Читать книгу Beyond Paris - Paul Alexander Casper - Страница 17

9:30 PM, April 20, 1970

The Athens Express streamed through the Greek countryside as I gazed with wonder out my open window. In the thick darkness I could feel the pulse of history throb in this ancient land. By now we were far from the oppressive bleakness of Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. We had left Istanbul the day before, and although our compartment was full, the trip had been, thankfully, quiet so far. The calm was a much-appreciated change from our days on the Orient Express.

While having a cigarette in the hallway, I heard a conversation that was somewhat concerning; our days of peaceful travel were in danger of ending. There had been another coup in Greece, and the military was in charge again. I wondered what that might mean for us.

Despite my new worry, I was feeling reborn, remembering my joy earlier in the day as I watched the sun-drenched landscape glide past. The morning had flown by as I surveyed the small, white, sun-drenched buildings peppered among pale ancient ruins, winding in and around picturesque olive and fig groves.

I called our train the Athens Express, but it was in no hurry. Distinctively highlighted with unusually colorful markings, its flamboyant exterior was in stark contrast to its very sluggish route. We stopped, it seemed, at every small town on the way, and although Istanbul to Athens isn’t that far, our trip was expected to take thirty-six hours. But there was an unexpected peacefulness to the slow train heading south and I enjoyed the relaxed pace.

Perhaps it was because I had made my peace with the inevitability of deciding, once in Athens, that my great adventure was over. I would explore options, but with my diminished funds, those options were few. Without a plane ticket home, I’d have to make my way to Luxembourg and then home from New York somehow soon.

One of the conductors walked by, announcing something in Greek. I glanced at him, confused, and he stopped and turned to look at me. He gazed at my face, sizing me up, deciding whether I deserved a translation. After two seconds he turned away and walked down the corridor. Whatever nationality I was, I wasn’t worth his time of day.

Although I didn’t understand most of what he called out in the car, I did hear the name of the Greek city of Thessalonica. Our map told us it was one of the biggest cities in Greece, so Doug and I assumed we would stop there.

I felt the train slowing a little. As Doug woke up from a nap, I told him I thought we were pulling into a station.

“Good, we can exchange some money. The heck with these Turkish lire; let’s get some Greek drachmas.”

Just about then, our conductor, let’s call him Zeus, came back, and Doug stopped him to ask how long we’d be in Thessalonica. Well, Zeus didn’t want to be interrupted, and even though Doug was obviously English-speaking, Zeus immediately started waving his hands above his head and yelling unintelligible words that sounded like Greek numbers. Doug asked him a couple of times, “You’re saying a two-hour layover, right?”

I thought Zeus was agreeing, yes, two hours. But Doug was unsure as the train pulled to a stop in the very large modern station.

We walked one of the long platforms to the stairs going down to a level below. Several minutes later we finally, after numerous turns, made it to the pedestrian area with shops. Unfortunately, it was now almost midnight, and everything was closed. We started back to our train, starving and unhappy we were not able to exchange our money. Just as we started up the stairs, I saw a rumpled International Herald Tribune tossed on the stone walkway floor. I picked it up to see how Rip Kirby was doing—had he found the Elysian Fields? Doug, also a fan of Rip, read over my shoulder and then started up the platform stairs.

I threw the newspaper into an odd-looking Greek garbage can, frustrated. Why couldn’t I have adventures like Rip? I didn’t need to look for ancient buried treasure, but I needed something, just something to make this trip a little more interesting. I was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs, still mumbling to myself, when I heard Doug yell, “Come on, our train is leaving!”

When I reached the top, I found him already on the train tracks, jumping over them to get to our train, which was definitely leaving. It began to pick up speed.

I panicked: Fuck! Are you kidding me, all my stuff is on that train; I’m dead. And again: Fuck! Really, now I have to jump down on those tracks, too, to catch that train?

Now, I wasn’t married to Doug or anything. If the fucker wanted to act crazy and try to jump on a moving train, well, good fucking luck. But hey, I thought, he’s been a damn good partner so far. If he gets on the train and I’m left here without my stuff or my traveling companion—I’m dead in the water. And during these very few seconds I had a last stupid thought: What would Rip Kirby do? I didn’t know, but without further thought, I decided: go for it!

