Europe V -- Tribute to Eric

All of us hitchhiking through Europe that summer grew up in Sunnyvale, Calif., and most of us lived within two blocks of one another.

Eric was on Susan Way, as well as Kent. I lived nearby on Morningside Drive. And, Frank was a bit further away.

Of my three traveling companions, Eric was my closest buddy.

He was also, by far, the calmest of the group. Not much would upset him, at least on the surface. And, people just naturally gravitated to him.

While Kent and I were extermely competitive, and Frank was the jester, Eric just sort of floated through life without creating too many waves.

He also never complained. I remember, one day, early in our adventure, after walking most of the day in the rain, we were completely soaked. Water was squirting out of the tops of my boots with every step. In short, we were soaked, freezing, hungry, and exhausted from carrying our heavy backpacks. When, we started to near our destination, he turned to me with a big smile and said, "Let's race the last mile." I felt like killing him, but, then I started to laugh. He could always do that to me.

Another thing with Eric was that good things generally happened to him.

Once, when he was in Denmark with Frank, they were talking about how hungry they were and how nice it would be to have some bread.

Just then, a bakery truck turned the corner, and the back door flew open. Out came some bread and pastries -- freshly baked and neatly wrapped. The truck continued on, and Eric calmly walked over and picked up the unintended gifts.

Another time, he was in what is now the Czech Republic, alone and between towns as nightfall approached. The wind was picking up, and the only shelter for miles was a single oak tree. (When he told the story, we were all looking forward to a situation where things actually went bad for him. After all, he was talking to us. So, he at least survived.)

In any case, as he approached the oak, he could see it contained a tree house. He climbed up and found shelter from the elements before noticing a creek nearby. When he walked there, it turned out to be a hot springs. So, he took a bath before calling it a night.

Eric was definitely one lucky guy!

But, he's the only one of us not still around.

He died of cancer at age 33. My son was born shortly before his death and is named after him.

Buddy, we'll never forget you.

Europe IV -- Hitchhiking Blind in Italy

There's something strange about looking back at pictures of yourself when you were 18.

But, that's me, 37 years ago, atop the Tower of Pisa on a warm August day.

A few minutes after this picture was taken, Kent and I climbed down the narrow steps and fell asleep in the shadow of the famous leaning monument.

At some point, two beautiful blondes shook us at least partially awake and asked if we wanted to team up in groups of two and travel with them to Spain. We mumbled something about heading to Rome to meet up with Frank and Eric and continued our nap.

When we got around to really waking up, I turned to Kent and said, "I had the strangest dream in which we turned down a chance to be with these two babes."

Shaking his head, Kent replied, "I had the same dream. I think it really happened."

Well, sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes you don't.

As for me, I had my share of luck, both good and bad, as I hitchhiked northern Italy -- BLIND -- during the previous couple of days.

The story started on a warm and humid day as I walked the length of a long bridge out of Venice. I wasn't having any luck catching a ride. So, I sat down to take a rest.

There were a bunch of ceramic tiles discarded by the roadway, and I amused myself by using them to make a sign in the dirt. Can't remember what I was trying to say, but it was probably something like, "Pick Me Up," or something to that effect.

In any case, a big truck rolled by, and I turned at just the wrong time to look.

A bunch of dirt and bits of gravel kicked up by the passing rig flew into my eyes, blinding me on the spot.

It hurt, too. Even with my eyes closed, the slightest movement felt like someone was grinding a boot into my eye sockets.

I tried to wash my eyes with water I was carrying, but it didn't do much good. So, I tied a moistened handkerchief around my eyes and decided to try and hitchhike out of there.

I carefully edged my way toward the road and stuck out my thumb. Much to my amazement, I soon heard a car pull to a stop, and, holding my arms out in front of me like a Frankenstein parody, I stumbled toward the vehicle.

The driver asked me something in Italian, and I responded, "Prego," or some such thing before opening the passenger door and getting in.

That pretty much ended our conversation for the next couple of hours, as he drove across the width of Italy. Of course, I didn't know where I was heading -- not being able to see. But, at least I was out of the sun and going somewhere.

Finally, he got to his destination and prodded me to get out of the car. I could hear and smell a nearby market, and I managed to buy some fruit and get something to drink, before sitting down beside a tree to figure out what to do next.

