(each entry is a letter or postcard sent to Mother on my Grand Tour as an exchange student followed by recent thoughts and explanations behind the lines)
3.3.1971
Howdy Ma,
I’m finally getting down to work, because it’s near the end of the term: papers due, tests, etc. I’m waiting for my student ID and income tax. I received my passport about a week ago. The new pictures I had taken are very distinguished looking, even professorial — I’ll try to get one to you.
I’ll be taking conversation, art, and history courses in Germany. Plan on traveling from middle of June to middle of August, probably via Eurail (steamer down the Rheine, trains crisscrossing the continent, cruising from Portugal to Oslo, ya dig?).
I really want to get out of this place — there’s a lot of tension right now evolving out of a racial incident — ten blacks allegedly beat up a white; the case is going before a conduct board, and has given rise to the scheduling of a community meeting to discuss race relations at LFC. Something’s gonna break, I’m afraid.
Can’t think of much else. See you in August maybe. Happy trails with love, jmt
It’s my first travel abroad, and I’m thinking that my college love and I will rent a place together, to enjoy connubial bliss. We are young, and unclear about what a trip to Berlin might hold. As the world turns, we rollercoasted our way through intense emotional attachment and physical lovemaking to long silent treks marking our declining interest, stifled expectations, and loss of love. If I had known better, I would have occasionally forsaken the girl for adventures with the boys exploring Berlin’s clubbing before Iggy Pop and David Bowie showed up. The solitary breaks before summer travel might have inured us to our separate anxieties.
In the passport picture, I look the role of a college prof, with a bushy beard, long wavy hair, club tie, oxford shirt, and gray cardigan. As it was, I was affecting a Western attitude in my letters with the “Howdy Ma” and “Happy Trails.” This was not my style but my locale, and since the hippies of my generation were looking for roots, I was more than willing to cop a homespun attitude, which might mask my longing for Chicago’s urban decay and dive bars, outside the norm of Denver’s clean bill of health. I wore black pointed cowboy boots to Europe, brought Chuck Taylor sneaks, but quickly adopted wooden clogs as my Euro trash look — it was the mash of identities I adopted through my college years and life thereafter, never quite settling on who I might be or become.
Lake Forest College admitted a diverse selection of students from around the world, and many African-Americans from the west side of Chicago. To compensate for a missing football program, the college had recruited plenty of Canadians to beef up the hockey team, and there had been skirmishes between the groups. I learned that city punks tend to fight in groups — I suppose all those turf wars in the asphalt jungle were about gangs, whether it was the Gangs of New York or West Side Story or Bloods and Crips. I escape the tension on campus only to encounter German stares on the street at my army fatigues — the suit of college students in America — and my beard and long hair. I had become another urban terrorist wearing the uniform of a revolutionary. Germans would not stop staring as I returned their glances. The people must have thought that I was part of the Baader-Meinhof Gang, the Red Army Faction. We arrive post riot on the Kurfürstendamm, the upscale shopping district in Berlin — broken windows and barricades. We didn’t know that American students were setting the standards for protest and dress back in 1968. I eventually change my look, to mimic that of German students — colored Levis cords, clogs, and clean-shaven.
1.4.1971
Meine Mutter,
I last talked to you before leaving Chicago. Left on Icelandic Mon. night, flew on an Air Bahamas jet, I have no idea why — very peculiar: Latin music as one lands in Reykjavik, Iceland. And on to Luxembourg, arrived 1:00 PM after a six hr. time change. Hopped on a bus to Frankfurt: very pleasant day, blue sky, a bit cold, and the bus driver was a maniac thru those quaint villages: zoooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmm
A train, our own compartment, through the night, through West, then East Germany, much checking of passports, etc., and in the morning we arrived at the Zoo, but Friedrichstrasse for some reason sounded nice to me, and so we went on, to the only stop in East Berlin — it took me a while to figure that one out. I thought it rather peculiar that there were no exits to the street, except through a gate inviting one into the DDR (the eastern zone). We hopped on the S-Bahn (transit system above ground throughout all of Berlin controlled by East; U-Bahn, subway system controlled by West). Once outside, no idea where we were; wandered dragging suitcases for hours, finally hailed a taxi, to Amerika Haus, (which in fact is a cultural center of America for Germans) which is next to the Zoo (who would ever think the zoo was at the center of the city, not I) finally found Berlin Verkerhrsamt i.e., Info. office, and they booked us rooms at a Pension nearby.
Pensions — numerous in Berlin: a floor of apartments, or rather rooms, rented out by, for the most part, an older lady, this one only around 40, spoke some English, was a big help, and we never caught her name; but, continuing, breakfast may be served, but everything is extra, zwei Mark here, drei Mark there, for shower, for a meal, etc. Slept for a day, now Thursday, K. and I walked everywhere, we’re close to main shopping district — the Kurfürstendamm — ate, and looked, even shopped for housing, until Friday, met Dr. D., and moved into here Sat., out of desperation to make our funds last.
This is an apartment complex built for industrial workers, at the time that they were developing the area. It is far south, but nice — rooms, beds, kitchen facilities, cupboards, icebox, showers for a mere 5 marks a day, around $1.25. The price is right, but … initially dissatisfied, along with the other ten American students, so far from everything….
As it is, I’m rather despondent about my ever learning the language. I can get around, order a meal, ride the bus, but seldom do I understand what a German says to me — it seems the other students at least understand more, I barely follow the general outline of the history lectures we receive. It seems I’m solidly entrenched in my English vocabulary, but hope….
Nice students, although I usually breakfast by myself. A nice orange, bread, butter and jelly, cereal, milk, maybe eggs, a hot lunch with a discount at a govt. office in Steglitz, and usually cold cuts — wurst, salamis, cheese, beer, wine, pound cake for dinner with the others, a pot-luck so to speak, or dinner at a Kneipen (corner-pub I’m sure you know) numbering over 4,000 in Berlin, and that’s a lot of corners.
This letter is getting trying, long, spring has sprung, and I’ll try to get another to you before long. You can write here, and it’ll probably get to me.
See you in September, jmt
The transit system in Berlin introduced us to this divided city. Even in the suburban enclave of Wannsee, where the family lived with whom I eventually housed, a Spaziergang or walkabout led to the inevitable fence or wall that encloses West Berlin. Despite the amount of parkland rivaling that of Kansas City, a hiker or bicyclist always encounters that fence or that wall that confounds movement.
