04/20/2014
I expect you’d like to hear more
about my boat Milly.
After I swapped the bar in Pattaya for Milly I told the staff I was leaving. The girls were in tears. They wanted to go with me. I did need some help with the boat so 4 of them came along. Milly only sleeps 3 so it was a bit of a squeeze but we managed.
The plan was to sail to Tahiti then on to Panama. More about later…maybe.... you are probably wondering about Simon and Arthur.
They had the usual English childhood. Andy Pandy, Enid Blyton, cricket in the rec, Grammar School education and all that. Don't worry, I’ll be skipping a lot of that boring stuff. They weren’t posh exactly. Just middle class. And a bit rebellious. They studied ‘On the Road’ diligently. It made quite an impression on their young English minds. They could recite whole passages in fake American accents.
They failed to get into university. But they did go on the Aldermaston March. That’s where they met Rod. Over cups of tea in Fortes they talked about Rambling Jack Elliot and Derroll Adams and how Paris was the place to be. Simon and Arthur thought they’d give the Kerouac thing a try. According to Rod Wizz Jones was already in Paris with his battered guitar, singing in the streets. Rod, who liked singing, wanted to give it a go. It sounded like a laugh.
So with seagulls wheeling and English schoolchildren squealing the three of them embarked at Dover and disembarked a few hours later at Calais to have their passports stamped by taciturn French customs officials with guns. Guns! The officials were serious but Simon, Rod and Arthur couldn’t stop giggling as their passports were examined. Their first passport stamps! Later they saw a group of officials waving and pointing fingers at each other. ‘They are gesticulating.’ Said Arthur. ‘Mais oui,’ said Simon. ‘they are French. Calais is where the wogs begin.’
Arthur thought they should hitchhike but after about half an hour by the side of a rain swept road they walked back into Calais and took the train to Paris. ‘Ne se pencher au dehors’ said a sign above the window. ‘Don’t punch the window.’ Said Rod.
Gare du Nord was easy enough but they nearly lost Simon on the Metro. He pretended to follow a group of schoolgirls along the platform until he got shooed off by a stern French nun. Just a bit of fun.
They got off the Metro at L’Odeon and found a cheap hotel just off Boulevarde St-Michel. The same area where giants like Hemingway, Joyce, Sartre lived, or had lived before they moved on to unreachable literary Pantheon. Becket was there but they bore no credentials and would probably have been unwelcome even if they had. Truffault was making films but he didn’t need any scruffy English pseudo beatniks either.
After I swapped the bar in Pattaya for Milly I told the staff I was leaving. The girls were in tears. They wanted to go with me. I did need some help with the boat so 4 of them came along. Milly only sleeps 3 so it was a bit of a squeeze but we managed.
The plan was to sail to Tahiti then on to Panama. More about later…maybe.... you are probably wondering about Simon and Arthur.
They had the usual English childhood. Andy Pandy, Enid Blyton, cricket in the rec, Grammar School education and all that. Don't worry, I’ll be skipping a lot of that boring stuff. They weren’t posh exactly. Just middle class. And a bit rebellious. They studied ‘On the Road’ diligently. It made quite an impression on their young English minds. They could recite whole passages in fake American accents.
They failed to get into university. But they did go on the Aldermaston March. That’s where they met Rod. Over cups of tea in Fortes they talked about Rambling Jack Elliot and Derroll Adams and how Paris was the place to be. Simon and Arthur thought they’d give the Kerouac thing a try. According to Rod Wizz Jones was already in Paris with his battered guitar, singing in the streets. Rod, who liked singing, wanted to give it a go. It sounded like a laugh.
So with seagulls wheeling and English schoolchildren squealing the three of them embarked at Dover and disembarked a few hours later at Calais to have their passports stamped by taciturn French customs officials with guns. Guns! The officials were serious but Simon, Rod and Arthur couldn’t stop giggling as their passports were examined. Their first passport stamps! Later they saw a group of officials waving and pointing fingers at each other. ‘They are gesticulating.’ Said Arthur. ‘Mais oui,’ said Simon. ‘they are French. Calais is where the wogs begin.’
