Advertisement
Published: January 12th 2010
I’m getting things organised to leave. The kitchen is in its usual crappy state. Garbage is everywhere, dirty pots and pans on the table, plates with half eaten spaghetti on them, cold and solid.
I want breakfast before we leave, so I go and get six eggs and a loaf of bread. We are munching away when Julie and Edward come down.
"Bon jour, everybody."
"Bon jour, piss head."
"Bon jour," small turd lying in my hand. I squeeze you until you slide through my fingers, brown and smelly.
I go upstairs to finish packing my bag. Julie comes up. I write my address on a piece of paper and hand it to her. Garble garbage farewell time.
"So you're leaving us," she smiles.
"Yep," I reply. "I'm going to Champagne. Jeff and I are going together."
"I thought you would," she says.
Edward comes up and I tell him. He seems a little surprised. I try and give him 15 Francs for food, which I have owed for the past couple of days. He declines of course, staying true to form. Keeping his strangle hold on our necks even as we
leave him.
Downstairs we say half hearted "Goodbyes" and exchange addresses. Blab blab, goobee gloop. Tra la la, deedle dum, dear chickens.
There is a place called Paradise where we will all be together again, drinking tea and chatting with Queen Elizabeth and other notables. "Lovely to see you here. So you finally made it."
We have to leave through the window because nobody can find the key for the door.
I feel like a paratrooper or a skydiver jumping out into the clear blue sky. Pull the rip-cord and we are sailing down the road, Jeff and I. Past the Bolongerie, the Bucherie and onto the highway.
By some sort of mad reasoning, influenced by Jeff's pleasure at walking and my desire not to spend money, we decide not to pay eleven francs for the bus to Narbonne. Instead we hike all the way. Cars are flying past. Zap, zap, zap. We hardly bother hitching because no one will stop anyway. The French don't like to pick up hitch hikers, but if we were clean looking we might have a chance. Jeff was wearing his brown Hawaiian shirt and a pair of grey
trousers which he had found somewhere in the streets of Bordeaux. His sandshoes were covered in holes. He had a strange looking bag suspended from his forehead by a scarf, which was made of a curtain from his last home in Canada. Two blankets were draped over the top and a guitar in a beat up old plastic case hung from his shoulder. He looked like a guru - a rabid eyed angelic guru to whom someone would donate 5 francs or kiss on the forehead, but not the sort of person to pick up in your car.
I was wearing Greek sandals with socks, a pair of overall jeans with eleven patches on them and a plastic fake leather jacket which I had rescued from a garbage bin in France the year before.
The sun was shining and the sky was blue. It was still early but we passed people, mostly Spanish, working in the fields picking grapes.
We waved to them, "Hello, fellow vendargers. Beautiful people. We are together, you and us. Look - we are leaving for other parts."
"God speed."
"Thank you. Be content with your work and return to Spain
and your families with the joy of experiencing a good time."
There is greenery all around. Grape vines everywhere, flowing around small hills covered in pines. Large trees are lining the road. We walk on a grass strip between the road and a gully. It's a cold morning. It's a fresh morning. It’s a new morning!
I get to thinking about girls. I love girls. They are probably the most important thing in my life. Without girls I can't see any reason to exist. Not because they represent sex. Not just in-out orgasm stuff, but the expression in their eyes when you look at them. The way they smile when you clumsily try and catch their attention. The way they hold themselves aloof, surrounded by belching, vain, physical men. - Men whose trousers are too loose and long, down below their bellies. Men with flared polyester trousers and gold chains around their necks. Women are supreme. They are so superior. They can function in this world where we men overlord them, harass them and physically dominate them. God, I love girls.
After four hours of scuffling along the road we finally reach the outskirts of Narbonne.
It’s all industrial, gross deformed buildings stand around us like bouncers outside a pub. Diesel on their breath, florescent lights in their eyes, bicycle chains in their back pockets. They are guarding the town. Checking us out, “You want to come in? You better toughen up boys. We don’t like vagabonds here and we grind poets into the sidewalk. I get the urge to turn around and go back. But back to where?
We follow the signs for the train station. On the way to the station we pass through the main square. There is a kind of flee market on and the place is buzzing with what seems to be all the local farmers from the region. We walk through looking at the things for sale. At one stand they have a mountain of cloths piled up high on a table and a box of old shoes on the ground. It looks like the annual sell of from the old people home. I wonder how many of these cloths had to be taken off dead bodies. There is some really old fashioned stuff here. But there is also some new things thrown in. the cloths are cheap -
only 5 francs each. So I find a pair of trousers and a jacket. They are really like 1940’s trousers, baggy and grey coloured. The jacket is steel grey with a button missing from the middle. The only shoes that I can find that fit are a pair of purple florescent gum-boots. I also find an old black beret for 3 francs. I come away with a whole new set of cloths for less than 20 francs.
After another 30min or one thousand years we get there. We check the schedule; there is a train in another 40 minutes. We have time so we go into the small café and buy a coffee o’ la - coffee soaked in milk. There are a few people in the café, mostly men sitting around chatting and smoking. They look like us but most of them are a lot older. Not long after we finish our coffee the train arrives and we jump on. Yowwiiiii. Now we will really be moving.
We are on the train, but we are seen by one of the guards. They have stopped the train. We are marching down the corridors like - men on
the run.
"Are they looking for us? Have they stopped the train to throw us off?" says Jeff.
Time is ticking away. All we can do is waiting. Jeremy, you are too old to do this sort of thing.
"They are all couchettes," I say. "And the doors are locked."
"Let's get in a toilet," says Jeff.
We leave our bags in the hallway as the train begins again and climb into separate toilets.
We are isolated, alone. Jeff thought it was a good idea to leave the doors unlocked so the guard would think nobody is there. But that means anybody can walk in.
I have a lump in my throat. My stomach is churning. Now I know why I paid for the last train I got on. It's not worth the pain this fear makes.
The door opens. I tense up expecting to see the Controller, but the body of a fat lady appears. She sees me and jumps out of her skin, then bolts out.
I go after her and say: "It's O.K. I was just waiting. You can use the toilet."
She looks at me strangely,
then smiles and goes into the toilet. I see her husband heading for the toilet where Jeff is standing. He opens the door, and Jeff walks out like he has just finished having a piss. I can't help smiling.
"What'll we do now?" I say.
"I'm going down the corridor to get into another toilet," Jeff says and then he leaves.
I am waiting for the lady to come out, but when she does another one goes in there. Why do they all have to go it now!
I feel guilty about jumping the train, so I am glad there are not a lot of people around to see this disgusting scene. If there was another way out, I would find it. Hitching is ridiculous here and to pay for the train is impossible.
While I am waiting, I notice a dark blue shape out of the corner of my eye, descending down the corridor towards me. I look ahead blankly hoping the image will pass by. It comes level with me. I look up.
"Your ticket, please."
"I haven't got one."
"Pardon?"
"No ticket."
"Passport."
Oh dear! It's all
over. I feel almost a sensation of relief. Everything is beyond me now. I am in the power of the Controller.
I hand him my passport and at the same time look into his face to try and ascertain how he will treat me, for I am now at the mercy of this person. “Not the whip. Oh no, not the whip!”
I am released. He has a gentle jocular expression. I am in safe hands.
"Are you alone?" he says.
"No. I have a friend. I'll go and get him."
I toddle off and return with a crestfallen Jeff. We stand and discuss the situation as the Controller writes tickets, which are to be mailed home and paid for later.