In the early days of my stay, I did make the most of the excellent transportation system, often spending afternoons riding the new trains and busses to the edges of West Berlin, strolling rivers, walking neighborhoods, visiting the parks that offered the residents respite from their status as islanders in the roiling sea of East Germany. The other students seemed more interested in nightclubs, the scene, than the urban landscape. K. spent time studying and her German showed it. I’d rather play the solitary adventurer who avoids talking to the Volk. I could explore all of West Berlin on the transit system because I was limited to a navigable space. I could go only so far before I had to turn around. The trails ended at the Wall.
It was our German professor at LFC Dr. D who got us to go. The program did not meet the quota for students to travel abroad the year prior. Meeting him in his office was a special delight, for he always played operas in the background, and lined up five packs of different cigarettes, that he would toast through while talking. Turns out he worked in intelligence during World War II. I expect he well knew what K. and I wanted out of this exchange program. In my first semester of German, I aced the final, translating the opening of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Dr. D no doubt thought I was a winner, but I had translated the same excerpt in high school my senior year. I was not the adept he envisioned.
Now to imagine that Berlin rivals London and Paris once again as a capitol of favor, for I witnessed Christo and Jeanne Claude wrap the Reichstag, which seemed to ultimately dispel the Stasi. It had become a destination for my family, on an overnight train from Amsterdam, a Pullman experience at its best, with a porter waiting on all of us, the fourteen-year old son not sure how to deal with someone ushering him to the bathroom. This holiday rail trip surpassed any of the Eurail rides I enjoyed that semester and summer as an exchange student.
Dragging suitcases around for hours matches my m.o. — I’m too proud to admit my naïveté. I did the map trekking with my family until their frustration overwhelmed us on the later trip; K. and I bumbled about when we were students. I want to play the role of master of the maps. We will find our way through this maze of pensions and laundries. Before leaving NYC, I had driven her mother’s green convertible Mustang below the elevated tracks up to Harlem, following the French Connection route, so I thought I could navigate the cities of the world.
K. and I wanted to live together, but the pensions were too expensive, and somehow the director got us situated with cool sponsors, to the consternation of other students, mostly male, who spent a longer time in the dorms, rather than with families. I can scarcely remember the other girls on the trip I was so star struck with my red headed gal. I should’ve moved in with K. to free up another spot, but the administration would not have approved. The dorms were just that — concrete block buildings housing construction workers who drank beer all night playing foosball, followed by shots of Echt Stonsdorfer, the local herbal digestive we later came to recognize in America as Jägermeister, which frat boys adopted to settle their stomachs before imbibing more beer. We saw it first hand every night — beers and booze over table soccer with the workers who were rebuilding Berlin.
Since we were young, we had little idea what staying with a family meant, like any exchange student, who wants little more than to get out on the street, get acculturated. K. moved in with a college student, and I situated myself with brothers whose mother came back after the Germans’ long Easter vacation — in the mean time they had set two white stereo speakers that looked like 2001 Space Odyssey monoliths to blast the living room and completely rearranged the furniture while Mum was on holiday. A white brick home with a central dormer that looked out on an expanse of lawn framed these speakers that bled the landscape. It was a surprise indeed to meet these fellows for my Willkommen to the German Heimat. I wondered how cool could the rest of West Berlin be.
13.4.1971
Hello,
Entered East Berlin about a week ago, spent a Sat. afternoon there; it was thoroughly depressing. As it is, after talking to several West Berliners, the situation is gruesome — West Berliners do not consider themselves West Germans: it is much more likely all their family ties, acquaintances, loyalty, and devotion remain with East Germany, but West Berliners are forbidden to enter East Berlin at any time. West Germans, foreigners, anyone else may enter with the proper papers, but not West Berliners. The people have nowhere else to go; the old people hang on, the young study here or move out. (It does seem a very nice city to be old in — a safe city, West Berlin is, everyone’s trapped here, so there’s less tendency to pinch your fellow man; the subways and busses are super-efficient, and safe to ride at any time; there is the central shopping district, to browse through for hours on Sat. afternoons — everything closes at 2 p.m. — one is shocked to see the hordes of people on the street here when no shops are open; the Berliner seems to treasure his ‘spazier-gehend’ through the Grunewald, or bicycle riding much more than driving a car. The Grunewald is the largest forest area in West Berlin — miles of well-trodden paths every which way through the woods; it is but one wilderness and park area here, among many.)
West Berlin is moving, building everywhere you look, heading somewhere, but East Berlin retains the antiquity unique to the city. In the division, most of the old, magnificent, monumental buildings were partitioned to the East. One walks among these courtyards of trees and grass, facing buildings that awe, shapes and lines to buildings fashioned only in someone’s wildest dreams, with the wide open spaces preserved as plazas to stroll across, to dream of the potential a unified city might hold: but this antiquity juxtaposed to modernity in East Berlin seems at most a façade — the plazas are empty, trees shade no one, the buildings are useless without people populating them. On the main thoroughfares I only noticed tourists, on the back streets an occasional soldier. I wonder where they hide the people. A normal Sat. and everything was closed.
You can’t think about Communism — you’ve got to think in terms of people; if there are any, perhaps East Berlin is where they grew up, now must stay, and are resigned to doing their best.
Happy trails and love, Mom jmt
The political post war division of Berlin became clear with this tour of the East — Berliners were punished on both sides, forbidden to visit each other, and the East Berliners were suffering through a decades long recession, that must be endured for the sake of survival. I don’t think I realized what living in West Berlin meant before arriving there. It was a political refugee camp where the old and young made the most of their lives despite their solitary confinement. Only the most radical students attended die Freie Universität Berlin — they were offered free tuition if they chose Berlin for their studies. Although I suggest that it was a safe city, the seniors could only have been troubled by the riots in the shopping district that took place days before we arrived. As students riding city busses, we were routinely scorned, for putting our feet on the seats, talking too loudly, and one friend was thrown off the bus for whistling to himself. No warning, just ejection. Still, the commuter trains were unmonitored except for an occasional conductor checking tickets. I couldn’t believe the honor system that was in place, but our light rail operates on the same principal, forty years later. I attributed it to the German’s kowtowing to authority, but it actually works as a random check without keeping personnel on every train, in every car.
The club scene was as radical as the political protests, as there were clubs in warehouses that featured different bands and themes on different floors, the experience amounting to a tour of underground protest rock punctuated by electronic beats. David Bowie and Brian Eno would make Berlin their home later in the decade. There were also the nightclubs left over from the Weimar era, where one could call other customers, potential hookups, via phones at each table. Reminiscent of Cabaret, or a hard line local Tinder. These places didn’t open before 10, so I seldom partook of the party line nightlife. I preferred pacing the pavements and scoping out the landscapes of the city during daylight.
