CHAPTER 5
Leaves are falling all around. It’s time I was on my way. Thanks to you I’m much obliged for such a pleasant stay. But now it’s time for me to go – “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin (1969)
It was November 1971 when we piled into the van like a bunch of kids headed to the beach. We made our way to the highway out of Amsterdam. Peter was at the wheel, Andre was riding shotgun, and Jerome and I sat in the back.
Peter was a character right out of central casting. Standing well over six feet tall, he had an impressive head of long, curly blonde hair that went halfway down his back. He was a wise ass with a wicked sense of humor, and he spoke with a trace of a lisp. I thought he was a big Nordic-looking, hippie freak.
Andre was much quieter and more intellectual. He had a thick crop of crinkly brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Like Peter, he had a sarcastic, sharp-edged sense of humor.
I could see why Jerome liked them both because they were a lot of fun to be around. I was hoping that they would take his mind off shooting drugs. Peter and Andre changed the dynamics, and it seemed like we had the perfect mix of personalities for a good trip.
We got excited every time we saw beautiful scenery, an interesting looking building, or anything out of the ordinary. One of us was constantly yelling and pointing out something for the others to look at. We took turns reading the map and helping Peter navigate the roads that headed south.
Our van was a party on wheels. Jerome still had a big chunk of hash that he had bought in Amsterdam. Everyone’s spirits were high, and we enjoyed many long hours of random, aimless conversation.
Peter, Andre, and Jerome couldn’t stop talking about their hometown, Victoria, British Columbia. They kept going on and on telling me what a great place it was. Andre said there was a rain forest near their home, and it was one of the greenest places on Earth.
“Occasionally, I needed to remind myself what an incredible trip I was taking.”
I learned more about Jerome, too. He came from a well known, wealthy family that owned the Queen Victoria, a famous hotel on Vancouver Island. He had a couple of older brothers, too.
“Who knows?” I thought, “Maybe I’ll wind up living in Canada after this trip is over.”
It was 125 miles to Brussels, and we decided to stop there for the night. Peter and Andre wanted to visit a couple of museums they had heard about. They were the first museums I had visited since arriving in Europe. I had no idea what I was looking at or whose work I was seeing, but I thought that the paintings were spectacular.
Once we got back to Paris, we checked into the same hotel Jerome and I had stayed in before we came to Amsterdam. I felt like we were spinning our wheels going back to Paris so soon, but it was Peter and Andre’s first time there. Besides, I was already seeing things through different eyes than I had only a week earlier. I was less frantic and more relaxed.
As it turned out, there was a Van Gogh exhibit at the Louvre, and we spent some time going through a room full of his paintings. Then we went to the Eiffel Tower and the Notre Dame Cathedral. I was thankful we took the time to see those amazing sights. Occasionally, I needed to remind myself what an incredible trip I was taking.
Jerome and I went to American Express so I could register to receive mail. I thought that my first European address should be in Paris. Since I promised David O’Connor that I would visit him in Ireland for Christmas, I knew I’d be coming back through France.
I figured it was a good time to knock out a quick letter to my draft board. It had been on my mind for days, and I wanted to get it over with. I started the letter three or four times before deciding on the best way to phrase it. It had been nearly two months since I’d first heard from them.
“Dear Sirs,” I began. “This letter is to inform you of a change of address for Gregg Cockrell.”
I tried to picture some Selective Service System employee reading it, and I wondered what his reaction would be.
“I have begun an extended period of research and study in Europe,” I continued, “and will be receiving mail at the American Express Office in Paris, France. Thank You.”
As I signed my name, I felt a little funny having written that line of bullshit. I almost tore it up and started over, but then I thought, “Aw, fuck it, so what.” Technically, it was true. I mailed the letter, and I was really hoping that I wouldn’t get a reply anytime soon.
We got on the road early the next morning and drove out of Paris in heavy rain. Our van headed south through the wine region of France, and the towns we passed through had familiar, cool-sounding names like Limoges and Bordeaux. Like children on their first road trip, we were fascinated by just about everything.
