The Poorest I've Ever Been So Rich

I was the poorest I’ve ever been but I didn’t know it at the time. I had no home, no car, no savings, few clothes and fewer friends. What I did have was the promise of a job once I returned back to the states in three months’ time. Meanwhile, I was back wandering through Europe without a care or a clue in the world.

It would be three months of rediscovering Europe and myself at the same time. From the welcoming arms of the Amsterdam whores in the Red-Light District to passing acquaintances in Danmark, there were chance encounters never engaged. Finally meeting up with a pen pal who was as charming as her letters and just as unavailable. Fleeting encounters (drinks and promises) with troubled, itinerant women up in Nordic Country. But for the most part, I was pretty much a lost soul in need of little and wanting more.

A year earlier, my first sojourn to Danmark had only lasted six months before the Nordic winter, summer clothes and a boring job at a laundry sent my fleeting feet south toward the French Riviera. I never made it that far. Paris was supposed to be a temporary respite from the bitterly cold winter winds that swirled around my hitch-hiking thumb. But fatigue, hunger and loneliness drove me to a TWA store front and tickets back home.

This time around would be different. My internship at the Public Television station in town had ended with a job offer, commencing three months hence. I said yes, bought my ticket and headed back to Europe. A chance encounter with an artist at a Dutch coffee shop/pot shop cemented two months of living the life; if only in my mind.

John, an art student and artist, was about my age, finishing up his college degree and anxious to practice his English on any tourist he could engage. I’m sure he spotted me as an eager American, unsure of himself, but open to adventures that leaned to the mild side. We connected immediately.

John’s goal was to, one day, get to America and enjoy all the fruits that the movies, television and the rag trades had layered on his eager imagination. I was the key to the truth of what America was really like. In turn, John introduced me to the real Netherlands; its culture, people, political leanings, sub-culture and a world I didn’t know existed. It was our mutual master’s degree in learning about ‘the real world.’

The entry point to this subculture of unemployed, social misfits who didn’t fit in was John’s good friend, the potter. I can’t remember is name but his intellectual prowess ignited a thirst for future salons in me that has never died. He was at once; brilliant, confusing, mad, insightful, and a font of knowledge that even AI today would have a hard time competing against. I became his eager student and he my willing teacher.

The potter lived in government housing on the outskirts of Amsterdam. He was unemployable and living on a government stipend and government housing. Social services were then and are much now more generous in Holland than anywhere else except Scandinavia.

The potter lived with his vivacious, outgoing and brilliant Malaysian wife. They had a daughter who could charm the skin off a cobra. They made a fascinating couple drawn together by their love of the arts, the eccentricity of their native country and adoration of their beautiful daughter.

As is so customary with that unique group of people, I was immediately welcomed into their home and made to feel like an old member of the family. I lived with them for almost two months and became totally ingratiated into their lifestyle. It felt like a home I’d only seen in the movies. An outlaw’s enclave welcoming all the oddballs in the neighborhood.

We slept in late, read (he did) the morning newspaper, listened to jazz, folk and rock and roll music all day long, painted, and made pottery (I watched.) I did try sketching and failed miserably. I tried writing poetry and only scratched the surface of what I was trying to say. It was a salon inside my head; safe, secure and open to the wonderings and wanderings that only a twenty-five-year-old can muster up.

For me, it usually meant long solitary afternoons meandering around the neighborhood, taking pictures, observing daily life and wondering about my future life back in the states. Gradually, there came this strong urge to chuck it all and stay. I didn’t have a visa, a work permit or a sponsor but the thought of living the life, off the grid, was sorely tempting.

A couple of times a week, John would come to take the potter back into town and I would tag along. Dropped off at the main train station, I was given free rein to wander and take pictures with a time to be picked up by one of the canals near the Red-Light District.

I’d learned early on to pretend to be Canadian. Americans were highly suspect because of the Vietnam War and it was just so much easier to play the red cloverleaf card. I even got a Canadian patch for my backpack. Fortunately, we all talked the same rock and roll language. Pot was king and legal in Holland. It worshipped in Amsterdam.

The back rooms of most coffee shops were where the action happened. There were titillating sexual images everywhere, sex toys for sale, magazines and friendly women. I was like a dumb lamb in the slaughter house. Back then, we all pretended we were doing it but few of us were. Fortunately, I was spotted as an American backpacker as soon as I entered that fog-filled abode and ignored for as long as I lingered there. Message received.