It seems that the nationalism that the Soviets wanted to inculcate in their empire led to a dictatorship on the left represented in the extreme by the East Germans, who rigidly controlled their citizens, with the Stasi secret service, military parades, and food shortages that served to suggest that one for all and all for one equated to the power of the people. I could’ve been one of their model citizens, waking early, working hard, waiting in line, doing what was asked. I was still naïve about the social contract and my say in the community fold. Most of America is only now discovering the power the East German secret service wielded, as much as our secretive CIA did during the 1970s, especially in Latin America.
24.4.1971
Howdy,
I wrote extensively in another letter concerning East Berlin, and a rather gloomy picture I had of it…. As it was, the day I had visited was overcast, a Saturday (everything closed on that day for some odd reason) and only toured the main thoroughfare beyond the Brandenburgishes Tor, on Unter den Linden, a showplace street more than anything else. We (K. was along) were quickly spotted as Americans — only tourists were about that day.
Just the other day we returned for another try — bright sunny day, a Thursday, weekday, and a chance to see the famous Berlin zoo. This Tier-Park was very nice, in fact, perhaps the finest idea one might perpetuate in the manner of zoos. A park, yes, acres of grass, trees, pleasant walkways, plenty of benches, and small animals all about: ducks, birds, squirrels. And then the animals: lions and bears are kept in the usual rock pits, with a fence and water separating, protecting the people, although this is so much nicer than most you see, and these animals are numerous, and young enough it seems — most zoo animals seem tacky and grey and old. The other animals — camels, bison, giraffes, just graze on the same grass you walk on, with only a small stream separating the animals and onlookers. All this seems to relieve the guilt one always feels after a visit to the zoo — it’s nice to see the animals, but so shameful to cage them like we do. This is all very open, very nice indeed, and no doubt another showplace to the West… look what’s good here, freedom for the animals and for everyone.
But the food is terrible, everywhere. After two visits, we’ve only found bread and butter edible — apple juice like vinegar, bitter beer, wurst and sauerkraut terrible: apparently everything good is exported, and the rest goes to the people. I’m sure they must be used to the blandness of it all. But there are people even fashionably dressed (though the best of clothes seem at best Woolworth’s quality).
Last night saw Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie – outasight.
Plan to try to get to East Berlin on Mayday; already flags decorate every window, flying everywhere. At least the Red brightens up the place a bit. As it is, I’m certain demonstrations will be as extensive here in West Berlin — the students are extraordinarily radical at die Freie Universität Berlin, or at least sensational — red painted slogans on every window, every wall, posters proclaiming the Revolution’s date with fate on May 1st. Well, we’ll see….
love jmt
The concert was a highlight, as K. and I shopped at thrift stores that day, and I found a purple vest that I donned for the night. We became the American jazz downbeats in Germany digging the queen of scat and the count on keys. By the end of my stay, I had adopted the Turkish look of a single gold ear stud, and wore that across Europe. As a student, I tended to experiment with sounds and styles, never adopting a single stance, but rather letting my ear drums and eye sockets embrace the world music pulse.
The Tierpark was a revelation, and zoos around the world started aping their design solutions. It’s curious to compare the East German’s treatment of their animals versus their treatment of their citizens. Perhaps the Tierpark was a leftover model like the museums full of archeological treasures in East Berlin. In other ways, West Berliners displayed progressive tendencies: people brought their own bags to shop at the grocer, and record stores featured glass cylindrical booths where a customer could listen to new releases on turntables. These ideas have since spread, as has the music that became popular in Berlin clubs in the 1970s, electronic dance music. In opposition to the political assemblage that marked West Berlin for forty years, the people pushed the social and intellectual boundaries in ways that mark Germany as the current progressive capitol of Europe, open to many immigrants far more diverse than the population of Turks I encountered as a student.
14.5.1971
Howdy,
I’ve moved into a family of sorts, and living has become much more comfortable, transportation has been much more time-consuming. I lived with two brothers for a little over a week. T., who is my age, and attends the same Oberschule I do, though at different times, and C., a few years older, who works. T., though this was not my first impression, is a serious student, or politicist, since being serious about something, anything here in Berlin, is becoming politically active — reads a lot, discusses politics, it seems, perpetually with his friends, but still he can be fun, and very helpful, i.e. he’s the only one who knows English: I help him, he helps me, and he’s a bit further along in the race to fluency. C., though, I enjoy to a much greater extent. He doesn’t know English, and is patient enough to rephrase, whatever is necessary to get his meaning across; and of course I in turn must talk German to him, which has been helpful. Their mother returned Monday, very nice woman, and now I am at least assured breakfast — I’m afraid I haven’t been here much the entire week.
The reason I haven’t been here much was the arrival of J. I stayed with her at Christmas in California, and she is with the Stanford in Germany program near Stuttgart — they were on a 10-day field trip to Berlin, and I offered my services as experienced tour guide, cognizant of the really fine places to go. We ate out several times, and talked for a long time yesterday — she’s fallen in love with some fellow from Stanford, she couldn’t be happier.
Where I live is far removed from the city, and extremely close to the border. However, at my whim, I can be in the middle of the Grunewald, or walking the shore of the Havel, riding a bike along the trails of the forest, “viel spass.” And, as it is, it’s been ungodly warm, particularly due to the high humidity, and just to return to the house, after long classes, change into a minimum of clothes — a shirt and shorts — and dash into the wilderness on a bicycle is sheer pleasure. I’m not sure I mentioned this before: in the States one is not noted for doing the same things he does here, like being a marathon walker, and avid bicyclist.
I attended the May Day ceremonies in East Berlin — we arrived early, but due to the length of the line, we weren’t admitted into the city until 10 AM, at which time, we found a parade of people, and saw the armament lineup racing around the city, but in no sense in parade fashion; hence we thought we had missed the parade. All we really found were people. That’s it, we discovered. The tanks and missiles just rush around the city, nowhere in particular, so people catch glimpses of them, but the parade is devoted to the proletariat, it’s the people’s day, and they bring the kids, and march, and laugh, and sing, and shout slogans. Once we found this out, afterwards, we looked at it as, I suppose, a lot of fun –- it’s not often people are officially recognized as the parade, just anyone, even us, since we were carried along, wondering where all these damned fool people were headed, ‘cause we wanted to get to the parade.
