Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
the world at last in his heart. Pumped with urgency to embrace it all as if on a deadline, every
mile felt new as gift. Marseilles back then had just met gridlock, its many arteries clogged by
more traffic than the arteries could handle. Not to worry, with many new arteries under con-
struction. The red van was not to be seen. Who knew if they'd come through Andorra or taken
the coast road through Barcelona? Who knew if they were headed to Florence at all? Who
knew if they'd be on the coast road past Marseilles?
In and out of town we rode with a few other motorcycles, first five, then fifteen, twelve,
eighteen, brothers in the bond, some commuters but mostly adventuring youth, some Amer-
ican and some European. BMW, Moto Guzzi, all the British bikes, the odd Husquevarna and
Royal Enfield and a few unknowns, we cruised in unison, in a common spirit of the day. The
60s had thrown of the yokes of difference and sameness, of prescribed life schedules, of con-
vention and expectation. Palpable among us at fifty miles per hour was a common light of
youth, wanderlust and spontaneous potential. Riding a motorcycle was always removed, but
in those days we felt like advance couriers of the new word.
The southern coast of France was dramatically beautiful when first glimpsed from a dis-
tance. Gritty and dirty up close, it felt dirty, bare-breasted and abused. Humanity was com-
fortable by then with convenient packaging discarded out the window—packaging made of
plastic that would linger for ages. And cigarette butts, because the taste of springtime, come
up to Marlboro country, all the way up, Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco, Chesterfield, Pall
Mall, Viceroy and the rest had become filtered. So many butts in the sand allowed no foot-
fall to avoid them. It wasn't the Riviera imagined. The naked women seemed far away, sur-
rendered to a starker bareness and sadder gravity.
Then came Monaco, hub of millionaires, castles and legendary casinos. Swimming pools.
Movie stars. We didn't exactly feel like the Beverly Hillbillies, because they had a beat up
old truck with Granny riding in her rocker on top. But the cultural disjunction was the
same—with raccoon eyes from days on the road and grit, grease and bugs rounding the white
circles behind our sunglasses, we looked unapproachable. Traveling with minimal gear is a
blessed skill of young people, and we couldn't have been lighter, making do with no change of
clothes. John finally relaxed beside the teeming traffic; no way they could have beat us to this
border. No fucking way, not with the hell-bent riding we'd done since Pamplona.
The border crossing was a wide spot on the coast road with a tollbooth of sorts, where
people stopped to show passports and entered Italy. Like most border crossings then, it was a
formality. Anyone who could manage normal behavior for a few minutes could pass through.
The sidewalk also widened on the Monaco side, though foot traffic seemed unlikely. The road
on the Italian side went a few miles along a wooded shoreline with no sidewalks, no stores or
stops.
We pulled onto the widened walkway near the customs booth and parked. The hillside to
the left looked painted with castles and casinos. To the right, a seductive sea shimmered under
