Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I would ride my moto through the border station with Hans 'n Franz. Once safely across
into Italy, we would ride a mile or so down the road, out of sight of the border crossing, where
John would meet us and take his motorcycle back from Franz. Eyebrows today would rise at
this juncture, which shows how much we've lost. Back then the world of youth was one, uni-
fied with a common nemesis and a common goal. That language of simplicity may suggest
oversimplification. And it's true that such a concept would never work today and may never
work again. And therein resided the magic, in people wanting to be free, as they should be, in
peace.
What is now a hokey, passé lyric by the Rascals from a half-century ago said it best. Back
then we lived in that world. That sounds vacuous and sometimes was, but on that day, Hans
'n Franz shared a nod. Franz said something like,
Yah! I ride der grossa moto! Yah! Unt den we
halten on der uder side.
“Wait a minute,” I said to John. “What are you gonna do? Hide in my backpack?” I didn't
get it.
“I'm gonna swim it,” John said, backing chronic macho with the man walk. I sensed a Hol-
lywood rendition of the man walk, as seen in
Von Ryan's Express
,
he Great Escape
or any sil-
ver screen classic starring Frank Sinatra, Steve McQueen or John Levy.
I stared in disbelief that he would risk his life in the spirit of screen magic or the spirit of
finding a little paper and cardboard document or getting laid again, maybe. I laughed short.
I did not restate the premise because John was two layers in and peeling to his skivvies. With
no further ado it was, “Here. Take my shit.” He ambled down the stony path and rock-hopped
the shoreline and jumped the fuck in. I looked left and right, fore and aft. Nobody noticed.
Nobody cared. What if they did? A guy needs to go for a swim sometimes—alone in the Medi-
terranean. With no beach, murky water and a bunch of huge boats and people in white pants
and blue blazers staring at him. He swam out a long way, what looked like a mile, and hung a
left. I lashed his stuff onto the back of the Thunderbird.
And so it came to pass that Franz got fulfilled straddling a big British moto. Hans 'n I
mounted up and followed through customs, showing passports and nodding yes and crossing
in three minutes. We waited a half-mile down on the shoulder where the trees opened on a sea
view. The border guards could have seen us but weren't looking. We posed no threat. It didn't
matter. It was only a crazy, fucked up kid from LA swimming across a border because his ex-
girlfriend had his passport, because she split in a hurry, pissed off that she was a grown wo-
man of twenty-two and he was a teenager, nineteen maybe but hardly the man she'd thought
him to be and bucked into midnight with.
I don't wonder where Jane is now, never have. But I doubt she ever humped a man more
man than John Levy, who swam straight out with no hesitation till he shrank to a speck of
flotsam beyond the boats. He churned on a strong, steady stroke showing no hint of heading
in. Do they have sharks in the Med? Did they have sharks back then, before the Med died?