"You should have gone into the other toilet," says Jeff.
"Yeah. You're right, but it happened so fast. I didn't think he'd be down on me so fast."
We are let off at the next station. All we can do is search for somewhere to sleep the night and then catch a train in the morning.
Jeff takes control. I've been travelling seven years but I am in his
hands. He is supreme in this area. He is the closest thing to a 'hobo' that I have ever been with in my life. I wonder if he had some kind of manual that he read back home in Canada. “A hobo’s guide to Europe”, or perhaps “Europe on nothing a Day”. He actually did have a budget when we met him striding down the road in the middle of nowhere. He was a dot in the distance. At first I mistook him for a bundle of clothing lying by the side of the road and started to get excited at the thought of something new to wear. Then after a while I noticed the bundle was moving ever so slowly towards us. When he finally reached us he was not much different to what I first thought he was. His cloths, his body, his bag, everything looked the colour and consistency of dust. Only his eyes shone out. Like little diamonds, sparkling on a beach. It didn’t take us long to find out he was doing the same as us, surviving and looking for work. But he had something we did not - money! He budgeted himself $2 a
day and he was quite happy to share it with us. He had travelled through Africa on the same budget for the last six month. Walking from village to village with a bag full of variously coloured pills that he traded for a place to sleep and a bowl of food.
First he got his masters in literature and then latter he got his masters in hobo-ism. We look for card¬ board to sleep on and we look for shelter. All we need is a bottle of red wine and people could spit on us. All we need is a little snot running down into our mouths. Bright yellow snot and a smell of urine between our legs. Then as we walk down the street, I can imagine that people will start handing us money out of the blue, with benevolent looks on their faces. Young girls will turn their heads away in barely concealed disgust. That I could not handle. I could sit and hold out a hat and piss my pants on the side walk as long as not a single pretty young girl saw me in that state. If not for anything else, that reason alone would
stop me from going any further. I am going to sleep and tomorrow could be a totally different day.
I wake up from half dreams. I am running from someone on a huge machine that looks like a mixture of the Pompadou Centre and a Ferris wheel. I am sliding, slipping, straddling huge blocks, squeezing through tunnels, dodging huge cogs that come close to grinding me up. And all the time, officials are on the hunt after me, with their blood hounds yelping on the scent of the animal as the trumpeter loudly blows his bugle.
It's a cold morning. Curled up in my sleeping bag, I feel the chill through the little hole I have made to breathe through.
Jeff is up early as usual and goes off to find bread. The first train leaves at 8.am, so have half an hour.
I poke my head out and look around. "Good morning, Snarly World. Your fingers bite into my bones." It's the first morning with dew, which must be a sign by the All Mighty: "Leave northern Europe, young man. You are stretching your time."
I crawl out of my sleeping bag,
shivering, as Jeff returns with bread and pate. He is like Daniel Boone returning after shooting 'possum for breakfast.
We haven't much time so we head for the platform. Montaubarn Station is covered in early morning mist. It is grey and old looking, like something out of a dreary spy film.
The train stops and we jump on. Chugga chug, chugga chugga chug. We are moving down the line. Let's see how far we can make it on this one. Seven stops till Paris. Look out, Mr Controller, we're coming. We are the enemy. We've come to undermine you. We have no tickets. We are travelling for free. Stop us if you can, Mr Controller. Search us out, dig deep, check every nook and cranny. We could be anywhere.
The sun is shining and it's a brilliant, beautiful day, deep blue and green. We are going into the mountains, climbing up into fresh clean air. Pine covered hills all around. Large houses spotted everywhere with sloping roofs, some slate and some tiled, big, houses, mountain size houses.
Later on, as Jeff is waiting quietly in a toilet, I meet an English guy. He looks a little
like Goofy in Disneyland - Goofy wearing a sports jacket.
"Are you English?"
"Yes," he said, "and you are Australian."
"Yeah you got it, and I don't have a ticket. Must be the convict heritage - a natural born criminal. Can you do me a favour?"
"Yes, I guess so...." he began.
"Look, there's a guard coming. Can you give a knock on the door when he goes past? Thanks. See you in a minute."
A few minutes later I hear a rap on the door.
"Thanks a lot. I must go and see my friend now."
"Do you travel like this all the time?" he says amazed.
"No only in France. It's more expensive on the trains here."
"Inter rail is cheap," he declares.
I look at him - beige shoes, beige trousers and a beige jacket, and perched on top, a rather large elongated head covered with a woolly crop of beige hair.
"Yeah I guess so. See you later."
Before long we are told to get off the train in another little town. We head for the nearest cafe and order a 'petit
cafe' each. I go into the toilet to change, while Jeff gets stuck into the bread and pate.
In the bathroom, I change into the new trousers, coat and gum-boots which I bought in Narbonne. I clean my teeth, shave and brush my hair. Feeling like a new man, I go back into the res¬taurant, striding confidently, a clean person, a respectable person. Jeff is devouring bread and pate.
"Hey Jeff, do you want to cut my hair after we eat?"
"Sure," says Jeff. "If you trim my beard."
Later on, we are sitting outside the cafe in the sunshine and Jeff is hacking away at my hair.
"How do you want me to do it?" he says.
"I want it long enough in front to part on the side and cut short around the ears and at the back. And thin it too, if you can. Do you know how to do thin hair?"
"No problem," says Jeff.
He hacks and hacks for ages, sizing it up and hacking more. Like a skilled professional at work, an artist moulding a piece of beauty.
Jeff cuts my hair outside.
"Okay,"
he says. "Take a look at that."
I go into the cafe toilet and gaze into the mirror. God, what has he done? I look like a soldier! I cannot recognise myself with the new hair cut and tweed jacket. Who is this oddity?
I go back outside. Jeff looks at me. "So what do you think?"
"Well," I say. "It's a bit short on the front. I don't think I'll be able to part it for another two months, but at least I won't need a hair cut for a while."
We are laughing at this strange image resting on my shoulders when a car coming in to park pulls over behind Jeff, who is slightly on the road facing the other way as the car approaches.
"Look out, Jeff. That bastard's going to run over your foot," I yell out too late. The tyre stops on top of Jeff's foot then rolls back. He is shocked and angry in disbelief, as he turns around and bangs the front of the car with the flat of his hand, then kicks the door, screaming.
"You bastard. What the fuck are you doing?" Little
Jeff is mad.
The car pulls over and two mean looking guys jump out. They come over threateningly. We can hardly believe what is happening. The driver is snarling like a demented dog. He marches over towards Jeff. “You kicked my car!"
“You ran over his foot," I screamed in anger, as Jeff swears away. The guy threatens to break Jeff's head, then I mention the magic word; "Police," and they march off into the cafe, leaving us in disbelief.
"He must be mad," I said. "He went straight for your foot. He didn't even bother to stop. He must hate us. What sort of a place is this?"
"Let's get out of here," says Jeff.
We head back to the train station and jump on the first train going north. Now we are running through hills covered in spectacular greenery, acacia trees, ferns and moss covered stone walls. This part of France is so beautiful. We are following a river which is winding below us. Sometimes wide and deep and at other times, small and bent like a contorted snake. As I look down, I want to get off the train right now
and go down there. Dive into the water and swim under the weeds like a fish.
The cliff rises sharply on the other side, crossed sometimes in less rugged spots by small fences enclosing meadows where brown and white cattle graze.
