Part 3
EUROPEAN PATHS, FALL 1960
Night Flight
My family took me to a
passenger gate at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on Sunday, Sept. 18,
1960. In the late afternoon my dad shook my hand and wished me a good trip.
Jerry, my brother, followed suit. Surprisingly, Mom shed tears as she watched
me leave the passenger lounge, cross the tarmac, and climb up the stairway from
the runway to the airliner’s door. Once on board, Bill and I assumed our assigned
seats, side by side, in the blue-themed interior of the Pan American airliner. Attendants
welcomed us aboard, demonstrated how to buckle up, the airplane lifted off and
we were bound for Heathrow airport.
Bill and the Jetliner at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
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This was my first experience in an airplane of any sort. The
first Pan Am commercial flight using a Boeing 707 jet was logged in October
1958, so the nonstop flight to London from Seattle would have been a novelty for
almost everyone. On take-off, I marveled at the powerful lift of the jet
engines. Out of the window, I saw Puget Sound and the Olympic mountains. They
soon receded and I was looking down upon the familiar green forests of the Cascade
mountain range. The mountain greenery quickly gave way to some familiar sights in
Central Washington such as the Columbia River, far below. I even picked out the
Grand Coulee Dam, the final landmark I recognized. Flying was exciting! I could
understand why many young people were entering airline jobs as flight
attendants, engineers and pilots.
Breakfast Break in Paris
After takeoff, groups formed. Passengers unbuckled their
seat belts, moved around the cabin and formed conversation groups in the aisles
or over seat-backs. Multilingual ability was the ticket to admission to any huddle.
Monolinguals were barred admission, informally, to a group other than one’s own.
I was determined to overcome destiny tried a few German phrases on a group of
German-speakers. I learned quite quickly that the Germans wanted to engage in
conversation with each other and not to give language coaching to a novice
German speaker. I slunk back to my seat.
Fog over Heathrow: not that unusual, and it worked well for us
There were no incidents—none, that is, until we approached Heathrow
Airport in the morning light. Then, during the rough descent through clouds,
the pilot announced that thick fog covering the airport would prevent him from landing
in London. We’d be forced to detour to Paris. The powerful engines accelerated
once again. We were soon above the clouds and bound for France.
“Forced!” Bill echoed. “Unfortunate us!”
“Yes, this will be tough,” I agreed, pretending great
disappointment. For us, it was actually a bonus of more miles of travel than we’d
paid for. We had no fixed schedules to meet. Why not spend the morning in
France?
We watched as the plane approach Charles DeGaulle airport.
Villages and farms slipped past and then we landed smoothly on French tarmac.
When the pilot had us parked at a terminal, the airline crew brought a French
breakfast on board: steaming hot chocolate, buttery croissants, fruits and some
sliced meats. The classic French petit déjeuner prompted me to ask, “What
delicacies will we have for breakfast in London tomorrow?”
I was on this trip for experience and an accident of weather
delivered a French breakfast to my seat well ahead of schedule. The flight
delay was probably the cause of agony for some with a business schedule to meet
but a blessing for others. I felt blessed.
Two Frontier Hicks in the Big City
Once off the plane in London we collected our luggage. Then,
taking deep breaths, we plunged into the crowds. Immediately we were blown away
by the cosmopolitan mix: turbans, Chinese women in decorative dress, and mixed
race couples everywhere. Personally I was amazed to glimpse a white-gowned Arab
whiz past in a chauffeured limousine.
To Bill I confessed, “Suddenly I feel like a hick from the
frontier.”
Bill, never one for self-deprecation, corrected me: “You may
be from the frontier, but you’re not a hick.”
I agreed. I was from a frontier. But I continued to suppose
that my intrigue with the ethnic variety of London confirmed that I was, in
fact, a hick also. And I hoped that Londoners could and would understand this
hick’s excitement at having been whisked overnight from the frontier to the very
center of civilization. The magic carpet effect was real.
Though beholding the sights was our great desire, our first practical
imperative in the British capital city was to find a night’s lodging. We found
that our first choice, the YMCA, had no room for us. But we had a backup to
which we turned: Peace Haven, a hostel-like establishment with a lovely name.
I accepted the challenge of making the telephone call to
Peace Haven. I found a phone booth easily enough. Painted bright red, it was
difficult not to see. But organizing the English coinage required to make a pay
phone call, coupled with the catching of my coat in the red-painted wooden door
of the wooden telephone booth, created some complications and really flustered
me.
I was wearing a wool overcoat; so was Bill. Over the next
few weeks, each week colder than the previous one in the series, the warmth of
these coats made us grateful to have them. The coats were true friends, even
though they made us look old-fashioned.
“I can’t. I have no pence!” I whined. She took the whine as a
plea for help. She was right.
After a pause, she said, “Then I can wait while you get four
pence.” Clearly my whimper worked.
I left the received dangling and went across the way to a
nearby bank to get pence. When I returned minutes later with the correct change
in hand, the patient operator was still on the line. I entered the four pence
and she connected me with the receptionist at Peace Haven.
Panicked by something as
innocuous as a British telephone booth, I relied solely on instinct and rapidly
pressed a series of unlabeled buttons. Lucky again! I feared that I’d press a
disconnect button and be cut off, but that didn’t happen. Soon I could hear the
receptionist and she committed to hold a room for Bill and me. Success! Now the
next challenge: getting to the Haven, located about eight
miles away in Acton.
We traveled in a westerly direction on public transit: first
by bus, then the Tube, and finally we switched to a second bus. This was my
first experience at riding the Tube, and I adapted quickly. By mistake, we dropped
from the second bus a few stops early and had to walk several blocks, toting
our heavy travel bags. Fatigued from lack of sleep and by the weight of our bags,
we took a break, sitting on a curb. Passersby smiled upon us angelically but
didn’t offer to carry our luggage.
Bill asked me, “Where is this place, again?”
“Very good question! I wish I knew,” was all I could offer. “I
just hope we’re going in the right direction.” We picked up our loads and started
out again.
So far, our experience in London showed that we were raw,
uninitiated, and largely unprepared, despite all of the handholding at the AAA
office back in Portland. But it also showed that we were determined. We did not
give up.
An Affordable Peace
Finally, really exhausted now, we arrived at Peace Haven, an
older three-storied brick building on a street paved with similar bricks. We
soon were stunned that our Haven was starkly furnished, with no carpeting,
naked light bulbs, waxed toilet paper, one single bathroom for men one floor up
from our room, and surplus army bunk beds with sags. But, we admitted, it was
cheap! Four English pounds for four days, including both bed and breakfast for
two persons. I should add to the list of features the smell of coal smoke throughout
the building. It was late afternoon by the time we arrived. We hit the hay for
the remainder of the day.
Some Serious Sights
Next morning: bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and tea for breakfast. Remembering
the elegant petit déjeuner in Paris the previous
morning I began thinking that we should move on to Paris early. As soon as we
were finished with the meal we traveled into central London by bus and Tube,
emerging from under-ground at Piccadilly Circus. We marched past Lord Nelson’s
column on Trafalgar Square, watched the impressive but archaic changing of the
guard at Admiralty Arch, then walked on to Big Ben, Westminster Cathedral, and
past the houses of Parliament. Finally, at 2 p.m. we stopped for lunch in a sandwich
shop. (Sandwiches and coffee only 12 pence! No problem!)
“What monuments!” I exclaimed to Bill over lunch. My
exhaustion was gone, and now my mood had flipped to euphoric. In addition, in
consideration of the great sights of London yet to behold, I withdrew my earlier
thought of rushing off to Paris. Fed and watered, we had energy to go on to
several other renowned sights.
My expansive mood passed all bounds when I walked up to St.
Paul’s Cathedral and entered through a great door to explore the interior. I’d
studied John Donne (“Ask not for whom the bell tolls”) with great admiration
back at Seattle Pacific. Now I was standing in person before John Donne’s
monument in the very building of the congregation which he’d served as Dean of
the Cathedral. I encountered a second surprise as I walked around a big pillar
and unexpectedly came face to face with Holman Hunt’s “Christ Knocking at the
Door,” an art piece that was familiar to me from Sunday school literature. Lifted
by such treasures I totally put aside all disappointments about Peace Haven.
Photo: In St. Paul's, suddenly face to face with "Christ Knocking"
A Diplomatic Boost
Later that afternoon we made our way to the office of the
High Commissioner of Sierra Leone to seek passports for possible travel to
Sierra Leone, West Africa, at the onset of winter.
The receptionist introduced the High Commissioner to us very
simply, with the words: “This is Dr. Richard Kelfa-Caulker.”
Dr. Kelfa-Caulker surprised us. He stepped around the desk
and welcomed us with warm words, a handshake, and a broad smile. His black hair
was mixed with grey and his gray suit coat covered a matching vest. Motioning us
into his private office, he asked us to be seated. I was amazed at the courtesy
offered to us by Sierra Leone’s highest representative in London, who was dressed
as if to meet the Queen.
Photo:Sierra Leone’s High Commissioner
to the U.K., Ambassador Dr. Richard E. Kelfa-Caulker
Relaxed but animated conversation ensued. He seemed
fascinated that we college graduates might be heading to his native land. He
also discovered that he had a church connection with us. Bill and I were
members of the Evangelical United Brethren (EUB) Church and so was Dr.
Kelfa-Caulker. That came to light when he told us that he’d previously served
as the Principal of Albert Academy. Albert Academy had a reputation as the prominent
EUB secondary school for boys in Freetown. We recognized that connection and it
gave us a common bond. And, he continued, he was the first African principal of
Albert Academy. The long line of his predecessors as principal were American
missionaries.
Seated in a deeply cushioned leather arm chair and surveying
the office walls and furniture I thought, “What a contrast to Peace Haven!” A dark-stained
wooden desk, wooden wall paneling, beautiful artifacts and paintings of Sierra
Leone adorned the room. Maybe this space was our “peace haven” in fact.
And what a friendly man Kelfa-Caulker turned out to be. He assured
us that we’d be welcome in his country, gave us a brief history of the drive
toward independence, and shared a few laughs with us. He also shared a few family
matters: that he’d left his wife and two children in Freetown, where he would
rejoin them when his appointment to London ended. He also remarked on a recent,
sad family tragedy: the death of his brother-in-law in Dakar in the crash
of a French Constellation airplane.
After about an hour of friendly and educational conversation,
he stated that we were in the wrong office to obtain visas. He’d have to send
us to the British Passport Office. Reason: Sierra Leone was not yet independent
from England and wouldn’t be handling its own visa affairs until April, 1961.
“We’ve made a mistake, but a fortunate one for us. We got to
meet you,” I said. “Sorry to take your time, Sir. You’ve given us a lot of time
and inspiration.”
“No problem,” Kelfa-Caulker said. “But let me help you get
to the Passport Office.”
To make sure we’d cross the city without getting lost and
before the Passport Office closing time, he buzzed his chauffeur and gave him
instructions to drive us in the Hummer limousine. The chauffeur was very adept
at outpacing other traffic and dodging pedestrians, providing thrills well beyond
the roller coaster ride at the Western Washington State fair. I could imagine
onlookers saying something like, “Look! Two American chaps chauffeured in a
limo, just like sheiks. This is really a cosmopolitan city!”
We arrived on time and received our visas for travel in
Sierra Leone.
As a churchman he also eased my feelings about the EUBs east
of the Rockies. In fact, he’d been educated at Otterbein College in Ohio, one
of the centers of the “liberal” Eastern EUB influence according to many back in
Oregon and Washington State. Here in London I met an “Eastern” EUB with whom I
instantly bonded, spiritually as well as educationally.
