should we be worried?” asked Carl.
“I don’t think so; I have been reading the news carefully during the last two months. Nothing
significant has occurred during that time,” he said.
“I need a drink; tanks in the street, I don’t like that.” said Carl nervously.
Carl had confidence in Lou, it tended to make him even less responsible; he knew Lou would
bail him out of a bad situation. It was true Lou did his homework; research was a big part of the
fun of traveling.
It was still early; Lou proposed a trip to the racecourse. Carl was amenable to the idea,
although he was a surprisingly cautious gambler. He presented such a contrast. Often, he was
outrageous, yet there were times when he was unexpectedly reserved. They had a few winners,
bet modestly, and came away a little ahead.
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The two travelers left the next morning for Iquitos, where Lou made arrangements to stay at
a lodge run by anthropologists who were studying the Yagua Indians. It was time to have a
serious talk with Carl.
“Listen brother, as we used to say in Glendale in Queens, this is for the wurst. When we
arrive at the lodge, we will be in a dangerous environment. Have you been taking your chloroquine
tablets? There will be crocodiles nearby; it will be too dangerous to walk around without a
guide. The river contains pirhanas; there are also some dangerous snakes. As long as we move
around with a trained guide, we should do quite well. I would not drink too heavily if I were you;
we will be literally living in a sauna.” he added.
“No problem, Lou. You told me it would be rough and dangerous before we left. I appreciate
your thinking of me. Don’t worry man. I’ll be fine.” said Carl.
Lou hoped he meant what he said.
The boat looked like a larger version of the boat used in the movie The African Queen. It had
a motor in the middle and chugged down the river in a leisurely fashion. There were only three
other passengers, a couple from South Africa and a government administrator from Lima who
was on holiday.
The South Africans told a familiar story. Someone had used a knife to cut into their knapsack
while they were traveling on a bus in La Paz Bolivia. They had lost money, but not their
passports. Of the twenty foreigners Lou had encountered in Peru, at least half of them had been
robbed, some at knifepoint. It was not surprising that Lou felt safer in the jungle than in Lima. If
Carl was worried, he didn’t show it; but it was hard to tell with him. He usually maintained the
breezy manner of a confident New Yorker. Lou examined him carefully; his beard and hair were
as wild as his own. Carl looked like a deranged Groucho Marx; wait until the Yagua Indians get
a look at the two of them, thought Lou.
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It was hot and muggy on the river. The jungle landscape on shore included a missionary
compound and some temporary settlements. After ten hours, the boat turned into a tributary and
soon stopped. The passengers climbed into a small motor boat and were taken to the lodge
operated by the Anthropologists Leonard and John, who were present to greet the new arrivals.
The new guests were taken into the dining area, where Leonard presented an overview of
“Adventure Lodge.”
“John and I hope this will prove to be an interesting and enjoyable experience for you. If you
follow the rules, it is likely you will have a safe and healthy stay. When visiting the Yaguas,
please do not offer them money. If there is something you wish, please offer to barter something
in return for it. Most importantly, please do not leave the lodge area without a guide. Please drink
lots of liquids; there is a bar next door for your convenience.” said Leonard.
“Well, that is where I’m heading right now.” said Carl.
He stood up and left for the lounge.
As Lou walked to his room, he passed a bright green macaw sitting on the railing.
“Hello,” said the bright red and green bird.
“Hello to you.” said Lou in return.
After passing the friendly bird, his eyes turned towards a strange scene in the garden. A huge
rodent, certainly the largest Lou had ever seen, was munching on plant leaves. His dining was
frequently interrupted by a playful kitten that stalked the larger animal and was pouncing on its
back. The rodent remained undeterred from eating the lettuce. Lou later learned that he had been
in the presence of “Charley” the pet capybara and “Elmo” the cat.
Their hotel room was unlike any he had ever experienced. The walls did not reach the
ceiling. Mosquito netting was draped on top of the bed in tent-like fashion. Lou put his clothes
away and decided to wander around the grounds.
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Charlie was still consuming plants. Lou noticed a sign posted on a tree:
NOTICE
Do Not Go Beyond This Point!!! It is dangerous to do so.
This is not an amusement park. Please remain inside
the garden area unless accompanied by a guide.
He went to the main lodge in search of a guide and found one. Marco had been retained by
the Peruvian civil servant, but was available for short-term excursions. It was a fairly long walk
through the jungle to the encampment of the Yagua Indians. The guide was of Peruvian Indian
ancestry; he wore short pants and was constantly slapping mosquitoes away from his legs.
Lou asked him how to say a some phrases in the language of the Yagua Indians. When they
arrived at the bamboo house of the Chief, the Shaman was sitting with him. As Lou entered, he
said a few words of greeting to the Chief in the language of the Yaguas.
The Indian pointed to Lou and waved his arm towards the Shaman, as if to say, “Will you
listen to this guy!” Both men laughed.
The guide smiled and said “They think you are pretty funny.”
All members of the tribe wore grass skirts; the men often carried their bamboo blow guns.
They used curare tipped darts to kill animals. Recently, a pregnant boar had been killed; a piglet
had been saved and was being fed and nurtured by the tribe. A nine-year old boy was walking
around with a monkey perched on his head; women nearby had decorated their faces with a paste
found inside red berries. The women were beautiful, with very dark eyes and beautiful smiles
when they chose to share them.
The Indians greeted him with only mild interest since visitors were common. He found he
was free to roam around as he wished, with the nine year-old with the monkey perched on his
head tagging along. Communication tended to be limited to pointing and smiles. Soon the guide
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appeared, indicating it was time to return to the lodge. Lou noticed the guide had a rather broad
smile on his face. He had previously explained to Lou that every few months, the entire adult
tribe took a euphoric drug and held a party that lasted several days. Lou wondered whether the
guide had perhaps decided to get an early start on the party.
When he returned to the lodge, Lou knew precisely where to find Carl, assuming the bar was
open.
Carl had seven empty beer bottles lined up in front of him. “Hey man, how you doing?” he
said with his usual bonhomie.
“Great thanks, I have seen a great deal and we have only been here a few hours. Why don’t
you visit the garden, or maybe there is a guide who will take you to visit the Yaguas?” said Lou
encouragingly.
“Oh sure, but you heard Leonard discuss the importance of drinking liquids. I’m just
following instructions.” said Carl.
Oh well, thought Lou, the animal kingdom remains safe while Carl is in the bar. Lou ordered
a beer and sat down beside him. The cold drink was a relief from the incessant heat and
humidity. Meanwhile, the empty bottles in front of Carl were now approaching double digits.
Lou returned to the room and tried to take a nap. He climbed under the mosquito netting and
stretched out on the bed. It was so hot; the humidity rendered the air suffocating. Outside, the
jungle was noisy from the sounds of the macaws and monkeys. Lou had slept in Times Square in
New York City and in the jungle; the former was the more peaceful place. After much tossing
and turning, he fell asleep.
In addition to the cacophony, a new sound had been added; Carl was snoring away. Lou
dressed quietly and left the room and went to the dining room, where the meal exceeded his
expectations.
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He was on his second cup of coffee when Carl arrived. “Hey man, let’s go visit the natives
tomorrow.” he said cheerfully.
The next day, the guide took them to the Yagua village. Another group of tourists were
already there. The guide explained that some of the men would demonstrate their proficiency
with blowguns in a few minutes.
“These guys remind me of Dizzy Gillespie when they blow those darts,” Carl said as he
walked over to one of the Indians. “Hey fellows, how’s it going?” he said breezily.
The Indians glanced at him quizzically; they had seen many tourists but none had looked
remotely like Carl, who appeared to be a cross between Rasputin and a ganja-smoking
Rastafarian.
“Can I see that blowgun?” asked Carl.
When the Indian understood what Carl wanted, he smiled and handed him the bamboo
weapon along with several darts.
“Oh no, he has given those darts to one of the least coordinated people in the world.”
thought Lou.
Carl had injured friends while playing basketball, racquetball, and volleyball. He had never
meant to harm anyone, things just happened. Now these Indians had foolishly given him the
darts!
They were pointing to a stake that had a bunch of cigarettes tied to it. They were encouraging
him to hit a target ten yards away. These poor men did not know what havoc they were in the
process of creating.
Carl held the dart between his lips and moved the blowgun towards his mouth. Then he
swung around looking for other possible targets. As he turned, he hit one of the Indians in the
head with the blowgun.
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“Hey man, I’m sorry; it was an accident.” he said apologetically.
Lou looked at the dart tips. At least the Indians had not laced it with curare. Carl finally
aimed at the target. When he was unable to muster the wind to get the dart to travel through the
blowgun, the Indians laughed.
Carl handed the blowgun back to the Indian, who proceeded to make the dart come close to
the target.
“Hey man, good shot!” yelled Carl.
Lou walked around the village, observing the life of the Yagua. The women were preparing
food, and the men were working on their blowguns.
“Hey Lou, they just put on a show with the blowguns. It was great!” said Carl.
“Well, I’ll probably see it tomorrow. Are you ready to head back for lunch?” asked Lou.
“Sure man, why not?” said Carl.
After lunch, they went out with a guide in a rowboat. They traveled along one of the
tributaries to the Amazon.
There were orchids growing sixty feet above ground. The butterflies were huge; some were
the size of Lou’s hand. The guide pointed to a school of pirhanas.
It was proving to be a good trip; one more day in the jungle would be sufficient. Lou began
checking on boat departures for the return trip down the Amazon to Iquitos.
That evening, Lou and Carl went for a walk with one of the guides. The jungle was so thick
with vegetation that it made walking a slow process. The guide suddenly stopped and motioned
them to be still.
As Carl and Lou approached him, they could see him staring intently into a stream. Finally,
Lou saw the eyes peering out from the water; it was a crocodile.
Carl whispered, “What is it?”
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“A crocodile.” replied Lou.
“No!” whispered Carl.
The guide turned to Carl with an anxious expression and pointed to his lips to maintain
silence. After viewing the mostly submerged creature, they continued the walk quietly through
the jungle. The colors were intense; Lou had never seen such bright yellow bananas.
“Too bad the Yaguas don’t speak English; one of those ladies was an absolute fox.” said
Carl.
Lou thought to himself, ‘This tribe has survived many adversities; but allowing Carl into the
gene pool would surely be a major disaster.
“I’m getting thirsty. Let’s head back and have a beer.” said Carl.
Lou agreed willingly; it was so humid in the jungle that even small exertions proved highly
enervating.
They passed two hours in the bar area; Lou could not finish his second bottle of beer.
However, Carl was at that moment draining the remnants of his fourth.
“We take the morning boat to Iquitos, Carl.” said Lou.
Both Americans slept restlessly under the mosquito nets. It was great to see the Amazon,
thought Lou; but it was also nice to leave it.
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XI
California 1974: Lou and Carl Live Out Fantasies
Shortly after returning from the Amazon, Carl received a job offer to work in a government
laboratory from a former supervisor who had moved to Sacramento, California. Carl accepted
and made the move to the west coast. Not long after that, Lou received the following letter from
him:
Dear Lou,
THE UNITED STATES IS SIX AND ONE HALF JOINTS WIDE!
Actually, the trip across the country was no problem. I tried to maintain a comfortable
cruising speed of eighty-five miles per hour. Unfortunately, a state trooper in Indiana failed
to understand my need to reach California with quick dispatch. Moreover, the man had
absolutely no sense of humor. As for sympathy, I could have found more in a Tijuana bull
ring than from that cop.
I am happy to report there were no other encounters with the police. If any did notice me, I
suspect they simply admired my panache behind the wheel and allowed me to proceed
unmolested.
California is great; it is my kind of place, lots of ladies and dope; it is also sunny and
warm. Why don’t you come out here for good rather than for the usual long stays? You can
share my place; I will put your favorite Coltrane tunes on the stereo and we will blow the
walls off!
Can you believe it? Margot’s still here! She has found work, but I guess you know that
anyway. Johnny Troisi is also here; the place is like a colony of ex-New Yorkers.
Please write when you can. Love,
Carl
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Lou thought about his life in New York; the city appeared to be getting crazier by the day.
Not only did he miss Margot and the other friends who had left, but he was also tiring of the cold
weather and the dingy subways. He knew he was happiest in Majorca, but he had enjoyed
extended visits to California. America was a good place to make some money for more time in
Mallorca. Lou decided to accept Carl’s invitation.
Within a month, he was living in Sacramento.
Lou quickly found work with a local government agency as a program analyst. Between Carl
some other ex-New Yorkers who had moved there, he would have an immediate social life.
Living in Sacramento was a dramatic change from New York City; the most common
expression was, “Have a nice day!” This was not a widely used phrase in the Big Apple.
Carl’s apartment was located in a complex that contained a swimming pool, hot tub,
landscaped grounds, and other amenities; it felt like he was living in a resort.
Carl had made some new friends who were quite entertaining. One friend Edward held
regular get-togethers at his large secluded home, where there was plenty of grass and friendly
people. Clothes were decidedly optional; massages, given and received, were quite popular. Lou
attended a get-together there with Margot. After smoking a joint, Lou stripped down and went
for a swim in the pool. As Lou waded into shallow part of the pool and began sun-bathing on the
pool steps, he noticed a nude lady laying on one of the massage tables located in the shade; she
was receiving a sensual back-rub from Carl. Although the woman’s face was turned away from
him, the derriere was definitely familiar. It was Margot; observing Carl massaging Margot’s
back was a sensual experience. He was already feeling euphoric from the grass. When the
massage was completed, he would suggest that Margot join him for some fooling around on
Edward’s waterbed.
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The ease of life in California was highly appealing, with most days filled with blue skies and
sunshine.
Carl usually wore cut-off jeans and was rarely without his pipe; with his large beard, glasses,
and curly hair, his rastafarian look was unusual even for California.
One day, Lou returned to Carl’s apartment: Carl was already home from work.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Carl welcomed him.
“Fine Carl. Anything exciting on for tonight?” said Lou.
“As a matter of fact, I met this nice lady named Elvira last night. Let’s go visit her; I told her
about you and she wants to get together.” said Carl.
Lou was surprised he wanted company since Carl seemed determined to make love to every
woman he met.
He asked, “Carl, aren’t you interested in her?”
“Is Nixon a liar? Does Miles play the trumpet? Of course I’m interested in her. In fact, we
screwed each other’s brains out last night.” he said.
That answer failed to clarify the situation. Lou was hardly the great lover of the western
world, but he had more success with the ladies than Carl. Perhaps he wanted to repay Lou for
some introductions he had made in the past.
Lou agreed to meet go over to her apartment.
Elvira was a small attractive brunette who appeared to be highly intelligent. For once, Carl
had struck the mother-lode.
She poured coffee, soon the three began a lively discussion of Ken Kesey and Gabriel
Marquez. To enhance the prospect of new insights into these subjects, Elvira produced some
blond Lebanese hash; they smoked and continued sharing thoughts on a wide range of topics.
Suddenly, Carl stood up and said “Why don’t we continue the discussion in the bedroom?”
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Elvira stood up, “Sounds good to me” she said as she walked towards the bedroom, removing
her blouse and bra along the way. It was Lou’s first menage a’ trois; he did not like it. There was
something about seeing a naked man in bed. As if Carl’s presence were not enough, Carl was
giving a play-by-play description of the lovemaking that reminded Lou of a baseball game
announcer. He was relieved more than satisfied when the frolics ended.
After the lovemaking, they fell asleep for the night. When Lou awoke, he looked over at
Elvira and started caressing her. Carl was sleeping rather soundly; this time, he enjoyed making
love to her; the mad chemist continued to sleep despite the rolling movements of the waterbed.
“Welcome to California!” he thought.
His relationship with Margot had elements of a Mexican hat dance; when one moved closer,
the other pulled back. They had never discussed having an exclusive relationship, although they
had spent considerable time together. Given the ease of sexual relationships in California, Lou
was hardly inclined towards monogamy.
Life in California was clearly exceeding expectations.
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Chapter XII
1975: Lou Makes New Acquaintances inside San Quentin Prison
Lou attended the Board Meeting of the Friends of Prisoners Society, a social organization
dedicated to assisting the families of convicts. Those in attendance were community-minded
persons who were being held hostage by one Director’s boring presentations.
The last meeting had been the best ever for Lou because he had spent most of it in jail. It
started two weeks before when he went to buy a coffee in a cafe across from the Sacramento
courthouse. A woman stopped him, introducing herself as an attorney for the Public Defender’s
Office. She was representing a client who had been arrested for armed robbery and needed
volunteers for a police lineup. In Sacramento, the procedure for lineup volunteers required them
to be processed in the same manner as any jail inmate. Lou was taken into the “fish tank”, a
cylindrical plexiglass room with the appearance of a fish bowl, having already stripped to his
shorts and given his clothes, ring, and shoes to his temporary keepers.
“Well, it could be worse.” he thought. “Manson could have been brought in tonight for a
hearing.” Sheriff’s Deputies passed by, escorting prisoners and trustees, but there were no other
prisoners brought in to the tank.
After about thirty minutes, he was led out and taken to the line-up room. There were four
inmates, one guard, and one other free-person volunteer in attendance. The conversation between
the guard and the prisoners could have been taken from a typical gangster movie. If he didn’t
look at who was talking, it would have been impossible to distinguish the guard from the
inmates.
“When did you get here? I seen you lots of times.” the guard inquired politely.
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“No, not me, man. This is the first time I been in this place.” answered the inmate.
“What’s your beef?” asked the guard.
“Hey, man, it’s a bum beef. I didn’t do a thing, and they hauling my ass in here,” complained
the prisoner.
“Sure, man, I know,” the guard spoke softly. “You a victim.”
They both laughed.
Lou turned to the other volunteer, who looked very uncomfortable. “How did Margie
convince you to help?” he asked.
“I had no choice, my name is Jack, I am an attorney in the Public Defender’s office. She
helped me obtain two line-up volunteers last month when I needed them for one of my clients.”
he said grimly.
A door lock turned, and another guard entered the room. “Everyone through this door, freepeople
first.” Free people was a favorite expression of the guards; he had heard it many times in
Dannemora and San Quentin prisons. It gave him a strange feeling when he heard it, but nothing
like the horror he felt once in San Quentin when a guard stopped him in a corridor and yelled
“Hold on, two dead men coming through.” as two heavily-shackled prisoners facing death
sentences shuffled by wearing wrist and ankle-chains. Another order given out frequently by the
Sergeant at San Quentin was “let’s move some guns!” He wondered if perhaps much of this
macho talk was designed to intimidate outside visitors.
Lou and Jack walked into the lineup room and took their places facing the two-way mirror;
the lineup session did not take very long. “Face right, face left, face the wall!” barked an unseen
voice through two speakers. After that, Lou and Jack were led back to the holding tank, where
the situation took a bizarre turn.
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Lou sat down and smiled. As he looked around the fish tank, he thought “this is actually
better than sitting in that Board meeting where someone is probably demonstrating the value of
organizational charts, which might have been acceptable if there were names of actual volunteers
occupying the little boxes with titles, but sadly there were none. It was hard to believe, but Lou
felt this was a better way to spend his time. He relaxed as he waited for his clothes to be
returned.
Jack had become impatient with the delay in releasing them from the tank. “What’s going on
here? Have they forgotten us?” he yelled.
“Jack, I’ve never been around a prison setting where the staff moves quickly. It will probably
be thirty minutes before they remember there are two free people sitting in the fish tank. By the
way, Jack, have you seen any good films lately?” Lou asked sympathetically.
Jack chose to ignore the question, deciding his time would be more profitably spent banging
on the plexiglass. Guards passed by, looking at Jack quizzically; it was common for recently
arrested persons to bang on the window. His efforts were, of course, ignored; Lou saw signs of
panic on Jack’s face that alarmed him. His banging and screaming grew louder by the minute.
Finally the guards brought their clothes and released them. It was unlikely that Jack would be
volunteering for a lineup in the near future.
His work as a government analyst was exposing Lou to some new ethnic groups, including
Chicanos, Filipinos, and American Indians. One of the clients in the federal jobs program was an
American Indian named Lighthair. He had been released from an Arizona prison after serving
eighteen years for the murder of two people. According to Lighthair, the Judge had sentenced
him to death, but the execution was blocked because he was a U.S. Marine at the time of the
killings that resulted from a drunken bar fight.
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Lou decided that this forty-five year old Indian with a gray beard and pony-tail would need a
lot of help to remain outside the prison walls after spending 18 years inside prison. He began
regularly inviting him to lunch. Lou also started meeting Indian leaders in the Sacramento
community. Lou and Lighthair were invited to visit an American Indian prisoners’ group inside
San Quentin prison. The first visit went so well that the two became regular participants in the
“Friday Night Meeting.”
They often left San Quentin prison at ten o’clock, having spent four hours with the inmates.
One inmate named Sammy was a giant; he was at least 6 ft. five inches and weighed close to 300
pounds.
After Lou’s presentation concerning possible job opportunities in his program in the
Sacramento area for inmates upon their release, Sammy approached him.
“Well Lou you can come to our meetings anytime that you want, but as far as what you said
tonight, it all sounds like bureaucratic bull.” he said.
“I respect your feelings about the talk.” said Lou, who was not inclined to prolong the
conversation with the behemoth. However, Sammy was clearly in the mood for talking.
“I am due to leave here in four weeks. I don’t have a job right now; if I don’t find one, I
might have to hurt somebody to get some money. Maybe it will be your mother; maybe it will be
you.” said Sammy with a disturbing gleam that suggested hurting people was a pleasurable
prospect.
Lou looked up at Sammy; it was indeed a long way up, saying “Sammy, let me tell you about
a prisoner I knew in New York; his name was Johnny. When his counselor asked him what he
wanted to do after release, Johnny said “I want to rob $1 million.”
The counselor replied “Johnny, I only wish you had said ‘I want to rob $1 million and get
away with it. So let me say this to you; whether you go to work or whether you steal when you
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leave here, please do it well and do it right in order that you do not come back to a sad place like
this again.’ said Lou.
Sammy nodded his head and walked away. After that encounter, he avoided Lou at
subsequent meetings.
There was also Sanchez, an Apache Indian with black hair, beard, and a long ponytail.
Another defining feature was a pair of rose colored sunglasses that he wore constantly; they
appeared to symbolize his worldview.
After the meeting ended, Lou approached him, aware that he had been recently granted
parole. “Sanchez, I know you are being paroled. Do you have any plans?” In his cheerful
manner, Sanchez replied “Lou, I have it all figured out; I have been studying baking in here for
five years and I am now a very good baker. When I am released, the first thing that I am going to
do is rob a bank. With the money I receive, I will be opening my bakery shop in Fresno.”
“Lou thought that perhaps Fresno was quite possibly the biggest mistake of all in Sanchez’s
plans. Of course, within six months, Sanchez was back at the Friday night meetings in San
Quentin, but his arrest, conviction, and subsequent incarceration resulted in a very different
attitude than the former Sanchez. The rose-colored sunglasses were gone, along with the smiling
face. Sanchez spoke to him about the change “I want to make this my last time in prison. Will
you help me if you are still around in seven years? I have a 10-year sentence, but I could be out
in seven with good behavior.” he said.
Lou promised that he would do all he could for him, and he meant it.
The trip home followed a routine. Lighthair and Lou walked for about one quarter of a mile
to the main gate; the pathway offered a view of the prison and the night skyline of San Francisco
in the distance across bay. The unrelenting wind could not be ignored; in the winter, it cut
through the clothes and skin. It was a pleasure and a relief to enter the “Lighthair mobile,” a
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bright red 1969 Thunderbird. Lighthair would take highway 101 North to Route 37, then pick up
Highway 80 for the ride home to Sacramento. Often there was a stop at Denny’s restaurant in
Vacaville for coffee. Sooner or later, most people in California wound up at Denny’s.
As they sipped coffee, Eagle adjusted his headband, and said, “When we get back to
Sacramento, I have to pick up Chi-Chi at the county jail; she gets out at midnight.”
When a prisoner receives a thirty day sentence, the sentence is over at one minute after
midnight on the night of the thirtieth day. For reasons of convenience, many prisoners spend an
extra night in jail if they cannot find someone to pick them up at midnight. When we arrived,
Chi-Chi was waiting outside; she was a Native American lady in her late forties, although she
could easily have passed for sixty.
She entered the car quickly and put on one of Eagle’s Native American music tapes; soon
Lou was longing for the sound of chalk scraping on a blackboard.
“I hear your son is sniffing gas for that beef in Fresno.” said Lighthair. A translation of this
would be ‘I understand your son has been indicted on a murder charge in Fresno and is facing the
death penalty.’
“Yeah” she replied. “I am kinda worried about that.”
No doubt sensing he might be treading on delicate ground, Lighthair decided to change the
subject and asked, “How’s Pinkie doing?” Pinkie was Chi-Chi’s oldest daughter.
“She’s right here! Chi-Chi said pointing to the jail with some amusement. “She’s got sixty
days more to do on a shoplifting beef.” she said.
“How about your brother Ralph? How’s he doing?” asked Lighthair.
“Not too bad; he just transferred to Folsom. Ralph is due for parole in two years.” answered
Chi-Chi. Apparently Lighthair knew the family reasonably well.
“Hey! What about your cousin Joey?”
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“Oh, Joey just got out of Soledad two months ago; he’s living in the Bay Area now.”
They were now close to the center of downtown Sacramento, where the middle-class worked
and the poor people lived. “Goodnight, Chi-Chi, stay cool now.” Lighthair said gently.
She sauntered into the house; Lighthair and Lou stared at each other in astonishment. All her
family appeared to be at some point on the continuum of the California criminal justice system.
“The cops should get down on their knees and pray for that family; they sure as hell are keeping
the system in business.” Lighthair said.
The downtown area of Sacramento was covered with huge trees. The summer days were
extremely hot, but the mornings and evenings were often cool and pleasant. Lou enjoyed walking
to work.
He thought about Kristen, a lover he met in Mallorca. She was due to arrive from
Norway for a weeklong visit. Lou had been seeing several ladies; he continued to share the rent
at Carl’s place rather than secure his own apartment. One of the women was a married lady in
her early forties named Julie. She arrived at Carl’s promptly at four p.m. every Sunday. Carl was
sensitive about staying away from the apartment during that time. Julie’s visits had been going
on for about five months; then one Sunday, there was a considerable departure from the normal
course of events. At the appointed time, there was a knock at the door; rather than Julie
appearing, it was her husband Frank. Lou had met him on several occasions; he was a huge man,
well over six feet, and solidly built.
Frank was standing there with a note in his hand.
“Hi, Lou!” he said cheerily. “I’m sorry, but Julie’s not feeling well and she won’t be able to
see you this afternoon. She wanted you to have this note.” he said.
Lou invited him inside and poured a cup of mint tea for him. After a few minutes, Frank
announced he had an appointment and needed to leave.

