A Rented Car
Ok, Tunis is not like Cairo. I knew that, but I didn't know exactly how. I could sum it up with the observation tha most of it looks like Cairo's Zamalek Island, but without all the barnyard smells and donkeys in the streets. I don't know if there is a law against donkeys here, or if is just the lack of a large nearby rural population with ties to the city. I suspect the former. I don't think the per-capita income here is likely to be much higher than it is in the more developed parts of Cairo, but it looks as if it is. I, an obvious foreigner, am never accosted on the streets by strangers here, who wish to provide some miniscule service in excange for almost any amount of money. This was a constant annoyance in Cairo, but here that sense of desperation is lacking. Most people seem to know two and often three languages, a lot of them wear leather and there is a general air of reserved sophistication, none of that general whooping and joviality that is so much a part of day-to-day dealings in Cairo. Add a bit of prosperity and material welfare to a man's life and he seems to become more subdued. This is a North African Arabic-speaking city that seems intent on being as European as possible in as many ways as possible, not withstanding what it says in its newspapers about supporting the Palestinians.
In some ways the European tendencies seem exaggerated. One of them is a staunch unwillingness to adopt that liberal tolerance that seems to go with the general sense of security in a place like Paris or Rome. Here, people do not feel that they can afford to endorse, even implicitly, any form of social deviance, even if quite harmless. I discovered this, and also for the first time in my life a true sense of being a member of a shunned minority, on the Alitalia flight from Rome to here day before yesterday. My hair and beard were both long and untrimmed. Some would say I looked unkempt. Flying across the Atlantic and then from Amsterdam to Rome and in all the rest stops and layovers between, I met and spoke with a number of people, never sensing for a moment that I was not accepted or perceived as abnormal. On the brief flight to Tunis on Alitalia, where all the passengers were young Tunisian university students on their way home for Spring break, everything changed. No one would look at me. When I tried to coverse, the other appeared uncomfortable and broke off immediately.
At first I didn't understand the reason for this. I attributed what I observed to the cliquish behavior of a gang of high school kids, comfortable among themselves, but not with anyone outside their group. Once in Tunis I saw myself as the peculiar oddball I actually am here. People would look at me and yell, "cut your hair!" I found a barber and had him cut my hair, and became invisible again. The gang of layabouts at the barber shop were suddenly my friends, and Tunis looked like a friendly place. Appearances mean a lot here, and I'm lucky this was only a matter of hair rather than something I can't change, like nationality or skin color. I'm white. That is not automatically a problem, or hasn't been so far.
I had to change hotel rooms three times. The room I had "reserved" back in Ann Arbor with a transatlantic phone call had only one electrical outlet, and it wasn't anywhere near the small desk that was provided. It was by the bed, apparently intended to be used with a night light. This hotel was a cash only place, and I wanted to pay by Visa. I didn't like the shower, which had no hook to hang the hose on. A block away I found another hotel, costing twice as much, with all of the above defects corrected, cleaner and with better furniture. At 2 o'clock in the morning I was awakened there by the sounds of a loud band in the restaurant. Fortunately, this building is big enough that the night clerk was able to put me in another larger room where I could not hear the band at all, and here I still am on the second day.
My mission is to buy posters. To this end, after examining the local newspapers to see which is the most appropriate and the most likely, I selected the French daily "La Press" for an advertisement. I found its office this morning, walked over there and placed a note in the classifieds offering to buy posters. This ad begins tomorrow and I don't know what will happen. If no one calls to sell me posters, I'll just work on some writing. I brought plenty of that with me.
After placing the ad, I walked around some, up and down Avenue Bourguiba, the nearest Tunis equivalent to Champs-Elyssees, a wide boulevard with a big tree-lined divider lined with kiosks, strolling tourists and locals. The kiosks sell post cards, newspapers from everywhere, and flowers, flowers, flowers. The women all wear high and thick heels, like high-heeled combat boots. These are slightly safer and more comfortable I suppose than the thin spikes one sees in the US. A great many of the men, far too many of them, wear suits and ties. Long green trolleys and large yellow buses filled with riders ply the crowded thoroughfares.
My window opens on an alley without much to look at. There is a lighted awning over the back door of an Agfa film shop, and protruding over the roof of the apartment building behind I can see the top of a tall hotel with a neon sign that says "Africa". Everything is uncomfortable here, there is nothing of overwhelming interest and I'm not crazy about the food. This is the perfect travel experience and I should be able to get a lot of work done.
2:20 a.m.
