The Acropolis And Me--Spring '65
Can * nois * seur ( Kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.
Heads Up; Re Leaf, at 1284 Mission Street @ 9th, is currently stocking a superior Bubba Kush and equally well-raised Chem Dawg at relatively moderate prices.
Jack Herer is back at Medithrive, at 1933 Mission Street @ 15th, along with an arresting--and previously untasted-- Sativa named Sunset Boulevard, that cruises as smoothly as a limo on its way to a private party at an underground club. Also moderately priced, leaving enough to tip the driver.
The Acropolis And Me--Spring '65
The train from Florence took 10 hours to reach Brindisi. i arrived too late to get a hotel room and had to leave my bags at the station and wander the deserted town in search of coffee and a bun. Finally at the magic hour of 11am, i rented a room, took a shower, and fell asleep, having already booked passage on the overnight car ferry to Piraeus. The upside was i had use of the room until departure time.
Brindisi had little to offer in terms of character, its main function being the shuttling of cars and tourists to Greece. i had booked a chair ( a luxury as i discovered ) , which afforded me a place to nap on the overnight voyage.
Boarding a ship is always an event. Walking about i made the acquaintance of two London girls who sang She's Got A ticket To Ride in perfect harmony, and an upper class English dude who was driving his Jag along the Italian (kept it in second all the way ) Riviera, and who, during the night trip to Piraeus, hit on me. i had wondered why he was so rude to the London lasses...We docked in the a.m., and it was raining hard as i took the bus alone to Athens.
The Turkish freighter bound for Beirut didn't leave for four days so i had some time to admire the wonders of Ancient Greece. The scene in Athens was comprised of 3 key elements. A: The cafe in front of American Express Office. B: La Placa, which is a series of stairways, terraces, and tavernas. And C: The Acropolis. i circled them all at least five times a day. Finally i hit on a young Australian lady named Sandy who, in the course of our brief flirtation, introduced me to some hippies living below the Acropolis. One of them, a lady named Diane, told me her lover "plays the usual fabulous Flamenco guitar".
Herewith my own entries at the time: "Athens--narrow, gritty city...down home these Greeks and not much into anything besides singing Never on Sunday in Tavernas...saw all the sights."
i turned on an Australian pilgrim named Mark for the first time. He was intrigued and full of questions. During coffee at the American Express cafe he asked me how i knew who was a believer in the herb, (remember this was still '65 ). You just know, i replied. i looked around the cafe and spotted two dudes a few tables away. They had the vibe. i pointed them out to Mark saying, "i would bet anything that they'll be on that boat" ( meaning mine ), and sure enough they were...
Recommended Reading: Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.
Tangier Rises From The Sea
There were signs that we were approaching land. First, were the birds. Then, various island-like patches, and an increase in passing ship traffic. i anxiously anticipated my arrival in Tangier, haven for Beat heroes Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Bowles ( who could forget that classic snapshot in a villa garden )...and a historic link in cannabis culture. The people of Tangier, indeed all of Morocco, smoked pipes of kif with their mint tea. Alcohol was legal but frowned upon. Their daily kif was actually cannabis intercut with black tobacco ( the act of cutting was considered a minor art ) . All of this i would eventually learn, but at that moment, life was lush aboard ship. The sea was calm, skies blue, atmosphere most friendly, and all meals served on time. No one was anxious to leave the cocoon. However, on the 1ith day of our voyage we came within sight of land, and on the 12th day we sailed into the Bay of Tangier.
Some entries i made at the time:
"Morocco comes up white against the mountains-settled nicely along the curves of its hills, laying flat, lean and gold-domed, facing a cold green bay...the new city looking like Miami should, the old city strangely innocuous, low and still from a distance. Before the boat had docked a dozen Moroccans boarded. At once the smell of kif...everybody with a pipe..." Of course we were all excited at actually being there. Sailboats and schooners leaned in the wind and we could see pointed minarets, domed mosques, and bleached bone dwellings stacked like dominoes around the bay.
After passport check, and visa stamp, a few us were preparing to go ashore when my Moroccan pal Yarmi pulled me aside. He needed a favor. He wanted me to carry a pistol ashore, since i wouldn't be searched, and he would. Say What? i declined but left with a new appreciation for revolutionary fervor. Those weren't just parlor games Yarmi was playing.
