I remember the plane flying over Gander. I was holding Baiba’s hand. The Beatles song , « I want to hold your hand’ was playing in my mind. In those days the music was so integral to all experiences there were tunes that accompanied each act. We were going to London where the Beatles and Rolling Stones came from. Journey Cross the Mersey. Mrs. Brown You have a Lovely Daughter. London was the Mecca of Music. It was Shakespeare and the Battle of Britain. We were awed above the clouds in the blue skies high about the Atlantic where the Canadian merchant marine fleets had fought the German submarines.
We landed in Heathrow. I don’t know where we stayed that first night in London. As travellers we had begun the attachment to the back pack. All our lives were now in this container and we had to watch these like hawks thereafter. With our back packs we were among thieves and also we were each other’s buddies. It was a strange land. But there were so many youth about. It was the Baby Boom and we somehow felt akin to all those others about under 25. We were part of an exodus or walk about in those days. Hitch hiking to San Francisco we’d joined tens of thousands. Now here in London we were among thousands of a different more elite kind of traveller.
We’d not stay in London long at this time. We only had our return air fare and a couple of thousand Canadian dollars each we needed to buy bicycles and bicycle across Europe. We planned to work and make money to stay. London was expensive but we planned to returned. Trafalgar and Piccadilly Square were still amazing. Like the Thames and Parliament. Then we were on a ferry crossing the Straight riding to France amidst the thousands of boats that had come to the rescue at Normandy. That auspicious day when all the little boats of England set sail , 20 footers and 40 footers along with the destroyers and troop carriers. All bound to retrieve the remnants of the British Expeditionary Force that had gone to save France when Hitler had begun his blitzkrieg. We were there on the Ferrry looking out on the waters that had so many ghosts and I saw ghosts in those days, visual hallucinations or projected ideas or something but it was a busy place, this ‘old country’.
We arrived in Amsterdam. It was full of young people. We loved the Rembrandt House and Art Museum. I was limited in my knowledge of Europe and European history. I was good with the bikes and camping but Baiba was the true sophisticate. She insisted we go to places which years later I’d be thankful she did. Rembrandt was one of those many experiences. I didn’t know who Rembrandt was but Baiba did. His work was magnificent. I ‘d come to study his art in Art History classes at University and one day see his Prodigal Son in the Winter Gardens. Baiba introduced me to Rembrandt, her mother and grandmother having told her about all things European growing up.
I’d love the palaces and castles but eventually after you’d been in a few they lost their appeal. Not particularly cozy living places and rather spoke to an austere existence ruled by cannon and sword. Our joy was so often being simply there, in the village, seeing what those living there took for granted. In Southern France I’d get a picture of man shoeing a donkey beside a Mercedes. That was Europe for us the Old and New.
In Amsterdam we bought Baiba’s Peugeot 10 speed touring bicycle and my Raleigh 10 speed Road Bike. We had great panniers on either side of the back carrier where we stowed our great back packs. It was a bit awkward and wobbly when we set out but now we were ready. We had our little 2 person pup tent which I carried on my pack and the magnificent tiny cooking stove which we’d use with relish to make tea, soups and stew. I still have that camp stove in storage. I’d grow to love good kit. Now we’d set out facing cobblestone streets at first riding along the canals and the great 17th century brick apartment buildings. Everything was new. Everything we saw filled us with wonder. The cheese was indescribably good. We saw our first windmill and laughed. We really were here. We’d done it.
Bicycling along the great bike lanes in the tulip studded Holland country side the profusion of colour was amazing. We saw ladies in villages using great mops and brooms to wash the outside of their houses. Everything was so neat and tidy. It was Europe. It was all so old and used and well kept. Now we were in the low lands riding our bicycles over these flats and rolling hills. Holland was the best place to bicycle.
I remember tenting fondling, curled up beside Baiba who was the most splendid woman in the world . The European girls were all used to bicycling. They had these great legs like Baiba’s. Handsome calves and everyone seemed fit. We’d noticed how slim the English were and now the Europeans were even more athletic with no one fat. The rationing after the war had gone on forever and the wealth we knew in America was only beginning to be felt in Europe. Our bicycles which we loved were the envy of all, like driving a Harley through a village. Cycling was central to Europe and we were kitted up fine. But it wasn’t the affectations of later years. Cyclists bicycled in jeans and suits and skirts. The bicycle and scooters were just the daily means of transport . Our great Macdonald yellow tartan pants were often remarked upon.
