Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained

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

We headed past the Mission to the Bernal Heights Collective, 33, 29th street (off Valencia) for a test run. The dispensary is colorfully decorated outside, and after passing through ID check and the inner door, one enters a small but comfortable room, with table areas for smoking and vaporizers available, much like the Vapor Room in the Haight. The budtenders are extremely friendly, not pushy, giving one time to make a selection. The menu is quite varied with many hard-to-find strains. We chose God's Gift and were not disappointed. This hybrid is a full-bodied mind enhancer, with the easy liftoff of a condor spreading its wings and soaring above the California Coast on a sunny day, watching the colorful parasurfers, hang gliders, and skydivers below. A sweet taste of the West Coast groove...
While BHC consistently offers excellent versions of excellent strains, their discount policy varies
with the mood of the day. A bit pricey, but make no mistake, the Bernal Heights Collective is a first-rate joint.

Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained

Mid September '65, the Mediterranean was clear green glass, but a chill hovered in the late afternoon breeze. The season was dwindling on Ischia, the islanders preparing to hunker down
for the winter. i took a morning swim, diving underwater to follow a long ray of sunlight that shimmered like a gold carpet on the bottom of the sea. In the afternoon we boarded our weekly ferry to Naples, to check American Express. Lo and behold two letters containing money orders had arrived from New York. This meant we could A) go back to New York right away or B) go back to Baalbek and arrive in New York with seed money. We chose the latter. We found a travel agent in Naples who hooked us up with a freighter that went from Piraeus, Greece, to Beirut. Eight days later we would meet a freighter in Haifa, Israel, that would take us back to Naples.
So off we went on the now familiar overnight train to Brindisi Italy, and car ferry to Greece.
Lady M's seven bags presented logistic problems until we reached Piraeus and boarded our Turkish freighter to Beirut. The second night at sea, i woke up after midnight and saw a strong light coming through the porthole. It was the full moon, hanging low in the sky, the size and shade of an apple. Stars the size of dimes and quarters blazed like torches in the sky. i awakened Lady M and we went out on deck. As we watched, a shower of meteors rained down. We made a wish on every one, and they all came true. Be careful what you wish for....
During that time, traveling by cab in Lebanon was relatively cheap, and advisable, since between us we had a total of nine bags. The cab went up the same winding mountain road to the Bekka Valley, as had the bus, and left us at the same hotel i stayed at a few months earlier. We went to the ruins ( by now i knew as much as the tour guides), had tea at an outdoor cafe, wandered around the tiny market, and there i spotted my old pal Tom. He was happy to see me, and thanked me for sending Eddie A and Gerry his way. And yes, he could deliver what i needed that very night.
That evening, after dinner at the hotel, we went out for a walk to our prearranged meeting. Sure enough Tom arrived with four robed cohorts, and took us for a short ride near the ruins. There we exchanged the cash for the keys. We were good to go.
The next morning i booked a cab ride to Damascus, Syria. From there it was on to Jerusalem
with two and 1/2 keys of Baalbek's finest.

Next: The Jerusalem Shuffle

Recommended Reading: Finn by Jon Clinch

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

The Vatican Connection


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

Our visit to The Vapor Room, 607A Haight Street @ Steiner in San Francisco, proved to be a singular experience. Registration is easy, and not mandatory for the first visit. One enters a comfortable, low-ceilinged roon with a number of long tables fitted with vaporizers. The dispensary in the rear features a wide range of strains, edibles and concentrates, as well as their signature grinder. The staff is friendly, polite and low-key on sales, giving one time to make a selection. The atmosphere is quite restful with good music and a large, clean, fish tank to reflect on. We brought some take-out coffee with us, made our selection ( Orange Crush ), then were given a bag by the management and sat down to vaporize our herb. Within minutes everything was in its place and deeply mellow. A righteous club well worth checking out, The Vapor Room is a spiritual oasis in a sea of commerce.
Orange crush is a dense sativa with distinctive red leaves on a dark green field. Its' effect is like coming home after a tough day at the office, taking off your shoes, hooking your tail to a flying beast ( ikran in Navi ), and soaring off on a glorious journey to the floating mountains. Definitely a staple in any well-stocked stash.


