Basel
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
— Confucius
— Confucius
Friday, 22nd
October, found me back at Basel, Britain Belgium Holland Wuppertal
On the Saturday morning,
casting for lifts on an Autobahn slip road, I was ecstatic when a girl in a
Volkswagen Beetle swerved to the curb. Her name was Greta, she said in excellent
English when I’d climbed in beside her, and she was on her way back to
Düsseldorf after a short visit to Switzerland
But she did
not plan to make Düsseldorf that day, as it was her purpose to visit friends en
route. And so it was we left the motorway at Karlsruhe
In
the morning, she collected me and we resumed our route to Düsseldorf.
But later I was puzzled to find us off the route again, as Greta said
she wished to investigate an old church at Bad Frankenhausen worthy
of a visit. Since a church meant only religion to me and religion
meant only boredom, I felt no flicker of curiosity about the place,
for I was so steeped in ignorance and so resistant to anything that
smacked of art that I
couldn’t conceive that the building
itself might harbour any
interest.
But in the event, my attention was
modestly drawn when she pointed out the slanting steeple, caused, she declared, by
a cannon ball that had struck it during some conflict or other. It was from Greta
too that I learned to make the very elementary distinction between the Gothic
style and the Romanesque.
When we reached the
youth hostel at Düsseldorf, she pulled over to the kerb.
Düsseldorf, Germany
Alas, we were now about to go our separate ways again after two days on the road together untinged by any hint of romantic feeling between us, not even as much as the touch of a hand. That was a shame, but no solid possibility for romance had surfaced. I thanked her now for the long lift she had given me and leaned over to kiss her good-bye. At that, she flung her arms round my neck and pressed her lips hotly to mine!
After a few moments she said she must leave now, as her father was expecting her. I asked if we could meet again, for I wasn’t that desperate to get back to England. England could wait. And Dorothee, pretty little Dorothee? Well, I suppose she could wait too. It was a palpable matter of a bird in the hand! What was the use of adoring girls from afar? Greta's face wouldn't have launched a single ship, but she was eminently accessible. She promised to return the next evening and show me around the 'old town'.
On the stage of
my memory of the following evening there appears a brightly-lit scene of the interior
of a big, noisy beer hall somewhere in Düsseldorf’s old quarter in the early
hours of the morning.
Beer Hall, Düsseldorf
Surveying the
place with a kind of awe from our little island of a table, I asked Greta if
the place ever closed. She said it did – from 5.30 am to 6.30 am - for cleaning. I was mightily impressed. The only sign of life you
might see in my old home town at that hour of the night would be a couple of
gloomy customers huddled on stools in a Salisbury House, a Winnipeg institution
that for as long as I can remember has dispensed fast food to busy people in
the daytime and shift workers as well as sleepless rovers at night.
The hostel, of
course, presented a shuttered and extinguished-looking façade when we got back to
it in the grey light of dawn. Greta parked the car in a nearby street as silent
and still as a cemetery and when I held my arms open for her she came into them
flamingly. I was alarmed. Was the episode with Rita about to be enacted again? I
feared so. Twice in my life I’d known woman as modest maid, innocent as a
flower and pure as the driven snow. Now here again was woman as temptress, seductress,
morally questionable and dark with fathomless desires. Would my puny efforts to
stay afloat in this sea of feminine passion serve me any better than they had
in the surging sea at Marina di Massa?
I had my doubts.
Although the setting for my adventure with Rita had been pretty well ideal, in
so much as I’d been able to share a comfortable bed with a mature woman in an
empty house, in the event I’d actually failed to perform. How then could I hope
to manage the act in this diminutive automobile? But I couldn’t back out now. Things
had gone too far! Panties were now abandoned with disturbing ease – this was all
happening too fast again – and the next thing I knew, Greta had climbed astride
my lap in the passenger seat!
Then, trembling with the fear of failure, and the utter absence of any sexual excitement, I jerked my jeans down and clumsily pressed the relevant members together. She moved rapidly up and down for a time, but it was no use. We couldn’t couple. After a time she gave up. I blamed myself for the failure, as she’d taken the lead and I’d failed to follow. But years later, when I was more experienced in the art of lovemaking, I realised that the act we'd been seeking to perform in that confined space would have been impossible for anyone but a couple of contortionists!
Then, trembling with the fear of failure, and the utter absence of any sexual excitement, I jerked my jeans down and clumsily pressed the relevant members together. She moved rapidly up and down for a time, but it was no use. We couldn’t couple. After a time she gave up. I blamed myself for the failure, as she’d taken the lead and I’d failed to follow. But years later, when I was more experienced in the art of lovemaking, I realised that the act we'd been seeking to perform in that confined space would have been impossible for anyone but a couple of contortionists!
I spent the remainder of that day just resting. Next
day I was in Wuppertal,
distinguished by
its trams, some of which ran overhead.
Well, Dorothee
would be rather more modest, wouldn’t she? Prettiness like hers wasn’t just to
be had for the asking. But I never saw her. She wasn’t at home when I rang the
number she’d given me. Her father answered, but since he couldn’t speak a word
of English, I couldn’t discover when she’d be back. For all I knew, she
could have gone off travelling again. I thought of staying another night and
trying again the next day, but the result might have been the same. And then
maybe I began to castigate myself a bit for the time I was wasting in this
purposeless pursuit of girls. I felt I had to get on with my journey and my
life.
That evening in Brussels
Brussels, Belgium
As it rattled
along its track I noted the conductor moving down the lighted aisle
collecting fares. It was then I realised I possessed none of the country’s currency,
so I hopped off at the next stop and searched for a bureau de change. Then,
with a modest supply of Belgian francs in my pocket, I sought out the town’s
youth hostel.
Next morning, thumbing on the road once more, I met an American fellow
who introduced himself as Peter Johnson. Peter was an unassuming fellow, unlike
most Americans I’d ever met, so that we fell promptly into talk. We
tried to hitch-hike together at first, but as hitching proved impracticable as
a pair, we went our separate ways again.
I passed that night in the youth hostel at Ostend, and crossed the Channel on the ferry to Dover on Thursday, 28th October, reaching London later that day.
Ostend-Dover Ferry, 1966
From the spot where my last lift left me, I strode along a sunny pavement by the Tames, invigorated by the crisp autumn air and the bustling life of the passersby. And then, hoisting my rucksack a little higher on my back, I trudged the last few yards of my lengthy peregrinations and put an end to them in the middle of London Bridge.
London Bridge
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