One night it rained and we’d camped in the designated camp ground a hollow which flooded. We woke to floating side by side on our thin air mattresses. It was hard to get out of the tent that morning and carry our gear to higher ground. Thankfully the rain had stop and we had nowhere to be so sat drying our tent and bags out on the side of the bike lane drinking tea we’d made with our little campstove drinking from our matching metal mugs enjoying the Dutch surroundings.
We’d love Paris though I’d remember as the one city Michener had found the people deplorable. We loved the Eiffel Tower. The Eiffel Tower is a wonder of the world. It’s indescribable the feeling we had being there, seeing it, climbing it. We chose not to wait in the line up for the Louvre. We always had to think about the safety of our bicycles and gear. Sometimes we could stow our packs in lockers at train stations but mostly we just parked them outside cafe’s and restaurants where we could watch them. Nothing was ever stolen. We were in love with the food, the cheese in Holland indescrible , the wine in little French villages better than the finest served in Canada. I remember the Champs Élysée and other sites in Paris but it was all overshadowed by my knowledge of the Vimy French and how they had joined the Nazi’s betraying the British to protect these buildings. People who liked buildings more than people. British soldiers sacrificed on the beaches for these pretty beaches. The French were urban and horrid too so I was glad to get out of Paris. Montreal was the same. When French men gather in cities they become royal assholes but the very same stock in the villages were saints. We loved the French in southern France just as we loved the Quebec folk we met in towns and villages. That deeply offensive and totally unwarranted superciliousness so typical of urban French made even the New Yorkers of the day proud of their lack of charm seem friendly.
With our Canadian flag’s sewed on our pack sacks we were loved where ever we went. Even the Parisians were less offensive when they saw our country of origin. Our parents , the Canadian soldiers had enamoured themselves to the people, not just by saving them from the hated Bosche but by their kindness and Christian character. We heard over and over again from old people what wonderful men the Canadians had been. They did not like the Americans though. Yet they aped the Americans in their culture and dress, envious of their wealth and their Hollywood. Paris was full of Hollywood symbols while the French sneared at American culture wearing Mickey Mouse shirts.
In the little French villages we’d buy great baguettes, a lump of local cheese and a bottle of local wine, all for a pittance, then bicycle to some beautiful little picnic spot in the country to feast. Baiba was laughing continuously even though our bodies ached the first days of the bicycle journey. We were children in love. At youth hostels we met other young people from around the world. We’d form ad hoc groups for nights of local cuisine and wine and musical entertainment. The girls were beautiful. I loved to play chess and instantly met other men who played chess making friends all across Europe by pulling out my portable chess board or joining someone in front of their own board waiting for another player. They weren’t long games but there were many of them.
I have such fond memories of that trip. The fall weather was perfect for cycling not too warm not to cold. We continued on to Germany. In one village the fountain in the square ran free with red wine that flowed from a little boys penis. One side of the fountain was white wine and one side was white wine. The wine was free and German bread was a meal in its self. The brok worsts and sausages were delicious especially to hungry cyclists. We’d have the most incredible soups and stews as well but always with the great breads of Europe. German beer was equally a treat.
I remember Heidelberg best. A beautiful tiny University town where I first had Mead. We loved sitting in the square with our bicycles and pack sacks having a coffee or mead or a beer or a glass of white wine. Usually we couldn’t resist the cheese. Then the pastry and Blackforest Cake was so incredible. I’d play chess with some student. Or we’d read. We always had books. We read about the places we were passing through and we read novels. Baiba’s loved novels.
We found when we talked with Europeans our age we found their education was much broader and deeper than ours. Our cohorts were commonly in college and commonly knew several languages. They spoke with reference to art and books which everyone knew. We were definitely not aware and didn’t know what anyone meant when someone would say ‘Daliesque’. Baiba was better informed but frankly I became miffed at the lack of education I’d had in Canada compared to those I met in Holland, France and especially Germany and Spain. They were the same age as I was and had had the same years of schooling but could speak of books and ideas in a way that was foreign to my experience in Canada. I’d love the conversations we had over and over again without the stupidity that seemed then and often even today to derail discussion in Canada. The European students we kept meeting seemed adept in conversation and sharing of ideas, never offended, quick to laugh and always curious.