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California was truly an amazing place. A wife writes a letter of apology to a lover for her
absence at a lovemaking session, and her husband delivers it! Perhaps Frank had his own lovers.
Lou attempted to estimate the odds of this happening in New York; it was a doubtful proposition.
Lou’s work as a government analyst was interesting and satisfying. As a social worker in
New York City, he had been able to help only a few people. Here, Lou was a staff member for a
40 million-dollar public jobs program, where he had an opportunity to have an impact on the
entire community. It was an unusual situation; he did not threaten his coworkers because he was
not interested in a permanent position or promotions.
Lou was pleasantly surprised when his supervisor asked him if he wanted to return to work
after his next trip instead of resigning. He said yes, highly pleased to have a job waiting upon his
return, particularly one that he enjoyed.
Meanwhile, Lou continued to see Margot, along with other some ladies. However, it was
becoming clear that her priority in life was spiritual growth. One day she announced that she
would be going to live in a spiritual commune in Northern California. The news did not come as
a surprise to Lou; she had been moving in that direction for some time.
Several months later, he met Carol. Over a cappuccino at a downtown cafe, they discussed
social conditions in America and their mutual desire to make a contribution to the poor.
Afterwards, Lou invited her to come back to his place, where he played an album by Michael
Franks. They made love that night; Lou immediately felt this could develop into a long-term
relationship.
It lasted almost three years.
There was a very strong physical attraction between the two. However, Lou was unwilling to
move-in with her, nor was the prepared to terminate his other relationships; yet he found each
himself spending more time with her each week.
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Carol did not appear to have a wide range of friends; although she had been living in
Sacramento for over a year, her contacts with others appeared rather limited. Lou introduced her
enthusiastically to his friends, including the mad chemist.
The first month together was wonderful; Lou could not wait to spend time with her after
work. Occasionally, she would meet him for lunch; they would stroll down Sacramento’s K
Street Mall. Carol seemed to take particular pleasure in public affection, to the point of
desiring to make love in the great outdoors.
The prior week they had taken a trip to Nevada City, a small town in the foothills of the Sierra
Mountains. Carol parked the car in a secluded area, suggesting they head into the bushes. They
made love on soft grass; it seemed to excite her. Lou did not mind as long as the place was
sufficiently private where they would not be spotted by the local police or the California
Highway Patrol, who were always a heavy presence in California. Lou was very happy being
with Carol; the days with her were simply more fun. She had a great sense of humor, and the
strong physical attraction was mutual.
Carol seemed more relaxed than Margot, who, like many New Yorkers, had long been in
therapy. In the late sixties and early seventies, tens of thousands of New Yorkers were in
therapy. One friend confided to Lou that he was the only person she knew who was not seeing a
psychologist or other therapist. In the big apple, one paid to be understood.
Then it happened. Carol sat Lou down for a conversation that profoundly changed the
relationship. “I know you like me as I am right now, but that is not the way I truly feel. I have
had my share of problems in the past, including attempting suicide twice, and have also been
hospitalized for psychological problems. I’m sorry, I know you see me as doing well, but the
truth is I could be doing better.” she said.
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For three years, Lou denied that he changed his behavior after this conversation, but years
later he admitted to himself he had. After dealing with Margot’s emotional problems, he had
taken a more detached approach with Carol.
From the beginning, Lou proposed they spend one night a week apart; what happened during
that night was not to be a part of their relationship; Carol accepted this proposal, with the
obvious implication that such nights would include other sexual partners for either of them. She
was not pleased with the suggestion, but did not want to terminate the relationship.
Lou was ready for another trip; he first asked Carol about traveling to Hong Kong, but she
said she was not interested. He then proposed the trip to Carl, who of course accepted. Lou
made the ticket arrangements; Carol drove them to Oakland airport for their flight on Thomas
International Airlines (TIA). There was a strange incident in the elevator leading from the
parking garage to the departure terminal. Three apparent members of the Oakland Raiders
football team joined them in elevator. Although Lou, Carol, and Carl tried to continue their
conversation, the presence of the three giants was intimidating, even though they were talking
quietly. It was a strange start to the trip.
After the first 10 hours in the air, Lou felt that the acronym TIA was short for “travel in agony”;
extra seats had been squeezed into the plane, with legroom .
The plane stopped for refueling in Anchorage, Alaska. Lou looked over at Carl, who was
sleeping like a baby; he had no doubt ingested some homemade chemical compound that
insured pleasant dreams for the entire flight that consisted of an exhausting 20 hours.
When Carl finally awoke, he asked “I know you had some strange experiences in Singapore
and Malaysia; tell me about them.”
Lou proceeded to share stories about that trip. “The train ride from Singapore to Kuala
Lumpur in Malaysia, also known as ‘the rubber train’ was a very enjoyable one in first class,
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without being expensive; the parlor car had plush red seats with armrests. A staff comprised of
several attendants was available to bring a wide variety of food and beverages. As the train
approached the Malaysian border town of Johor Baru, many mosques were visible.” Lou
continued.
“Malaysia has a large Moslem population, it was therefore not surprising to see that most of
the women were practicing purdah. I settled into my comfortable seat, put some jazz on in my
cassette system, sat back and began to enjoy the passing countryside of rubber plantations and
jungle. I knew that I would not have to worry about finding a room in Kuala Lumpur since there
was a modern hotel located inside the train station at KL.” continued Lou.
“Unfortunately I had to change plans abruptly upon arrival. The hotel had closed for
refurbishing; it was midnight and raining heavily. This was hardly a prime time to be seeking
hotel accommodations. I quickly checked one of my guidebooks and noted the restaurant in the
Hotel Coliseum had been highly recommended ‘in spite of the outrageousness of the hotel,’ the
guidebook had added. However, it was raining, the hour grew late, and I needed a room. When I
told the taxi driver I wanted the Hotel Coliseum, he did a double take, giving me a look of
surprise bordering on astonishment. Within five minutes, he stopped the car in the middle of a
side street.” said Lou.
“The driver pointed to a front door with a bare light bulb lit above it. I looked back at the
driver; he pushed his hand forward as if to say, ‘It is wet out here, get inside!’ There was silence
on the street except for the rainfall and the quiet hum of the taxi’s engine.” continued Lou.
“I pushed the door open and was surprised to find a noisy, brightly lit bar which was doing a
brisk business at 1;00 a.m. in the morning.
“Behind the circular bar, two clerks were processing paperwork. ‘Where you from, partner?’
said a tall and rather drunk American patron in his sixties. ‘I see you found the best place in
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K.L.’ he added without waiting for me to tell him my country of origin. ‘Let me buy you a beer.
Chin, another beer here for my friend.’ he yelled gruffly.”
“His name was Charley. Whatever he may have needed at this point in life, it was not another
beer, but that was precisely what he was having. ‘What are you doing in Malaysia, Charley?’ I
inquired.”
“‘I’m just traveling around; I retired a few years ago from the Company.’ he said.
“I congratulated him on his retirement. Then I asked, “What work did you do for the CIA,
Charley?’ He tilted his head to the side and said in a tone lower than usual, ‘I used to kill
people.’ At that point, I looked closely at his eyes. If there was indeed a crazy bastard who had
retired from the CIA and spent his evenings drinking beer and telling complete strangers he used
to kill people for a living, it was Charley.” continued Lou.
“They all come to me. How do they find me? All I wanted was a bed, any bed, in a room that
had a lock on the door; my lodging requirements were becoming more modest with each
swallow of beer.” said Lou.
“Listen Charley” I said. ‘I have to see about getting a hotel room; it has been a long trip from
Singapore, and I’m very tired.’ He took a big swig from his glass, burped loudly, and yelled out
to the bartender, ‘Hey Chin, old buddy. You got a room for my friend here?’ The news wasn’t
good. Chin started shaking his head, ‘No, No, No maw room, all filled. maybe Royal’, replied
Chin.”
“I turned to Charley and asked how far the Hotel Royal was from the Coliseum.
Unfortunately, I did not get an immediate answer. Two attractive European ladies had just
entered the bar and had taken a table. Charley staggered over to meet them. As soon as he
opened his mouth, they looked at each other with raised eyebrows, closed ranks and totally
ignored America’s good-will ambassador to Southeast Asia.”
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“He sauntered back to the bar. ‘I don’t think they spoke English, probably French.’ It was
imperative I help Charley focus on the location of the Royal, for it appeared that advertising
wasn’t a priority in the neighborhood.” continued Lou.
“I said ‘Charley, instead of having another beer, could you please point me in the direction of
the Royal?’ It appeared it would take another beer before my inebriated guide would aim his
torso towards the elusive hotel. Finally, we left the Hotel Coliseum and were soon at the door of
the Hotel Royal. Charley explained that all these hotels had bars; he promised to treat me to
another beer at the Royal Bar, which would be waiting for me after I checked in. The Royal
turned out to be another Chinese establishment. The price was a mere six dollars for a clean, but
Spartan room. It was tempting to just stay inside the room, but I wanted to buy Charley a beer
since he had helped me.” said Lou.
“I returned to the bar, where Charley was chatting with an attractive Indian lady. She gave
me a warm smile, which seemed to irritate Charley. I quickly drank my beer and bid good night
to both of them. Returning upstairs to my room, I pushed the bed against the door, put the light
out, and hoped my tiredness would win out over the sweltering heat.” continued Lou.
“At the time, Kuala Lumpur was experiencing world class pollution due to out of control
jungle fires on the island of Borneo. The next day, I ventured fort into the smoke filled
atmosphere, deciding to try the Malay-Indian buffet at the Coliseum. Several guidebooks had
praised the food, and they were correct in doing so.” said Lou.
“The city contained both well-maintained colonial structures and modern buildings that
appeared well poised for the twenty-first century.” Lou continued.
“That evening, I decided to dine once again at the Coliseum restaurant. The place was
crowded; I shared a table with a gracious Malaysian man in his forties. His English was quite
good; we spoke about life in both Malaysia. He was going through a divorce and seemed to
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enjoy the company. The food was both cheap and well prepared; I had a second coffee before
leaving my dining partner.” said Lou.
“During the day, the neighborhood surrounding the Royal and the Coliseum was a bustling
hub of shoppers and shopkeepers, with an emphasis on silk and fabric shops; at night, the streets
were quite deserted. Wisdom dictated a quick, short walk back to the Royal for a quiet evening
of reading. In the morning, I would fly to Bangkok for a few days.” continued Lou.
“I saw an old woman about to lie down on a piece of cardboard in a doorway. I decided to
give her some money. Although the street contained a handful of pedestrians, the traffic on this
one-way street was quite heavy. I took advantage of a break in the wave of cars to cross the
street, gave the woman some money, and decided to walk up that side of the street to a nearby
traffic light nearly opposite the Royal Hotel; my humanitarian detour had not taken me out of my
way.” said Lou.
“As I approached the light, I passed a large man in black clothes: his face was heavily pockmarked.
I waited for the traffic light to change; he walked over to the pedestrian crossing and
stared at me. Pretending not to notice him, I walked quickly across the street and then ducked
into the Royal Bar since I felt it was important this menacing individual not know where I was
staying.” continued Lou.
“The bar entrance was separate from the door to the hotel. After ordering a beer, I took a
table and positioned myself so I could see anyone who entered.” continued Lou.
“The glass window pane in the door was covered with colored plastic, making it possible to
look out, but very hard for anyone to see inside. After about five minutes, I saw the ugly thug’s
face peering into the bar. He quickly removed his face and another face appeared. The door
opened and two men entered; the second man appeared as mean and ugly as the first.” continued
Lou.
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“After walking to the back of the bar, they strolled out again without buying a drink. They
were clearly targeting me. I was safe inside the bar and was fully prepared to wait them out.
However, events began to unfold rapidly.” said Lou.
“The two men again entered the bar, this time with a third companion who was also tall and
powerfully built. They ordered drinks and sat at the table behind me; I waited for their order to
arrive. After another five minutes, I stood up, walked out of the bar, and ran up the stairs to the
Royal Hotel. When I reached the top step, I looked back downstairs. There was no one on the
sidewalk; it was over. If they followed me from the bar, I would have appeared to have vanished
into one of the numerous Chinese hotels located on the street. They would have to find someone
else to rob that night. Needless to add, that was my last night at the Royal; it was time to move
on.” said Lou.
“That’s quite a story.” said Carl.
At long last, the pilot announced the descent into Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.
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Chapter XIII
1976: Hong Kong: Lou Winds Up In Court and Carl Meets Lulu
Lou and Carl arrived at Kai Tak airport at seven in the morning. It was a spectacular day; the
hills above the skyscrapers of Victoria were a bright green. The harbor was filled with junks and
Star Ferry boats; the two travelers took a taxi to their hotel in Kowloon.
“I wonder if they have a Chinatown here.” said Carl.
“Believe it or not, they do. It is rarely frequented by tourists or by the British residents, but it
is a worthwhile place to visit; we will go there tomorrow night.” said Lou.
The hotel was located in an office building that included three other hotels and a number of
import/export companies. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, where they were greeted by
an array of soft red and green lights, along with the pungent aroma of Indian cooking.
“This building is weirder than California; maybe there’s a hot tub on the roof,” said Carl.
“You check out the roof while I visit Bombay west on the fourth floor.” said Lou.
The elevator deposited them on the eighth floor, which was the Happy Fortune Hotel. It was
almost as dark as the Indian Hotel, but it lacked the mysterious atmosphere of that establishment.
A Chinese gentleman of indeterminate age stared at the two travelers and said absolutely
nothing.
“Hi;” said Carl breezily. “We would like a room, please.”
The clerk looked at the two bearded Americans with a distasteful grimace.
“Ninety Dollars.” he snapped.
That amounted to eighteen dollars in American currency; Lou did not care for the man’s less
then congenial demeanor. “Show us the room.” he told him.
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The man slapped the bell on his desk. A maid came out of a room and looked up at the
manager; he barked something at her and motioned them to follow her. The whole world was a
bureaucracy, including the eighth story of this building on Nathan Road in Hong Kong.
The maid opened the room for viewing; there was not much to see, other than four walls and
two beds.
“Just like home.” said Carl.
“Sure, if home happens to be San Quentin; at least the street noise lends a certain ambiance.
Sleeping in this room should be a real treat.” said Lou acidly.
They went back to the manager to pay for the room; he accepted the money with his usual
lack of warmth.
Later that evening, they made their way to “Chinatown,” which consisted of a midnight street
fair on the back streets of Kowloon. One vendor stood behind a huge vat of boiling water. A
large table was filled with a variety of seafood; the customers simply pointed to the plates of
their choice. The cook threw the contents of the plate into the boiling water, scooped it out
moments later, then banged the plate down on the table.
Carl and Lou opted for the shrimp and two large bottles of beer. They found a seat and
proceeded to devour dozens of delicious shrimps. Afterwards, they walked over to a crowded
circle to see what the featured entertainment was for the evening. It was a bizarre sight. A man
was holding a snake; people were paying him to shoot snake milk into their mouths. By pressing
the snake in a certain place, he was able to extract the snake milk. Carl immediately went for his
money.
“I have to try this, maybe people get high from it.” he said hopefully. He waved his hand to
attract the attention of the snake handler. Soon, he was rewarded with a shot of snake milk.
He licked his lips. “I’m not feeling a rush yet, maybe it takes a while.” he added.
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Carl did not get high from the snake milk. He decided to inspect the other stalls filled with an
assortment of goods. Lou did not enjoy shopping.
“Carl, I’m going to repair to the seafood place for another beer. I will see you when you are
finished, but if you aren’t back in an hour, I shall go home.” said Lou.
From past experience, he had learned that waiting for Carl was a painful experience. His exwife
would have used that as grounds for divorce had she needed more ammunition against him
than she already possessed. Somewhat to Lou’s surprise, Carl came back before he had finished
his beer; they went home together.
The next day was gorgeous. The sun was shining; it was not too hot. Lou wanted to visit a
Buddhist monastery on Lantau Island. He did not mind Carl going with him to the island, but he
wanted to avoid the terrible karma likely to befall anyone who brought Carl to a monastery.
Should a monk working on solving his koan accidentally meet Carl, the result could result in a
major setback for the hard working monk.
“Carl, I have some business on Lantau Island tomorrow. Although I have to go alone to the
place, how would you like to come along and explore the island?” asked Lou. Carl agreed.
They boarded the Star Ferry from the Kowloon side at about eleven o’clock in the morning.
The view of Victoria was spectacular; there were many junks in the water with colorful sails.
The harbor voyage seemed to bring momentary peace to Carl’s twisted psyche. He lit his pipe,
puffed on it, and studied the scenery, which was indeed beautiful.
The trip to Lantau Island was interesting; the ferry stopped at other islands along the way,
picking up and discharging passengers. Finally, the boat docked at Lantau. Lou left Carl in the
harbor area and proceeded to take a bus to the monastery; there were some workers from central
Hong Kong who were also taking their vacation at the monastery. Lou learned on his prior visit
to Hong Kong that it was possible to stay overnight at the monastery; those who did often awoke
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early and walked to the top of the mountain to view the sunrise over the South China Sea. After
working amidst the craziness of Hong Kong, it made sense to spend one’s vacation in a tranquil
setting that was convenient and inexpensive.
After leaving the harbor, the bus traveled through banana plantations and lush tropical
forests. The monastery was located at a high elevation, perhaps five thousand feet or more above
sea level.
It was early afternoon when Lou arrived there. A light mist and a gentle breeze was blowing.
Lou walked through the grounds; a solitary monk was meditating inside the temple. He was
uncertain of the protocol for entering the temple, so he remained outside. Time seemed
suspended.
He sat down a bench and meditated; an hour passed by quickly. Rousing himself from his
meditative state, he headed toward the dining area where he made arrangements for a simple
meal. It was hard to believe that millions of people were noisily going about their business just a
few miles away. Hours passed before he returned to the ferry terminal. For once, Carl was
waiting for him; the two travelers boarded the ferry and headed back to Victoria.
“Lou! Look at the phosphorous in the water!” yelled Carl. It was an unusual sight; blue
creatures seemed to be darting through the water. Lou found himself mesmerized by the
spectacular light show coming from the sea.
“This has been an impressive day.” said Carl.
“Well, be prepared for an extraordinary one tomorrow; we are going to Aberdeen.” said Lou.
“Where’s that?” asked Carl.
“It is located on the other side of Victoria. Aberdeen is a junk village located entirely on
water; people contend that some of its residents have never been on land, with their entire life
spent on the sea.” said Lou.
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The ferry pulled into Victoria; another Star Ferry took them to Kowloon and they proceeded
to walk to their hotel; it had been a long day.
The next morning, they started off for Aberdeen. Soon, it began to rain heavily; this was not
a good day to see the junk village.
“Listen brother.” said Lou, we have to change our plans; this day is worth spending indoors.
How would you like to see a British trial? It could prove interesting.” said Lou.
“Sure, maybe they will let me be the judge for the day.” replied Carl.
“Knowing you, they would be more inclined to let you be the ‘defendant for the day’.” Lou
said.
“That’s O.K. I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the court and ask the judge for a joint.” said
Carl.
“Let’s do it.” said Lou.
It was the worst appointed courtroom Lou had ever seen; it made even the Brooklyn Family
Court look like a palace. There were plastic bags piled on the spectator benches filled with
everything from kitchen utensils to heroin. The judge and the attorneys were wearing the
traditional gray wigs, which prompted Carl to whisper “Are these guys drag queens in
mourning? Last year, I saw a couple in the Castro District who were dressed the same way, but I
don’t think they are the same people.” said Carl.
Who but Carl would assume the Lord Judge and the Barrister were refugees from last year’s
Halloween party in San Francisco’s Castro District? They sat down on a bench and began
listening to the proceedings.
Three people were being charged with conspiracy to manufacture two million dollars worth
of heroin. The jury was listening to the testimony of the arresting officers who described how
they found heroin in the apartment of Chong Li. Apparently Mr. Li had already been convicted
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of the crime and sentenced to twelve years in prison. The prosecution was now attempting to
convict the three defendants for being in the apartment at the time the police arrived. As Lou
learned the next day, having a key to premises is sufficient evidence in Hong Kong for
prosecution for possession of drugs.
The defendants were all Chinese, two men and one woman. The latter appeared frail and
quite overwhelmed by the proceedings; the two men wore blank faces devoid of emotion. The
jury was composed of six White and six Chinese jurors, with both genders equally represented.
The Clerk of the Court was Chinese, while the Lord Judge and the two barristers were White.
The testimony of the last detective ended and court was adjourned until the next day.
Lou and Carl found a cafe near the courthouse and ordered coffee.
“Well Carl, how do you feel about your morning in court?” asked Lou.
“I liked it, how about you?” he inquired.
“Given my graduate study in criminal justice, I was fascinated by the spectacle. I developed
sympathy quickly for the woman defendant; she seemed to have trouble understanding the
translator. Her husband was sentenced to twelve years for producing the heroin; I doubt that he
discussed his business dealings with her. She looked helpless and pathetic.” said Lou.
“I agree.” said Carl, “Bye the bye, that prosecutor is an absolute fox! I would love to
prosecute her for several hours! I bet she looks even better without that wig.” he added
enthusiastically.
“She is indeed a beauty, but I wonder if all that legal training has drained the passion from
her. I haven’t had much experience with lawyers, but legal training seems to breed a soulless
group of humanity. I do not know if they were leaning in that direction beforehand or if the
training itself saps any sense of humanity from them.” said Lou.
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The trial took most of the day. Afterwards, they went to a Filipino restaurant where the food
was exceptionally good. It was the first time Carl had tried Filipino cuisine; he found he liked it.
“Let’s party tonight!” said Carl.
“Brother, you go ahead. I want to go home and read.” said Lou. This was not a town for
meeting ladies, unless one wanted to meet bar girls. Lou knew there were clubs where Asian
businessmen spent considerable sums of money for the pleasure of having a skimpily clad lady
sit at the table. Lou decided to let Carl find his own way in Hong Kong. Thus far, he had been
easier to deal with than in Morocco. He thought of Carl’s attempt to purchase the primate at El-
Fna and shuddered; the two friends left the restaurant and went their separate ways.
The next morning, Lou bought the China News to see if there was a story about the trial; he
wasn’t disappointed. The story was right there on the front page; it appeared this was the second
time the Colony was putting the wife, the boarder, and the merchant marine sailor from the
Chinese providence of Kwantung on trial for possession of heroin. The first time it ended in a
mistrial; the newspaper noted that Jason Greenly, a barrister with thirty years experience, was
handling the defense, with the prosecution directed by Jane Anster.
Lou looked across at Carl. “It’s raining again. I know we talked about Aberdeen and Macao,
but the weather is not good for visiting either place. Let’s go back to court and follow the trial.”
Lou suggested.
“That is all right with me; the prosecutor is really cute. I think I’ll strike up a conversation
with her during the break. We can discuss crime and punishment, especially the latter. I’ll tell her
she can punish me tonight, I wouldn’t mind.” he said.
“Good luck, Carl; as far as I am concerned, she is all yours.” added Lou.
They finished breakfast and took the Star Ferry to Victoria and the courthouse; it was a good
solution for a rainy day.
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As the proceedings began, Lou felt the trial was taking on the atmosphere of a desperate
drama. The defense barrister first called the woman defendant to the witness stand. He asked her
to explain what happened; her words were then translated into English:
“My name is Long Li. I did not know what was going on. I smelled something strange and
ask my husband ‘What smell?’ He tell me pay no attention to his business. Then he give me
money and tell me go play Mahjong. So I go play; when I come back, I cook food and police
come.” she said.
“Did you help your husband make heroin?” asked the barrister.
“I do not know heroin; I only cook food and keep house clean.” she said.
“No more questions.” said the barrister.
What happened next was remarkable, clearly depicting the gap between the Chinese and
