In Rome in1965

In Italy, in the summer of 1965, I met a girl in a black bathing suit with a lacy décolletage. We took long walks and met several times across southern Europe. Then I went home and fell in love with Loretta. It was my last full summer vacation.
When I left for Europe not much was happening. The Yankees were starting a long decline, Lyndon Johnson was still rockin' and rollin' in the wake of John Kennedy's assassination and the seemingly placid U.S. was beginning to show some strains.
Things were indeed occurring, like the Voting Rights Act, the murder of Malcolm X, and a make believe war in the Dominican Republic, but the “sixties” didn't mean anything yet, because they hadn't been invented. I had a chance to get to Europe if I could come up with some money and someone to tag along with, since parents in those days didn't think anything could happen to you if you were with somebody. I found the body in my sometime cousin, Jeffrey, a New Yorker afraid of his shadow.
I sold my microscope and my father found some seats on a charter flight to Europe and Israel. I only had to be back in Paris five weeks later to return home with a group of nice people from Pennsylvania. Jeffrey went with me during the days, staying in his room at night, writing letters and watching his passport.
That was okay with me. I mailed the letters he hadn't sent yet. I usually found out where the closest postal box was from somebody at a pub, a local or bar. When I was by myself, I imagined being in the Paris of the Twenties, though I couldn't think of any talent that needed the freedom to blossom. Sometimes I was in Europe during the thirties and I wondered if I would have had the courage to make it through the conflicts that swept through the continent even before the war began in 1939.
We flew from New York on El Al. I was up all night even though I only had two hours sleep the night before, after driving up from Huntsville, Ala. where I was in a friends wedding. Once aboard the plane, I talked with everyone I met...the attendants (stewardesses in those days), seatmates and anyone speaking Hebrew. Jeffrey seemed excited as well, writing post cards furiously.
In Rome, we changed crews, a few people left and others got on, including a young woman about our age who sat across the aisle from us; me actually, since Jeffrey was asleep with his head on the window. Her name was Hannah (pronounced Channa) and she was the pilot's wife. She told us about things to do for tourists our age and invited us to dinner the next Shabbat.
When we arrived in Israel, we still had a bus ride to Tel Aviv, by which time sleepiness was overwhelming me and I was slipping into exhaustion. A boy about 12 latched onto us and walked us from the bus station to his favorite hotel. A class D hotel. Across the street from a brothel. His favorite hotel.
The hotel was run by a Polish refugee who learned his English at an American air base. His accent was never a problem-- his profanity was. It never made any sense. He just slipped words into conversation at the rate of two or three obscenities per sentence. This wasn't offensive or particularly obnoxious. It was just so damn confusing; I wanted him to talk with sub-titles.
Of course, we never said anything, though I think Jeffrey was trying to get exact quotes into his letters home. The guy was honest and we ended up staying there the entire time we were in Israel.
The next morning, I awoke with a start. I could not figure out where I was. I had slept about 12 hours by then. With a shower and fresh clothes, I felt well enough to have breakfast. If waking up in a strange bed in a foreign country, in a hotel managed by a linguistic terrorist wasn't enough, breakfast was a hoot.
We ate next door to the hotel, at an open air, 24-hour bistro. There was a decidedly “blue collar” feel to the place. No other tourists to be seen. The men wore jeans and work shirts. The women were dressed very oddly for breakfast. They seemed overdressed, though there wasn't that much in the way of dresses or gowns. Their make-up was excessive and seemed like it had been on too long. They were very friendly. It took a while for reality to set in. They were hookers.
Jewish hookers. The bus drivers were also Jewish. So were the cops and tour guides and plumbers. Israel had everything a bona fide country had, people with white-collar jobs, blue-collar jobs and pink-collar jobs. We just happened to be at a hotel with ladies with multi-color make-up.
When we got to Jerusalem two days later it was Friday and we timed our visit to go to Hannah's house for dinner. The highway from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem was littered with rusting tanks and jeeps, remnants of the war for Independence, 17 years before. They were left as museum pieces for tourists, as visible reminders of “Never Again.”
A local bus took us close to Hannah's and we walked the rest of the way. Dinner was wonderful, especially as Jeffrey and I were watching our very finite spending money, eating pita with humus and falafel, shawarma, or fried eggs, the later being our meal in the bistro. There was also a guest, Hannah's sister, Yaffa. Long black hair, bright eyes, and a ready smile, she only made a little fun out of these two Americans. She was a ready guide for our Jerusalem stay, but she scared Jeffrey a bit with some of her
stories.