The Vatican Connection



That May, Rome basked in balmy sunshine. i had taken a room in a pensione, located in the center, near the Spanish Steps, mainly because it came complete with meals. At this point i was on a thin budget. My suitcase, stuffed with nearly six pounds of hash was under the bed, reeking like bad shaving lotion at a prom. The first day i went out and bought a scale, six souvenir vases, and various packing supplies. i divvied the hash into six parts, which i put inside the six vases. ( Should you wish to read significance in the numbers, i refer you to Madonna. )
Having packaged and addressed said vases, i hiked over to Vatican City, home of Saint Peter's Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, and the Vatican Post Office.
There, at the Vatican Post Office, i dispatched six packages to my investors in New York. That done, i settled back for the long wait, a month or so i figured, before the checks rolled back... optimist that i was. Meanwhile i enjoyed my extended visit to the eternal city, walking the cobbled backstreets crammed with throwaway art, be it the faded remnant of a mural on some ancient archway, or odd skull carvings on a church, or the big marble foot ( il piedone ) near Rome University, the magnificent sculpted fountains everywhere, and my personal favorite, The Pantheon, which, at that time, still maintained its integrity as a pagan temple. Today its been co opted by the ever voracious church, which installed a makeshift altar and rows of pews inside, thus destroying-and desecrating- the divine symmetry of its circular interior.
Then too, was the easy pace beneath the city bustle, shared by most of its stylish citizens, the outdoor cafes, lolling on the Spanish Steps, browsing Campo Di Fiori's morning market, checking out the local movie stars ( real and imagined ) on Via Veneto, but by the third week i needed to make some decisions. My daily visits to American Express yielded no checks in the mail, and i was seriously considering returning to New York. About that time, perhaps in search of inspiration, i was practicing automatic writing and cut ups, much in the manner suggested by William Burroughs and Byron Gysin. During one of these sessions i jotted "four in the corner pocket please", in my diary. The next day, while walking the city, i spotted a flash of blond hair belonging to a lovely female, seated in a passing cab. i waved, she didn't seem to notice, but the cab slowed for a light. My deal was this: i wouldn't run, but if the light held i would walk up to the cab and speak to the lady. The light held for a long while. i knocked on the window and began my rap, asking if she'd join me for coffee. She shook her head, i persisted nicely, getting her name ( Magi ), and suggested we meet the next day at Piazza Del Popolo. As the cab went on its way i noticed where i was...the corner of The Four Fountains.

Suggested Reading: The Girl who Played With Fire by Steig Larsson

Suggested Listening: Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan

The Damascus Connection

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

Heads Up: Check out The Big Lebowski, now appearing at Medithrive, 1933 Mission Street between 14th and 15th. Like its namesake this hybrid sativa is a big, amiable bud, with surprising complexity underneath. It hangs for a good long time and leaves one feeling hale, mellow, and ready to roll.


The Damascus Connection

So there i sat on the mountaintop at Baalbek. My prospects-and my cash-dwindling, and my visibility growing uncomfortably with each passing day. After all, how many times can you study the ruins? So after making one last sweep of the rug market, and another tour of the Temple Of the Sun, i set out to find another connection. Shortly after lunch i went over to the cab stand and chose a driver that looked amenable, using whatever psychic currency i'd accrued during my months of meditation and semi-silence.
From my diary: "We had a talk which resolved itself at his home, the house way out of town...any town...I was back to the era of the first Arab people who wandered the hills with mule and flock, or camel and tent...The afternoon wore on, slow. I was on top of my vibrational count. i kept it simple, smile...I made some worry beads out of something I happened to find in my hand..."
People came to visit at my friend Ahmed's modest house at the side of a country road. we talked, sipped tea. We had chicken dinner and talked some more. A hookah appeared and we sat under the stars and smoked. More people came. Somewhere in there a deal was made. i slept at Ahmed's house that night. Sometime after dawn i awoke. Another diary entry: "I wake up...my friend's beautiful daughter hands me a towel and I go outside to wash...the caravans already on their way. A boy runs to the house for water, the caravan moves on. The woman on the mule angles slow but steady until the boy begins to run after them, looking ahead as he rejoins..."
So it was arranged. After a breakfast of tea, sugar and bread we drove back to town, where i checked out of the hotel. We then drove back to Ahmed's place, where i packed 2.5 kees into my bag. Ahmed seemed to be in a great mood, even buying a colorful oilcloth for his wife's kitchen table. We then drove out to the bus stop where i watched my bag get heaved onto the roof, hugged goodbye, and then back down the mountain to the big city. Diary entry reads: "A tigress of a city. Old Arab section for miles on one side, the other side a bay velveted with hotels...light grey flannels, blue vicuna blazer and a white boat of some sort, say 100 feet and 40 passengers, that's the style..."