Stones of the Ages
During a week of many high points in London, we visited a particular
pilgrimage site: Wesley’s Chapel. It was built in 1778 under the leadership of
the primary founder of Methodism, John Wesley.
Photo Wesley’s Chapel, “The Cathedral
of Methodism,” London
Since the EUB Church dated back to the Wesleyan revival and
descended from Methodist-style preaching among German immigrants in America, a
stop at Wesley’s Chapel was an important priority for Bill and me. Although it
was known informally as the “Cathedral of Methodism,” the Chapel’s proportions
were modest compared to those of the other cathedral, St. Paul’s. Nevertheless,
Mr. Wesley’s Chapel, with its formal décor and dark woodwork, was exactly what
I needed to see in order to cement my religious heritage into my heart and mind...
Across City Road, the street on which the chapel fronted, lay
a cemetery that Bill and I also visited. Known as the dissenter’s cemetery, it
sheltered the remains of a glittering array of English literary and historical
personalities: John Bunyan, William Blake, George Fox, William Wilberforce and
many others. John Wesley himself, though, was buried back across City Road,
behind the Chapel.
The Chapel and its furnishings were of interest, but more striking
to me was the Museum of Methodism, housed in an attached building. There, an
informational piece on Wesley’s life stated that he made a fortune during his
lifetime but vowed to die penniless. He accomplished his vow by giving his very
last financial assets to a children’s hospital while on his deathbed. Talk
about careful lifetime financial planning! Wesley followed his own teaching: “Do
all the good you can, as long as you can.” And one could add, “Do good while
you can.”
On this visit Bill and I were reminded of another of Wesley’s
famous teachings, “The world is my parish.” Suddenly a light went on in each of
our brains. We were Wesleyan. And here we were, half a world away from our
birthplaces, exploring the meaning of ministry for our own lives. Our motives
for travel to this spot and beyond were rooted in our Wesleyan religious
tradition that knew no official limits or bounds. Perhaps the world would
become Bill’s parish or mine too.
Still Older Stones
Still later that day, I stood outside the Tower of London, the
old royal prison, and viewed stones set in a grassy embankment. An
informational sign stated that the stones were remnants from the Roman
occupational of England ages ago.
I thought of some “old” structures in my experience back
home in Tacoma. The oldest remaining building in the city was Job Carr’s cabin,
built in 1865, rotting away but still on display at the beginning of Five Mile
Drive in Point Defiance Park. The Hudson’s Bay log fort of 1844 had been reconstructed
in the same park. Until just now, I’d thought the cabin and the fort were very
old!
Photo: Replica of Job Carr’s
cabin, Tacoma, WA (My frontierish idea of an old building)
Historic American Buildings
Survey via Wikimedia. In the public domain.
I felt struck by the
depth of time, like I’d been struck by the depth of the universe earlier in
life when I looked at the Milky Way through a telescope for the first time. This
time I looked into the depths of English and Roman history with the help of old
stones—really old.
Photo:The Tower: History
seemed Endless
Once again, I felt like a hick from the frontier suddenly
admitted to the center of civilization. But that’s why I was standing within
St. Paul’s Cathedral, in Wesley’s Chapel, and in front of the Tower: to
explore, to get out of my narrow niche, better to understand myself. Thanks to
my supportive parents, my draft board and pickle dollars earned at Nalley’s
during the summer, that very day I was experiencing, with greater intensity, almost
more than I could take in. The effect on me was that my perception changed.
Photo: Big Ben; enjoying a late
summer sun
Family Friends in Oxford
On Wednesday, September 28, while Bill remained in London, I
traveled by train to Cambridge to meet the Emsden family—Mr., Mrs., and three
kids. I’d arranged a contact with the family through Bob, an older friend at my
church in Tacoma, who suggested—virtually insisted, in fact—that I meet the friends
he’d made during his World War II military service in the U.S. Army. The Emsdens
were his foster family while he was stationed in England, and fifteen years
later they were still in close contact.
The dull red passenger cars of the train presented a low
profile, with a rounded top. I had to duck to keep avoid colliding with the top
of the doorframe as I entered my assigned car. The train left London on time
and arrived in Cambridge on schedule. Getting out of London and riding through sixty
miles of green countryside vividly displayed the beauty of rural England.
Mrs. Emsden demonstrated something important about food in England.
On my own in London, I’d found it difficult to obtain enough food at mealtimes to
feel satisfied, and that held true at breakfast, lunch and dinner. But the she provided
three extraordinarily large and tasty meals: a huge lunch (steak and kidney
pie,) tea, and high tea.
I’d heard of high tea. I’d seen it on a menu in the Princess
Hotel in Victoria, B.C. But I’d never had it presented to me until this day.
For high tea, Mrs. Emsden offered a salad plus an eel dish. The North Sea eel
looked a little weird to me but I enjoyed the chicken-like flavor. Overall, the
three meals proved beyond doubt that it was possible to eat very well in
England, at the hands of the right cook. At each of them I felt full and
satisfied.
A blind university student from Zurich, Switzerland, Rosemarie
by name, was boarding with the family. She invited me to visit her in Zurich. I
told her that Bill and I would try to do just that when we got there later in
the fall. I was surprised to have made contact with a continental European
student in an English home and recognized how fortunate she was to study for a
time in Cambridge University.
It struck me that the host family’s patterns of relating to
each other were far more structured than those of my family. The Emsden
children weren’t allowed to “fool around.” They were to respect the authority
of Mother and Father and clearly did so. In return, the parents showed great consideration
for the kids and helped them in many ways. When the boys complained that they
weren’t being successful in sports, for example, their father consoled them.
When the young daughter, Ingrid, set out for school, her mom walked there with
her.
One of their family routines seemed very special. Each family
member kissed all others whenever one of them went out of the house, even if
only for an errand. Routinely kissing one another was never practiced in my childhood
home. But here, I felt left out. None of the Emsdens approached me to kiss. I
rubbed my chin. No, I’d definitely shaved before leaving London and stubble was
not the reason I was excluded. But if I had been kissed, I’d have been
embarrassed. Probably they knew that.
The Emsdens gave me some directions and encouraged me to
walk about the town a bit. I was able to put all my wilderness mapping skills
to good use in the winding old streets. (Even in much larger and more complex London,
once I got my directions and a map I was able find my way through its oft-winding,
convoluted streets with confidence.) I reacted to my walkabout with thanks. Cambridge
and the campus exuded charm and character.
EUROPEAN PATHS, FALL 1960
Bill and the Jetliner at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
Fog over Heathrow: not that unusual, and it worked well for us
Dr. Kelfa-Caulker surprised us. He stepped around the desk and welcomed us with warm words, a handshake, and a broad smile. His black hair was mixed with grey and his gray suit coat covered a matching vest. Motioning us into his private office, he asked us to be seated. I was amazed at the courtesy offered to us by Sierra Leone’s highest representative in London, who was dressed as if to meet the Queen.
Still Older Stones
Photo: Replica of Job Carr’s
cabin, Tacoma, WA (My frontierish idea of an old building)
Historic American Buildings
Survey via Wikimedia. In the public domain.
  Photos: In Cambridge, the Emsden family and the university |
|
As we parted, the Emsdens expressed gratitude for America’s
role in saving England during Hitler’s campaigns in World War II. I realized
that, in being entertained for a day by the Emsdens of Cambri
dge, I benefitted from an older American’s wartime sacrifice and ties. As my visit ended, I felt sadness at having to leave such friendly warmth and comfort to go back to London and then on to continental Europe.
dge, I benefitted from an older American’s wartime sacrifice and ties. As my visit ended, I felt sadness at having to leave such friendly warmth and comfort to go back to London and then on to continental Europe.
At the very last moment together, Mr. Emsden, an ardent
satirist, tagged me as the “flying American” because my travel schedule was
arranged to cram a big agenda into so little time. We all had a good laugh. With
that dubious goodbye ringing in my brain I flew to the station to catch the
train.
Photo: At the Cambridge station, boarding for London
On the train ride into London I had about an hour to reflect
on the experience of the day. Did the family think of me as a young adult from
the periphery of civilization? Probably so, since I spoke a form of English but
they had a devil of a time understanding my pronunciation. Through it all, I’d
just beamed on, paving a path with my smile. The smile plus first-hand
information I could provide about Bob, the Tacoma link between the Emsdens and
me, was about all I gave—all I had to give, in reality—for their generous hospitality.
My two simple gifts seemed to have been enough.
The Emsdens’ experience of war was another matter to
ponder—and I found myself surprised with the strength of their vivid memories of
World War II. To me, World War II seemed real enough but distant. The war in Vietnam seemed
closer to me. Were the psychological scars left by the war harder to get beyond
than the piles of bombed buildings in ruins still visible in places in London? Or
perhaps the rubble whetted old memories. I had no real answers to my questions
but the reality of their memories of WW II was a heads-up experience. Now I’d
be alert to Europeans’ feelings about World War II.
I went away wondering how many other homes I might be a
guest in on the trip ahead, and whether I’d be so unqualifiedly grateful upon
departure.
London was just overwhelming. Cambridge, in contrast, was
low-keyed and familial. I was preparing mentally to leave both behind as Bill
and I would be moving on to Paris. I believe I’ve done justice in describing my
visit in Cambridge. I cannot do justice to my experiences in just eight days in
London. As I wrote in a letter home, “London is just the beginning [of my
trip], and I am already thrilled. It makes me very history-conscious and I feel
that my college education has taught me nothing. However, it [education] has
done its job if it’s made me inquisitive and given me the tools to learn.”
Bill was waiting for me in the station in London, just as
planned.
A Swiss Guide into Paris
After a layover and a shift to a different station we left
on a train to connect with the boat on which we’d cross the English Channel.
The final leg of the trip was by train again to Paris. Already I was counting the
pennies, scrimping and calculating, though the trip had just begun. The round
trip to Cambridge cost me about $1.74 U.S. If I traveled 160 miles, I paid
about $0.01 per mile. That was value travel and therefore laudable in my
opinion.
Before boarding the train for Dover, Bill said something
like “I found a deal.”
“What deal,” I asked?
“We can pay to check our baggage through all the way to
Paris.”
“Great. Let’s do it.” I surprised myself by paying out 10 precious
shillings to check my baggage through to Paris. The train to Dover was cold,
with hard, un-upholstered seating. At Dover we walked quite a distance from the
train to the cross-Channel ferry. Checking the baggage was worth the expense.
Nightfall had arrived and I could hardly stay awake on board
the ship. First, I lost track of Bill. Then I searched for a place to sleep but
with no luck. I found a second-class bar and restaurant. Since I had a second-class
ticket I was entitled to a spot there. But it was noisy and polluted from foul-smelling
cigarette smoke. I kept searching and did find a sleeping room, but there was
no space left for me. I tried a cup of continental coffee in the restaurant—another
life-time first for me.
Finally I found a black-uniformed porter just lounging in a
hallway. “Ah, here’s some help,” I thought, and asked him to find me a place to
sleep.
He said, “Certainly, Sir. Follow me.” He led me down stairs into
the hold and there he located a padded bench. Opening a closet, he pulled out a
pillow and a blanket. I asked about the cost of renting the bedding. He said I
could give anything I wanted. That seemed reasonable to me for a moment. Then
the thought of obligatory tipping for service came to my mind.
“Oh, just to clarify, is this to be a tip?” I asked.