Also went to East Berlin the other night for the opera – The Love of Three Oranges by Sergio Prokiev, first performed in Chicago on Dec. 30, 1921. It was in German, and really fantastic. The East Berlin Theatre and opera is recognized as perhaps the best in the world, a showcase item to be sure, and the producer of the Komische Oper, one of the best in the city, is a man by the name of Felsenstein, who is a theatrical genius on all accounts. The opera was a fairy tale of sorts, and the gimmicks he employed involved scenes I thought previously could only be used in television or the movies. People flying, disappearing, acrobatics, everything; quite enjoyable.
happy trails, jmt
I was stopped from entering East Berlin for the opera because I had shaved and no longer looked like my passport photo. I quickly caught the S-Bahn to the Checkpoint Charlie entrance, where they had no problem with my passport, and made the opera in time. The other students did not know the transit system like I did. Die Liebe von Drei Orangen showed theatre people what was possible in terms of staging. I believe the producer was actually a West Berliner — what the East wouldn’t do to showcase their culture!
T. was smart, pudgy, German to the hilt; C. was more playful. We drove to West Germany in their Mercedes through the Hartz Mountains, to visit their uncle, and they treated what I considered a luxury car like a Willys, driving across fields to get anywhere that interested them. We hiked, climbed over broken-down windmills, and discussed politics at length one night, my lack of German fluency frustrating and exhausting me. The brothers took me to a concert of Champion Jack Dupree one night, and as we were driving, I had to ask whether they were smoking dope in the back seat. They laughed, as they had purchased a pack of Gauloises for the evening. Everything stylish for their boarder. Their mother showed me how to eat a soft-boiled egg in a cup, their typical and traditional breakfast. Unfortunately, I proved to be a less than gracious boarder, as I snuck out the window most nights and returned at dawn, feigning sleep in their dwelling, but spending nights with my love. They no doubt knew this but let it slide, accommodating me any way that they could. We have done the same for exchange students we have sponsored, mostly Japanese, who want to eat Rocky Mountain Oysters and go to a shooting range — we might stop by the Buckhorn Exchange for their bulls balls and museum quality taxidermy, but a visit to the Zoo takes the place of target practice.
I had hitched to California after a short stop in Denver during winter break my second year of college, to visit J. and my first roommate from school. I visited Stanford and encountered an old classmate of mine, there to visit the smart pretty girl we both jonesed for in high school. She was taking finals, so we drove to San Francisco and I saw the ocean at sunset for my first time. J. was the reason for that memory, so seeing her in Berlin woke me to an old flame become an ember. Hitching down the coast to LA on that California trip to see my college mate, I rode with a woman a few years older who stopped at every winery for a tasting which I found very cool. She let me stay in her place and seemed to want a taste of her own, but respected my boyhood. I went to Berlin with K. soon after.
The May Day parade was unforgettable, and I have only found something similar in the early years of AIDS parades, where people celebrated their lost friends — they may have been doing something similar in East Berlin, thinking of their divided families, although students would maintain the May Day parade did celebrate the proletariat and people power, despite the lackluster economy. Our government doesn’t give us a parade to shepherd our patriotism, although Trump in his first term would have loved to see the military honor his administration, but allows us to march in defiance of policy. Our parades and marches are growing in size, inspired by the early models from the 1960s, and perhaps taking a cue from May Day in the Soviet block.
26.5.1971
Howdy,
Sincerely hope Uncle P. and Aunt H. arrived safely, and agree in every regard as to their care and health; a nursing home has never quite appealed to me. It seems it forms the basis for my newly discovered dislike for wakes and funerals; that is to say, I’ve sworn off wakes — never did like them, never knew what to say, scarcely knew the people, and don’t think I can go to any ever again. The relation a nursing home holds is this: all one has time to do in a home is prepare for their respective wake or funeral. A decrepit situation I think, and thank God, Mother you’re willing to do the best you can for them. Amen.
We’ve arranged our schedule (“we” being the group of ten students) to allow for two free weeks before exams, i.e., Mar. 22-June 6. Exams are the 8th-10th. Leaving immediately thereafter, for parts unknown. Today I bought a youth-hostel card and map — quite sensational that they are really all over Europe, and dirt cheap to boot. And shall be studying “Europe on $5”… for hints of inexpense.
We are now enjoying two wks. free — next week I’m going to Prague. I really want to, and it’s an inexpensive trip. Received my visa today. Shall say something of it again. My courses are fine I suppose. They never have amounted to much here in Berlin, but have allowed time for exploration — nice….
I pre-registered for next year, got all my financial aid back — will be majoring in Amer. Civ., and taking a lotta history, govt. and English next year. I’m excited.
Happy trails, jmt
Talking about putting my great Aunt H. and Uncle P. in a nursing home only makes me cry, because my mother took care of them, but my sisters and I put Mom in a home, because we couldn’t take care of her after a stroke which she was slow to recover from. I debated for so long as to how I could manage it, but my wife and I were both working, as were my sisters and their husbands. I wanted to at least take her to Indiana to visit her close cousin Charlotte, but they were both infirm, so there was no possibility of that. I did visit her twice a week at the home, as did my youngest sister. The older ones did not visit as much. I’m not sure whether they were busier with their children and lives, or less attached to the woman who uprooted them and moved to Denver when their father died. I gave my mother’s eulogy, along with those of my sisters. They died in their sixties, I’m beyond that age facing my mortality, but I’m their half-brother, son of another father, so I may have a few years yet. I’ve become a Speaker for the Dead at the funerals of friends, family, and in-laws. I’ve come to realize that it’s a sign of respect to attend the service. I missed the funeral of my high school teacher and mentor W.B. — he was too young, died of a brain tumor; I was too distraught to attend. He was my first German teacher, and introduced me to Kafka’s Metamorphosis. My presentiment about wakes discloses an emotional fear more than a logical analysis.
Excited I was about my junior year: I nearly transferred or dropped out before the Berlin saga. Anxious as everyone was regarding the Vietnam War, I didn’t treasure the privilege of college, but found that carrying my scholarships and grants to another institution was impossible. So, I left campus for two weeks in the middle of my second term, we were on a trimester schedule, and hitchhiked to D.C. with a friend to pick up a car, before driving to Boston. I was so far behind by the time I returned to campus, I could do nothing but work to make up missing assignments — no time for self-reflection. I went to Berlin to extend this ulterior motive, and after that I was more than enthralled with education for its own sake, and my chance to experience it. After a life of learning through the College Scholar program and American studies at Lake Forest, graduate school at Conway for landscape design, and fellowships to study literature at Oxford and the Steinbeck Institute, I have encouraged my students to continue reading and writing throughout their lives, so to quench their curiosity in big gulps: let them make their own paths that lead to multiple lifelines.
