Munich, The Trolley Stalker (Part II), December 1976

Herbert Von Karajan,
Berlin Philharmonic

Death in Venice, by Thomas Mann

     An uncomfortable silence came over the table. Anna was such an amazing woman, exciting both in her beauty and intellectually.  I felt so insignificant, so out of Anna’s league.  She checked her watch.  The quiet was interrupted by my knocking my fork off the table, it clanging loudly on the polished hardwood floor .  More quiet . . . I felt like I was going to cry.

     I then reached into my small daypack and brought out Thomas Mann’s DEATH IN VENICE and placed it on the table.  Anna sighed, “Oh, my, “Death In Venice.”  Her passion intensified, as she asked me questions of my thoughts about the characters, and if I had seen the movie with Dirk Bogarde.  Because I was only half finished with the book, she did not want to ruin the ending for me.  Instead she focused on other Mann novels, that  she recommended I read.

     Thank you Thomas Mann for saving me. (Yes, it is smart to travel with good books).  Anna continued to elaborate on the merits of Thomas Mann, enthusiastically talking about a novel called THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN, then switching to Goethe and his book entitled SORROWS OF A YOUNG  WERTHER.  She was enthralling to observe, this ice cold beauty that could get so fired up over things of the mind.

     We had been there about an hour, when I noticed she was looking at her watch again.  I could sense she was anxious and somewhat agitated.

“Anna, are you ok?  Is something bothering you?”  “Scott, I like your fine sensibilities.  It is a privilege to be with you.  And a pleasure.”  In one affirming utterance she had made my sense of awkwardness and inadequacy vanish.

     With almost no emotion she added.  “What is bothering me is that my friend is late.”  And then for several minutes she looked away and then checked her watch again.  Then abruptly she interrupted me and said, “Scott, my friend is forty-five minutes late and I have tickets to a cabaret.  It starts very soon, would you like to go?”  “Why, yes, but what do I owe you for the ticket?”  “Nonsense you are my guest.”  This was the beginning of being “her guest” at many extraordinary events.

     We had to move quickly as the curtain was in twenty minutes.  We seemed like old pros navigating the ice this time, as we were in step, she taking my arm, and not falling once.  “A little better than our first try,” I joked.  We arrived about five minutes before the curtain, Anna explaining that tonight we would hear the songs of Kurt Weil.  I told her I was not familiar with him.  “Weil is one of our country’s greatest cabaret composers, before he passed away.  The songs will all be in German, but I think you will still enjoy it.”

     Enjoy I did!  After the cabaret, she insisted I join her for a nightcap at one of her favorite haunts.  A place not even noticeable from the street, almost speakeasy-like, but inside dimly lit and invitingly warm.  We each had a cognac, and it was here that Anna opened up and told me about her life.

     She talked about her two daughters “both beautiful, accomplished and about your age.  They are my life today, so important to me, as I lost my husband four years ago.”  Anna went on to say that his name was Franz and that he died in an avalanche skiing in Switzerland.

     Anna expressed with both poignancy and joy that he had been a remarkable companion and father.  He was a very successful business man, but he always had time for the family to travel and shared with her a great interest in all the arts.  “He was a man of intellectual curiosity, strong and masculine. Hard to find,” Anna said nodding her head.

     “And now being a single woman, this is very different.”  She went on to say that her friend that she was to meet in the café earlier in the evening was a man that she had been dating quite seriously for eight months.  However, she was getting fed up with him, as he had a roving eye.  “He is a cheater, a middle aged playboy.  I have not time for this type.”  She said with contempt and resignation:  “No one compares to my husband.  I am best alone.”  I felt inadequate to comfort her.

     Then I told her my comparatively inconsequential woes and that meeting her was such a good thing, as I had such a miserable day.  She asked why and I wanted to stay and work here, but was refused my work permit today, even though I had found a job at the zoo doing manual labor.  When she inquired more about the position at the zoo and what manual labor meant, I explained “shoveling shit out of the cages.”

     Anna burst out laughing and we toasted our cognac glasses.  Then she said, “Scott, I think I might be able to help you.  I realize it is so difficult getting a work permit in Germany even for a job such as that.  But my husband and I were donors to the zoo, and I know people on their Board.  Let me see what I can do.”

And so it was the mysterious Garboesque woman, that I had first spotted on a trolley car, would turn out being my savior in trying to get me work, but more importantly became an inspired mentor to me in all aspects of the arts.

Not only attending great performances in opera, ballet and theater, but also talking hours on end about music, literature and favorite artists.  I credit my mother for planting the seed to broaden myself in all forms of the arts.  The interest was there, no question.  But Anna ignited my interest to a passion for the arts to what it is today.

     I sensed that Anna’s husband had left her well off financially, as cost was never a consideration for her.  And it was not just the very best of Munich we took part in, be it attending the opera, theater or dining at the best restaurants , such as Boettners or Grunwalder Einkehr, but we would go on out-of-town cultural binges.  She would have her driver wisk us up the autobahn for the five hour drive to Berlin, to see as Anna would express it:

“Herbert von Karajan is like God conducting the Berlin Philharmonic’s Beethoven’s 9^th.”