As I jumped down two or three feet and maneuvered over tracks, I looked up and saw Doug hanging on one of the exit door railings of the train car just ahead, his feet dangling as he tried to get stable footing on the door’s footpad.

Everything was happening so fast, with only seconds to react. I saw only one option: jump on the next car. I took a tentative step forward, the train was already moving along. If you have ever seen a guy jump a moving train in a movie, you know you must move with it. But I had run out of time—the stair rail was right ahead of me, it was almost gone. There was no choice: I jumped up from an almost standing-still position. Suspended in midair, I thought of Rip. Hell, he would never have tried this; it would be incredibly stupid to jump on a moving train without a running start. Any adventurer would know that; any class like Adventurer Jumping 101 would teach you on the first day of class at any credible Adventurers College to never do that.

I saw two metal handles above my head and grabbed. I thought, If I miss them, I’ll be bounced off the train and thrown under its wheels. To this day, I can remember the shock of the enormous force of that moving train as I latched onto one of the handles. As it pulled me sideways I held on, my boots barely on the doorstep edge. When I looked up, heart pounding, I saw a wide-eyed conductor staring at me through the door window. He got over his shock quickly, and started yelling, identifying me as a bandit or worse, and pushing the door in and out to try and knock me off. I shouted, “Athens! Athena! Athens!” But he kept swinging the door back and forth while bellowing furiously in very angry Greek.

He eventually succeeded in dislodging one of my hands from its handle, and by now the train had picked up speed. I bounced on and off the train car step as the Athens Express changed tracks, rumbling forward through the station. I held on for dear life and looked ahead. We would be out of the station soon, speeding into the pitch-black Greek countryside. That would be even more dangerous than my present dilemma. Panic was rising in my throat as I contemplated being knocked off the train as we sped into the dark Thessalonian night, landing on my head in some bush-and-rock-infested ditch. I’d probably never be found, or maybe in a hundred years, I’d be misidentified as a Greek warrior or, as my current conductor, let’s call him Phi, would imagine, a bandit.

My focus on the darkness at the end of the station was interrupted by the shock of seeing Doug bounce and roll on the platform pavement alongside our charging train. I could only assume a conductor had knocked him off, and I would be next. I didn’t think; I just dropped. There was no time to orchestrate a planned jump; we were at the end of the platform. My feet landed first, but only for a second. The brute force of the moving train plunged me uncontrollably forward. I started to roll wildly, thinking, Protect your head! and reached out to stop the tumbling, sliding to a halt with my hands stretched out in front of me, ten feet from the end of the platform.

I turned over onto my back and looked up to see passengers from another train gathering anxiously around Doug and me. Everyone was talking at once, asking the same thing in multiple languages: “Are you alright?” “Estás herido?” “Es-tu blessé?” “Are you hurt?” And from the wisest among them: “You fools, you could have been killed!”

I lifted myself up to catch a glimpse of Doug, checking on his condition after the fall. I mouthed, “Are you OK?” He nodded and pointed to the other side of the platform, five to six sets of tracks away. There was our train, just where we left it. What! I could only laugh. Then it hit me. Distracted by the adventures of Rip Kirby we had gone up the wrong stairwell. Idiots, we were idiots.

We hadn’t run over tracks to leave our train for the stairwell when we disembarked the train, so why would we think we needed to do that to get back on? And one idiot is bad enough, but wouldn’t you think the other clown would hesitate and think, Stop, this doesn’t make any sense! After all these years, I still don’t have an answer, a good one anyway. I guess you just do things in life, and you either get away with them or you don’t. Would I do it again—no way! I’m not crazy. As I said, we were traveling together; where he goes, I go; where I go, he goes.

A couple of people helped me sit up, inspecting the bloody scrapings on both hands and pointing to the blood dripping down the side of my face. I felt surprisingly okay, as I patted myself down checking for broken bones or body parts gone missing when I catapulted onto the platform.

Doug and I were still assessing our medical condition when we heard one passenger above the rest. Looking up, we saw a big, loud, ostentatious Texas-ranch-owner type with a southern drawl holler, “I would have given $10,000 to have had a film of that, boys! You both are fools, but it was worthy of film. Y’all couldn’t do that again, could you?”