Lisa, Danny and myself came off first, other groups left the ship at various intervals. When we hit shore it took a few minutes to relearn to walk on terra firma, having adjusted to the sea's steady roll. i learned what the term "sea legs" really meant. Now, Lisa was a statuesque lady, a shade over 6 feet, long blond hair, well endowed, tanned, and she enjoyed flaunting it. She wore a fishnet top and mini, which gave the locals pause, seeing as how their women wore veils. At this point i'll quote more entries: "the road from the dock takes you to the old city along the sea walk, then up flights of stairs between two buildings...the faces are the first thing, colors, shapes, combinations of flesh exotic yet innocent.Everybody on the make for some sort of score--sex or soup..." i was overwhelmed by the whole scene: veiled women, men in robes (djelabas), others in suits and Fez hats, right out of a Bogie movie, and there i was with a Valkyrian Ilse, and a sidekick who bore a passing resemblance to young Peter Lorre. As we entered the Socco Grande, which is the large outer market, dodging pedestrians, pack mules and bicycles, a dude popped up and introduced himself as Baghdad. He resembled a plump Lenny Bruce in his white Levi jacket, and he offered to show us around. We both knew what he meant and i agreed. Lisa was hesitant but game. we all bought pipes at a local stall, then walked through the gates into the Socco Chico, or small market. Actually the Socco Chico is the oldest part of the old city, streets cramped, a maze of alleys... we repair to a beat looking cafe and sit behind the counter. as we smoked the owner served mint tea. i purchased a few pieces of majoun ( hash candy ), some kif, and walked out into: "another kind of scene--intense, slow, long...the streets are tight...strange non-Arabic types, how did they get here? Chinese hips, Caucasian dips...A cat comes from nowhere and tells us our friends are down the street..." You may recall i mentioned that before cell phones, twitter and email, we had the Grapevine? Well these cats in Tangier had it down to a fine art. As i put it then, "one hour and our scene is in the street..." We hooked up with shipmates who were on to Spain, or other parts of Morocco and said our goodbyes. Then another turn around the city, and back to the ship. A nice way to dip one's foot into deeper waters...
We sailed that night but didn't go far, dropping anchor off Gibraltar, within sight of Morocco. Lisa slipped out early and brought back breakfast. That afternoon we basked while the ship took on cargo. More entries: "sun...sailboats...the three-masted schooner we saw in Tangier Bay...i lift my head and realize i'm looking past my feet, across the Mediterranean, at Gibraltar...i roll over and dig Spain while the sun warms my back..." At sunset, the next day, we pulled into Genoa, Italy. Viewing the houses on a far hill Lisa said, " it seems almost as if they had been thrown carelessly there..." That night was far from serene. Lisa wanted to take her Great Dane for a walk, since Italian law allowed dogs on shore, but because she was a deportee, she needed a minder, so the ship's captain decided to go along. So there we were; me, the captain, and Liza in her black fishnet shirt, mini skirt, and boots, holding a huge black Dane. The moment she set foot on shore the Italians started to gather, offering loud appreciation. In contrast, the Moroccan men had been most cool. Lisa loved it. Her face glowed like Kim Basinger under a hot light. We were followed by a noisy entourage as we strolled through the city. Later, after the dog was safely back aboard, the captain took us on a tour of the underside of the port of Genoa, seamy bars, alleys stinking of urine...we made it a short tour. That night my roomie Mickey offered to drive me, Lisa and Danny to Florence. i was due to leave the ship in Naples but it made no difference. So it was decided, we'd all drive to Florence where we'd go off on our various paths. Lisa back to Genoa to catch the ship to Yugoslavia, Danny would stay in Florence and Mickey would go on to Czechoslovakia My destination was the ferry at Brindisi, on the Adriatic, which went to Athens by way of Piraeus. From there i would book another freighter to Beirut, then up to the hash fields in Baalbek. Why not just stay in Tangier, one might ask. It was a matter of quality--and safety. Tangier was already well known as a pit stop on the hippie trail. The next morning we set out for Florence in Mickey's White Chrysler Imperial, cruising along the Italian Riviera, rock and roll on the radio, Lisa still knocking out local citizens as we pass. It was dusk when we arrived: "a 3/4 moon over Florence...the cathedral, everything faded over with blue..." A bit of food, espresso, and it was time to part. My farewell scene with Lisa drew an enthusiastic crowd at the train station. She went back to Genoa, and i took the night train to Brindisi. Alone again on the road to Damascus...
Tangier Rises From The Sea
There were signs that we were approaching land. First, were the birds. Then, various island-like patches, and an increase in passing ship traffic. i anxiously anticipated my arrival in Tangier, haven for Beat heroes Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Bowles ( who could forget that classic snapshot in a villa garden )...and a historic link in cannabis culture. The people of Tangier, indeed all of Morocco, smoked pipes of kif with their mint tea. Alcohol was legal but frowned upon. Their daily kif was actually cannabis intercut with black tobacco ( the act of cutting was considered a minor art ) . All of this i would eventually learn, but at that moment, life was lush aboard ship. The sea was calm, skies blue, atmosphere most friendly, and all meals served on time. No one was anxious to leave the cocoon. However, on the 1ith day of our voyage we came within sight of land, and on the 12th day we sailed into the Bay of Tangier.
Some entries i made at the time:
"Morocco comes up white against the mountains-settled nicely along the curves of its hills, laying flat, lean and gold-domed, facing a cold green bay...the new city looking like Miami should, the old city strangely innocuous, low and still from a distance. Before the boat had docked a dozen Moroccans boarded. At once the smell of kif...everybody with a pipe..." Of course we were all excited at actually being there. Sailboats and schooners leaned in the wind and we could see pointed minarets, domed mosques, and bleached bone dwellings stacked like dominoes around the bay.