Well, fortune smiled on me when I heard a voice, in English, ask, "Do you need some help?"

That would be a big YES!

The person (again I never saw him) took me to a hospital where they flushed my eyes and checked them for damage before putting some sort of salve on them and covering them with bandages.

The only complication was that I was blind again. In English, they told me to return the next morning, and I felt my way back out of the hospital. I managed to buy some more food and, eventually, wandered into someone's open garage.

I just rolled out my sleeping bag and figured that if I wasn't shot as a trespasser, the worst that would happen was that I would be arrested. And, frankly, spending the night in jail didn't seem all that bad.

At some point during the night, the owner started to park his car in the garage, and I remember hearing a lot of surprised and kind of angry Italian voices. But, I just rolled to one side, and he let me be.

In the morning, I retraced my steps to the hospital, where they flushed my eyes again. This time they only bandaged one eye. I was terrified there was going to be a big bill for their services, but they just wished me good luck and sent me on my way.

As I was hitchhiking out of town, I ran into Kent (we had somehow ended up in the same town at the same time), and we headed off to Pisa together.

Europe III -- My Life With the IRA

As the summer wore on, the four of us spent less and less time together.

In fact, when I was supposed to meet up with my buddies in Paris, I was actually in Ireland getting a crash course in local politics.

To give you an idea about how much I DIDN'T KNOW about Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland in 1969, read the following story:

I turned 19 on the overnight ferry to Dublin. A fellow backpacker gave me a boiled goose egg to celebrate the event. Otherwise it went pretty much unnoticed.

If only my attire had, as well. Having been in London a day or two earlier (and nearing my return date), I had splurged and actually purchased a souvenier -- a scarf done up in the colors and design of the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain.

Now, that was relatively cool while I was in England. But, it was nothing short of a wearing a bull's-eye in Ireland. (Imagine wearing a swastika in Israel or a Confederate flag or a KKK hood in Watts.)

I was sporting the scarf as I disembarked in Dublin before dawn on the 28th of August and started hitchhiking out of the city.

Considering the Union Jack I had around my neck, I was fortunate to be picked up by an English tourist who was driving north with his wife and teenage daughter.

At this point, I was blissfully unaware that there was ANY conflict going on within the Emerald Isle. But, I was destined to learn.

As we headed north, we exchanged pleasantries. And, after a while, he asked if I minded stopping for a few moments at a local pub. Naturally, I said there wasn't a problem, and at the next exit, he turned off the main road and quickly found a tavern.

The females went somewhere (I never asked) and us guys went into the pub.

"Have you tried the local brew?," he inquired. I responded in the negative, and he graciously took it upon himself to order me a Guinness.

Now, I must tell you that this rather stout brew is a bit of an acquired taste. Nevertheless, I was up to the challenge and managed to down a pint of the potent beverage.

Then, it was back into the car and on the road. After a short while, he asked if I minded another quick stop, and, of course, I agreed. Another pub and another pint of Guinness and we were on the road again. But, by this time, I was having a bit of trouble concentrating.

The quick stops were repeated several more times before reaching Northern Ireland.

Eventually, he said it was the end of the line, and he dropped me off somewhere along the Falls Road in Dublin.

By then, I was quite drunk, but still alert enough to notice that things were a bit unusual from my perspective. For one thing, the policemen were carrying machine guns, and, for another, most of the side streets were blocked with still-smoking burned-out cars fortified with broken pieces of concrete and asphalt.

Oh, and, on one side of the street Union Jacks hung from the windows, and on the other side hung flags of the Republic of Ireland.

Being pretty much unable to walk straight, I manged to stagger back and forth between the two sides of the street until I came to a Catholic church where I sat down on the steps and tried to keep the world from spinning.

Eventually, a man walked up to me and said in a thick Irish brogue, "I'm going to assume you have absolutely no idea what you're doing." I told him he was quite correct, and he led me to a nearby home where I was fixed a meal and allowed to sleep until I sobered up.

When I awoke and could finally begin to reason, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) supporters who lived there explained to me the rules of war in Belfast and how dangerous it was passing between Catholic and Protestant sections of the city.