The little villages, dotted among the mountains, are full of chunky stone two-story houses with slate roofs, so secure looking, so solid, old and warm. Large farm houses are also common, surrounded by more meadows. Every now and then a small chateau on a large hill pierces up into the sky, strong and commanding.
I forget my fears of being caught by the controller swallowed up by the beauty. If there is one thing in the world that can elevate me from petty fear and worry, it's the grandeur of nature. I am alive. What cares have I to be on a train illegally in a foreign country with no money in my pocket. A puny man-made train in a puny man's world. There is another world beneath this thin veneer we have toiled for thousands of years to create. This joke we call civilization. With the softest sigh it will crack, revealing another world underneath
- the true world.
My stomach is not churning as before. I don't jump at every sound, afraid that someone is coming to get me. I am at one with a force so great that nothing can harm me.
We are now south of Limagers. Huge country farm houses nestle in the countryside, covered with vines, with barns nearby. Majestic horses prance in the fields and flocks of sheep stand lazily in the shadows of acacia forests.
I have an image of saddling a horse to canter over the fields and through the forests, stopping at small streams to water my horse. There is a country ball where all the surrounding neighbours arrive in buggies, wearing their best suits and ball-gowns. Out near the barn, the farm hands do a jig and Emily takes Jean behind one of the outer sheds and lifts her skirts.
I see a mighty chateau perched on a hill, surrounded by a vast forest. Here and there, huge walls are spearing up into the sky like rockets, then falling away to nothing. Looking like a great black Parthenon covered in ivy, what stories it would have to tell.
My heart
is pounding at the thought of hacking through the forest, through creepers and briars to reach its feet. And as a beautiful maiden cried out from a tower window, "At last, my hero has come", I would find the entrance, if it still existed, and march in like a conquering hero, to be met by the king and his knights.
Young girls laugh in the corridors of the train as they run from one compartment to another. I imagine them as veiled virgins, with high peaked, tasselled hats on their heads, and thin robes covering their naked bodies. Steal clad war horses thunder in my ears as we enter the city of Limages.
At the station I am looking out of the window at the people on the platform then Jeff comes up to me and says he saw a Controller coming through the next carriage in our direction. Next thing I’m back in the toilet like a hunted animal. My cage has shining cream painted walls and an orange door. I've got my feet up on the basin, as I sit on the toilet seat. It stinks in here - a smelly little room that brings
back my fears. We wait at the station. Every noise is the Controller coming. Any second I will hear the rap of his hand on the door.
"Come out and show me your ticket." My heart is thumping again. My beautiful image has gone. All that's left is a stainless steel paper towel container and a shining mirror where I can stare into my rabbit scared face. Someone else tries to open the door. I have visions of fifty Controllers in blue uniforms, waiting outside with clip-boards and pens at the ready, "Ticket? Where is your ticket"
Five more stops till Paris and then we can rest, see Greg and forget this horror. Then a short trip to Champagne, and the search for work will begin.
We must find work in Champagne. I now have only 1,100 francs and the bus ticket from London to Athens alone will cost about 800 francs. Somehow I must get to London and survive on the way. And after that, even more - pay for the ferry back home to Paros, pay the rent for my house, get to Mikines and survive until work begins. All will be ok if we
find work.
The train starts moving and I flash back to the immediate problem here on the train.
Hunted! They are getting closer. A man persistently wanted to get into the toilet so I had to emerge. Looking down the car I saw a Controller heading my way. I dashed off in the opposite direction, heading for the next toilet, but I see another Controller in the next carriage with his back turned. I duck into the toilet and stand behind the door leaving it unlocked so the Controller will think there is no one inside.
After thirty seconds, the handle moves downward and the door clicks open. Through the mirror I see the image of a woman entering. I loom behind her like Count Dracula. She turns. I expect a terrified scream to well up from here little body and shake the whole train but she only looks mildly surprised as I bolt past her mumbling in bad French.
The Controller still has his back turned and I am right next to him. All he has to do, is turn around and he will see me. I want to stay there and wait until the
lady leaves, but he turns to come through.
I take off again down the other way, straight towards the first Controller. He is not there. I try the toilet door but it's locked. So I head off down through the next carriage to where Jeff is waiting. He looks at me questioningly.
"Are you caught?" he says.
"No," I reply, "but they're everywhere. One's coming up this way. Did you see the one in this carriage, he must have passed you?"
"I'll get into this toilet. You go to the next one," says Jeff.
I’m waiting for the knock on the door again. Another jerk on the toilet door, more violent this time. I force myself to open the door expecting to see the Controller but a woman with a small child smiles at me. We are lucky for a change. Jeff is outside as well.
"I think they've been through. We might be right now," I say.
"You think so?" says Jeff just as we see another guard enter the carriage. Too late to do anything, he has seen us. We look out of the window, watching the guard striding towards us
from the corner of our eyes. Jeff is whistling. The guard opens the door and walks past. We count for three seconds then five seconds then smile triumphantly at each other. Our luck is good for a change.
Old men and women in the carriage are looking at us strangely. Do they know? They must have an idea because we have been shooting back and forth, and spending half our time in the toilets.
Another Controller comes towards us. We tense again but he passes also. Jeff starts singing a Beatles' song. I'm smiling, checking the rail map and estimating how long it will take to reach Paris.
We join three elderly French people in an eight seat compartment. For the first time I relax and look around. I am starting to enjoy the ride. The train is so smooth, rocking gently. Everything is new and shining, glass and plastic. Brown seats, orange plastic luggage racks, big mirrors above the seats so you can see the luggage rack above you, and watch your bags if you choose. Train travel can be very enjoyable.
A few very relaxing and enjoyable hours latter we pull up in
front of the Gare de l'Oest. It resembles a giant wedding cake, over lacquered and very ornate, but now rather old with mould starting to grow on the icing.
BRAKE
I stride in after saying "Goodbye" to Gerard the policeman, a friend of a friend of a friend. First I enquire about the first train to Epernay. I have over one hour, so I search for the toilet.
There are two rows opposite each other with just a small glass screen between each urinal. I march up to an open one and pull out Percy. Fresh, clean Percy. I gaze at him in admiration. I feel the surge coming, like an uncontrollable power welling up from my bladder and into my cock. I try and hold it for as long as I can there is enough piss ready to come out to fill up the urinal and onto the toilet floor and out of the door, flooding down corridors. A black guy next to me peers over the screen to take a look at Percy. His head is nodding and his arm is jerking in a rhythmic way. Jungle beat. He looks at the guy on
the other side. I realise that he is jerking off. Nobody is taking any notice of him. It's like an every day normal occurrence. I look around at the other people, and I have an image of them all jerking off. Percy can't piss. He just wants to hide, so I put him away and march out.
Now I have to piss soon. It's contorting my stomach, so I can't concentrate on anything. I go outside and find a little green bushy area near an office block, duck in and let go. I'm Tarzan. There are creepers all around me. The ground is mossy and wet. Where are the giant dragon flies? Where are the huge, red ants? I shake out the last drops then walk out. People are peering at me through the windows. I’m talking to myself, "Sorry to be so boring. I'm only taking a piss. I'm a tourist, you know. I don't live here."
Back in the train station, I pull out the beer and chocolate that Greg gave me. There are cosy green benches with about thirty people on them. People who cannot afford to sit in the restaurant. I look at
their faces. Fat gypsy women with cheap furs and colourful scarves on their heads and rough faced young men wearing plastic fake leather jackets, jeans and running shoes.