31.5.1971
Howdy,
This has gotta be quick, train back to Berlin in a coupla minutes. Prague may be the finest city I’ve ever seen. (I know I said the same about Berlin.) But the people here are maybe the friendliest in the world, even to strangers, always to strangers. A wonderful city and people. Architecture here combines every age for 1000 yrs I should think. I have a book I will show you.
Happy trails, jmt
The book includes a photograph of Kafka’s residence on the Golden Lane when he wrote Metamorphosis; he lodged in what was originally a blind for archers in the castle wall. In 2008 on a fellowship at Oxford, I saw the original manuscript of the book with Kafka’s corrections at the Bodleian. The antiquity of the City — the Charles’ Bridge, Prague Castle, St. Vitus’ Cathedral, and the Lesser Town — shines through in the black and white plates of the book. The city was more easily traversed than Berlin, so a short trip was adequate for a good sense of the place. Nice lady allowed me to sleep on the couch in an apartment only registered for two people; she chanced being in trouble with the authorities to do this. That’s the Czechs — nice sorts who buck the rules. I traveled with two classmates who had taken advantage of the club scene in Berlin and were up for an adventure through the Soviet satellites.
6.6.1971
grosse Fische
kleine Fische
Alle von
der gleichen
Frische
…Naturlich bei Frau Kuhn
Howdy,
The above adorns the window of a fish store here in Berlin, smaller indeed than the bathroom in the old homestead (talking of that house, remember those bushes out front, they bloomed for about a week… well, they’ve got ‘em everywhere here, and they just finished bloomin’, how do you like that?). This ole fish store, run by Frau Kuhn, die Fisch Mutter, since 1927, serves the best meal under the sun, for about 2,50DM, or 75 cents. A table for six, and that’s all there is besides the counters and the store. She fries the fish, dishes out all the potato salad you can eat, and sauerkraut, along with an ice-cold Coke, which alone is hard to come by here.
I’m not sure where I’m going yet this summer — you should only know from the outline of cards you receive. Probably five of us, three guys, K. and another girl. Perhaps only K. and I for the latter week or two, the others must leave. My German’s better, ungrammatical as it is. At least my comprehension has risen considerably.
Spent an enjoyable three days in Prague. The friendliest people I’ve encountered. On the train there, through East Germany, always an uncomfortable excursion — the GDR is just so blank, so imprisoned, rigid, spiteful, the actual opposite of Czech. as regards Communist block countries — we met a family, living in East Germany, very nice people, a daughter, out of school and an interior decorator in Rostock, in the north of Germany, near der Ostsee, said she will write me, she can practice her English, and I can my Deutsch — I’m interested in what she will have to say.
Hope you settle down before too long; you know Mother, you are getting up in years (always almost 40), and you can’t run like you once could, so don’t try.
I’m not certain of when I’ll see you again. Perhaps you shouldn’t write any longer either, as it probably wouldn’t reach me. Maybe around Sep. 1st, certainly over Christmas vacation. But shall nonetheless hear from me.
As far as K. is concerned, we’re up and down, never really stable, but always close, though I never know for how long. She might be a nice girl to marry, but the thought of marriage clashes with recent forebodings of the future on my part, and I’m not certain I shall ever marry — whether I could completely devote myself to a single person, not being able to admit myself to the same devotion in other relationships, is hard to say. All of this is aspiration, speculation, things I write to people about, different strokes for different folks, but if everyone who got a letter sat down, they might arrive at a good approximation.
And if ever A Thousand Clowns comes to Denver (or Harvey for that matter), try to see it, and you will get a cleared picture of my thoughts, for if I ever had a hero, I would have to say it’s “Murray Burns,” played by Jason Robards.
I’m not certain what else to say, besides it’ll be good to see you again….
Happy Trails to you, keep smiling now till then, Happy Trails to you, until we meet again. jmt
Corny ads crafted by small business owners have always grabbed my attention. Frau Kuhn was no exception. Bridal’s Wreath spirea were blooming in Berlin, a reminder of the North Denver house where I grew up. I travelled to Prague with two other guys. I’m sure they saw me smitten with the girl on the train. Her parents knew that she could never write me, but went along with their daughter’s promises. Perhaps they felt sorry for me, since one of the guards pocketed my money for a ticket, and maintained I had never paid. The Russians on the train offered protection from the East German officials, who would do whatever they wanted.
I’m not sure that I actually considered marriage with K., but the tour through Europe could be considered our honeymoon. We may have talked with other students about touring together, but from the start K. and I were bound to each other, and expected to travel as the love struck couple. We spent one long weekend in her Berlin apartment when her host was gone. We made love the entire time, stripped of clothes most of the days. Both of us seemed insatiable, first lovers of the curious sort, naïve about a long-term relationship.
But my self-analysis regarding marriage rings true, as I discovered diverse types of people appealing in different ways, and found myself inscrutable in terms of ambition and tradition. My major of American Civilization parallels this aspect of my character, as it encompassed literature, history, and theology. This lack of focus nurtured a generalist interpretation of life and culture. Murray Burns never grew up, either, shirking the responsibility of raising his son, who was given the chance to change his name at twelve. How many times have I changed my name, my clothes, my career? I was still deciding how to laugh at this time in my life. It seemed like a tell that told a lot, and I didn’t want people to get the wrong impression. I’m not sure that I wanted to make an impression. I let my clothes make me a man.
Let the postcards begin….
13.6.1971
Guten Morgen, Mutti,
At the moment, we are staying at the Gasthaus Fackler, to the upper left of the Schloss pictured on this card, guests of Tante V. Having finished tests Thursday, we departed Friday night, and arrived here Sat. in Tegernsee, south of München, at the foot of the Alps. Just completed a brisk early morning walk, awaiting breakfast now. We shall be here for a coupla days, then intend to venture south to Innsbruck and rejoin others the end of the week in Wien. The Schloss here is not so exciting as one’s imagination might have it. Only a brewery and dance hall, church on Sun. Happy trails, jmt
K. and I snuck through the halls of the Gasthaus late at night, determined to be with each other, risking discovery for love. I expect that this information might have found its way to K.’s father. He no doubt had talked to her older sister before the trip. She was attending LFC as well, and had counseled K. before our mutual loss of virginity. I passed the screening for an honest lover and intelligent mate. The sheets had been doubled to absorb the stain. Everything was planned back in the states, but this trip abroad was spontaneous and spiritual as we ventured out into a new world of our own making.