Along the way, we stopped in a couple of small towns and feasted on fresh bread and local wine. Sometimes we’d pull over to the side of the road and have a picnic right on the spot.
Our old milk van performed fairly well for its age, provided we kept it under 60 mph. Above that, it would start to get a little wobbly. It didn’t matter because we weren’t in a hurry. It also didn’t have a radio, but we didn’t need it since we had each other.
There was also no functioning heater which made it quite drafty. The back had been completely gutted, and the seats were missing. Jerome and I had piled up the packs, sleeping bags, and pillows. We curled up against the padding, and it helped us stay warm.
“The arguing went around and around, and the police ultimately carted us off to the station.”
One Sunday afternoon, somewhere on a remote road out in the country, we stopped for gas. The nice, old gentleman running the place was totally surprised to see four hippies pull up in an old van on a quiet afternoon. When he was almost done filling up the tank, Peter whipped out his pile of American Express traveler’s checks.
The guy freaked out when he saw the checks and started screaming at Peter in French. Although I couldn’t understand a word of it, I knew exactly what he was saying. He wanted cash, and he was incredibly pissed that we hadn’t told him we didn’t have any until he was nearly finished.
The screaming got louder and louder until the attendant was shrieking. Then he stuck the gas nozzle right in Peter’s face and threatened to douse him if he didn’t immediately produce some cash. Peter and Andre spoke a little French because they had studied it in school in Canada. However, no matter what they said, it didn’t make a difference. They couldn’t convince him to take a traveler’s check.
The argument continued until the guy’s face turned beet red. He was practically spitting in Peter’s face as he yelled at him. Finally, he stormed into his office and called the police.
The next thing we knew, the gendarmes showed up. They took the whole situation very seriously which, I might add, was a lot more than we were doing. The arguing went around and around, and the police ultimately carted us off to the station. We hoped we weren’t in trouble when they told us to bring our documents and leave the van behind.
The police inspected all of our passports and found our papers to be in order. After endless explaining, we eventually convinced the attendant to take our traveler’s checks. After we paid him, we were allowed to continue on our way. We realized that we had gotten lucky and averted a disaster, especially considering that Jerome was carrying hash.
Our gas tank was full, and we were grateful to be back on the road. We all agreed that we needed to be more careful. The last thing any of us wanted was a run in with the police in Spain. We’d heard a lot of horror stories about people getting busted with drugs there, and none of us wanted any part of that.
We drove all day and started gaining altitude as we climbed into the Pyrenees Mountains. There didn’t seem to be any hotels around. A couple of hours after dark, we pulled the van into the lot of a building we’d spotted off the road in the inky blackness of the mountains.
The parking lot we found belonged to a huge monastery. We wandered the grounds until we saw an entrance. When we walked inside, a young monk greeted us. He was very friendly, even though we must have looked like filthy hippies.
We told him that we were on our way to Spain and were looking for a place to spend the night. He said that we could park our van in the lot and sleep in it. Then he offered us a tour of the monastery. To us, it looked like nothing more than a musty old church, but we thought it would be rude if we skipped the tour. I was glad that we made an effort to learn something about the place because it turned out to be a majestic building with a long history.
Afterward, we asked him if there was anywhere we might be able to buy some wine. He said that there wasn’t a store around for miles but thought he could scrounge some up. He disappeared for a few minutes, returned with a nice bottle of French Cabernet, and gave it to us.
We didn’t ask him anything about his life, but he was really curious about where we were from and what we were doing. The four of us told him a little about ourselves before the discussion turned to religion.
“I’m not very religious at all,” I told him.
“Well, you’re still searching aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I said.
“That’s good. It’s when you stop searching that you’re truly lost.”
I had to think about that for a minute, but then I understood.
We thanked him and left.
“Yeah, keep on searching, man,” I whispered to Peter as we headed back to the van for the night. “I’m glad he searched for that bottle of wine!”
The next morning, we were amazed to discover what an incredibly beautiful spot we were in. We had been unable to appreciate how spectacular the view was when we arrived late at night. With the sun coming up through the clouds and mist hanging over the Pyrenees Mountains, we had a perfect postcard view of the valley below. We took it in for several minutes before continuing toward Spain. I wouldn’t realize until later that we had visited Santa Maria de Montserrat, the famous Benedictine abbey located in Catalonia, Spain.