British residents of Hong Kong.
The prosecutor stepped forward and showed the defendant photographs of her apartment.
“Is that a photograph of your apartment?” she asked.
“I do not understand photographs.” replied the defendants through her translator; this was
accepted.
“Do you have a key to your apartment?” the Prosecutor inquired.
“Yes” said the defendant. Under Hong Kong law, persons can be convicted of possession of
drugs if they have a key to the premises where drugs are found.
“No more questions.” said the prosecutor.
The next witness for the defense was the lodger.
“What is your name?” asked the defense attorney.
“Queh” he said.
“Will you tell the Court what happened on April 25, 1970?” he asked.
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“My name is Queh. I live at the apartment where the drugs were found, but I knew nothing
about drug manufacturing. I pay three hundred dollars rent for a cubicle in the apartment; I am a
teacher and live a respectable life. I am a widower, that is all there is to say.” he replied.
“Were you in the apartment when the police came?” asked the attorney.
“Of course, I live there.” he answered indignantly.
“No more questions.” said the defense attorney.
The silver-wigged beauty of a prosecutor moved forward for cross-examination.
“You say you are a teacher, yet the school where you claim to teach was closed by the
government five year ago. Can you please explain to the Court how you are still able to teach at a
school that has not been open for five years?” she inquired in a challenging tone.
The defendant looked at her with mild curiosity. “Government close school, but school
continue as underground Chinese school.” he said.
This response went unchallenged; it seemed as though the underground activity in Hong
Kong went beyond the scope of the court.
The frustration was evident on the Prosecutor’s face; there was nothing to add.
“Do you have a key to the apartment on King Road?”, she asked.
“Yes I do.” he replied.
“No more questions” she said.
The defense attorney called the remaining defendant to the stand.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Le Chung.”, he said.
“What is your occupation?”
“Merchant seaman” he said.
“Where do you live?” asked the attorney.
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“Kwantung Province, China,” he replied.
“Why were you at the apartment?” he asked.
“Chong Li is a friend of mine. I went to visit him.”
“Did you know anything about the manufacture of heroin?” asked Jason Greenly.
“No, I knew nothing.” he said.
The lovely Jane declined cross-examination; the defendant had admitted he was present in
the apartment. Of course, it would have been better if he had possessed a key to the premises.
The next scene was one Lou would never forget; the husband of Long Li was brought
shackled into the courtroom. As soon as husband and wife saw each other, they began to cry.
Both were probably about fifty, with leathery faces and gaunt expressions. He took the witness
stand in chains.
“What is your name?”
“Chong Li” he replied. (Long Li wept constantly after her husband was brought into court.)
“You have been sentenced to prison for the manufacture of heroin. Is that correct?” asked
defense attorney Greenly.
“Yes” he answered.
“Did your wife know you were manufacturing heroin in the apartment?”
“No, I work alone; I did not want anyone to know what I was doing because I was afraid.” he
answered.
“No more questions” said Greenly firmly.
The Prosecutor then began her cross-examination. “Did you have a buyer for the heroin?”
“No” he replied.
“What were you going to do?” she asked.
“Find a seller, of course.” he replied.
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“When the police came to your apartment, you lied to them. How do we know you are telling
the truth now?” asked the Prosecutor.
He pointed to his wife and looked at the Prosecutor. “Look at her! Look at her!” he
screamed. “Do you think she knows how to cook anything but food?” He flashed an angry snarl
at the prosecutor that was powerfully dismissive. The prosecutor walked away, waiving her arm
in dismissal of the witness; she appeared somewhat shaken by the ferocity of the chained
prisoner.
The Judge’s reaction was interesting; he smiled with closed lips and stared at Jane, as if to
say, ‘he does have a point.’
It had been obvious to Lou that the Judge’s sympathies lay with the defendants. Although his
bias against the prosecution was subtle, it was present nonetheless. The prime suspect had been
arrested, convicted, and sentenced to twelve years in prison; the case against these three
individuals was weak. The first attempt to try them had ended in a mistrial. Perhaps the Judge
felt the matter should have been dropped at that point, although the merchant sailor looked as
though he could easily be on the wrong side of the law. However, the remaining two defendants
appeared to be most unlikely candidates for the drug trade. They gave every indication that a
nightmare had entered their lives from which there seemed to be no escape; the judge appeared
to take pity on them.
The remainder of the morning was spent dealing with procedural motions. The Judge
announced that summations would take place the following morning, and adjourned court for the
day.
The weather improved; Lou asked Carl if he wanted to visit the junk village in Aberdeen in
the afternoon. The rest of the day was spent walking around on the junks, having a few beers,
and eating some very good shrimp; it was a relaxing afternoon.
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“Tonight, I’m going back to the same bar I visited last evening. I met a girl named Lulu. We
really hit it off. It was one of the best nights of my life!” he said excitedly.
”Do you want to go to Macao tomorrow?” asked Lou.
“Would we have to stay overnight?” he asked apprehensively. “I might want to see Lulu
again.”
“As a matter of fact, we would; Macao is about forty miles from here by jetfoil. The closing
arguments are scheduled for tomorrow; I want to be there to hear the summations.” said Lou.
“You are really hooked on that case, aren’t you?” said Carl.
“I want to see that woman set free; she could not make heroin or arrange a drug deal with a
gun pointed at her head. If she walks free, I will be a happy man. Here is what I think happened;
the husband and the merchant seaman were in it together. Perhaps Chong Li asked the seaman to
find a buyer. The wife and the lodger simply had the misfortune to be residents of the apartment.
I think the judge is disgusted with the case; the overzealous prosecutor, like others of her breed,
wants convictions wherever she can obtain them. The jury appears to be comprised of middleclass
persons, while the defendants are poor; that does not increase the prospects of an acquittal.”
said Lou
That night, Lou went to Chinatown, where he ate shrimp and chatted with a San Francisco
businessman; Lulu and Carl entertained each other in a different part of town.
In the morning, Carl was dead to the world; Lou didn’t disturb him. He decided to go to court
alone. When Carl finally awakened, he would know where to find Lou.
It was hot and humid, but at least the ferry from Kowloon was not too crowded. Lou admired
the dark blue waters and the sunlight shining on the skyscrapers of Victoria; it was a brilliant
morning.
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As Lou entered the courtroom, all the actors in the drama were assembled in their appointed
places. The defense attorney nodded his head in Lou’s direction as he entered. Curiosity had
overcome British reserve as the defense barrister opened a conversation with him in the lobby.
When Lou explained he had studied criminal justice on the graduate level, the barrister warmed
to Lou.
“The chances of acquittal are good if the judge gives the jury favorable instructions.” he
said.
‘The Judge doesn’t like the case; moreover, he is not particularly fond of Jane. His views on
the status of women appear antiquated.” replied Lou.
The trial resumed and the prosecutor began her summation to the jury.
“You have heard many inconsistencies that strongly challenge the defendants’ versions of
events. For example, Le Chung has testified that the slips of paper found on him were phone
numbers of bar hostesses; yet those same numbers corresponded to the serial numbers of
morphine bottles in the apartment.” she said.
Greenly rose immediately.
“Your honor, I don’t know what to say; this is most extraordinary. Although the issue of the
paper slips was raised at the first trial, it was never reintroduced as evidence during these
proceedings. I must ask your honor for guidance as to how to proceed in this matter since these
comments are highly prejudicial to my client and I have been denied cross-examination of any
witnesses testifying to the finding of that evidence.” he implored.
Lou thought it would now end in a mistrial, with Judge not allowing the prosecution to retry
the case for the third time. Long Li and the others will go free. Within an hour, the Judge
declared a mistrial.
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Lou walked down to the harbor; he sat on a bench, feeling happy, and watched the ferries and
junks pass by. He thought of all the characters in the courtroom drama and realized he had been
provided with a glimpse of the culture of Hong Kong through attending the trial.
The next day they left for Macao; the jetfoil ride was a little bumpy, but it was a quick trip.
When they arrived, they took a short walk to the Chinese border.
The border crossing was not open at the time. The trial of the “Gang of Four” a pathetic
political show trial that starred Mao’s wife, was in full swing. They would have to remain in
Macao, with its Jai Lai fronton, casinos, and dog racing.
The fronton was one of the finest in the world; Lou recognized one of the players from Palma
de Majorca. He bet on him and won a little money; that night, he treated Carl to dinner at the
Hotel Central. After the meal, they took a stroll around the tiny colony; the architecture reflected
its recent status as a Portuguese colony.
By the next afternoon, they were ready to return to Hong Kong.
The next few days were spent in the area of Sha Tin, where monkeys roamed freely. They
also took the Kowloon railway to the Chinese frontier. They viewed the green mountains from a
distance, and wondered about life inside the forbidden country.
“Well Carl, are you enjoying this great scenery?” said Lou inquired enthusiastically.
“Absolutely, but what time do we get back to Hong Kong? I would like to see Lulu tonight.”
he said with concern.
“Don’t worry, brother. You will be back in plenty of time to see her.” said Lou.
The remaining days in Hong Kong went by pleasantly. Lou tried to absorb the scenery and
the cultural ambience, while Carl continued to focus upon Lulu. They returned to California.
The following week.
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The day after arriving in California from Hong Kong, Lou began working and saving for a
return trip to the Port of Soller; it would take some time as his savings were now depleted.
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Chapter XV
!979: Lou Returns to Mallorca, Visits Hana in Berlin, and Travels behind the Iron Curtain
Shortly after returning to the island, he met Hana, a Czech lady who lived in Berlin.
Unfortunately, it was her on her final day on Mallorca. She invited him to visit her in Berlin;
Lou had accepted the invitation.
He had taken a morning flight from Palma de Mallorca to Frankfurt, then transferred to
a plane for Berlin. Hana was at the airport to meet him, along with her ex-husband Heinrich. She
smiled, gave him a brief hug, and proceeded to introduce Heinrich, who was pleasant and
apparently unperturbed by Lou’s presence. Where was the sexual attraction she manifested on
her last day in Mallorca? Could she be using Heinrich as a chaperone?
The trip to their neighborhood of Charlottenburg was brief. Upon entering the apartment, he was
introduced to Johan, Hana’s son. Upon being introduced to Lou, the boy formally extended his
hand, clicked his heels, and said in German “Es ist nett, Sie zu treffen!” He then smiled and
added in English “It is nice to meet you.”
The apartment was very large. There were three small dogs who appeared ecstatic upon the
return of Hana to the house. Lou noted that Heinrich paid absolutely no attention to the dogs.
Everyone had things to do; Lou sat at a comfortable chair by the window that overlooked the
tree-lined street that was currently filled with snow.
As Lou’s thoughts returned to Mallorca for a moment, an unappealing thought occurred to him.
There were lovers from Belgium, England, France, Norway, and Ireland, during his various stays
on the island. What was there in common among them? They were all on holiday in a foreign
country; such vacations presented opportunities to have new experiences, including sexual
adventures. Their approach to sexual relations at home may have differed widely from their
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behavior on holidays abroad. Perhaps the Hana in Mallorca bore little resemblance to the Hana
of Berlin who had a husband from whom she was separated and an 11-year-old son who lived
with her.
Lou remembered Selma, his Norwegian lover Kristen’s mother in law. She was a well preserved
woman in her mid-fifties who had traveled to Mallorca with her daughter-in-law. Kristen had
brought her two-year-old boy Eric, whom she had carried around on her back. Meanwhile, Selma
was riding around the countryside on a motorbike driven by a Mallorquin man in his forties who
bore a stunning resemblance to Humphrey Bogart. Kristen had to coordinate time with Lou with
her mother-in-law to insure that little Eric was well cared for.
Selma had seen Lou dancing with her daughter-in-law at the Hotel Marina. Kristen was married
to her son Jens, but was evidently making love to the American. She herself had divorced from
Karl, who had never given her reason for jealousy by taking other lovers.
He did, however, suffer from a dullness of spirit that eventually had become unbearable.
Regrettably, Jens inherited his father’s trait. She secretly sympathized with Kristen, who clearly
needed more excitement and adventure in her life. She wasn’t about to spoil Kristen’s current
momentary pleasures and happiness in spending time with the American. It was no surprise that
this American with the huge beard satisfied the hunger in Kristen for mystery and romance. She
wondered if he was any good in bed.
Selma’s generosity toward her daughter-in-law would be tested the following year when Kristen
flew to the United States to spend a week with Lou. At that point, she informed her son about the
affair in Mallorca.
Selma thought of the first-time Lou approached their table at their hotel lounge that evening. He
had walked at an even pace; there was no hesitation, nor was there arrogance; she did not care
for arrogant men.
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All that hair and the big beard! Selma wondered how that beard would feel exploring her body.
Andre was very passionate, but a little rough in his lovemaking; still she had no cause for
complaint. She was 53 years old and felt proud that she was still able to attract younger men,
although at 44, Andre was no spring chicken.
As for Kristen, she had no sooner reached the dance floor than she buried her head on Lou’s
shoulder; thereby immediately clarifying her feelings and intentions. Lou was immediately
encouraged by the way she was resting her head upon him, it was a good sign. He began
whispering in her ear. By the third slow dance, Selma could see enough of the dark dance floor
to know that his fingers had moved from the Kristen’s lower back to the top of her bottom,
which Selma, by the way, thought was Kristen’s most attractive region. From the looks of things,
the American apparently thought so as well.
When Kristen returned to the table, she said offhandedly that she was going outside for
awhile. Selma smiled, leaned over and said to her “what we do in Mallorca we do not talk about
in Norway.” Kristen was visibly relieved that her mother-in-law was clearly giving her the green
light to spend time with the American boy.
Well why not? After all, Selma had the Mallorquin Humphrey Bogart attending to her needs,
thought Kristen. This American was well traveled, a man of the world. She had never met
anyone like him in the Oslo suburb where she grew up, married and was now raising a child.
Years later Kristen would say that her affair with Lou changed her life; she stopped drinking
heavily and enrolled in the University of Oslo, where she began studying philosophy. When Lou
eventually learned of this development, he thought to himself that he never viewed his time with
her as social work.
He returned from his reflections on the past to the current moment. As he sat in the living room
in Hana’s apartment in Berlin, the situation was decidedly not what he had expected. Lou had to
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accept that; for whatever the reason, he and Hana would be friends rather than lovers. Every time
Lou admired her adorable curves, he wanted to explore them at his leisure. In time, the
disappointment would disappear more quickly than he could have first imagined as less inspiring
aspects of Hana’s personality emerged. They had less than two hours together in Mallorca before
her cab had arrived to take her from the Port of Soller to the airport in Palma.
Lou cons’s philosophy was that he would have his share of lovers, as well his share of women
who were not interested in taking him as a lover. This situation was more difficult because the
signals from Hana were mixed. There were the signals given during their brief meeting in
Mallorca. “Why did I have to meet you on my last day in Mallorca?” Hana had complained.
Then there was the presence of Heinrich at the airport; he decided the best approach was to
accept the fact that she was not to be a lover. At the same time, he was convinced that chances
were fairly good that she would have made love to him on the island if they had had more time
together. Now she was home, her 11-year-old son usually not far away, as well as other
considerations unknown to Lou.
Charlottenburg had wide avenues; the coffee shops were clean and the pastries excellent, but the
coffee was a poor substitute for a Spanish café con leche’. Lou divided his time by exploring the
city during the day and spending evenings with Hana and Heinrich. There were relatives of Hana
that lived in Czechoslovakia in the town Brno; she suggested that they take a five trip through
East Germany to Czechoslovakia.
Hana visited Brno regularly, bringing clothes and food that were unavailable behind the “Iron
Curtain” in Eastern Europe. Her car was an improbable three wheeler that inclined towards the
front. The orange and yellow exterior added a further comic touch. She proposed that they make
a five-day excursion through East Germany to Brno. Lou, ever interested in seeing a new part of
the world, immediately accepted the offer.
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As with most dictatorships, considerable contact with officialdom was required. Hana obtained a
transit visa that allowed them to travel on the highway in East Germany leading to
Czechoslovakia. A good navigational sense was essential since it was a crime to be found more
than two miles from the road, which could lead to one’s arrest and likely imprisonment.
Lou visited the Czech Consulate the following day to obtain a visa. This turned out to be a very
easy process since he was the only one who had come to there that day requesting a visa. In the
seventies, Czechoslovakia was hardly a popular travel destination.
Hana packed the little car with chocolate, sardines and other canned goods that were difficult to
obtain in Czechoslovakia. “We hate the Russians.” she explained. “The first thing that we did
was remove all the street signs to make travel more difficult for them. None of the young girls
would talk to the Russian soldiers; I heard stories that some of the soldiers cried when the girls
refused to talk to them.” said Hana.
They left early in the morning on a very cold day. There was no problem entering East Germany
at the border; the road leading to Czechoslovakia was in good condition. They passed the cities
of Halle and Dresden. Hana maintained a lively conversation while she was driving, appearing
excited at the prospect of returning to her native country to see her relatives and friends.
When they arrived in Brno, the first thing that Hana did was take Lou to present himself at the
police station, a compulsory formality during the Soviet occupation. The conversation was in
Slavic and therefore beyond Lou’s comprehension. However, from the looks on the faces of the
police, Hana’s well-endowed features counted for something. They left without Lou being asked
a single question.
Hana explained that for a host of reasons, she recommended that Lou stay in a government
operated hotel. The room was spacious and comfortable; the hotel itself was a lesson in
bureaucracy run amok. Each floor had its own cleaning staff, reception, and accounting
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operations. No one appeared to be terribly busy, nor did anyone seen particularly tired from
overwork.
Czechoslovakia was proving to be an unsettling experience; Lou’s ability to speak English,
French and Spanish enabled him to communicate in most countries around the world that he had
visited. He did not even have a Czech phrasebook book at his disposal since the trip was
impromptu.
The next stop was the bank where they changed money. There were few people waiting in line,
yet progress was slow indeed. Hana leaned over and whispered “that teller is complaining to the
customer that she is having trouble getting her six-year-old to eat. The clerk next to her is talking
about her boyfriend. She loves him madly and is describing how wonderful he is. From the look
on the face on the third clerk, it appears she harbors doubts as to the boyfriend’s excellent
qualities. Notice the very thin smile on her face that is remaining in one place. It is likely that she
has heard this conversation many times before, and wishes she had not done so.” said Hana.
After the bank, they went to a restaurant. What followed was an education in the scarcity of
goods in Soviet controlled Czechoslovakia. The restaurant was almost empty, with only three
patrons sitting at one table. The waiter arrived with large menus; Hana translated the dishes for
him. Lou pointed to the chicken with potatoes; the waiter immediately shook his head “not
today”. He then pointed to two other entrées; neither was available. At that point, Lou put the
menu down, smiled and said to Hana “Please ask him what entrées are available today.”
Lou studied Hana carefully during the meal; she had a different presence about her in
Czechoslovakia than in Berlin. She was dressed elegantly and was wearing makeup. In Berlin,
she wore unpretentious clothes, including blue jeans and a green Army jacket. Of course, with
her pretty face, nice legs and beautiful ass, she would have been appealing wearing anything
short of a nun’s habit. Upon further reflection, Lou decided Hana dressed in a nun’s habit
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presented erotic possibilities. Was she trying to impress her relatives and friends, or was her
behavior designed to increase her status with the authorities? The trunk of the car was laden with
all types of food ranging from cherry chocolates to canned hams. Hana had bribed the border
guards at the immigration checkpoint with bratwurst. She was clearly smuggling food into the
country, not for profit, but rather for the enjoyment of her relatives and friends. She appeared to
be reveling in her role as the rich relative from the West; Lou was unsure that he cared for the
transformation
Brno offered street scenes reminiscent of a 1920’s movie. An old-style trolley traveled noisily
along a wide avenue under gray winter skies. Hana’s relatives were formal with Lou, well short
of friendliness. There was a reserve that may have been due to Lou’s long hair and beard, or
perhaps to his undefined relationship with Hana. For whatever reason, Lou felt uncomfortable at
the obvious scrutiny and lack of warmth. These were not people he wanted to spend time with.
They were unhappy people, hardly surprising given the harsh circumstances of living in an
occupied country. The former Czech government of Alexander Dubcek had introduced a more
liberal form of Communist government referred to as “Socialism with a human face.” The
changes had not been well received in Moscow; the Soviet tanks and troops had subsequently
invaded.
The Soviets ousted Mr. Dubcek, relegating him to work as a night watchman, while placing their
own man in power. Meanwhile, the Czechs could do little more than ignore the occupiers and
remove the street signs. Out of Lou’s hearing, Hana’s cousin Nicole said to her husband “Here is
this American traveling the world free as a bird, living in Mallorca and flying to Berlin on a
whim, while our store shelves are half-empty.”
Lou took a highly casual approach to dress. He was wearing blue socks but that were not quite a
match. Nicole’s husband was kind enough to point this failing out to Lou, who had difficulty
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understanding such pettiness, quickly dismissing it with a smile. He excused himself from their
company, claiming travel fatigue, and returned to his hotel with a feeling a relief to be away
from the relatives. After taking a nap, he strolled around town and stopped at a café, where he
sipped coffee, listened to John Coltrane’s performance of “My Favorite Things” on his portable
player, and read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “100 Years of Solitude.”
That evening, Heinrich and Hana came to his hotel to invite him for an evening at one of Brno’s
popular nightspots. It was a huge cave with large fire torches attached to the walls for
illumination. They were joined by a Russian named Anatoly, who was the manager of a tire
factory in Russia. He was friendly and gregarious, talking freely about his meetings with the
Russian premier Leonid Breshnev and the production difficulties that necessitated his bribing
those responsible for raw materials. It was obvious that he trusted Heinrich and Hana, and was
clearly ready to have a few laughs and enjoy himself.
Lou wondered if Hana had cultivated him as a friend to give herself some insulation from the
current régime; dictatorships fostered paranoid thinking.
Everyone was in a good mood. Heinrich, usually a man of few words, seemed quite content to
join in the conversation. It was hard to know what was going on inside him. From their first
meeting, he had been quite friendly towards Lou, speaking openly about the challenges facing
him with his small business where he employed two workers. It was a shop he had inherited from
his father, and one that he was not pleased to operate. At the moment, it was not profitable
enough to sell, but at the same time it made enough to pay the employees and provide him with a
modest income. Heinrich’s relationship with Hana was difficult to assess. Lou guessed that it
was Heinrich’s decision to leave. There were indications that, given Hana’s self-absorption, she
was not an easy long time partner. Lou felt intuitively that Heinrich was a decent man who was
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wise enough to realize he had made a mistake getting involved with Hana, but still felt a
lingering attraction.
Back in Berlin, Heinrich always left Hana’s apartment early in the evening. Did he have a lover
waiting for him somewhere in Berlin? After Lou’s second night, Heinrich spent less time in
Hana’s apartment in Charlottenburg. Perhaps, she concluded that Heinrich no longer needed to
serve as a watchdog since Lou had not made any sexual advances. At the same time, she was
slightly irritated that Lou had accepted the no-sex decision so readily.
The more that he observed her, the less Lou felt inclined to be her lover. The party at the
nightclub continued; there was excellent wine, along with music provided by a quartet of
violinists. There was much laughter at the table, which Lou joined in on without understanding
the humor. At about two in the morning, fatigue overtook the group; it was time to leave.
Language remained a major problem since neither Hana nor Lou was fluent in Spanish, which
was their only common language.
They went to the coat room to retrieve their coats. In the presence of Heinrich, Hana suddenly
lunged at Lou, hugging him in a tight embrace and looked expectantly in his eyes as she awaited
a kiss. Lou, ever inclined to avoid offense and concerned over the possibility of Heinrich’s
discomfort, gave her a peck on the cheek, gently pulling away from her.