Turns out that Tegernsee was a prominent Nazi vacation valley — many officials owned homes in this Bavarian spot. I was unaware of this until recently, although I had long heard that elite German officers lived thereabouts after the National Socialists seized power.
15.6.1971
Howdy,
It just can’t seem to stop raining here, everywhere, off and on. Left Tegernsee Tuesday morning, nice bus ride over the Alps to Innsbruck. Nice town, smack dab in the middle of the Tyrolian Alps. Walked, ate, drank, and were generally merry, but anxious to pass on to summer sites, if such a wish is graspable. Innsbruck had so many American and English tourists — we ventured across the bridge and found quietude, and saw the sites at night, post hoc prime time. Spent the night in a camping ground, and after the rain started at 1:00 AM, found shelter in a carpeted waiting room. On the train now (enjoyable travel indeed) to Bad Ischl, later to Wien. Happy Trails, jmt
Maybe the rain in early summer has convinced most European tourists to book their vacations later. The weather had begun to dampen our spirits. We wished to appear acquainted with travel, and so crowds irked us, since we assumed experienced travelers knew how to avoid crowds. People seldom thought we were American — they guessed English, Canadian, German. Baby boomers from Europe and America were starting to mark their territory, moving about campground to campground, hostel to hostel, in a modern and independent version of the Grand Tour, and we were in league with them.
17.6.1971
Howdy,
Left Innsbruck around 11 AM Wed. Long train ride through canyons and mountains beautiful, with numerous stops, as electric train as it was, surely must get recharged. Arrived at Slainach-Induring, where a transfer to Bad Ischl was to be made, but found to our consummate liking and goodness, this wonderful youth hostel of a castle, replete with fortress wall and former moat. Single rooms, with flowers in the window, for a mere 15AS, (about 60 cents). A pleasant discovery indeed.
Left early Thursday morn, beautiful day (finally, by-d-by, the mountain brimming in the previous postcard was never unclouded in our sight). We decided to hitchhike to Bad Ischl, got a ride immediately with a wonderful Austrian couple (middle-aged) with whom we toured till midday. Came upon this town, Hallstatt, eine schöne Stadt, with a church (Catholic of course) with a graveyard, where bodies are buried for ten years, and then the bones extracted, the skulls painted, and placed in a cave. There is little space on the hillside above the lake.
Happy Trails, jmt
The guided tour by the Austrian couple was grand, as they communicated their best with us and wanted so much to show young Americans how beautiful their country was, how friendly its citizens were. I’ve visited Hallstatt again with my family — it’s the quintessential picturesque Austrian village beside a mountain lake.
What was left unsaid is that the youth hostel allowed us to stay in a private room as a couple — it was in essence our first apartment, candle lit, and as romantic as castles get. We were in out of the rain posing as newlyweds, enamored new lovers on holiday.
21.6.1971
Howdy,
So much to say, so little time. Since the last, we have stayed in Gummiden Thurs. night (a nice Schloss), a train to Linz, a walk through the city, some small market places, then an eight hr. ride down the Donau mit der Schiff, ya. Staying with friends of her family in Wien. They are typically Wiener, and everything is a pocketful of memories, the last outpost of Old World splendor for sure. Have been here for three days, leave Wed. morning for Velden in Sud. Osterreich. Will try to write more of Wien, but there is so much to write, yet none of it significant since its posterity will soon fade. jmt
I wish now that I had known more about the Fin de siècle in Austria, its painters and decorative arts. It may have been a high point in culture and the arts on this college exchange, but all I could comprehend were the Vienna Boy’s Choir and the Lippizaners, a performance my mother would have loved but seemed stilted compared to our concert with Ella and the Count in Berlin.
I wonder about my mother’s relatives in Germany. She visited them when she attended the passion play in Oberammergau in 1980, but she was with her cousin Charlotte who had no doubt kept up those connections. When she had moved to Denver, she distanced herself from her relatives, to start anew. K.’s father was first generation American, and because of business, had kept up the contacts in Europe. K. had an extended family, whereas I was the only son of a single mother who had raised three daughters before me in the new West. Nothing was scripted, nothing expected outside of scholarship.
Meanwhile, back at the palace South, the picture on the former postcard was a painting of the florid State Library, at the Hofburg in der Stadt; this one shows the dancing hall of Schönbrunn, a summer home as it was. Saturday before was a day of royal crypts, Staat Oper, and palace tours. Sunday was a country ride to Burgenland, a little bit of Hungary at the outskirts of Wien (cheap red wine, schmalzbrot), all in memory of Josef Haydn, whose mass we attended in downtown Wien the same day. Today was a visit to a museum of graphic prints of artists of renown, and the Schönbrunn Schloss. Now to the amusement park, ferris wheel, et al. Thank god the days are nicer, Switzerland, Spain, and Italy await me, happy trails….
Country dining in Burgenland featured family seating at long tables, a new idea for this Westerner. I had eaten like this at Rossi’s Denargo Market all-you-can eat buffet in Denver, a cheap high school date with a bunch of couples languishing over repeated plates of home style Italian. I assumed the food line on first Saturdays was a feature of what was once a market. So it was. The brats and goulash in Austria were as hardy as the pasta dishes back at Rossi’s. I wouldn’t encounter this again until I ate at Puglia’s in New York several years later. The list of sights suggests that we were being treated to the first class tour of Vienna by her father’s friends — they were hospitable, and we were paying dues for our secret sexual union.
25.6.1971 (Pleasantly hot after a nighttime shower)
Howdy,
Wien seems so very long ago, yet it was a mere three days, as the stars say. Leaving Wien, we intended a fast four hr. ride to Klagenfurt, the so-called unspoiled capital of Karenta (Corinthia), or Southern Austria. However, having boarded an express, with Klagenfurt an announced stop, we decided to continue on. The express was bound for Rome, our particular car for Venice. Tired of the Teutons, and rather than trouble ourselves in a switch of residences (within the train, of course, since we are constantly changing residences anyway ) we deboarded at Venice; rather unplanned, since Venice seems to carry with it an odor of decadence and tourism.