He looked at me in such a paternal way and then laughed so
ridiculously that I felt humiliated. I gave him an entire half-crown (34 cents,
or the cost of traveling 34 miles on the Cambridge train) since I had no smaller
change. If I’d been prepared with change I could have given far less for the
service.
In this way I learned that to become seasoned as a traveler
in Europe I needed to carry smaller amounts of change for tips! I vowed to become
more prepared for the unexpected. I had little time to think it over, though,
because I was so very tired. I fell asleep, ignoring the noisy crash of waves
against the bow, directly below my sleeping spot.
But I was fortunate in that I met a Swiss fellow about my
age down in the hold. When, at about 3:30 a.m. on Saturday, Sept. 29, I first set
foot on mainland European soil at Dunkerque, I cannily, I thought, volunteered
to carry one of the bags of my new Swiss friend. I hoped that he’d feel
indebted and would help Bill and me to find our way from ship to the next
train. I felt that we probably needed a French-speaking friend to help us meet that
challenge. I wondered, “Was I becoming more seasoned yet, or what?” At least, I
was thinking ahead.
The Swiss guy led Bill and me from the ferry to a second-class
rail car, which crawled at a snail’s pace through the yellow-lighted harbor
area. This first conveyance stopped at another transfer point: the
Dunkerque-Ville railroad station. All the while the Swiss fellow inquired in
French for directions. I was right. Surely we English-speakers couldn’t have managed
to find our way in French-speaking Dunkerque, even though Bill had shown
himself to be a pretty canny guy.
We waited on the Dunkerque-Ville platform, shivering for 20
minutes in the cold night air, when another conveyance appeared quietly and without
notice--a single self-propelled train car. Our group of three young men had expanded
by this time. A beauty school operator from California, a Spanish woman, and a
man from British Guiana joined us. We six young people boarded the car and sat up
front with our backs against a window and a view straight ahead over the
tracks. Our group’s mood grew lighter, then hilarious. The hilarity peaked with
an argument between the Spanish woman and a seventh person who joined us: a
Frenchman. The woman attempted to argue with him in English about her luggage. Neither
party could speak English except for canned phrases. The hilarity plus exhaustion
from lack of sleep made my sides hurt.
After daylight we changed to a third French train—a line of
several cars pulled by a locomotive—which took us straight into a main Paris
station, la Gare du Nord. I was so glad for the generous help of our Swiss friend.
Throughout the night of travel he transformed what could have been hectic into
something manageable. At the station the other four each went their own ways,
but the Swiss guy volunteered to stick with Bill and me for a while. First, he
led us to the baggage claim area. Then he arranged to get one of my French
bills broken into smaller change. He personally guided us onto the metro and
led us to the American Express office on the right bank in central Paris. There
he said goodbye. The memory of his helpfulness was something he left behind.
French Waiter throws a Tantrum
Every single day I met people who were willing to help me as
a traveler. And it seemed as though these occurrences happened just at the
moment of greatest need. Just as the Swiss friend left us in the lobby of
American Express we encountered a young English-speaker who gave us a great hotel
tip. “Hotel des deux Continents at 64 Rue Jacob, Paris 75006, near the old
church, St. Germain des Prés,” he said. “Go there. Walk, or take a bus, or use
the Metro. It’s not too far away.”
Photo Tantrum neighborhood. Awning of Deux Maggots to left, San Germain center
We decided on the Metro because the system map was pretty easy
to follow. Once we emerged from the Metro station we found the street, Rue
Jacob, about a block away. Automobiles jammed the available parking spots on
both sides of the very narrow street, leaving space in the middle of the street
for one single lane. Little wonder that the street was marked for one-way
traffic.
Before long we found the small hotel, one of the many four-to-five
storied buildings that lined Rue Jacob, wall-to-wall as far as we could see. We
peeked through the picture window into an appropriately small lobby. It was decorated
with dark wall paneling and overstuffed furniture upholstered in brownish
leather. Then we looked at each other. We shrugged our shoulders and Bill said,
“Well, let’s give it a try.”
At the tiny front desk a clerk offered us a room with two
beds complete with feather-stuffed comforters and a wash basin. We’d find a
bathroom just down the hall, he said. The nightly bill will come to $3.00 for
the room, he added. We checked in immediately.
Our designated room was up a couple of flights of stairs.
Its ambience was dark, just like the lobby, except for the white comforters on
the beds. It was a very big relief to drop our bags and just collapse on our
beds for a rest. The room offered incredible comfort after the cold night in
trains and a boat.
Later, when we’d rested enough, we went out to explore the
neighborhood. It was fun to discover that our hotel was located right in the
heart of the student quarter. In fact, our street, Rue Jacob, switched names
just a few blocks away to la rue de l’Université. A cross street ran north to
the Seine River and south to a major through street, Boulevard St. Germain. We
were near transportation lines and many historic attractions including the medieval
church, St. Germain des Prés, which the English-speaking source back at
American Express had mentioned. Across the street from the church we discovered
the famous literary place, Restaurant Les Deux Magots.
Practical Bill! His question was, “Where will I park the car
when I pick it up?” His father had scheduled delivery of a new Volkswagen Kombi
at a dealer in Paris. All Bill had to do was to walk in, identify himself and
drive away. But where would he park in our crowded neighborhood?
“Why can’t you pick it up on the day we leave town?” I said.
“It’ll be safer parked in the dealer’s garage.”
“Let’s put that question aside for a couple of days,” Bill
said. “I’m coming down with a terrible cold.” It was true. He had a terrible
cold. I could tell from his symptoms, including a headache. Bill and I went
back to the hotel and he was intent on staying right in the room until he
recuperated. I went out into the neighborhood to search for a restaurant. He
stayed behind.
What a story-book neighborhood! Along every street multi-story
buildings were crammed tightly. All adjacent streets were pretty narrow but Rue
Jacob was among the narrowest—about 25 feet curb to curb. The traffic moving
slowly through the neighborhood consisted of pedestrians mainly, among whom
bicycles and motorized bicyclettes threaded. Occasionally an automobile with a
courageous driver would creep along, carefully avoiding pedestrians.
Photo: Men
observing the action along the Seine
The automobiles of Paris were of great interest to me. In
particular, I just couldn’t quit gazing at the aerodynamic Citroën sedans, which impressed me
as just gliding about the narrow streets on air—yes, seemingly without touching
the ground. Their tear-drop body shape, rising in an elongated manner from
front bumper past the windshield, then sloping down again to the rear bumper, resembled
that of a smaller cousin of my college car, a Nash Ambassador. I loved my crazy
college car and instantly transferred that affection to the Citroën sedans as well.
Citroën
2cvs were my close second interest, but not a love at first sight. Consider the
shape: a rugged, jeep-like form as if right out of the woods. But no Jeep
sported curved front fenders hanging out from the hood and covering the front
wheels. No Jeep hood sloped up from the front bumper to the windshield. Jeeps
and 2cvs had fragile-looking passenger doors, but 2cv doors hinged to the frame
at the rear and latched closed at the front. Jeeps were brown but most 2cvs
were dull gray, some tinted with blue. Consider the 2cv grill: from left to
right the bottom boundary sagged, geometrically, like the rounded lower lip of
a cartoon clown. Viewed from the front the car looked like a glass and metal
box smiling back at you. Most 2cvs were roofed with rubberized rollback, black
canvas sheeting.
Overall, I knew I could never afford a Citroën sedan. I thought I could afford a 2cv someday
in the future but wondered if I could get up the courage to ride in one of the
fragile-looking devices.
As darkness set in on the city, drivers crept along the
narrower streets using only their parking lights. That seemed eerie to me. Pedestrians
were walking in any and every direction, at intersections and between them, exercising
a universal right-of-way whether by law or not. Amazingly to me I saw no hits
or even near misses along the narrow streets.
Besides cars, food occupied much of my attention. Earlier in
the day Bill and I ate our first meal at a French restaurant in a classy right
bank district near the American Express office. I was blown away by the quality
of the serving of potatoes, soaked in oil, and by the steak, grilled ever so carefully.
After the meal I, still the novice traveler, made the huge mistake of paying for
the meal at the cash register like I might back home. The table waiter flew
into a rage right there in public—and I couldn’t cope well with a tantrum in
French. I was dumbfounded, embarrassed, and wanted to get out of there. I had,
however, provided a tip with my payment. The cashier gave the waiter the tip,
the waiter walked off a flap of his towel, and Bill and I vamoosed.
“I definitely
won’t go back THERE!” I huffed.
Now, late in the day, while Bill remained in the hotel,
recuperating, I found a smaller neighborhood restaurant for supper. Here I
could start over, free from the taint of my earlier mistake. A waiter showed me
to a table and provided a menu. I saw “escargot”, took a deep breath for
courage, and ordered them (my first ever‒I
enjoyed them) for hor d’oeuvres. Then I veered back to more familiar foods: an
egg omelet and green beans, followed by strawberry shortcake. Given the croissant
breakfast at the airport nine days earlier, and now the marvelous lunch and
supper, I wondered again why we had spent so many days delaying our entrance into
diner’s paradise. But I never experienced a reprimand from a waiter in England.
In Paris the menu gain was offset by the tantrum.
To soothe my psyche, I wandered to the north a couple of
blocks and came to the Quai d’Orsay, the boulevard lining the left bank of the River
Seine. It was a very clear Thursday evening now, and the larger buildings along
the river were illuminated according to the passion of the City of Light. The entire
exterior of the Cathedral of Notre Dame was illuminated.
The river Seine flowed by slowly and quietly within its
stone-walled course twenty feet below the sidewalk. Occasionally, a tourist boat
slipped by—low, long, and narrow, illuminated by strings of naked, white light
bulbs and crowded from one end to the other with rows of tourists. Powerful spotlights
shined from the boats onto impressive monuments and prominent buildings along
the river banks. As I
headed back to the hotel I thought that Paris and Portland, Oregon resembled
each other a bit. Each was bisected by a large river channeled right through
the center of town.
Photo Bill’s problem: “But
where can I park the Kombi?”
On Friday, Bill was feeling better. He and I split to pursue
our own interests. I toured central Paris by public transportation while Bill made
his way to Auto-Europe, where he’d inquire in person about his dad’s Volkswagen
van.
I was beginning to realize that traipsing around to see sights was perhaps
the least interesting aspect of travel. Meeting people (except for angry
waiters) was rising to top place in my list; eating new foods was second. Still,
I could not deny that seeing the city from the top of the Arc de Triomphe was
exciting. I could see the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Champs-Élysées,
and, to the north, the in-town small mountain, Montmartre, capped by the
white-domed church, Sacré-coeur.
I had to quit exploring to meet up with Bill for our first appointment with an
American missionary.
“Paris Eats Evangelists”
Back with Bill again, we went for our first formal visit
with a religious professional by Metro to a house owned by the Navigators, a
well-known American evangelical Christian organization.
We exited from the
Metro in a wrong underground station. It was a good error, though, because we
had to find our way back onto the correct train and off at the right station,
using only French. Challenged but able, we found our way to the person we
sought: George Clark, the Navigator representative in France. We all had
something in common: George had attended Seattle Pacific and we were a trio of alums
far from our college campus. After we gave him some recent news from home it
was his turn to inform us about Christian mission work in France.
It might seem strange that we’d find an American missionary
in Paris. After all, France had a Christian presence as early as the second
century and famous French Christian leaders like Thomas Aquinas and John Calvin
had world-wide followings. Yet, some American evangelical groups in our century
felt that the French people needed Christ. So they funded a missionary presence
in Paris. George was first of these missionaries that we’d meet.