I found an Everyman Library book with all the ‘classics’ of literature, lists of authors written on the back. Everyman had been a published at the turn of the century that produced the great works cheap paperbacks so everyone could access the best of literature and history. I remember reading HG Wells History of the World to get a sense of what I was experiencing as I rode across Europe. Baiba was ever interested in the music and fashion. We were so welcomed. People were friendly. We were young and alive and simply beautiful people. Everyone loved Baiba’s who has a gift for languages. She simply picked up French and German and Spanish like a native speaker. So often natives would be surprised at her not being one of them after they’d babbled on for a long time before Baiba could interrupt them and say she didn’t know.
Meanwhile I’d studied French and Latin but read it more than spoke it. One French man said, « Please let us speak English, my English may not be good but it will be better than listening to you butcher my beloved language. ». He was quite happy to speak French to Baiba though.
The mountains became steeper as we headed to Heidelberg. The climb up ironically was not nearly as scarey as the flight down. This was further complicated by boorish German men who would think it a wonderful thing to lean out of their cars and slap Baiba’s beautiful ass as she was travelling down the side of a mountain. As this ‘love tap’ at speed became a viscous punch these yahoos on several occasions nearly killed her as the hit woul cause here to lose control and almost careen over the side of the mountain. On the down hills I shifted to following her and only once after that did this occur. I was helpless to stop it but there to witness this mean streak in some German men which years before had contributed to Hitler being able to form his first following of Brown Shirts. These were their descendants. I wished I had a gun to kill them. Baiba was simply thankful I saw what she had to contend with. It was terrifying.
We learned that our female friend was raped and stabbed in Marseilles and had gone home. We knew of a few others and at youth hostels the gossip spread. We’d made friends and hear of each other at these nodal places. Musich was such a place . The Oktoberfest was in full swing.
We checked in at the youth hostel. I was terribly miffed that the girls were on one side and the boys on the other. I showeded them my ring. Baiba showed them hers. We’d often had ‘married quaters’ but not in Munich. We’d also known we were in Germany at the first youth hostel where we were woken to German military band march music at 6 am. The German fame for organization was apparent everywhere. Travellers came from all over the world to the Oktoberfest, the equivalent of the world alcoholics convention. We were ground zero with Aussies, Germans, South Africans, French, Poles, Russians and Americans and Canadians. We were elite having cycles. Most others had eurail passes or had flown in only for the festival. Some had cars. As cyclists we were always admired, I suppose the hikers were even more admired but we simply didn’t meet them. They were more off the beaten path while we cycled through towns and cities along the main roads enjoying the bicycle paths that were everywhere.
October Fest was wild. Miles of tents and rows of drinkers from all over the world. I ‘ve written the whole tale of this one enconter elsewhere but it’s worth a brief repeat. I was walking through the massive crowds, two great streams of people passing by each other when Baiba’s turned her head back to me and said « this guys grabbed my breasts. ». I looked and sure enough the bloke coming by our way had reach up and grabbed both of Baiba’s magnificent breasts and was cackling life a fiend. I simply punched him then. It was the seemly thing. My upper cut took him under the chin and lifted him full out onto the table behind him. Glasses and beer went flying everywhere.
But what was most amazing was the table of Aussies the body had crashed down on. They were friends drinking one minute and now with this surprise body landing on their table they stood up and hegan hitting each other. A true Aussie bash up. At the further end of the table the two blokes on either side of the guy I’d hit began pounding him in the face, probably simply because he’d spilled their beer.
It was all happening so fast and Baiba and I were still moving forward in this press looking over our shoulders at this bizarre unfolding. Next came these vat grown Germans in jack boots running across the tables from all sides. 8 foot tall massive bouncers who descended like alien shock troopers to grab the big Aussies by the head two to a man and drag them out of the tents. The fellow I’d hit was bodily lifted and evicted by one of these inhuman monsters that maintained the peace at the October fest. It was a sight to be hold. In seconds peace was restored and heavy drinking resumed.
I felt flush with manliness and Baiba definitely approved.
Flash forward to more drinking and pissing. German beer like all beer passes through one. But enough remained that I passed out. I next remember being bodily lifted and thrown into the back of a pick up truck with some other friends I recognized from the youth hostel. Baiba sat in the cab. She always was better at pacing her self and never ever was unladylike. I had gone from knight in shining armor to knight in his cups.