Other times, my hosts would take me some local attractions the tourists never saw. Swap meets and the zoo. The local shopping plaza and churches we never attended. It was a simple life and a good one without all the trappings of ‘so-called’ American success. Few of our neighbors had cars, none owned their own home and fewer yet had a clear pathway to retirement. It was living  life on a day-by-day basis and making each one memorable.

Then it all ended. I still had London and the British Isles to explore. The fleeting thought of staying in Amsterdam gradually evaporated with the harsh reality that my life back home would be a thousand times easier and more productive than trying to make a hard-scrabble life there. I opted out for American ambition and imagined images of me as a business owner and entrepreneur; whatever that was going to be. So, I said good-bye and grabbed the tram for the airport.

Gradually, those memories of the wonderful times I had with John and the Potter’s family began to fade away. My new job in public television was exciting and time-consuming. Thoughts of a new girlfriend (the blond receptionist) began to consume my every day. Then there was the ocean between me and my old European-self.

I’m sure John and I promised to write one another. I never did. Like two wanderers on a mountain trek, we passed on some rocky trail, exchanged pleasantries and went on our way. Before the internet, cell phones and Facetime, it was American Express or expensive international correspondence. So, like the self-absorbed kid I was back then, I opted out to make the effort and those friend-ships were lost to time.

Now, some sixty years later, I still regret that I didn’t take the time to hold on to that connection with like-minded people who showed me a whole different way of living and loving and taking in all that life had to offer. Lesson learned and I’m still learning.

Thanks, John. Thanks, Potter’s family, thanks Amsterdam. I love you guys, all of you. With few pictures and fading memories, it’s still fun to go back to a time and place where welcoming smiles took in a naïve wanderer and showed him a slice of life he hasn’t seen since.

REPOST: Three Days Out of Paris

Due to a family medical emergency… will be back to regular blogging in a couple of weeks. Thanks for reading my blogs. This week, I decided to re-post a selected blog post circa August 2014.

After three days in Paris, we were on a river boat meandering south along the Saone River. The river cruise was a welcome respite for both of us. Sharon had been dealing with multiple issues at home centering on her mother’s recent move into assisted living. I hoped the cruise would be a chance for me to recharge my creative batteries while combing the crew, passengers and quaint towns and villages for new writing ideas. It would be a wonderful opportunity for both of us to erode mind-blocks hampering an otherwise wonderful summer.  In some strange sort of way it was deja-vu all over again for me.

           

It had been a long time since I’d been tramping the narrow streets and grand thoroughfares of  old Parie. Perhaps even longer than I imagined. Maybe that’s why I felt so comfortable there.

My lineage is French Canadian with a strong German accent. If I go back far enough; by Joe, I’d probably be home again.

 

Paris has always been a seductive mistress. As the song title goes, ‘The Last Time I saw Paris,’ it was a much different time and I was in a much place in my life. My first sojourn into the city of lights was supposed to be a simple pass-through as part of a full-blown retreat from the harsh reality of winter in Denmark.

The experience of living in Denmark had been exhilarating at first. But gradually the daily work routine had grown stale with a lack of friends and no clear direction in my life. Then as the first snowflakes powdered my apartment steps, I realized another Minnesota winter was in my near future unless I split for someplace warm. Compounding Mother Nature’s wrath were my own lingering doubts as to the wisdom of leaving home for living in a foreign land without any clearly defined plans or objectives. I was like a rudderless ship facing a coming storm.

It didn’t help that the few friends I had up north were all moving on themselves. Tina was leaving town for Istanbul and points east on her way back to Arizona. My Canadian travel pal was heading off for parts unknown.  My Spanish tutor Maria had left the laundry to go back to Spain. Heidi didn’t want me to go but that was a commitment I wasn’t ready for. I loved that country and its people but it was time to move on.

The south of France seemed a logical answer to a young kid who was ill-equipped and clothed to face that Nordic reality. Tall tales of warm sunshine, topless sun bathers and easy work was enough to lure me into the false sense of road security. I was assured that a quick thumb and ready smile would take me there in just a couple of days.

                                               

By the time I got to Paris, all bets were off.  I trudged through the city in hope of enlightenment but instead only got hustled by Gypsies. After three days of aimless wandering I was ready to cash in my pocket money for a ticket home and three steady meals a day. I found a travel agency, got a one-way ticket home and left on a silver bird the next day. Living in Europe was more than I had ever expected. Fortunately over time I was finally able to see it as a wonderful preview for travels to come. Snow White and theSeven Seekers.