“The tight jeans she wore left little doubt that she had a great body.”
As we approached the border, we smoked the rest of the hash. For the last few miles in France, we were all heavily buzzed, but at least we’d be entering Spain drug free. Once across the border, there was a sign that said Barcelona was only sixty kilometers away, so we decided to spend the night there.
Before we arrived, we stopped in a small town and got our first chance to practice the little Spanish any of us knew. I had a slight advantage because I had studied it in school in California. I was surprised at how much of it I remembered.
The geography changed dramatically from the lush highlands of southern France. We started seeing dry, flat plains with mountains on the horizon – a look that reminded me of a dozen old Western movies I’d seen.
After a full day in Barcelona, including a fascinating tour of the famous Sagrada Família, we were anxious to drive the four hundred miles to Madrid. Along the way, we picked up a French hitchhiker named Roman, who was also headed for the city. He was tall, skinny, and had a real sense of flair. With an old leather bag slung over his shoulder, he looked like a seasoned traveler.
Roman was a little older than we were, and he spoke really good English. We all instantly liked him and were happy to have him join our group. He was an art student from Paris and was hitching to Madrid for a class assignment to see the Prado Museum. When we all told him that we’d never heard of it, he was astounded.
“You’ve never heard of the Prado?” he exclaimed. “The Prado is one of the most fan-tass-teek museums in all of Europe! Maybe in all the world!”
Roman told us about the museum’s great works of art, the unusual artists, and the bizarre concept of surrealism. His descriptions of paintings by Salvador Dali and Hieronymus Bosch sounded awesome to me. I loved meeting people who were passionate about things like Roman was about art.
When we got to Madrid, Roman personally brought us to the Prado. Because of him, we looked at paintings that we would not have otherwise seen, and we understood the art that we saw in an entirely different way. A couple of days later Roman needed to go back to his school in Paris, so we bid him farewell.
In downtown Madrid, we rented an enormous room in a pension. It was our kind of place because it was cheap, clean, and close to all of the action that made the city famous.
Down the hall from our room were two cool American girls, Jenny Collins and her friend Hutch. They were from Milwaukee, Wisconsin and were just bumming around Europe for a few months until their money ran out. It was obvious that they were no strangers to partying, hanging out with guys, and having a good time. We all fell in pretty well together right away. After a couple of wild nights of drinking and dancing, I started taking a real interest in Jenny.
Jenny was my idea of the kind of girl I could picture myself hooking up with. She was a smart, cute hippie chick, with straight light brown hair all the way down to the middle of her back. The tight jeans she wore left little doubt that she had a great body. She didn’t wear any makeup because she didn’t have to. With her gorgeous blue eyes, she was a classic American Midwestern beauty and the true definition of a girl next door. I was smitten.
She had a certain confidence that I liked a lot. Jenny wasn’t the kind of girl who could be pushed around by a guy. Nobody needed to take care of her, and she was as much of a wiseass as the rest of us. She could drink and dance any of us under the table as she did on more than one occasion.
Jenny and Hutch turned us on to Mini Lips, the over-the-counter uppers. Anybody could walk into a farmacia and buy a bottle of them for a few pesetas. They were similar to the pills Jerome gave me in Amsterdam. If you took a couple of them, you could party all night long.
The six of us, and anyone else we met during each night, had an alcohol-fueled blast in Madrid. We fell into a pattern of bar-hopping until early in the morning, sleeping until mid-afternoon, going out for a late breakfast, popping a few Mini Lips, and doing it all over again. This went on for several days.
Jenny and I were really getting close, and we wanted to get closer. What sealed the deal was the night I got too drunk, and she offered to get me safely back to my room. I was a total mess and ripped well beyond the room spinning. She stuffed me into a taxi cab and jumped in next to me. Before we got back to the pension, I threw up and passed out cold.
Somehow, she got me into my room, undressed me, and put me to bed. This wasn’t the first time I’d been a mess and a beautiful woman had done that. I was lucky that way. I must have been doing something right.