We were dropped off at the youth hostel where we were to go our separate ways but that was my beautiful wife being ushered into the adjoining building. I cried out and complained vociferously and presumably drunkenly about the lack of love.
Baiba waved down at me from the fourth floor while I sang love songs to her. Next, it seemed wholly reasonable at the time. I was scaling the outside of the building. A great big fraulein was screaming, Baiba’s was laughing and looking down I saw from 3 floors I saw what was occasionaling even more excitement, a platoon or German soldiers had their rifles all pointed up at me with the Fraulein and Baiba screaming don’t shoot as I climbed into the Women’s dormitory only to be pushed over to the men’s side after a well won kiss from Baiba.
It turned out that the hostel had been taken over from the military who were barracked beside us. My climbing up the wall had been treated like an invasion and the troops had come to the rescue of the ladies. A great night of drama.
Another night with our friends of the week we endeavoured to steal a Hofbrauhaus Mug. This was the the ultimate achievement and the whole of the famous staff were set against losing these much favoured mugs. We succeeded by having the girls take one at a time to the upstairs washroom and throw them from the window to us guys who caught all without breaking them. I may well have that much loved and well won ‘souvenir’ in my storage locker. It survived London and the flight home and multiple moves. I remember seeing it a few years ago at least somewhere among my things. It was quite an achievement considering the conspiratorial ladies were drunk as were we and all those leaving were searched to ensure against just this feat we’d achieved despite intoxication.
We met Jerry in Munich. He was a bus driver from Edmonton. We were well matched in chess and loved to play. His girl friend , a beauty, got along well with Baiba though she’d travel separately at times while Baiba Jerry and I were a group.
The bad news we found out in Munich was that early snows had closes the passes to Italy, Greece and India. We couldn’t continue to the warm that way. Gerry had an old Volkswagen with no first gear and wanted us to join him going to southern Spain and perhaps Africa.
Why not.
Our bikes went on top of his Volkswagen bug on a roof rack we got and we headed on through the Pyrenees. This was an awesome passage. The most spectacular mountains and incredible views all without a first brake making the trip arduous and at times dangerous. We also were bit at night in a bed bug infested little motel somewhere in the middle of the mountain rage. It was with great relief we headed through and arrived in Barcelona.
Barcelona was a treat. We had a guide, before Lonely Planet but a guide of sorts It might have been called We used it to find the cheapest accommodations.
We loved Barcelona. The great squares and wide treed roadways were beautiful. All over Europe but especially in Barcelona there were statues. We’d have to look up who these famous peoples were and review the history. We’d love the museums and art galleries taking the time to visit any we could. The church in Barcelona was the most memorable . In Winnipeg there had been a controversial statue of Louis Riel, a remarkable work of sculpture that eventually was moved because it offended someone. The grace that was in that work of art was in the Barcelona Church. Years later I’d see the same sense of motion in the dance of the Sufi. The spiritual spiralling DNA type insight was so original and spectacular. I loved it
We took these rooms in this hotel above a bar in the day. Baiba’s stayed there to have a nap while Gerry and I went down stairs to get a beer and check out the lay of the land. The quiet street we’d found in the afternoon was becoming more and more lively.
« Fuckee Fuckee Mister » A made up little Spanish girl with pushed up breasts and teeny skirt had suddenly appeared at my side at the bar and put her had on my crotch.
« Gerry, » I said , « the girl beside me has her hand on my crotch and is saying Fuckee Fuckee’.
Worldly Gerry said, « ask her how much »
I looked in the English Spanish Guide and came back with the Spanish Equivalent of ‘how much’.
She told us what was roughly $10 Canadian.
Tell her too much.
« I’m not going to tell her too much when she’s got her hands on my balls. »
She must have figured out what Gerry said because she removed her hand from my crotch and because gesticulating with both hands calling Gerry names to the laughter of all the other Spanish men in the bar. We finished our drinks and left.
Outside had become the most bizarre street. Pirates and circus and things that crawl out from under walks, unsavoury and unsafe. We back tracked to our room.
« What’s happening? » Baiba asked.