The nightclub was within walking distance from Lou’s hotel. He found himself excited at the
prospect of making love to her, wondering if he should invite Hana to his hotel room. Would that
create problems with the staff? How uncomfortable would Heinrich feel as he watched his exwife
enter the hotel to make love to the American? He had never been in a position like this
before; the language difficulties prevented him from knowing Hana’s relationship with her exhusband.
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Had he left her because she had other sexual affairs? Did she tell him that she was not interested
in a relationship with Lou and needed his support for the five-day trip to Czechoslovakia?
There were many opportunities during the first days for them to have made love discreetly. Was
this sudden sexual interest designed to provoke Heinrich, or was Hana’s her arousal due to the
large amount of wine she had consumed?
It simply was not worth it. Lou shook hands with Heinrich, gave Hana a hug, and excused
himself, saying that he was very tired and that he would see them in the morning. Hana gave a
little shrug, as if to say “well, you had your chance.” Heinrich’s face was as inscrutable as a
Japanese corporate executive.
The next morning, Lou had breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Coffee was served; the best that
could be said about it was it had the appearance of coffee, if not the taste. As he looked at the
dining room entrance, three uniformed police officers entered, followed by a man wearing a suit.
The suit said to Lou “Come with us.” Lou stood up and walked out silently to the Black Maria
that was waiting outside. He was placed in the back and they drove off; they put him in a small
cell, where he sat for hours. No water or food was given to him; the cell was windowless, with
only a dim light bulb overhead. What was this about?
As he waited, Lou ruminated on the various reasons for his arrest. Hopefully, the most likely
explanation was that a mistake had been made. That thought was quickly followed by the
prospect of a trumped up charge that he was a smuggler or a spy. During his stay, he had not
seen a single American. Another possibility was that he had inadvertently done something that
had placed him on the police radar.
Would they ask him to sign a confession full of lies on the promise that he would be expelled
without being further detainment? It might be worth the gamble to sign whatever they wanted.
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He could later argue that it was signed under duress and flog them publicly in the press upon his
return to the United States.
The cell door opened with a loud bang; the guard motioned for Lou to leave. To his amazement,
he was delivered to the front door of the station, with the guard motioning for him to leave the
building, where Heinrich and Hana were waiting with Anatoly.
She kissed him warmly on the lips and held him for a minute. “I’m sorry Lou! This was a
misunderstanding. Anatoly explained to the police that we were all friends just having a good
time.” she said urgently. “Someone at the club informed the police that there was a foreigner
acting suspiciously. The description matched you; that is why you were arrested. Lou whispered
pleadingly in her ear, “Let’s get out of this country right now.”
“We can leave tomorrow after breakfast, but it is important for me to stay today. Do not worry;
nothing else will happen. Anatoly is very well connected; you won’t be bothered again.” she said
confidently.
“Fine with me, but right now, let’s go to a bar or cafe that serves cognac. I need a drink; in fact I
probably need several.” he said.
After visiting many countries around the world, he had never been as happy to leave one. At the
same time, the trip back to West Berlin filled him with dread. His passport photo gave him the
appearance of a Russian dissident. Would they deny him entrance to East Germany based on the
variance between his passport photo and his current appearance? If so, would he be forced to
return to Czechoslovakia?
Lou decided that if that happened he would take public transportation to the Austrian border.
How long would that take? His return flight to Mallorca was due to leave in less than two days
from the airport in West Berlin. Would these fascists arrest him on suspicion of using someone
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else’s passport? Could he receive assistance from the American consulate? Consulate staff did
not enjoy a good reputation for being helpful. Would he need to shave his beard and cut his hair
to avoid the possible prejudices of the consulate staff?
The questions and concerns were churning in Lou’s brain. He decided not to share them with
Hana or Heinrich. They could not do much, other than communicate at the border station; there
was no point in making them nervous.
The car pulled up to the East German border checkpoint. It was an extremely cold night, yet the
guards ordered them to turn off the engine. Each traveler was being carefully questioned. Lou
was feeling edgy; would he make it through or would these Fascists in leather hip boots cause
him more problems?
After an agonizing wait, it was their turn. The officials opened Lou’s travel bag and began
looking through his books on yoga; perhaps they were looking for smuggled letters. It was
doubtful they were seeking answers to metaphysical questions, or even the mundane question of
“why do I have to work outside in the cold?” The uncertainty was taking an emotional toll on
Lou’s psyche.
Hana was asked numerous questions, which she handled calmly. After a few minutes, the officer
waved his arm indicating that they could proceed. There were no amenities of “good evening” or
“good bye”, certainly not the Californian phrase “Have a nice day”.
The remainder of the trip went smoothly. As they entered the apartment in Berlin, Lou was
surprised to see how orderly the place had been maintained by Johan. Here was an 11-year-old
boy who had the ability to prepare his meals, take care of three dogs, go to school and adequately
maintain a five room apartment. In the United States, Hana would have probably been arrested
for child abuse after the neighbors complained to the authorities that a young child had been left
alone. The reason Hana gave for leaving Johan behind was that she feared, not without good
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reason, that because he had been born in Czechoslovakia, Johan might not have been permitted
to leave that country.
Hana exhibited an extraordinary charm with her dogs; she would talk to them in a warm and
quiet way that resulted in a remarkable range of emotional yelps coming from the three little
sausages. Lou was exhausted from the trip. He took a shower, gave a friendly hug goodnight to
Hana waved goodnight to Johan, who was clearly too formal and correct for a hug. It did not take
him long to fall asleep; Hana, however, had different ideas.
He was suddenly awakened by her climbing into bed with him; he was stunned. What was this?
They had been together ten days and absolutely nothing. Now as he was about to leave, she was
hopping into the sack with him.
There was no mistaking her intentions. She was not lonely and simply in need of a hug. As she
lay down next to him, she moved her hand to Lou’s genitals and caressed Priapus out of its
slumber. She was wearing a night dress without bra or panties, assuring easy access. Lou sucked
softly on one breast while using his hands to explore her bottom, with its gorgeous curves and
undulations. That quickly brought Lou’s member to firm attention.
Hana moved slowly on top; he entered her as she began to grind in lively fashion. Lou knew this
little love story would have a happy ending, but he preferred a longer tale. Woody Allen said he
thought of the names of baseball players to delay the moment of ecstasy. Lou did not follow
baseball well enough to know the player’s names to employ this strategy. Using both hands, he
took firm grasp of her ample bottom and slowed the pace to a more manageable level. Hana
came with a slight moan; Lou then gave into a pleasurable release.
As Hana slid off and collapsed on the bed, Lou quietly stroked her hair and cheek.
He decided to wait for her to speak. After all, she was the one who had asked for this dance.
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It was a long wait; when he looked over in her direction, he found her fast asleep. He then stood
up and checked to make certain that his door was securely closed. Johan had not made a habit of
entering his room, but he felt more comfortable with the door locked. He was now wide awake
and too stimulated for sleep. Despite the cold December weather in Berlin, the apartment was
kept at a warm temperature that rendered it quite cozy.
Snow was falling outside; the parked cars were partially hidden in the snow; the scene was
illuminated by the streetlights. He went back to bed and drifted off to sleep. Hours later, light
flooded into the room. Hana stirred and Lou began to caress her; she looked alarmed. “Johan
might hear us.” she whispered. “I will be very quiet.” he said smiling. “You better be.” she
replied with more menace than humor. “Soon I have to get dressed and make his breakfast.” Lou
agreed as he proceeded to the business at hand, so to speak. She pulled him towards her, softly
saying “but please, not too quickly.” They both reached climax in a sotto voce.
After Hana left the room, Lou allowed his thoughts to wander. He reflected on his time on the
island of Jamaica, the first place that he had traveled to outside of the United States. He chose
Jamaica because, as a youth worker in Brooklyn, he had been impressed with the young people
from Jamaica and their parents. There was a graciousness about their speech and mannerisms
that appealed to him. When he arrived there the first time, he told the cabdriver that he would
pay money to a family in a private house, where he would pay money for room and board.
He had said to the driver that he did not want to live in a hotel, preferring to pay money to a
local family. The driver replied “I know just the place; when you see me again you will buy me a
drink; in fact, you will buy me two drinks.”
It was large home with a veranda overlooking Commonwealth Stadium. The house was
surrounded by palm trees and beautiful plants. He was greeted by an attractive woman in her
early twenties who was wearing a baby doll outfit: Lou took one look at her and wondered if he
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would ever leave Jamaica.
Her name was Claudette; she and her mother Sheila operated a small guest house. The only other
person living there was a maid. He quickly arranged for the cost of his stay; the price included
two meals a day.
The next night, he went to the local Hilton, where Jamaicans were sliding underneath the limbo
bar. He noticed that the orchestra was very jazz oriented, Lou approached the trumpeter and told
him that the orchestra sounded good and that he was a jazz aficionado from New York City. The
musician pointed to a man with a beard who was wearing a Sherlock Holmes cap, saying “Go
with him.” Lou was soon sitting inside a Volkswagen bug, driving off to a section of Kingston
called “Crossroads.”
Above the Crossroads theater, there was a club where the trumpeter Sonny Red was performing
with his quintet. When Lou entered, the group was playing Thelonious Monk’s “Round
Midnight.” He sat there, enthralled by the music. Out of nowhere an attractive woman was sitting
next to him. She struck up a conversation; her name was Andrea. She owned a salon in another
area of Kingston. Lou bought her a drink; between sets they discussed their respective lives.
She turned to Lou and said “ I like you, I like you a lot.” It’s a nice night; let’s go up on the
Roof; we can look at the stars together.”
They left their drinks and walked up the back staircase. To Lou’s utter amazement, she
unbuttoned his zipper and proceeded to pleasure him. He thought he was in heaven.
After Sonny Red finished playing, they took a cab to her beauty salon. “I live with a family;
it is too late to go there; we will go to the salon instead.” she said.
When they were inside her shop, they stripped as she directed Lou to the barbers chair.
Andrea tilted the chair backwards until Lou was in a reclining position. She then climbed on top,
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straddling him.
This was his first time; his teenage years had been spent at a private Catholic prep school, so I
had missed the daily interaction day with girls that was available at the public high school.
He remembered he was so scared and excited that he had lasted for a long time. “Christ,
your good.” moaned Andrea. It wasn’t so much that he was good; but rather that he was too
frightened to arrive at what the French refer to as le petit mort.
“I was probably better on my first lovemaking than on subsequent occasions.” thought Lou.
Andrea loved foreign men. She had previously had affairs with Swiss and British men.
Jamaica proved to be an amazing place for Lou. People would suggest that he go somewhere,
and he always agreed to do so.
Once time, he found himself up at the racecourse at Caymanas Park, compliments of one of the
Racing Stewards, a friend of Sheila who had driven him there. She knew a lot of people; Lou had
greatly benefited from them. One has not seen a horse race until one experienced the
racecourse in Jamaica, with the lilting voices of the people screaming “Come on mon, move the
horse mon!” There were some in attendance who became so excited they ran onto the course
during the running of the race, a dangerous practice indeed.
Lou though back to other moments during that trip. Lacy, one of Sheila’s friends, lived
In a hillside home on the Newcastle Road in the Blue Mountains. The house was surrounded by
lush vegetation; for a longtime New Yorker, it appeared to be a setting in paradise.
One time, Lou wound up playing poker for pennies in Chinatown, betting the small sums of
“tuppence and thropence”, and having many laughs in the process. All the people had been
kind to him, especially Sheila.
As for Andrea, he had learned about her life, which was tragic. During her youth, she
had a mentally ill mother who beat her. Her aunts had said to her “Andrea, you must get away
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from your mother; she is not well.” Andrea finally managed to leave at sixteen, but she had
suffered. For years Lou managed to keep in touch with her, but they lost contact over time. He
wondered how her life was at the moment.
Abandoning his reveries, Lou dressed, joining Johan and Hana for breakfast. Hana had returned
to being her pleasant, but emotionally distant self. She seemed to be very kind to Johan, was
clearly proud of him, and rightly so given his maturity and intelligence that appeared to be far
beyond any 11-year-old Lou had ever encountered. Yet her emotional demonstrativeness
appeared to be limited to the three dogs, where her keen emotional connection to them was, from
the canine perspective, a resounding success.
Lou took a second cup of coffee, then moved to the living room chair that overlooked the snowladen
street. He reflected on his life. As a skinny and energetic teenager, he did not have dreams
or aspirations that extended beyond the moment. He had not even given much thought to what he
would do after he completed high school, nor was he under any particular pressure from his
parents to have done do so.
His teenage years had been filled with his friends, school, and New York City games such as
subway tag, handball, basketball, softball and shooting pool. It also included weekend parties
and dancing with the girls in the neighborhood crowd. During the late fifties in his section of
Queens, surrounded largely by girls and boys from Catholic homes, Lou understood
masturbation well enough, but he had been very much in the dark about sex.
Milan Kundera once wrote that young men and women enter a world that appears to be
completely formed, with no particular need for their presence; they look to older members of
society as models.
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Once Lou started working at the Knosole Insurance Company while attending New York
University at night, there was no shortage of models to choose from. He had also adopted an
adult demeanor as a teenager when he and his friends attended liquor parties in the
neighborhood. Mature behavior was valued and the liquor flowed freely. He got along well with
his fellow workers; most of whom were in their late twenties and early thirties. Some admitted
their surprise that an 18-year-old could indeed fit in so well with them.
The pleasant part of such recollections was that he had made a successful transition from a
humble file clerk working in a second subbasement two levels below ground in Manhattan to a
well-traveled man of the world who had his share of lovers. There were also feelings of
accomplishment from his social work with prisoners and neglected children. Was he content with
his life?
Well, he was happy enough when he was traveling. There were many times waves of bliss
moved through his being when he lived in Puerto de Soller. It happened on rides on the tram-via
as it passed through the valley of orange groves from the Port to the village of Soller. There was
the feeling of exhilaration seeing the mountain peak Puij Major when the tram stopped at the
monument, or the tranquility he felt looking out from his apartment balcony on the terraced
hillside filled with olive and pine trees. There were also fond memories of lovers. Yet in quiet
moments lately, he felt a sense of loneliness. It had been two years since his last long term
relationship; it felt like twenty.
He would soon be 38 years old and single. Lou needed a long-term partner, yet he knew he had
to find someone willing to live together without marriage and without monogamy, not with him
running out every night, but one night a week of independent activity. He could never “cheat’; it
offended his sense of ethics. For more than two years, he had lived with Carol under that
arrangement. When she asked him for a commitment, he had declined. He recalled telling her
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that all he could say was that he was happy at the moment being with her. In five years, who
could say? They might grow closer together, remain the same, or grow further apart. It was
impossible to predict which would be the case. This was not the answer she had hoped for.
Her next question was whether Lou would agree to have a child with her. He immediately
declined that offer, saying to her “I cannot meet your needs, it is better for you to find someone
else who can. I’m sorry.”
Indeed she did find someone. At the beginning, Carol was seeing both Lou and her new
boyfriend. However, her latest love was unhappy with her continuing to see Lou. He asked her to
terminate the relationship with him; Carol agreed to do so.
For the first time in life, Lou was depressed at the termination of a relationship. He knew Carol
was not the woman he wanted to spend his life with. She had serious emotional problems. As for
having a baby, Carol had enough serious challenges coping with her own life; how could she
possibly take care of a child?
Carol’s leaving had hurt deeply. There was a profound sense of loss that sank Lou into a
depression. He called her and said he wanted her back; it was irrational, but there it was. Of
course, she declined, saying “I used to dream you would say these things to me, but you never
did.”
If he met a woman his own age, children would not become an issue. One thing was certain;
while he was happy with the way he had lived through his thirties, he felt that it would be too
demanding physically to continue working, living abroad on his savings, only to return broke to
the United States to start all over again.
Although he was pleased with what he had done thus far in life, he was now ready to form a
long-term relationship while traveling for brief periods and enjoying more leisure time in the
United States by working only four days a week as a consultant. He could use the extra day for
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trips to Reno or Lake Tahoe if he lived in Sacramento. Having developed a general road map for
his future, all the plan needed was a woman to share it with.
The snow in Charlottenburg had stopped falling. Johan had left for school; Hana was washing
dishes in the kitchen. Lou approached her from behind and gently kissed her on the neck. She
turned and kissed him, took his hand and walked him back into the bedroom. That night, he had
dinner with Johan and Heinrich. Soon it was time for Lou to leave for the airport. Unlike with
some other lovers he had met in Mallorca, Lou felt intuitively that he would never see Hana
again. It had been the strangest love affair of his life, due in part to the language difficulties they
faced. Lou was wrong; they would one day meet again on the island of Mallorca, where it had
begun. On that future occasion, they would meet as old friends rather than lovers.
The return trip to Mallorca was rapid. Fortunately, it was Sunday, the only night that a late
evening train departed from the Plaza Espana for the village of Soller. Lou took the bus from the
airport to the Plaza Espana. He crossed the wide boulevard and entered the Soller Train Station,
purchasing a first-class ticket and climbing up into the empty parlor car compartment. The beige
seats were plush; Lou sank down and relaxed with his Garcia Marquez novel.
The train engineer and conductor passed through, acknowledging Lou with a friendly greeting.
After his many stays in Soller, there had been several news articles about him in the local paper;
he was a well-known figure in the village. Slowly, the train emerged from the station with its
clicking sound. It moved along tracks that were located in the center of the avenue.
Soon Son Pardo, the trotting racecourse, appeared on the left. Although the races were over, the
lights remained in the stable area. The small station of Son Sardina soon appeared; on most
occasions, the train did not stop at this station, tonight was no exception. After about fifteen
minutes, the train entered the terraced village of Bunyola that extended up the mountainside.
Soon the train entered the seven mile tunnel, with the village of Soller coming into view as the
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train exited the long tunnel. Finally, the train entered the station; Lou could see the tram-via
waiting outside for the passengers heading on to the Port of Soller.
After arriving in the Port, he entered his apartment and sat on the terrace facing the Es Port Hotel
across the street. The band was still playing; perhaps he might get lucky and find an available
lady from Scandinavia or France who was looking for an adventure. He rejected the thought,
deciding he was not interested in meeting someone new tonight. Lou knew he was changing.
The next day he walked to Isabel’s office, where a letter from Carl waiting for him. He opened it
and began reading:
Hi Lou, how’s it going? I hope you are enjoying the good life in Mallorca. Here, Cindy and I
have been having a great time together. She is very open to new experiences; I shared some
acid with her the other night; afterwards, the sex was incredible!
The only bummer lately is we received a complaint about our music being too loud. Hey, no
problem! I have hooked up dual headphones with extended cords; we can walk around blowing
our ear drums off and the neighbors won’t hear a thing!
I gave your mother a ride to the supermarket the other day. You obviously have never
explained my free-spirited driving style to her. I was surprised how nervous she was. She said
“Carl, I am not ready to leave this world yet.” I offered to pick her up after she finished the
shopping; it was probably just as well she declined because later that day I was pulled over by
the California Highway Patrol, who claimed I was driving 60 miles per hour in a 30 mile zone. I
went into perhaps too lengthy a discourse on the unreliability of radar guns; as a result, we
became rather unpopular with each other. I will have to pay money for this ticket, no doubt
about it.
I met Cindy’s parents; they are younger than I am. She told me they were really cool and
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they were. Her mom cooked pesto pasta al dente; it was very good. For dessert, we had home
made hash brownies and kicked back.
“What a relief! My first wife Julie’s parents were religious fanatics who were no fun at all. On
top of that, they hated my appearance. Julie told me her mother once said to her “no one should
look like Groucho Marx except Groucho. Relations soured completely when I asked her who was
buried in Grant’s tomb.
Well Lou, take care and come back when you are ready to join us.
Love, Carl
It was time to return to the United States. He would have been astonished to learn that the next
time he returned to Mallorca, he would be with Angela, a woman with whom he would spend
more than forty years together. The travel had been a great ride, but his body was telling him the
time had come to board a different train. He still wanted one night a week free, but he knew he
needed and wanted a long term relationship with a woman who was willing to accept Lou’s
preferences. The travel bug was still present; that had not changed.
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Chapter XV I
1980: Lou Returns to California and Meets Angela
After his return to Sacramento, he began working and saving money for the next trip. He called
Carol, who was now separated from her husband and available for weekly get-togethers. One
major development was that his family had, to his surprise, moved from New York City to
Sacramento. His sister had arrived first, followed by his mother and father, who could not bear
to be separated from the grandchildren.
As he walked home one evening, he felt that, having arrived at the age of 40, he was uncertain he
wanted to continue the lifestyle involving extended trips, which was inevitably followed by
finding a new apartment, securing work, and renewing old relationships as well as finding new
ones. It had been a good run, but Lou’s body seemed to be sending a message that it was not
pleased with the continuance of his past lifestyle.
Several weeks later, he went to Jenny’s apartment, who was an old friend. When he arrived, she
had company. Jenny introduced Angela by saying “Lou, for years I have been telling you that
you should meet my friend Angela. Well, here she is.” said Jenny.
Angela smiled. She was an attractive British Lady who had been living in the United States for
several years. Prior to that, she had spent time in Israel, Switzerland and France. Lou thought to
himself “I would like to be with a woman like this.”
Jenny apologized to them both for having to leave shortly due to a prior commitment. Lou took
Jenny’s departure as an opportunity to invite Angela to Nelson’s, a popular café that was near
Jenny’s apartment; Angela promptly agreed.
Over cappuccinos, they learned that they had many similar life experiences; both had worked for
insurance companies in their youth before entering the field of social work. He invited her to his
parents’ apartment for a seafood dinner, saying “my mom cooks an excellent halibut.” He was
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disappointed when Angela declined, explaining that she “had to get back to her dog”. They
exchanged phone numbers, but Lou decided not to call her, thinking that the return to her dog
was an excuse to limit further contact.
Several weeks passed by, with Angela only a distant memory in Lou’s mind. When he returned
home from work, his mother said “By the way, a lady named Angela phoned; she wants you to
call her.”
The next evening they went to a Chinese restaurant, followed by a visit to Sacramento’s only art
theater, which in turn gave way to a night in bed together. It appeared that events were drawing
Angela and Lou closer. Her roommate was getting married and moving out at the end of the
month; Angela needed a roommate, while Lou was searching for an apartment.
He could no longer stay with Carl, who was now happily married to Cindy, the 20-year-old
neighbor who had showed up at his door one day with two honeydew lemons and had never left.
She and Carl were, despite protests from neighbors, still blowing the walls off; the last time Lou
visited, he heard the rock music emanating from the apartment when he was still almost one
block away. Carl had apparently traded John Coltrane for the Rolling Stones.
Lou was fortunate to ultimately find a woman his age with whom he was compatible on many
levels; he was also lucky to have met her when he was in his early forties. Had they met ten years earlier, it is doubtful that he would have been ready.