i took a room at the Omar Kayham Hotel, but money was getting short. i made a collect call to the Twins in New York, and waited for the money to arrive. Every day i took a long walk along the promenade edging the bay. The St. George Hotel had a busy yacht basin, the Phoenicia was an impressive white tower. Stopping in the Phoenicia's air conditioned lobby in hopes of finding a Herald Tribune less than a week old, i spotted a cool looking barber shop. It occurred to me that trimming my lengthy locks before going through customs might be a wise idea. It turned out to be an excellent idea. i walked out into the sun with one of the best haircuts i've ever received... Flash Foward: San Francisco 2005. While dining at one of my favorite restaurants ( Zarzuella) i discovered the host was from Beirut, and mentioned the great haircut i got at the Phoenicia Hotel. The host told me his father used to get his haircut there. Not only that, but when the hotel was rebuilt, after the wars, they went out to find the old master barber, and reinstalled him in his shop.
There are very few good haircut stories...

Baalbek Haiku: The water jug placed/ in the shade of the stone/ at the side of the road

Finally the wire arrived and i purchased a ticket on a charter flight from Damascus to Rome. The plane was due to arrive a 6a.m. Ironically, the bus taking us to Damascus, Syria, had to negotiate the same winding road that took me to Baalbek. Because we were all boarding an immediate flight, there was minimal border check in Syria. The flight was uneventful, and at 6 a.m. yawning Italian customs inspectors just chalked the bags without looking. i was home free in Rome...

Recommended Reading: Without Stopping by Paul Bowles

The White Goddess--Baalbek 1965

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

Heads Up: A recent visit to Grass Roots @1077 Post Street, San Francisco, turned up a quality strain called Mother's Finest. This crisp, deceptively light sativa has a long fuse that implodes and flowers, like a nebula around a new star. And star it is, with a long distance arc that takes light years to cross. Definitely some exceptional herb.

The White Goddess

i awoke at 7am the next morning but according to local standards i was a layabout. Outside i could see mule caravans trudging past the hotel, veiled women wielding sticks astride the beasts, robed men in sandals walking with long country strides, children shepherding small flocks of sheep... After breakfast i walked around the tiny souk, then hiked across the grassy pitch to the ruins. For at least three hours i explored the magnificently evocative site. Just the six remaining pillars of the Temple of Jupiter were staggering. each was 68 feet high and stood on a wall of gigantic cut stones, overlooking the valley. The Temple of Bacchus was in much better shape, probably due to devout Marc Anthony's renovations. It had most of its columns, with the inner walls and overhead sections intact. Carvings and mosaics on the stones definitely bore a Greco-Roman influence. The granite platform, also known as the 'Grand Terrace' was a smooth as a ballroom floor. To think that these stones had to be pulled from the earth, measured and cut precisely, each weighing more than 450 tons, then hauled up the same mountain that had my bus wheezing, staggered my imagination. Added to that was the fact that they probably had to fight their way up. Now the Temple of Bacchus, and smaller Temple of Venus, were familiar in terms of architecture, but the Temple Of The Sun, reputed to be built by Solomon-- and the last structure still above water after the Great Flood--was lower and more massive, with a deceptively simple two-column entranceway to its many chambers, that hinted at a deeper, more mysterious aesthetic.

Finally i walked slowly back to my hotel for lunch, still pondering the experience. An entry from my diary:"The ruins ...have gassed me. The ancient Romans matched the magnificence of the country in one grand cast of marble dice. The table is poised where a nobleman's table should be, and on it ten generations of slaves worked 250 years to erect a fine ruin...the finest tribute to man's attempt to be something else..."