     And to this day I have never been moved by such a classical music performance.  Or we would fly to Vienna and not only see La Traviata at the world famous Vienna Opera House, but go the great museums like the Kunsthistorischus and the Albertina, and stroll the streets as Anna would Point out important buildings designed by Otto Wagner and those with the colorful Jugenstil architectural style.

     It was amazing being with her.  She was so deep and curious about everything.  We grew very close and cared for each other in a very special way.  Yes, she was twenty-seven years my senior, her age being forty-nine, but when we walked I liked feeling her next to me, as we would link arms. 

I liked how it felt holding her hand, lightly kissing her cheek and warmly embracing each other when we would meet, or when we parted.  I liked her clean smell of expensive soap.

     However, never did we become intimate.  I can honestly say it never occurred to me despite her beauty.  My feelings for her were on a lofty platonic plane.  Being physical would have been like an impure act and have complicated our relationship.  It would have tarnished the shine of the cherished bond we shared.

     No matter where I traveled in my trip around the world, I would feel her presence and keep her posted with letters and postcards.  While I was in Istanbul, about ten months after seeing Anna last, I received an engraved invitation from her to attend a formal charity ball for the Munich Hallabrum Zoo.  I did not attend.  But I did enjoy the sweet irony of life with its surprising, serendipitous twists and turns:  from rejected zoo shit shoveler to black tie fundraiser.

     But demanding as life can be, we often get so involved and absorbed in our daily lives that we regrettably lose touch with those we love dearly.  Such unfortunately was the case with Anna.  Our correspondence stopped.

     The final correspondence came some twenty years later telling the news of her death and the details of her funeral arrangements.  It had unfortunately been sent to my old home address and did not reach me until it was too late.

I regretted I could not have attended her funeral to honor the memory of this great lady.  This great Life Force.

     Her impact on my life will always be part of me.  Is this not what true immortality is all about?  She had graced the world with her generosity of spirit and kindness to everything from zoos to “strangers” like me, her “trolley stalker.”  She had graced the world with her extraordinary beauty, intellect, her luminescence.

     The stars would not shine as bright this night …

~The End~

Munich, The Trolley Stalker (Part I), December 1976

   

Munich, Germany

Actress: Veronica Lake

Arriving Munich, seeking
employment after being "on the road" for 6 months.

     Sitting sandwiched between two portly men, she read intently. 

        She looked up only slightly when jostled by someone bumping into her, caused by the twisting movement of the trolley. 

        I was pressed in the back holding on to a strap shared with three other hands.  I was straining to catch glimpses of her between a man’s armpit and a woman’s grocery bag, which contained two large protruding sausages.

        I could not take my eyes off her.  No, this was not a simple romantic attraction, as she was probably twice my age.  But this was stronger.  Her presence drew me; it was out of my control.  She was so glamorous. 

         Never had I seen such a woman.  I had to be near her.

        The trolley came to a sudden stop, I losing my balance tumbling into others.  By the time I recovered I noticed her seat was vacant.  Where did she go?  Without even thinking I pushed past those in front of me and forced my way to the exit door just before the trolley pulled out.

       I was more than five miles from the stop that I wanted.  What was I doing?  Why was I pursing this woman?  I was not sure.  But I think it was because I was feeling dejected over the day’s events and needed something to take my mind off my own self-pity.

       I was feeling down because today I was officially notified that I was not allowed to work in Munich.  I desperately needed the money.  I had spent all day at the Official Work Office showing documents, presenting a letter from my potential employer and still a “NO!” It was not as though I was competing for a highly sought after position for Munich’s recent university graduates.  I had exhausted all job possibilities.  This last resort was a job as as a shoveler of shit at the Munich zoo.  I tried many approached to appeal to the stern administrator, even showing her my shoveling motion which worked so well during my interview for the leave raking job in Sweden.  She was not amused and shouted “NEIN!” even louder, fully enjoying exercising her petty officialdom.

      As I bounded off the trolley into the chilly December evening air, I could clearly hear the six chimes of the Glockenspiel from the Marienplatz.  I looked in all directions.  Where was she?  I could not see her.  And then across the street I recognized her from the back, dressed in black with the unmistakable smart fedora.  She was taller than I expected and carried a walking cane, adding to her allure.

      I navigated quickly but carefully across the slick, icy roadway, not wanting her to get away.  Now on the same block, I walked slowly behind her.  She walked with a pronounced limp and the icy conditions made it difficult for her.  The light changed to red and I stood with her on the same corner with several other people.  I was right next to her, looking at her from the corner of my eye.  Her bone structure was striking. I wanted to speak but couldn't. Her face had a coolness about it.  I felt intimidated.  And what was I going to say?  It was not as I were interested in asking her out for a date: I was just fascinated by her.

     As the light changed and she walked on ahead, I continued to stay behind her.  I tried to think what it was I was going to say.  “Hello, my name is Scott.”  I was on the trolley with you and found you to have the most Interesting face and wanted to meet you.”  HOW STUPID!  I felt like a total bafoon chasing after this elegant woman.  Forget it, let it be, go home!  Leave this woman alone, I admonished myself.