After passport check, and visa stamp, a few us were preparing to go ashore when my Moroccan pal Yarmi pulled me aside. He needed a favor. He wanted me to carry a pistol ashore, since i wouldn't be searched, and he would. Say What? i declined but left with a new appreciation for revolutionary fervor. Those weren't just parlor games Yarmi was playing.
Lisa, Danny and myself came off first, other groups left the ship at various intervals. When we hit shore it took a few minutes to relearn to walk on terra firma, having adjusted to the sea's steady roll. i learned what the term "sea legs" really meant. Now, Lisa was a statuesque lady, a shade over 6 feet, long blond hair, well endowed, tanned, and she enjoyed flaunting it. She wore a fishnet top and mini, which gave the locals pause, seeing as how their women wore veils. At this point i'll quote more entries: "the road from the dock takes you to the old city along the sea walk, then up flights of stairs between two buildings...the faces are the first thing, colors, shapes, combinations of flesh exotic yet innocent.Everybody on the make for some sort of score--sex or soup..." i was overwhelmed by the whole scene: veiled women, men in robes (djelabas), others in suits and Fez hats, right out of a Bogie movie, and there i was with a Valkyrian Ilse, and a sidekick who bore a passing resemblance to young Peter Lorre. As we entered the Socco Grande, which is the large outer market, dodging pedestrians, pack mules and bicycles, a dude popped up and introduced himself as Baghdad. He resembled a plump Lenny Bruce in his white Levi jacket, and he offered to show us around. We both knew what he meant and i agreed. Lisa was hesitant but game. we all bought pipes at a local stall, then walked through the gates into the Socco Chico, or small market. Actually the Socco Chico is the oldest part of the old city, streets cramped, a maze of alleys... we repair to a beat looking cafe and sit behind the counter. as we smoked the owner served mint tea. i purchased a few pieces of majoun ( hash candy ), some kif, and walked out into: "another kind of scene--intense, slow, long...the streets are tight...strange non-Arabic types, how did they get here? Chinese hips, Caucasian dips...A cat comes from nowhere and tells us our friends are down the street..." You may recall i mentioned that before cell phones, twitter and email, we had the Grapevine? Well these cats in Tangier had it down to a fine art. As i put it then, "one hour and our scene is in the street..." We hooked up with shipmates who were on to Spain, or other parts of Morocco and said our goodbyes. Then another turn around the city, and back to the ship. A nice way to dip one's foot into deeper waters...
We sailed that night but didn't go far, dropping anchor off Gibraltar, within sight of Morocco. Lisa slipped out early and brought back breakfast. That afternoon we basked while the ship took on cargo. More entries: "sun...sailboats...the three-masted schooner we saw in Tangier Bay...i lift my head and realize i'm looking past my feet, across the Mediterranean, at Gibraltar...i roll over and dig Spain while the sun warms my back..." At sunset, the next day, we pulled into Genoa, Italy. Viewing the houses on a far hill Lisa said, " it seems almost as if they had been thrown carelessly there..." That night was far from serene. Lisa wanted to take her Great Dane for a walk, since Italian law allowed dogs on shore, but because she was a deportee, she needed a minder, so the ship's captain decided to go along. So there we were; me, the captain, and Liza in her black fishnet shirt, mini skirt, and boots, holding a huge black Dane. The moment she set foot on shore the Italians started to gather, offering loud appreciation. In contrast, the Moroccan men had been most cool. Lisa loved it. Her face glowed like Kim Basinger under a hot light. We were followed by a noisy entourage as we strolled through the city. Later, after the dog was safely back aboard, the captain took us on a tour of the underside of the port of Genoa, seamy bars, alleys stinking of urine...we made it a short tour. That night my roomie Mickey offered to drive me, Lisa and Danny to Florence. i was due to leave the ship in Naples but it made no difference. So it was decided, we'd all drive to Florence where we'd go off on our various paths. Lisa back to Genoa to catch the ship to Yugoslavia, Danny would stay in Florence and Mickey would go on to Czechoslovakia My destination was the ferry at Brindisi, on the Adriatic, which went to Athens by way of Piraeus. From there i would book another freighter to Beirut, then up to the hash fields in Baalbek. Why not just stay in Tangier, one might ask. It was a matter of quality--and safety. Tangier was already well known as a pit stop on the hippie trail. The next morning we set out for Florence in Mickey's White Chrysler Imperial, cruising along the Italian Riviera, rock and roll on the radio, Lisa still knocking out local citizens as we pass. It was dusk when we arrived: "a 3/4 moon over Florence...the cathedral, everything faded over with blue..." A bit of food, espresso, and it was time to part. My farewell scene with Lisa drew an enthusiastic crowd at the train station. She went back to Genoa, and i took the night train to Brindisi. Alone again on the road to Damascus...