I got to know that family well and gained some understanding of and sympathy for their plight.

One evening, I even manned one of the barricades, where volunteers stayed awake all night to watch for persons who might want to do harm to the people who lived nearby. (The night before my watch, someone had hijacked a gasoline truck, set it on fire, and rammed it into several houses, burning them to the ground.)

It's way beyond the scope of this blog to adequately explain the issues involved in that conflict. Suffice it to say that it was a long and bitter struggle that didn't do anyone much good. Eventually, a peace treaty was hammered out.

But, just to be on the safe side, if I ever make it back there, I'll leave the scarf at home.

Europe II -- Innocents Abroad and Letters Home

It's difficult to understate how generally unprepared we were for our first real adventure on our own.

I, at least, was able to figure out how the money worked (pounds, quids, shillings, pence, etc.), but there was no doubt we were strangers in a strange land at a strange time (the summer of '69).

Things as simple as ordering a coffee with cream ("white coffee") or finding the bathroom ("the W.C.") threw us for a loop.

And, as for our planned manner of transportation -- hitchhiking, I think Kent (pictured at left in this picture with a palace guard) was the only one who had actually stuck out his thumb on a highway before. (Eric is shown on the far right, and I'm the dorky one in the middle with the ridiculous, striped short-sleve shirt.)

Nevertheless, we were young and didn't know, yet, how little we knew and how out of place we looked.

While it's tempting to recall each journey, I'll stick to several stories during that time that highlight some of the recurring themes of our trip.

Probably, the thing that most sticks in my mind after all these years was the total sense of discovery. Every time we turned a corner there was something we had never seen, tasted, heard, or touched before.

Just drinking milk out of a plastic bag, instead of a waxed-paper carton, was new and exciting. (The picture below was taken by Frank shortly after we took the ferry from England to Belgium.)

At this point in our journey, we were still a bit anxious about traveling alone, and we tended to split up into groups of two and meet at a youth hostel in the evening. It didn't take long, however, for all of us to gain the confidence to strike out on our own. If nothing else, it made for more stories to swap when we did get together.

By the way, do teenagers still hitchhike through Europe? If you have stories or pictures, send me a link about your experiences.

Well, on to the story for this posting. It's about letters home. I had just finished my first year as a journalism major and would write these long letters home to my mother and to two young ladies I kind of thought of as girlfriends. Eric and Frank, likewise, were writers of sorts. The written word, however, was not Kent's best friend.

Since my mother and his knew each other, mine would call up Kent's mom and read her my letters. But, Kent's mom kept waiting and waiting each day at the mailbox.

He finally got around to sending her a postcard when we made it to The Netherlands.

While I don't have the letter in front of me, I think I can recall the entire message: "Dear Mom,
I'm in Amsterdam. They have legalized drugs and prostitution here. Having a wonderful time. Your son, Kent."

Turkmenistan VIII -- A Message From Yakub

When it rains, it pours.

Two days after I get an e-mail from Gulshat, I get one from her brother, Yakub.

Now, I haven't heard from Yakub in a very long time. After I left Turkmenistan (see Turkmenistan I-VII postings), I lost touch with Yakub for about a year. He had entered the army and had been involved in a terrible car accident (not as unusual as you might think in his country) trying to come home on leave. Two driver (possibly both drunk -- also not as unusual as you might think) collided head on, killing everyone except Yakub. He was severely injured, however, and was in a coma for several months.

His story of recovery and the visions he had right before he awoke are amazing, but a bit too personal for this blog. Sorry readers.

In any case, he went on to begin working in the oil and gas industry (one of Turkmenistan's biggest resources).

So, here are the highlights: "Oh, God ... I am reallly really really really really really really really happy to hear from you. I really do miss you Lance, I mean WE REALLY DO miss you. So may thing happened from the moment you left from us. Egven a month would not be enough to express all the feeling and thing that happened with us, believe me!!!:)

"For your info, I couldn't get in my email ... it's been locked or something, sh*t knows what happened wth it ... and during this time I have been so busy."

He goes on to note that he's in Malaysia at the moment, but will return home near the end of this month before heading to some offshore rig for several months.

Hey, Yakub, send pictures! The one above is several years old.