Boy's Life

After a semester of college and having failed one course and having once again hit a dead end in the relationship department, I decide to take off with a friend to Europe. My friend, Marc, knew French well and had cousins in France. I had spent a summer when I was 17 in Guadalajara, Mexico living with a family and studying Spanish which I did mainly in the company of a couple of older guys as we made the rounds of the establishments in the extensive red light district there. This is another story I have to tell but not now because like this story it's a little lifetime of its own with a beginning a middle and an end and a lot of beauty and people and love in between. In any case, possibly because Marc and I both had some experience and skills, we were able to sell our idea of adventure in Europe to our parents. In February we got on the SS America- a huge old ship- and headed for England in inclement weather.

Our ship's quarters were more like a locker than a room-miniscule with 4 bunks and a sink. We were stuffed in there with a German who never washed and an East Indian guy who never stopped throwing up. When the German wasn't pissing in the sink, the Hindu was throwing up in it. Naturally we wanted to spend as much time as possible outside the room. And that wasn't easy because the sea was huge with mammoth rollers, the aftermath of some ferocious storm. One could hardly walk. In the lounge the easy chair I was in all of a sudden took off across the room- sliding a good 50 feet. In the bar all the bottles broke. This seemed unusual to me because I was thinking, 'well, this can't be the first time they have dealt with waves. Why is this happening? " At dinner a board around the table to keep the dishes from falling off. This is how we crossed the Atlantic, full of hope for the romantic adventures we would have and full of youth and positive forward motion.

The biggest fallacy in my thinking at this time was the notion that somehow great things would happen on their own, that I would be recognized by the unknown masses for the talented and wonderful person I was. Now, in my advanced middle years, I understand that a nineteen-year old isn't worthy of much consideration. But I was nineteen then and the center of the universe! If I could just get myself in an interesting situation, I thought, life would provide. And of course it does provide and did provide but not in the ways expected.

My friend went on to Paris and I stayed in London to negotiate, through a lengthy correspondence with my parents, for release of my meager savings so I could buy a motorcycle. This was difficult work for me because my mother, who always gave me a very long leash, had extracted a solemn promise from me that I would never ask to have a motorcycle. As a young woman she had witnessed an accident and a young man's brains spilled on the pavement. Young men don't have much compassion for their mothers. I got my way. It is a fact of love and grace that I didn't get killed or maimed. And today- at age 58- I own a big motorcycle- a real good one- and my mother is dead so I can die on the road, but I plan not to have that happen.

I got my motorcycle- a Triumph Bonneville- and a new chapter started. This motorcycle was great then and classic today. They are valuable and collected and there is a contemporary model with the same name and with some of the features. It was a twin carb, 650cc, two cylinder engine, a kick start and a body painted blue and gold with chrome trim, a very tight looking bike, essential, fast, and good handling. And the new chapter in my life started off with plenty of get up and go just getting out of town.

I had been living in a lonely room in a boarding house. I walked up five flights to get to it and in the two months I was there I don't remember seeing another soul. There was a hot pan where I cooked lamb chops and a shilling meter for heat. London in February is bitter cold and with that heater only one side got warm at a time. The cleaning lady was my friend and every day I heard someone in another building practicing the piano. It was a big change in my life. I became an introvert- actually enjoying my days alone at the museums and the films and the theater. But I was young and lonely too, so much so that it got to the point where I would see someone on the street and be sure I knew her but also know with my sane mind that this wasn't so and that I was just lonely. I kept moving, doing things. That saved me. I went everywhere in London and I hitched up north to see friends at a boarding school. And, of course, I went to all the motorcycle shops in London so that when the time came and the money appeared I was ready to make my buy.

With my fist full of cash I hustled over to the far side of town to the Triumph shop and bought the bike, a leather jacket, boots, a helmet, a pair of goggles, gloves, and that was it. It was evening by then and I had the guy at the shop drive us both over to my boarding house. The reason for this was that I only theoretically knew how to ride a motorcycle. Added to that was the pressure of a couple of other facts. My landlady was on the warpath because I was a day into the next month with the rent and she wanted me to pay the whole month. Basically I told her "It ain't gonna happen." She countered with " you bloody Americans think you own the world". And I said "Yeah, maybe, so what?" This was in 1964, before we owned the world. She was a kind of prophet, I guess. The other fact was that I had luggage and a guitar, which wouldn't go on the motorcycle. I didn't buy saddle bags- probably because they didn't look cool-so I had to ship all that ahead to Madrid- my final destination. This all had to happen fast before my landlady could figure out how to squeeze me for the rent, which, by now, I didn't have anyway. That night I was up very late reading the motorcycle manual and up very early getting my bags to the train station and then finally trying to start the motorcycle and make my way to the English channel and the boat to France. The motorcycle started and I began to know how to drive it on the in the London traffic and to feel a little more empowered and excited about the road I was on and what it would lead to up ahead. And I didn't even have a change of clothes.

Even Italy is cold in March and this was England. My leather jacket kept out the wind but my dungarees didn't and there was no windscreen or faring on that classic motorcycle I was beginning to love so much. I got as far as I could toward the channel before pulling into an inn, which was also a pub. I didn't have much money and I couldn't get any more until Paris. I took a cheap room and ran the bath but found that by the time it filled up the hot water was only tepid. I got in and stayed as long as possible but couldn't get warm. After a sandwich at the pub and a dreamless sleep of the dead I was ready to go the next morning early- to Dover, to the ship, and to France.

Finding some rags, I cleaned the cold March mud off my precious Triumph, shined her up, and got on the road. And this time it wasn't long before I saw the white cliffs of Dover shining from a sun break through the heavy gray clouds over the English Channel. I was on the edge of hypothermia and the power of a few sunrays and a calming of the wind felt like salvation. I saw the beauty of those chalk cliffs, the sun lighting them, and felt the warmth spreading over me at the same time. On the boat my need for heat drew me to the warmest bench available somewhere near the engine room and I fell asleep until we landed in France. I drove for a while to get away from the congestion of the port and pulled into a café where I could warm up and get something to eat before the long leg of the trip to Paris coming up. I didn't have much money left. A spoiled child from a privileged and sheltered background is not well prepared for certain realities of the world. At that café I gave my last traveler's check and accepted the change in francs with perfect trust.

The road was cold again as I traveled south to Paris. France wasn't any warmer than England and it wasn't long before I had to pull over. There was a cold, light rain falling. The only shelter was a big haystack in a field and a storage shed, which was locked. I wiggled into the hay for a while but that didn't work. It was wet; it was cold. And at that point I didn't know that it could have worked if I had dug in and given myself up to it. I moved on. The rain got worse and night closed in. I was freezing when finally I got to a small town with a little hotel and café. That was when I realized I had been cheated earlier and that my money was gone. Only the goodness of these French people saved me. They could see the shape I was in and gave me a room in the attic somewhere and a little food, and in the café someone bought me a couple of glasses of wine which warmed me while the freezing rain outside poured down in torrents. And the people in that café were warmed too by their own kindness. It was a nice moment for a weary stranger on the road. I slept in peace in the little attic room.