     And just then as I was about to quicken my pace to move past her and forget this ill-conceived escapade of meeting this mystery woman, she let out a cry and slipped on the ice.  I half catching her as she fell, and came down with her.

     “Are you ok,” I asked, as I slowly got up and carefully assisted her to her feet.  

     “Fine, thank you.”  Her voice was soft, almost shy, with a slight German accent, very pleasing.  Not strong and confident which I expected in keeping with her exceptional beauty.

     During the fall some things fell from her shoulder bag, which I helped her retrieve.  One item was the book, which I presumed was the one that so engrossed her on the trolley.  Its title AMERICAN PLAYWRIGHTS OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

     “Are you sure I can’t help you?”  “No, please, I am fine.”

      This time she said it stronger with more conviction, a la Garbo, as if she really wanted to be left alone.  She thanked me and slowly began to walk forward, her limping more evident than before.

     After a few steps she slipped again.  Fortunately, I was directly behind her and made a clean catch.  “Please, I insist on walking with you to where you are going.  It is too icy.  You must be cautious.  I am in no hurry.”

     She started to speak, and then I interrupted her with an inspired, ingenious literary reference to the book on playwrights she had been reading.

“Remember what Tennessee Williams said in STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE:  “I can always count on the kindness of strangers.”  This got her attention and respect and produced a hearty laugh.  “Very good.  Quick. Clever,” she said.

       “Please allow me,” I said in my most earnest tone. “Yes, well thank you. That is very caring of you.  I am going to a nearby café to meet a friend in  about an hour.”   As we walked we did not speak other than introducing ourselves by name, as it was so slippery, I wanted to concentrate on getting her to her destination unscathed.  Her name was Anna.

     When we arrived at the café, I paused at the entrance to say “goodbye” to her.  And then as I had hoped, she said:  “Scott, thank you so much for escorting me here.  You are a ‘kind stranger’ indeed.  If you like, let me treat you to a coffee or a glass of wine.”  Without hesitation, though careful not to sound overly anxious I smiled:  “Yes, I would like that.”

     On entering the maitre d’ spotting us, abruptly left those he was assisting to turn his attention to Anna. Despite the restaurant being packed to capacity with others waiting to be seated, he led us at once to a private table in the back.  As Anna made her way to the table, those around us turned to stare. She commanded attention.

     And so there I sat directly facing this Garbo-like woman of intrigue. On the trolley I caught only quick, partial views of her face, but now seated across the small round table, I could study her face closely.  It was not just another pretty face; it was a striking face.  The type of face that can take your breath away.  The high cheek bones, the slight lift to her grayish blue eyes and her porcelain skin appeared distinctly Eastern European or Slavic.  She was not young, as slight wrinkles were visible.

     Removing her fedora and shaking her shoulder length blonde hair, almost platinum in color, she resembled the old black and white photographs of movie stars I had seen in my father’s book on HISTORY OF FILM.  Yes, she had a definite Garbo quality about her.  Or the cool beauty of Ingrid Berman.  But there was someone else, who was it?  And then it hit me, yes, Veronica Lake, that is who she very much resembled.  (The Hollywood goddess of a bygone era).

     She had an aura of savoir-faire about her.  But not in an assertive way but gracious, as she exchanged the cheek kiss with the manager or owner of the establishment who had come to welcome her.  She introduced me and asked if I would like coffee and dessert.  Nodding “yes” she turned to the gentleman, his name was Manfred, “Please get Scott the Black Forest Cake with Viennese Coffee.”  The way she ordered, the way Manfred leaning in close, hanging on her every word, and noticing the other people in the café still looking at her, I had the feeling I was in the presence of someone who was “somebody.”

     And now she looked closely at me.  Her gaze was direct and strong. What did she see?  Anna launched immediately into lively conversation: “So, Scott, tell me what you have done since you have been in Munich.”

     “Well, I went to the Hofbrauhaus and watched the Glockenspiel move and chime, and went to the Englishcer Garten.”  Anna seemed to contort her naturally lovely face into a distasteful expression saying, I don’t care for the Hofbrauhaus at all to be quite honest, and the Glockenspiel and the Englisher Garten are so touristy, certainly loved by Americans.”  It sounded like a put down of sorts.  “But, Scott, what about the Deutsches Museum or Schloss Nymphenburg?”

     “No, I have not been to those yet,” I stammered quite feebly.  My hands felt damp, my throat dry.  I felt I was drowning in front of her, when I wanted so much to impress her.  Anna was such a presence.  So sophisticated.  An unfair comparison perhaps, but she was such a dramatic departure from the college girls I encountered.  Often shallow and vacuous.

     There was quiet and Anna sensing I was uncomfortable asked me, “Scott, you seem to like theater.  You certainly seem to know your Tennessee Williams.”  I told her I had studied theater some in university.  “So what are your thoughts about Munich’s Rainer Werner Fassbinder and the works he has produced, “ she asked.

     “Who?” I stammered.  “Fast – binder, Fast – binder.”  Anna enunciating his name for me each time distinctly and slowly, so I would never forget.

