 |
|
- Winter Doldrums -
|
|
Winter Semester Break occurred at the bottom of the "winter doldrums". We all split in different directions; some home, some on trips, others like us, had heard that the Mediterranean coast was always warm and sunny. After all, that is why the British developed Nice wasn't it? A friend of Joan Rasool McCallum, Bob Beck, a movie producer generously made his small apartment in Antibes available to David Dick, Glenda Cooper (né Johnson) and Bob and Jacques Brel. Eric Elbot and I figured warm sun, beaches and waves sounded really good. So we decided to hitch hike south and trust our luck to the Gods. It was miserable, wet and cold when we left Paris. A couple days later after meeting a cross section of the French population, at least that section that would give a couple of scruffy looking American students a lift, we arrived at the beach in Frejus with the sun just setting over the azure blue sea, miles of pristine sand (the condos and strip tourist joints would come later) and a long walk to St. Raphael where we thought we would spend the night. The next morning we awoke, put on our swimming trunks and emerged into - pouring rain. Cold and soggy, we picked up few rides along the coast road. Finally we were deposited into the center of Antibes where we though Dave and Glenda would just love to see us and offer us a hot drink and a warm hearth. David's face at the door says it all! We barged in anyway. The rest is in the photos. Other times, faced with very short hours of daylight, we would seek out friends in the far reaches of the city, open a bottle of something we could afford and enjoy good fellowship.
Just Doldrums - God! Some of those short, grey, damp days were depressing! Black trees leafless forever it seemed - cafés had had their glass panels up around the sidewalk tables, steaming with breath condensation and steam from coffees and teas and moist clothing - the chill that followed you around - long dark evenings - the humid wind that seemed to find every crevasse and carried with it old bits of paper, grit and bits of grim - the warmth, however fetid, of the Metro won out over the fresher air of the back platform of the bus. I was not a smoker when I arrived, but that first year in February, Eric Elbot and I were sitting with Julie McDowell and Glenda Cooper (né Johnson), I believe, in a bistro café in the Quartier Latin and us non smoking guys bummed a couple of cigarettes from the girls. Marlboroghs I believe they were. Eric had had a little more experience than I, so did not make such a coughing fool of himself. But after that I was a confirmed, non-inhaler smoker. It gave me something to do with my hands, designs in an ashtray, breaking open a virgin pack was an event, casually flicking ash - so grown up! Then there was the ritual of lighting up. A Zippo that leaked onto your thigh when over filled was the ticket opening with the snap of the thumb and two fore fingers. Magic. The ritual of lighting up, drawing in and blowing out. It was a friend who never talked back. A security blanked. Help thought; intensified lesson retention; promoted philosophical discourse along with coffee and/or wine or maybe one of those baby bottles of some obscure and horribly sweet liquors you could buy at the alimentation down the street. Oh! So easy to start, but once inhaling started, so difficult to stop!
|
|
Semester Break - End of Jan '65 (contin. right)
|
 |
 |
We left Paris by Metro, taking it to the furthest stop south. Eric used his time to study the map and bone up a bit on the delights awaiting us in sunny Provence.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
I hugged the pole, moved my weight from one foot to another, tried to stay warm and kept asking Eric "how much longer?"
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Somewhere south of Paris and north of Lyon, we met a fellow student, French, who felt more secure with a couple of strapping fellow hitch hikers. We provided a security detail; she promised us a warm floor to sleep on when we got her to Lyon.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Good as her word, the other students in the apartment welcomed us and showed us their well worn but dry carpet, shared a crust and some wine. Food never tasted so good!
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
As well as the carpet, we slept like princes on an eiderdown.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
The pristine beach at Frejus. A celebration bottle of "limonade" stood in for Champagne as the sun set warm and red.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
This was pre-environmental days. so instead of smashing our vodka classes in the fireplace, we made do with a long through into the sea. Real bright we were in those days!
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
It has been a long day on the road, so before serching for a hotel, we had a short nap on the St. Raphael water front (St. Raphael in the background).
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
The next day, since it was pouring rain (which never let up for the whole stay) we gradually made out way, mostly by foot, along the coast to Antibes.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
The itinerant life is fine in good weather. The romance fades a bit in the cold and rain.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Semester Break- (contin.)
|
 |
|
We arrived in Antibes and found our way to the apartment of David Dick and Glenda Cooper.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Our arrival came as a bit of a shock to the inhabitants who had been enjoying being on their own and away from the crowd in Paris. But gracious hosts as they were, we were eventually able to pry the door open and bulldoze our way in.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Eric suggested that since the beach was only a few steps away, we could not come all the way south and not have a swim. As you can see, some blood warming and brain numbing liquid refreshment must have been administered, because the suggestion was greet with celebration.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Or perhaps it was the vision of Glenda in her swimsuit that was intoxicating. Whatever, the guys took it all to heart.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
David even was moved to demonstrate his vaudville act.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
After a few seconds the feet were too numb to feel the stones. Once in the water, the whole body was too numb to feel anything. Or perhaps it was the vision of Glenda in her swim suite.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Clothing hurredly left on the benck. After a dip, the clothing was even more hurredly re-donned.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
A cramp? I don't remember. I just remember hiding behind the camera fully clothed and wet from fresh rain, not sea water.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
But at least one of us took a few seconds to really enjoy the scene, goose bumps and all.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
We were truly freezing and wet on our return to the apartment. There was not wood for the fireplace. Somehow we found some and tried to light a fire which managed to pour smoke into the rooms and go out. So we were cold, wet and asphixiated. The next day, Eric and I set forth to return to Paris and warmth and dry rooms. At least in comparison.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Other diversions (contin. right)
|
 |
|
Phil Strub and Thom Dornan were room mates in the 16th. I joined them one evening for a few libations and we ended up entertaining the local population with renditions on their guitars. They were not bad, but they should not have put a guitar into my hands.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
Thom Dornan.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Other diversions (contin.)
|
 |
|
Peter D'Aprix displaying his total lack of ability to form a single cord.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