The rain stopped sometime in the night and a reasonable morning followed. After cleaning my bike and thanking the people of the hotel I headed for Paris with no money but with enough gas to get there and I had the address of a man we had met on the boat. That was all I had. His name was Bernard Gode and he was a waiter who had worked at a French restaurant in New York and was now reestablishing himself in Paris with his family. He lived in one of those old apartment buildings in a poor neighborhood, a long walk up to the one room three people called home. Bernard's wife was there and knew to expect me, but Bernard, who spoke some English, was out working until late at night and her son was still at school. So she parked me next door with the neighbor whose name was Florien. He was happy to greet me and invite me into his one-room, which was a little smaller than theirs. And we commenced to try to communicate. He showed me pictures of his favorite cats from the past and pictures of his favorite friends- men who had visited Paris and enjoyed his company. This was all beginning to challenge my naiveté and make me nervous but I kept hoping for the best. Florien had a shelf of curios and statues above the bed and a statue of Adonis, and he kept pointing to it and poking at my thigh as if to say my thighs were as nice as Adonis's- a great compliment. I did whatever I could short of slapping him to signal that I didn't like that kind of attention but it wasn't working. And the inevitable moment arrived-bedtime! It was a small bed. I told him, "I'm sleeping on the floor". He protested and said he would sleep in the floor. And that was ok with me. But as soon as I was drifting off to sleep, sure enough, he slid in between the sheets. Not wanting to panic I once again hoped for the best. And he was behaving himself. But I couldn't sleep except that I was very tired and eventually I began to fall asleep. Just at that moment I felt a hand reaching over to grab for my cock and I bolted upright like a jack in the box on a tight spring. My head hit the shelf over the bed and all the statues went into orbit. I know some hit the ceiling. Florien flew out of bed and hit the wall. He was terrified. I told him " You stay on that floor or I kill you!" You can say this in any language and people will understand you, by the way. Actually I felt bad because I scared him so much and he was a nice person. But I finally got a good night's sleep.

Next morning Bernard was home and his son too and I told them I wasn't spending another night with Florien. They understood and the four of us shared their little space the next two nights- the son and I on the floor. Their son, Andre, was a good kid, a bright kid who was interested in everything. He was about 16 so we were actually close in age; strange as it seems now looking back and wondering how I could ever have been that young. Eventually I reunited with my friend Marc who took me to his little place. I immediately collapsed with chills and a fever and then a long, long sleep. When I finally woke I was ok again but my condition had scared his landlady. She wanted me to leave. It was a forgettable week that followed and the weather remained cold and dreary even though it was that mythic time, "April in Paris." My restlessness drove me on toward Madrid where, at least, I knew the language somewhat.

As I cruised south and began to pick up a hint of spring in the wind I sensed that my hard times were behind me and that new and good things were up ahead. Feeling like I was good on the motorcycle, passing through the towns along the Bay of Bayonne, and seeing spring flowers in window boxes on the houses; all the beauty of the road healed the aloneness of the previous two months. Two months for a nineteen-year old is a much longer time than it is for a 58 year old. It's a greater proportion of one's life lived to that point and it seems that way too.

I reached the Spanish border north of Bilbao-the heart of the Basque country- Pais Vasco. All of a sudden I was hearing Spanish instead of French and it felt warm and familiar. It was getting dark as I passed through Bilbao. Men in berets were on the corners and sidewalks- people going home from work- and the traffic was thick with trucks and diesel fumes that actually smelled good. On the other side of town I found a place to stay for the night and had a meal served by a Spanish girl about my age. Boys she might have known were not staying in hotels, however modest, or riding a new motorcycle. They were in school or, more likely, working. And my blazing red hair stood out. We had a couple of words as I tested my Spanish. Luckily, I couldn't remember how to say, "Will you marry me and have my babies?" My upbringing, thick with fairy tales, has given me the ability to see things as they should be, or could be or would be but rarely as they are. This has it's own beauty in the realm of feeling. And so, with the Spanish waitress, I could imagine all her feelings for her and was almost persuaded to settle down right there. I stress the word imagine because I had no real idea about what she thought about anything. I pulled myself away, tragically, and with scenes of Romeo and Juliet playing in my mind, I fired up my steel horse and pointed south to Madrid.

Still, the early spring weather was cold and I found a mountain range between me and my destination. In the Sierra de Guadarrama north of Madrid there was snow on the ground in places but the sun was out and not much wind. We passed through piney woods where sunlight cut through the dark straight trees and made the forest floor glow. At the crest of the mountains I could see the road to Madrid stretching out to the horizon. A blast of warm air hit me and the cold was gone as if I had suddenly entered a different world. The sun sparkled and there wasn't a cloud in the sky as I started my decent. And the road itself was new, with long gentle curves and not another car in sight. With all the hard miles to leave behind I cranked the throttle and flew down that mountain at 100mph yelling at the top of my lungs"Yahoooooooooooooo!" And before I knew it I was traveling through the outskirts of Madrid seeing signs that said, "Veintecinco Anos de Paz", a reminder that Francisco Franco's fascist rule had kept the order for the 25 years since the Spanish Civil War. Romantics have a special feeling for the losers of that war and I did too and still do. And all my trips to Spain have involved the contemplation of that war and the observation of its effects in the culture. But right now I had to find the center of town and I got to "Sol" which means sun and is the center of Madrid. I spent a night in a hotel there and then, with their help, found another, much cheaper place on the Plaza de Santa Ana nearby. This place- a pension- cost 50cents a day with two meals. The rooms were clean but the bathroom was very scary. If you went there in the morning before people had started using it and turned on the light, battalions of big cockroaches would scatter in all directions. I had my own room for a while but soon they put me in with another border, which gave them another room to rent. And also, I think, the older couple who ran the place felt I needed somebody to keep an eye on me. It was so cheap I just went along. My roommate, Mauricio, was a high school math teacher in the neighborhood somewhere. He was short and round and about 40 and not married but engaged. He looked like one of the three stooges- that same wild hair sticking out the back and bald on top. He had big brown eyes and was very nice, a very good guy. We got along and eventually would go for coffee or to dinner with his girlfriend. Because he had promised to marry her and because she was a little chubby and past the marrying age by Spanish standards, he was getting to feel her up on the weekends up there in those piney woods I passed through on the way down to Madrid. He would come back and say," Ella me trato muy, muy bueno este fin de semana!" 'She treated me very very good this weekend!'

Meanwhile I was trying to grow up and figure things out and have fun at the same time. The figuring-things-out-part was giving me trouble and it affected the other two areas. The world seemed to have no order. The chaos in the streets sometimes seemed like just that-chaos, and I was looking for some purpose to it all. Romantic relationships for me had been frustrating in the late 50's and early 60's. Since I was only nineteen it might seem strange to hear me talk about a history of romantic relationships. This topic needs investigation in depth. For now suffice to say that when I was five I was bribing girls with chocolate chip cookies to pull their pants down. And even though I didn't have that many ideas as to what to do once those pants were down, I was able to think of a few things. They have provided me with some wonderful memories. And I fell in love when I was six and stayed in love for many years. She was a couple of years older and it was very difficult to maintain and finally impossible altogether. I moved on. Love and sex just dominated my life from the get go. There wasn't HIV then. We contended with the sanctity of girls' reputations and fear of pregnancy and a whole load of puritanical crap. It had about the same effect as HIV, maybe more. And my experiences in the brothels of Guadalajara when I was seventeen were difficult to carry over into real relationships. I had a lot of questions about a lot of things. And my trip was meant to help me get some clarity on it all. Here in Madrid my real life began, here on the Plaza de Santa Ana, a place Hemingway loved, a place that was my own.

I settled into my little pension, the " Salamanca". And my roommate, Mauricio, showed me how the Madrilenos live. There were many coffee bars where, during the day, one would stand at the bar and drink a café con leche and in the evening, when people finished work at eight, these same places would fill to the brim as people relaxed and ate tapas and drank glasses of tinto-red wine. Tapas are small portions of different great things from olives to seafood and they are an institution of Spanish culture and cuisine. In Madrid people relate to each other and enjoy each other's company. They move as a big amorphous group through the tapas bars at night enjoying the evening and the company, winding down from the day until dinner at about nine or ten pm. And then they are up again in the morning and on the move from about seven am, beginning work at eight, finishing at twelve, and then a siesta until four when they put in another four hours of work and off again to the cafes.