I start thinking about Jeff. Little gnome Jeff, only 150cm or 4'6" tall. Red bearded Jeff with sandy hair, cropped short. Jeff, with eyes like a Terrorist but also very kind. When you look at Jeff's face, you cannot imagine him thinking bad thoughts about anyone. Physically he looked like a rabid mongrel and your immediate thought when seeing him for the first time would be to stay away from him in case he suddenly bit you. His personality was so quiet and placid but his head was always ticking away inside. He noticed everything around him and he was always thinking. He was a real traveller.
The first time I saw him striding towards us, I thought I was back in the Himalayas seeing an apparition grow larger in front of my eyes. By the side of a typical French country road, marching towards us was a Nepalese Sherpa, with a bag suspended by a strap across his forehead and wearing old grey polyester trousers several sizes too large,
held up by a plastic cord rope. A tacky old blue jumper covered in holes and a pair of sand shoes, also full of holes. No socks and no underpants of course. His eyes were shining, mad, a huge grin on his face as though he has just come from a far away glacial world of ice and shadow, back into civilisation.
Later we discovered that he had been alone for weeks and had not talked to anybody, just walking along the road and camping out in the fields, a Divine Hobo from a middle class background. Mr Average home in Canada and a highway bum supreme here in Europe.
Jeff did not like having showers. He preferred to be dirty. He was happy in his dirt, lived in it like people live in apartment buildings. It was his security, his haven from the outside world. To take Jeff's dirt away would be like stripping someone naked then putting them in a large cold, white room. He would be defenceless and vulnerable without it.
Everyone laughed at Jeff. You just could not help it. He had an aura of comedy about him, like a natural Charlie Chaplin.
He had studied acting for a year, and a teacher who slotted people into their best character parts, said that Jeff was good for comedy. He didn’t have to act - he just was himself and that was enough to have you rolling on the floor. He didn’t like being laughed at though. But people laugh at him as though he is was a Stand-up-comedian, this sensitive, intelligent person. I remember one evening we were all sitting around the table in Fleury, Julie and I, the three Frenchmen Edward, Patrick, Fred and Blue, Suzy and Greg.
Jeff was sitting down. He had just finished eating. It was the first night that Blue, Suzy and Greg came to the hole. Jeff was talking about work and how he could not understand why a group of girls laughed at him all day long. A Spanish girl called Maria would look over at him and start giggling. Then she would tell the others and they would stop working and stare at Jeff and giggle.
"I didn't know what to do," he said, "they just stood there, laughing at me, so I grabbed a piece of straw and started scratching my back."
He demonstrated for us. "Then they all went crazy, laughing. I don't know why?"
He is demonstrating with an imaginary piece of straw, standing by the table with a questioning look on his face. We looked at him and began to giggle. While still scratching his back with the imaginary straw, he went to sit down but banged his head on the mantle piece above the fireplace.
We began laughing louder. He looks at us as if in a daze. He looks at the mantle piece as if it whacked him on the head on purpose.
"They just kept laughing at me," he says, as he goes to sit down again and bangs his head on the mantle-piece a second time.
We were in fits, banging the table and screaming with laughter at the top of our voices. Jeff just stands there and stares at us, mystified. Eight people in a state of total hysteria. Then he chuckles to himself, glances rapidly at the mantle-piece, ducks below it and sits down
A pretty little girl is sitting opposite me, staring blankly ahead. I try to catch her eyes, but it is impossible. She is not
here. Only in body. I could go "Boo" and she would do nothing. A small girl, fragile, with short hair and wearing a leather coat.
A guy sits next to her and starts talking. At first I think they are together, but she continues staring ahead, taking no notice. He keeps talking, not looking at her, but plopped comfortably next to her, puffing on a cigarette. He seems to be totally at home, acting like he has known her for years, they don't look at each other. He talks non stop, like a machine gun, rat-tat-tat. But the girl does not even blink. His whole life is being re-told. Is he some sort of pervert, talking dirty things to innocent young girls? Or is it a secret meeting they want nobody to notice?
He continues talking, sighing deeply, as if he is saying something like, "Well, it was terrible, but what can we do?" And then he is serious and animated as if saying, "You couldn't imagine it, really!"
Now he has started singing and humming to himself. The girl has not changed her expression in the slightest. They make a great couple. Anyone else would look
at him in wonder and ask whether he is addressing them. Not her though, she is unperturbed. I start to wonder if they meet here every day at a special time. Two people coming together through the swarming masses that inhabit Paris, a unique combination.
Fifteen minutes before my train leaves. I must find the right platform, but I don't want to go and miss the chance of something happening. Will she make a sign of recognition? Will he drop his pants and start masturbating in front of her?
He halts his monologue, whistles a few notes, then leaves. I am pleased as the spell is broken at last and I can go and find my train. The girl smiles at a black lady sitting next to her, reaches for a cigarette and shuffles through her bag. A minute later, she also gets up and is lost in the crowd.
BRAKE
As soon as we arrive at Austerlitz in Paris, we go to ring Greg. He is not there. Nobody home. We feel like shit, worn out after hiding from the Controllers. So we drop our bags on the floor and collapse.
"We can
go on to Epernay," I say. Jeff looks at me. Neither of us has enough energy to move.
"I can't stand the idea of jumping another train now," he says.
"I know, but we can't stay here."
"Last time I was here, I slept on a bench outside."
I get this feeling that Jeff has slept in every train station in France.
"It's not real safe though, eh?" I say.
Jeff walks off to see when the next train is going to Eperney, while I keep trying to contact Greg. Then Jeff comes back, looking as though he is about to collapse with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Guess what," he says. "We can't get a train from here, we have to go to another station first."
I groan. Five minutes later we are walking along corridors and tunnels with our bags, looking for the right train.
"I'll try the telephone once more," I say. This time someone answers. It is Joseanne, Greg's girl friend. Then Greg comes on the 'phone.
"Greg, is that you? Save us! We're at the train station. God, I'm glad you're there,
“We're just about dead," I am screaming while Jeff is grinning outside the telephone booth.
Greg gives us directions to his local station where he will meet us. We jump the metro. It is the last train. No problem.
Greg arrives in his car with Joseanne and her daughter, Fabian. She is incredibly pretty. I guess she is about 22 years old, very well built, with a typical French arrogance that I have always found so appealing. We all dance around and introduce ourselves and before we know it, we are sitting around a dinner table with four of Greg's English friends, eating hot food and drinking good wine. We stay up till three in the morning.
Suzy has been looking at me all night. She leans over and says, “"You're sleeping with me tonight."
Next morning we rise late, and walk around mumbling like blissful idiots. Then we sit slumped over the table drinking strong black coffee, as everyone takes a turn in the shower. Everyone showers except Jeff.
Bliss! Hot water and fresh clothes. My hair looks slightly better washed, but I still look as though I belong in the Army.
Greg's
friends are leaving for London that morning, and Jeff suggests that I should ask for a lift, but I need to work at another vendarge.
A little later Jeff comes up and says he is going with them to London.
"I'm going back to Canada. I don't want to go to Greece. I'd be stuck if we can't save money. If I go back to Canada I can work and save a lot, then be back here next year and go to Africa."
I look at him, dumbstruck. My travelling partner, my alter ego, fellow conspirator, comrade in arms. My crazy hobo friend is leaving.
