Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
the neck knots. Just south of Bordeaux, I spotted two guys resting under a tree near a parked
motorcycle, so I pulled over. “Assistance?”
“Yeah,” the younger one said. “Got a light?” The bike was his, a '50s vintage Triumph 650
Thunderbird, the only touring motorcycle Triumph had ever built. Never exported to the U.S.,
its fender cowlings curled into running boards, and its English saddlebags and no chromium
roll bar made it look lean and hungry for long miles. “Picked him up hitching,” the younger
one said, abrupt as urban adolescence.
John Levy from LA sat on the ground holding a 35mm camera, fondling and shifting it in
his hands. He explained that he was a photographer. he pivotal points of his identification,
LA and photography, pegged John as a purebred Californian and natural star. I would know
him and Bruno for many miles but never saw him take a picture. Those were the days of film
and thirty-six shots, so maybe he didn't have any, or many he waited for the perfect place to
spend a roll.
John was only nineteen but could handle his Triumph Thunderbird like the road pro he
bought it from, who assured him the high-mileage didn't matter, because it was broken in
right and then maintained on steady cruising speeds. John's bullshit factor was soon evident,
but he seemed like a good guy with a soulful motorcycle. He'd picked up Bruno hitching out
of Paris—Bruno had to flee France because he had no money, not $5 or five liras a day. At
twenty-two, Bruno was old man out, seeing the world on a shoestring budget just like we were,
kind of, except that he was from Rome, the lower eastside of it, and he had holes in his shoes
and makeshift strings. He loved the big motos, even riding on back. And a chance to sit up
front would be heaven sent. John and Bruno agreed that Paris was a rip-off, and so was all of
France, so they were headed to Spain, where a nickel could get you lunch.
Bruno said. “I hitch,” holding up one thumb with a smile.
“He no speaka too gooda de English,” John said. “Isn't that right, dumb shit?”
Bruno said, “Ey. Watcha you a call me.”
John laughed. “He's got French and Spanish wired.”
Bruno smiled again and pumped his head, affirming the resource he would contribute.
“
Si. Et oui
. Wis me, you no a getting a fucked.”
“Yeah, right. We're hauling ass out of France,” John said. “It's too rich around here. Fuck
these frogs.” I nodded—a dollar made five francs then, and five francs got you half a cheese
sandwich, except you couldn't get half. Roadside wine ran two francs a glass, and your aver-
age American kid had to go all summer on a few hundred bucks. Everyone knew we could
call home for more, but that was throwing in the towel on pride and independence. I added
a pinch of opium to the hash speck they were trying to light, and soon the pipe was stoked,
signifying victory. And unity. With the bond sealed and the revolution intact, we dreamed
south-southwest for Spain.