        “Scott, he is from Munich, he started a theater company called the Anti-Theater, his works are avant-garde and daring. He is controversial and brilliant.  He is something of an enfant terrible. He has also produced some films which I believe have been shown in the states,  well at art houses perhaps, such as “The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant”, and “Effi Breast”. His leading lady is Hanna Schygulla, has a most interesting look and strong stage presence.  I could not pretend to know.  I could not fake it.  Only the truth was worthy  of this  authentic, substantive woman.  “No, I have never heard of him.  Sorry.”

~ to be continued ~

SINGAPORE SLING II: Brothel Gets Nasty (Aug, 1978)

          

    The room we entered was of average size, stark and unwelcoming.  The only lights were two florescent tubes which hung from the low ceiling, giving  off a harsh purplish glow.  There was nothing on the worn, crumbling walls. The only adornment in the room was a lone reddish couch press against the wall.

      Our host grunted again, gesturing to sit on the couch.  This couch was  extremely gross, a good portion of it torn showing the yellowish foam padding underneath.  But worse it was badly soiled with stain marks all over it, whose origins you did not wish to contemplate.  He then barked even louder in Chinese and nine Asian women walked out.  Or rather shuffled out, with significant disinterest, to the center of the room.  

They were all dressed in different types of sleazy lingerie.

      I let my eyes run quickly across the nine women standing in front of us. They came in all shapes and ages, from teens to the eldest probably pushing forty.  And in all sizes, from painfully emaciated to a couple that looked like they came off a Wisconsin milk farm, to one small girl about 4’ 6” tall.

      Now I took time to focus in closely, looking at each as an individual, specially studying their faces . . . what looked back at me was so far from what I envisioned this experience would be.  It was my first visit to an Asian house of prostitution.  My vision was from the movie “The House of Suzy Wong,” where there was an array of “lovelies” to choose from.  But instead here  before me, what I saw in these faces is best described in one word: 

NASTY.

      Did that girl second from the right have a couple of teeth missing?  And what about that woman directly in the center with the wild hair?  Not just a tacky orange color, but cut almost in a severe Mohawk cut, or the one to her left, was she sporting a mustache?  And there were a couple that seemed to have skin so coarse and caked with makeup, you could light a match on it.  But perhaps the oddest one of all, although her face was the most acceptable, had a huge bulge in her undies.  My gosh, did she lost trying to find Boguis

Street?

      What they did all share in common was an attitude . . . an attitude of total diffidence:  listless, yawning, scratching a crotch here, picking a nose there, no smiles, just frowns.  Their negative body language, their “downer” attitude sent a message loud and clear.  “Let’s just do it, but I have no interest in  trying to entice you.”  (And who could blame them?)  These girls looked used, exhausted, wasted.  They were a total “turn off.”  I felt sorry for them.  But scared of them too.

      After the girls were on the floor for only a few seconds, our host, the brothel boss, barked:  “Okay, which one you want?”  There was a long uncomfortable pause.  No one said anything, as I believe my two cohorts had the same feeling I did.  It was not just that they were not attractive.  It was more than this, they looked mean and dangerous and unclean.  I had no desire to go behind a closed door with any of them.

      I looked across at Dieter sitting next to me, and then to Bret on the end of the couch.  The silence hung, then Dieter finally whispered to me that he did not want to partake.  I could see that Brett just shook his head slightly with a “no.”

      Our host standing beside the last girl in line, moved forward toward us and demanded, in his intimidating barking tone:  “Which one?” More silence. 

Then Bret, nervously and lacking in his usual machismo ways he likes to display, said quietly:  “It looks like we don’t care for any of these girls.”

      Our genial host seemed to take this quite personally and moved forward threateningly to about five feet in front of us.  In a deeper voice but with greater agitation he snarled:  “Okay, I have more girls, but this better be no joke.”  Off the girls shuffled, and for the first time I noticed a hint of personality in one of the girls.  The small one giggled under her breath as she skipped off, as to say:  “Finally now I can go back to sleep.”  

      There was a brief pause, perhaps two minutes, but it seemed longer as the tension filled the room.  The host was now pacing back and forth, curling his fists, and rearranging his black turtleneck under his tight fitting jacket.  There seemed to be some commotion in the back, some yapping of the girls to one another.  He walked back and pulled aside what looked to be a sheet which led to another room and shouted his orders.

      And out they came.  As bad as the first group was, this cast of seven was worse!  At least three of the girls looked deformed.  A couple of them were rightfully young, maybe twelve or thirteen.  And a couple of others had bruise marks on their faces, as if used for human punching bags.

      “OKAY WHICH ONE?  WHICH GIRL YOU WANT?”  Silence.  I hoped against hope that Bret or Dieter might say:  “You know that one third from the right, she is sort of cute.  I’ll take her.”  However, no response.  Our host was not happy and became in-your-face confrontational:  “I bring you more girl, you get.  Now you must make choice.”  He was now two feet from us yelling: “Don’t play game with me.”

      The sinister atmosphere hung heavy.  Then I spoke as diplomatically as Possible:  “I think we are going to pass on the girls you have.”  And then I Added, “However we appreciate you taking the time to show us your girls.” (What a weird thing that was to say to him).  This caused him to go to another level of intensity, as he crouched down with his face just inches from my face.