Angela had traveled extensively and had lived in France, Israel, and Switzerland; she too had a broad range of life experiences. There would be new places to share together, but Lou would propose the first trip be to the island of Mallorca. Lou was happy living with Angela; they shared a similar yoga philosophy and enjoyed many of the same authors. She had her own business, ofte driving Lou to work  in the morning. One day, she started the car engine , looked up at the sky and said “what a

nice cloud formation.” Lou was grateful to be with awoman who could enjoy cloud formations at eight in the morning.

East German engineering at its finest?

For advocates of capitalism it is often cited as an example of the disadvantages of centralized planning as even refueling the car required lifting the hood, filling the tank with gasoline (only 24 litres), then adding two-stroke oil and shaking it back and forth to mix. It was in production without any significant changes for nearly 30 years with 3,096,099 Trabants produced in total (source).

Photos: ifa.zweitakt

Happy New Year! Here are the top ten posts of 2009, highlighting some of the key political moments for the people’s struggles around the world over the past year. They have been selected by The Marxist-Leninist based on their popularity as well as their overall political significance.

10: 41st anniversary of the CPP: Strive to make a great advance in the People’s War for New Democracy

We celebrate today with utmost joy the 41st anniversary of the founding of the Communist Party of the Philippines as the revolutionary advanced detachment of the Filipino proletariat under the theoretical guidance of Marxism-Leninism-Maoism. We are deeply gratified by the long-accumulated as well as recent victories won by the Filipino proletariat and people under the leadership of the Party in the course of the new democratic revolution through protracted people’s war. We salute and congratulate all our cadres and members and we pay the highest respects to our revolutionary martyrs and heroes for making our victories possible.