Of course people like me worked around all this, observing it and participating when it was convenient or interesting to do so. And there were other people like me-travelers, seekers, drifters, hustlers-and it wasn't long before I met them. Down on the corner of my street on the edge of the plaza was a café called El Principe- the prince. I hadn't more than pulled myself onto a stool and ordered a coffee when a tall, bearded beatnik-looking dude came in and asked me if I was Don Knee and I said I wasn't. This was Sebastiano James Caballieri from Boston and he was 32, a Korean war veteran, and a sometime actor in the "B" films being made in Madrid at that time including the early Clint Eastwood "spaghetti westerns." Clint Eastwood's name didn't mean anything then. He was known to be an established "B"actor. That's all. Don Knee did show up-another beatnik who was trying to write a screenplay for a Dostoyevsky novel. Supposedly he had the rights to it for a certain length of time and needed to hustle up the money. He was in his 40's and traveling with an experienced young woman named Marlene from hillbilly country who ran away from a second marriage to follow him. Her first marriage was at age fifteen I remember.

My associations grew quickly until I knew most of the non-Spanish, English-speaking people who were in the neighborhood- about thirty people. Spain was so cheap and such a great place to be then. People I knew were students of flamenco and Spanish, dancers, writers, musicians, actors, and travelers. There was even an FBI informer posing as a writer, which was the wrong cover for him since he was totally inarticulate. Looking back I think he was there to keep an eye on the American expatriate population to make sure we didn't embarrass our country or make trouble for the Spanish dictatorship. J Edgar Hoover was in charge of the FBI and his ideas about government weren't far from Franco's. There were lots of eyes watching. Spain was a fascist country then and a strict catholic country. All of us had to be aware of that and not step too far out of line. We saw cars pull up and men get out and pick someone up in the plaza, put him in the car, never to be seen again. We knew people who were warned not to express their anti-Franco political views in the bars. There was an unofficial curfew at midnight and you had to be off the street. If you came home later than that you had to clap three times and wait to hear the jangle of keys announcing the guard who would open the gate to your building. It wasn't a strict curfew but it allowed the authorities to keep track of what was going on. There was no crime and I didn't have to worry about my motorcycle on the street. Even though I had great romantic notions about freedom and democracy I saw that Franco's Spain had some undeniable benefits for the expatriates. It was incredibly cheap and it was safe. Also it hadn't been taken over by modernism and libertine contemporary values. Basically Spain was like it had been for most of the previous hundred years and in the countryside time stretched out much farther than that.

Sebastiano and his "senora" became my close friends. Sebastiano was a tall, dark, handsome, latin-lover guy to look at. He had black wavy hair and a goatee and a full set of perfect teeth. He was strong and could grip a stop sign and hold himself parallel to the road. He met Ruth in England where she was solidly married to an upper middle class man and they had almost-grown children. Sebastiano was 32 and she claimed 42. I think more. She had red hair and milk white skin and all the education and breeding one would expect from an English woman of her background. They met in a café in England at a counter having coffee. Jim, which is what we called him, using his middle name, was attracted by her refined beauty, and, no doubt, by the class she represented. He was hard on the women. She fell like a ton of bricks and gave up everything, disgraced herself and her husband and children and followed him first to France and then to Spain. She was a good person but a sad, tired person because her life with Jim wasn't really happy and she had been disowned and renounced by both her husband and her children. Still, she managed good humor as much as possible and could laugh even though she was worn out from supporting him and from his verbal abuse. Sebastiano did get some little parts in the films being made and an occasional commercial but at the time I knew him he didn't bring in much money. He lived off women. The French would call him a macaro, which is the third type of man. To French women there are only three types of men: con, pede, et macaro, which is: asshole, fag, and pimp.

Sebastiano had an outrageous personality to go with his impressive looks. His charisma was amazing. He would walk into a cafe and in a few minutes draw all the attention to himself. He would insult people and challenge them and all in broken Spanish, but somehow he did it in a way didn't cause people to dislike him. I can't say they liked him either because fear was mixed into the equation. I often thought I would see someone haul off and punch him in the mouth but it never happened. And the women just wanted him plain and simple. He was the first of this type of guy for me to know. They really don't like women but they get the women and the women go wild for them. I still find this confusing. We got along and he enjoyed having a sidekick who looked up to him, someone he could trust, someone who was neither competition nor dangerous to his ego. Because for all the bluster and noise he was full of insecurities. And without the great looks and his giant cock, which he called "the brute" and bragged about, he was just a poor, uneducated, Italian kid from the north end of Boston. A fire burned in him and threatened to burn him down but to his credit he passed through it time and time again and without becoming a drunk or an addict. He'd say," let's walk, "and off we would go on the streets of Madrid for hours until he calmed down. Lot of times he was in a crisis in his relationship with Ruth. He would go off with some beautiful Swedish girl who was passing through town and Ruth would always find out about it and threaten to leave, pack her bags. But she had no place to go and even if he secretly wished she would go he was dependent on her for the money and for being there, the loving mother figure in an Oedipal way. His own mother he hated which explains a lot no doubt, but explaining things doesn't change them.

Jim was a Korean War veteran. He went in at age 17 and saw some brutal fighting there, something history has ignored for some reason. I still don't know much about it and most people don't. His best friend was killed there next to him and he brought the bloody T-shirt home and had it under the bed with his private treasures. When he was out of the house his mother threw the shirt out and I think that's when he left home for good. He hated her for that and lots of other related insensitivities and coldness.

Other indignities he had suffered stayed with him. He told this story to me more than once. "When I was just a little kid some bigger kids grabbed me in the playground and pulled my pants down and pissed on me and rubbed my face in it. I swore I would get them back. And I never forgot. By the time I got back from the army I weighed two hundred pounds and no fat. I went to each one of their houses and, of course, they didn't know who I was. But I would say,' Didn't you go to school over on Madison street?' And I would watch them as I added more information and saw them begin to realize who was in front of them, in their house. And then I beat them to a pulp."

Even at the time I wasn't sure this was a true story but it was an important story somehow. And it could be true. He wasn't afraid of anything physical as far as I could tell. For example, the bullfight is the heart of Spanish culture even today and then more so because there was so little else of popular culture to compete with it. The women, the men, the young and the old watched every fight during the big Feria de San Isidro in May. In the café they would say,"Ah look at the magnificence of the Spanish man. Every other man looks like nothing compared to him". And Jim would say "That's bullshit. These guys are just a bunch of sadistic pig fuckers with no balls of their own so they have to pick on a dumb animal". Now if these aren't fighting words … But we never got into a fight and I say "we" because where I come from if you get in a fight and I am with you I'm in the fight too. So I was often on edge when he would go off like that. And it was often. He would bait people mercilessly. I think he hoped they would start something so he could let off some steam. I am glad I never had to see it. Around 9 o'clock Ruth would show up from her teaching jobs and we would go have dinner at one of the innumerable places in the center of Madrid- modest places with good food. And that was usually a good time; walking in the evening to a place we had decided to try. Madrid is one of the great walking cities. There are innumerable restaurants and small businesses and parks. The smells of good things cooking, of olive oil and garlic and a million spices fill the air and the nights are warm and gentle. Nobody wants to go to bed and they delay it as long as possible. It's fun to be with the crowd, run into friends, try a new tapas bar. Great seafood and shellfish are delivered every day fresh from La Coruna on the Atlantic and the din of the crowd is a positive, life-loving sound.