       “Don’t you play fucking game with me!”  His head looked like it was going to explode.  It was turning beet red.  He was sweating profusely and the veins on his neck were bulging out.  He looked like a candidate for cardiac arrest.

      And then Dieter, sitting next to me, made the comment of the evening, which to this day still makes me smile when I think of it:  “Look, the rick shaw driver said we come and just look and not buy if not satisfied.”

      And then so quick, his fist was thrown at Dieter, catching him squarely in the mouth.  The boss was yelling something, screaming something like a mad man.  I had no idea what.  He was crazed like a bull.  I sensed he wanted to kill us.

      As he wound up to swing his big left-handed haymaker at Dieter, I jumped up.  This does not sound very manly, and certainly not a move one would see 007 do, but I had a clear opening, and took advantage of it.  I kicked him as  hard as possible right in the balls.  Doubled over, muttering and sputtering, Dieter, despite being punched in the mouth, helped me trip and wrestle him to the floor.  Then Brent jumped on top of him and went into his Black Belt attack mode, delivering a powerful blow to a vulnerable area in the neck.  We were not sure if he was out cold, and certainly did not wait to see, as we  headed toward the stairway exit down to the street, while assisting Dieter who was bleeding badly from the mouth.

      It was interesting to note, and I thought about this later, that during the violent confrontation with the brothel boss, the girls of the “house” seemed not to overreact or express alarm.  Instead theirs was a more of a “ho-hum,” been here, seen that before attitude.

      It is said crisis situations demand “fight or flight” responses. This demanded both.  As we made our desperate escape to go down the stairs, a huge, as in hippopotamus, Chinese guy came charging up the stairs.  His bulk was completely filling the narrow passageway, preventing our exit.  We knew we could not out muscle him, but if we could get past him, we could out run him. 

He was obviously the brothel bouncer, and he had other plans.  I sensed he had dealt with dissatisfied customers before.  He was waving his massive arms ordering us to “stop.”  We instantly sized up the situation, that there was no way we could get by him.  So the three of us just ran as hard as we could  into him, using him as if a blocking dummy in football practice; and down the stairs all of us rolled.  It was crazy!

      We scrambled to run out, but he got hold of me just outside the doorway and started to pummel me.  He continued to swing away, as Dieter and Brent struggled to get him off me.  The real punishment was his weight.  He was like a 350 pound hippo, and I felt I was going to be suffocated by his mass.  Finally, the repeated punches of Brent and Dieter started to slow him down, and somehow I got up from beneath him and he began to stagger.

      We started to move away, but just when we thought we were free of him, he lunged at Brent with a knife, catching him in the arm.  Brent was furious and wanted to meet his challenge, getting back at him with his Black Belt lethal tactics, impervious to the impending danger.  But Dieter and I yelled at Brent:  “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here!”

      And so the raucous “good time Charlies” full of bravado, bad jokes, big laughs and cheap booz, were suddenly silenced and scared shitless, as bruised and bleeding, we bolted into the CLEAN, CONTROLLED, CONSERVATIVE Singapore night . . .

      A sobering experience.  Not my finest hour.   

      ~ The End ~

Picture above from Haw Par Villa, Singapore - Spirits in the form of beautiful women, kidnapped the monks and forced him to make love with them. 

SINGAPORE SLING: Brothel Gets Nasty (Aug, 1978)

      

      “Cheers, prost, chin-chin!” As I clicked glasses with my two newly discovered traveling companions, whom I had met earlier today at the hostel, and proceeded to chug down my fourth Tiger.  The ice cold brews brought some momentary relief from the stifling, oppressive humidity of Singapore.

      It was nearing midnight and the Boguis Street “pretty boys” were out in force.  These young men dressed as enticing young girls were out to play surprise tricks on unsuspecting tourist looking for romance.  Tired of this over-hyped scene, we instead opted for a more quiet side street and settled into a cramped food stall where we began to wolf down on a mountain of shrimp fried rice and succulent chicken and beef sate.

      Yes, we were feeling no pain, as we toasted to “Singapore.”  We were all in agreement that the city inspite of its uptight, “rules and regulations” reputation, and a place where you had to obey those rules was a welcomed respite from the rough rigors and chromic chaos of other sprawling grimy south Asian cities.  Its cleanliness, its order, its sanity and its “No Beggars Allowed” policy; plus its delicious food was indeed the ideal cure for a weary traveler . . . In a sense a safe, secure, protected feeling like checking into a hospital.

      However, it was hard not to rag on Singapore with its CLEAN, CONTROLLED, CONSERVATIVE image.  We joked about the sign which sits on a major road as you enter the city:  “Singapore Welcomes Bonified Tourists, But NOT Hippies.”  Of course we all had heard the stories of being thrown in jail for three months for chewing gum in the subway; and being caned for violating any minor government infraction.

      Brent, the Australian, a rather boisterous sort, short of stature, but displaying big bravado, who on first meeting let me know within minutes that he was a black belt, joked about how people in Singapore seemed scared to cross the street.

      “I mean shit, there would be no cars as far as you could see and still the pedestrians, like robots, would not dare cross until the traffic light flashed the little green man.  I mean it’s a weird place.  The vibe is like people feel they are being watched.”