George liked to proceed with questions that he himself would
then answer. “Do you know what the biggest problem with American mission
organizations is?” he asked. “It’s that we send missionaries out too young. Do
you know what we need? We need people between 35 and 50 years, with plenty of experience.”
We talked for an hour or so along that vein. When we
indicated that we needed to leave soon, George concluded dramatically: “Paris
eats evangelists. You must look after your emotional stability.” Those two sentences
immediately blew away my optimism. I felt like a sailor who finds suddenly that
the wind switched and was blowing against the forward side of the sail.
On the way back to the Metro I said, “That was a pretty discouraging
first visit with a missionary! We’ve come this far looking for a calling to
serve, and what we learn right off is that there’d be no place for us to
serve—not here in Paris at least—until we had 15 or more years of experience!”
Bill, perhaps more self-confident than I, just said
something like, “Maybe. But let’s see what comes next.”
Settling In: a Home on Wheels
On Saturday, Oct. 1, Bill picked up a Volkswagen Kombi, a microbus,
at the dealer in Paris. Bill’s father graciously had purchased the van and
ordered delivery to Bill in Paris. The little bus was very plain: two doors on
the passenger side, one door on the driver’s side, and only the one front bench
seat mounted forward over the front axle. Behind the seat was a flat floor. Near
the back door the floor rose a few inches to make room for the rear-mounted
engine.
Some Americans thought of
this model as a German station wagon, but I thought of it as a passenger van
and, for Bill and me, a very small home away from home. Bill’s dad’s idea was
that Bill could drive it for the duration of our tour, then ship it home. We
were so fortunate to have Bill’s parental sponsorship in this way, I thought. No
longer would we need to be lugging our baggage around; no more need to search
for hotels.
The size and shape, though not the color, of Bill's Kombi van
That very day, we outfitted the Kombi with sleeping bags and
air mattresses. We were already well supplied with folded paper maps. Those
visits to AAA back in Portland had been to get the maps we needed to find our
way on unfamiliar routes and autobahns.
The next day I attended Sunday worship service in a French Reformed
Church near the hotel. Bill didn’t want to be there. He felt he’d learn nothing
because he’d not understand the French. I felt more adventurous with the
language, though I had no idea of what to expect nor whether I’d understand the
sermon. I found that the service was well attended by students, who made up a big
percentage of the crowd of about 150 worshippers. Like my church back home the
congregation sang three or four hymns and I recognized the tunes if not the
words. It was my first experience in a continental worship service and I was
inspired by it.
My experience that Sunday raised some questions for me. Why
get so excited about American mission activity in Europe when the Europeans, at
least in Paris, had their own native-born religious leadership and
congregational activity? Of course, George Clark, “Paris eats missionaries,”
was still stuck in my brain. The two bits of information converged and led to a
conclusion, “Stay away, young man!”
That afternoon, Parisians were off work and out on the
streets, providing Bill and me with a good opportunity to notice Paris clothing
fashions. Cuff-less pants were in vogue for young men, along with three-button
suit coats. Older men wore smartly colored vests with more suit coats. Even if Parisians
had only one coat, as I’d heard, everyone looked quite tailored. The atmosphere
of Paris caught me up. I was getting hooked on the city and hoped for an opportunity
to see it again later in the trip. We had no plans to return to Paris after
leaving it, but we really had few plans at all. I’d just have to see how things
worked out.
In a French Suburb
With wheels at our disposal, our mobility increased tremendously.
We hopped into the van for our first sashay and drove about 15 miles southwest to
a suburban town, Orsay. Here we’d arranged for the second visit with American
missionaries. Also, I’d get at least some glimpses of the town for which the
boulevard on the left bank of the Seine was named.
I was impressed with Bill’s driving: calm, cool and
collected, even though we had to decipher directional signs and traffic signals
on the run. We had no mix-ups and soon we arrived at the home of a missionary couple.
Their focus was on outreach to French students enrolled in a branch campus of
the University of Paris located in Orsay.
We fell right into the conversation topic as soon as we’d
been greeted and found that their thoughts reinforced those that George Clark
had expressed:
·
France was a very challenging mission field.
·
Current missionaries such as themselves wanted experienced
missionary recruits.
To this they added one more important thought: the
Christian movement needed an evangelical theological seminary in France.
By now the consensus opinion of experienced missionaries toward
us was pretty clear: you two aren’t needed here as missionaries unless and until
you have experience. Their warning was: you’ll suffer greater discouragement if
you come before you get a lot of experience in an easier environment. With
these thoughts pounding in our minds, Bill drove us back to Paris.
In the hotel lounge that evening we had what was becoming a
frequent experience: help from fellow travelers whom we met by accident, not by
any design. This time the travelers were a middle-aged couple from California.
They’d purchased a French car—a Peugeot 403—with the thought that they might
drive it to the Middle East during the winter months. The Californians had done
their research on driving to Lebanon and beyond. On a map they showed us roads
they hoped to follow and talked about some of the challenges we might find
along the way.
When we parted from them we felt that the Middle East by Kombi
microbus was a realistic option. Beirut, here we come, I thought. Or, we might come, at least.
Ditching a Belgian
On Monday morning, we packed all we had into the Kombi, left
the hotel, and traveled north out of Paris. Much sooner than I expected, we reached
the northern border of Belgium.
Driving further north through the countryside, we took
enjoyable detours onto back roads lined with rows of mature trees, straight and
tall. Not infrequently, we passed horse carts loaded with sugar beets. I spied a
particular scene consisting of a sugar beet field with a chalet in the
background.
Bill saw my excitement and said, “Let’s stop here for a
photo.”
“Great,” I replied. “I’ll frame the view and snap
a shot.”
As I opened the right door of the Kombi, I heard a muffled
cry. Looking back, a bicyclist was approaching at high speed on the bicycle
path which I’d just blocked, unknowingly, by opening the door. He swerved to
avoid the open car door and plunged down an embankment, executed a complete
somersault midair, and landed in a drainage ditch in 4 feet of water.
I looked on in shocked disbelief. What else could I do since
I couldn’t speak Flemish at all? He got himself up, swished the water off of
his racing suit and hauled the bicycle up the embankment. I did mumble “So
sorry” in English and gestured my regret with a wave of my hand, but he just peddled
off without a word of communication.
“Let’s get out of here right away,” I said to Bill. “We
don’t want an overnight in a Belgian jail.”
Kombi Camping Protocols
Our travel and sleeping pattern developed quickly. As
evening descended, Bill would pull over on a country road and look for a
parking spot. Once he’d parked we’d occupy our sleeping bags, fall to sleep, hopefully to
spend the night safely and legally.
On our first night in Holland, after crossing the border from
Belgium, we searched in the gloom, found our parking spot, and slept overnight.
When we woke up, it was to a completely different human scene than we’d
experienced ever before. First, an old farmer bicycled past and on down the
road, balancing a large milk can on a carrying rack. Then children wheeled by,
going to school—up to four kids per bike.
Next, we saw a farmer out in a field milking cows. (We deduced
that farmers go to the cow in Holland. Bill was puzzled. “That’s wrong! The
cows should come to the barn for milking,” he said.) The pattern from his dairy
farming background was better, Bill knew, because the cows’ udders could be
cleaned before milking and the act of milking could be done mechanically.)
The
farmer was wearing wooden work shoes. A wagon, drawn by a horse, collecting
milk cans deposited beside the road by farmers.
We reached Dordrecht, in the southwest of The Netherlands, later
that morning and spent some time there. I went wild with the camera. The centuries-old
houses had settled on their foundations and tipped at all crazy angles into the
streets.
The main canal was alive with long, low freight boats, a hull design
that’d evolved, apparently, especially for plying narrow canals with low
bridges. Ducks and geese paddled about and fed in smaller canals. The Dordrecht
market place whirled with activity. In the shopping area I photographed a
string of wooden shoes for sale. We saw an ancient 11th century
cathedral and a windmill from the 1600s—ancient stones again, like in London. The
old and traditional buildings were offset by a super-service ESSO station. Everywhere,
the old and the new co-existed side by side.
Photo; The old and new
co-mingled
Stopping Forbidden
We drove on and into the great city of Rotterdam. The
downtown, we discovered, had been ruined in WW II, then beautifully rebuilt. We
located a “dime store” lunch counter and ordered meat roll sandwiches and
banana splits. The best memory of Rotterdam was the couple of hours spent in
the Erasmus Room of city library. A guided tour gave us some appreciation of
Erasmus’ life. During the reformation era, he stayed in the Roman Catholic
Church but corresponded in a friendly manner with Martin Luther.
In The Hague and then in Amsterdam, we toured more marvelous
museums. Then we headed out toward a fishing village, Volendaam. On the way, we
came to a detour in the road. Not reading the Dutch signs too well, we followed
a car just ahead of us, which drove up onto a dike road.
“It’s so beautiful up here. What a view,” Bill said, looking
out at the farmland below, people fishing beside a canal, ducks swimming, and cows
in the fields. Suddenly the sights included red: both our car and the car ahead
were pulled over by a policeman.
Photo: From the dike road, two windmills of Holland
“Now I’m worried,” Bill sighed. “He’s got his ticket pad.”
In English the officer explained that cars were not allowed
to drive on the dikes—bicycles only were permitted here. Then he asked, “Are
you Americans?”
“Yes, sir,” Bill said deferentially.
“Okay. No ticket.”
Why he decided on “no ticket” I did not learn since he
couldn’t explain his decision in our language, but “no ticket” were the best
words we’d heard in English in Holland.
We met with a number of American religious workers in
Holland, associated with groups like Child Evangelism Fellowship and the
Navigators. One of them, Doug Sparks, commented to Bill about recent Billy Graham
meetings held in Berlin. Doug said that each night there were at least 100 East
Germans at the meeting that he knew about, and so did the police. The police
took the East Germans back over the border by the bus load.
The Billy Graham
staff followed the course of prudence and exempted the East Germans from any
request to sign a decision card, which would have required divulging their
names and addresses. Sparks reported that there was a strong, but not large,
church in East Germany. It was his judgment that Germany was crucial for the
future of Christianity in Europe. He didn’t say why he held this view, but just
emphasized that it was so. Even though I was left wondering, in this way our
attention was directed by Sparks toward Germany, days before we arrived there.
I’d come to Europe with an image of the Dutch as rather
simple people. Though some rural Belgians and Dutch might have been simple, it
was not the case with the urbanized. The sophistication of the cities was the
equal of London, I thought. The works of art (Rembrandt, Rubens and others)
that we’d seen were stunning. And the young people began the worldly phase of carousing
and smoking at a very early age, and if that was a sign of sophistication the
Dutch had arrived.
In contrast to the antics of the young, on Sunday morning
church bells were pealing and crowds of people were walking to church. On
Sunday afternoon we were guided through Aalkmaar, the cheese center of Holland,
by two boys on bicycles. They’d noticed our confusion as we entered the
beautiful city. Streets and canals were lined with trees; the leaves were
turning color, somewhat ominously for a couple of young men who were planning
on weeks of nights in a cold Kombi.
Seeking Warmth, Chilling Nights
We took about a week in Belgium and Holland and drove into
Germany on Sunday evening, Oct. 9. Immediately, just past the border, we were
caught up in a horrible traffic jam. An endless line of cars ahead was moving
at about 20 miles per hour. We decided not to fight it and turned in early on a
side road in thick woods at about 9 p.m. I arose the next morning about 6 a.m.
to see the sunrise, which was beautiful, and jogged down the road a distance to
warm up. Just as we’d anticipated, colder fall weather was already upon us, and
it was hard to keep warm at night in the Kombi. Walking back to the car, I said
a prayer for the day.