"You're right of course. It's the best thing to do. Just make sure you send me a post card, hey?"
"Don't worry I will, and if I make some money I'll send you a ticket so we can do the rock picking together."
"Yes", I say. "Right."
Jeff is gone and I spend a lazy day with Greg and Suzy. Joseanne goes to her group therapy class and Fabian goes off to work. I go outside the apartment onto the verandah and look down five stories. The
wind hits me in the face. Apartment blocks sprout up all around like giant, rusty tin cans. Rows of cars are parked below and kids are screaming in the play-ground across the street.
I wonder where Jeff is now, with his silly grin. Are people still laughing at him? I go back inside and close the sliding window. Great fluffy balls of puffy powder are all around me. They brush against my face and it's hard to manoeuvre around them. The carpets are soft under my bare feet. I glance at the couch where a bunch of soft pillows are waiting for me invitingly, so they can lull me to sleep.
My head is empty. I keep thinking of all these things I want to do, but I feel so tired. “Why bother, Jeremy?"
Greg and Suzy are discussing friends and neighbours - a whole web of intrigue - not to be distracted, Lionel Richards is wooing some women in the background.
I contemplate making coffee, but I don't like the bitter taste it leaves in my mouth. Maybe I’ll eat a slice of bread?
Suzy and I have a game of Master Mind and
I get it out in five goes. This evening is similar to the first. It's close to midnight. Greg and Joseanne are giggling and whispering together. They have something going on. The King and Queen are croaking and every time they open their mouths, soft blue and pink feathers come cascading out, falling on the carpet, spilling over the dining table and covering all of us. They stand up and go outside into the kitchen as if they are waltzing together - intimate without physically touching. Soon they are back.
"Surprise!" they say. Greg is triumphantly holding up a bottle of champagne in one hand and four glasses in the other - real authentic champagne glasses.
"Happy birthday, Suzy, "says Greg, "I told you I'd get you a good birthday present, didn't I."
BRAKE
It is most definitely the end of the line now. We are in a corner of the world, at this stinking train station.
We just had a game of 'shit', Terry, Ian, Hussein, Elkhazri ELHASSANE. Josianne and I, and I win in a lightening finish by one point at 129 to 130, but only because I splashed out and took
a risk and went for five tricks.
Ygeves has gone for food leaving the others in the main lobby with the bags. It is he end - the finish. Colmar is another Cognac. The vendarges is over again.
A guy is screaming "Racist" in my ear. I think he wants to wear my underwear. I think he wants to carry pictures of my sister around in his wallet. He wants to suck my insides out and devour them. He wants my sweat, my toe joints. I can see him now. Thirsty eyes bulging as he scrapes away at the dead flesh between my toes and greedily places it between his own, contented as a boy with his first pair of roller-skates.
So I am a racist! So I hate Arabs. Perhaps he is right. If he leans over six inches from my face for the fiftieth time with his silly grin and growls "Australia", and I don't respond with a beaming smile and a witty reply, then o.k., I will wear the label of 'racist', and wear it gladly. "Because I don't like the way you pressure me, mister. I don't like the way you suck at
me like a leech. I don't like you, and you are an Arab, so a racist I must be."
This Train Station cafeteria reminds me a little of India, with light brown palm frond wall-paper, high timber ceiling, wooden panelled doorways and long wood tiered walls. The waiters are all wearing black trousers, shoes, waistcoats and ties, with white shirts. And everywhere is a feeling of hopelessness. It is as much at the end of the universe here as a small train station in this French Karala.
I am thinking about getting out now - walking back out of this slum, pulling together what I have left and running for Greece. I should be thinking desperately, working out the battle plan, the route out and the route home. But every time I look up I see Ian's seventeen year old jovial face beaming at me.
"This is a Magnum 44, the most powerful hand gun in the world. Feeling lucky, Punk? Make my day," with a bad Clint Eastwood accent. "And how are you, Margareta?"
We are in Luxemburg, the little country that keeps on eluding me. I am here, feet firmly planted and spreading roots
into the ground, seeking nourishment. I gaze at everything, head spinning around like a clown in a Show.
An apparition comes storming towards us, arms and legs flaying. It's the Madame's husband. He looks like he is angry.
"O.k. Go now, you must go. Get out of here." He is all red in the face and panting after his sprint from the front door.
Terry said, "We are looking for something."
"I don't care. I give you five minutes." We look at him as he keeps discharging insults.
"This is enough. You have made enough trouble here. First the mess last night." I guess he is referring to the carrot cuttings we left on the bench. He is almost trying to force us to move with his hatred. "I give you five minutes to get out."
"You are one of the least friendly people I've ever met. You're just typical of the people in Luxemburg," I say to him.
"I give you two minutes to get out. And don't talk about Luxemburg." Then laughing as loudly as he can, he says, "You come here and you don't have one franc. Not one Franc!."
"I
have a lot more money than you have, you dirty old Adolf Hitler. Look at this stinking place you live in."
"You have a lot more money than me. Ha, ha, ha. You don't have one franc. Not one franc”. This is followed by some more hysterical laughter that he manages to produce behind gritted teeth.
We started to walk away and he followed as if he was shooing us away. I turned around again and said, "If I walk away, I'll walk away by myself."
He is still bubbling to himself: "Not a franc, not a franc," so we walk off and leave him to his petty life.
BRAKE
Thump down deep, boiling my blood and echoing in my head. I feel something inside, some hidden fluid coursing around my body. It reaches my head through the back of my neck and tingles.
My muscles contract from the tip of my toes to the end of my fingers, forcing my hand into a fist. Ah-hhhh! I want to jump and scream at the top of my voice. I want to be like Tarzan, here I am in Africa, Pygmies to the right, Zulus on
my left. I can't scream, so I make a wild stab in the air with my fist. Ah-hhhh! I can love at this second. I could kill - kill myself, kill anybody. If you said you wanted me to kill you at that split second, that second of utter clear vision, I would do it, not thinking about
The consequences. That one second. Now!
This wine tastes bitter. It must be really old. Time is ticking away. I have to go quickly to the Train Station and change money and then meet N. and the others at the Bar, and then music, live music. Off to the hall for energy release number one. Kill yourself in hours of deadly fun. Lou Reed is hissing in my ears "Hanging round, hanging round." Devil Lou. You've been sent here to earth on a mission. Drag us down, Lou. Drag us down to the depths. Down to Hell, Lou. That's your business line, isn't it?
How did you get there, Lou? Were you once a bouncy, fat baby, going "Goo, goo." Were you a brown eyed young whipper-snapper skipping down the pavement with a football. Do you eat food, Lou, or
do you live on heroin and other people's blood? What's in it for you, Lou?
I feel a mood here, a sensational mood. The lighting is taste¬ful, an easy sleepy light. N. has a great apartment with plants, a comfy couch, even a burgundy Persian type carpet, a small table which seats four or five for meals, and the greatest lamp made of stained glass, hanging above. I think her brother made it.
Like a Satellite of Love zooming down to earth with a message, “Welcome Stranger. Grab a seat and have a beer. We're always pleased to meet strangers here on Earth."
One of N's friends is going into the army on Monday. He is joining the commandos. He said there are only five countries in the world that have real Commandos. Not even America. Only Portugal, the United Kingdom, Germany, Belgium and Holland?