Yusef, the night clerk, could not send a fax for me. The room with the fax machine is locked. I explained to him that the day clerk had tried all day to send it, but could not because the lines were busy constantly. Now, when there might be a better chance, the fax machine is locked up. Yusef thought I might have better luck at the post office. Yusef, the day sleeper. He directed me there. I found drunks in the streets and a locked post office. I went back and explained. Then there was a conversation between Yusef and some of the other employees. One of them said he would try the fax in his office. Yusef did not know about this one. The volunteer went off to try the fax. I told him I would wait in the lobby. I actually wandered through one of the doors in the lobby I hadn't looked into yet. There I found 'Adel, the washroom attendant, beckoning me to come and use the bathroom. I told him I had a room upstairs. He was surprised when I told him I am American, but glad to tell me that we are united by our faith in God, after I told him I am a believer. I didn't explain to him that I don't believe in religions, I doubt if that would have made a difference. He was trying to tell me that his heart is open and that we are all one, nationality and religion notwithstanding. It is always the washroom attendant who does these things, never the bank president. I left, gave him my room number, went back to the front desk. Yusef said the fax attempt had failed, but promised to keep trying. I said goodnight, now I'm back up here in room 309 about ready to sleep. I still have jet lag.
As it was on my first trip to Cairo, my social life is with the hotel service personnel. I find that they all know my room number, even the ones I've never spoken to. This is because I can speak a few words of Arabic and have become a subject of news and gossip. Neither French nor Arabic seem to work for me, yet everything seems to be working so far. They know what I want and what they need, seemingly without many words and even if the words are wrong. I don't really understand the money either. At the level of dinars I'm fine, but I don't really know how to handle the change. I try to round it off to the nearest dinar, or if that is not possible I hold out my hand and let them pick the coins they want. I have no idea if they're cheating me or not, but as long as they're happy I'm happy.
The "continental breakfast" consisted of croissants, cornbread slices, boiled eggs and cold baloney, with coffee or tea. I had a coke, but that wasn't included with the price of the room and I had to pay 1.5 dinars extra.
Since I usually don't understand how to handle social transactions, even in my own country, I don't have any preconceived ways of dealing with them here. More than half the time I have to improvise on the spot. I'm used to the formulaic approach at home. This unscripted fumbling is uncomfortable, but I have to draw it out of a more vital part of me, and that is refreshing. This is another benefit of traveling.
4:25 p.m. April 1st
The ad came out today, no response that I'm aware of, but I've been out walking around most of the day. It is still possible that someone will inform me later that I got a call. I'm not expecting this, but it is possible. I went out to explore the souks in the Medina today.
I bought a few things I will likely end up giving as gifts. Then, I could not find my way out of the noodles of alleys in the old city. This place is the equivalent of Cairo's Khan al-Khalili bazaar, but much larger and more twisted and mazy. It was very like its Cairo counterpart for the kinds of goods being offered and for the insistent beggary practiced by each and every shopkeeper, coming out to follow you as you passed, trying to decide what language you speak. So much for my early conclusion that they don't crawl all over foreigners
here. You just have to be in the right part of town.
I got completely lost. I asked an old man to direct me to the Place de la Victoire. He was most kind and obligingly led me to the Place de la Kasbah, exactly on the opposite side of the maze from where I wanted to be. The Place de la Kasbah was a big and interesting place with a monument on top of a concrete hill that showed a wide view of the city. On the edge of the square was a hospital. One of its patients, who looked like a lunatic escapee to me, approached me, complete with hospital clothes and wounds, to beg a couple of dinars. My first such experience in Tunis. Here they seem to keep the amputees and the ones with the solo monologues off the streets. Nobody I've seen has seemed crazy or out of place. I gave him his money and told him to leave me alone, which he did. My experience in Egypt was that they did not always do this. Sometimes it was quite a struggle there to part company with one's unexpected new pals.
Down around the fringes of the conical concrete monument was a large, busy square, with lots of taxis coming and going but none to be stopped. There were always a few other locals crowding in front of me to take them ahead of me. There were a lot of taxis, yes, but I could not get one to take notice of me. Hey, I'm a guest here in Tunisia! Finally, a high-school boy named Habib took pity on me and led me back through the maze to the Place de la Victoire, after which he rushed off, saying he had to get to soccer practice.
One of the shopkeepers had told me earlier in the day I should go to Dar al-Thaqafah to find posters. This was on ibn Khaldun Street. Once I found the place, and this was not at all easy, I was directed to another place on an upper story in a building above a mall on Bourghiba street. No one was there (it was almost 4:00), but the sign on the door said it was the office of the Tunisian Society for the Distribution of Films. I will go back there tomorrow, hopefully during hours when someone is there, although I fear that this might be difficult to accomplish. It may be one of those offices that are always uninhabited, but for now it gives me hope.
April 2, 11:30 p.m.
Someone was there, but they don't sell posters; I was refused and sent away. This was a discouraging day and I'm concluding that my mission of finding posters in Tunisia has failed. I don't know where else to look and my ad has not generated a single response. All I'm doing is walking around the city increasing the size of my baggage load with cool souvenirs and trinkets, of which there are many, many boatloads. If I knew how to market other goods, this place might have some real possibilities. I don't really, so I'm thinking tonight about how to reschedule my travels. I'll go to a travel agent in the morning to see about getting a ticket for an earlier flight to Rome. Lodging in Rome will be a different matter, but I'll improvise.