That afternoon, i got around to making a connection. Of course the first one to ask is a cab driver. However they all hung out in a cluster, and i knew that discretion would be severely compromised. Spotting a lone cab cruising back to the square i flagged it down. The driver was a dude called Tom, and responded immediately to my request. "Sit back, don't worry," he said, and drove further out of town. Along the way he stopped in front of a small house off the road. A woman came out, white veil covering her face. Tom said something, then drove off. After a mile or so he turned around. As we approached the house the woman came out holding a small paper bag. She placed the bag on top of a wooden post and went back inside. Tom leaned across the front seat and took the bag which he gave to me. Inside was a block of white/grey hash about the size of a Marlboro pack. "Put it away," Tom said nervously. I put the hash inside my boot. Sure enough a minute later two soldiers came into view. Tom slowed and they waved us on. "I need more than this," i told him, "at least two kilos." "Tomorrow," he assured me, still nervous, "I meet you in market." When i returned to my room i shaved some hash from the block and rolled a tobacco J. To this day i have not had better, and this includes Indian Fingers, Tangier Black, and Nepalese Temple Balls. It generated a transcendant state of consciousness. Nicely overwhelmed i decided to go out for a walk. The air in the Bekka Valley was fresh and clean, and the muted natural colors, and calm pace of life were soothing. i veered off the path and just walked, taking deep breaths and digging the lush hills, veiled by blue mists. Looking down, i saw a double line of large black ants, going intensely about their business. Fascinated, i paused to study them closer, looking for insights. After a while i started on my way when two gruff, unshaven dudes, wearing traditional red-checkered headscarves, lumbered into view. Both were holding shotguns.

One of them asked me what i was doing there. Instinctively i knew that trying to explain i was high, and stopped to dig the ants would only confuse the issue. Instead i told them i was staying at the good hotel, which seemed to carry some weight. However i went back to said hotel with new insights concerning the situation in the area. The next day i awoke early and took a circle around the souk looking for Tom, but he wasn't around. i walked to the ruins and spent a couple of hours revisiting the site, then walked back to town. Still no sign of Tom. Three tours of the ruins later, it was becoming clear that Tom wasn't going to show. The following morning was the same. Realizing i was already too well known among the ruins, i sat on the Grand Terrace, working on plan B, and feeling vaguely isolated up there, like Marc Anthony trying to figure out how to get back to Rome. Later that morning i noticed the grassy pitch was filling up with the local inhabitants. Obviously it was some sort of holiday. The green field seemed to be one big Lebanese picnic. There were also more than a few soldiers about, already a common sight. i noticed the picnic games had a militaristic bent. There were some handbills tacked to the trees. They depicted a soldier charging into battle, bayonet at ready. Along the way i had tried to pick up basic language skills, especially numbers, which came in handy in a bargaining culture. So i was able to make out that the simple caption on the war image read; "1967".

i needed to be on my way. So the next day i made my move.

Coming Soon: The Damascus Connection

Recommended Viewing: Treme on HBO

Recommended Reading: Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes

Recommended Listening; David Gilmour w/ Crosby & Nash

The Sleek Tigress

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

Heads Up: You may have noticed that both Medithrive and Hope Net have stepped up their marketing. Medithrive has a strong website and recently has been placing prominent ( page 4 ) full-color ads in The SF Chronicle. Hope Net is posting large ads on the backs of MUNI buses and has also set up a nifty website. A big step in normalization.

Always an enjoyable stop on my weekly rounds, is Re-Leaf at 1284 Mission Street @ 9th--the main reason being their stock of superior herb at moderate prices, as well as their relaxed, down-home atmosphere. Often they come up with singular strains. and they are currently holding one of their most singular. It definitely qualifies for strain of the season. Bearing the unlikely name Kettenpom Kush, this dense Sativa expands the brain's APPs, infusing the synapses with escalating energy. Its long, dynamic arc could be called Stairway to Heaven because it keeps soaring into the great beyond. $60 an eighth might seem pricey, but a little goes a long way up.