Jim liked to ride on the back of the motorcycle and I would drive him over to the movie studio or to an agent to see if there was some print or commercial work. At the same time I was also trying to get some shape to my own life. Tagging along with Jim and witnessing the unfortunate dynamic between him and Ruth was exhausting for me. She was the type of person who would not say shit if she were standing in it. And he took tremendous delight is saying the most God-awful atrocities in front of her. They were so outrageous and beyond the pale that she would first be shell-shocked and then pass beyond that and smile or even give a little laugh. I got tired of not knowing how to react to it all.

Finally word came that my luggage had arrived and I went to collect it at the main rail station. In a huge building I walked through giant rooms full of piles of luggage and my hopes collapsed thinking it could not be possible for my things to be found here. And my guitar- a Martin D-28- had been shipped in a soft case-no protection. We walked through the endless long aisles with luggage on both sides and over to a pile that was distinctly mine. It was all there and in good shape and the guitar was unblemished, which I now consider a miracle. My guitar gave me something to work with other than just hanging out and I also began to make a few friends of my own and to talk with a little Spanish girl on the other side of the counter in the cafe El Principe. She was my age- just a little younger- and her name was Emilia Cruz. She worked the afternoon/evening shift with Pedro who was also our age. The three of us started talking and enjoying each other. I would say to her," Hola guapa" which means "Hi good looking" and she would say "Hola guapo!" She had spirit and was very bright but poor and involved in supporting the family. Her father had died in the Civil War and every Sunday she and her mother visited the grave. I don't think I ever knew or cared about whoever else may have been in the family. Felipe, an older waiter at the café, lived in the same apartment complex as Mili, on the outskirts of Madrid. He kept an eye on her and brought her home at night. Pedro was a good young guy full of energy and humor and the three of us recognized our common youth and stage of life even though our lives were very different. And there were vast cultural differences, which I could slightly appreciate because of my experiences in Mexico two years earlier. Mili was not free to just "go out" with me or "date" me. Even for her to move in that direction would take major decisions and risks. I understand that now but I don't think I gave it much thought at the time. My interest was in reenacting Romeo and Juliet in real life and adding a happy ending. These are difficult intentions to hate and yet someone who plays with the human heart and refuses to weigh the consequences is dangerous, even cruel. I focused on her and little by little the tide began to turn.

She couldn't see me on her own. We would meet in the Retiro Park on Sunday morning before she had to go with her mother to her father's grave. Pedro would be there as a chaperone and friend. We genuinely liked each other. El Retiro is in the heart of Madrid. The Prado and many other great institutions are located on the edge of the Retiro. It is a big, elegant park with lakes and places to sit and picnic. There are cafes and boats to hire on the lakes. People know how to be together in Madrid and they do some of their best work that way in the Retiro. In the early morning in May, with a chill still in the air but the promise of a hot day to come, I would fire up my Triumph and cruise over to the lake where we would meet and hire a boat and row around together. Even though I was still struggling with the language it didn't seem to matter. Most of what is important is said in other ways-body language, eyes and tone of voice- a million little signs that are older than language and more trusted. Both Mili and Pedro were giving me some exposure to their lives and watching how I reacted. One time I met Mili by herself and she had a baby with her- her cousin's child. She got on the back of the motorcycle with the baby and we drove across town through heavy traffic to her cousin's apartment. Before we got there she got off so that no one would see. It seemed to me she wanted to get a sense of how I was with the baby. At one point she had me hold him. And by getting on that motorcycle with the child she showed her confidence in me and her own courage. Mili was a very bright and alert person. She was like a bird-thin and quick. I doubt if she weighed a hundred pounds. She had a beautiful smile and an easy, wonderful-sounding laugh that we heard a lot. Her life wasn't easy but other than being tired occasionally she never complained. And even though I am describing these times we had together they didn't come easily or often. It took a lot of work at the café for me to get her to commit to a meeting and sometimes day after day would go by when it didn't happen. And there was another young Spanish guy who, it seemed, was doing the same thing I was- showing up at the café mostly to talk to her. Naturally this made me more focused. If you had ever raced homing pigeons like I have you would know that one of the most reliable techniques for getting a cock bird home fast is to introduce another male into the scene right before a race.

Sometimes Emilia wouldn't show up at one of our meetings. No doubt she had to play some games at home to manage the time to be with me. This was old world stuff- people not able just to do whatever they liked. But even if she couldn't show up Pedro would be and we had good times together. He was just a year younger than I and we had a lot in common just because of our enthusiastic natures and our stage of life. We went to a big swimming pool together at the Casa del Campo- a big park in Madrid. It's a big green place on the outskirts of Madrid- a bit of the country in the city. Mili and I would go there too on the motorcycle sometime and sit under the trees by the lake. It was very much like the Seurat painting "Dimanche Matin a la Grande Jatte"- city people relaxing and enjoying the coolness under the trees and looking out onto a sunlit lake. Pedro's mother worked for a rich man as his housekeeper and we would visit her, going by the back door to the kitchen to get something to eat. Of course Pedro loved the motorcycle and even though I wouldn't let him or anyone drive it he wanted to go as fast as possible. Once we went 100mph down a very mediocre piece of road. Doing that once was enough but it was a big thrill and the two of us were hollering and laughing with all the energy and ebullience of youth.

One of the big saint's days came around and there was a fair at night and the three of us went. A carnival scene had been set up with all the games and rides and even a test of strength where you swing a big wooden mallet and drive a projectile up the shaft to ring the bell. I rang the bell a couple of times and got all the admiration one hopes to get from such a feat. Mili and I held hands for a little while. It was a magical night full of the color of the carnival and a happy crowd- people enjoying the simple pleasures their culture provided. And the nights in May in Madrid are unforgettable. After the heat of day they cool down to just the right temperature. The air is good and there's a little breeze and one wants to go on and on and on.
Jim naturally made fun of my little romance which was on the opposite end of the spectrum from where he was busily sticking "the brute" into every good looking woman who passed through our scene. He wanted me to take that hillbilly singer out into the bushes for the real thing. And she was willing and even suggested it but I was not ready for that. Especially it was hard for me to figure how Don, the guy she was living with, would feel about it. Probably he could care less but that was too difficult a notion for me to parse at that stage and, really, it still is. Everybody cares even if they pretend not to. And I liked the feelings, the not knowing and all the ups and downs and the mystery of pursuing my little Spanish girl. Those feelings were not really carnal but something more innocent and pure. I didn't have the confidence to follow in the footsteps of my wild mentor or the emotional makeup to approach women as a predator even if they welcomed it. Later on in life I paid a price for this because I had to catch up on some of what I had missed because of my sensitivity.