      And then, as if on cue, we all blurted out in unison:  “The stamp, the SHIT stamp.”  This passport stamp was infamous and one of great traveler lore among fellow backpackers.  The official stamp, which stands for Suspected Hippy In Transit,” allowed the authorities if they suspected you were a hippy to stamp your passport, and then make sure you were escorted out of the country within twenty-four hours; and not allowed to return for ten years.  I went on to say, “I met this Italian guy in Turkey who had the SHIT stamp.  He was so proud of it as he had earned the Medal of Honor.

It was so impressive, a full page of SHIT.  We all broke out laughing, and quite honestly, we were envious of his achievement.

      Being world travelers, each of us who sat at this table had been on the road at lest for two years.  We took big time pride in having our passport stamped with exotic stamps of destinations we had been, cherishing them as if they were battle wounds.  We joked that it might be worth getting kicked out of Singapore, just to flaunt the SHIT stamp.  Looking at Deiter, this tall, reed-thin German with blonde hair down to his shoulders, who struck me as a thoughtful, responsible, caring type, might be a candidate for exile.  With that long hair, it was like placing a target on his back.  It might be only a matter of hours before the officials would be stamping his passport with “SHIT” and sending him packing.

      “To Singapore,” we all cheered, as yet another round of beers arrived at our table, as we toasted again.

      Bllliinngg . . . bbbllliiinnnggg . . . bbbbbllllliiiinnnnggggg!!!

It was the unmistakable, ubiquitous ringing of a rickshaw’s bell, as the driver of the rickshaw glided slowly by.  Then as if on script, he let loose with his relentless sales pitch.  “You want postcard, phone card, student card,  city map, batteries, cassettes.” All of us were so used to this annoying mantra, we just continued to eat and pay no attention, dismissing him with a shake of the head, as if shooing away a pesky fly.

      But then, almost immediately, the rickshaw driver circled back and positioned himself right next to our table:  “Hey, where you from?”  We continued our chowing down, giving him no eye contact.  The driver, not a young man, about fifty years old, short and slight with graying hair leaned in closer and said in a secretive, hushed voice.

      “Hey, you want nice Singapore girl?”

       You want nice ‘sucky-fucky’?”

Brent, who was now probably on his tenth beer, got jacked up on hearing this:

“Yeh, Singapore pussy, let’s do it!”  The rickshaw driver responded to Brent with a concerned gesturing of his hand to tone it down.

      Deiter and I just looked at each other.  There was quiet.  My own thoughts on first hearing this was, I really wasn’t up for it.  I had plenty of chances to partake of the prostitutes of Asia, but had never chose to do so.  I had my reasons.  But the main reason now was being just too exhausted and weak and had no sexual desire.  Because of my debilitating dysentery and extreme

weight loss traveling in India, I was suffering from a lagging libido and sagging parts.  Only in the past couple of weeks, traveling down the Malaysian coast I had begun to put on weight and started to feel stronger.  Translation: I was beginning to feel horny for the first time in almost eight months.

      Brent, jumping in before we could even comment, said:  “Asian potang…

come on!”  I turned Dieter for his honest opinion.  I asked him in a genuinely concerned matter:  “What do you think, Dieter?”

      “I don’t know.  How much will it cost?” Dieter asked the driver.

      “It cost $20 for a “go,” or $45 for entire night.  And if you see girls you don’t like, you don’t take.  Just come and look.”

      Brent shot back:  “That’s way too much.”  The driver pausing, countered with:  “Okay for you we make special price, $15 one shot, $35 for night.”

Dieter muttered an almost inaudible, unconvincing:  “Sure, why not?”  With my brains between my legs and the booz talking, I nodded my head in agreement.  Brent whooped a big:  “YEH, LET’S PARTY!”

      The first obstacle, a practical one, was just boarding the rickshaw itself, as the rickshaw was only built to accommodate two.  Krishna, the driver, informed us that it was against the law in Singapore to have three passengers on the rickshaw, and that we would be severely fined if the police discovered this.  So Krishna instructed us, that if we spotted any police, one of us would have to hop off before being spotted.  It was agreed that Bret would be the official jump person; and he would take turns sitting on our laps.

      Okay, we were off.  The ride to the “House of Nice Singapore Girls”

I took for grated would be short.  Well, it was not short.  The trip was more like a journey (into the unknown).  The ride started with us being peddled down a heavily traveled main street that seemed to go on endlessly.  It was over half an hour of riding, and it was not comfortable having Brent sitting on us.  We began to question:  “Where is this place?  How much longer?”

      Krishna, sensing our concern, reassured us . . . “Not much longer, and it will be worth the ride for nice Singapore girl.  Nice sucky-fucky!” His assurance of “not much longer “ seemed to fire us up more and we began chanting:

“SINGAPORE SUCKY-FUCKY, SINGAPORE SUCKY-FUCKY!”  Krishna,

the driver, turned his head, signaling us to quiet down:  “You can’t make noise like that in Singapore,” he cautioned.  Yet we continued to chant.  Yes, we were flying high and in the mood for some Asian sexual adventure.