A couple nights later, Jenny and I ditched our friends and went back to the pension early. We wound up in her room rolling around on her bed and making out, but the old lady who ran the place made us really paranoid. She was constantly warning us to stay out of each other’s rooms; she did not want boys and girls together in the same room unless they were man and wife.
We could hear her pacing outside in the hallway, and at one point she knocked on the door. She must have suspected something was going on, but we were sure she hadn’t seen us sneak in. There was no way we were going to get naked with the old woman lurking out there. After an hour of some hot and heavy breathing, I snuck back to my room all alone.
Jenny and I were definitely an item, and that was obvious to everyone else. The only one who was unhappy about it was her less-attractive friend, Hutch, who felt left out. I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time that had happened.
A couple of nights later, Jenny and I went out alone. Instead of another night of senseless binge drinking and dancing, we walked around the city, looked at all of the fountains, and took in the beauty of Madrid at night. It was one of the most romantic experiences I’d ever had.
There was no question about it; I was falling in love with Jenny. It was the last thing I’d expected to happen, but as much fun as we were having, we both knew it was going to be short-lived. It was rather cold for Madrid in early December, and Jenny and Hutch had been planning to go somewhere warm before they had met us.
One afternoon, Jenny showed me a travel brochure she’d picked up for the Canary Islands. She said that she and Hutch had decided to go there and asked me if I would go with them. The pictures of sunny beaches and palm trees looked like a real island paradise. I was torn about what to do. It was three weeks before Christmas, and I had promised David O’Connor that I’d meet him in Dublin.
Jerome, Peter and Andre all thought that I should keep that promise.
“Hey, man, you’re just starting your trip,” Jerome said. “There are gonna be lots of chicks.”
“Yeah, don’t rush into anything,” Andre added. “You’ll meet girls everywhere you go.”
“Jenny’s a cool chick,” Peter chimed in, “but if I were you, I’d go to Dublin. You can always go back to her later if you want to.”
I debated it for another day before deciding to stick with my original plan. I would go to Ireland for Christmas.
Jenny understood my decision. I think that she would have preferred that I come along, but she certainly wasn’t going to beg me to follow her. She was nothing like Suzanne, my “girlfriend” in Amsterdam.
We all went out for one last drunken night of partying before going our separate ways. We’d become a pretty tight group in a short amount of time.
In the end, everyone had their plan. Jerome decided to hang out with Peter and Andre a little longer before possibly heading to Italy and Greece. Jenny and Hutch were determined to get to the Canary Islands before their money ran out. I was going to retrace my steps through Europe and be in Ireland for Christmas.
The next morning, I said goodbye to the guys as they started to regain consciousness from the night before. I was hopeful that we’d all meet up again.
Jerome was the hardest one for me to say goodbye to because I felt a strong kinship with him. He was the first real friend that I’d met on the road, and it was at a time when I truly needed one. He showed me the ropes early on, and I knew that I’d miss him the most, even more than Jenny. We exchanged home addresses and vowed to keep in touch.
I slipped out of my room and walked down the hall to knock on Jenny’s door. We hugged and kissed quickly, before the old lady saw us, and I promised that I would catch up with her in a month in the Canary Islands.
“I won’t ever forget Madrid,” I thought. “I’ll always remember falling in love with Jenny Collins from Milwaukee here.”
I wondered if today would be the last time I would see her.
It felt a little strange to be traveling on my own again. I walked about a mile to the train station and bought a ticket to Barcelona. I didn’t feel like hitching right now, and I was glad I had the option to avoid it.
For the last month, I’d been partying, drinking, and getting high almost every night, and I knew that I should slow down a little. When I got on the train, the motion of it moving along the tracks helped me drift off into badly needed sleep.
Back in Barcelona, I remembered my way around, and I got a room at the same cheap hotel where Jerome and I had stayed a couple of weeks earlier.
The next morning, I packed up and got on the road early. I was determined to hitchhike as much as I could back through France. Someone had told me that the popular route was to take the ferry from Calais, France to Dover, England so I thought I’d give it a shot. After being on the road for a little more than a month, I had a lot more experience under my belt. I quickly got rides across France, making it back to Paris in only two days.