The Sleek Tigress--Beirut '65

Before the wars came, they called Beirut 'The Paris of the Middle East'. Banks, insurance companies, boulevards jammed with stalled Mercedes, a seaside esplanade lined with luxury hotels including the St. George, which had a yacht basin. After a brief farewell with Betsy at the dock i cabbed it to the bus station which was on the other side of town. Over there it was the same low rent fourth-world confusion common to public transport in the Middle East. Of course the color and noise seemed exotic to me. I found the right bus by repeating my destination, and watched dubiously as the driver heaved my bag atop the vehicle, along with caged chickens, boxes, crates and suitcases bound with rope. It was crowded but i found a window seat, unwrapped my Moroccan majoun and settled back for a bumpy ride to Baalbek.
Once the bus was outside the city it began to climb the mountain, a corkscrew road that wound straight up. From time to time the bus would stop at roadside cafes, to pick up and let off passengers, the driver clambering atop to toss luggage to the ground. i would sip mint tea, which seemed to enhance the billowy enlightenment seeded by the majoun. From radios everywhere came the tinny strings of dramatic Arabian music. And the bus kept climbing, a good 40 mi up the big hill, overlooking steep, verdant valleys often viewed at a precarious angle. i was cool but watchful, having noted that about thirty percent of the cars i had seen in Beirut were being pushed. Maintenance did not appear to be a priority.


Three hours later we came to Baalbek at the edge of the lush hash fields of the Bekaa Valley. i was finally there, one of the holy sites of cannabis--and one of the wonders of archeology.

Baalbek itself was a tiny village consisting of a few cafes and rug merchants. It stood on one side of a very large grassy pitch perhaps the size of two football fields. Rising majestically on the other side were the famous Roman ruins of the temples of Bacchus, Jupiter and Venus. However the sites historic significance went back even further. It is said to have its origins under King Solomon ( who named it Heliopolis ) and was ruled by the Phoenicians who worshipped the god Baal (Assyrian Hadad). It was also ruled by the Ptolemaic Pharaohs of Egypt. Later, under Anthony and Cleopatra, the temples were restored, renovated and dedicated to Roman deities. It was--and still is-- located on an important trade route between Damascus and the Mediterranean Sea. Some notes from my diary:

"From Italy, to Greece, to Egypt, to Lebanon--as you go east you sense the change, then the change becomes apparent. First, the things that live: here everything is in full life--ants, children, lizards all doing their thing you understand with a fullness of expression...the bus goes up, up past the point where you can't see the sleek port town any longer, then around. always spiraling up, up, around...then bang a flash of the temple of Bacchus on a hillside and you're there. All this time Arab music, stops for sundry reasons, tattooed ladies, and wrestling (yes wrestling). The hotel right out of Capote via Huston..."
After checking in i took a walk. The town took about seven minutes to cover, but the ruins beckoned. i crossed the field and climbed onto the great stone platform that overlooks the valley. The platform itself is a wonder, flat granite blocks, forming an area the size of a football field. I checked out the temples but it was too much to take in right away. I was fascinated and exhilarated to be standing there. More entries from my diary.

"...you go along opening your lungs a bit and finding the rarefied Lebanese air rare indeed....and then you look up after a bit of that and understand it's sunset and lights have blinked on and the Arab music everywhere has been replaced in loudspeakers and echoes of the prayer calls. And the earth responds with colors from gold to purple to endless combinations... colors mixed in gaseous valences...giving them depth...the trunkless ruins..."

Now all i needed to do was find a legitimate hash connection.

Next: White Goddess

Recommended Viewing: Paths of Glory directed by Stanley Kubrick
written by Calder Willingham starring Kirk Douglas

The Alexandrian Trio-1965



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

Heads Up: Run don't walk to Re Leaf at 1284 Mission Street @ 9th in San Francisco for a taste of Ed's Big Bud. This nicely cured strain slowly lights up all the rooms in the brain, then opens the windows wide to let in a fresh breeze of optimism. A classic sativa from savvy grower Ed Rosenthal, at a most friendly price of $45 the eighth.