      Soon our boisterous exuberance turned sober, as we turned off the main road to a dimly lit street, then quickly turned again.  We were now down by the waterfront and despite us being high on booze, and in a party mood, we all noticed this was a rough looking area.  It was dark, desolate and the buildings were stark looking, abandoned with broken windows and barbed wire. 

We started to talk among ourselves that the area had a feeling of a place you’d see in gangster movies where you’d “dispose of a body.”  Krishna, feeling our unease about the location, just replied with a laugh:  “Area quiet but okay, safe.”  And we were there all too soon . . . the rickshaw slowly creeped along another dark alley.  Then it turned a tight corner and went down an alleyway so narrow, not much wider than the rickshaw itself.  The alley was so eerily quiet, it was unnerving.  You could see and actually hear the rats running along the side of the boarded up buildings.  Then about fifty yards ahead you could see a circle of light on the ground. As we got closer there appeared to be a man standing in the circle.

      We had arrived.  Slowly and cautiously we got out of the rickshaw.  The man in the light stood frozen, as we approached.  He looked Chinese, not tall, but he was imposing looking.  His face bespoke of a no nonsense attitude.

His jacket rippled with muscles.  To me he looked like the type who might eat nails for breakfast.

      He greeted us unceremoniously with all the warmth and charm of the lovely surroundings:  “You want girl one shot or all night?”  No one spoke.

To ease the tension I spoke politely with no disrespect, “Do you think we could see the girls first?”  (To me it seemed the typical, proper way to conduct a business transaction).  He grunted and led us up two dimly lit flights of stairs.  

~ to be continued ~

Upper photo I - arriving Singapore via Burma Airways

Upper photo II - Singapore in the late 70s, at night

Scotland Pastry Shop: Two Angels and a WEE BIT O’HEAVEN

         It was the driving rain and raw cold that drove me to the pastry shop.  For three hours

I stood along the road which led out of Glasgow, trying to hitch a ride north to the Highlands

of Scotland.

         In those three hours of wet, I sampled a variety of rain types:  from soft bearable mist;

To conventional downpour ; to the brutal horizontal rain.  This is a rain where high wind meets

Rain.  A rain that is punishing like wet bullets.

       

        Scotland oh!  Scotland.  I have read your poet Robert Burns rhapsodize about your beauty.

Your haunting scenery is legend in the Scottish Highlands with its wild weather which erupts

in the Moors.  But oh!  Scotland, you have been trying . . . In my ten days backpacking I have

had seven straight days of rain, rain, rain, rain, and more rain.  I hope to see your bonnie face

soon.

        The pastry shop was simple.  But upon entering, it could have been a Four Seasons Resort,

so inviting was its warmth.  It was dry, toasty warm and carried a delectable fragrance of

baking bread.  I was beyond wet.  I was drenched, soaked.  I was like a human sponge.

        

        The pastry shop was empty.  I stood at the counter and waited.  I turned and looked around,

went back to the counter again and waited.  Was anyone here?  “Hello?”  And then a head

popped out from behind the counter, an elderly white haired woman, with a generous open face

with rosy cheeks.  “Good Heavens, lad, you look like you just had a swim in Loc Lomen,” she

said in a distinct Glasgow brogue bordering on the hard to understand.

     

      As I sat my pack down in the corner and settled myself in the torn but comfortable chair,

the white haired woman came scurrying around the corner with a big steaming pot of some -

thing, putting it on the table in front of me.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t order this,” I said.

“Sweet, please it’s hot tea with lemon, drink up,” she insisted.  And then in a matter of seconds

another woman, almost her twin in appearance, came racing around the other corner with a big

thick towel.  “You must dry off, Love.”

       

      I thanked them and ordered some scones with cream.  They were so good.  But even better

was the feeling of just being inside out of the wet.  I took my time savoring the taste of the

scones.  Also I wanted to linger savoring the warmth and dreading going out into the downpour

again.  But after about twenty minutes, I began to feel ill.  Not so much a nauseous feeling, but

the sweats, chills, and aches rushing all through my body.  Although the rain seemed to have

calmed down somewhat to a light drizzle, it still was raw and I shivered at the thought of getting

back on the punishing open road again.  But I had to push on.

        

       Going up to the counter to pay my bill, the kindly white haired woman #1 looked at me

with grave concern and said:  “Laddie, you look terrible.  You are sweating and trembling.”

“I do feel a little weak and feel some chills.  But I’m sure it will pass,” I tried to say with

conviction.  In truth I felt miserable and that I might pass out.

         

         She continued to study me, shaking her head. “No, you should take some time to rest.

What is your rush?  You can rest at the shop here, and when you feel better you can be on your

way.”  She then called back:  “Mary, fix up the cot, will you dear?  Our friend is going to rest a

bit.”

       

         Mary came out and smiled sympathetically, handing me a heavy wool sweater and said:

“Put the warm jumper on, Love, and follow me.”  The cot was small and sandwiched in the tiny

back room among crates, cartons, cans and confusion.  But to me it was the Plaza Suite.

To be dry, cozy and stretch out on the cot, covered with a fluffy down blanket with tender,

loving care, felt like heaven.  Within minutes both ladies were at my bedside, one with

another pot of hot tea; the other with shortbread cookies.