“Late at night I heard a hell of a fight followed by a few blood-chilling screams.”
I dropped by the American Express office to see if I had any mail, and I was surprised to see that I did. Thankfully, it wasn’t from the Selective Service System but from my mom and dad. They sent a letter, and inside was a picture of them. I slipped it into my passport.
After I collected my mail, I left my forwarding address as the American Express office in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. That would force me to travel there after Ireland, if only to get my next batch of mail.
I took a train from Paris to Calais and bought a ticket on the ferry to Dover. I was excited about the prospect of finally seeing some new sights, especially London. The ferry left Calais in the evening and arrived in Dover at about 10 p.m. on a cold Friday night.
“Wow, I’m in England, the land of the Beatles!” I thought.
I took a quick look around Dover. At first glance, I could tell that it was a big, crowded, dirty, depressing port city. The air was cold, foggy and damp. “This must be typical English weather,” I thought as I caught the train to London.
I struck up a conversation with a young German guy who gave me the address of a youth hostel in London. When I got off the train, I jumped into a taxi and went straight there. I was relieved when we pulled up to the place, and I couldn’t wait to relax, have some privacy, and get a good sleep.
When I walked into the hostel, a powerful stench hit me. The entire place smelled like a dirty locker room, and there were six creepy people flopped on the floor in the lobby. They were in front of a small black and white television set that was barely getting reception.
I signed in and went upstairs. I opened the door to a long room with about twenty bunk beds, and most of them had someone on them. The occupants looked like punk rockers, and they were quite noisy. Compared to me, they all looked pretty down-and-out. I knew I wouldn’t be getting any sleep.
I grabbed an empty bottom bunk that was far away from the bathroom and the pay telephones. Since it was at the opposite end of the room, I hoped it might provide some peace and quiet.
I was now aware of the importance of privacy. All I wanted was a place to be alone, not be bothered by anyone, and do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. It was definitely a luxury I would not be experiencing in this London youth hostel.
I desperately needed a shower, so I walked down the hallway to check out the facilities. When I opened the door, I found a guy and a girl having sex, and I think they were also doing some kind of drugs. I decided against the shower. I went back to my room and curled up in my corner but couldn’t fall asleep.
Throughout the night, I listened to the unbelievable sounds that filtered through the building. Late at night I heard a hell of a fight followed by a few blood-chilling screams. I could hear at least three people get violently ill in the bathroom, which was a place I avoided at all costs.
By the next morning, I felt absolutely awful and was totally disgusted with the whole scene. I scrapped my plans to go sightseeing in London and looked for another place to stay.
That afternoon I checked into a hotel. It was far more expensive than I had hoped for, but I slept peacefully for the rest of the day and into the evening. I went out for a quick dinner and a beer and then back to my room for a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.
The next day, I walked around London and tried to get a feel for what the city was like. I checked out Soho and some other cool parts of town. As I passed through Finsbury Park, I came upon the Rainbow Theatre, and Frank Zappa’s name was on the marquee:
TONIGHT: FRANK ZAPPA AND THE MOTHERS OF INVENTION – BOTH SHOWS SOLD OUT (STANDING ROOM ONLY FOR THE SECOND SHOW AVAILABLE)
On a whim, I decided to buy a standing-room-only ticket for the late show.
When I arrived that evening, it was freezing cold and drizzling rain. A huge crowd stood in front of the theatre waiting for the second show to begin. The people from the first show began to empty out, and then a man stepped out with a megaphone and made an announcement:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, there will be no second show this evening. Mr. Zappa has been severely injured and is not able to continue. He has been taken to hospital.”
There was a loud roar from the crowd and lots of angry shouting and confusion. Slowly, word began to spread that a crazed fan had jumped onto the stage and physically attacked Zappa. The maniacal nut threw him into the orchestra pit, broke his leg, and caused other serious injuries.