Then I called to Bill: “Hey, look see what I’ve just found
on the road here.” I’d happened to spot some deer prints—the smallest deer
tracks I’d even seen, on the unpaved road by the car.
We’d had night visitors.
Back in the car, Bill continued driving us through farming
country on toward Hamburg. As in Holland, farmers in Germany were collecting
milk cans on tractor-drawn carts and youngsters were riding bicycles to school.
Woodlots sheltering brick farmhouses[A1]
alternated with grassy fields. Several of the houses were unique in our
experience as they adjoined barns. It was difficult, sometimes, to tell where
the house ended and the barn began. It took all morning reach our destination
city.
We had the name of an EUB pastor in Hamburg, Rev. Karpa, and
looked him up. To him, he innocently answered a telephone call and realized
that out of the blue two Americans were in town and hoping to meet him. What
was he to do? We requested an interview, and he graciously invited us to join
him and Mrs. Karpa for lunch at their home.
Billy Graham’s crusade in Germany obviously affected many
people. Pastor Karpa said, “We all see that God has blessed Billy Graham. God
can bless a man even if he has an old theology.” Karpa was planning on
reporting his experiences with the Graham campaign to his own congregation next
Sunday.
To make us feel more at home, Pastor Karpa invited a young
man, Hartmunt Handt, to lunch with us. Hartmunt was a probationer in Karpa’s
congregation, which meant that he was spending a required year as an assistant
to the pastor before attending seminary.
Hartmunt had attended a classical high
school, a gymnasium in the German
language, and I was stunned by his learning, so deep and wide. He’d studied
Greek, Hebrew, Latin and English in the gymnasium,
in addition to requirements in German language studies. He spoke excellent English,
I thought, and he expressed the desire to study in America for a few months to
polish his English further. Pastor Karpa knew how to inspire me by introducing us
to such a motivated fellow ministerial student.
After giving us an orientation tour of the city by car, the
Karpas invited us to spend the night in their house. Given the chilly outside
temperature, it was an offer we couldn’t turn down. Cold had invaded even the
guest room, but we stayed warm under thick quilts filled with feathers.
Next morning, we were treated to a scrumptious European
breakfast of coffee, rolls, bread, lunch meat and jam made of lilac berries.
By
this time, the Karpas were less formal and more relaxed. I attempted to play with
their little boy, and finally succeeded in getting his confidence. This was a
chance to get up close to a youngster who seemed typical of those we’d seen
along roadsides: long, curly hair, fat cheeks and a smallish mouth. I learned
to know him well enough to be impressed that he was happy. It may take days of
interaction to know whether an adult has a happy disposition. It takes only a
few hours to know that a child is happy.
Karpa family
Over breakfast, Rev. Karpa wanted to explain his personal theology
to us. He believed the basic Christian doctrines, he said, and in that sense he
owned up to a conservative nature. But also, he was equally open to new
doctrine and theology. He expressed admiration for the famous German
theologian, Rudolph Bultmann, whose slogan, Karpa said, was “glauben und
verstehen,” believe and understand. Basically, Pastor Karpa felt that old doctrines
did not speak to people imbued or raised with modern technical knowledge.
To me, Karpa’s position seemed the result of disillusionment
with the old beliefs on which I’d been raised. When I had time to write about
this conversation, I reflected in my journal that Pastor Karpa offered one
answer. The Intervarsity missionaries we’d met sensed a similar challenge but offered
another answer. Instead of embracing new theology, they merely embraced the
Bible itself. Both Rev. Karpa and Hartmunt Handt
contributed greatly to my understanding the high standards of learning and
thought that obtained in Germany.
Mr. Karpa also shed light on the sociology of religion that
prevailed in Hamburg. He stated that 2% to 3% of residents of Hamburg attend
church, whereas all free-church people attend. “Free-church” was a description
of groups and movements that were not supported by state taxes. Still, even
free churches, he said, were dwindling.
I didn’t necessarily understand everything Rev. Karpa said
to us. What I did know is that dialogue with him was interesting and
challenging.
After our short but intellectually
orienting visit in Hamburg, it was on toward Berlin. The direct route would
have been preferable because it would take less than three hours. However, the
short route led, in part, through East German territory that was closed to
Americans. The East German government required Americans travelling from West
Germany to Berlin by auto to use only the Hannover-Berlin autobahn. The
required route was longer and took over four hours of driving time. This inconvenience
was our first brush with the heavy-handed East German regime and its rules.
As Bill piloted us
along on the one permissible autobahn route, I had ample opportunity to
evaluate the highway and the standards by which it had been constructed. I found
the autobahn well designed—at least as advanced as the new Interstate 5 between
Portland, Oregon, and Olympia, Washington. But it was poorly maintained and very
rough long stretches kept Bill busily avoiding potholes.
As a passenger, I was able to pay special attention to villages
along the freeway. I noticed that no streets in the roadside villages were
paved. That was woeful in my opinion. However, the natural scenery,
particularly the fall colors of deciduous trees, was beautiful.
It seemed scary to both of us to be stopped at barriers at
the border crossings to have our papers checked. However, nothing extraordinary
occurred. We checked out of West Germany into East Germany and then back into
Berlin without incident. Often, fears of the foreign thing are overcome by
fact. It was true in this case.
Our first step in Berlin was to connect with our host
family.
Generous Givers despite Difficult
Circumstances
In Berlin, Bill and I were fortunate to be hosted by another
fascinating German family consisting of Pastor Heinrich
Meinhardt, his spouse, their young son, also named Heinrich, and a
still-younger daughter. Bill and I had contacted the Meinhardts in advance of
our visit through our denominational connections. In his fifth decade of life,
this pastor served in the Evangelische Gemeinschaft, as did Pastor Karpa.
Evangelische Gemeinschaft was the German name for conferences of congregations
affiliated with the American EUB Church. The Evangelische Gemeinschaft, classed
as a free church in Germany, received no state support and was unrelated to the
government.
Right off, the Meinhardt family welcomed us to their
apartment and told us their story. They’d resided in central Berlin through the
difficult years of World War II and survived. They had experienced both Hitler’s
rule and Allied bombings. When we visited them they lived in the Western sector
of Berlin, a formerly unified city divided after World War II between Russian
and Western sectors.
During our trip, 15 full years after the end of World War
II, so far I’d already seen many war ruins in London, France, and West Germany.
World War II was an ever-present reality to people living in its wake. Now, Berlin—divided
and still partly in ruins—caught my full attention. I was observant both of
destruction left over from bombings and of reconstructed buildings and streets
too.
Pastor Meinhardt’s son, Heinrich, Jr., was about four years
younger than Bill and me. Father and son‒one,
the other or both‒accompanied
us around Berlin whenever we set foot outside of their building. I felt
gratefully secure in the company of men who knew the restrictions, safe routes
and instructive sites.
They immediately helped us to understand and use the U-Bahn,
the underground subway in Berlin. It was important to understand that the train
ran right across the border into East Berlin. We needed to know, and they showed
us, when and where to exit the train.
The Meinhardt men also showed us the features of a broad and
splendid avenue, Unter dem Linden, running through West Berlin right up to the
Brandenburg Gate. There we stopped. Beyond the Gate was the Eastern zone. It
was easier to enter the Eastern zone by U-Bahn than by surface transportation.
Along the way, in London,
Paris and enroute through Belgium, Holland, and Hamburg, we’d been given time
by Christian leaders. Whether they were attached to the Navigators or the EUB Church,
all had been generous with their time and information. The Meinhardts were cut
of EUB cloth but were unique because they told especially gripping stories of
Christian and civic life. There were plenty of stories for the Meinhardts to
choose from; Berlin in 1960 was still at the center of Cold War conflict.
In the very first evening
with the family, Pastor Meinhardt took us into East Berlin and then back to
West Berlin on the U-bahn so that we could begin to see with own eyes the
difference between the two halves of the city. The differences in the
appearance of building quality, for example, were astounding. Later we made subsequent
visits to East Berlin to meet pastors, older citizens and young people like
ourselves.
I came back to West Berlin from my several visits to East
Berlin with a generalization based on what I’d seen and heard: in East Germany,
despite the official message of the state, Christians were persecuted. This
applied to both East Germany and East Berlin. According to the first-hand reports
I heard there, pressure ranged from social disapproval to physical beatings. Publicly
professing Christian young people could neither become professionals nor gain
an education without compromise. Communism, as understood by authorities in
Berlin, could not mix with Christianity, just as many Christians concluded that
their faith was incompatible with Communism.
In West Berlin, the fortune of Christians was different and
better. The EUB Church maintained seven congregations, a youth home and a hospital.
West Berliners did minister under difficult circumstances, particularly as they
tried to aid East German church members and the needy in general who were in
search of medicines. Those in West Berlin maintained a medicine “pool” for the
needy in the East.
Donors had to smuggle certain medicines to recipients, and
this entailed risk to donor and recipient. Other meds could be transported
without restriction. Either smuggled or not, the cost of the medicines was
always a factor.
Pastor Meinhardt took us across the boundary to introduce us
to a certain East German Frau Reich, a woman afflicted with a disease of the
hands. Only one medicine could cure her condition, and that drug couldn’t be
obtained in East Germany. She’d written a letter to Pastor Meinhardt with the
prescription attached. He’d been able to purchase the medicine for $12 U.S. (the
equivalent of 200 D.D.R. marks) but the widow couldn’t pay the cost. Per their
practice, the group running the medicine pool in West Berlin donated it to her
at no cost. Seeing evidence of the good the medicine pool program was doing was
more powerful than merely hearing about the donation program.
In addition, in West Berlin the Evangelische Gemeinschaft congregations
offered magnanimous assistance to refugees fleeing the Russian zone. For
example, the Meinhardts recently had entertained four people in their home: a family
of mother, father, young son and daughter. (Two older sons of the same family had
previously fled to the West to seek education from which they’d been shut out
in the eastern zone because they were in church too much.)
The father, a farmer, had to wait until after the harvest
was over. He finally was able to attend a post-harvest farmer’s congress in
East Berlin, accompanied by his family. It gave them the opportunity to flee to
West Berlin, but with only the clothes on their persons. After lodging with the Meinhardts for a few
days, they transferred to a refugee camp.
Meinhardt introduced us to a teenaged student living in East
Berlin—an athlete. At 6’5” and built like an American football lineman, he
wanted to become a sports teacher. Because the need for teachers was great, he
thought he could reach that goal.
For a similar fellow, things worked out poorly. This young
man, a preacher’s son, attended a special sports school at the university level
in East Germany for several years. He passed the training requirements on
schedule and was ready to begin his career. However, as a prospective teacher,
he was required to go through an additional four weeks of special army
training. At this stage, authorities tortured him to turn him to Communism. The
treatment was rough, and in four weeks he’d almost broken down mentally and
spiritually. He opted out of a career in his native town and fled to the West.
The athlete’s younger brother refused to join the “Young
Pioneers,” a state-sponsored organization for youth. Because of this, he
received bad marks from his teachers and beatings from his classmates. He, too,
fled to the West. Some families had lost all of their children to the West. The
parents stayed in the East alone, aging in place.
Having heard these narratives of hardships and oppression, I
suddenly grew apprehensive about my own safety in East Berlin. I’d never really
been face to face with top dogs dominating and exploiting the underdogs with
force. For the first time in my life, in Europe or back in America, I found
myself wondering: Am I really safe in this place?
