Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“Why would we? Bruno is most reasonable.” He nodded up behind me, and there was
Bruno. They'd flown to Greece, which didn't so much piss me off as, well, yes, it did piss me
of. David could cry poormouth with the best of them, and here he was popping for double
airfares when he was too cheap to spring for gas money on the motorcycle. He'd complained
that I was driving anyway, and having him on back couldn't account for more than a few pen-
nies, so he'd buy me a pack of gum or something.
Ah, well, I was glad to see Bruno and glad for him. They had tickets for the next morning
on the boat to Mykonos, where everyone was camping on the beach and eating at these amaz-
ing beachside huts where they cooked the fish and brought in the wine. Bruno was excited and
happy as a poor, resourceful man would be. And he spoke Greek. “You didn't say you spoke
Greek in Spain.”
“No person of Greek speak in Spain.”
“You speak English now?”
“Yes. I hav-ed to learning.”
Bruno had found a place to camp—across the street no good. Too much polizei. No good.
So it was old home week once again. I got my ticket for the Mykonos boat around the corner
and a block down, and it was set. I had longed for a long night with my future wife, but she
was gone, and I have to admit, getting loaded with the boys under the stars felt as good as one
more time ever could.
We ate free on the boat to Mykonos next morning, and once ashore hiked the few miles to
a far side where rocks and scrub lined a sandy beach area. I had foresight even then to bring
a mask, fins and snorkel of adequate quality that I bought in Athens, and though I saw only
a single fish, she seemed to expect my arrival with a welcome from Poseidon, god of the sea.
She was blue with black bars and big eyes that asked for help, with the Aegean already mostly
dead.
We drank, smoked, ate fried fish, swam in the ocean, told tales and lolled the days away.
We ate free on the boat back to Athens, where we camped again.
The next day we would catch a bus to the airport and fly to Tel Aviv, David's idea, or rather
David's compulsion. I told him that Jews aren't like Muslims; they are not required to make a
pilgrimage. He insisted that real Jews do, given the chance, and being this close to God and
then not stopping in for a visit would be nothing short of an insult.
“What? You think God lives in Israel? You think he's got a nice flat uptown? Fuck.”
Ah, well, it was another eight inches east on the map, and we'd heard about free love on
the kibbutzim, and Bruno was eager as well to try a society that served up breakfast and lunch
too, and provided a bed and clothing, even a hat, and medical services and, well, everything in
exchange for a few chores. He thought the answer to his economic situation might be waiting
in Israel. I asked what was wrong with hitting the tarmac in New York and opening an Italian
deli. Or wait! He could be a wood carver named Geppeto.