 9: Unity and steadfastness: Over 70,000 rally in Gaza for PFLP 42nd anniversary

Over 70,000 cadres, members and supporters of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, and the people of the Gaza Strip, converged on Palestine Stadium for the 42nd anniversary rally of the PFLP on December 12, 2009, spilling into the surrounding streets and carrying Palestinian flags, PFLP banners and posters of the Front’s martyrs and leaders.

8: FRSO: No to the Escalation, End the Afghanistan War Now!

Freedom Road Socialist Organization denounces the escalation of the bloody and unjust U.S. war in Afghanistan. We condemn the decision made by the White House and Pentagon to ‘surge’ over 30,000 U.S. and NATO forces into Afghanistan in an attempt to stabilize a failing occupation regime.

7: Harry Haywood: The Degeneration of the CPUSA in the 1950s

The April 1956 National Committee meeting saw the Communist Party in its most serious crisis since 1944. The meeting itself was historic in that it was the first time the top party leadership had met together since 1951. With the exception of Gil Green, Bob Thompson, Gus Hall and Henry Winston who were still in jail, the National Committee was up from underground and out of prison. Right opportunism, which had been thriving and undergoing continuous growth in the ’50s, erupted here into a full-fledged liquidationist line whose only logical conclusion would be the complete destruction of the Party as a revolutionary force.

6: Democracy, East Germany and the Berlin Wall

The GDR was more democratic, in the original and substantive sense of the word, than eastern Germany was before 1949 and than the former East Germany has become since the Berlin Wall was opened in 1989. It was also more democratic than its neighbor, West Germany. While it played a role in the GDR’s eventual demise, the Berlin Wall was at the time a necessary defensive measure to protect a substantively democratic society from being undermined by a hostile neighbor bent on annexing it.

5: The Struggle for Education Rights: UC Walkouts Show the Way

Thousands of union workers, faculty, undergrads and graduate students across the University of California system stood up and said “no more!” to the severe budget cuts, layoffs, furloughs and tuition hikes. On Sept. 24, they stood up and walked out. The UC faculty initiated the walkout. The United Professional and Technical Employees (UPTE) union called a one-day unfair labor practices strike. All ten of the UC campuses saw protests. UCLA saw 1000 students walkout and sit-in at the administration offices, demanding, and winning, a meeting with the chancellor to discuss grievances. At UC-Berkeley over 5000 took the streets, shutting down busy intersections. Students at UC-Santa Cruz occupied a campus building to protest the cuts.

4: 45th Anniversary of the FARC-EP

“The political circumstances are suitable to improve the Armed Movement and the Bolivarian Movement.” Manuel Marulanda Vélez. The FARC’s soul as a flag waving in the wind is mentioned in this Manuel’s saying. 45 years ago we began the fight to look for peace, justice and dignity for Colombia in the Marquetalia heights which is the people’s resistance mountain. Since then we are the armed response of the poor and the righteous people against various types of state violence.

3: Continuing the Revolution is Not a Dinner Party: Looking Back at Tiananmen Square, the Defeat of Counter-Revolution in China

We are publishing the paper, Continuing the Revolution is Not a Dinner Party written 20 years ago during the 1989 turmoil in China. Authored by Mick Kelly, a leading member of the Freedom Road Socialist Organization, this paper was produced in the context of a major two-line debate in our organization on socialism and China. We are publishing it now, because with the 20th anniversary of the events at Tiananmen Square upon us, there are already attempts underway to attack socialism, the Chinese revolution, and those that defend it.

2: Protesters were right to shut down the racist Tancredo

Students at University of North Carolina (UNC) at Chapel Hill made national headlines last week when they confronted the racist ex-congressman Tom Tancredo. 200 students marched, shouted down, or silently protested Tancredo. When 60 students chanted in the lobby of the building where he was to speak, police attacked the demonstration with pepper spray. Two women were thrown to the floor, another protester had her hair pulled by a cop and several people were pushed into the walls. The police drove the students out by threatening them with tasers. Shortly after we were pushed out, a window was broken and the event was shut down.

1: Long Live the Universal Contributions of Comrade Joseph Stalin

December 21, 2009 marks the 130th anniversary of the birth of Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin and working and oppressed people around the world will celebrate this historic date. To commemorate the birth of this outstanding proletarian revolutionary here are some quotes highlighting his achievements and contributions to Marxist-Leninist theory and to the cause of socialism. Many of these quotes, by revolutionaries from around the world, are from various articles collected in an earlier post here on The Marxist-Leninist.

I was about to post on another subject and change my blog from film to something way more interesting like “What Would My Cat Do?” when the red envelope arrived from Netflix.

When I opened the envelope and slipped the disc out of its sleeve I read the title: The Lives of Others. I did not recognize this particular film nor remember why I put it on my NetFlix queue to begin with. Between my disc queue of 134 movies and my instant watch queue of 234 movies I had gotten to the point where there is not a decent flick to be seen.

In fact there’s a point on Netflix where you have moved everything you really want to see up to the top of your queue and all you are waiting for now are the new releases to come out so you can move them up also. This leaves that gray area of movies somewhere in the middle that always get leap frogged for something better, newer. Stuff talked about at the water cooler.

I thought that The Lives of Others(2006) was one of those gray area films that I was coaxed into putting on the list. Although many of the movies viewed in our household come from the previews in front of the feature film. I actually get bummed if the disc doesn’t start with previews. Man, I got ripped.

I did not intend to spend even one pica on a review for any picture. My blog is about the joy of film and what it can bring to the table. The one art form that is completely relatable regardless of age or opinion.

I’m not one to cringe at reading subtitles on a film. Hollywood does not have a lock on good cinema- if anything it has become just the opposite, somewhat trite and archaic as studios are afraid to risk any money on a good story for lack of a marketable audience.

If you make it they will watch.

Well that stands true of any good story.

The Lives of Others is just such a story. In a nutshell the story begins in 1984 East Berlin, where an agent of the secret police, conducting surveillance on a writer and his lover, finds himself becoming increasingly absorbed by their lives. So much so that he alters his beliefs knowing the consequences could be detrimental to his future.

If you are anti-sub title and do not watch foreign movies I urge you to break from tradition. Turn off Reality TV (if only it would go away on its own). Put the kids to bed early. Tell your husband he can skip bowling this week. Ladies you can shop later.

If you don’t have Netflix – have a friend put it on their queue and when it arrives bring them a bottle of wine. If they’re really good friends bring some cheese too. You’re in for a treat. With a running time of 2 hours and 18 minutes you will need your reading glasses but you will not regret.

I’ve been watching movies since Peter Pan came out and I haven’t seen anything this good since at least since the years have been starting with the number 2.

I was riveted I’m telling you, riveted. My wife, who forbade me from ever speaking about her again in my blog, was riveted. She was in tears. (Sorry honey- at least I didn’t mention your name or initial this time)

I don’t even think we paused the movie and I am a prolific pauser. There is a reason this 2006 film has won over 60 awards. It tugs on every emotion.

Picking a favorite film is hard when you like movies as much as I do. There is a reason my DVD collection is bursting at the seams with more than 300 titles. I’d have more if I had more room or more money. There is only a handful I would consider actual favorites. This is without a doubt my favorite German film in the drama genre.

We know the Berlin Wall comes down in 1989. So with this story of secret police eavesdropping on artists starting in 1984 you have a sense of what’s going to happen. The ending will surprise however.

The other thing that’s going to come down is your reluctance to see world cinema.

And now the year 2009 is really coming to an end. Which means another year, another decade past – the first decade of a new millennium. Etc., etc. In this, my last little post of the year, I just want to touch on some of the movies I’ve been frantically watching as December wears on.

First of all, there was Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s Das Leben der Anderen, which won the Oscar for best foreign film back in 2006, beating out Pan’s Labyrinth. Known in English as The Lives of Others, the film involves Wiesler, a surveillance operative for the Stasi (State Police) in 1984 East Germany, who’s assigned to watch over a potentially subversive playwright.

Das Leben der Anderen is an intelligent film about the  hazards of creating art in a totalitarian state, anchored in the eerily stoic performance of Ulrich Mühe as Wiesler, who moves from being an interrogation-happy servant of the state in the opening scene to someone visibly different in the quietly ecstatic freeze-frame that closes out the film. Through its drab decor and Orwellian anxieties, the film recreates a very recent dark chapter in German history (hell, one that ended just before I was born).

I also watched a pair of films by French-Canadian director Denys Arcand: The Decline of the American Empire (1986) and The Barbarian Invasions (2003). Watched back to back, they tell a lot about the twenty year span between them, as the flirtacious comedy of the first film leads into the sober satire of the second.

The former film follows a group of professors enjoying a weekend in the country while chatting freely about both their frequent affairs and their theories of human history. (One sequence, for example, has Pierre relating how he met Danielle: receiving a “happy ending” during a massage while discussing millenarianism.)

The proceedings have an apocalyptic, Buñuel-esque undercurrent to them; as the title suggests, they seem to be enjoying their decadence at the end of an age. Claude is HIV-positive (though this goes unmentioned in the sequel), Louise feels betrayed by her husband Rémy’s infidelity, and the film’s title derives from the idea that the widespread pursuit of personal happiness signals the downfall of an empire (e.g., Rome or 18th century France).

This harsh edge is amplified in The Barbarian Invasions, which revolves entirely around Rémy’s gradual death from cancer. Set against the decaying medical system in a post-9/11 world, the film reunites everyone from The Decline of the American Empire as they’re gathered up by Rémy’s estranged, affluent son, Sébastien. The satire remains, but tinged with an omnipresent fear of mortality, as Sébastien makes contact with one of the older character’s daughters, Nathalie, in order to acquire heroin to numb his ailing father’s pains.

Arcand certainly likes his comedy black. I still have to see his Jesus of Montreal, about a passion play performed by nonbelievers, but just judging from this duo of films (which have since been followed by Days of Darkness), he’s a filmmaker very aware of the bleak ironies inherent in the sociopolitical climate of North America.

In The Barbarian Invasions, he presents this group of friends laughing about their former lusts for life when death looms so close, pressing them face to face with some toxic truths: that these well-meaning intellectuals have been bypassed by history, with their affairs as ancient and buried as any optimism or innocence they had in 1986. It’s rare to be able to compare such different attitudes in two adjoining films, and I’m glad to have had the experience.

The last film I want to talk about this decade is a very underappreciated classic from New Zealand: Geoff Murphy’s Utu (1983). I watched it last week with very few expectations or preconceptions since, well, I’ve never seen the movie discussed anywhere. It’s a fictionalized account of a Maori uprising in 1870s New Zealand, a mere thirty years since the Treaty of Waitangi had handed the islands over to the British colonists.

Unlike so many movies about rebellions against imperialism, Utu isn’t full of speeches clearly delineating which side is right and which is evil. Instead, most of its characters are pretty confused about what’s going on. The motivator for the film’s events is Te Wheke, a Maori who’s also a lance corporal in the British army. After he sees his village razed by his overeager comrades, he has his face ceremonially scarred and begins a massive campaign of revenge. (Specifically, utu: achieving a balance with one’s enemies.)

However, the film isn’t just about Te Wheke self-righteously avenging himself on the Brits. There’s the question of whether violence can be justified – graphically illustrated when Te Wheke interrupts a minister’s sermon on how “those who take the sword will perish by the sword” to behead the minister. Te Wheke also spurs others to pledge their own vengeances, like Williamson, who becomes paranoid and obsessive after Te Wheke causes his wife’s death, and develops a one-man arsenal.

Opposing Te Wheke’s slowly growing ranks of guerillas (who also include Maori wives and children) are the British soldiers, led by the scrupulous, sexually repressed Col. Elliot, the young, New Zealand-born Matthew Scott, and the well-educated Maori Wiremu, who has a deep connection to Te Wheke. And caught between the lot of them is Kura, a beautiful Maori woman intermittently held captive by the British.

Maybe this is why I love this movie: it’s about a small war, but it doesn’t build its story out of sheer historical import so much as the smaller conflicts of its characters. It’s an intimate war, where the main players have personal grievances against each other, and where the ties of land and blood play a larger role than the colonial interests of some “fat German woman,” as Te Wheke calls Queen Victoria.

I’m glad to have seen Utu, and you can bet I’ll be soon checking out director Geoff Murphy’s postapocalyptic follow-up, The Quiet Earth. Between Murphy, Jane Campion, and Peter Jackson, I love Kiwi cinema. Now I’m off to check out Avatar, which might lead to some interesting postings of its own. Here’s to another ten years of great international cinema (notwithstanding the inevitable onslaught of subpar 3D sci-fi epics)! Happy New Year.

The shepherd dog split Germany

Briefly and concisely: Were not only qualitatively high-quality dogs, because the breeders in the earlier GDR had neither the market nor the means, which justify here a once entitled wehmuetige review. So some West German breeder or also only owner of some customs dog races in such a way specified would have too gladly still one of these dogs. And not only these. The split German shepherd dog after the separation of the two republics also the organizations of the German shepherd dog associations, and not only the organizations separated. Also the “east shepherd dog” changed itself in the following four decades to a more compact, stronger copy as the western, with darker, the original graugewolkten skin color than the brighter or black-brown in the west. The earlier GDR-mainbreed-wait for German shepherd dogs and today’s chairmen of the regional committee Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania in the sports association, Werner Dalm: “in the west they were not so outstanding, because they – and that is objectively like that – could not compete with the most beautiful exhibition dogs in the building, in the figure. Those looked more more durable, like real work and customs dogs, and were not not so the beautiful, elegant dogs.” The east shepherd dog was not simply a border guard, schriebDalm. “you were bred to the all-largest part for our members, breeders and lovers. Only everything that we could not use for the breed, became the police, border etc.. Offered. To that extent only the Abschaum got. However these dogs had to bite well and be good in the nature, otherwise they were not taken.” Dalm further: “not the ‘ special breed community (SZG) ‘ of the GDR was formed paramilitaerisch, but the ‘ controlling body ‘, the SZG was subordinated to which, particularly the latter, the ‘ section serving and customs dog (SDG) ‘. The SZG straight still waited, because ‘ above ‘ (state security service-steered) from the breed had no notion, needed it the SZG still. But had developed like the controlling bodies, the SZG a right after the other one one took away. Last had hardly still about the own race which will say, how also in my book ‘ the breed of the German shepherd dog in the former GDR ‘ (note D talk: to refer over the head office of the sports association) in more detail to reread is. That was the reality. But under these circumstances we bred nevertheless good and healthy customs dogs, because scientifically one selected.” Werner Schulz, breeder and former dog-prominent border soldier: “most of these dogs were very pious. There was only a completely small percentage, which were really aggressive and unerzogen, which made bad experiences somewhere, with which hardly one clearly came. But otherwise, the Gro of the German-German or the German shepherd dogs, the GDR shepherd dogs at the German-German border, were completely normal dogs.” Schulz breeds country “under the name” from the Parchimer. It writes in its homepage: “German shepherd dogs made of GDR descent stand surprisingly still with many sport friends and lovers in the interest of zuechterischer efforts, or straight more in former times? However is the shepherd dog, which developed in the GDR, with large strong bones, balanced nature and dark pigmentation no mode feature! My breed goal and the breed goals of my friends consist of pairing the ostbluetigen shepherd dogs too received and with other DSH from ostblocklaendern and West German achievement breed. Naturally there is not any longer the mass at qualitatively very good breeding material. Therefore one will have been able to reach the abundance at pure GDR dogs not again, there many sport friends their dogs after the turn with kiss hand have delivered and these now nachtrauern. For this reason it is heavy to find trained dogs for prospective customers since the breeders will not away-give material. Mostly accordingly to puppies from Top GDR mating one refers.” Schulz further: “for many it sounds strange to discuss the breed style of the East German shepherd dog. I would like to sing also no praise song over the East here. But the question places and has to some extent breeding authority, recognizes themselves one a certain necessity to receive this breed form.” The separate history of the German-German shepherd dogs should be terminated after the collapse of the GDR, but splitting was deeper. After the reunification the powerful west federation has a saying. Press speaker sports association of pure Voltz in addition: “there are naturally still breeders, who continue to try today aimed to breed this east dog but we do not hold out to anything of it, now from mode reasons perhaps to receive from history so a dog. It must integrate itself in the long run into the common breed. There is a German shepherd dog and that wants we also further to promote.” Now one sees west shepherd dogs also in the “new” eastern Lands of the Federal Republic usually only. The East German breeders and owners with the “unit dog”, which reflects only for decades the disputed breed quality in the west, are not lucky: it is soft light. The relatively straight backs, which they never back-wished nevertheless in the west secretly, but officially – how because and the first dogs, which finally justified the world-wide call as a service dog -, that they nevertheless literally untergebuttert in the west now. Only the color good grey, they found. As if this would have been a new fashionable color. They did not want to have the healthy body, but they took up the color. Not few Schutzhundler or Diensthundler in the west see themselves however after this East German shepherd dog East German. But there is nearly no more breed basis. The Westschaeferhundler okkupiert also here the assumption of healthy Zuchtpotenzial thoroughly and flat-made. It is to be assumed many other race associations were out of the former GDR to the reunification exactly the same. There on the dog breed sector little was combined, but announced vollmundig, before well ten years. In the meantime also there no more dog barks thereafter. I would like to give to consider one however: If one regards the photos of with excellently 1 evaluated Rueden in the post-war period until 1960, then we find the back desired straight backs. With the GDR dogs however into the late 80ern however exactly the sloping backs like the west DSH.

Neumann’s Jim

My Favorite DDR Links:

The East German Shepherd Dog

German Shepherds Dogs Pups Czech DDR

DDR EAST GERMAN PUPS

DDR

PHONE 941-624-5406

Name:
John LaTorre

Email:
johnbirds@embarqmail.com

Community Oriented Policing.

A target recently had some questions about his possible targeting, and I think that this is a good time to go over Community Oriented Policing Programs once again.

There are now efforts around the world to use something called community based policing. This is more than likely what is playing a large role in gang stalking.

[quote]“Ruling the community with an iron fist. “Savvy law enforcement types realized that under the community policing rubric, cops, community groups, local companies, private foundations, citizen informants and federal agencies could form alliances without causing public outcry.” Covert Action Quarterly, summer 1997.”

http://www.albionmonitor.com/9711b/policing.html
[/quote]

Under these programs the community work with the police to find problems and solutions and yes the citizens inform to the police. Each area gets to more or less manage itself as it sees fit, a wet dream right?

Eg. In one area of one city, this program allowed men to have sex openly in a gay club, in a gay district of town. In another area that had a lot of prostitution, they went very light on this.

So each area can manage itself as it sees fit, each area identify problems, anti social behavior, etc and they work on solutions. Remember these programs joined forces with federal agencies, private foundations, corporations, community groups, local police, etc. So an employer who puts someone on a list could potentially get them targeted in all these areas.

http://nord.twu.net/acl/evolution.html

[quote]
What Is A Communitarian? by Niki Raapana

Communitarians believe that all neighborhoods should be governed like Chinese collectives. They teach that mandatory volunteerism in the community is a moral obligation of all citizens, and that intervening and reporting on your neighbors is required to maintain their individual freedom.

It may sound like two conflicting ideologies, but it’s not. Communitarianism balances all political conflicts into one master, ideological solution.

[/quote]

Under the UN Agenda 21 program all cities of the world will eventually move to this style of governance.

http://nord.twu.net/acl/agenda21.html

[quote]The communitarian plan for reinventing a global government was adopted by the UN in 1992 at the Earth Summit. There were no public votes cast for or against it in any of the affected “free” nations. Average citizens were not consulted. In most free and democratic countries, the nation’s taxpayers (who pay for it) were never even told about it. The major media outlets were mostly silent while for thirteen years, the UN’s LA-21 laws have been imposed on all 166 member nations.

