Islands in The Sun


Can * nois * seur ( Kan ' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis


Heads Up: We fell by Grass Roots @ 1077 Post Street, San Francisco, and browsed a full menu that included a number of new sativas. Our choice, Kanaga, reputedly of African origin, is a dusty green bud with reddish leaves, and bright, shiny crystals, that lifts off quickly, then unfurls like a global satellite, picking up cosmic vibrations as it orbits earth. Its long arc has a soft splashdown, and allows time for meditation on the beach. A high-end item at $60 the eighth, but definitely budworthy.



Another worthy stop, Re-Leaf, 1284 Mission street @ 9th, is holding a superior version of SnoCap. This deep green and orange flower has thick mature leaves, sprayed with white crystals, and slowly expands as it elevates, like a majestic zeppelin on a round-the-world flight. Afterwards this billowy hybrid deposits the traveler in a first-class hotel for a soothing nap.
A bargain at $55 an eighth. Check their liberal discount policy.


Islands in the Sun: Rome '65


What could be bad? A leggy Swedish model, a summer in Rome. Magi met me for coffee the next morning and for two days we were inseperable. She spoke Italian (as do i ) French (un peu) , Spanish ( si ) and a smattering of German (nein ). So were were able to communicate, pun, laugh and romance on a few levels. She knew Rome well and we wandered everywhere. i took her to a pizzeria at Fontana Di Trevi, where their jukebox had The Stones' Little Red Rooster, which i played every day. One morning however, i went to American Express and the check was still in transit. There was no choice, i had to make arrangements to go back to the States. As it happened my parents had retired and moved back to Italy, a town called Terni, in Umbria, made famous for manufacturing the rifle that shot Kennedy. My plan was to visit my folks for a week or so, pop back to Rome (two hours away) every few days to check AMEX, and if my investors had not made good, fly back to NY and kick ass.
For the past few days Magi and i had been making plans for an island getaway. i was pressing for Hydra in Greece, she for Ischia, off Naples. We settled on Hydra. When i told her of my intention to visit Terni, and go to New York if necessary, she insisted that she had money enough for both of us to go somewhere for a couple of months. But my mind was set. So we agreed to meet on Hydra if my money came through. So off i went to Terni, for a visit with my parents, during which i developed an enlightened technique to deal with their ritual traps and grievances. And happily it worked. Meanwhile my trips to Rome weren't so happy. i started making arrangements to fly back to the Apple. My last week in Terni, i went with my parents to Rome to attend a wedding. When we returned a telegram was waiting. It was from Magi, urging me to come to Hydra. i immediately sent a wire back, saying i was on my way, hang in. How to get there was my only problem, and Greece wasn't that far. That very next day i got a phone call. Two of my pals from NY, Eddie A and Gerry had heard of my exploits and were driving to Beirut. They were actually in Terni, hoping i would give them the route to the hash fields. We all shared a joyous reunion, and it was settled. They would drive me to Piraeus, where i could catch a ferry to Hydra, and i would map out their hash strategy. None of this surprised me. In the sixties, synchronicity was a fact of life. Driving straight through to the car ferry, the trip took about thirty six hours. The drudgery was alleviated by some ups i had stashed for just such an emergency. We talked. I told them my first choice Tom, had vanished, so i went with Ahmed. When we smoked some of my white hash, they were determined to find Tom. They deposited me at the ferry office in Piraeus, which coincidentally was their booking office for a freighter to Beirut. They invited me along but i was on a mission. The three of us sat in an outdoor cafe until my ferry was due to sail. Then, sleepless and coming down, i boarded the crowded boat, not knowing if Magi had gotten my wire, or had left the island. It was a short, if quiet, voyage, which suited me. I found a window seat inside and stared at the water. When we docked the passengers crowded towards the exit. i just sat there waiting for things to clear. From my seat i saw the dock was crowded with people dressed in black. Suddenly a loud wail went up and i saw a coffin was being carried from the ferry and passed overhead, hand over hand, to a horse drawn carriage. i waited respectfully until most of the dock was clear, then started down the gangway. And there, blond hair flashing above the departing mourners, was Magi. Instantly my comedown cleared.
Hydra is a glorious, if stark, island. To this day it has a ban on autos. Mules rule. The water is crystal clear, and one can eat grilled sea food on the beach. Leanord Cohen, then known as the author of a novel titled Beautiful Losers, lived there. His musical career was in its infancy. Then one night, walking after dinner, i spotted two thirds of the Alexandrian Trio, Benny and Joe, in an outdoor cafe, back from Egypt. Joe rushed up to greet me. "Did you make a killing in Beirut?" he asked. i shrugged, wondering what had happened to the third member of their party.
i didn't get a chance to find out. Magi was uncomfortable on the island for a number of reasons, one of which was that Joe was an ex boyfriend. Talk about synchronicity, considering the fact that i had picked them out cold, in a cafe in Athens, two months before, as players. Signs were everywhere, and i was totally connected. And so it came to pass that me, Magi and all seven of her suitcases ( they came down the hill strapped to a mule ), left Hydra, went back to Italy, took the express train to Naples, and another ferry to the emerald island of Ischia. We found a tiny room in Lacco Ammeno for a hundred bucks a month, and for the rest of the summer we swam, ate at beach restaurants, lay in the sun, made love, and generally lived in paradise. Ischia is a thermal island, meaning it has hot volcanic springs and volcanic mud prized for its cosmetic properties.. At the beach i frequented, outside the town of Forio, the water was clear green velvet, and if you dug your toe in the sand at the water's edge, the heat was too intense. You had to pull out. When i swam about a hundred yards and looked back to the beach, the surrounding cliff bowl above, was obviously the remnant of a blasted out volcano. For centuries, emperors, senators, courtesans, and other knowledgable Italians had been coming to Ischia for the healing waters, and beautifying radioactive mud. The vegitation was equally lush, with flowers everywhere. The days too, were slow and lush, and at night our skin seemed to glow in the dark. But eventually even paradise has a last call.

Next: Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained

Recommended Viewing: Avanti! starring Jack Lemmon

Recommended Listening: The Future by Leanord Cohen

Recommended Reading: Raga Six