         

          “Thank you so much for your kindness.  My name is Scott by the way.  What are your

names?”  “I am Gladys and this is Mary.”  I extended my arm from the cot to shake their hands;

each had a strong grip.  “Now rest up, Love, sleep as long as you want.”  “But what time do

you close the shop?” I asked.  “Closing time is around six o’clock, but don’t fret that, just rest

up,” they assured me.

       

           So rest I did.  I would sleep deep, only to be awakened in the evening with Gladys, Mary

and a younger man holding a tray for me.  “Love, this is Robert.  He owns a pub down the

street and brought you some of his shepards pie.”

      

           Meeting Bob just represented the beginning of the caring people I would meet, as I lay

in my little cot in the back room; it being a parade of kind Glasgoites, each bringing me their

own personal warmth to make sure I was progressing well.  I knew I was seriously ill as my

burning up body alternated between shivers and sweating, which continued through the night.

        

          The next day Gladys called for the local doctor to come.  His diagnosis: pneumonia.

He instructed me to take the medicine he prescribed and continue to rest.  I did so for four more

days on this cot, a cot far too small for me, a cot that would sag in the middle and creak when –

ever I moved, and had a spring or two that would poke at me.  This was my bed to recovery.

And the doctor’s prescription helped.  But perhaps the best medicine that performed its magic

was the big dose of healing TLC.

       

          As I slept or tried to sleep on my cot, I would constantly hear the women, especially Mary

because of her louder voice, say things such as:  “We’ve got a young American lad resting up

in the back.”  Everyone was curious and would ask things like:  “What is wrong with him?

Where is he from?”  Some of them were allowed to come back and stick their head in and take

a look.  They were very quiet and considerate as they would gently open the door to the back

room and take a look at the “young lad” resting, as it I were a rare extinct specimen.

          

           But the ladies were always selective and discreet about those they felt would be advisable

for me to meet, or that they felt I would enjoy meeting.  My “keepers” spent the first evening

bedside, as I ate, learning things about me.  But then came a colorful collection of local folks

who found their way to my cot to check up on me.  This was not just kind, but an entertaining,

enthralling experience in getting wonderful contact with the people of the country. 

This included:  an art professor from the University of Glasgow who introduced me to the artist

Renee McIntosh; an inspiring young playwright; a couple of fanatical soccer blokes, who gave

me the low down on the bitter rivalry between the Celtics and Rangers; plus an elderly but fit,

powerfully built gent who had hiked all the renowned mountains of the Highlands.  And then

there was Sarah, well, she was just a lovely, young Scottish lass.

       

           Each night around seven as the ladies were closing the shop, they would knock on my door

and enter ceremoniously with my dinner.  Each evening it was a different person from a different

local restaurant that brought the dinner.  It was as if from my bed I was being served up a

gastronomic adventure of the best of Scotland specialties:  from fish and chips, Yorkshire

pudding, bangers & mash (yikes) to leg of lamb and fresh trout.  After the rigors of the road,

this was first class dining.  But it was more, so much more . . . nourishing me in indefinable

ways.

        

            As I finished my meal, they would sit with me and have tea and chat for an hour or so and

make sure I was feeling well and if I needed anything.  Making sure I had enough covers.

Making sure I was informed what was on the telly.  Making sure I had enough books and

magazines to look at.  Making sure I was comfortable.  Just making sure.  It was so endearing

their quality of caring.  I “made sure” they knew how much I appreciated it.  I called them my

“two angels,” who rescued me.

        

           I always enjoyed our talks.  Their presence was healing.  They would ask me questions

about my family, my thoughts on different matters, and where my future travels would take me.

They were good listeners.  And although they asked a good deal of questions, I could not

encourage them to share much about their own lives.  The two of them appeared close in age

(perhaps in their sixties) and had been close friends all their lives.  They did tell me that neither

of them ever married and now shared an apartment down the street.

        

        By the time I woke up on the fourth morning, I felt much better . . . I was almost

disappointed to feel so good, as my time on the cot in the pastry shop was such a rich, cozy,

nurturing experience.

         

         As I prepared to leave, the ladies gave me a bag of their favorite short bread cooking and a

thermos of hot tea.  They had taken off their aprons for a quick final farewell photo. 

And surprise!  Appropriate for the occasion and their radiant spirits, the sun was finally out.

An auspicious beginning and parting.  A difficult moment.

        

         I hugged them close and thanked them again for their great kindness.  “May your good

deeds be rewarded.  I shall never forget you.” As I hoisted my too heavy pack on my back,

I said:  “I wish I could take you with me, my “angels,” to keep watching over me.”

         “Not much room in there,” Mary giggled.

         “We will be,” Gladys assured me.

A last embrace, and I was off.

       

         As I made my way down the road and out of Glasgow, I could feel myself tearing up and

looked back.  Gladys and Mary were still waving in the distance.  It was almost as though they

were seeing their son off, wishing a fond farewell to that son they never had.

       

        I waved a long final good-bye to my two “angels,” who had watched over me, and shared

so generously their wee bit o’ heaven . . . until the city traffic swallowed me up.