Venice — I’m not sending any picture post-cards of it. It looks exactly like every picture you’ve ever seen of it, the gondoliers, the canals, et al. The weather was always hazy, hot, humid, and breezy in the evening. Truly it is a walker’s paradise and puzzle, like a mouse in a maze if you’re headed anywhere in particular. The people were friendly and vibrant — all Italians are that way, yaknow, easy going, likable, and one can’t expect punctuality from a bus line that runs flat barges horded with people through crowded canals, with no traffic signals to speak of. The Grande Canal tour Wed. night; St. Marks (yes, with those literal thousands of pigeons), the Ducal Palace, Barimo, a colorful fishing village 30 min. away, and a pleasant dinner, the day intervened with refreshing wading of your feet in that filthy canal, all of Thurs. Friday morning to Milano, and just north of there to Como, at the Swiss border, to see a bit of Schweiz before high season and higher rates Jul1-Aug15.
Happy trails, jmt.
The hostel in Venice was one huge warehouse that featured a flotilla of beds on separate floors for the sexes. The city was grand, but the accommodations utilitarian at best. After living in Germany, the lack of a street grid and transport that travelled by its own schedule didn’t invite us to lose ourselves. It made us cranky not being able to define ourselves. We couldn’t follow our own footprints to retrace a previous path.
It’s nice to see the plans change as the mood sways us. I was lucky enough to visit Venice another time in the 1990s, and caught a World Cup game with the USA at a local taverna. It was great fun with the Italians always welcoming. That vacation I spent enough time to find a way around the canals, with the enthusiastic guidance of my thirteen year-old son.
28.6.1971
Howdy,
From Verona to Giswil, Switzerland. A lotta land in between, not a whole lot to say, though. From Venice straight to Como, Italy, on the Swiss border, and the southern most town on resort-ful Lake Como. Splashed a bit, took the train to Fluelin, Swiss, offed, and hopped a boat on Lake Lucerne. A wonderful ride, Schweiz is so beautiful, albeit at an expense. Deboarded an hour from Lucerne, walked an hour to a lonely youth hostel, situated right on the lake. Next day to Lucerne, a nice town yet brimming with tourists, we enjoyed a terrible meal and got the hell out. Today, south on Luc Lucerne, walked to Giswil and sleep now in a hayloft….
This is the turning point, the crucible of the trip, as we were walking too much to save money, and it continued raining, and even the intrigue of a roll in the hayloft left us craving sunshine. We could stand the rain no more. Four months gone, three weeks on the road, we wanted an event to mark our youth, our pleasure, our generation, and we wanted it to happen under cloudless skies. The postcards have become little more than lists, like a slide tour of our European sojourn, our youthful escapade beyond the borders of our hometowns. Our aim was true for the running of the bulls.
4.7.1971 (195th anniversary no less, of San Fermin)
I seem very far removed from that holy loft in Giswil, Switz., but will try to account for the interim, and maybe little more, since it’s been lazy here in Spain, awaiting the fiesta.
We walked most of the way from Lucerne to Giswil, hopped a ship a ways, trained a little, hitched some, but altogether a long day over a short distance, but pleasurable to its fullest. Once in Giswil, having been given a name of a hotel there, we inquired, found it too expensive, and set about walking to the youth hostel above town, a good 45 min. trek. Very old Swiss farming couple, we cleaned, and decided to have a nice dinner in town, strolled, caught in a downpour, and returned to the restaurant of the hotel at which we had first inquired. They must have felt sorry for us, and gave us unbelievable portions of the meals we ordered. It is surely unfeasible that ours were the normal portions served, for only a coupla hungry American kids could have devoured that much food — I think I was full.
We continued on to Kandersteg, Switzerland. A beautiful town, surrounded by Alps, a very nice youth hostel (hot showers, a regular hotel), we planned on two days there, to go hiking the next.
Rain the next morning, we were fed up, caught a train to Brig, then on to Geneva. Called one pension there, they were full, and so were we, so we caught the first train to Bordeaux, France, and south from there to Alsasua, Spain, in the Pyrennes. Thirty hours of riding trains, one gets tired, but it doesn’t seem to bother us much. While in Venice, rather uncomfortable because of the language. Felt back at home in Switzerland, and knew our discomfort would be monumental in France, so we are not staying in France.
Spent the night in Alsaua, and the next day to Pamplona. Since our arrival here, all we have been doing is resting: 11-12 hrs of sleep at night, walking the streets during the day. We were lucky enough to get here early, and found rooms with a family. Everything’s booked solid now, more and more kids showing up, and there’s only a camping ground…. We’ve got tickets to a coupla bull-fights, first one’s this afternoon (only an apprentice fight –- we have to work into it, too). More about San Fermin later, hello to everyone, and I’m anxious to get back. Happy trails, jmt
Clearly more than postcard length, as I had time to spare. Thirty hours on the train was glossed over in the text . We were so happy to arrive in Alsasua and find a room above a town restaurant, we ate sausages and drank red wine till we were full, to the point of sickening ourselves. The train ride had caught up with us. Arriving in Pamplona ignited a new adventure. We were soon engulfed by hippies from the states, many who did not want to obey the machinegunned soldiers of Franco’s army. Following Hemingway through Spain by reading the Sun Also Rises as well as Death in the Afternoon heralds the recognition that American literature was starting to receive, with the writings of the Lost Generation gaining status at the university level. Unfortunately we found ourselves stuck in the middle of youth gangs as dysfunctional as the lovers and friends described post Great War in the Fiesta book.
8.7.1971
Howdy,
Sorry writing is only the exception now rather than the norm. The novillada was interesting, today and tomorrow, the intended bullfights we have tickets for. It’s been an expensive stay, and mediocre for the most part, as it seems K. and I are on the skids. Pamplona explodes for seven days and nights, dancing, drinking, parading, everything goes, the only quiet (dull roar) is from 3-6 in the afternoon. She can’t drink, too reserved to dance, has rather turned out to be conversations with a wild boor… Madrid, then the coast to Lisbon? jmt
We prepared for our first running by arriving early and grabbing prime spots along the barricades that funneled the course of the bulls. As the time approached, scores of hippies remained on the course, ignorant of the time or tradition of running from the start in a white shirt and red kerchief. The soldiers on horseback started beating them with batons, which at first seemed like a fascist show of power, but which we realized was necessary to save these drunk youngsters from a good goring.