On Monday at 2.00pm, off goes his hair, and on goes the uniform. Then six months of sleeping outside. No girls, no bars, no alcohol. Nothing that is a part of one's normal everyday life. But four hours of sport, four hours of hand to hand combat, and lots of marching
“Up and down the square”. He will even be parachuted somewhere into Corsica for a week and hopefully survive on what he can dredge up. Fifteen months service beginning on Monday. Fifteen months!
He says, "It's good training. They check your bag and if you don't have your knife, for example, big problems. You gotta go around with perhaps a large rock in your Back Pack for the next two weeks."
Twiddling my thumbs now. Soups on. Gotta get some food inside to keep me going tonight. "Ground Control to Major Tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on." Big night, tonight.
I get a lift after walking about four kilometres. Once I would never walk, but lately I am walking more often. At least, if you are walking, you are going somewhere. I can't stand by the side of the road for too long, just standing there with your thumb out, kicking stones or whistling. I hate it.
The guy who picked me up was a tall, clean looking Dutchman. He had just arrived from Athens, and said, "I was there one week ago, sitting on a verandah with an Australian from the
wines!"
"Wines? Never heard of it. It doesn't sound Aboriginal."
"In Adelaide. We were together in Crete."
"Oh yeah. It's very beautiful in Crete," I said.
“You've been to Greece?"
"Yes," I replied. "But not Crete, though lots of people have told me about it. I've been to Paros, Corfu, Santorini, Ios and Mykonos."
"Oh," he says. "That's a lot of islands."
He looks at me in admiration, with a beaming smile on his face. I don't want to tell him that I have spent the last ten months there. It gets boring retracing your life for the last couple of years to every lone traveller you meet. I don't talk much about travelling now to anyone who is not a traveller.
He waits for me to continue talking about Greece, but I remain silent. "What do you do in Australia?" he starts again.
The hitch-hiking interrogation. I cannot stand this stuff. Pretty soon we are going to switch to him and his job, his wife, and maybe his sex problems if he has any. You never know.
"Bartending, tractor driving." I try to think of something that will interest
him. "You know. Cowboys in America. I've done the same sort of thing in Australia."
He is beaming again. "It's very different to here," he says, casting his hand over the countryside. "Here we have tree, person, house."
"Yeah," I chuckle. "It's very different. We go riding all day on horseback to round up the sheep or cattle. In the middle of Australia you can drive straight..." I stab my fingers forward like a slow motion karate chop to emphasise the fact "...all day and only see two or three cars. And sometimes none at all."
He whistles in admiration. Australia, the wild country. He has visions of the Wild West, and thinks of selling his house in Amsterdam to go and ride horses in Australia.
"I work for Fokker. We sell planes to Australia. I like selling to Australia."
"Fokker," I say. “I remember Fokker Friendship."
"Yes, that's right, and the sister plane is fellowship." They sound like catch phrases for Banking Accounts. Now he is on a subject he enjoys and explains all the ins and outs of selling a 'plane.
"It's not like selling a car, you know. There are
manuals to learn this long..." He extends his hands, leaving an imaginary gap in between of about half a metre and I imagined it floating there in front of him. "All you've ever wanted to know about flying and repairing a Fokker." An awesome thought.
We are entering Amsterdam now. He asks me, "Have you ever been to Amsterdam before?"
I lie, "No. It's the first time."
Meanwhile I am looking around at the typical formation of the city. Everywhere there are three storey houses standing to attention as if in the army. Some green, some blue but mostly brown. There are canals and little bridges, and everywhere, bicycles. Back again - after three years.
BRAKE :😞(NOTE: Comparison of Belgium to Holland - the Belgians enjoy food and drink more - slower, less work orientated, also more beers. ...)
"The canals," I say. "They are famous."
He is smiling. After all it is his city, his famous city. We cruise down a couple of large streets passing young people dressed well, with style, lots of leather, boots, and coats, etc.
"I live just here," he says, turning a corner onto a small
side street and slipping into a spare parking spot.
We are here in Amsterdam. I am about to put my hand on the door handle. "Do you have somewhere to stay?" he asks.
I look at him. He has a strange look on his face, half smiling but a little bit twisted, quizzical.
"I have some friends here. They gave me the address of a bar. I must find them."
"There are lots of bars in Amsterdam. If you come into my house we can look at a map."
He has a strained look on his face, like he's in pain. Then I look down and notice that his hand is moving, so I click the door open and jump out, saying, "No thanks. I gotta go." Next thing I'm cruising down the street, pack on my back. Hello Amsterdam.
I'm in the Capital of Sleaze now. Dirty old beautiful Amsterdam, where the industrious local Dutch people live next door to drug addicts - English, United States and German. Drug addicts, criminals or people escaping from something else. The night people who don't wake up till five in the afternoon.
I ask a
young Dutch girl the direction to the train station.
"You should take the tram. It leaves from around the corner. They all go there."
"Thanks," I say. Dutch hospitality. They love to help you.
She smiles. "Success," she says. I watch as she walks off down the street. Tight bum in a pair of baggy white trousers, tucked into high brown boots.
As I reach the tram stop, I'm wondering why she used the word "Success". It's nice - different. "People who are different always attract me," I am thinking as a tram goes past in the opposite direction. In the last carriage I notice two Controllers giving tickets to a couple of guys. God, the same old shit. I may as well walk. So I take off, marching down the road. Free - no Controller can stop me now.
Amsterdam, sleazy Amsterdam. A guy is walking next to me wearing a pair of dirty bell-bottom flowery trousers. With long hair that has not been combed for months, he looks as though he was deep frozen in 1965, and has just thawed out. He is peering into garbage cans and fosicking like a gopher. His
head is almost inside and his arms are digging down into the depths, past coke cans and cigarette packets that have been building up for days. What is he going to find in there? Maybe a half eaten chicken sandwich from last week?
I walk into the Egg-cream. It's crowded, but there is a table with only one guy sitting at it. He is bald headed with a long moustache. Asking him if I can sit down, I half expect him to tell me to "Fuck off", but he does not, so I sit at his table.
The Egg-cream has not changed at all in three years - tightly packed tables with people coming and going all the time, and crowded with tourists and locals. It must be in Guide Books because it is impossible to find. The days of sitting in there for hours over a coffee are long gone.
Posters with figures of nude women and lots of flowers cover the walls. The waiter comes.
“Apple Crumble and cream please." The words come out with pure pleasure. Three years since I sat in here with Nuala, Judy and Robyn eating Apple Crumble.
When
the waiter leaves, I go to the toilet. It is all blue neon, like being on a ghost ride in slow motion. Even my jeans are glowing. I look down into the bowl. I'm pissing green. What a sensation. I cannot aim correctly, everything is green and blue. Where is my piss going? Finally I hear the sound of it bubbling into the water in the bowl.
The soap is green also. Who is that in the mirror facing me? Flash Gordon in Amsterdam. All glowing.
Back at the table, the guy has gone and is replaced by two girls, one blonde and one dark. The blonde is young and lovely, with a spiky new wave hair cut. She is animated. A Laurie Anderson look-alike. She eats soup and mimes that she is singing Rock and Roll.
My Apple Crumble is there with a mountain of cream on top, just as it used to be. And only four guilders.
Nuala, I eat this for you. If only you were here, Nuala. If you were here, I would jump up onto the table and do a tap-dance. If you were here now, I would kiss you for
half an hour. If you were here, I would buy you an Apple Crumble. But you are not here, so I just eat my Apple Crumble and think of you.
