Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Never mind; the sun rose on a day that will bring Americans together from here to etern-
ity. Well, that might be a stretch, but it was July fucking fourth, motherfucker, and we were
feeling headstrong on a binge of kief and wine for four days straight—make that five. Wait a
minute . . . Like magic, or maybe it was only collective addiction, the pipes came out and fired
up in the dawn's early light. No matter how old you get to be or how young you were, no time
shines like first light on a day of reckoning. Primed for the rocket's red glare, a day of days
shaped up as an event, a happening, a . . . a . . .
Out of the hubbub a skinny hippy with all the trimmings pulled a four by eight American
flag from his pack—the size of a sheet of plywood. The guy was not original but was uniquely
complete, a page out of ZAP Comix with long hair, a hand-embroidered headband highlight-
ing the psychedelic spectrum, tie-die guinea T, beads, embroidered patches covering holes,
fringe, ribbons, fruit boots and bell-bottom jeans. Running on retreads he showed one-owner
confidence. The flag was in deluxe deep hues with gold fringe. A felled sapling made a flagstaff
that got lashed to a motorcycle—my motorcycle. Digger or Dirt or Sisyphus or whatever the
skinny guy's name was sat on back, backwards to hold the flagstaff and orchestrate the parade
and tell me what was up. Everyone agreed it would be perfect with fifteen motorcycles in the
campground lining up two by two with me and Skinny up front. “It's one of my specialties,
man.”
“What's that?”
“Fuckin' orchestration, man. I'm really good.”
Well, you got to love a parade, even one that sets you up in the crosshairs of the Guardia
Seville. We cruised into Pamplona honking horns and revving engines. Skinny played the flag-
staff like a fishing rod, heaving back to reel in the slack and really make the fabric billow dra-
matically. The local folk lounged on their balconies and terraces, gearing up for the Festival of
San Fermin—they knew who we were and what day it was—and they cheered! It was a day of
love for America and everyone, for Nixon and Franco and us, the ragtag revolutionaries who
declined the jungle war and demanded its end, the anarchists who would rather get drunk
and stoned than get a job or take a bath. Most of those we passed cheered for our side. Anyone
could see what was going down.
Oh, Buffalo Springfield sang and we believed, and so the Spaniards sensed our com-
mitment and sincerity. In cross-cultural communion we cruised the antiquated homes of
Pamplona celebrating independence and freedom with the families who lived there, who
cheered us in the universal language, and love was all around us. Something changed on that
resonant reverberation, as two peoples, two cultures, two spirits conjoined in happiness and
goodwill, until things changed, as anything good or bad will change.
Then came the Guardia Seville, who felt like a man with a gun over there many times
over—like the Republican Party, even then. They chased us—I shitchu not—which was per-
haps the challenge we both feared and fantasized. What could they do? Catch us?