I took a bus tour of East Berlin, saw many ruins of famous museums,
cathedrals, and embassies and visited the Russian Memorial Cemetery, a shrine
to 7,000 dead Russian soldiers. I passed by the bunker where Adolf Hitler
committed suicide. The bus tour was limited by authorities to travel only on
“good” streets. I took that to mean visually appealing for propaganda purposes.
More East West Contrasts
In the evening, Pastor
Meinhardt took me on a walking tour of what he considered to be the “real” East
Berlin. I saw new prefabricated apartment buildings.
“They’re looking very nice from out here,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “but you can hear every word spoken from
a floor above or below.” Was that to make it easy to spy on fellow residents? I
should have asked, I realized later. Instead, I just assumed so.
The lack of automobiles in the Eastern sector was a sign of
poverty. Even in the center of town, no more than 10 cars would pass by in 15 minutes.
Poverty also seemed to present its face in the standard wardrobe; people
dressed in drab, grey tones. Oddly, in East Germany the workers claimed to own
everything, but relatively they had little—scarce economic goods, little
political power, and few freedoms.
I was beginning to confirm for myself that the reality of
life in West Berlin contrasted starkly with that in the East. In the West, thoroughfares
were wide, and traffic was heavy. People dressed gaily. Young men wore stylish continental
trousers—no cuffs. I saw new buildings designed along modern lines throughout
much of the city, though some neighborhoods had retained their pre-war garden-houses.
West Berlin had been the recipient of generous American Marshall Plan funding
for apartment buildings and stores. The design of the Marshall Plan buildings,
in particular, was modern and appealing.
Realistically, though, West
Berlin was no paradise compared to standards of living in the United States or
West Germany, from what we’d seen. The Meinhardt apartment was sufficient in
size for family living but too large to heat on a standard family budget. As a
consequence,
Photo: The Meinhardts: the church they were serving in the background
they
heated the living room and kitchen but not the bedrooms and bathroom. Between
sleeping in the cold car in Belgium and Holland, and now in Meinhardts’ cold
bedroom, I’d begun to feel as if I were spending every night in an ice cave.
I left Berlin very disquieted. I reflected a bit on my own
North German plain ancestors, and concluded that they had emigrated from their
homeland about the right time—in the 1870s—to Wisconsin, Minnesota, and even
further to the American West. They’d avoided the horrors of two world wars and communist
rule in the aftermath of WW II. I knew that I must have long-lost relatives living
somewhere in East Germany. I would have liked to search for them, but there was
no way to make contact.
The Unforgettables
I felt I’d gained a
new perspective and a new “family” after our days with the Meinhardts. Pastor
Meinhardt was energetic, a bit jumpy, and very compassionate with a ready smile.
He was radiant, too, and his tense joy captivated me. Mrs. Meinhardt embodied
the calm of the family and, fortunately, she spoke English well. The children
were friendly and had table manners besides. The entire family took Bill and me
under their care and gave me a crash course in faithful living in the midst of real
world politics. Over our several day visit with them, they introduced Bill and
me to people and situations that would have been inaccessible without guidance
like theirs. When we left, Pastor Meinhardt gave us names and contact
information for additional meetings and information in West Germany. The
Meinhardts had stolen my heart.
World Sauerkraut Capitol? Seriously
To leave Berlin we were required to retrace our path back
over the autobahn to Hannover. At the border crossing leaving Berlin we
submitted our passports for inspection and paid in German currency the
equivalent of $1.25 for use of the freeway. Aside from being forbidden to take
photos enroute, the trip back to West Germany was uneventful. That evening
after arriving in Hannover, Bill said, “It’s cold and I’m staying in a hotel
overnight.”
“I want to save some money. May I stay in the Kombi alone?”
Bill agreed to that, so I drove out of town find a place to
park overnight. The interior of the Kombi was a mess! Clothes were lying
everywhere, and washing hung from front to back on our improvised clothesline. It
was a real sight. All of this was well before the Kombi became the informal
symbol of Oregon kitsch. We pioneered the lifestyle without any intent to join
the start a social movement. It was merely what we had to do in order to
travel. “This mess just shows that we’re really at home in the Kombi now,” I
told myself as I dug around to uncover my pad and sleeping bag.
At about 7 a.m. on Saturday, Oct. 15[A3] ,
I was awakened by laughter. I look up and there, returning my gaze, were two
men and a woman, apparently on their way to work, who laughed like crazy at the
sight (could I blame them?) When I stared back, they really went into an
uproar. I waved to them and went back to sleep. They’d received free American
entertainment.
Apparently they needed it. I needed to get dressed and to pick
up Bill.
Once belted into the Kombi seat again we headed south until in
Bernhausen we found a roadside gasthaus for lunch. In the dining area we
chatted, mainly in English, with a German dressed in drab clothing, finishing
up his lunch. Identifying himself as an East German refugee, he informed us
that he’d been a member of the Folkspolitzei in East Germany. This generous
former policeman offered beer and cigarettes. (This doesn’t add up, I thought.
He’s a refugee, right? And plying us with gifts? Is he a clandestine spy, I
wondered?)
We explained that we were Baptists and couldn’t drink or
smoke. (We said “Baptists” because
that’s what we thought he’d understand. We’d
learned that only Baptists among all the religious groups do not drink or smoke
in Germany. To call ourselves Baptists was a bit of a convenient lie.) He
deftly substituted lemonade drinks. He’d been so generous with us, for no apparent
reason other than goodwill.
We countered with a gift of our own, a German-language New
Testament that we’d received from the Pocket Testament League in Berlin. He
seemed to appreciate the gift of scriptures and my suspicions of him blew away
like his cigarette smoke. He waved as we climbed into the Kombi.
This town, Bernhausen, because it was proclaimed to be the
sauerkraut capital of the world, was an attraction of some sort for us—like
seeing in person a candidate for entry in a believe-it-or-not book. As we drove
into town we did, in fact, see some enormous fields of cabbage—an essential raw
material for sauerkraut. My summer employer in Tacoma, Nalley’s, produced a lot
of sauerkraut as well as pickles. Sauerkraut was a staple, along with meat and potatoes,
in my family home. With this background, I felt fairly at home in Bernhausen.
At Blumenstrasse (English: “Flower Street”) 6 we found the
house of Hermann Weller, an Evangelische Gemeinschaft pastor and a “must-visit”
contact provided by the Meinhardts. Pastor Weller was a younger man, one we
really should meet according to Rev. Meinhardt. So, to meet the Wellers, and
not to see cabbage, was our reason for visiting Bernhausen.
We knocked and the Wellers, who’d been expecting us, welcomed
us at the front door. Frau and Pastor Weller spent the rest of the day with us,
conversing in English about family life and church life. They were justifiably proud
of their house, which was recently built. Pastor Weller was angular-jawed,
about 35 years old and blond. His hair was already thinning.
The children gave me a secret about language learning. Michael,
Angelica, and Christiana (6, 7, and 9 years of age) provided the most honest
criticism of my attempts at speaking German that I’d yet received or would receive
in Germany. I learned that German-speaking adults simply had been overlooking my
distorted pronunciations and feigned that they understood.
But the kids were totally frank. I said “mutter,” but it
sounded too much like “mother.” The kids laughed and pointed a finger at me.
That happened with many words and phrases. It was a big benefit of being in a
home with children. I lost some self-confidence in speaking German, but gained
a reality check. I listened harder more carefully and became more careful in my
speech.
Other benefits followed. Christiana, the oldest of three
kids, was celebrating her ninth birthday. Bill and I were invited to be special
guests at her party. The party itself was a family gathering at which her
parents and brother and sister gave her books, candy, and a briefcase for carrying
things to school and back home again. Surprisingly, instead of immediately
eating the candy she delved eagerly into the gift books. (As a psychology major,
I thought she’d passed an equivalent of the marshmallow test.)
After Christiana opened her presents, the other two children
also received some presents from the parents—specifically to keep them from
crying, we were told. The parents understood. It’s good to give to one, and
wise to give to all.
Bill and I received gifts of a different but very benevolent
sort. Frau Weller did our laundry and gave us an invitation to stay overnight. Spending
the night indoors and out of the cold was very good. The next morning brought
more favors. She served hot chocolate, hearty bread and cheese for breakfast.
Later in the morning we had to leave Bernhausen with Hermann
for a destination in a nearby city: Reutlingen. Since there was no third seat in
the Kombi, Hermann drove his own car and we followed. He suggested that we
drive to Reutlingen via Stuttgart since he wanted to show us a few things in
that city. On our way out of Bernhausen we had one more overview of huge cabbage
fields. In Stuttgart, Hermann took us to gorgeous sights around the city that
we’d totally missed on our first visit.
Meeting our Student Counterparts
The key destination that day for Hermann, Bill and me was
the theological seminary of our EUB Evangelische Gemeinschaft, sited in the small
city of Reutlingen, about 20 miles directly south from Stuttgart. On arrival Herr
Kūchlich, the Direktor of the seminary, greeted us. Immediately he appeared to
fill the role of a fun-loving, hearty southern German. Short and plump, he
continually pushed up his glasses that often slipped down to the end of his
nose. If he’d also had a long watch chain across his vest, I’d have said that he
gave the appearance of a railroad conductor.
Herr Kūchlich invited Bill, Hermann and me to an evening fellowship
meal in the dining hall followed by a college-type bull session with several
English speaking students. We discussed everything from politics to religion to
scenery.
The seminary offered English as a course of instruction, and
the next morning Bill and I were invited to meet, after a bread and coffee
breakfast, with the language class. Our role was that of visiting native
English speakers. We each gave a humorous talk on American table manners.
I
mentioned: “In the U.S. one must always ask for food to be passed, rather than merely
reaching across the table for it as Germans do.”
Well, the students informed me,
Germans are supposed to ask for food to be passed also. In practice, however,
they simply reach for whatever they want. (The students did well in
understanding American-style English, but I decided to teach the word
"impolite" in my next lesson.)
Everyone was having a good time making and admitting mistakes.
Pastor Karpa said that once he’d introduced his wife in English as “my
husband.” His English-speaking audience was like the Weller kids in that they
responded with a good laugh.
Following a generous, large lunch, Bill and I hopped into
the Kombi and departed from Reutlingen. As I waved goodbye to our new friends through
the open passenger window, the president of the student body proudly shouted
out, “See you later, alligator.” I guffawed. It felt friendly in Reutlingen,
and a bit like watching a comedy show.
Photo: A couple of our
German student colleagues with Bill in Reutlingen
Reflecting back on the experience, I felt that these
students (all male) were my brothers in faith and vocation. We were like those
whose mouths were filled with laughter, whose tongues sang (Psalm 126:1.) The
Reutlingen experience was very different than the experience with missionaries
in Paris (somber-to-negative). It was more like the experience in Berlin (very
positive.)
Having once made that comparison, I recognized that I was
advancing in my quest for self-definition. I wanted a Christian vocation that
focused on joy and rang with fun. My primary reference points in coming to this
conclusion had been German Christians: the Meinhardt family, the Wellers and
the Reutlingen seminary faculty and students. Self-knowledge cannot be attained
without knowing others.
It was raining but soon the sun peeked out. Bill and I set
out to travel to Switzerland next.
Two Stuttgart Women
Out of Reutlingen we drove back to Stuttgart to gas up the
Kombi for the trip south and to look for travel books. In one of the bookstores,
Bill took note of an English-speaking book-seller. I could see why. She was
thin, a bit tall like Bill with a dark complexion like his, including brown
eyes.