The next afternoon, K. and I were taking in the sights, wandering the crowds, when I left for a few minutes to find bottled water. When I returned, K. was gone, and I looked everywhere for her, before finding her in a state at our pension, the family who lived there nursing her. A man had attacked her in the midst of this drunken revelry, K. with red hair and pale, probably an anomaly and game target for a Spanish boor. She escaped but was shaken. I didn’t know what to do, and said little. I found out later, from her college roommate, that K. thought I had abandoned her. I had never told her that I returned to find her missing, and searched everywhere. I let Hemingway say little for the guilt I felt. I didn’t think it mattered at that point. I was wrong. I had just built my own Berlin Wall.
15.7.1971
Howdy,
Contrary to the state of affairs in Pamplona, we’ve been very busy, doing what not, here in Madrid. Pamplona’s “San Fermin” is definitely a festival for men. The presence of women amidst such carousing belies not only the Spanish respect, religiously based, for the sanctity of a woman’s body, but endangers the women at hand to a greater degree, placing them at the hands of the drunken male populace. I’m certain K. would be of like opinion.
Madrid is another fascinating city, area, perhaps along the same lines of Berlin on first impression. A city of plazas and monuments, fountains galore, cultured, refined, and within the same boundaries, the conglomerate Spanish population, customs, cuisine, and curiosities. Having found accommodation, we decided to work out of this central point, at the heart of Madrid, in touring the surrounding area as well. The first of six days was spent checking out Madrid. As in Berlin, although the city displayed many pleasant sights, its interest (as far as museums, theater, music was concerned) did not seem immense. However, I’m certain a lengthy stay in Madrid would prove quite rewarding, esp. if one had a better grasp on Spanish than I do. ( I believe I’ll learn it in my free time.)
The second day we ventured via trains to Toledo ( the postcard is of the inside of the Cathedral). Pleasant town, too bad it’s besieged by tourists, but the Spanish curators don’t help things by charging admission to everything (museums, castles, churches). This rather entices most tourists (blows us away). Toledo is the home no less of that famous Toledo gold. The sun was hot and rather than pacing the streets waiting for our train, we found a nice cool river ( the river wasn’t hard to find, only a lonely bend in it) and went swimming.
The next day we shopped around Madrid in the morning, and bussed to El Escorial, a palace, about an hour’s drive, in the afternoon. In the evening we ate Choncillon (sp?), roast suckling pig, a specialty, at a Mesan, an old bar honeycombed with rooms, where one can expect loud singing and hard guitar strumming. The next day afforded us a visit to the Prado, a fish dinner, and sangria. All in all a pleasant time, though still hassling with K. Now am on a train bound for Valencia; we shall round the coast to Lisbon, meet her dad there for two days the end of July, and begin back towards Germany, where our baggage is, and back to Luxembourg and Icelandic, the “hip-hop airline.”
Happy trails, jmt
My comments on Pamplona reveal my shame and soul searching for what happened to K. Note as well the details about the museums and cities, expanding on the slide show that served as a guide earlier in our travels. Time has slowed during this strained time of dealing with disappointment over our miscommunication. Have not been to Madrid since, but I still have fond memories of the plazas and people. I only wore black cowboy boots from Colorado, and blue clogs from Germany on this trip — had the boots shined at the central park in Madrid. The black-gold ring I bought in Toledo my wife wears on a chain I made for her. Along with marveling at El Goya’s astigmatic paintings of Toledo at the Prado, I saw Roger van der Weyden’s Descent From the Cross, which had become a favorite in my studies in Berlin. Perhaps I felt that this was my descent after a cross time. There were enough distractions that allowed K. and I to avoid talking through what had happened. I don’t know the details of her assault to this day. In the letter to my mother, I’m already traveling home, saving only a postscript for K.’s father.
25.7.1971
Howdy,
We’ve enough of cities, so Valencia was a quick transfer to Chulera, about an hour’s ride south. Camping ground there, hard ground it was, and the next day frustrating in getting to Javea, farther south on the coast. We hitched half-way, and sun-burned waiting to go the other half. Found a pension and into the water. The Med. is so refreshing you know, clean, but so salty, yechhh! Next day on the beach, terrible sunburns for us both, so we packed up, finally got to Alicante, further south, but the first train is 5 in the morning. We made the best of the 12 hrs we had, ate, walked, drank, a nice town. A long ride to Granada, found a pleasant place to stay, and saw the Alhambra the next day. Wonderfully Moorish. A five-hour late afternoon ride to Seville, spent the night, and are headed to Portugal. jmt
The notes are winding down, as we lost the allure of the trip in Giswil, Switzerland, where the rain forced our evacuation to Spain, where K. was molested, and now we sunburn our way down the Gold Coast of Spain. Was this where my later case of melanoma originated? Am I making this up, or did the Spanish boys at the campground who peed wherever they wanted pour more vinegar on our wounds? We slept in our dingy sleeping bags on a dirt field in an ancient arena. We cried alone together for the pain of sunburn and emotional distress. The coast found us slipping down its edge towards some further region where we wanted to recuse ourselves from the trial of blame and find love again, but the Berlin Wall was in place, the coast our DMZ, no man’s land for no woman’s favor. Let It Come Down.
28.7.1971
Howdy,
Well, as you can see, I made Portugal. The beach here is much more pleasant than those of Spain. The Spanish coast is overwhelmed by tourists. This coast (from the Spanish border to the west coast of Portugal, called the Algarve) is unspoiled to a point. The picture on the postcard is somewhat misleading, for the beach extends for ¾ mile beyond that featured, all of it relatively empty. The water is colder than the Med. Sea, but less salty. We are here for three days before going to Lisbon to meet Mr. H. (K. is homesick, and wishes to be released from my grasp, I believe.) Home to father and the pool. C’est la vie. jmt
The Portugal coast was occupied by so many English who had vacation homes. We should have been comfortable with the language and the beautiful white beaches, but we were barely talking. Let it come down. Little memory of the rest of the trip. Like the thirty hour train trip from Switzerland to Spain, it was probably exhausting in an expedient way. When we returned to her home in New Jersey, K. believed our relationship would once more bloom. I was on my way out, dispirited and confused. K.’s younger cousin fell for me back at the homestead, and I felt miserable disappointing them both. I had failed to properly communicate my care and concern for K. after her assault in Pamplona. I let the Wall be built.
It was only two days before P.T. picked me up and we took off for parts unplanned, in a westerly direction following the Zephyr, a cross-country trip of bedding girls who were friends or camp counselors, talking for hours like the Joads on the Mother Road, while breaking in his new Volvo. We were on Jack and Neal’s road. C’est la vie.