Despite the frustration with my search, I've enjoyed being here. The French/Arabic bilingual culture, the difference of point of view, the identification with African affairs, the sense of a need to "catch up" with the world, the "borrowed" elements of culture that come from France especially, but also Egypt and America, all are elements of life here that have been edifying to feel and experience.
I've not met anyone of any importance or that I've enjoyed knowing, with the exception of 'Adel and Yusef. Since I walk around alone on the streets, I seem to be a target for loafers, desperate people, shysters and pickpockets. Last night on Avenue Bourghiba I ran into the same "wounded" man from the hospital I had seen earlier in the day on Place de la Kasbah. He reeked of beer and wanted to sit and drink coffee with me. I told him I wanted to be alone and he left. Two other vagrant layabouts I'd met the night before also walked up and started talking, while I was picking through a handful of coins. They actually took one or two of them. I wasn't angry, but I was surprised. Now I'm less surprised. Tonight when I bought a sandwich the cashier took my 5-dinar note and made no move to give me any change, until I reminded him. I'm sure he thought I wouldn't notice, or that I didn't know the value of the local currency and would just assume the sandwich cost 5 dinars. The first day I was here that might have happened, but I've moved beyond that a little. I'm still a linguistically weak foreigner, a target in fact, but I do look after some of the details a little better.
I went to the Paris Cafe last night. This is a landmark on Bourghuiba Street. From the guidebooks, you might think it was a classy hangout for the elite, but up close it is just a smoky place full of all kinds of foreigners and people on the skids. One of them, an unemployed man named Najib, sits there day and night waiting for chances to meet foreigners. When I arrived and spread out my copy of Le Renouveau, with its article about Hillary Clinton's visit two days earlier, her approving speech about the advances Tunisian women have made and her visit, accompanied by Chelsea to the city of Djem, he sidled over, asked permission to sit down and started talking. He took no notice of the fact that I was reading and did not excuse himself for interrupting. He didn't want to talk in Arabic. He said he didn't like Arabic and wanted to practice his English, but his English was about like my Arabic and French, very spotty and imprecise.
Najib's heart's desire is to leave Tunisia and go to America. What a surprise! He said no one has a chance here in Tunisia, especially not a young person (Najib is 22) with no friends and no capital. He prefers not to work, to get money any other way he can, because at a job he can make only about $160 a month, and must spend all of his time doing it. Rent on his room is $60, and the other $90 doesn't cover everything. He smoked incessantly, two packs a day. I observed that he could get some seed money just by cutting out the cigarettes, but he was quite resistant and disinterested in this idea. "They are part of my life," he said.
The cigarettes notwithstanding, Najib said he lives a simple life and is completely honest. A number of his European and American acquaintances have been impressed by this and have given him money, he said. By "honest," he meant that he doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't. He tells people he lives in dire circumstances and has no income. Not only is he honest about this, it is his main subject. He bragged about taking another foreigner to see where he lived, just to prove that he hadn't been lying, and really was living in abject poverty.
Najib comes from a small village in the south of Tunisia. Every year or so he goes back to visit his family, his father, mother and younger sister. His father is not always there. Like the son, the father is away from the village for long periods of time, but instead of Tunis, the father goes to France. Najib says the father does not work when in France, he just drinks and wastes time. Though Najib smokes, he does not drink. Otherwise its like father like son, and the family, waiting for funds to arrive from the father or the son, is always waiting.
I stood up to leave, and Najib hurriedly made a final request, for 5 dinars. I gave it to him and left, feeling disgusted, but I'm not sure if I had a right to. He was in need, for whatever reason. Who's to say he has no right to ask? What I don't like is that there are so many like him, everywhere, and they're all asking at once, after the proper introductions of course. If I am particularly gracious and friendly, the next step, after the appropriate introductory period in which we will become true friends, will be to see if I can invite them to the US, with my guarantee of support for the duration of their visit. I seem to meet only the dregs, no one with anything to say about Tunisians and life in Tunisia. These dregs seem to be the ones who have time to chat with foreigners. I know this is largely because I'm almost always walking around alone. I suppose I should be grateful that most self-respecting Tunisians, the ones making their full $35 a week, won't even look at me, much less tell me who they are or what they are doing.
Earlier in the evening another of the sidewalk wastrels asked me for a dinar, only 10 seconds after introducing himself.
"Don't beg!" I said angrily, and walked away.
I heard him say "inta huwwa illi tishhat" [you are the one who is begging], and I took it to heart, actually felt bad about it. I don't know why. I wasn't begging for anything, but still felt myself to be in the wrong. Should I have given him the dinar? Same old problem.