So life rolled on and it was full of good people and experiences for us expats living in Franco's Spain. The bullfight was on and it interested me perhaps because of Hemingway but also because of my lifelong attraction to hunting and fishing. There was a lot of danger and beauty in it and when you get to know the bullfight the bull himself becomes equally as heroic as the matador maybe more so. It's very complicated. In Ronda, in Andalucia, where some of the best bulls are raised, there is a sign by the entrance of the corrida which says, in effect, "the bullfight is not something up for discussion". It's as much a part of Spanish identity as the language. During the time I was there Manuel El Cordobez was a rising star, more like a comet. He came from the poorest of the poor and learned to fight bulls as a youngster by jumping the fence at night and taking his chances with an old coat for a cape. His courage was so astounding that he began to attract attention and with every opportunity he proved again that he had great skill and also the biggest pair of balls in all Spain. He was also just a year or two older than I and people said we looked alike, and it was true to a certain degree. His first fight in Madrid was scheduled while I was there and it was a very big deal. People had tried to keep him out because his style wasn't classic but mostly because he came from a poor background. In those days less than 100 families controlled all the wealth in Spain and they didn't like this kind of upstart kid giving the peasants ideas. But he was too good and too exciting and everybody felt it. It was impossible to get tickets for the arena but it was on TV and every bar and café was packed when he strode out into the ring, faced the bull, and made a series of breathtaking passes before getting gored in the groin and rushed to the hospital. Many bullfighters have been killed in the ring and in the museum in Ronda you can see stuffed heads of the famous bulls that killed them. They all have names and there's a plaque to tell how they fought and won before dying themselves.

El Cordobez recovered to fight many more times and gain riches and fame. I had heard he played the guitar and one day I went to get my motorcycle, which was getting some mechanical attention, and there he was coming out of a house on the alley with his guitar. His guitar teacher lived there. I went up to him and asked for his autograph and he signed my passport "con todo afecto, Manuel El Cordobez". I still have it.

Within the expatriate scene there were all kinds of people and cross
currents. It was malleable congregation which was always changing but balanced and constant in its character because it had a center- the Plaza de Santa Ana- and because everyone was transient to one degree or another.I had a German friend, Hans, who was my age. His father had sent him to Spain to learn the language for business reasons. We visited Segovia on my motorcycle and marveled at Roman aqueduct and we visited Avila, the home of Saint Teresa. He told me how to say "not guilty-un shuldige"in German- and "orders are orders-befehlt est befehlt". We laughed like hell about that, nervously acknowledging the horrors of the holocaust. He was there in Madrid with an older German friend who was also studying at the University and that guy would not even meet me to shake my hand because I was American. These young men had grown up in a Germany flattened by American bombing and were the sons of Nazis. At the same time I had another friend, Reynold Eston, who was Jewish from the Bronx and had some mysterious purpose in Madrid. He had graduated from college in the states and hung out with the highway patrol guy who claimed to be a writer but was actually some kind of a spy. They would occasionally "get lucky" with some middle-aged schoolteachers from the states eager to bone up on their Spanish skills. Reynold was a good guy with red hair like me and we saw each other back in New York for a while but my goyisha identity made the friendship impossible there. He lived in a big apartment building with his grandparents and they wouldn't let me in the house. He introduced me to a real smart and interesting Jewish girl at a concert and we arranged for a date. When I showed up at her apartment for the date she came to the door and said her father wouldn't let her go out with me.

Our expatriate crowd had a local godfather,a non-violent one, named Paco. He was Mr. Sportin' life and a lot of fun. He had more money than the rest of the locals because of the scams he controlled and he cultivated the expat crowd because one of the scams involved us. You would see Paco from far away making his way through the narrow streets hunkered down behind the wheel of his 1930's vintage Packard convertible with fenders that stretched out a mile in front. His waxed mustache stabbed the air, his smiling teeth clamped down on his cigarette holder, and a panama hat completed the look of total gangster chic. Paco had seen all the American gangster movies and saw himself as a mini Al Capone without the violence. I can't imagine him hurting anyone. He seemed to be having so much fun. It didn't take him long to figure that Sebastiano was the leader of the pack and that's how I got to know him and his friends. The expat group was always hard up for money. They sold blood, taught English, and did whatever they could to maintain. In Franco's Spain there was a shortage of cars because their production wasn't good. The wealthier people in Spain could afford a good car but they were on a long waiting list. However, a foreigner could buy a car without waiting. So Paco would recruit the foreigners to go to the central office and buy a Spanish Seat, which was then turned over to the Spanish customer. Paco had a "soldier" in the central office who processed the transaction so the whole thing was a walk in the park. So we got to know his friends who were just slightly older than I- all very good-natured guys to be with. Once we went to a bachelor party out in the boondocks-a whole crowd of us on a bus. We traveled the dark country woods and came to an inn where we drank wine and got loud with good humor and friendship. But it never got beyond the pale with tension or vulgarity of any kind. It was an unforgettable time because the Spanish are geniuses at knowing how to relate and be together in a warm, friendly way.

In addition to the assorted dancers and people studying flamenco guitar and tourists passing through our scene at the Plaza de Santa Ana, there was a little Englishman named Harold Smith who seemed very proper and very British. He and Ruth afforded a bit of culture and élan to our unwashed group. Harold was another one whose purpose was not clear. He was studying Spanish but was not good at it and I remember something about "difficulties" he had had in England. We never knew the details but suspected he was laying low for a while. In our type of group nobody pressed for the details. Harold was always in a tweed suit even when it was like a frying pan on the streets. Madrid is a big dry plateau, a high desert, and from May through September the heat is brutal during the day. But the English are English and never more English than when they are out of the country. In India they built fireplaces in their houses and carried umbrellas to shade them from the sun if not the rain.
One day Sebastiano met me and said, "How about goin' to Morocco?"
"In a car huh?" I offered.
"No, the two of us on the bike".
"Really? It's ok with me," I said.
"We can buy pot down there. It's legal. And we'll bring it back and sell it to Clint Eastwood. Make some money."
"Ok. Jim sounds good."

We started thinking about how we were going to make the trip. I was impressed that Sebastiano was willing to ride on the back of the Triumph for a long trip on old windy Spanish roads, and without a helmet and with a nineteen-year-old driving. Also, he was a big guy, maybe 6'3" or 4. It was a lot to take on. But we planned and set a date and everything was moving toward that time. Ruth came by my pension one morning early, very upset, and got me out of bed. She warned me about the trip, not to go. She felt Jim was taking advantage of me somehow. I didn't understand that and in any case I wanted to go. It gave me a focus and a purpose, which other than Mili in the bar, I didn't have. And it was obvious to some other people that my life was adrift. Felipe, the older waiter in the bar, talked to me one time when I was sitting in the plaza drinking horchata and watching the cockroaches rock and roll in the leaves by the wall. As I lit another cigarette he said, " You know I had a friend and he only smoked three cigarettes every day- one after every meal, never any more. And when you think about it what else does a man have?" I thought about this for a long time. I realized he was trying to help me and teach me something and I took it to heart but it took many years to manifest in my life. I was just entering a phase whereby I figured that if a little of something is good a lot of it must be better. This hypothesis was given a thorough testing over subsequent years.

Ted, the highway patrolman-FBI type, got wind of the trip and also tried to steer me off without directly letting on that he knew the specifics. For the more responsible people in our crowd the notion of me riding the motorcycle to Morocco with Sebastiano on the back could not be a good thing. I never had second thoughts. I was flattered that Jim thought I was good enough on the motorcycle to put his life in my hands, literally. And the road called- an exotic road to the south- Granada, Aljiceras, Ceuta, Tetuan, Tangiers-Africa!