The next morning, I read about it in the news:
Pop musician hurt during act
Mr. Frank Zappa, aged 31, the pop musician, broke his leg last night, Friday 10 December, 1971, in an incident at the Rainbow Theatre, Finsbury Park, London. A man dashed onto the stage and Mr. Zappa fell into the orchestra pit. A man was later being interviewed by the police. [Times, 11 Dec 71]
My time in London seemed cursed and rather bleak, like the weather. I couldn’t help but think of the darker side of life in London, and it reminded me of the music I’d heard by bands like the Rolling Stones. They’d sung about street fighting men, junkies, and other lowlifes who inhabited these neighborhoods. I had no doubt that some of them had stayed at the same youth hostel that I’d been to.
“As darkness approached, I got into my sleeping bag and fell asleep under the stars.”
After a few more days, I was anxious to get to Ireland and celebrate Christmas with David O’Connor. I caught a bus out of London to the English countryside. My plan was to pass through Birmingham and into Wales where I would catch the ferry to Ireland.
I got off the bus in a small town and walked for most of the afternoon. My mission was to find a good highway for hitchhiking. I had the help of a map that I’d bought in the lobby of the London youth hostel. I got a ride in a truck, but it didn’t take me very far. The driver let me out in the middle of nowhere, and I decided not to continue on to Birmingham. Instead, I walked off the road into a gorgeous meadow.
Despite ditching a lot of my belongings in Paris, I had kept most of my camping gear. I climbed over a short fence and walked a hundred yards to a huge tree. Then I unrolled my sleeping bag, took out my small gas stove, and boiled some water for a cup of coffee.
Ahh, peace and quiet! It felt great to be alone, and I was feeling pretty comfortable in my meadow. I could tell that there was going to be a stunning sunset. With my coffee in hand, I propped myself up against the tree to watch it. As darkness approached, I got into my sleeping bag and fell asleep under the stars.
I woke up about eight in the morning feeling rested and somewhat recharged. I packed up my camp and walked back to the road to hitch. Within two hours, I was in Birmingham.
Like Dover, Birmingham was large, dirty, and congested, and I was in no mood to spend any time there. I found the main highway out of the city, and after a little trouble getting a ride, I was in a car headed in the right direction.
After sleeping the following night in a quaint English country inn, I spent most of the next day walking and hitchhiking into Wales trying to get to Holyhead and onto the ferry to Dublin.
Wales was fascinating with its narrow cobblestone streets and storefronts that looked like they belonged on Main Street in Disneyland. The towns were a pleasant change from the big noisy cities I’d recently seen. I got quite a few stares as I came through some of the smaller villages with my big backpack and long hair. I hadn’t realized that I would be such an unusual sight.
It had been raining all day, and I got drenched. By dark, I had made it to the ferry terminal in Holyhead, Wales. When it started to really storm, I ducked into a cafe, drank hot tea, and wrote some letters.
I caught the last boat out at 10 p.m. It was scheduled to arrive in Dublin around 5 a.m. depending on the weather and conditions on the Irish Sea. To my surprise, there were bunk beds available on the boat where passengers could spend the night. But the trip was so rough that I was unable to stay in the bunk, let alone sleep. To make matters worse, there was the unbearable sound of several people suffering from seasickness.
I grabbed my pack, went upstairs to the lounge, and bought a beer. I spotted a chair and table off in the corner of the room and camped out there for the rest of the trip.
In the lounge, I struck up a conversation with a pleasant, distinguished-looking older gentleman, and his two cute teenage daughters. They were returning home to Dublin from England and seemed pleased to find a young American to talk to. The father was friendly, and he bought me a few beers as we talked. He offered me a ride to David’s house once we reached shore.
It was 5:30 in the morning when we got to their car. I told them that David lived on North Circular Road in Dublin, right next to Phoenix Park. The man knew exactly where it was, but he was reluctant to drop me off so early. However, I assured him that my friend was expecting me, and it would not be a problem. When I got out of the car, I thanked the family and wished them the best.
I had traveled a long way, and I breathed out a huge sigh of relief. “Welcome to Ireland,” I thought as I proudly stood in front of David O’Connor’s house in the chilly morning air. It was December 16th, 1971.