 My second trip back through the fabled city of love was just another pass-through on my way to Amsterdam and the even-more fabled coffee houses on Canal Street. By then, I was working in television and ready to hit the European continent on much better mental grounds than before. Paris was a wonderful taste of foreign adventure before I even got to my favorite city across the sea. Amsterdam had that kind of draw for me. Europe, the Second Harvest.

My third trip was passing through Charles De Gaulle airport on our way to Vienna and the beginning of our river cruise from Vienna to Amsterdam over four different rivers. 94 Locks and a GoodCup of Coffee.

Paris has always been that stand-alone, a bit stand-offish kind of friend. At once it can be charming, brash, conceited, seductive, alluring and always surprising. Taken on its own terms, the city offers sunlight and sin on an equal basis. This fourth trip through Paris would mean three days in the city before we boarded ship for our cruise to Nice.

 

Our tour guide reminded us that Paris is always ‘in season.’ This just happened to be the height of the in-season. From our high-rise hotel, we could see the waves of humanity crowding the city sidewalks. Tour groups of every imaginable size, demographic, country of origin, level of sophistication and focus of interest had swept over the city in a title wave of humanity. There wasn’t a museum, landmark, art gallery, district, avenue, historical site or coffee shop that wasn’t inundated with foreigners eager to soak up the Parisian experience. Even the best ice cream shop in town had a line of buyers stretched out around the corner.

The city is different now than back in the 60’s. Ornate low-rise buildings have been toppled by towering glass hi-rise commercial enterprises. There are more tourist boats on the Seine than commercial traffic. Bike-sharing stations pepper the city with their light blue bikes while the new tour buses squeeze into narrow side-streets that even an old donkey cart had a hard time maneuvering. Signs of progress are everywhere but nowhere as dramatically as on the ring route and major arteries that are clogged with vehicles of every size, shape and purpose from morning to night.

The city has evolved and changed yet feels much the same as it did back in the Fall of Sixty-Seven. The locals have long grown used to the artists, vagabonds, tourists and people of the streets who wander by their doorsteps in search of enlightenment. The smell of cooking, cleaning and daily living still permeates the side streets and dark alleys.

I’m physically in a different place in my life but mentally it hardly feels as if I’ve left town at all.

The distractions are everywhere. From traffic that can clip you off your feet if you aren’t looking to Gypsy girls who study your every move for an opportunity to strike at your wallet. Still some things never change. All the young French girls and women are out in force, their low-cut summer dresses, short shorts or white flowing transparent skirts (short slips underneath) a marvelous distraction. One’s eyes can’t help but wander and wonder.

  

There’s a Parisian phrase that goes: ‘On the Left Bank, we think and on the Right Bank, we spend.’ I have little interest in the Right Bank where towering glass institutions of commerce and wealth line the Seine. My heart and my head are back on the Left Bank where Montmartre and the Latin Quarter still attract all kinds of creative spirits. While there’s no time to retrace Hemingway’s Paris haunts; I find the quaint cafes, dark narrow alleys and winding streets are still filled with the polished and unwashed alike. And while the new Bobos (bohemian bourgeois) fake their artistic lineage at gallery openings, true artists continue to live in squalor and strive to find meaning in life itself.

Montmartre still holds an allure for me. Climbing its hill brings back the same sense of wonder along with deep breaths and dampness across the brow. Parisians talk about the place the way New Yorkers talk about the village. Hemingway is no longer lingering at some corner café but other bohemians, artists and lost souls have taken his place.

Some places never change. Paris is one of them. Like other great cities that are constantly evolving with the times and different flavors of humanity that crowd its sidewalks and fill its cafes, the City of Love continues to hold an allure that is impossible to describe. Every visitor has their own version of its magical pull on their senses. For me it is the storied history of writers and artists and bohemians who have haunted its shadowy recesses since Celtic Gaul’s walked its shores.

The first time I stumbled into Montmartre I ordered a coffee at some small corner café. It was a thick black muck that gripped my spoon and burned my throat. No wonder all the pretty young girls were sipping theirs so slowly and taking forever to finish their thimble-sized drink.

This time around, I ordered a beer and slowly sipped it, taking forever to finish the warm liquid. Crowds brushed past my chair and dropped cigarette butts at my feet. The rush of humanity flowed unabated in a steady stream past our café. They were all looking around but not seeing a thing. It was just another day in Paris for them.