But I was totally surprised when spontaneously, right out of the blue, he
asked, “By the way, would you like to spend some time together after work?” Bill
did not seem the type to arbitrarily pick a woman out of a crowd in Stuttgart bookstore
and ask her out. But maybe I was coming to know a new side of Bill. What will
come of this? I wondered.
Bill’s question was apparently a total surprise to the young
saleswoman, too. She reacted with a mixture of mystery and intrigue. She hesitated
a moment and then replied that she already had promised to spend time that
evening with a girl friend of hers. What a disappointment to Bill! He looked
down, darkly, and reached for his marks to pay for his purchase and get out of
there.
But then she careened around another swerve. Pointing at me,
she asked, “Can your friend go along with us? That will make four of us. It
would be better.”
“But do I want to double date with an unknown person I
hadn’t even seen?” I wondered?
Maybe so! Now I was intrigued.
“Where would we go?” I asked. “Does your friend speak
English?”
Without answering these questions directly she merely said, “Stuttgart
is just a village—really, it is.” She flashed big brown eyes and wiggled her
French-style hair-do.
So Bill took over and agreed for both of us. “Sure. We can
do that.” So, in a flash Bill had stitched together a double date in Stuttgart
for him and me with two totally unknown young women. Ursula took Bill’s money
and gave him a package of books along with a note on how to contact her later
in the afternoon.
To kill time Bill and I in Stuttgart while we waited for
Ursula to get off work, Bill and I stocked up on groceries at a very tiny “super-market”
(interior dimensions: about 20 feet by 25 feet.) We bought two kinds of wurst, 10
slices of cheese, some salami, eight red delicious apples, a big bottle of
Apfelsaft, butter, and a two-foot long loaf of bread. For all of that we paid
out about $2.50 U.S. In Germany, food seemed cheap. Gasoline, however, was expensive;
we paid $6 U.S. for the equivalent of 10 American gallons.
Later, Bill called Ursula’s telephone number and got
instructions on how to meet up. We met Ursula and she introduced us to Andrea:
light red hair and a light complexion, a bit of eyelash pencil perhaps, and no
lipstick. (No lipstick? Just like the religiously observant women back at
Seattle Pacific? I wondered about that.)
Andrea would definitely do for a date.
We spent a couple of hours that late summer evening on a hilltop outside of
Stuttgart and capped it off at sundown with an elevator trip to the top of the Stuttgart
TV tower. The “Fernsehturm,” as Andrea taught me to think of it, was
spectacular—an engineering marvel, I thought. Its white shaft of concrete was topped
by a multi-storied, round glass and steel capsule and an antenna. The
observation tower was about 500 feet above the hilltop. I just hoped that
Seattle’s new Space Needle could stand up to such competition.
Bill’s boldness in arranging a date was good. The foursome
was a wonderful break after five weeks of a twosome. Bill found a solution for
a companionship problem that I had not recognized. The event prompted me to
remember my Seattle girlfriend, Lucy, and to wonder how things were going for
her.
PLAYING THE STUDENT PRINCE
Bill and I conferred about our schedule. He thought that we
were making our way through Europe on a timely basis and I agreed. So we put
aside, for the time being, the fact that our itinerary directed us to move toward
Switzerland. Instead, we decided to stray. We wandered here and there along on a
generally southern and western German route: Maulbronn (vineyards, historic
Cistercian monastery,) Bretten (Library of Melanchthon, the renowned reformer,)
Bruchsal (baroque church), and Heidelberg (old university town on the Neckar
River.) We had the twin luxuries of time and mobility. Why not enjoy the fall
in Germany?
Bill wanted to look up an Oregon friend, Joy. As a recent college
graduate Joy was employed as a teacher on the American army post near
Heidelberg. Bill contacted her and, when we met, she invited us to a restaurant
on the post for conversation over an American steak dinner, completed with pie
and ice cream. “Thank heaven Bill is coming up with some women contacts,” I
thought to myself as I stuffed down my dessert.
After dinner, we drove to Heidelberg for some raucous fun at
Zum
Roter Ochsen, a stube (Red Ox
Inn, a famous student hangout from centuries past.) It was fun just to see the
exterior of the pub: a red brick front wall broken by a couple of tall stained
glass windows, wooden window shutters, a wide wooden entry door two stone steps
up from a cobblestone sidewalk. “Ah, the Germany I want to see,” I told Joy.
But the interior rocked. The dim lights just accented the
dark wooden walls. The walls were lined with relics from the past: lots of
old-time framed pictures and mounted words from songs including one song for
the Red Ox Inn. As I read the song I found these lines:
Im roten Ochsen zu
Heidelberg
Trinkt auch der Theolog
Sourced 9/24/2012 at http://www.roterochsen.de/e/
“Okay,” I thought, “the song sings to me. ‘In the Red Ox at
Heidelberg, even the theologian drinks.’ I’m a theologian in the making. Why
not taste a bier, right here, right
now?”
I was, specifically, an EUB theologian in the making who had
learned, recently, that my denomination in Germany was okay with drinking beer.
In America, drinking any alcoholic beverage was forbidden by EUB church
guidelines. Thus, as one of the faithful, I’d never had an alcoholic drink of
any sort. Now I’d found a loophole in the church rules and put it into play at Zum Roter Ochsen.
“Well, I can get back on the wagon when I go home,” I told
myself. I went way out on a limb and ordered a dark beer. Did I consult Bill or Joy? No, I just did the natural thing. Besides,
it seemed away out of place to order an orange juice drink in the Red Ox. What
a place to break my lifetime of teetotalism. The beer was wonderful, and I offended
church discipline only lightly; I stopped with one. But it was a big one.
As the evening rolled on the three rooms-full of revelers sang
raucously, accompanied and sometimes led by a happily well-oiled and yet nimble
pianist. The songs were often pierced by loud yells. Red Ox is the setting for
the operetta, “Student Prince,” so why not sing? We chose to sit in the Swiss
corner, which was decorated with steins and mugs all around.
Visitors over the years had carved their initials into table
tops; others had scribbled their names in chalk on the low ceiling of the three
small, dark rooms. (I broke with this tradition and did not inscribe my
initials or name.) There were hundreds of photographs of Heidelberg university student
groups, and paintings of patrons dating back to the 1800s.
I leaned over to Joy during a break in the noise and quipped,
“This place is sure a lot more fun than any American drive-in I’ve ever seen.”
We dropped Joy at her apartment on base at 1:30 a.m. and drove
ourselves back to Heidelberg to fall into bed. Bed, as usual, was in the Kombi,
but that night we found an unusually highbrow parking spot. We parked the little
rig on Philosopher’s Way, above the north bank of the Neckar and just across
from the university on the south bank. At 7 a.m., two German police knocked on
a window to wake us up. They were certainly in a good mood—whistling and
joking—and let us sleep an extra hour until 8 a.m. Promptly on the hour, they
insisted that we scoot out of there. They said that Philosopher’s Way was for
walking, not motoring. Obviously the police were used to clearing out revelers.
For us, it was time to roll onward.
At Worms, a few miles north on the Rhine, we spent good quality
time—first in the Martin Luther Memorial and later as members of the audience of
a traveling circus. The circus unpacked and put up their tents in the town’s Festplatz.
The largest tent had a ring in the center and bleachers encircling the ring. We
bought the lowest class (fifth) of tickets, which put us in the second row to
the last.
The acts were typical: a man on a tight rope; a girl with nine
trained ponies; a colorfully suited little boy stunt-man on a pony; a baby elephant
that balanced on its rear legs while standing on a stool; an organ grinder who simultaneously
beat a drum with his foot pedal; audience participants riding bucking horses; an
act featuring two camels, an elephant, a brahma bull, two llamas, and a
Shetland pony. Clowns, trained seals, and men on the high trapezes
completed the cast. I was getting to feel at home and enjoying mixing with
German society.
Frankfurt Friends
The week wound down and on Sunday, Oct. 23, we found ourselves
in Frankfurt at worship in the Church of the Nazarene. My Aunt Alma, my Spokane,
Washington patroness who’d given me the Nash Ambassador while I was in college gave
me a Frankfurt contact. Her good friends, Pastor Gary and his spouse Eunice, were
ministering at the Frankfurt Church of the Nazarene. Aunt Alma, a Nazarene church
member herself in Spokane, made the initial contact on our behalf.
Rev. Gary invited us to visit in his home. He led the conversation
with many observations on German life. Morals, Gary thought, were at level zero
in Germany. “My, that’s a very low level,” I thought. I guessed that his own personal
morality was informing his judgment. Gary went on, “Specifically, engagement is
considered a license to sleep together. It‘s socially acceptable for a divorced
girl to become pregnant.” Those two particulars led to his sweeping
generalization that Germans were confused religiously and socially. To me, when
Gary got on this theme he sounded like he was fulminating.
Just as I was about to start defending the Germans, a young
man named Herr Danker, age 26, son of a Hannover exporter, came by. Danker was
a friend of Gary. The youthful Danker was raised in the Hitler youth
organization, where he was taught that there was no God. “Now Hitler’s gone, God
is back, and they say we should go to church. What will the next guy say?” he
mused.
His tipping point came the day he’d been arrested for drunk
driving—a very serious offense in Germany. His solution was to get out of Hannover
and go to the big city. In Frankfurt, he visited the Nazarene church and was
completely surprised. He said, “I never knew church was like this!” Further
participation with the congregation led to his conversion experience.
Rev. Gary saw the Danker “ah-ha!” experience as the solution
to the ills of Germany’s personal morality problem. “If only thousands could
become aware in this way,” he mused.
The Thompson family lived in a fine German house. Gary Jr.,
the oldest boy, was quiet, with a fringe of dark hair hanging over his
forehead. Donny was the opposite—unquiet and tending toward foolishness and
attention seeking. The youngest child, Karl, was about 13 months old. His
greatest joy and skill was in throwing things out of his crib.
Gary was realistic, straightforward, and fun-filled. He admitted that his church was viewed by
Germans as an American import. Despite that reputation, he was drawing people
of an educated class. I could see why he’d have appeal for my Aunt Alma as
well. Alma (I surmised) supported the Thompson with generous financial donations
and plenty of prayer.
Morals Rant, Round Two
While still in Frankfurt, we then contacted the Evangelische
Gemeinschaft Pastor, Herr Zimmerman, and his spouse. This overworked minister preached
in four small to medium-sized congregations every Sunday. Frau Zimmerman supported
him in practical ways.
Mrs. Zimmerman spoke a fluent English. She chattered on and
on about American servicemen in Germany and their desperately low morals. She
reported that one particular colonel was being sent home because his son was
drunk all the time.
“Hanau has 10,000 U.S. troops and only five Protestant
chaplains,” she said. The result?
“German girls in and around the town are having
four to five kids by as many different fathers.”
She informed us that GI’s invaded “off limit” areas on pay
day and stayed off base for several days until they were broke. Some 500
licensed and 600 unlicensed prostitutes worked in Hannau. Local girls were also
available. Summarizing, she called for God’s judgment of American servicemen in
Germany and their activities.
Next, she shifted to Catholics. “In the final week of Fasching,
before Ash Wednesday, all is free of moral responsibility. Wives and husbands cheat
on one another, or even leave the marriage without informing the other. The
street is lined with swaying dancers. It’s a time of indulgence. Parents and
children--all are drunk.”