Very funny, I was glad someone enjoyed it. All I knew was that my body ached everywhere and Doug and I needed to wash up and find bandages.

As we started to walk to the stairwell again, looking for medical attention, I felt the inside upper pocket of my sport coat, a kind of subconscious tic I had developed since leaving New York. I was checking for my passport—and it wasn’t there. Terrified, I yelled, “I lost my passport!” Everyone on the platform started looking. We searched desperately, until, about 20 minutes later, we heard that someone had found a passport and taken it to the police office downstairs.

We rushed back down the fiendish staircase, through excruciatingly long hallways and out to the shopping area where we eventually pointed to a lighted sign reading Αστυνομία (Police.) As we approached, followed by a group of concerned—or amused—travelers from the platform, numerous others surrounded us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw three foreboding black-leather-coat-clad figures approaching us. The other spectators automatically parted to let them through. Just as the guy apparently in command reached aggressively for me the Αστυνομία door opened and two Greek officers came out, pushing themselves between Doug and me.

It was scarily obvious: this was the old Greek regime and the new militaristic challengers competing for what just might be valuable spoils. The conversation between them escalated quickly; the yelling and hand-waving were getting more aggressive by the minute.

I couldn’t wait for a break in the action, so I periodically shouted, “I’ve lost my passport; do you have my passport?” They would stop for a second, look at our bloody hands and faces and go back to arguing. I feared they were negotiating about who was going to drag us away, the leather-coated secret police guys or local law enforcement, and I wasn’t sure which was the better option. The secret police could take us away to some godforsaken prison where we would rot indefinitely, and while I hoped the local guys wanted to protect us or briefly throw us in jail, it didn’t look likely. One officer especially—let’s call him Vladislav, he reminded me of our recent border guard, Borislav, they could have been brothers—looked eager to lock us up and throw away the key.

Suddenly, the other guard turned to me and said clearly, “Paul Alexander Casper.” I almost swallowed my cigarette. “Yes, yes,” I pleaded. They just kept arguing.

Finally, the three secret police guys threw up their hands, turned abruptly and walked away. There was some faint applause from the audience; apparently, this was a win for the old regime. I’d like to think the station passengers were on our side and understood we weren’t spies or bandits.

We entered the station and sat down, waiting while an officer filled out numerous multicolored forms. The phone rang and another officer answered, smiling occasionally during the ensuing lengthy conversation. A general feeling of victory in the station confirmed that this was an encouraging triumph of old over new.

The officer returned my passport and they took Doug and me to a different office to get first aid for our wounds. While they patched us up another officer was having a fine old time talking to some guy taking notes. The two of them laughed and gossiped like old friends, and I guessed the guy with the notepad was a reporter. Later we learned that the whole story was going to be in the local newspapers the following day. I hope they spelled my name right.

By the time we got back to our correct train, we had become minor celebrities. Our fellow passengers asked about our health and my passport, and you could see from the small waves and constant looks our way that our train-jump-and-roll had become the top subject of conversation. Everyone was kind, treating us with equal amounts of concern and pity as they discussed the two Americans’ physical and mental health and lack of common sense.

We arrived in Athens at about 8:00 a.m. Wednesday morning and found a great hotel with a reasonable daily fee that included two meals. After much-needed baths, we enjoyed a late lunch at a charming outdoor café with a view of the Acropolis. This will undoubtedly be remembered as one of the greatest outdoor cafes I’ll ever eat in with on one side the beautiful shimmering Aegean and the other side the magnificent Parthenon high on the hill.

Doug and I baked in the warmth of the Greek sun and reminisced about the night before. Imagining all the terrifying things that could have happened, we congratulated ourselves on our good luck There were numerous tracks entering and leaving that huge train station, but few abutted any platforms before they took off into the night. I still cringe at the thought of what might have been our fate.