I leave soon, eager for more. Heading up the street the "Flying Dutchman" looms in front. It has changed. There is a downstairs part as well, with a pool table and pinball machines. It is even more mundane and low grade than before.
Next stop - "The Rat." It looks the same, with English people slumped over stools at the bar. A few of them are wobbling as though they are about to fall off, which is normal here for seven in the evening.
I notice a little guy at the bar. Bald spot on the top of his head like a monk and a small sandy moustache. Could it be?
"Des, is that you?"
"Jeremy!" We stood grinning at each other.
"I thought it was you when you passed by. What are you doing here?" he says.
"I've just come up from France. I can't believe it's you," I say.
We start gabbling at each other and slapping each other on
the back. "Good to see you, you old snake in the grass. You son of a Salty Sea Dog. You……"
Everybody likes Des. You can't help it. He is always smiling, always has something to say, always ready to help you. A happy little Irishman whose main desire in life seems to be to please.
"Erik was here about a week ago. And Wez has been here a couple of times."
We start talking about Greece and the orange season. All the people there and what they are doing now. I'm flying. Images of Greece are flowing through my mind. My cave, the old restaurant where we all used to go and order a portion of chicken and chips and a bottle of retzina.
Devise, Greece. Holy Mikines, with the maddest group of people on the planet. Bizarre characters from everywhere. From December to February, sleepy little Mikines is flooded with Alcoholics, heroin addicts, murderers, mercenaries, escapees from the Foreign Legion. All there together picking oranges off trees and putting them in buckets, later to be sent to corner grocery stalls all over Europe.
"Where's Erik now?" I ask.
"He's gone back to America.
He was working in a Nursery in Alsmere for a couple of weeks. You know, Jeremy, I've never met a tighter person. He stayed with me for one week. I fed him, and bought him beers all the time. I even took him out to eat. Then there was a time when I had no money, when he was working out at Alsmere, and do you know, he didn't give me a thing. He'd come in here after work and I'd be drinking a small beer because I couldn't afford to buy a large one, and I'd ask him if he could buy me a beer. And do you know what he would do? He'd open his wallet with about 200 guilders in notes in it and get all the change out and say: 'Here. I have 65 cents. Will that help?' "
Des has me laughing. "I know," I say. "He was always like that, wasn't he. 'Eric the Red' he used to call himself, because he had Norwegian grandparents or something. Crazy Erik with long red hair and a flaming golden beard. He looked the part, flying down the road on his chariot, his Honda 120cc. He
was really the most frustrated person I've ever met. A typical Pisces, his life dedicated to Zen Buddhism, motor-bikes and dirty pictures. Once Simon was talking to him about 'Souls' and he said I had the oldest soul in Mikines - 4,000 years or something. Then after that, Simon dubbed me "Sir Whinge-a-Lot, Old Soul."
"He scraped 12,000 drachmas together after three months in Mikines, then had it all stolen at a dirty movie in Argos," Des is still going on. "He got to know the fellow in the apartment downstairs. They were getting on really well. You know, Jeremy, he started coming home with bags of groceries. He'd come inside and go to the toilet or something, then take the groceries downstairs to Mike's apartment and cook dinner. And he didn't even say, ‘Des, do you want to eat with us.' Not once!"
I could picture Erik counting his pennies. A lot of the English on the Continent are dedicated to the idea of sharing money. It is mainly a drinking thing.
"It all evens out," said Des. "If you've got money, you don't mind giving it to others when they're low, because you know they'll
do the same for you when you are in the same position. But not Erik. He just wanted everything for himself."
I have heard people saying this a thousand times before and it seems it’s always talked about by people that borrow a lot more than they give. But I just agree with Des, "Yeah, you're right. He was always like that, wasn't he."
Des was thinking 'Greece'. We both were. Visions of all the people. I knew what was coming next.
"Have you heard the latest news about Derek?"
"Tell me," I am pleading. "Every time I run into someone from Mikines they have more news."
When Mikines is involved there is always action.
"You remember two coloured guys were there. Mike and another called - ummm Robert, I think. He was a big, quiet fellow from Suriname or somewhere. He really hated Derek."
"Yeah? Who didn't," I put in.
"Well he was talking about killing Derek."
“Normal,” I thought.
"And remember how Derek was always taking girls up to his cave? Well, he met two girls from Germany and took them up there. He was screwing one of
them while the other slept in another bed. When they left in the morning, their money and passports were gone. Everything! So they called the police. And you wouldn't believe it, but the police searched Derek and found everything. So they gave him twelve hours to get out of Greece. Imagine it. He didn't even try and hide the money."
I cannot believe it! Derek, the King Cave Man, supreme packer of orange crates, scorer of women and all round bad guy, gets caught ripping money off tourists and is thrown out of Greece. Out of his Domain in Mikines. Where will he go? What will he do? The King without a Kingdom. Who will be there next year to organise Working Groups with ‘Backies’ and cream off 20% of their wages? Who will there be to start problems with everyone? Who will there be to hate?
"And that isn't the end of it," continues Des. "After Derek left, the coloured fellow, Robert, or whatever his name is, got an empty bottle, filled it with kerosene, put a wick in the top, stood at the top of the entrance to Derek's cave where the tree is, lit it
and threw it right into the middle of the cave."
I shudder, cringing at the very idea. "And what happened?"
"It blew everything to pieces. Everything!"
"Oh no!" I am in pain. "After I left, Derek took everything out of my cave and put it into his. I was hoping to get all my things back again when I returned. But not now. You know most of the things there were mine? My table, my lounge."
"The most you could probably salvage would be a few pots and pans ... if you are lucky."
"Did you see the cave?" I ask.
"No. Robert told me about it. He said he had to get onto the ground because the flames came outside."
"Oh no!" I groan again.
He wanted to do it when Derek was there, but he was afraid someone else might be in the cave also."
"I won't be able to find any more things. I went all over the countryside in Mikines to get those things - doors and window shutters as well. Now there's nothing left."
I picture my furniture reduced to charcoal, and I feel like crying
thinking about the time it took to get it all together. I fully expected to have a confrontation with Derek about it anyway, and maybe only get a few things back. But now everything has gone.
We talk about other things. Des has been trying to contact little English Amanda. She supposedly took off with 12,000 Drachmas of Mikes and left him stranded. Seems to be a common number to lose - 12,000 Drachmas. Des does not think Amanda took it. He knew her pretty well.
"And what happened to Maria?" asks Des.
"Well, we didn't get on too well," I smile thinking about Maria and all the agro we went through travelling together. "We didn't have much luck, bad weather and stuff. And my Uncle was not in Czechoslovakia, and it was really hard to find accommodation."
He liked her a lot, so I didn't want to tell him that we just did not enjoy each other's company anyway. We keep talking about all the crazy things that happened. Finally Des said he is not going back there this year.
"I haven't been home to see my Mother in two years and she's getting
very old. I called my sister and she asked if I could come home this Christmas. As well, I love Amsterdam so I'll probably stay here afterwards. I've got a permanent job with an apartment which isn't worth passing up."
We discuss who will be returning this year ... Wez, Amanda, and Maria probably. But Derek? Not likely. I have the scene all conjured up in my head. In London, I will buy a game of 'Risk' and ‘Dungeons and Dragons' to pass the time on rainy days. Greece is calling. I've had enough of Northern Europe. It's bearable in sunshine, but when winter starts, I must move away and go back down south once more.
We start talking about Amsterdam. Des is all praise.
