Travel Reference
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Gretchen and Erik returned to see me commiserating with the Jews. Erik wagged his head.
Kevin whispered, “She'd have bitten your little schmekel off!” He and Bruce giggled.
Erik sighed in disgust, disappointed to be back on the hook or disgusted with the Jews.
Or the Chews. I watched him quizzically, trying to see the difference between a Swede and a
Chuhman, I mean German. He and Gretchen packed and left.
Bruce asked what gave Kevin the idea of how big or little my schmekel might be, but Kevin
shooed him away and said to me, “Hey. We're going to Brindisi. You want to go?”
“And how do you know his schmekel would have been in her mouth?”
“What's Brindisi?”
“It's way south. You can catch the boat to Greece from there. You want to go?”
I shook my head. “Three guys can't hitchhike. It doesn't work.”
“We have a car!”
I nodded. Why wouldn't I want to go? It was the frequently asked question of the day. And
with that we were of, after lunch of course, because it was time. They'd found a little café up
the street and would surely miss it. We stashed our stuff in their car and went for sit-down,
nice, with a tablecloth and glasses for the wine and as much time as we cared for every deli-
cious thing. Travel with Bruce and Kevin was like that: slow, celebratory, joyful and fun. And
quaintly civilized, bringing me to the realization that I hadn't dined at a table with a cloth and
niceties in weeks.
At the car they quibbled and nagged over who should drive first and who would sit in back
and who had more lunch and by rights should be sleepier and who knew his way around town
better, as if we three were equal. They looked at me for an opinion. I told them I could drive
if they wanted, but in all honesty I couldn't find my ass with both hands. They giggled again. I
wasn't sure why.
Historical context is again pertinent; gaiety had not yet come on line as a hip new wave of
radical behavior, being or identity. It was neither spurned nor defended but remained simply
odd. Call me naïve—and I was—but I didn't think of it. Until a few miles down the road when
it was my turn to drive and Bruce's turn to sit in back, and Kevin decided to sit back there too
for the little smidge of extra room, so he could stretch out more. He was so sleepy. I felt great,
driving a car, missing my motorcycle but loving the comfort of a seatback and a windshield.
Goddamn! That felt good, on par with a tablecloth and glasses and chairs for lunch. I glanced
at the rearview to see Bruce asleep, his head on Kevin's shoulder. Kevin snored softy, drooling
onto his shirt.
We arrived in Brindisi late at night to empty streets and a deserted industrial port. The low
scrub landscape behind the town seemed suitable, so we drove a short distance out, parked
and unrolled our bags under the stars. Some wine, some cheese, a little piece of hash I'd man-
aged to score in Rome, and the world glittered anew. You get nights of beauty your whole life,
though that summer of '69 they came like clockwork as though the supply were endless.
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