We told her and looked in the guide. It turned out we had this great cheap hotel because it was on the very corner of the famed red light district. It was a true no go zone. Every criminal and every criminal enterprise along with garish women and disgusting men, soldiers and sailors from a number of countries roamed that street. I’d go to many port cities in years to come and brave Bourbon street in New Orleans but nothing ever compared to that place where nightly knifings were the rule. Only shots ringing out in the wee hours brought oat the police en force but they only stayed a moment making an appearance and leaving with the quaint Spanish ambulance. I didn’t suppose their would be an investigation. The next day we explored this nefarious place in the day light but didn’t go out at night. In the other direction there was great little cafe with the best of Spanish Cuisine.
We continued south from Barcelona to end up staying in the little town of Algeciras , by Gibraltar. George would meet Tilly there. She was a nurse and her friends were Flamenco dancers. We’d stay a few days. Sight seeing the Rock of Gibraltar from Franco’s mainland Spain. A soldier with a machine gun would point this at me and shake the muzzle to stop me taking pictures of Gibraltar. A fish boat was beside it and I assumed that might well be the Spanish Navy. He was young and very sincere. I put my camera away with alacrity.
Baiba was even more beautiful in Spain. It sounds redundant but she was simply shockingly beautiful. One of my most poignant memories is of her in a pair of calf skin boots she’d bought and a leather mini skirt and white blouse walking with me along a boulevard. The Spanish policeman in white and black uniform and cute hat with a whistle simply stopped at the sight of Baiba. This caused four directions of traffic to go awry. Two cars went up on the sidewalk. The poor man had been transfixed by the vision of this heart stopping woman and all the men of the cars, even those who run up ont the sidewalks just hung out of their windows in rapt attention staring with utter appreciation at what was obviously the most beautiful woman they’d ever seen. I imagine a young Sophia Loren had that effect. It wasn’t lust like in America but rather adulation. Baiba simply smiled demurely and continued on her way. Part of it was she was the ambassador for the boots and mini skirt look which she was introducing to conservative Spain.
When we danced at night the night clubs cleared and everyone clapped to see Baiba shine. We all tangoed but it was the jive, mambo and cha cha cha that the audiences loved. We never bought a drink in a night club the whole time we were in Europe because everyone who saw us dance insisted they buy us drinks. Baiba was spectacular and I was thankful for the fancy drinks and good times.
I picked up a copy of the English Translation of Don Quixote. It was a great tome of a read, some thousand page. Windmills, Sancho Panchez and Dulcinea. I had never read a very large book. Maybe a hundred or even two hundred pages was my max. I thought that if I could work my way through this great classic of Spain I’d not only under stand Spanish culture and mindset more but I’d have acquired the important skill of reading large works. It wasn’t a minor accomplishment for me at the time. Since I’ve learned most Canadians don’t read after they leave school. It’s even uncommon for Canadians to read a book a year. They tend to read magazines and articles and now it’s social media sound bites. There’s so much more in a great work of art than in the shallow waters of superficial reads. Don Quixote had been my quest and I did go onto face countless windmills but the depth of that book took me onto War and Peace and Anna Karenina and counteless other great works which couldn’t be captured in a fast food glance. I am forever thankful for Cervantes vision and his contribution to my life. Throughout college years I’d have a copy of the famous Picasso Don Quixote and Sancho Panchez black and white picture. It would continue to inspire me as the book first moved me.
We had a two room apartment, old style. Gerry kept coming out of his bedroom and asking me ‘how do you say ‘would you like to make love’. Tilly spoke French and Spanish. Long before the song I taught Gerry ‘Voulez vous coucher avec moi’ thanks to my English French dictionary and Canadian French dictionary. Shortly after Baiba and I laughing heard Gerry desperately bungling the ‘voulez vous coucher avec moi’ phrase without success. It was obvious that Tilly a very smart young woman was happy to play with Gerry but in Conservative Spain wasn’t about to ‘go all the way’. We thought poor Gerry would die over the weeks . He wasn’t in love but he was mad with lust. Tilly was a very sexy young girl. She introduced us to paellas and siestas and night clubs with her flamenco friends.
It was hard to leave her. But we’d decided that we’d go to Morocco. So leaving Gerry’s Car and our Bicycles in Algeciras we walked on the ferry to cross the famous Straights of Gibraltar for Africa. Crosby Stills and Nash’s song Marrakech would truly capture the sense and flavour of our experience there even if we didn’t get that far south.
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