April 4, 7:30 a.m.
Conflict with taxi driver, who automatically grabbed my bags as I was standing in the hotel lobby. US taxi drivers do this too, but not quite so aggressively. I have carried my bags downstairs and carted them out to the sidewalk without any help. Now, when the taxi arrives, I am suddenly an invalid, and of course I'll be expected to pay for the help at the end of the ride. No! Leave the bags alone please, I'll put them here in the seat with me, myself, unless you plan to follow me all through the entire check-in procedure as I pack them through the airport from one window to the next. If you don't, don't spoil me for the short duration of the ride here. Let me be the hardy self-sufficient fellow I am, all day, even when you're doing the driving.
As I was leaving the Omrane Hotel, saying my goodbyes to Yusef and 'Adel, who had both been friends to me during my stay, a disgruntled fellow in a light blue sportcoat said something angrily to me in Arabic. I did not understand it. Then he said in French, "Tunis aux Tunisiennes."
"In Sha'allah" I said.
He repeated that and walked out. It wasn't clear to me if he had been staying at the hotel, but he walked out immediately. Yusef and 'Adel were both upset, told me was crazy.
There were two other minor distasteful incidents the day before as I went out in the afternoon to get something to munch. I asked for a limeade at a sidewalk counter. The cost was 600 Tunisian Millimes, but I mistakenly hand the boy 300. He looked at it, I suddenly realized my mistake, took it back and handed him a dinar. He went away with the dinar, but came back and said "100".
"I just gave you a dinar" I said.
"100!" he said, angrily.
I realized he wanted to give me a 500 millime coin as change, and handed it to him. This was unduly tense.
A few yards further, I tried to buy french fries. I did not know that the rules are, you don't just buy french fries from the man selling lamb on the sidewalk. You get them with chicken or lamb, or you don't get them. He frowned when he told me this. More tension, caused this time by me asking for, or presuming to want, something that is not available.
Later on, the same thing happened in Italy when I asked for ice. It happened several times. People hand you a cold drink in a can, and they are emphatic that you don't need ice, and quite determined to avoid giving it to you. Ice, it seems, is a scarce commodity in Italy (although it was available easily and in abundance at the Omrane Hotel in Tunis), and you aren't supposed to ask for it. Never mind that your cold can will warm up before you finish drinking it, it is cold when you get it and you're supposed to just remember how cold it was when you're drinking the last half.
At a little restaurant in Rome, the waiter wants me to sit at a specific table in his completely empty dining room, containining 10 tables neatly set with cloth and sliverware. He has long hair, wears a red vest and blue jeans, and is very short. He looks exhausted. It is noon. He brings me a Sprite to drink.
"Do you have ice?"
He points to the can: "It's-a cold."
"Do you have ice?"
He looks in the freezer.
"Yeah."
He brings a 4" stainless sauce dish containing a spoon and about 10 small cubes of ice, sacred, precious, elegantly displayed ice, barely enough to fill a small wine goblet halfway.
Even at McDonald's I sometimes have to ask for more ice. I'm used to lots of ice, that you can dump out in great excess at the Taco Bell self-service ice machine. Here, ice is rare and special, not a cheap and disposable accessory.
Even Fabio, the desk clerk at the Orlanda in Rome, was a bit defensive about this. Of course his hotel has no ice machine and he's got an interest in acting as if ice is altogether beside the point. I pointed out to him that McDonald's uses a lot of ice and people to seem to like it. "That was imposed on us," he said. Yes, the imperialist juggernaut, bringing in too many good things, making life hard for the rest of the Italians. I didn't notice anyone at McDonald's imposing ice on the customers. I must have missed that. To me, they appeared to be taking it voluntarily, and liking it.
I told Fabio if I lived in Italy I'd buy a machine and start a business selling ice in bags. The same situation existed in Egypt. There were all kinds of little businesses selling "cold drinks", i.e., glass bottles chilled in large coolers, dispensed without cups or ice, but only McDonald's sold the drinks with ice in the cup, and this was what I wanted on a hot day.
All of this is cultural clash and shock, moments of tension that occur when you ask and then are told you can't get the little things you're accustomed to, even if you're willing to pay. Things are fine after that, as long as you don't ask again! Someone I once knew had the politically correct idea: "we need it in the US, but we don't need it here." Or, we don't need it badly enough to make an issue of it.
I was planning to use an Alitalia reservation that was made for me yesterday by Samoui Travel on Avenue Bourghuiba. This flight was to have gone to Rome at 11:30. I then learned that the 8:30 Tunis Air flight had a seat, and the Alitalia ticket was also valid for that. Was this true only because it was a full-fare ticket? Probably so, but I'm not sure. The workings of airlines usually escape me, except I'm sure it is a losing proposition, or at the very least a bad gamble, to check any baggage with them. The odds they'll lose it are too high and they won't take responsibility for the cost if your bags contain anything that's any good.