We rose early the next morning, grabbed a quick breakfast and got directions to the Acropolis from the concierge. Then we walked. And walked some more. We not only walked endlessly, we walked up, on and on. Exhausted, we needed a good rest when we finally reached the Acropolis plateau. In retrospect, it felt like part of the plan, as if God wanted all who set foot on the Acropolis to stop and take in the magnificence of this ancient structure before entering. The hilltop on which the Acropolis was built is one of the most remarkable settings in the world. There are multiple buildings on the site, with the Parthenon as the centerpiece. When at the top looking to the north you see modern Athens. Look to the south, you see the shimmering blue Aegean Sea and the harbor.

The flagship building of the Acropolis of Athens, the Parthenon served as a temple to Athena and was built about 440 B.C. In Athens, the fifth century B.C. was called the Golden Age or The Age of Pericles. Pericles (494-429) was a brilliant orator, statesman, and general who ruled Athens from 443 to the end of his life. Other famous structures on the Acropolis include the Erechtheum, a temple dedicated to Athena and Poseidon; the Propylaea, which was the gateway entrance to the Acropolis; and the sanctuaries of Pandion and Zeus. The Acropolis served as the preeminent sanctuary of the ancient city of Athens; according to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture. Its primary purpose was to provide sacred grounds dedicated to Athena, the city’s matron deity. The Acropolis played host to festivals, cults, and historically significant events during the peak of Athens’ power. Today, it serves as an architectural masterpiece and source of national pride: it is the most famous site in Greece.

Doug and I explored all the buildings on the Acropolis, filled with awe as we tried to imagine 450 BC. With every step I took, I felt like I was walking in history. No place I have visited since has been as inspiring; it was magical. I spent hours sitting in one location after another, trying to savor the rich history. There were many tourists on the site, and I was saddened by watching these tourists, regardless of nationality, rushing around taking endless pictures of each other by this statue or that pillar. Sad for those who had come but, in reality, were never there.

I was enjoying a stunning view from the cliff going down to the Aegean Sea when I saw an American or European girl approached by two young Greek boys on the make. Within a few seconds, they had positioned themselves at the very edge of the cliff, ready to make their introductions.

“Senora,” one said, “You are the most beautiful woman. I never see an angel before; now I do. They should have one more of these statues here, a statue of you,” he said longingly in broken English. She stopped to look at them and he continued: “Please take me; I live for you…I will fall down there only for you.” He pointed to the bottom of the 200-foot cliff. He picked a flower. “This is for you because you are the beauty of Spring.”

I wish I could remember more. The boy had the patter down; he had done this before. The scene was classic, out of a novel or a European film, but the heroine didn’t know her part, I guess. The young woman walked away without a word and within a few steps she dropped the flower onto that ancient soil. The boys shook their heads in silent defeat and walked away. What a shame; it appeared that I, the observer, was the only one to find pleasure in the exchange.

Doug returned from his exploring, tired and ready to go back to the hotel. I stayed, not ready to leave, and was finally kicked off the Acropolis at 7:30 p.m. On my walk back to the hotel, I found a little hole-in-the-wall café and had lamb for dinner, washed down with three or four beers. What a long day; what a great day.

Two days later, I was back up on the Acropolis; history called to me. My favorite subject in grade school was history. Whether studying the Vikings, Rome, the Spanish Conquistadors or the warring cities of Sparta and Athens, there was magic for me in those ancient times. I always read more than was expected. I also loved to draw and had talent, I was told. I was always sketching something or getting compliments about my coloring in coloring books of different kinds. My mother saw that and wanted to fan the flame. When I was in grade school, she would enroll me in art classes where my classmates were all adults at the local YMCA. They pretended to like me and fuss over me a bit, but even then, I got the feeling they were jealous and hoped I’d go and play ball rather than come to the next class. So with my budding art talent, my love of history and drawing eventually came together, and I began to draw interesting people and things of days past.

Another day flew by. I continued to be drawn to the Acropolis. Walking inside the Parthenon during yet another return visit, I met a Japanese husband and wife. We talked about the inspiration we found there, and they urged me to visit Japan; home to some of the oldest and most significant historical monuments and sites. We parted, both saying Αντίο, good-bye in Greek. I walked down the steps of the Parthenon and thought, yes, maybe I will go to Japan someday, perhaps adventure awaits me there.

I drew and drew all I saw on the Acropolis, then went down another level of the plateau where I sketched an ancient outdoor theater not far from the beginning of the Agora, the main center of old Athens. I was gone all day, drawing and writing, the writing inspired by the history all around.