Recommended Reading: Hell by Robert Olen Butler
Recommended Viewing; The Last Station with Helen Mirren
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Spring '65--Strange Lights At Sea
can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis
Spring '65--Strange Lights At Sea
That first morning out i awoke early. When i stood i realized the ship's roll had become deeper and more pronounced. Mickey was seasick and declined breakfast. Outside i saw the crew moving about without any problem. While deep, the swells were steady, giving me a chance to adjust to their rhythms. Breakfast was simple, but hearty. After all, the ship was Yugoslavian, and had a communal ambiance. Then i took a long walk around the decks. Lashed cargo made the main deck an obstacle course, but one could work one's way to the bow and stand in the wind, in the manner made famous by Leonardo DiCaprio 30 years later.
The rear was much roomier, if cluttered, but the passenger's deck and bridge deck were free and open, affording a fine view of the ocean around us. As Katherine Hepburn would say, the ship was yaw. It sat well in the water and had the lines of a greyhound.
By the time i returned to my cabin for a bit of reading time, i was beginning to find my sea legs.
After lunch, a good number of passengers were up on deck, enjoying the fair weather. A few were sunbathing, the blond was walking her Dane, others just paced. i continued to explore the ship then went up for some meditation in the sun.
Life on the freighter was pretty cushy. Breakfast, lunch, tea-time, and dinner, then drinks in the lounge. First and second class cabins had private bathrooms and showers, third class had communal facilities. As long as the weather held out, we were on the Queen Mary of the Underground.
Thankfully the skies remained clear as we plowed through the swelling ocean. On the first day out we sighted many vessels on the busy shipping lanes but later they became fewer, amplifying the sense of being alone, on a tiny boat, in the middle of a vast sea.
The older dude at my assigned dining table, professed disapproval of the ideas being thrown around( his new wife was much younger) and took to his cabin after meals. Following an after-dinner stroll on deck, i smoked a j and headed for the lounge with a few of my sides. The place was full. The two Cuban dudes Peter and Edwardo, were on hand, as was a California girl and a lady from New Zealand. there was also a cat from UCLA, Los Angeles, named Roger, with a Fu Manchu moustache and a big panama hat. He was heavyset, traveling with his wife Beth. Both were poets and were keeping a journal on the passengers. Roger wore Top-Sider sneakers. In fact the ship was full of new sneakers, well-known as being functional footwear on deck. This was in the pre-Nike era when your choices were limited to Converse basketball or Keds tennis.
So there we all were. i began talking to Danny, the intense dude i had spotted the night we pulled out, and a Moroccan cat name Yarmi. We discussed being and nothingness as Miles blew, and then the tall Blond with the Dane came in an played an Astrud Gilberto album. Her name was Lisa, and she was Yugoslavian. Soon the Cuban dudes were sitting around, listening to my Fania All-Stars Album, and a real sense of camaraderie began developing-- shared information, shared essentials, shared music...it was happening right there on board, as it was happening everywhere at the moment.
The crew was also friendly ( although it was reported that some had been caught peeping into portholes) and on the fourth night out, there was a ship's party, with the crew providing entertainment. Peter and Edwardo were there, as was Yarmi, my roommate Mickey, a lady from the mid west named Sue, another named Bonnie, a very athletic California girl named Sara, Danny, Lisa and an older couple who were hauling their vintage Bentley on the freighter. She was a well-kept American blond of perhaps 40, a Barbara Hutton type, and he a flamboyant European who wore tailored jump suits with matching cap, a la late period Nureyev. He drank excessively, she smiled seductively. At some point i was invited to their cabin for a nightcap. It was clear what was up but i passed, citing an aversion to alcohol. An innocent abroad. Anyway the party was a lot of fun with the crew dressing in women's clothes and doing a song and dance act. It started with all the passengers sitting in a circle and doing something foolish, to break the tension. i had my reservations at first, since this was in celebration of May 1, but the party did much to dispel the barriers between crew and passengers. Afterwards there was dancing and i noticed a bit of pairing off. Edwardo was trying to get it on with Sara with little success. Sara was flirting with me but in deference to my new pal i remained neutral. Sooner or later Lisa and i were due to get together...During my nightly strolls around the deck i did notice that the crew was sending blinking light signals to unseen vessels ( submarines ?). Once in a while one could see blinking lights in the distance. One of my diary entries reads: "The Boat Is Full Of Spies (a) my roommate is one (b) most of the crew is involved in some sort of spying ". Fanciful yes, but as it happened there was a serious political activist aboard. Like most Americans i was naive about politics outside of the USA and Vietnam. The events simmering in Africa and the Middle East were on my mental back burner. However my Moroccan pal Yarmi was very well informed and had a number of parlor games that involved the names of political leaders around the globe. i quickly realized the games were a teaching device. Still, Yarmi kept his beliefs to himself for the time being. Later things became more sinister.