Once aboard the aircraft, my aisle seat was occupied by the man who had been assigned the center seat. I asked him to give me my aisle seat. He complied, but obviously thought I was being picayune. Boundary management vs. direct bargaining, once again, and again, I felt bad. I have some need to surrender my rights, and a sense of guilt whenever I stand by them. Yet if I give in, I feel mistreated. Neither is good. That is why I dislike tension and conflict. I never win. I know that these things are some kind of test of character, but I don't know anymore what constitutes passing the test, or failing it.
Rome Airport
We arrive after one hour, and into a different world. Although the Rome airport is much inferior to the one in Amsterdam, it is of course much superior to the one in Tunis. There is no Amerex VIP lounge there. Fortunately, I only had one long layover there. It has no airport hotel. You have to pay the cost of a hotel at the Airport in Amsterdam, just for the taxi to go to the Holiday Inn, where the cost of the room is four times as much. Rome is extremely expensive anyway. Almost everything costs four times as much as it should if you're a transient. If you've got a bed somewhere in town, that will probably cost a fortune, but then there are the buses and the metro, and these are cheap.
As feared, yet expected, my bag of selected curios and souvenirs has been lost by Tunis Air. Even the bag itself was new, carefully chosen and prized. There was nothing to do but wait in line an hour for my turn to report the lost bag, not expecting it to be recovered or paid for. A one-hour flight, no connecting flights, they lose the bag. They're thieves, pure and simple.
There is a cheap train ($1.75 or so) from the airport into Rome's main train station. Right next to this big station is a McDonald's. This is something of a relief, and the McDonald's map of Rome is my guide to the Rome Metro and then to the Collosseum the first afternoon. By now I'm realizing that I have broken a rib from a fall the day before back at the Omrane Hotel, landing on my butt and banging my chest against the side of the tub from slipping while showering. It is painful to turn my uppor body or move it up and down.
A week since the trip began, I still have jet lag, to bed at 8 p.m., up at 4 a.m. Sleep has been difficult anyway. There was always a lot of horn-honking and yelling and shouting until all hours back in Tunis (people were celebrating the end of the month of Ramadan), and here at the Orlanda there are loud buses running at all hours just outside the window, as well as several noisy neighbors. There is nothing that can be done about it. More of the inevitable discomforts of traveling. Is this beneficial? Does it build character?
As in France, there are a lot of homeless people in Rome, some walking and talking to themselves, others sleeping in the metro terminals. I did not see these things in Tunis, though there were many poor people.
For the poor, and often even the not-so-poor, the whole world is a seething, festering patchwork of large and small prison camps. Lack of money is a formidable barrier, and added to that is an extra layer of policies, documentation, agents, guards, guns and armies. Gone are the days when peoples and tribes could migrate freely on epic voyages from continent to continent. The passageways and open spaces are now congealed. Settlement is the one legitimate mode of life. Everyone is supposed to be doing long-term work, building, digging, entrenching the fields, homes and mines, planning, organizing, keeping all their time filled with scheduled events until they die. Roots go down, boles get wider and thicker, motion stagnates, visibility is increasingly blocked.
The riders, the wanderers, the dissatisfied and those who would search for greener pastures are kept confined, clinging for lack of any alternative to the concepts and traditions they found all around them when they were born. They are both pinned down at their necks by this stubborn cognitive geography, and fiercely loyal to it. They will die for it. The passionate identification with the inherited is great reconciler, what makes the slave a fanatic to his master, his own cultural imperatives.
7:30 a.m. April 5 en Route by Metro to Spanish Stair
The train pushes the air ahead of it. It is a narrow tunnel and the air has nowhere to go, except ahead of the train in a long cold column. Standing on the platform, you feel the air before you see the train. I climb the Spanish Stairs all the way to the top, take a picture or two, walk back down and then back to the train station on foot. The stairs were an important thing to see, but not for any reason except that they're famous. Glad I've done it, but I'll never go back. With my first glimpse of the square I thought "another hopelessly plain row of old buildings," then at once I saw the stairs on the left, 7:30 a.m., and there were already gangs of teenagers sitting on them, taking pictures of each other. Hooray! The stairs! Here at last! Most of them were speaking English or German.
"Where's McDonalds?" I was thinking. There was a McDonald's near there, but it was closed, although according to an ad I saw it was supposed to be open by 7:00 a.m., serving "American" breakfast.
8:20 a.m., April 6
Rome returns to life after the day-after-Easter shutdown. The wanderers drink "American Coffee" at the big McDonald's next to the train station. It has a metallic taste. A sausage McMuffin and a block of hashbrowns stoke me up. Nothing "Italian" is being offered here, but there is plenty of open formica, lots of people thriving on cheap generic sustenance.