On a cool early morning in June we climbed on the Triumph and headed out of town getting a feeling for how this was going to go and how the bike would handle. A motorcycle is much different to drive and to stop with two big people on it. And what I remember is that it worked great. Jim never complained. I pulled over when I was tired and we would get something to eat or drink. We spent the night in cheap places and at one point had to spend an extra night because something went wrong with the bike. But in Spain you don't have to look far to find someone who can fix your motorcycle and it was soon on the road better than ever. Spain was poor in those days and the road was peaceful-not much traffic. Some of the road was very good and other parts full of holes. It was tricky sometimes. We cruised down into Andalusia, the southern region that produces lots of olive oil. The olive trees were in bloom and the smell of rich olive oil was everywhere. We cruised through miles and miles of orchards and small towns totally involved with the trees and the fruit. The smell was intoxicating in the clean hot air. Everything was low-tech agriculture in harmony with the land. These towns and their olive groves had been like this for centuries. We stopped to eat at little houses- private homes sometimes-and would take whatever they had. One time we had a dozen eggs drenched in olive oil and sliced, salted tomatoes in oil too. With good homemade bread it made a great meal. Another time a woman brought out a rabbit by it's ears and twenty minutes later we were looking at it on the plate. We had some misgivings about that but hunger cancelled them. And that's how we rolled along at that magical time of year when the country was from another age and its people tied firmly to their roots deep in the land.

There's a range of mountains way in the south of Spain and you have to cross them to get to Granada and Aljiceras where the boat to Morocco is. It's a steep, windy road with one hairpin turn after another going up and then down. It's exhausting on a motorcycle where one needs to find the line around the turns with good accuracy. And it's especially tough coming down the mountains with two people aboard because of inertia and gravity. With a motorcycle it's about gearing down and using the brakes as little as possible and judging the turns, one after another. Just about the time we were out of the mountains and going through the last series of downhill turns we came to a short tunnel about two or three hundred feet long. This was ordinarily not a big deal except that it was pitch black in that tunnel. I can't remember if I turned on the Triumph's big chrome light or not. It wouldn't have done much good anyway because the contrast between the intense Spanish sun and the black of the tunnel was too much for the eye. But the road was good so there was no concern until, in the middle of that black tunnel, we hit a hole that almost spoiled everything. From high off my seat somewhere in space I struggled to keep the front fork from going out of control. Jim went so far up in the air that only one of his hands was able to touch the top of my helmet. It was like a circus act. Somehow the motorcycle kept going and we literally fell out of space and back into position. We pulled over on the other side of the tunnel and took stock of ourselves. I was sure the motorcycle had a wrecked front wheel but it was ok. And after a few minutes of nervous congratulations we were on the road again, very grateful and a little wiser about the traps the road can set for the unsuspecting. After that I think we felt like we could travel around the world like this and be ok. We descended from the mountains and saw Granada in the distance. The aroma of gardenias and all the flowers of the Alhambra rose up to meet us on the hot afternoon air.

Now we were getting close to the Mediterranean and our destination on the straights of Gibraltar. The next day, in the late afternoon, we got to Aljiceras, found a small hotel, and started walking everywhere- way out on the breakwater where the boats were coming in and around the big horseshoe sidewalk by the ocean that every town of this type seems to have. But Aljiceras was different in other ways. The Moors were in Spain for 700 years and controlled all of Andalusia. Their influence could be seen everywhere but here in Aljiceras they were still in control and the place had a mysterious and distinctly Muslim feel to it. Mosaic tile work decorated the small hotels and restaurants and in the cafes there were dark men with sunglasses reading papers and waiting for messages or to meet somebody. People spoke Arabic as much as Spanish. The kitchen smells were different -cumin and coriander and fennel instead of garlic and olive oil-and we knew we were entering a different world.

Jim was a good guy to travel with. Around me he didn't display that crazy, manic side we saw so often back at the Plaza de Santa Ana. He knew I liked him for who he was and he didn't have to be anything else. Lots of times people in restaurants would think we were father and son even though genetically we were way apart. And he would say with force, "No, Companeros!" For a young man out on his own for the first time it was a nice, protected feeling being with him, like having a father who was also a buddy or a strong big brother. With my command of the language and his intimidating fearlessness we managed very well together.
The boat to Morocco sailed from Algiceras across the straits of Gibraltar to Ceuta, which was a little postage-stamp piece of territory in Africa belonging to Spain. The sun blazed. Objects cast impenetrable black shadows as in De Chirico's paintings. On the boat we could feel the heat coming out of Africa and the Mediterranean sparkled its own special light cerulean blue. A breeze softened the heat. All shapes of fair-weather cumulus clouds moved across the blue sky. A group of foreign legionnaires smoked on deck and talked together, rough, virile men, their shirts open to give their chest hair freedom and all of them looking like they were ready to kill.

Our plan was to go to Tetuan and buy kief, which is what they call pot there, and then go to Tangiers and take the boat back to Aljiceras from there. The reason for this was that we had heard that the people you buy the stuff from then inform on you and get their pot back or some kind of kickback. This kind of information made me aware that we didn't know what we were doing but also I was aware that maybe we didn't have to know what we were doing. Marijuana was not even known except to a small group of beatniks, musicians and actors. I knew enough not to be afraid of it because back home in Pelham, Felix Cavallieri said it was good medicine. Felix later made a lot of money and some good music with a group called "The Rascals". He got some pot from the jazz master of the organ - Jimmy Smith. But the rest of us couldn't get any. And now I was going to find out about it in the most exotic place possible.
Morocco was exotic and probably still is but then it was literally like stepping back into Bible times. Crossing into Spain from the rest of Europe was like going back into time hundreds of years and this was like going back a thousand. Tetuan is in the desert by the Mediterranean. They manage to grow food with irrigation. Then it was all agriculture and crafts and Islam. We saw only men. Women, if they were out at all, were covered in Burkas. The road was good with no traffic because there were few vehicles and the air was clean. It was still hot as we pulled into Tetuan in the late afternoon and people were inside resting and waiting for evening. It was a very quiet place, a small town with a beautiful center square, palm trees, and, on the buildings, mosaic tiles. We heard the call to prayer from the minaret as we circled the Zocolo and looked for a place to park the Triumph so we could walk around. And no sooner than I killed the engine and dropped the kickstand than there were a couple of young boys telling us where to spend the night and where to park the motorcycle safely. They had a garage for the motorcycle and a good, cheap rooming house for us. We got into our room and put our feet up, happy to be off the road for a while. No more than five minutes later there was a knock on the door.

Striding into the room was a big, rugged-looking Arab with a Fez on his head. It was scary. He was about Jim's age and like Jim he had a very commanding presence. We were nervous. We didn't know what was going to happen. He said," Whoa babies, be cool. I'm the cat in this town. Everything's gonna to be fine. Take it easy." This was so unexpected it totally stopped our minds. His name was Abid but he liked to be called "Bubba" and he had lived in New York for ten years and knew everything about Greenwich Village and the hip scene there. He put us at ease because what he communicated more than anything was how happy he was that we had come into his territory. He knew what we were there for and so did everyone else in the town just by looking at us riding in on that great motorcycle. And he said he could help us and he did immediately by pulling out a couple of big joints of kief and lighting them up on the spot, giggling all the time. We sucked down that mysterious smoke like a couple of vacuum cleaners and it wasn't long before reality started to warp in a very pleasant way and all the sounds and colors and the light from the window and the breeze with its African spice all came forward and the mind's chatter shifted into the background.

The next couple of days were time out of time. 'Bubba' had a car and a driver to take us around to meet his friends and see the sights. For me to be able to sink back in the seats and watch the scenery passing by as the sun began to set and just be a passenger was a great luxury. We trusted the situation and felt we were with kindred spirits. The kief heightened every sense and pushed the exotic into a further level of wonder. We drove around and out of town to the beach where Abid brought us to a teahouse. He knew everyone there and we were greeted warmly. Sugary mint tea was served and, as we sat at the simple wooden tables and looked out at the beach through the open sides of the building, men would come up to our table just to say 'welcome, thank you for being here'. As the sun set we smoked more kief and listened to Moroccan music from the radio and walked out on the huge expanse of unspoiled beach to see the sun sink into the Mediterranean. He took us then to a place to eat couscous and later to another gathering place where, once again, there were only men. And once again they greeted us with warmth and friendliness and offered us hashish and other kinds of hashish candy. In this Muslim country the women stayed in and only the men socialized outside the home. And kief was not even illegal, maybe a slight misdemeanor. It was alcohol that was the forbidden fruit here.