The first party was such a success, there was a second. This time i danced with Lisa...By day five or six, life aboard the Tuhobic had settled into a mellow routine. Brisk deck walks after breakfast, reading and writing time, gossip with my amiable roommate who was enjoying things immensely, late morning exercises on deck, lunch, sunbathing, clambering over the poles like monkeys, more hikes around the decks; all enabled by beautiful May weather. and enhanced by Acapulco gold.
One night Lisa led me down to her cramped-but empty-cabin, her sixtyish roommate long gone due to a failure to communicate, and we communicated. Later, Lisa told me her ex boyfriend committed suicide and she had overstayed her US visa.
She was the one being deported...
Next: Tangier Rises From The Sea
Spring '65--Strange Lights At Sea
That first morning out i awoke early. When i stood i realized the ship's roll had become deeper and more pronounced. Mickey was seasick and declined breakfast. Outside i saw the crew moving about without any problem. While deep, the swells were steady, giving me a chance to adjust to their rhythms. Breakfast was simple, but hearty. After all, the ship was Yugoslavian, and had a communal ambiance. Then i took a long walk around the decks. Lashed cargo made the main deck an obstacle course, but one could work one's way to the bow and stand in the wind, in the manner made famous by Leonardo DiCaprio 30 years later.
The rear was much roomier, if cluttered, but the passenger's deck and bridge deck were free and open, affording a fine view of the ocean around us. As Katherine Hepburn would say, the ship was yaw. It sat well in the water and had the lines of a greyhound.
By the time i returned to my cabin for a bit of reading time, i was beginning to find my sea legs.
After lunch, a good number of passengers were up on deck, enjoying the fair weather. A few were sunbathing, the blond was walking her Dane, others just paced. i continued to explore the ship then went up for some meditation in the sun.
Life on the freighter was pretty cushy. Breakfast, lunch, tea-time, and dinner, then drinks in the lounge. First and second class cabins had private bathrooms and showers, third class had communal facilities. As long as the weather held out, we were on the Queen Mary of the Underground.
Thankfully the skies remained clear as we plowed through the swelling ocean. On the first day out we sighted many vessels on the busy shipping lanes but later they became fewer, amplifying the sense of being alone, on a tiny boat, in the middle of a vast sea.
The older dude at my assigned dining table, professed disapproval of the ideas being thrown around( his new wife was much younger) and took to his cabin after meals. Following an after-dinner stroll on deck, i smoked a j and headed for the lounge with a few of my sides. The place was full. The two Cuban dudes Peter and Edwardo, were on hand, as was a California girl and a lady from New Zealand. there was also a cat from UCLA, Los Angeles, named Roger, with a Fu Manchu moustache and a big panama hat. He was heavyset, traveling with his wife Beth. Both were poets and were keeping a journal on the passengers. Roger wore Top-Sider sneakers. In fact the ship was full of new sneakers, well-known as being functional footwear on deck. This was in the pre-Nike era when your choices were limited to Converse basketball or Keds tennis.
So there we all were. i began talking to Danny, the intense dude i had spotted the night we pulled out, and a Moroccan cat name Yarmi. We discussed being and nothingness as Miles blew, and then the tall Blond with the Dane came in an played an Astrud Gilberto album. Her name was Lisa, and she was Yugoslavian. Soon the Cuban dudes were sitting around, listening to my Fania All-Stars Album, and a real sense of camaraderie began developing-- shared information, shared essentials, shared music...it was happening right there on board, as it was happening everywhere at the moment.
The crew was also friendly ( although it was reported that some had been caught peeping into portholes) and on the fourth night out, there was a ship's party, with the crew providing entertainment. Peter and Edwardo were there, as was Yarmi, my roommate Mickey, a lady from the mid west named Sue, another named Bonnie, a very athletic California girl named Sara, Danny, Lisa and an older couple who were hauling their vintage Bentley on the freighter. She was a well-kept American blond of perhaps 40, a Barbara Hutton type, and he a flamboyant European who wore tailored jump suits with matching cap, a la late period Nureyev. He drank excessively, she smiled seductively. At some point i was invited to their cabin for a nightcap. It was clear what was up but i passed, citing an aversion to alcohol. An innocent abroad. Anyway the party was a lot of fun with the crew dressing in women's clothes and doing a song and dance act. It started with all the passengers sitting in a circle and doing something foolish, to break the tension. i had my reservations at first, since this was in celebration of May 1, but the party did much to dispel the barriers between crew and passengers. Afterwards there was dancing and i noticed a bit of pairing off. Edwardo was trying to get it on with Sara with little success. Sara was flirting with me but in deference to my new pal i remained neutral. Sooner or later Lisa and i were due to get together...During my nightly strolls around the deck i did notice that the crew was sending blinking light signals to unseen vessels ( submarines ?). Once in a while one could see blinking lights in the distance. One of my diary entries reads: "The Boat Is Full Of Spies (a) my roommate is one (b) most of the crew is involved in some sort of spying ". Fanciful yes, but as it happened there was a serious political activist aboard. Like most Americans i was naive about politics outside of the USA and Vietnam. The events simmering in Africa and the Middle East were on my mental back burner. However my Moroccan pal Yarmi was very well informed and had a number of parlor games that involved the names of political leaders around the globe. i quickly realized the games were a teaching device. Still, Yarmi kept his beliefs to himself for the time being. Later things became more sinister.