Me…I was home again.

Cotton Panties and Soft Drinks with Straws

Living in Europe is entirely different from living safely ensconced back in the states. There are so many different cultural and historical traditions that have withstood the test of time. Once you’ve lived abroad, it’s easy to see that the world doesn’t evolve around what Capitol Hill has to say…especially now. It’s a much bigger piece of real estate than that. In short, it’s one of life’s lessons that everyone should experience.

This was especially true in Europe during the 1960s when I lived there on several occasions. There was no Starbucks on every corner. Coffee usually meant Nestlé’s instant coffee; just add water and cream. Corner cafés served only tea and cappuccino. The latter was a solid mass of black mud served in a tiny cup under the guise of coffee. If you ordered a soft drink, it almost always came with a straw sticking out of it.

When Brian and Melanie were in college, Sharon and I insisted they do a ‘study abroad’ program. Brian traveled around the world and Melanie went to Ireland. They both came back changed individuals with a greater appreciation for their place in a world outside of Apple Valley, Minnesota.

Scandinavia, in the mid-Sixties, was a world (literally) apart from the provincial, sheltered, prudish Midwestern novitiate I had immigrated from. It was open and accepting of different social opinions, individual sexuality, fuel-inducted free thinking and a world view of themselves. The same was true for the Netherlands.

That environment of freethinking was a bit unsettling for me when I first settled in Denmark but I quickly realized that this lack of judgement to those different from the crowd wasn’t threatening to them at all. The Dane’s open-minded approach to life made examining current social, political, sexual and artistic affairs more realistic and affirming. It was mind-bending and mind opening at the same time.

About two years later, when I returned to Europe for a second time, I spent the majority of my travels in Amsterdam. I became integrated into a community of friends for several months. That city and country had embraced the free-thinking attitudes of the Danes and then pushed it even further down the road of enlightenment. It began for me in some back canal bar when I happened across a solitary guitar player serenading the pigeons gathered around him. We chatted over a couple of beers and soon became fast friends. The smoky atmosphere drifting out of the club probably sped up that process a lot.

John was a student at the local University. He was an aspiring guitar player and a budding architect. He was also struggling to find a major that mattered to his social consciousness and paid the bills at the same time. He was also desperate to move out of his parent’s flat and find his own apartment. We shared great stories of our travels, my time up in Denmark, His desire to go to the states and our collective hope for the greater world beyond the canals of Amsterdam.

One afternoon, I met one of John’s friends who was also his salon companion. I can’t remember his name but the young man was remarkable in his intellectual prowess and yet total lack of social skills. John’s friend wasn’t able to hold a steady job because of his mental and social inability to interact with people. Therefore, he spent most days, reading, writing, and interacting with his beautiful child.

John’s friend lived in subsidized housing just outside of town. His wife was from Indonesia and they had the most beautiful child I’d ever met…before my own kids and grandchildren.

I stayed with them for almost a month in an impromptu, unstructured home life full of questions and comments, pondering the possibilities and forecasting our future. I was their American guide for all their questions about Vietnam, LBJ, unrest on college campuses, current campus fashions, Hollywood movie stars, American capitalism, and our obsession with nudity and (in their mind) the timidity of Playboy magazine.

On weekends, John and I would often travel through the back alley bars and University student union in search of those ever-elusive female companions. These college students loved to interact and exchange ideas with the American traveler and his shy folksy friend.

The women we met were primarily upper class University students wise to the ways of their world and anxious to explore life beyond the canals of Amsterdam. Our conversations gave me a global perspective I’d never experienced before. Our evening socials were a series good natured intellectual fisticuffs, seductive meandering in a safe environment and mind-expanding concepts over cappuccino, coke with a straw and some of the stronger stuff. I can’t remember if the women were attractive or not. It hardly mattered. They were stimulating, engaging and attentive. It was easy to fall in love with them…if only in my imagination.

I’m sure I probably looked like a hobo with my worn jeans, hiking boots and frayed jacket. But the girls didn’t seem to mind. I remember their fashion sense bordered on the simple and practical and yet with a flare of imagination. There was very little of the Carnaby Street or Bibi fashion trends going around at that time. With winter fasting approaching, nowadays we’d probably call it the layered look.

Oh, and I never found out if they were wearing cotton. I’m just guessing on that one. Looking back, I was too engaged in slight exaggeration tempered by intimate soul searching and honest bravado to ever find out. In other words, I was probably talking too much. Some things never change.