Across the Adriatic, Serbs are slaughtering and herding Albanians. Life goes on against this sinister backdrop, which I feel almost every moment.
There was little mention of it in the Tunisian media. They would note it only in passing, but when President Zeyn ol-'Abdin ibn 'Ali visited some village, Tunisian television devoted long, carefully scripted coverage of him clasping his hands together horizontally at chest level, waving, then putting his right hand on his heart. He walked slowly down the middle of a street, repeating these three gestures again and again, like a mechanical clock doll. He was flanked front and back, left and right, by a triple layer of bodyguards, all eyeing intently the joyous crows as they chanted "Ben 'Ali! Ben 'Ali! Ben 'Ali! Ben 'Ali!" These crowds were paid to leave their jobs and be bused to the site of the promenade.
Ben 'Ali was in the newspapers too. Each and every publication found that he had done something astonishing and wonderful to get himself pictured on its front pages, most often seated with a small table and a vase of flowers between him and a world leader. Billboards with his smiling portrait are all over Tunis, saying things like "Together for Tunis!" He's like Saddam, watching from all the walls. Of course he and the people are not together in certain ways. Only he is rich, for example.
6:30 a.m., April 13
Not long thereafter I drove from Rome to London in a rented car. The Italian drivers are truly insane. Everybody is in a desperate rush, and a slow driver is harassed and crowded, the public nuisance. I saw three major traffic accidents there, and each one kept traffic tied up on the freeway for at least an hour. The French are not quite as bad, but they're still very competitive and careless. The British are more subdued, but only slightly. Their favorite practice is tailgating. In both France and Italy there are heavy tolls on most of the freeways, but at least in France they accept credit cards. In Italy they accept credit cards at only some of the toll plazas, and at the ones that don't the toll collectors become furious if you say anything about it.
My cross-continental drive was long and uneventful, but not to be missed. The highlights were the 13-kilometer tunnel crossing the border between Italy and France, through the high mountains, the little village by the Seine where Django Reinhardt was born, and where he died, and the tunnel that goes under the English Channel from Calais. Those were the highlights, but the slow geographic transformation all along the route was an education in itself, not to be had from any books. The mountains between Italy and France are stunning, as are the numerous monasteries perched high up on the most forbidding peaks. The monks must have believed they were building as close to God as possible. It is hard for me to imagine how they did this.
On the train under the channel, a short trip costing $200 and lasting a half hour, I passed the time quickly talking to two of the attendants. They were proud of their train and very happy to tell me about it.
The Italians did not want to part with their ice unless I bought alcohol with it. The Tunisians did not want to sell their french fries unless I bought chicken or lamb with them. I quibbled about these things while the Serbs, NATO and the Kosovars were busy blasting the shit out of each other and the rest of the world watched in helpless confusion. I could not stop thinking about these things.
As always, the generals were running things, the civilian governments did what the generals said to do, the parliaments and congresses dared not oppose their governments, young men waited in the wings to die and the media repeated what the generals said. I said "Why can't I have a cup of ice? I'll pay you for it!"
In France, I stopped a gentleman in his driveway as he was getting out of his car with his two children at Samois sur-Seine, to ask for directions to Django's house. He beamed big, knelt down to the gravel and drew me a map with a stick. The two children were excited to see me, and chimed in happily with additions and opinions. I had left my rented car back at Place de la Republic. Should I go back and get it, or should I walk?
"It is only about a kilometer and it's a lovely day. You can easily walk!"
"Three-quarters of a kilometer!" said the little girl.
"Bon Dimanche!" said the man.
"Au revoir monsieur!" said the little boy.
The sun was wonderful, and their friendliness was like the sun too. I was warmed by both.
Back at Place de la Republic I had also asked directions of a woman I had seen standing next to her car, looking sadly at a long scratch down the side of it. She also stopped what she was doing and gave me elaborate directions. She seemed sorry when I was satisfied and walked away.
Samois sur-Seine looks to be a prosperous and happy little town. It has narrow, ancient streets. There is a small church on the square with a "Django Reinhardt" hall inside where local artists perform. The Reinhardt festival will be June 20 this year, but it will take place down on the banks of the Seine, about a half-mile away.
Narrow, too Narrow, the Street where Django Lived
The village is solid, planted heavily into the ground with its stone masonry and cobblestones. It seems an unlikely place to be the former home of a parapatetic gypsy, wagon rider and world-famous touring musician. It seems an unlikely place for so many automobiles. Everyone here seems to have one. They park them on narrow sidewalks, if there are any, or hugging the sides of the stone buildings if there aren't. Most of the streets are only wide enough for one car to pass at a time. The drivers must stop and wait at the corners for one another to pass. The Seine side has a little dock, boats, a guitar shop and a couple of boat eateries tied up at the stone barrier next to the sidewalk.
In April, early on a Sunday morning, Samois sur-Seine is quiet. There is a factory on the other side of the village from the Seine, probably built since Django's days. The exit driveway says "Sortie de Usine."