The Alexandrian Trio-1965

When i boarded the Turkish Freighter in Piraeus, it was clear that i was entering deeper, more serious waters. Make no mistake, the ship was comfortable, and the crew polite, if not exactly as fun-loving as my Yugoslavian mates. The second class deck was well appointed and had a thatched straw sun roof not unlike Bogie's African Queen. My shipmates were more austere than those on the Tuhobic, save for a trio of dudes traveling steerage. Two were the pair i had pointed out as fellow heads, at the American Express Cafe. One was called Benny, a stocky dude with freckles and a frizzy red 'fro, the other, a tall, good-looking cat with green eyes named Joe. Turned out Joe was the scion of a congressman. The third was a young traveler named Bob. The three were on their way to Egypt, via Alexandria. The reason for their trip was unclear. They hung out on the lower deck keeping mainly to themselves, always a bad sign. Benny seemed to be the alpha in the group. He had an arrogant attitude, and a cold vibe i recognized from encounters with violent criminals. Joe was cool, but friendly, especially out of sight of the others. Bob took his cues from Benny. The scene reminded me of another Bogie movie written by Truman Capote and John Huston, called Beat The Devil. After a brief conversation with Joe where he mentioned he met Jerry Cole in Paris, i decided to avoid those boys and hang with the upper deck crowd. Among those were an English brother/sister team who were traveling the routes mentioned in the Bible. In fact the boy, Derek, read the Old Testament every day. His sister was a fresh-faced girl called Susan who regarded me with a certain amount of suspicion. There was a stately brunette named Betsy, on her way to teach at the American University in Beirut, an older English couple who acted as if they were really first-class passengers relegated to second by some confounded wog error, and my roommate, a surly Italian from Rome, named Maurizio, who, with his lady friend Giana, was squiring a troupe of nightclub dancers to God knows where. After lunch and before dinner, the girls would rehearse their moves on deck. The sole downside was seeing their lonesome, sad, leotards. Otherwise the ladies, some from Denmark, others from France and Hungary, were a welcome addition to what was otherwise a stodgy group. It was all fine with me, still practicing a good amount of silence and meditation.
On the third day we reached Alexandria.
There she was, the ancient hub of civilization hundreds of years before Christ, and site of one of the seven wonders of the world. It was immediately clear that Tangier was a hick town in comparison, although there were similarities, albeit on a much smaller scale. Tangier was nestled around a bay, Alexandria loomed over it. The golden domes of mosques, and tall minarets, floated high behind terraced, beachfront apartments. Waiting below, were horse drawn carriages. Before we could debark there was passport check in the lounge. Benny and his boys were ahead of me. i saw Benny uncharacteristically smiling...for the benefit of the customs officer. i also saw that his passport, which the officer was examining, had an accordion-like appendage- basically extra pages--to accommodate the many visas he had already accumulated. Obviously, Benny liked to keep moving. This time he had to step aside and wait while the others, including myself, were stamped good to go. i left the trio behind and stepped into the Alexandrian sun.
But i would see them again...
i decided to take a carriage into town. Some notes from my diary: "I saw the horse and carriage as I was walking towards the gate. He yelled softly and I answered yes and we began...the sights were impressive and Jimi's questions ranged from did I drink whiskey to did I want to fucky fuck...Mohammed's mosque, shoes off at the entrance, put them in compartments...the mosque intricate and cool inside, small boys with books, cats just laying about...a washroom...a coin for Mohammed's tomb...'How much?' a boy asked, pointing to my sneakers as I put them on (all kids in Egypt into sneakers)...The bazaar set up like a gated Kasbah...the fortress, the aquarium, finally after much bandying on my part, the question...then Jimi asked me to sit back in the cab...along an old neighborhood section, all around people waving...we park by what turns out to be a stable...the children come to dig...I sit and drink a coke provided by my host...Jimi comes back, we smoke, he introduces me to the connection, Brahmin, who rolls my count. All the kids digging me, I finish my coke...the world has indeed changed Mr Bowles...20 people walk us out of the stable. Biggest send-off yet. 'Wish me luck' asks Brahmin. Something stays behind. Jimi and I joke on the leisurely ride back--I salute a coal black man striding tall towards some destiny..."
And so went my afternoon in Alexandria.
Back on the ship i felt cool and covered for the rest of the voyage, my stash of Acapulco Gold having run out in Athens. i still had a couple of pieces of Morroccan Majoun and a bit of kif. The joints of Egyptian hash would carry me to Beirut and beyond. A couple of the dancers hit on me lightly that evening, but there was a language barrier ( Danish ), and the fact that the chorus girls were watched closely by Giana, and managed by my roommate Maurizio, who was a churlish sort, took a sleeping pill every night, and seemed perpetually pissed off. Instead, i drifted into a flirtation with Betsy. Again some entries from that period: "Betsy, tall and American, M.A. in genetics, on her way to the University at Beirut. 6 feet and I knew when I saw her the sounds she would make when we made love..." The arrogance of the young artist, or the sensitivity of the young psychic? Whichever, my observations happily proved correct.


Next: The Sleek Tigress

Suggested Viewing: The Ghost Writer directed by Roman Polanski