We made our business arrangements and the next evening I was to ride on my motorcycle out into the country with an unknown Moroccan on the passenger seat. I had the money-Clint Eastwood's and some of my own- to buy 2 kilos of kief- almost five pounds. This was a little tense because anything could happen. I was completely vulnerable: I could disappear easily. The time came and the contact person met us and he and I got on the Triumph and slipped out of town and into the dark desert night. We traveled about half an hour into the countryside and it was cold. The desert doesn't keep its heat. The sea breeze coming off the Mediterranean and the wind chill of the motorcycle straight on my chest made my teeth chatter. I didn't have my motorcycle jacket on, just a light suede sport jacket. The guy on the back, who was not much older than I, could tell I was cold and reached around and held the jacket closed around my neck so the wind wouldn't get me there. We came to a little farmhouse and he showed me the keif laid out on the table on newspapers. I smelled it and gave him the money. He bagged it up and we stuffed it in our shirts and headed back to town.

All our business was done and the next day we were going to Tangiers. That night Jim and I were on our own. We sampled our kief and it was just as good as we had hoped, as good as the night before. High as two kites we got on the motorcycle and drove toward the beach through town. That evening all the shops and bazaars were open. Everywhere there was activity and the smell of cooking, and the beach scene with people strolling there under the stars and drinking tea, and the prayers being called and the Arab music playing on many radios and the street vendors singing their wares. And I was driving a motorcycle through all this and not conscious of driving at all. I was only aware of the colors and the sounds of the unfolding scene coming at me from all sides. We had another good meal at the couscous place and began to think about the next leg of the trip to Tangiers and back to Spain.

Now we had five pounds of pot to think about, protect, and hide all at the same time. We had no luggage space on the motorcycle and hardly a change of clothes with us. It's not easy to hide five pounds of bulky herb in a situation like this. Jim found a shop where he bought some big manila envelopes and tape. We were going to stuff those envelopes with kief and tape them onto our backs. What we couldn't fit there would go into my helmet and somewhere deep in the motorcycle. We spent one uneventful night in Tangiers and headed to the first boat to Spain in the morning. Looking back it seems like crazy luck that we were not stopped or bothered either by the Moroccans or by Spanish customs. We were so obvious and stood out so much. Possibly the motorcycle helped. All the official types of guys liked it and related to it and to the sense of adventure it suggested. And it certainly didn't look like there was much room for any contraband. But about half an hour outside of Algeciras, on our way back to Madrid, two motorcycle cops from the guardia civil stopped us. They were friendly but firm and we had to get off the motorcycle while they looked it over. They even made me take off my helmet and looked into it and right at the bags of kief underneath the banding but for some reason they didn't notice it. They let us go. If we had been caught then and sent to jail in Franco's Spain……..

So many times in my life I have wondered about why some are spared and some are caught or die. We are like salmon running upstream facing every obstacle and nets upon nets. And still some of us get through. Many times in my life because of my own recklessness bad things could have happened to me but they didn't. And this was one of those moments. Jim didn't get shook up about this either. His war experience, no doubt, had something to do with his immunity to fear. We just kept going and felt now that we were in the clear.

Part 2

On the Plaza de Santa Ana our expatriate buddies welcomed us back as heroes. Everybody was excited to sample the wacky tobacky we had crossed the water to bring them. And one night it all came together in the house of an American who was married to a French woman. They had a nice big house and about thirty of us got together there. Everybody got a chance to smoke the kief. Most of the people had never smoked marijuana and my own experience was only weeks old. At that time, in any case, it was not something one did continually. It was special and also expensive and not easy to get.

I was sitting on a couch with Ruth next to me and Harold Smith in his tweed suite on the other side of her. Big "cubano" joints of kief were being rolled by Sebastiano in the corner and passed around the room. Everybody was getting high, most of them for the first time, and everybody altogether. It was momentous. We were riveted to our seats by the effects of the kief, just sitting there experiencing it and wondering what was going to happen next. Music was playing and a friendly, happy atmosphere pervaded the group.

On the couch next to me Ruth was starting to giggle because on the other side of her Harold was all red in the face and projecting a salacious gleam from his eye directed at her! He would say "Oh Ruth, Oh, Oh," like a proper English cave man and she would giggle. But then he started touching and getting a little out of control. Finally, we both said," You have to stop this now Harold" and he would demure only to rise again shortly thereafter. He was taking cover in the idea that this was all the marijuana's fault. In the pungent cloud of pot smoke he was giving his libido free reign. Eventually he pretended a mild faint and when he came out of it he said,"Oh goodness me. I have no idea what could have possibly possessed me, etc." We didn't buy that but no harm was done either. No doubt this little Englishman was a hot porn star trapped in a tiny body wrapped in tweed. A week or so later a stout Danish girl we knew was harassed by him in the street to such an extent that she had to beat him off with an umbrella she carried. He limped into the café with quite a lump on his head. It was about that time that we figured out the nature of "the difficulties" he had encountered in England and were now manifesting here in Spain.

A turning point was coming now in my life-whether to stay or go home and go back to school in the fall. Jim and Ruth wanted me to go in with them in renting an apartment. I could teach English. From home my father was planning a big celebration for my mother's fiftieth birthday and he wanted me to be the big surprise. I decided to go back.

Millie had been talking from time to time about visiting the village outside of Madrid up in "los pinares", the pines, where she had gone to school with the nuns. Our relationship had been so pure I didn't think much about it except I remembered my roommate's experience of those piney woods where he and his chunky fiancée indulged in carnal delights. And one beautiful, clear, cool morning, Emilia and I were on the motorcycle and headed out of town. She was wearing a skirt and straddled the passenger seat. For the second time two guardia civil police on motorcycles stopped me, asked for my passport, talked to Millie over to the side, and then let us go. They wanted to make sure the purity of the Spanish woman was not being compromised by some-no doubt- non catholic foreigner without values. And if she was going to ride on the motorcycle it had to be side saddle not straddling with some thigh showing. As before they were not overbearing, just firm. In a way it both confused and impressed me. On one hand why shouldn't we be able to do whatever we want; on the other hand why should we be able to do whatever we want? It sobered me up a little bit and shifted the locus of my energy from between my legs to between my ears. What were my responsibilities vis-à-vis this young woman who was taking me into the foothills of the Sierra to " los pinares"?

The city faded and the road climbed and wound around the hills. Dappled light bounced around the forest floor. Pockets of cool air hit our faces as we crossed streams in wooded glens. The approach to her village was on a dirt road and the village itself was tiny and dominated by the convent. It surprised me that no one took much notice as we parked the motorcycle and started walking on a trail out into the woods. There were so many cultural and personal signs and unspoken understandings in what we were doing. I sensed all this but without knowing. Emilia said,"Toma la manita", "Take the little hand", and I did. We walked a little while and then I led us off the path into the woods. Climbing a little knoll and moving past it until we were safe from any eyes we lay down on the soft pine needles in the summer woods.