I was sad to leave, and as I drove away I had no clear idea where to go next. I was quite close to Paris, but dreaded going into it. It would be too crowded and there wasn't anything I needed to do there in any case. I finally decided to go in a big circle around it, through Troyes and Rheims. Here the landscape changed again, to resemble the central plains of Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas, full of corn, fields and silos, but with spring storms in the skies, the occasional medieval monastery on the horizon. I decided while crossing this landscape to go straight to Calais, then under the Channel to London.
As I moved from town to town, I stopped, lingered and listened here and there, but always with the urge to move on, to finish and get back to my own place of work. The traveler is a sheep in a fleecing line. Most of us can't go on like that for long. We have to produce to continue. One is lucky to have a home from which to produce. If so, there is always a need to get back to it before long. If one has no place to produce, one must create one, or join one. Without places to forage along the way, the life of the wanderer is extremely difficult to follow.
Here at Heathrow, at the jumping-off place for that last trip, things are much more like home, with a few minor variations. A person facing unemployment here is said to be facing "redundancy." Yes, if you don't have a job, you're "redundant", an excessive tube looking for a place to feed. I'd rather be "unemployed." You can't be unemployed unless you choose to be. If you're not looking for work, you aren't unemployed, you're just a survivor, and as a survivor you're like most other people. You aren't "redundant." There was a time when you were either one of the serfs, or an outlaw. Today, you can step outside that serfdom without being an outlaw, if you can create your own way. "God bless the child that's got his own."
After two days in London, I flew a long long time on a British Airways aircraft, and finally landed back in Detroit.
When I reached my own small homestead, I was very happy to be there. Nothing had really changed, but I was ready for the routine again. I was suitably thrashed and wrung out, ready for a new stint at the yoke, and feeling glad that I had gotten to it in time, before it had disintegrated in my absence. I do think I'd have lasted the longest.
Now it's work and work and work, make more money for the next trip.
5/2/99
A long, wide airplane with a load of people about to spend 8 hours together in this claustrophobic tube; the people all packed together have the character of a single being, one with a short life span. The plane is full, and many of the passengers have gotten their seats late.
At first, many people are trying to trade seats. Everything is very unsettled and I keep expecting someone to ask me if I will give up my seat, and hoping they won't because I'm happy where I am. Then the commotion gradually subsides as the passengers are ordered several times to seat themselves.
After this settling, the aircraft sits on the runway for a very long time, then takes off. Then loud chatter arises and goes on and on as dinner is served. Then the sky darkens and there is a movie. Then quiet, sleep for some, lights out and a low murmur throughout the night for the ones who can't sleep on an airplane, or just can't sleep. Darkness, darkness, but only for a couple of hours. Then the faint dawning over a carpet of white clouds. Breakfast, coffee, people pacing up and down the aisles. Soon there is the landing, the people disperse, and the big tube is dead.
The Rome train station. McDonald's has pictures of antique trains all around its high walls. It is a noisy place. A young man in a soldier's uniform is at McDonald's. His uniform is covered with sashes and badges. He as a regulation knife on his belt. He is with two friends. They walk about freely and smartly, but soon they will be standing stiffly in the ranks. They are well-behaved, good-natured boys, soon to be dead. Someone may realize that they should not have died, that the fighting was a mistake, but it will be too late then.
Two small girls, twins, are walking arm-in-arm. I brush against one of them. She is like a mimosa sapling, bending easily, then snapping back. She has long, disheveled black hair, one tuft died pink, t-shirt, jeans, thigh pads on the jeans.
Late evening near the train station. Voices of starlings compete with the sounds of traffic. The traffic wins, but you can still hear the birds, and the birds don't care.
Monday May 3
A cool morning at McDonald's in Rome; coffee, sausage mcmuffin with egg. The cool air, the strangers with baggage and backpacks, reminds me of the years when I was a constant denizen of bus stations and cheap hotels, no idea where I was going.
A woman with big black shoes, horizontally striped jeans, black coat with two big buttons in the middle of the back, a big black purse and a big black hat, is standing with her arms crossed in the McDonald's doorway--a fugitive from a Dr. Seuss book.
There is effectively no men's room at McDonald's. Both restrooms have been degendered and the women monopolize the foyer that is provided for waiting. The next available rest room, no matter which one, goes to the next woman!
Padre Pio is everywhere!
Zahirul Islam, a Muslim from Northern India and a poster dealer, was the one person I made contact with. I saw him selling laminated Simsons posters in the alley leading from the subway to the Piazza de l'Espagna. I told him I would come back and buy some from him after I went to the American Express office. I returned, struck a deal on a price for six posters of Homer Simpson in his underpants, but then he didn't have six of those.