There were no big discussions of its purpose or ultimate consequences. It just slid into law. It’s really pretty amazing. No major editorials, no explanation of how it would be imposed, it was barely announced by the national governments who endorsed it. Only a few enlightened locals understand LA-21 requires a total reorganization of government systems. It eliminates individual rights in the free countries. National systems of political economy are subserviant to LA-21 laws.[/quote]

Cities such as L.A. and Toronto have been blessed with community oriented policing for years.

So you have a nifty little program, each division does what it wants to a degree, and units which work with the public. So if a target is getting followed it might change depending on which section they are walking through. Keep in mind that these people share information, and with the federal agencies merging with the lower agencies, the dirty tricks have been passed around and shared.

For my targeting I have had some fun.

With lawyers, I had one lawyer tell me that to send a letter off to get the targeting to stop, she would need for me to supply the name of the program, and who was in charge.

Another lawyer without me saying anything, asked if I had trouble finding a job, or getting an apartment. At the time I had not had trouble with apartments, but my job hunt had gone off. This lawyer was not with the firm that I contacted. The firm had to get an outside lawyer that they consult with for this type of case. That was one more adventure.

I also have spoken to loads of detectives, most saying that they have never heard of these tactics, then I talked to one, and he said that these were standard tactics and that any detective should be aware of them, they are standard tactics for police surveillance operations. So much like customer service and getting help, it depends on who you talk to. Shortly after this he calmed up and discontinued contact, but there are people out there who can help, but you have to get to them, before the state realises what you are doing or they will shut them down. Thus why I tell targets don’t share you lawyers name etc. This is my opinion and you have to do what suits you.

I recently spoke to a community lawyer and asked about the violent persons registry, I phrased it as, you know if you get into a fight or argument and then get put on a list and followed around, like stores, etc, like a violent persons list or something. She knew what I meant, and asked if I found the info online? She also said at their location they did not handle that, but to try the lawyer referral service and see if they could help. Which is better than a few years ago, it’s all about who you talk to, and referencing the violent persons registry might help as well, just to get some head way.

So much like customer service it’s who you talk to, but then it’s also trying to be stealthy, if you find someone who will help, try to do it in secret, cause they will get shut down, clam up and suddenly refuse to talk to you or assist you.

So to recap, with community policing each area does what it deems best, so yes you could have some areas more psychotic than others, it all depends. I think most are about the same to one degree, but just like some areas being allowed to have open sex in bars, some areas might be more human with how the targeting and monitoring is carried out. Small towns vs large, etc.

Also for the targeting to answer the question that I was asked, no they don’t use the same tactics on each target, they try a bunch of things, then they see what you are sensitive to if anything and try to go from their. I just found out that my polite avoiding of their stupidity has been interpreted as a phobia or something so now they try to use crowding as a tactic. God sometimes they are so…

Anyways so there you have it I hope it helps. If you act sensitive to the color red, or they can get you to notice, then they will try to use more of the same till you are sensitized in a negative way. They want to keep the target captivated at all times. If you respond to any of their stimulus that will be worked into your program. If they can get you with one, they will get you with another. I had one at the start of this, I worked with myself to get rid of it and I have never had another. If you are sensitized you can do this also and get rid of yours over time, by removing the negative associations, etc.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/guest_contributors/article6952298.ece

[quote]December 11, 2009

Stop shooting messengers and face the truth
Sometimes knowledge is uncomfortable. But it is the mark of a civilised society that we do not sweep it under the carpet

In 413BC a traveller sat down in a barber’s shop in Piraeus, the Athenian port, and readied himself for a shave. He commiserated with the locals for the loss of their recent military expedition to Syracuse. The horror dawned; the traveller was first with the news. The barber flung down his tools and ran to the city, crying the news. His reward? The Athenians refused to believe that their navy had been destroyed, that their sons and brothers were dead or working as slaves in Sicilian mines. As Plutarch tells us, the barber was “fastened to the wheel and racked”.

This is how we so often treat those who tell us the truth we do not want to hear. History is littered with examples of messengers being shot, tortured and pilloried, literally and metaphorically.

To quote Sophocles’ Antigone: “No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.” To misquote Corporal Jones: “We don’t like it up us.”

We assume that we are different from our forefathers; more tolerant and more willing to allow uncomfortable truths to be aired. We have a liberal democracy and we congratulate ourselves on a commitment to freedom of speech. Yet when the truth sits uncomfortably with our notions of what is right, when it clashes with our dearly held notions of tolerance, we are as squeamish as any of our ancestors. Few are as intolerant as the self-consciously tolerant.[/quote]

The article above is about crime in the U.K. but it could just as easily been about trying to get the truth out about Gang Stalking and the fact that people in most time periods do not like people who tell them the truth, or who preach something that goes against their orthodoxy. What I am learning about this time period is that it is no better, in fact it’s worst, because unlike other times, we have so much wonderful and rich history to fall back on, and yet in many ways we are just as ignorant.

[quote]
This is how we so often treat those who tell us the truth we do not want to hear. History is littered with examples of messengers being shot, tortured and pilloried, literally and metaphorically.

To quote Sophocles’ Antigone: “No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.” To misquote Corporal Jones: “We don’t like it up us.”
[/quote]

Sorry if the message is not what you want to hear, truth is a bitter pill to swallow at times. For me I loved my country, I thought I lived in the best place on earth (literally). It took me a really long time of grappling with the betrayal I felt to come to the semi-full realization of some truth. I don’t think I have the full truth, I am not sure I could handle the full truth just yet, but I have tried to educate myself on some of the recent history, the stuff that the text book does not tell you, some of the not so hidden conspiracy, and it’s one shock to the system after another.

Sometimes I get angry with people for being so stupid and gullible, for believing the best, but I was right there a few short years ago, and without my targeting, it would have taken me a very long time to believe anything bad about my country, or my fellow citizens. I always thought of us as the good guys, that we would never ever do what was done in East Germany or other places. I was so naive, so desperately wrong, luckily for me truth is easier to swallow when you have the burn marks, bruises, and psychological torture to show for it. Without this, I might still be trying to believe that my country was not doing anything bad. I might not have taken the time to research like I have, but I have now done this, and I have no intention of going back.

I don’t hate my fellow citizens, I feel sorry for them, many of them likely think that they are doing something good, trying to be good citizens like I was taught to be, but I am lucky, I have seen the dark side and I know enough history to know that what is being done is wrong. Most importantly as a target, I have seen, experienced and read about cruelty like none other, and I am quite comfortable with how I feel.

I know for some this is hard to comprehend, some really are just there to try to make the society better, but if killing the innocent is how you are going to make the society better, you are wrong. I know many don’t see it this way, the 15 to 30 minutes that they give seems like nothing and they might not see how their small roles could destroy lives, so with every story, revelation targets have tried to show you this. We have been trying to say, hey look we are innocent, in many cases good people, and something is wrong within the society cause it’s destroying our lives. Many of us naively thought that this would be enough, but we were proven wrong time and again, and worst many started to realize the long term goal of this targeting is our destruction, how could you expect us to be ok with it?

Did you think this was Stalinist Russia? Did you think that we would agree that we were bad because the state said so? The state who does some of the most hypocritical, terroristic things? Not going to happen. Most of us are good people, we do not deserve this, and we are saying that a system that would destroy us, is a broken and corrupted system. I get that some do not see it that way, but I am sorry for you, because we see it, live it and feel it on a daily basis and it does destroy lives.

In trying to expose this, we are just doing what past targets have done, would you honestly expect anything less? Don’t get upset if you have a harder time destroying our lives, it’s not our jobs to make it easier for you to do so, and how silly would you have to be to think so?

The goal of these sites is to support each other, document the stories of targets, and to highlight the sad truth, which is that our countries are becoming a nation of informants, but also to show what has happened to other societies where this was allowed to happen. The saddest part I find in researching is that when these times are happening, people always feel justified, they believe the lies, and they become so brain washed that they can not see past the lies, they have to believe the lies. They tell themseles I was just following orders. I did it cause an authority figure told me to. Anything else would mean confronting the evils of their actions, the drunken power that corrupts consistently in every time period. The comradely in these times of evil that oppressors invariably feel towards one another.

History can teach a great deal, but it’s words and facts, it is not hearts and minds, only by reaching hearts and minds can we hope to change things for the better and ensure a brighter future for ourselves and others. Believe it or not, we are not just fighting for ourselves, our main survival is key to be sure, but targets are also invariably fighting for others so that they do not have to go through and experience this horrible betrayal by the state.

I don’t know what else can be said, there are some really wrong and horrific things happening, to not draw attention to that would be neglectful at best, but it would also be a betrayal in another way. I have more incentive ofcourse, but it’s no less imperative for others to awaken to what is happening.

Also I tend to go on about us and them, us targets, those informants, but many many informants are or were targets who are broken, made to co-operate, forced, others who just gave in, and or others who were brought up this way and don’t understand the big deal. Many don’t do anything bad as far as they are aware. I don’t mean to keep separating everything, it’s really all one humanity, but as a target it’s so easy if you have a target to say, they, those are the ones doing this, at times it’s easy to forget that many of them suffered also, are suffering. I am sorry for that, but I do have my good days and bad days like everyone else.
Anyways I don’t know what else there is to say.

[quote]
We assume that we are different from our forefathers; more tolerant and more willing to allow uncomfortable truths to be aired. We have a liberal democracy and we congratulate ourselves on a commitment to freedom of speech. Yet when the truth sits uncomfortably with our notions of what is right, when it clashes with our dearly held notions of tolerance, we are as squeamish as any of our ancestors. Few are as intolerant as the self-consciously tolerant.

[/quote]

Uncomfortable truths are not fun, I have come across so many, some posted, some just hard to take, but I have consistently adjusted my comfort level cause I would rather truth than lies. I know not everyone is the same, many are happy with lies, and half truths, or flat out denial, they can not handle the fact that there could be anything bad about the society. They would silence anyone who would say otherwise, but that’s just not acceptable, because it must be said, and some of us are at the convenient place of saying it. When I say convenient, I don’t mean easy, but it’s something that needs to be done. No one is trying to make anyone feel bad, or ashamed, but I don’t know how to make people feel good when the sad truth is that their actions might be helping to kill and harm innocent people. I can just point out the facts and hope that societies conscience will have enough left to do the rest. Oh and pray.

4 explorers, 5 Countries, 2000 miles, 16 abandoned sites, 5000 photographs, 3 hours of video footage, a pocket full of loose change to live on and a car full of $7000 worth of camera gear. It’s these last two bits that I find so amusing, these are the pieces of the puzzle that turn this from a hobo trip to a pro hobo trip I suppose. That and the radical mobility of our opt-in faux homelessness.

After our last trip to Europe, I wrote about urban camping. I felt like that long weekend away was a sort of like a wilderness retreat, a little escape from work and obligations to see something unstraited. Some people choose go to a pine forest for these retreats, we go to abandoned chateaus in Belgium. Seems fair enough.

But this trip was different right from the beginning. Part of it was due to the length of our expedition, part of it due to the dynamics of the crew. We had a crew of 4 – myself, Statler, Winch and Silent Motion, all up for it in a big way. We were long inspired by the perpetual homeless adventures of Dsankt at Sleepy City which seemed to pry open a new level of UrbEx or, at the least, open up new possibilities for adventurous play. So we struck out on a Sunday night from Reading, UK, across the channel on the P&O car ferry, through the sadness of Calais, France, just across the border into Belgium to Kosmos, a hotel with a weird Russian art-deco theme that had closed in 1996 where we planned to stay the night.

Transgressive Mobilities

Tourism?

Rated 1 Star on Travelocity

Strangely enough, given what a pile of crap this place was, it was really hard to get into. Finally, after making our way in, ferrying in bags of clothes, food, whiskey and 8 bottles of Chimay looted from a road side stop, we settled in for the night, with a gorgeous view of a random Belgian valley spread out before us, full P&O shot glasses of cheap drink and a horrible rattling noise from the winds assaulting some loose flap on the roof above us.

Penthouse

Winch taking in the epicness

The Goblinmerchant gets naked

We ended up finally dragging tables and chairs from other rooms to board up the windows which were allowing massive gust of wind and rain into our sleeping quarters. Essentially, we started doing home repairs. That night, falling asleep to Aphex Twin’s Selected Ambient Works Volume II playing softly on my phone, I had dreams about the property owner showing up weeks later to find that somebody had actually repaired their building, boarded up windows, brought in and cleaned up couches, filled the bookshelves with tea lights. I imagined them being, at first, dismayed and confused and then… amused, a small smile cracking their stoically disappointed Belgian head.

The thing I started thinking was that our move from UrbEx into pro hoboness was actually a move that benefited property owners because, as Silent Motion put it, “our sleeping in the space builds a more intimate connection with it, we become a part of the fabric.” So going pro hobo, in my mind, even the documentation aspect that you are scrolling through right now, is about place hacking, about finding intimacy in a world full of sterile engagement.

This idea was made even more funny when the property owners showed up at 8am the next morning and started putting up more fencing on the site. Between us and them, the place was going to be completely remodeled soon. We waiting 30 minutes or so for them to leave and made our hasty escape.

Although I am tempted to write about all 16 sites we went to, I can’t. The reason for this is, quite simply, that I cannot relay the epic nature of the experience to you in a blog posting, try as I might. With every day that passed, the crew got more raw, more volatile, more energetic, in a weird, confused sort of way. It was a delirious panic that I think would have even made Dionysus proud. I was drunk for most of it, partly because I do better fieldwork after a few beers and partly because the experience was so raw that it had to be shielded, it was like trying to stare into the sun. Now I know why so many homeless people drink.

Staring at the sun

The raw light of experience

Boundaries that existed in our little UK bubble began to break down. We did not speak the language, we did not meet a single person outside of the grocery stores and petrol stations we ravaged, washing our hair in their bathroom sinks and leaving piles of trash in their parking spaces, running under the turnstiles at the restrooms that demanded 50 cents. All that existed, all that mattered was the adventure and the bond between us which grew tighter with every sip of Jupiler in the back seat of Statler’s car, with every step walked over squishy mold/carpet. We could not think about what was happening because as Dostoevsky points out “one must love life before loving it’s meaning.” And this love was on fire. We began infiltrating live sites, barbecuing dinner in wheelbarrows, lighting dozens of candles in random rooms of Nazi extermination camps and free climbing timber into bell towers in crumbling buildings to photograph the holes in the roof veiled in cloudy continental morning mist.

The films here were shit

Dinner cooked over pieces of the gas chamber

Do they know we're in here?

Winch was the primary conspirator of this little frozen-toed expedition. Always up for a challenge and a laugh, he had booked this absurd holiday in December, I think, to break our will. After all, only the broken can be admitted into the ranks of legend. After taking in a few leisure sites over the first few days, he hits us with the news – we are going after heavy industry. Now, given that I am about to give a paper on reanimating industrial spaces through urban exploration at the 2009 Theoretical Archaeology Group conference in Durham at the end of the month, I thought this is a grand idea. Until it actually started going down.

We walked up to Transfo, a power station in Belgium, to find it swarming with people. We waited until dusk. When we thought everybody had gone home, Silent Motion ninja’d his way in to the secure building past the motion sensing lights and infrared alarm system. We got in and snapped some pics for about 10 minutes before some worker ran up and started rattling the doors to the heavy equipment room. Whoops. Turns out they were not all gone, but Silent Motion clearly could give a shit and starting climbing the infrastructure of the building to get a landscape shot.

Raw Metal

Ghosts of industry

On our way to Germany, we stopped to infiltrate Kokerei Zollverein, again swarming with people including professional photographers and men in suits. I swore that this infiltration would end badly. The only bad outcome, in reality, was my nausea from being meters away from workers as we snook past them and hid in the shadows. All my photos from there are shaky save two:

Fear processing factory

Pulled

After my moment of existential crisis, we made our way to an abandoned train yard Munster Gare, a glorious moment for me for some odd reason. Something about the intersections of transportation (mobility), dereliction (history, aesthetics) and remote location (opportunity for playfulness) made this my favorite site of the trip.

I'm the captain of this ship!

The passengers

No more goods

Unnecessary

After my locomotive jizfest, we drove into Germany. I had not been since I was 19 years old when I pursued the country on a underage American-in-Europe beer run, and was dismayed to find that it was actually a really beautiful place. Mostly because the further East you go, the more derelict structures begin to dominate to landscape. I always thought of dereliction being about the failures of capitalism, but nowhere was abandonment more apparent that in East Germany, markers to the collapse of communism and the retreat of the Soviet Union. The group entered a fervor as we drove through the country side, everything began to look derelict. At one point I remember Silent Motion saying, “Hey there’s a building over there!” and Winch responding “Nice, does it has trees growing out of it?”

We had resigned ourselves to a week of squatting. It was safe to say, at this point, that we had all left our lives behind. I didn’t care about my research anymore, I just wanted to keep getting high on adrenaline. No one ever talked about their jobs, their families. We talked about girls, 4chan, about what country had the best beer (hint: it’s Belgium), about football. Even our Blackberries and iPhones served only to get us aerial photos and to update our facebook status so everyone knew how much more fun we were having than them being homeless, elite and stacked with fat kit. As we crept into East Germany, we were all broken.

I don’t mean that in a bad way. What had been broken was our expectations, our existential dilemmas, our need for unnecessary daily crisis. These things were overwhelmed by the experience of the present, by what was just around the horizon. I felt, for the first time on this project, like I had actually broken the research barrier. I was not studying UrbEx anymore, I was UrbEx. I sat in the back of the car, delirious and drunk, and saw Winch staring at his fingernails. He says “When you look at my fingernails what do you see?” I told him “Maybe the blood and sweat of old inhabitants.” He considered it and replied “I don’t want to clean them…” This was our arrival, the point at which we had committed to dreaming instead of sleeping. And with that, we moved into Berlin, into Ex-Soviet Territory. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Never done

My master’s thesis adviser recently informed me that Tara Rodgers (Analog Tara to you) wrote a book on female electronic artists called Pink Noises that Duke University Press is releasing early next year. Oh, how I can’t wait! If you can’t either, Rodgers’ promotional Web site might tide you over.

News of this book/site couldn’t come at a better time for me, as I’m currently working on short essays surveying American female composers and deejays for another project. Rodgers reprints some of her interviews on the site, and I’d encourage readers to look at her correspondence with electronic musicians and composers like Ikue Mori (former drummer of DNA), Anne La Berge, and Pauline Oliveros, as well as poem producer Antye Greie, who grew up in East Germany.

However, I thought I’d specifically hail the deejay today. And while the distinctions between electronic composer and musician can get blurry for the deejay (who I think technically is both), I thought I’d focus on them. I’m also doing it in honor of Lady Kier, former singer of Deee-Lite, who has since been made a career for herself deejaying all over the world. She’s revamped her Web site, and I’m just waiting for her to start posting her sets on Lickerish Radio like she used to.

And just to make myself clearer, I’m specifically highlighting club deejays and not on-air personalities, though I obviously have a lot of love for them as well. I will be folding hip hop deejays into the term ”club deejay” here, which admittedly is kinda sloppy and reductionist. What I’m stressing here, in addition to the importance of women mastering technology for musical purposes, is liveness and performance in a dance space. Still with me? Okay.

So, in honor of Rodgers’s upcoming book and her subjects’ contributions to popular music, I’m spotlight some female steel wheel riders, whose interviews with Rodgers can be accessed by clicking on their names. Make sure you watch the videos too! 

The Angel

BTW, fuck Craig Kilborn. Remember how smug and not funny he was? I’m so glad Jon Stewart and Craig Ferguson have replaced him.

Beth Coleman (M. Singe)

Mutamassik

Note: It was hard to find live performances of Mutamassik, so I’ll direct your attention toward Burnt Sugar the Arkestra Chamber and Rough America, musical groups of which she participates.

DJ Rekha

Thank you, ladies! I look forward to reading your conversations with one another next year. In the mean time, I’ve got some crate-digging to do.