When we returned to Tel Aviv, our bags were intact and a room was waiting as promised. From there, we took tours to the south to Be'ersheva, back via Ashkelon and Ashdod. We went north to Netanya, Haifa and Tiberias. We visited Safed, missing the visit of the Satmar Rebbe by one day. He was infamous in Israel for counseling his followers not to go to Palestine when they could. Most never did. They perished in the gas chambers and camps of the Third Reich, though the Rebbe, who denied the possibility of a State of Israel without the coming of a true Messiah, survived by getting to Switzerland. Though protected by the Israel Defense Forces, he complained he couldn't travel freely. He would have been killed without them.
We were in Tel Aviv when Moshe Sharett, the second Prime Minister of Israel died. There was a massive funeral procession for him. We were there. You will have to take my word for it because my camera fell apart during as we watched and I never got another picture. I never got a picture in the next five weeks as we toured Europe either. It has led me to life long misadventure with photography. (Please reference the pictures from Brenna's sixteenth birthday or Scott's college graduation.)
When we left, we flew to London, then immediately took a train to Edinburgh. Good Lord it was cold, at least to this southern boy who woke up in the Middle East. I survived by purchasing a thick green sweater. Although I credit my life to this fine Scottish work, my family has universally rejected it, and exists today, unloved and hidden.
We didn't really appreciate how far north we were, until I went out to mail Jeffrey's daily mail. It was still light, yet most establishments were closed. It took me almost 10 minutes to find a pub, where they directed me to a mailbox after I warmed up with a local brew. On the walk home, it dawned on me that the sun sets dramatically later this far north.
We returned to London in a few days and took in the typical tourist haunts, Buckingham Palace, Parliament, and 221 Baker Street. This of course is one of the most famous fictional addresses in literature. The fact that it doesn't exist didn't bother me in the least, though Jeffrey was a bit confused.
I caught up in my sleep in London, but was wide-awake when we got off the channel ferry in Holland. After a short train ride we were in Amsterdam, one of my favorite places in the world. We stayed in a hostel, rode bikes, something not for the faint of heart, and went to magnificent museums.
I wrote to Loretta from Amsterdam. The museums reminded me of her and her love of art. I was beginning to realize how much I thought about her. I didn't know that was what it meant to miss someone. I never had really missed anyone before.
We skipped Belgium and slept through much of the day in Zurich, though the view of the lake from the hotel bar was incredible. Another train took us to Florence. That's where we met the girl from New York with a big grin and a girl friend. Over the next few days I didn't see much of Jeffrey, though I knew he was there. My father would not have been happy if I lost him.
Like most of the people we traveled with, Rome was our next stop. By then, both girls were spending time with me in the evening as Jeffrey completed his assault on the Guinness Book of records for the most letters ever written. I think he used a ball point pen.
The days were spent dodging traffic, seeing fountains, and looking for a pizza. Never did find any. We went to the opera to see "Aida", more fountains and the beach, hence the black bathing suit.
From Rome, we went to Nice, a place of odd beaches and really small bathing costumes as they were called. Nice was bright, sunny and full of people our age. The four of us, as well as the vast majority of the crowds, were enjoying ourselves with little thought of work, school or home.
Then in late July, a few days before we had to be in Paris to meet our flight home, we saw batches of people gathered in knots. They were reading the International Herald Tribune. Johnson was mobilizing troops to go to Viet Nam. The "advisors" were being beefed up to take over the war, in effect taking over the war against the North Vietnamese. Was this to be a Korean War, a senseless slaughter ended by a still in effect Truce? Or would it be a Spanish Civil War, with North and South Vietnamese armies becoming surrogates for the US and the USSR and or China?
The crowds became quiet and slowly drifted apart. The street noises were there, piercing the strange silence. The day became gray without a cloud in the sky. We said our good-byes and left.
A few days later, Jeffrey and I arrived in New York. We were upbeat about being home and recalling our trip as if it was some years ago. Jeffrey was staring dental school and I was going back to medical school.
When I returned to Atlanta, I found out that Loretta had never received my letter. I saw her more and more, creating a scene when I couldn't. Not big ugly scenes, just little memorable ones, like introducing myself to her date. I spent most of time outside of school thinking about her.
After Nice, the girl from New York and I just went our ways. We had all been brought back to earth and didn't really need to say good-bye. Six months later, Loretta and I eloped. A few months after that Loretta took a call in our apartment one evening. I heard her say that she was my wife and then put the phone down. It seems the woman on the other end hung up.