Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
fectly on Creedence, the Stones, Dylan, Big Brother, Moody Blues, Jimi, Janis—you name it.
Nobody danced then, except alone when the muse inspired movement. The step of the day
was the modified funky chicken, in which the dancer flopped around with no apparent con-
cern—make that deliberate disregard—for conventional rhythm or grace in another compel-
ling demonstration of nonconformity. David and I lay back on our mattress and giggled like
hyenas one more time when a buxom chick stood up, stepped over and straddled our legs and
danced for us. She wore no panties. We felt trapped, till she turned around for the scenic view
and we slid out from under.
For me it was a time of perspective, looking up at a dimpled ass for a laugh and a goof I
can still recall. Looking back was more than a recall of miles, people and places. That sum-
mer influenced what we might become. Applying the lessons would take time, but the non-
stop nights and days of sheer, raw adventure begged a question: what just happened? I found
myself more often alone by choice, rethinking events taken only on the surface in the first go-
round.
Lifetimes are spent seeking unique stimulation, like at depth on the Great Barrier Reef so
many decades later, where life in color, effusion and social complexity came on in waves too
rich for assimilation in the moment.
The 60s was like that. Whatever the effect of those times, it rendered a changed fellow, a
college kid who'd been around and had something to think about, a work in progress.