The first party was such a success, there was a second. This time i danced with Lisa...By day five or six, life aboard the Tuhobic had settled into a mellow routine. Brisk deck walks after breakfast, reading and writing time, gossip with my amiable roommate who was enjoying things immensely, late morning exercises on deck, lunch, sunbathing, clambering over the poles like monkeys, more hikes around the decks; all enabled by beautiful May weather. and enhanced by Acapulco gold.
One night Lisa led me down to her cramped-but empty-cabin, her sixtyish roommate long gone due to a failure to communicate, and we communicated. Later, Lisa told me her ex boyfriend committed suicide and she had overstayed her US visa.
She was the one being deported...
Next: Tangier Rises From The Sea
Recommended Reading: The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway
Recommended Listening: Ammons & Stitt by Gene Ammons & Sonny Stitt
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.
Freighters like The Tuhobic have no fixed timetable. The ship follows the cargo. So it was at least 36 hours after i boarded that the ship was ready to depart. For some months i had been focusing on meditation and maintaining silence. Not total, but down to a minimum of functional phrases, under the belief that all extraneous conversation is ego. So i took the time to get acquainted with my strange, new surroundings. From the deck i observed the polyglot mix of people boarding, including a tall, blond lady with a Great Dane, the cargo being loaded, the Yugoslavian crew scurrying back and forth; all of it grist for a novel. My second-class cabin was clean, and quite comfortable, with shower and bathroom, and my roommate proved to be an amiable, plump cat from Czechoslovakia who was driving to Hungary in the new Chrysler Imperial i had seen being loaded onto the deck. He also had a dog on board, a Wolfhound. ( the dogs were housed elsewhere) His name was Mickey and he confided that one of the passengers was being deported to Yugoslavia. He seemed to have a pipeline to the ship's gossip. He also told me the blond lady with the Great Dane had gone to the showers in her bra and the Captain ordered her back to her cabin, the crew had stopped working.
My daily meditation and awareness of silence (perhaps the other way around ) made me a good listener, a handy trait aboard a ship bound on a twelve day crossing. The other passengers seemed to have better intelligence concerning departure time, so they straggled on board the next day.
During my first lunch on board, there were three other passengers, including Mickey. At dinner the dining room was almost full. Then, at about 9 that night, The Tuhobic lifted anchor and began edging into The Narrows, a tricky tidal current between Brooklyn and Staten Island that leads to open sea.
i rolled a j and headed for the upper deck where i could get a view of our departure from New York, and our dive into the great unknown. There was a mist on the water but a bright moon shone through torn patches of clouds. i paused at the railing to light up before proceeding. As i turned to go up the stairs i saw a young cat standing in a corner, eyes closed and both hands crossed over his chest. My first thought was that he was nervous. i was a bit jumpy myself, a combination of anticipation and apprehension. i was reminded of my first day in the Army, on the bus to Fort Dix with forty strangers. Except this time there was no official safety net.
When i got to the upper deck i saw that a few others were up there. Two young American girls, the tall blond with the Great Dane, a pair of Latino cats, and an older dude who sat at my dining table.
Everyone stood in silence as the ship passed under the Brooklyn Bridge and the lights of the city began to recede. Soon the deck's roll became more pronounced and the land lights were swallowed by darkness. i went back down to my cabin to write a bit in my diary. Much of it was impressionistic, accompanied by drawings of passengers and crew. Re: the lady with the Dane; "she ( long frosted mind you waist length hair with boots legs and ass but not-) can't or won't communicate to the seventy-five year old widow who is her roommate--imagine."
This all of course, related to me by Mickey, my source for ship's secrets. i then went to the communal lounge with a couple of my albums. Earlier i found one could use the turntable behind the bar. Very civilized. Mickey was there having a drink (they cost 25 cents at sea--duty free ) however i did not do alcohol. Strictly cannabis and meditation for me at that point. After a listening to Thelonious Monk and reading a bit i decided to go back to my cabin. On the way i paused to light up and watch the ship cut through the sea. The sky was blazing with stars and the ship's lights reflected off the foam-speckled water giving it the look of green marble. That night, slowly rocked by the Atlantic, i fell instantly asleep...
Word of mouth took me to The Hemp Center ( also listed as The Patients Place ) at 4811 Geary Boulevard, San Francisco. The recommendation was well deserved. Arriving at THC, i was photographed, signed in and given a numbered card for future visits. This took less than five minutes. Inside is a large, very comfortable, room with a sofa lounge on one side, and a wood bar with stools where one can roll, or smoke. There is also a large screen TV, music, and a stage set-up for occasional performances. In the far corner stands a glass counter with an eclectic selection of strains and prices. i actually went back for their Jack Herer the next day but it had already vanished. However the other strain i test-purchased, Queen Dream, is definitely of royal lineage. The high-end hybrid unfurls like a lush magic carpet that transports one to higher realms of consciousness, while soothing the soul. Reflective and graceful, this lady will anoint your mind and body. A friendly club with very knowledgeable staff, THC has been in operation for over ten years. As we say in Italian, Centanni, a hundred years.