"Five minutes," he kept saying. He bought me an expresso at a coffee stand, asked me to wait there, and he walked off somewhere. I went looking for him after "five minutes," found him walking up and down the row of poster sellers. He asked all of them if they had extra copies, none did.
"Where you go?"
"Termini"
"Ok, let's go."
"Where?"
"Five minutes."
We rode the subway to the train station, then a long, brisk walk. "
He was apologetic about being a poster seller. "Back home in India I knew how to program computers, but then I came here, and here there is no work."
Walking, walking, well past the train station.
"How much longer"
"Five minutes."
I stopped. "Look, this is taking too long."
"Ok, you wait here. I'll be back in five minutes."
He left me holding a bag of his posters. I stood there waiting and waiting. A drunken man in drag staggered across the street. Two Jamaican women looking for someone who could break a large bill came walking by. "I'll ask the Philipine man," I heard one of them say." She ran down the sidewalk, said something to the Philipine man, and they walked away together. The other woman, the one with the bill, lingered a little where I was standing, then ran after to join them.
After about 10 minutes, I was about to decide that the latest "five minutes" was overdue. I started off in the direction Zaher had gone, to see if I might spot him in a doorway. At that moment I heard him running and yelling behind me. He was obviously relieved not to have missed me. "I thought you would meet me at the train station!" he said. There had been a misunderstanding, and he had run all the way from the train station to find me. I was amazed that he would do this for 50,000 lira ($28).
I gave him a 100,000 lira note I had, asked if he had change. He said no, but took it from me and immediately asked several people nearby if they could break it. None could.
"I will go get change," he said. He offered me his wallet for security, but I declined. By this time I trusted him completely. He returned shortly, handed me a 50,000 note and five 10,000 notes. I gave him the 50,000. We talked a little, not about much of anything. I took his picture, he took mine, he wrote his address in my book, invited me to visit him on my next trip to Rome, then was gone, back to the alley at Spagna. I will remember him a long time.
In McDonald's, a black man said a prayer aloud in Arabic, then proceeded to eat his sausage and egg mcmuffin. He asked an employee to bring him a cup of coffee, which the employee did. I am not used to seeing table service in a McDonald's, but this is Italy.
My back aches today because the bed at the Orlanda is too soft. My ribs still ache from the bathtub fall in Tunisia.
In a Boeing 767, seven seats across. I went up to the front of the plane to use the toilet early in the morning as the dawn was just dawning. All the windows were closed except the one where a couple was seated just behind the bulkhead. As I passed them I bent over to peek at the orange slit on the horizon. Then I continued into the toilet. When I came out, I thought I would look at that sunrise again, but they had closed the window, apparently anticipating another rude invasion of their space. Now all the windows in the cabin were closed again.
JFK--almost back to Detroit--but at least I've gotten this far with my ridiculous load of carry-on posters. No one has really bothered me about it, though I've heard a good bit of random laughter and commentary as I've struggled from one place to another with my flimsy little $25 trolley purchased in Rome. This item has been wrenched and bent beyond recognition, but somehow it continues to roll, and I can still lash the posters to it with bungees. If it holds together the rest of the way to Ann Arbor, I'll be very happy to chuck it then.
I arrived here having had no sleep. Customs, passport control and the x-ray machine again, all left me feeling very cross. I bumped a guy with my shoulder bag at the other side of the x-ray belt.
"Am I in your way?" he said.
This infuriated me. I am afflicted by sudden bouts of fury. I've had this burden as long as I remember. It is not pleasant for anyone, but it hurts me most of all.
"Look, I didn't SEE you, ok?" Exasperated, scowling, red-eyed.
He retreated immediately and I felt like running after him and biting his heels. However, I still had more work to do, taping the posters back onto the trolley, so I let him go and didn't even bark. Then, before I came to the gate for the final connecting flight, I had to go through ANOTHER security check. This turned out to be because the directions where to go after the first security check lead in the wrong direction if you happen to be going to gate 37. The result is, you miss your turn and wind around to the second security check. Had I only known where to go, I could have gone to that one at the outset and avoided two trips with all my stuff. I wouldn't have had to cut my posters off the cart and then retape them, twice. But I did have to. When I got there, I hadn't yet thought through the bad turn problem and I yelled "WHY do we have to go through security twice here."
People were backing up behind me and staring. I showed the man my taped-up cart, and explained in heated tones that I had already assembled and disassembled my assembly once already at another gate. He was Indian, spoke with an accent, and didn't seem to get my point at all.
"Everybody who comes through here must put his things through the x-ray machine."
"But I just told you, I already DID that!"
"I don't make the rules, no exceptions."
"But you have different rules here."
This was all to no avail of course. I began angrily slashing tape, pulling apart the pieces of my fragile and precious little pair of bundles, but I had enough sense to stop yelling.
The flight from Kennedy to Detroit metro is far less crowded than any of the others, and it is only an hour and a half. My mood improves.