Arthur thought they should hitchhike but after about half an hour by the side of a rain swept road they walked back into Calais and took the train to Paris. ‘Ne se pencher au dehors’ said a sign above the window. ‘Don’t punch the window.’ Said Rod.
Gare du Nord was easy enough but they nearly lost Simon on the Metro. He pretended to follow a group of schoolgirls along the platform until he got shooed off by a stern French nun. Just a bit of fun.
They got off the Metro at L’Odeon and found a cheap hotel just off Boulevarde St-Michel. The same area where giants like Hemingway, Joyce, Sartre lived, or had lived before they moved on to unreachable literary Pantheon. Becket was there but they bore no credentials and would probably have been unwelcome even if they had. Truffault was making films but he didn’t need any scruffy English pseudo beatniks either.
At the Clignancourt Flea Market
they supplemented their wardrobe with some slightly flared jeans. Tres chic.
‘We can always use a bottler.’ Said Wizz.
‘What’s that?”
‘Someone to pass the hat. Getting money out of these buggers is an art form in itself.’
Simon said he’d have a go so there they were outside Notre Dame where Wizz and Rod started belting out the ‘San Francisco Bay Blues’ again. Simon began moving round the small crowd trying to drum up a few francs. Arthur’s job was to keep an eye out for les flics.
The crowd of bemused French onlookers got larger. Many were student types but among them there were a tall gaunt figure and a shorter more animated one with a beard. Somehow Simon knew they were Yanks. ‘We’re broke ourselves.’ Said the bearded one. The older one muttered something about ‘…reminds me of when I was working the hole with the sailor and we did not do bad. Fifteen cents on an average night…’
‘Between you me and the lamp post,’ said Rod, ‘If we’re going to get anywhere we need to get more commercial.’
‘Ever see a hot shot kid?’ asked the cadaverous-looking Yank. ‘I saw the Gimp catch one in Philly. Stop by 9 Git le Coeur sometime if you’re interested.’
‘Sounds a bit dodgy to me lads.’ Said Wizz.
‘Poofters.’ Said Rod.
‘I can feel the heat closing in.’ Said Arthur. Whereupon they scattered and found their separate ways back to a small bistro near L’Odeon.
‘I think,’ said Simon over a lait grenadine, ‘the time has come to hitch-hike south.’
‘You’re serious about this beatnik thing aren’t you?’
‘No not really. Just curious about what comes next.’
‘Think I’ll go back to London.’ Said Rod, ‘Long John has asked me to sing in Steampacket.’
‘We can always use a bottler.’ Said Wizz.
‘What’s that?”
‘Someone to pass the hat. Getting money out of these buggers is an art form in itself.’
Simon said he’d have a go so there they were outside Notre Dame where Wizz and Rod started belting out the ‘San Francisco Bay Blues’ again. Simon began moving round the small crowd trying to drum up a few francs. Arthur’s job was to keep an eye out for les flics.
The crowd of bemused French onlookers got larger. Many were student types but among them there were a tall gaunt figure and a shorter more animated one with a beard. Somehow Simon knew they were Yanks. ‘We’re broke ourselves.’ Said the bearded one. The older one muttered something about ‘…reminds me of when I was working the hole with the sailor and we did not do bad. Fifteen cents on an average night…’
‘Between you me and the lamp post,’ said Rod, ‘If we’re going to get anywhere we need to get more commercial.’
‘Ever see a hot shot kid?’ asked the cadaverous-looking Yank. ‘I saw the Gimp catch one in Philly. Stop by 9 Git le Coeur sometime if you’re interested.’
‘Sounds a bit dodgy to me lads.’ Said Wizz.
‘Poofters.’ Said Rod.
‘I can feel the heat closing in.’ Said Arthur. Whereupon they scattered and found their separate ways back to a small bistro near L’Odeon.
‘I think,’ said Simon over a lait grenadine, ‘the time has come to hitch-hike south.’
‘You’re serious about this beatnik thing aren’t you?’
‘No not really. Just curious about what comes next.’
‘Think I’ll go back to London.’ Said Rod, ‘Long John has asked me to sing in Steampacket.’
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