In the café and on our little outings she was sharp and flirty and animated but here she was quiet, solemn and virginal. Her coal black eyes looked at me without fear, trusting. She had a white blouse on with some of that decorative fringe that made it a little special like what she would wear to church. And there was a silver crucifix around her neck. A beige skirt covered the rest of her to the knees. He skin was so white in contrast to her black eyes and hair. Everything about her spoke of surrender and trust and sanctity of some kind. This was not something to enter into lightly and I was not sure how to proceed. Slowly I moved over to kiss her lips and we did kiss, or, at least, I kissed. Nothing was coming back my way, nothing except total surrender. Again I tried, this time with some of my best kisses practiced assiduously since the fifth grade. Nothing. I thought to myself, "Well, maybe a jump start is required". So slowly, starting down by the ankle, and with great control for a teenager, I moved my hand up her leg toward the holy grail. At about ten inches north of the knee and with no response or resistance from Mili other than some heightened breathing I stopped. We got up, shook the pine needles off our clothes, and walked back to the village like the children we were, still innocent, maybe unsatisfied, but having done nothing to bring serious consequences upon us, so I thought.

And even today I don't know the full significance of our relationship and what we did and didn't do from her side. To go "a los pinares" with a foreigner- what could that mean? No one could know what we did or didn't do there. But they would know that we went there and they would assume. A poor Spanish girl, a rich American boy- what messages was Emilia getting at home? But what nobody knew but us was that we were too young to have a lot of guiles and too young for any kind of mature love. We liked each other and appreciated each other. There was great sincerity in that even if we didn't know what more to do about it.
I wasn't much longer in Spain. We promised to write and we did for a while but the distance made the differences stand out and communication faded as we got reestablished in our separate lives. Three years later I was in Spain again, this time as a photojournalist headed for Sevilla to photograph La Semana Santa. Naturally I spent a couple of days in Madrid and naturally I revisited the old familiar places. At the Café Principe I recognized no one until I saw Felipe, the waiter who lived in the same apartment complex as Mili on the outskirts of Madrid. He had been her protector, the one who saw her home when she was on the night shift. I went up to him and as he slowly realized who I was, and as I asked again about Emilia, his face paled and he looked like he was seeing a ghost. He stammered, shook his head violently, and literally ran away from me. I thought about pursuing him and demanding to know but his manner made me scared to know. In weakness or wisdom I faded back into my own life and let it be.

But that was later. Now I was saying goodbye to Sebastiano, to Ruth, to my friends, and getting ready to be the big surprise at my mother's fiftieth birthday party. Ted-the highway patrol man-warned me against bringing any kief back to the states. Sebastiano had most of it anyway but I kept about 6 ounces in a plastic bag flat between my stomach and my belt. I was excited to share it with my friends back home.

I shipped my motorcycle to New York and went to the airport with Sebastiano. It was a warm goodbye with promises to see each other in New York. Since my father was a big-shot-television producer there was a chance I could get him some work. After an uneventful flight I was in New York passing through customs once again. On the other side of the barrier I could see my father waving eagerly, excited that the "birthday present" was present and viable. I worked my way through the line and a perfunctory baggage check and headed for the exit to greet my father. But before I got there three men in plain clothes stopped me and said, "Mr. Winsor? Please come with us."
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"Nothing, we just need to ask you a few questions." They led me to a room right off the main customs area, one of those rooms made famous in any number of movies where interrogations and torture are featured. A bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling. Nothing was on the walls and for furniture only a desk, a chair and a couple of benches. They went through my luggage again. "Mr. Winsor, can you tell us which countries you visited?"
"England, France, Spain and Morocco," I answered, barely whispering the last country.
"Oh Morocco, Mr. Winsor?"
"Yes"
"Did you buy any marijuana there?"
"Frankly sir I did. My friend and I bought a little matchbox of it. You may know that it is not illegal there. Alcohol is though."
" Is that all, Mr. Winsor? Did you smoke it?"
"Yes sir, I did and frankly it made me sick. I didn't want to have anything more to do with it."
"You know Mr. Winsor, we had a guy in here a while ago who had been in Mexico for a couple of years and we asked him if he smoked marijuana. You know what he said? ' Sure man, doesn't everybody?' We sent him away for a long time" The customs cop with the loafers, white socks and a flat-top hair cut smiled as he told this little story. Then he looked at me and said;" Now we are going to search your person, Mr. Winsor".
"My person?" I gulped.
They took off my suede sport jacket and looked in the pockets and checked the lining and it seemed they found a few flakes of kief but nothing substantial. Then 'white socks with the flat top' got down on his knees in front of me and, beginning at the ankle, patted me down, first up one leg and down the other. In the process he put his hand on the belt area of my stomach almost as if he knew what was there and pushed right on the six ounces I was carrying. My breathing stopped. Maybe my heart stopped. Time stood still. And then he moved on. Is it possible he didn't feel it? I have never been able to know if they just missed it or if they knew I had it but decided just to scare me and not skewer my life. Once this all began, of course, it took no time for my mind to flash a picture of boring Ted the highway-patrolman writer back in Madrid and his part in this. He had taken an avuncular interest in me. Maybe this was his way of teaching me a lesson and saving me at the same time. Or maybe they just missed it.

They let me go and I walked out to greet my father who was anxiously waiting and wondering what had happened. He had rented a limo for the "birthday surprise" and as we moved toward Manhattan and the Harvard Club, where I was to spend the night before the party the next day, I sank into the seat and pressed my pale face against the cool glass of the window. My father was so absorbed in his own excitement about bringing me back as a gift to my mother that he didn't notice the emotional undercurrents swirling around in me. It was a moment when his insensitivity was useful.

I was, in fact, the big surprise and happy to make my mother happy.
So much to say about her who was loved so much by so many people. And my friends were glad to see me and get high and evolve from being beatnik wannabees to nascent hippies. And again, so much to say about that since I was there for it all.
The following summer I received a letter from Sebastiano. He was in New York and I called him, got his address, and was on my way into town, driving the family Mercedes at breakneck speed. In those days I prided myself in how fast I could get anywhere in Manhattan and back out to Pelham. And I never had an accident. But now, because of my excitement I let my guard down, something that can be fatal in New York. I got to the address at 90th street and Third Avenue, six blocks south of where Harlem begins, and parked the car and got out all in one motion. As I headed to the intersection to cross, five big tough black guys, all dressed in identical white shirts buttoned to the collar, emerged from the shadows. The biggest one asked me for a match which is often the interaction that precedes your death. Normally I would have seen them even before I parked. New Yorkers know how and when to cross the street. They practice avoidance for survival. But now I was wide open. As I reached for the match I heard Sebastiano bellow from the window of his apartment on the second floor across the street. He was with a fine looking woman naturally and sporting a Stanley Kowalski tee shirt. What he communicated was that if those guys touched me he would literally jump out of the window and kill them. The African American brothers looked at each other, let me light the leader's cigarette, and faded back into the shadows.

Sebastiano was living with a dancer- a tall willowy beauty who was also a very nice person and obviously in love with him. It's amazing the bond created by orgasm. Did I say living with a dancer? He was living off a dancer. Somehow he never was able to get his own talents focused in a way that produced anything more than survival money. He and his girlfriend and I did a few things together and I managed to get him some work on the soap operas. Later he was living with an African American woman, another real beauty who was about to become a model in Oleg Cassini's stable. One night we accompanied her to the famous designer's house where she had been invited to "audition". Jim and I paced the streets for a couple of hours until she finally emerged slightly the worse for wear, I noticed. I think she passed the audition.

And that was it because here in New York our lives were very different. I was still in the protected, if dysfunctional, warm bosom of my family and a college boy while Jim, as usual, was barely maintaining by living off women who were attracted to his wild personality and to "the brute"!

Ricker Winsor
Dhaka, Bangladesh
March 2003