I went to Sachsenhausen, a concentration camp which was once the administrative headquarters for all concentration camps in Germany, on Wednesday with one of my classes and learned a lot of interesting things.

First, I should say that Sachsenhausen is constantly stepping up its game: I was there a few years ago when my family traveled to Berlin, but there are a lot of new exhibits on display now.

Two of these had to do specifically with the site’s history during East Germany. One told the story of how the Soviets converted the site into a camp for political prisoners (“Sowjetisches Speziallager Nr. 7“).

60,000 prisoners entered the camp in the five years it was in use by the Soviets, and at least one in five never left. Starvation and tuberculosis were the main killers Some were former Nazis or officers in the German army. Some were everyday people who had been denounced as anti-Communist by their neighbors, including a fourteen year old girl imprisoned because she had painted a portrait of Stalin in lipstick.

Others were Russian soldiers who had been in Nazi captivity and who were therefore deemed “suspicious” by their own authorities.

This is the outside of the exhibition about the site's history as a Soviet camp.

Another exhibit focused on the ways that the site was used as a memorial by East Germany from 1961-1989. East German memorial culture is pretty interesting, because it aggressively supresses any expression of collective identity outside of the state, but then allows individuals to express themselves in ways that you might not expect.

The Soviet Liberation memorial dominates the landscape.

In the example of Sachsenhausen, the first museum that was established was entirely about communist resistance to the Nazis and the Soviet liberation of the camp. Then Soviet Jews said “Uh, wait a second, um, can we be mentioned?” The authorities deliberated about this, said no, and then, according to the museum, acquiesced in 1961 because of the Eichmann trial.

The Jews were allowed to set up a small museum, but it was not allowed to talk about a “genocide,” and instead emphasized the bonds of solidarity between Communists and their imprisoned Jewish comrades.

The Soviet regime aggressively promoted the idea of World War Two as the “Great Patriotic War,” as the triumph of Communism over Fascism, and any focus on the other things that happened during that period of time was seen as an unproductive distraction.

There was also an interesting display case about a group of gay East Germans who wanted to memorialize their own dead in the 1980s, but whenever they tried to celebrate the gay community, they got shot down.

They wanted to go and have a wreath laying ceremony, and the authorities said “You can lay a wreath, but nix the ceremony.”

So they brought a wreath with a pink ribbon on it that said “To the prisoners who wore the pink triangle,” knowing that “to the homosexual prisoners” would definitely not fly, but then the part about “wearing the pink triangle” was cut off before the wreath could be displayed.

There’s a clear pattern here: no group of victims outside of the resistance fighters was to be mentioned by name. No collective identity was allowed to express itself outside of the official identity of the collective state.

Then other East German memorial traditions let people express their individual identities and passions in ways that seem completely bizarre to me.

Couples getting married would sometimes came to the memorial to lay a wreath and sign the guestbook, paying homage to the Soviet soldier as they started their new family. These couples often had their pictures taken and were used in promotional material for the site.

My favorite idea, though, was the Sachsenhausen Gedenklauf, a race along the former path of the “death march” that was promoted by happy athletes saying things like “Running around Sachsenhausen allows me to improve myself and show my joy that I am free from fascism!” Cross-country teams from Poland and Czechoslavakia would come all the way to Germany for the occasion.

I’m not sure I know of anything else quite like this event, but how do you think an ultra-marathon along America’s Trails of Tears would go over?

On November 9, the 20^th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall was celebrated around the world.  Many world leaders including Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, French President Nicolas Sarkozy and German Chancellor Angela Merkel were present at Brandenburg Gate, the former site of the “Iron Curtain” that separated West Germany from East Germany.

Supported by Communist Soviet Union, East Germany began building the Berlin Wall without warning, in August of 1961 to stop the hoards of East Germans who were fleeing to West Berlin.  What began as a makeshift barbed wire fence soon became a 156 kilometre long concrete wall that surrounded West Berlin and was guarded heavily against attempted escapes from East Germans.  In its twenty-eight year existence, more than 130 people are said to have been killed at the “Iron Curtain”.

On November 9, 1989, after weeks of civil unrest amongst Eastern Germans, it was announced on late night news (in a moment of confusion by a spokesperson of the government) that effective immediately, the Eastern German border was open to everyone.  Residents quickly lined up at the Brandenburg Gate, and the overwhelmed guards simply let them through without using lethal force.  East met West on the other side of the Berlin Wall, and citizens from both sides of the concrete barrier began to celebrate their freedom. 

While the celebration that took place this year to commemorate this great event in history was a spectacle with all the bells and whistles, including giant coloured dominoes set up in queue along a 1.5 kilometre stretch where the Berlin Wall used to stand, it did little to take away from the reality that those living in Eastern Germany still suffer poverty and unemployment at much higher levels than their Western counterparts, and that basic freedoms and rights still escape millions of citizens of the world. 

We should take the time to look at an event like the fall of the Berlin Wall and the great impact that the citizens of Eastern Germany had on putting into motion a stream of events that led to the reunification of Germany.  What a great example of how individuals can rise together to make a difference, and how easily governing bodies can turn these moments of freedom and celebration into legacies of poverty.  Perhaps the money that went into the lavish celebration of the 20^th anniversary could have been better spent in rebuilding the Eastern states that are still struggling two decades after the fall of the Berlin Wall?  Just one girl’s thought…

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Sunday River’s New Campaign

Newry, ME — With every new ski season comes a new campaign to generate interest in the sport and its respected resorts. This year Sunday River will promote their resort with an intricately designed image on their websites, clothing, stickers, etc. Sunday River wanted to stay away from the current fad of bright and loud patterns that are reminiscent of the eighties, and go in a totally new direction. The resort wanted their new campaign to be prominently featured amongst complex, intricate designs created by the Native Americans. So, Sunday River went out and hired a group of Native American artisans, the Aryan Nation.

“Listen,” begins a distressed Sunday River executive, “we totally fucked up and we know it. We wanted to hire some Native Americans, but who the hell knows even knows an actual Native American person? We needed to find out how to locate some, so we went online to search them. Originally, we all agreed that Cherokees were pretty badass and that we should contact them, but every time we Googled them, we kept getting results for websites about jeeps. After that didn’t work, we then typed in ‘true Americans’, and that’s how we found the Aryan Nation’s website. We just assumed that ‘true Americans’ meant ‘Native Americans’, and you’ve got to admit that Aryan Nation does sound like a Native American reservation. Honestly, we didn’t know that we were hiring ignorant assholes. We just thought that we were getting some Indians.”

On the behalf of the Aryan Nation, Roger Whiteback, chief propaganda designer, states his brotherhood’s side of the story. “First of all, me and my partner, Stan Whiteface, were super-duper excited to do the Sunday River project. What they did was send us a rough sketch of what they wanted. Their original sketch was this picture of a weird image that had about four arms extended from the center, and within that image were the words ‘We Support White Powder’. So, I went to work on the background image first. I couldn’t make out what the hell that thing was supposed to be, but when I started to squint at it, it made sense. It was just a poorly drawn swastika. Well, I beefed it up a bit, and made it into one of the best swastikas I’ve ever designed. They got mad about that because later on, after we finished the project, they told me it was actually a snowflake and not a swastika. Then there was the incident with their slogan in the forefront of their sketch: ‘We Support White Powder’. They got all pissed when I took the letter ‘d’ out of ‘Powder’. Seriously? They hired the Aryan Nation, of course we’re gonna think ‘We Support White Powder’ is a typo, ya know?”

After experiencing a rough economic patch, Boyne has admitted that they’re unable to financially support a new campaign, and if they want to continue to promote their ski resort, then the Aryan’s finished product will have to suffice.

A Boyne spokesperson further explains their company’s stance. “We’re in the middle of a financial dilemma here and a racial controversy, but we’re just going to have to lean on the old proverb that ‘All publicity is good publicity’. Yes we accidentally employed the Aryan Nation, but it was for a very brief moment in time. We’re willing to admit that we had a brief exchange, but we don’t want people to think we’ve been rubbing elbows so hard with the Aryans that their lynching arms are bruised.”

To help put Sunday River back into the good graces of its loyal guests, and also distance themselves from white supremacy, Boyne employed a Jewish publicist to put a positive spin on the “We Support White Power” campaign, and prove that if a Jew could work for Sunday River, then their logo can’t possibly stem back to the days of the Nazis.

“Alright,” begins the Jewish publicist, Sal Steinberg, finally, after fifteens minutes of pleading for someone to turn the heat up at Sunday River’s press conference. “You’ll notice the words ‘We Support White Powder’ in the middle of this here sticker. Last winter was pretty tough financially, and there wasn’t enough money to put into a second campaign, but we did have enough money for a case of Whiteout. If you put your face a few inches away you’ll clearly notice that each sticker has squeezed in a Whiteout letter ‘d’ to make the word ‘Powder’. This makes each one unique and a collector’s item. Now, let’s talk about that background symbol. Since when did a windmill-esque image, on an axis, with four arms that eventually bend at a ninety degree angle, automatically mean it’s a swastika? We just thought it’d be fun to stray away from the traditional idea that a snowflake is a fancy, doily-looking object. We just took a simple, stripped down image to use instead. Everyone uses the fancy snowflake image, and as everyone knows, no two snowflakes are the same. So, we believe a snowflake like ours could definitely exist.” He’s right, it did exist. In East Germany.

Later that night, a waitress at the Matterhorn Ski Bar overheard the Jewish publicist, in a nasally voice, saying the following (right before he left a meager eight percent tip), “I’m so nauseous right now. I can’t believe I said those things for money. I feel like one of those prostitutes, you know? The ones with the ungodly clothing and diseases. I hate myself. I’m going to have nightmares for weeks now about Moses chasing me with a pitchfork. My poor mother would never forgive me for getting involved with those Nazi lovers. I just want to go back to my condo in Miami.”

After dumping the body of the young woman who overheard the publicist, Boyne and Sunday River executives were hoping that the explanation of the logo would help the controversy blow over, but certain groups took notice. One of those groups, the Ku Klux Klan, overheard the conference, and one of their leaders had this to say, “As you’ve probably guessed, we are ecstatic that Sunday River surfaced their true feelings and beliefs. We finally have a safe place to go on a skiing vacation now. A place where we’ll be accepted in our hood and robes. It’s not easy going out in public when you dress like us. You have no idea how painful it is to be constantly judged and ostracized everywhere you go, just because of who you are. It doesn’t matter now though, because in Bethel, they tell it like it is. White Power all the way! Hell, they even support the Confederacy. I mean, they must support the Confederacy if they put a statue of a faggy Union soldier, on Bethel’s Main St., smack-dab between a homo flower store and a God damn taco shop! I love it! Reminds me of the good ol’ days in Montgomery, Alabama.”

After a private meeting, executives of Boyne and Sunday River held another press conference. “We have finally come up with a way to prove that we aren’t racist, and that we don’t support White Power,” exclaims a representative of Sunday River, who regularly quotes the movie Blazing Saddles. “Our superiors at Boyne Realty are currently installing a border length wall to stop racist people like the Aryan Nation and the KKK from entering Maine. We originally had the idea to build the wall years ago to keep out Massholes, and now it’s finally about to become a reality. Aside from those three groups, other people wishing to come to Bethel are still more than welcome and may enter from New Hampshire, because Canada will obviously be completely walled off. However, due to the wall being several miles wide, it was incidentally built on top of Gorham, New Hampshire, so people will instead have to go through the wall’s border patrol located in Berlin. Now, I know some people are worried, but as long as people have their papers in order, they’ll be fine. Everyone’s really friendly at the Berlin Wall.”

_____________

**DISCLAIMER** This is a FAKE story. It is written purely for entertainment purposes. None of the events in the above story are true.

Authored by Tim Mohr, The Daily Beast on Mon, 11/16/2009

On November 9, 1989, the East German underground guitar band Die Anderen—the Others—had a gig on the other side of the Berlin Wall. They were playing the Pike Club, in the West Berlin borough of Kreuzberg, home to the legendarily decadent and anarchic scene that inspired David Bowie and Iggy Pop and Nick Cave.

It was actually to be their second concert on the other side of the anti-fascist protection barrier, as it was officially known in the East. The GDR had in recent months started granting travel permission to some bands—even bands from the conspicuously non-conformist punk scene. Die Anderen played West Berlin for the first time on May 26, 1989, crossing the death strip at the Invalidenstrasse checkpoint in an official-looking van being driven by a government apparatchik who was accompanying them. It was the type of van used by the police and traveling sports teams.

“It was more about teenage rebellion—it was fun and cool. For me personally, I only began to think about that sort of thing once the harassment started. Politicization was something the Stasi did

“A border guard came onto the bus and asked whether we had anyone hidden in the van or anything,” says Die Anderen frontman Toster, an East Berliner who had never before been to the West. “We said no, no. I was practically shitting myself with anticipation. Then we drove on through. And just a few yards beyond was a completely different world. It was unbelievable. I thought of all my friends who had left the country in various waves over the past years. And now I was seeing what it was they put themselves through all that trouble to get.”

The Pike Club was in a back courtyard a few hundred feet into West Berlin from the checkpoint at Heinrich-Heine-Strasse. This time the band took public transport to the gig…

Read the rest here:

http://www.plumblinemag.com/en/content/did-punk-rock-tear-down-wall-tim-mohr

Part I: East Germany

(The Iron Curtain held the world hostage on both sides of the infamous border for decades. For the Germans, the hostage situation was a little different because entire families were divided — as are Korean families, I understand. Many Westwerners also experienced the East Bloc and were horrified or fascinated or both. My own experiences were mostly in East Germany and Hungary in the late 80s. The following is a series of memories and comments on the situation back through my own eyes both as a journalist and as a plain citizen visiting my then wife’s family. It is important to be detailed and clear, because this is my tiny contribution to the subject I once studied: History. My only tiny feeling of personal pride was having seen early on that the curtain would break open soon (after my first trip in ‘86) and that the break would come in Hungary. No editor at the time was interested, the comment was “too speculative.” One East German colleague I met in Budapest thought I was nuts. I was happy to publish one little piece in the Boston Globe, finally, on November 9, 2009.

I will publish this in several installments and at some time in the future will add some photographs from my own collection (it is in storage far away), so please feel free to check back or subscribe.

Final crossings

On November 13, 1989, I entered East Germany illegally and in full knowledge of what I was doing. It happened on the Glienicker Bridge that connected East and West Berlin. This pretty little cantilever bridge was a neural spot between the then moribund East Bloc and the preening Western Democracies, an almost legendary construction that had been used for spy exchanges between East and West. It was a crisp, cold day, almost blinding. My visa for the German Democratic Republic, GDR, had just been stamped out by a curt border guard who had informed me that in order to return, I needed a new visa. “But I left my belongings in the hotel in Potsdam,” I stated politely. “Well, you’ll have to get a new visa,” he said with finality, punctuating a visible disinterest in an American citizen by turning to the next fellow in a fairly long line of people wanting to cross the bridge.

Glienickerbrücke-Source unknown

I set off as in a daze, my mind crunching the possibilities available to me to get my belongings back and, above all, to complete my job, which was perfectly unpolitical: I was writing an article on the particular baroque style of Frederic the Great of Prussia, whose palaces at that point in time stood on either side of the Wall: Sanssouci in Potsdam, Charlottenburg in West Berlin, with a number of other architectural testaments spread liberally around the area. My mother, Karen Radkai, was doing the photography. It was one of the few times we worked together — alas, for she was a terrific person to work with — and we were freelancing. House & Garden, where she published often, had registered interest in purchasing the article.

A lot has been forgotten over the past 20 years, a lot has been buried under the more egregious or absurd aspects of the East Bloc in general and East Germany in particular, the Orwellian control mechanisms in place, the prisons, the shoddy manufacturing (not all of it), the inefficient economy, the drab housing. In addition to all the spying, including preposterous attempts to gather people’s odors, the system had generated a few very pedestrian inconveniences. For one, if you wanted a visa as a westerner, for instance, you had to apply at least a month ahead of time and you had to know exactly where you were going to go and when, since the authorities, obsessed as they were with control, did not really take to spontaneous travel. Secondly, to phone the GDR from the West, you needed a healthy dialing finger, plus about a day’s worth of time. A special operator would register your call early in the morning and then connect you at some time during the day, it could be three, eight, or ten hours later. You just waited and waved away any other incoming calls (this was before all the sexy communication systems we have today).

That is the information that shot through my mind as I sauntered towards West Berlin on the Glienicker Bridge. That, and my somewhat innocent mother and her assistant wandering around Potsdam enjoying the somewhat dreary sights. Even though I had warned her this might happen, as a native German from the unified country, she simply could not conceive that there was this long, spooky, insurmountable wall cutting German and the world in two. So I did something inconceivable: I stopped in the middle of the bridge, turned around and started walking back, trying to look as casual as a 6’3” man with a mop of unruly blond hair and wearing a trench coat might be able to. A pebble on the beach and all that. There was not that much traffic, and what there was, was against me. In my peripheral vision, I caught the border guard dealing with someone’s papers, and I willed him to keep looking away from me at whatever he was doing. “I’m just a little grey mouse, as grey as the tar,” I mantraed to myself, heart beating like a loose wheel on a roller coaster. … I passed under a small East German banner. And suddenly, like a baby out of the womb, I was in the GDR. But without a visa.

As I mentioned above, I knew what I was doing. I had found out the day before. But in those heady days after the now famous announcement by Günther Schabowski I could not believe it, even though the opening of the border was only one way at the time, from east to west – and West Berliners were still not permitted to cross the border. And I did want to beat that bizarre system just once. I guess, everyone did at some point, some with more risk than others. I risked, probably a few hours at the custom’s house or police station. Some people I knew risked more. And I hope to unveil some of their stories in the following narrative. They are not the prominence, people whose quotes are famous and repeated like gospel. They are just everyday people with their struggles and tribulations.East Germany Part II continues…

Definitely not the MVP of Football games. Not even close.

I was listening to this story on the CBC this week about this guy who grew up in East Germany during the Cold War.  He talked about the fall of the Berlin Wall and how one of the things people were the most excited about, besides reuniting families after decades of seperation, was shopping.  This was because in the former German Democratic Republic (it wasn’t really either of those things but whatever), there was only ever one brand of anything.  If you went to the store to get butter, you had one butter to choose from.  In the West, however, people could chose from all sorts of butter!

So the controvercial thing I’m saying here is that in terms of sports games we have reverted to a Soviet-approved system based on a complete lack of competition.  That’s pretty remarkable considering how much we’re apparently scrambling to keep capitalism together.  There is only one football brand, Madden, thanks to an agreement with the NFL Players Association.  Other football games, like Blitz, rely on almost football with no recognizable named players (I should note that growing up, we didn’t care about this, but now we’re spoiled).  Any other football game worth mentioning (NCAA or NFL Pro Street) is still made by Electronic Arts.  But back in the day, we had so many choices!

I'm totally digging the Windows 95-style menu screens.

What’s even more crazy about this is that history seems to be teaching us that a lack of competition actually makes for better games.  How’s that for irony?  Madden games improve every year despite a vacuum in terms of real competition (arguably because they have to do more than a roster update because they will aggravate their rabid, semi-literate fan-base), but when we had twenty-five different football games, most of them were garbage.  I call this sports-game-based inverse-capitalism the Greater Madden Theory of Gaming Economics.  The GMToGE (gimtoge) simply states that in a market filled with competition, all competitors can produce a mediocre product and most people will buy it because it has the word “Football” on it and all they know is that they want a Football game, but if there is no competition, those people demand a better product on which to spend their hard-earned dollars and might just opt for last year’s version or not purchase any football games (oh noes!)

So anyway, Capcom MVP Football was terrible, and if this were the former Soviet Union it probably would have had a tarp laid out for it and the bill for the bullet sent to its creators.  That’s all I’m trying to say here.