Doug and I spent our last couple of days in Athens enjoying the rich pageantry of the Greek Easter celebrations. I had thoroughly experienced the history of ancient Athens, loving every minute of it. Unfortunately, I had yet to come up with a brilliant idea to extend my stay in Europe. Doug, who didn’t have the same money concerns, had loved the idea of starting a business selling sheepskin coats, but now that plan had failed, and I sensed him trying to decide what his next move was. He was tired of me complaining about my dwindling bankroll and the prospect of having to give up and go home.

I knew a plane ticket to the USA from Luxembourg was probably somewhere between $180-$250, depending on the country and the difference between European currency and the US dollar. It had cost me just shy of $200 to fly to Europe. The cost of my stay in Athens would be around $100 by the time I left.

Our current plan was to go to Rome. It only made sense for me to move closer to Luxembourg as I searched for any creative way to extend my stay. A month had been interesting, but not world-changing. Maybe six months or a year would be a different story, But that seemed totally out of reach.

It would take us six to eight days overland to get to Rome. I guessed by the time I arrived in Rome, I’d have about $10 left to my name and no way home.

It was also possible to get almost all the way to Rome by boat. We could take the bus to Patras, then a boat for a day or two to the Italian port of Brindisi, and then another bus to Rome or, if Italy allowed it, we could hitchhike to Rome. But we figured the boat might cost more than would be wise for me to spend. Even with a short stay in Rome, I’d have to hope the currency markets were going my way because I would barely have enough to pay for an Icelandic plane ride home. And no money after landing in New York City.

The more I thought about it, the more I hated my predicament. I wanted to stay; I wanted to explore; I wanted adventure. By now I had been seriously bitten by the travel bug. I wondered, Should I go for glory or play it safe? I’d met several travelers from Australia, and they talked glowingly about their beautiful country. Australia would be adventure with a capital A. I’d been told that the government there would pay your way and set you up in some profession or another. Being almost halfway around the world was impressive; Australia would be almost three-fourths of the way around the globe. Maybe I could get a job on a boat, sail the Mediterranean, around Africa and India to Australia. Unfortunately, these prospects were based on specific things happening, and if they didn’t, I’d be stuck with no money and no way home. Europe was cheaper than the US, but staying in hotels and traveling in trains was not. If I stayed, I’d have to cut my travel costs down to nothing.

But you never know what a new day can bring. That previous night I was in despair, but the next evening I stood on our ship’s bow, exhilarating in the ocean spray on my face. I was elated. I had a new lease on my travel life.

Doug and I had been having a late outdoor café lunch before we bussed to the port for departure when I had two conversations with people at the next table.

The first was a Dutch guy, who quite frankly looked pretty drugged out, but was obviously a traveler. He tapped me on the shoulder as I yet again loudly lamented my predicament. He proceeded to tell me that all I had to do was get to London and go to the American Express office there. Behind the door, he said, was a bulletin board where American travelers to London who decided to stay forever, or at least a long time, would put notices about their cheap return tickets for sale. These tickets, he explained, were well under $100.

That was music to my ears, it was the solution I had been searching for. If I could save maybe $150 on my flight home, I could continue my adventure. Most people, smarter people, wouldn’t have given that spaced-out, long-haired hippie a second thought, but I not only listened, I created a whole new itinerary based on his information. Now, instead of Rome being the stepping-stone to Luxembourg and the States, I was thinking Cannes and the Cannes Film Festival. What a perfect reversal of fortune—from embarrassed return home to consorting with movie stars. Who knows what could happen there?

My second conversation that afternoon was with an American girl who was adamant that I continue my adventure. She had heard that any American who runs out of money and can’t get home has a lifeline. Just go to the American Embassy, she said, and they’ll get you home for free. I didn’t know if she knew that for sure, but it sounded good. I could just imagine thousands of drugged-out young Americans flooding embassies every week, all around the world, saying, “I spent all my money. It’s time to get me home.”

It didn’t seem plausible—but I pocketed the thought.

Regardless, I had a new lease on life. We’d see what Rome would bring, but I had new capital in the game.