"It's good they show porn so openly here. I have this argument with some people. They say it's not good for children to grow up around pornography, but I think it makes them used to it. There's a porno place around the corner in Newendijk right next to a supermarket. The children can see it when they go shopping with their mothers. They accept it from when they're young as a normal
part of society. You know that Amsterdam has less sex crimes than any other city in Europe?"
We go through the whole list, sex, drugs and similar type things.
The rain is coming down. I look for shelter. I hate Northern Europe like this - cold, grey old weather and cold people. When clouds appear it's like the buildings grow larger, looming over your head. I can see why people stay in bed all day, not coming alive until the night. When night comes you cannot see the grey sky or grey buildings. Only pretty neon lights shining in the blackness, and animated young people, all dressed up and full of energy. The hobos are gone, slinking into cracks and niches in
the night. The dealers are concealed by shadows. All you know of their presence is the continual hiss, "Hey man, come here. You want hash? Cocaine?"
I won't stay in Holland and look for work. The tape recorder will have to stay a dream for next year. My mind is centralised on one point - stepping onto the Magic Bus in London, bound for Greece. Three days of travel, down out of the North, out of the cold and grey, clouds and rain. Back home to Greece. Bright shining Greece with its open spaces. Greece, where you can see for a hundred miles without a building blocking your way.
It's twenty to three. I am sitting waiting for Elen and Lutz, when a black guy catches my attention and starts walking my way. I wave my hand and start walking away. He comes up to me.
"Hey Man! Why you walking away when I wanna talk to you? I wanna give you the best deal of your life, Man. You smoke? I got some real good hash."
"I don't smoke," I reply, "and I haven't got any money."
"What about coke, Man? I got some real good coke."
"No, I'm looking for work right now. I'm really fucking broke."
"Fucking? You like girls? You like fucking?"
"Yeah, sure I like girls, but I don't have any money. I'm really broke. I'm just waiting here for some friends."
"Oh Man, you ain't got no money. I just thought you might want some real good hash. Or a woman. You sure you don't want a woman. Or a man? I tell you what. When your friends come, you ask them to make a deal, ok?"
He lopes off in the opposite direction, then spots a fast walking girl. He quickens his pace, so that he is beside her and starts gabbling to her. She speeds up and they both go careering around a corner almost breaking into a run.
Soon after two hands grab me from behind.
"Guess who?" Its Elen and Leitz.
"Hello Jeremeeee. How are you-ooouuu?" bawls Elen.
The black guy is back, tongue hanging out like a hungry blood hound. "Hey, Man! These are your friends? Your friend just said when you were here we could make a deal. I've got some good hash."
"No thanks," from Elen.
"No thanks," from Leitz.
We start talking to each other and the black guy goes off again.
"Come on," says Elen. "Lets go off to Ralph's."
As we leave the Dam, I apologise for getting them involved with the black guy.
"Oh we saw him just before," says Leitz. "We were holding hands and he asked us if we wanted to do Lesbian Shows."
"Figures," I reply. "He seems to be involved in everything."
BRAKE
I give George a call, but there's no answer, so I go across the road to a restaurant for cup of coffee.
It's a brightly lit place that looks like it was renovated with the least possible money. Dull cream walls, modestly standing at attention with a couple of dry flower arrangements pressed behind glass in circular frames. Two on each wall, like tiny nipples lost in an ocean of creamy breast.
Near the front door is a construction that serves as a counter, and leaning on it a middle-aged Chinaman, facing me, an amiable, balding Chinaman. You are a representative of a race of 900,000,000 Chinamen, all smiling and shuffling around like little mechanical dolls, and eating like crazy, rice and noodles.
Bouncy wouncy Chinaman - you've bounced all over the world, and here you are elbows on the counter, in front of me in London.
"Do you have any desert?" asked a young guy behind me.
The round head rotates slightly, then croaks out, "Yes, we have blackberry pie."
"Are they fresh blackberries?" enquires the guy.
"Yes, yes," the Chinaman shuffles over towards one end of the counter. "I made it myself."
The young guy strides over, sniffing like a squirrel as the Chinaman returns with the two remaining slices of blackberry pie.
"But are they fresh blackberries?" continues the guy with an emphasis on the word 'fresh'.
The Chinaman looks at him questioningly, as though never having faced such doubt about his blackberry pie before.
The young guy continues slowly: "There are canned blackberries, coming from a can, and there are fresh blackberries." He is about to elaborate on the special qualities of a fresh blackberry when the Chinaman replies emphatically, "These came from a can."
He is crushed and hurt, looking down at his blackberry pie, as if he were a devoted mother cradling a newborn baby.
"Fine," says the young guy, satisfied. "I'll have a slice of the blackberry pie and a slice of that banana cake." Then turns and sits down. I don't know why he did not ask if the banana cake was made from fresh bananas.
"What a shumuck, " I was thinking, "he puts the old Chinaman through all that shit, then orders the bloody pie anyway."
The Chinaman turns to me. I order eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee, then go and sit down. The meal arrives. The egg looks like a lunar landscape made of rubber, but the bacon is a large, generous slice. Real bacon. It is so long since I have tasted real bacon.
My mind flies back to Leuven and all the delicious delectable’s that I stuffed into my mouth. Mountains of muscles, fried chicken, n....? steak covered in fried garlic that N. said she could smell on my breath days later.
It's almost 5.pm. Juliet gets back home about 5.45, so I have three quarters of an hour to wait in this cafe. There are four other people here.
Sitting down at a table in The Raven, shoulders thrown back and legs stretched out in front of me, I feel like Midas, freshly presented with the Golden Touch. With half a pint of Yorkshire bitter in my hand there is a delightful feeling permeating through my body. It is the feeling of being financially stable.
A short while earlier, I was restricted to a tight budget of two pints for the night, or perhaps three for a special treat. Now there is no limit. I can drink as much as I want. I can buy a Kebab if I feel hungry, and as many bags of crisps as I wish to devour. It is a beautiful feeling. I am momentarily rich.
BRAKE
I am sitting on the bus. The driver is marching up the corridor doing a last check, counting the people. The bus is quite modern looking, not the sort of bus you would expect to break down. However, Athens buses have such a reputation for things going wrong, that it's not so reassuring. I imagine something damp and oily lying dormant under the bonnet, a glutinous mass of cogs and wires. The driver turns the key and the bus starts shaking rhythmically, chugga chugg, chugga chugg.
Even after saying 'Goodbye' to everyone, I have this wonderful feeling that I am moving again. Three days of movement. The bus swings out of Gray's Road and heads down Pan... Road, Goodsway and then heading south-east down W..... Road. I flick on my Walkman and the easy beat of David Bowie's "Cygnet Committee" floods through my consciousness as I crack open a can of Carlsberg Lager
Soon London is left behind. Gone are the rows of grey, three storey houses, the circular red and blue tube signs, the red mail boxes and telephone booths.
That song "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner" is spinning around in my head and I can understand why people love this city if they have lived here long enough to let it grow into them and become a part of them. It seems like the love a dog would feel for an unpredictable master after time had developed a trusting reliance on a power it cannot possibly comprehend. A power that at times can be benevolent, but just as easily can turn hard and cruel.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.079s; Tpl: 0.032s; cc: 11; qc: 21; dbt: 0.0353s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb
deleted_49612
deleted_49612
Nice photos :)
http://www.travelblog.org/Forum/Threads/8102-1.html