On The High Seas
Freighters like The Tuhobic have no fixed timetable. The ship follows the cargo. So it was at least 36 hours after i boarded that the ship was ready to depart. For some months i had been focusing on meditation and maintaining silence. Not total, but down to a minimum of functional phrases, under the belief that all extraneous conversation is ego. So i took the time to get acquainted with my strange, new surroundings. From the deck i observed the polyglot mix of people boarding, including a tall, blond lady with a Great Dane, the cargo being loaded, the Yugoslavian crew scurrying back and forth; all of it grist for a novel. My second-class cabin was clean, and quite comfortable, with shower and bathroom, and my roommate proved to be an amiable, plump cat from Czechoslovakia who was driving to Hungary in the new Chrysler Imperial i had seen being loaded onto the deck. He also had a dog on board, a Wolfhound. ( the dogs were housed elsewhere) His name was Mickey and he confided that one of the passengers was being deported to Yugoslavia. He seemed to have a pipeline to the ship's gossip. He also told me the blond lady with the Great Dane had gone to the showers in her bra and the Captain ordered her back to her cabin, the crew had stopped working.
My daily meditation and awareness of silence (perhaps the other way around ) made me a good listener, a handy trait aboard a ship bound on a twelve day crossing. The other passengers seemed to have better intelligence concerning departure time, so they straggled on board the next day.
During my first lunch on board, there were three other passengers, including Mickey. At dinner the dining room was almost full. Then, at about 9 that night, The Tuhobic lifted anchor and began edging into The Narrows, a tricky tidal current between Brooklyn and Staten Island that leads to open sea.
i rolled a j and headed for the upper deck where i could get a view of our departure from New York, and our dive into the great unknown. There was a mist on the water but a bright moon shone through torn patches of clouds. i paused at the railing to light up before proceeding. As i turned to go up the stairs i saw a young cat standing in a corner, eyes closed and both hands crossed over his chest. My first thought was that he was nervous. i was a bit jumpy myself, a combination of anticipation and apprehension. i was reminded of my first day in the Army, on the bus to Fort Dix with forty strangers. Except this time there was no official safety net.
When i got to the upper deck i saw that a few others were up there. Two young American girls, the tall blond with the Great Dane, a pair of Latino cats, and an older dude who sat at my dining table.
Everyone stood in silence as the ship passed under the Brooklyn Bridge and the lights of the city began to recede. Soon the deck's roll became more pronounced and the land lights were swallowed by darkness. i went back down to my cabin to write a bit in my diary. Much of it was impressionistic, accompanied by drawings of passengers and crew. Re: the lady with the Dane; "she ( long frosted mind you waist length hair with boots legs and ass but not-) can't or won't communicate to the seventy-five year old widow who is her roommate--imagine."
This all of course, related to me by Mickey, my source for ship's secrets. i then went to the communal lounge with a couple of my albums. Earlier i found one could use the turntable behind the bar. Very civilized. Mickey was there having a drink (they cost 25 cents at sea--duty free ) however i did not do alcohol. Strictly cannabis and meditation for me at that point. After a listening to Thelonious Monk and reading a bit i decided to go back to my cabin. On the way i paused to light up and watch the ship cut through the sea. The sky was blazing with stars and the ship's lights reflected off the foam-speckled water giving it the look of green marble. That night, slowly rocked by the Atlantic, i fell instantly asleep...
Next: The Boat Is Full Of Spies
Recommended Reading: The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles
Saturday, February 6, 2010
can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.
While a Sativa man by inclination, a recent visit to Divinity Tree, 958 Geary Street, San Francisco, turned up a superior Indica named AfroBerry. This strain might just as well be called The Big Easy for it's sense of languid well-being. Like a lazy breeze on a warm summer night, it has a long arc that is both contemplative and refreshing. Ideal for anxiety, pain-management, or kicking back with some good music.
" The past is never dead. It isn't even the past..."
William Faulkner
The Road To Damascus
In January of 1965, the drums were beating loud and clear. The Style had begun permeating the culture and was slowly leaking into formerly square quarters, such as advertising, journalism and publishing. Over in England this Style had already manifested, in all its feathered glory. i had secured a part in an original underground play which performed in a large, damp, Manhattan cellar. Beyond that there were a few TV commercial spots. I was still studying but the acting career was on life support. One day while hanging with Jerry Cole, he reminded me that i was primarily a writer. In a moment of clarity i realized he was right. Problem was, i had made a few false starts on the Great American Novel, but what was really happening to my generation had a tendency to freak out most editors who had yet to come to terms with The Beats, much less the Hippies. Still, i took it seriously and began writing poetry again. i would practice writing to jazz, trying to conjure images, phrases, spontaneously.
i had also become something of a man about town, my services connecting me to scenes everywhere in the city. One of my favorite haunts was The Palladium, the mid-town dance palace that was home to bands like Tito Puente, Eddie Palmieri, Johnny Pacheko, and the most beautiful dancers in New York. ( mediocre dancers were loudly encouraged to leave the floor) The story went that one night the police raided The Palladium, sealing off the exits. Someone had the wit to turn out the lights. When they returned, the floor was littered with drugs and weapons.
My relationship with Cathy had peaked, and i was still yearning to go out in search of the source.
Every time i heard stories of people going to, or coming from, London, Paris, Beirut, India, Nepal, or Mexico, my appetite for adventure yawned deeper. i began making plans in that direction.
New York was working for me, nice west-side pad, easy rent, solid income, hip-cred, lovely young ladies, but i needed real swashbuckling experience for my forthcoming novel. And trekking to the Middle East for a couple of kilos of hash sounded extremely cool.
So to this end i gathered a group of investors, four in all, to put in $200 each, towards my junket, with the promise that they would receive a pound of hash. Upon receipt they would then send along $500. On the surface a nifty plan. Ray came in, as did a pop artist named Steve Vasey, The Twins of course, and a would-be hipster name Jeffrey.
So it came to pass that i booked a one way passage at the N.E.W.S. Shipping company, on a Yugoslavian freighter named The Tuhobic, bound for Tangier Morocco, and Naples Italy. Fittingly, it was the ship's maiden voyage.
Among my effects were vinyl albums by Ray Charles, Miles Davis, The Fania All-Stars, Jackie McLean, and Thelonious Monk, a copy of Siddhartha, a blank diary, a Rapidograph pen, about $1100 in cash and a leather pouch filled with Acapulco Gold. I was ready for the high seas.
Suggested Reading: The Armies of The Night by Norman Mailer
While a Sativa man by inclination, a recent visit to Divinity Tree, 958 Geary Street, San Francisco, turned up a superior Indica named AfroBerry. This strain might just as well be called The Big Easy for it's sense of languid well-being. Like a lazy breeze on a warm summer night, it has a long arc that is both contemplative and refreshing. Ideal for anxiety, pain-management, or kicking back with some good music.
" The past is never dead. It isn't even the past..."
William Faulkner
The Road To Damascus
In January of 1965, the drums were beating loud and clear. The Style had begun permeating the culture and was slowly leaking into formerly square quarters, such as advertising, journalism and publishing. Over in England this Style had already manifested, in all its feathered glory. i had secured a part in an original underground play which performed in a large, damp, Manhattan cellar. Beyond that there were a few TV commercial spots. I was still studying but the acting career was on life support. One day while hanging with Jerry Cole, he reminded me that i was primarily a writer. In a moment of clarity i realized he was right. Problem was, i had made a few false starts on the Great American Novel, but what was really happening to my generation had a tendency to freak out most editors who had yet to come to terms with The Beats, much less the Hippies. Still, i took it seriously and began writing poetry again. i would practice writing to jazz, trying to conjure images, phrases, spontaneously.
i had also become something of a man about town, my services connecting me to scenes everywhere in the city. One of my favorite haunts was The Palladium, the mid-town dance palace that was home to bands like Tito Puente, Eddie Palmieri, Johnny Pacheko, and the most beautiful dancers in New York. ( mediocre dancers were loudly encouraged to leave the floor) The story went that one night the police raided The Palladium, sealing off the exits. Someone had the wit to turn out the lights. When they returned, the floor was littered with drugs and weapons.
My relationship with Cathy had peaked, and i was still yearning to go out in search of the source.
Every time i heard stories of people going to, or coming from, London, Paris, Beirut, India, Nepal, or Mexico, my appetite for adventure yawned deeper. i began making plans in that direction.
New York was working for me, nice west-side pad, easy rent, solid income, hip-cred, lovely young ladies, but i needed real swashbuckling experience for my forthcoming novel. And trekking to the Middle East for a couple of kilos of hash sounded extremely cool.
So to this end i gathered a group of investors, four in all, to put in $200 each, towards my junket, with the promise that they would receive a pound of hash. Upon receipt they would then send along $500. On the surface a nifty plan. Ray came in, as did a pop artist named Steve Vasey, The Twins of course, and a would-be hipster name Jeffrey.
So it came to pass that i booked a one way passage at the N.E.W.S. Shipping company, on a Yugoslavian freighter named The Tuhobic, bound for Tangier Morocco, and Naples Italy. Fittingly, it was the ship's maiden voyage.
Among my effects were vinyl albums by Ray Charles, Miles Davis, The Fania All-Stars, Jackie McLean, and Thelonious Monk, a copy of Siddhartha, a blank diary, a Rapidograph pen, about $1100 in cash and a leather pouch filled with Acapulco Gold. I was ready for the high seas.
Suggested Reading: The Armies of The Night by Norman Mailer
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