Was she confused? Or is Fasching actually that depraved? I
asked myself. I had no way to check. Unfortunately, I’d almost certainly be on
another continent by Fasching, 1961. Further, I wondered, what she might think
of Mardi Gras in New Orleans?
Actually, I was compelled by her depiction of the huge list
of social and religious problems. If I stayed on and obtained a German
education, could I help transform this so-called sea of sin in some way? Perhaps.
Later, I saw Gary Thompson again, who brought me back to
earth. I shared the information that Frau Zimmerman had voiced. Gary was a
thinking person, who could let others hold their own opinions without being
swayed greatly, and who could discuss a variety of subjects intelligently. It
helped that he could “goof off” and enjoy a good time, too. He seemed to be a
rock of stability. He advised me from making any rash vocational decision based
on what I’d heard from Frau Zimmerman.
Nevertheless, it was interesting that both Frau Zimmerman
and Rev. Thompson held that morals in the population had collapsed. The
difference between them came down to whom to blame. The American blamed Germans,
and the German blamed American G.I.s. “What sort of national prejudices are at
work here?” I had to ask myself. At best, both of them were focused on the same
problem and were trying to fix it.
Golden Grape Harvest
Bill and I decided to deviate even further from our pre-planned
itinerary. Our new wrinkle was to drive along the Rhine and the Mosel (Moselle
in French) Rivers. As Bill had learned from the AAA in Portland, the Mosel
region enjoyed an international reputation for the production of great white
wines. Driving west, or upstream, we saw many vineyards carpeting entire hillsides.
The slate hills rose at a nearly uniform grade of 30% from the riverside to
long ridges, some capped by ruined castles. The grape leaves, turning color
seasonally, glowed a golden yellow in the fall sunshine.
Photo: Bill and other grape
harvesters along the Mosel
The grape harvest, then in full swing, added a lot of human
interest to the sightseeing. All picking was accomplished by hand. Laborers,
male and female, picked entire clusters of white grapes and tossed them into
tapered green conical bins with wide mouths at the top. These bins they carried
on their backs, like packs, to crude presses mounted on rubber-tired trailers
at roadside locations.
When we stopped to visit with them, the workers provided
us with photo opportunities, but conversation was impossible. We and the
workers were in two very different language communities, and none of us could
bridge the gap effectively. These people were in a very different stratum of
society than Germans we’d been with to date. In parting, we said thank you, or “danke
schön”, frequently.
With wide, toothy grins, they replied “bitte schön.”
Limited communication can be effective communication.
Photo: Along the Mosel, October 1960—vineyards, golden days
On this southwesterly swing of our travel we ventured as far
as Trier, a very old German town on the Mosel near the border of Luxembourg. We
viewed ruins dating to the time of Charlemagne, who had resided here, but had
our greatest pleasure enjoying a trout dinner at a waterside café.
More Hospitality: Swiss Style
We left Germany early in November, traveling south, and finally,
after detours and delays, reached Basel, Switzerland, on November 6th. We were
back on track with our original itinerary, but a couple of weeks behind
schedule due to our wanderings in Germany after the Berlin and Reutlingen
visits.
A highlight in Basel was to hear a classroom lecture at the
university by Prof. Karl Barth. Gaining admission to the lecture was not a problem.
We simply walked into the crowded lecture hall and sat with the students. There
was no attempt at all either to record or to limit attendance. Barth simply
read his lecture for 45 minutes, and then ended the session by disappearing
through a door behind the podium. Though his lecture was a bit dry, probably
because I couldn’t begin to follow the German and because Barth rarely looked
up to gain eye contact, it was a privilege to hear one of the world’s leading
intellectuals. But I’ve jumped ahead a couple of days. I’ll back up to the day
of our arrival.
Earlier, upon arriving in the city on a Saturday evening, we
simply dialed the telephone number of the EUB pastor. The pastor’s wife
answered and, taking our word about who we were and what we were about, gave us
the name and telephone number of a German-Swiss couple who spoke English well. The
pastor’s wife said we’d be speaking to a guide, and we could meet him in person
the next morning after church.
The next day being Sunday, we found the Tabor EUB (referred
to as Evangelische Gemeinschaft in Switzerland, just as in Germany) church. As
we walked up the front walk we were met by a gentleman who introduced himself
as Mr. Oskar Schneider-Jaggi, the appointed guide. He said the pastor had
called him the previous evening and asked him to give us some help, and
promptly introduced us to his wife, Heidi. After we conversed, they invited us
to their home for a meal.
Photo Heidi Schneider-Jaggi and the kids, our hostess in Basel
Inside the church building, the large, square sanctuary was
dominated by a high, central pulpit. In front of the pulpit sat a small altar,
decorated with yellow geraniums. The whole altar ensemble was framed by a
large, stone Norman arch.
The congregation in attendance that day consisted entirely
of adults. I learned that the pastor had taken the younger people on retreat.
The music, both the choir anthem and the hymns, dated from the 1600s or before
and half seemed cast in a minor key. The
church service didn’t seem somber, other than the music. People smiled and
laughed at some remarks made by the pastor.
But the real fun began after the benediction. Most of the
congregation exited the building and gathered on a stone plaza for
conversation. They displayed a keen fellowship, and we had the opportunity of
speaking with some who spoke English. It appeared to me that the fellowship,
and not the music, must be the main draw of the congregation, but that was
merely my judgment and I could have been completely wrong.
In the Schneider-Jaggi home for Sunday dinner and table
conversation, we shared our life stories and they told us of theirs. As they became more knowledgeable about
us they invited us to stay in their home during our Basel visit.
Mr. Schneider-Jaggi told us that he was a Basel policeman.
He worked in a unit that seemed similar to the American F.B.I. He caught our
attention with a few spy stories.
The setting for one was the existence of many
Swiss citizens living in Russia as workers. The Basel police intelligence
organization recently learned of a Russian spy living in Switzerland using
forged papers of a Swiss resident of Russia. In Switzerland, the spy took up
work, did his service in the Swiss civilian army, and was posing in all
respects as a legal subject under the identity of a Swiss citizen. Swiss
Intelligence learned that the man planned to move to the U.S. to live and to
spy there. This information was relayed to the Swiss police by U.S.
counterparts, who received the clue from an American agent in Russia. The international
policing plan was for the Swiss to observe the spy. The American F.B.I. would
arrest him upon arrival in the U.S. Schneider-Jaggi told us this tale not to
entertain us but to illustrate the reason for his concern about Russian Communism
in its worldwide activities. I noted that, though it was about 1,600 miles from
Basel to Moscow, it must have seemed much closer psychologically for the Swiss.
We were of interest immediately to our “guide” when Bill said,
“Darrell and I have been considering African travel along with the Middle East.
We still need to decide.”
In turn, our host revealed that his Swiss relatives
were living in Nigeria as EUB missionaries. For them, he had modified a V-W
Kombi to accommodate dual rear wheels and improved interior ventilation. He was
planning to travel by Kombi overland to Nigeria in 1962 to drive his relatives
home through the Sudan, Egypt, Libya, Algeria, Spain, and into Switzerland.
Fully engaged now, we said, “Do you think we could drive to
West Africa via Algeria? We don’t have dual rear wheels, of course.”
I
expressed some doubt that we would be capable of driving across the Sahara in a
factory model Kombi.
Herr Schneider-Jaggi, a decisive man, voluntarily checked
with the French consul in Basel on our behalf during work hours on Monday. The
consul stated that car travel to West Africa wasn’t advised and that travel by
sea would be safer, cheaper, and faster.
With that information in hand, Schneider-Jaggi went to work
to help us create an altered travel plan for sea passage to Africa. He came
home from work on Tuesday and stated that we were scheduled to depart on the Nov.
23 sailing of a vessel of the Compagnie Maritime Chargeurs Réunis from Bordeaux,
France, to West Africa. Being French-owned, the ship would call exclusively at ports
in French-speaking countries. According to the plan, we’d disembark at Conakry,
Guinea, about 60 miles north of our destination of Freetown, Sierra Leone. Upon
arrival in Conakry, we'd find transportation from Conakry to Freetown.
What a relief! It sounded very affordable, simple and workable.
We bought the plan. Finally, we’d brought our winter travel plans into focus! We
were back on track and I’d have no need for that visa for Lebanon, stamped into
my passport, for which I’d paid $5 in Portland, Oregon, back on Aug. 31, 1960.
How did we reach these important decisions, and why? First, a
why: we were pushed by a forthcoming change in weather: winter was almost upon
us. Second, the how: in consultation with Mr. Schneider-Jaggi we axed the least
viable options, such as car travel to the Middle East. And third, another why: we
considered where we had contacts who might be helpful. The EUB contacts in
Europe had proved enormously helpful, and we had additional EUB contacts in
Sierra Leone. With high hopes, on Tuesday evening we set our sights on Bordeaux,
enroute to Africa by ship.
On Wednesday, bidding goodbye to our wonderful Basel host
family was puzzling. How could we thank the Schneider-Jaggi family for their
spur-of-the-moment help in deciding our winter plans? There was no way to repay
them for their knowledge, contacts, and help. Nor did they seek payment for
food and lodging. On Wednesday, November 9, we bought and presented a lovely bouquet
of flowers as an expression of thanks and started across Switzerland toward
Geneva, where we hoped to arrive about Nov. 12. Then we’d head across France
for Bordeaux. We had two weeks to make arrangements for Africa before our
departure by boat.
Comfort of Familiar Voices
Once out of Basel and rolling down the road again, I was
feeling under pressure for lack of travel time before the ship boarding. Bill
was too, I was sure. We rushed through Zurich itself and opted not take the
time to look up Rosemarie, the student I’d met earlier in Cambridge. We did
visit Bill’s grandfather’s town, Wald, located southeast of Zurich. Unfortunately,
even if Bill’s kinfolk still lived in the town, we had no time to investigate. But
we did get a sense of the beauty of the place—an old, stone church surrounded
by a few houses that were positioned like sentinels in pasture land, the carpet
floor of a very green valley in the foothills. From Wald, we had our first good
glimpse of the Alps, and what a sight were the great white peaks in the
distance to the south, projecting skyward.
Photo: Friendly elders flashed their smiles all along the way
All along the way, from
Belgium through Germany, I’d enjoyed glimpses of rural life. Food production in
Europe, evidently, was a tradition-bound process. Old ways endured in
Switzerland too. I was comfortable with the sight of manure piles steaming in
the cold air. That was nothing new to me, since my dad followed the same
practice for the family gardening back home. But old men hand-fertilizing sloping
hillside hay fields was different than anything I’d seen before. Chickens
wandering in the streets of small towns made for vivid photos and good memories.
Field fertilizing old style in an alpine valley
The sight of children playing in the age-old public fountain
of a small town spoke to a way of life that I’d never enjoyed. In Switzerland, the
quaint was often positioned back to back with the modern. High-voltage lines hung
above the tracks of passenger trains just a few steps away from kids splashing
in the fountain.
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Modern technology abounded in Switzerland, too, and I
benefitted from it personally when I telephoned my clan in Tacoma from Lucerne
on Nov. 10. I felt warmth, interest, and love as I heard the voices of Dad, Mom,
and my brother, Jerry for the first time in three months. They spoke of their
support for my travel, and Dad, especially, of his excitement about what I was
experiencing in Germany and Switzerland. I knew of their support from the time
I started speaking about this trip months earlier, of course, but was gratified
to hear them reaffirm it once again. Foreign voices are often quite challenging;
home voices are comforting.
I’d been spending lots
of time hand-writing letters to various family members and friends. Mom knew
this, and in October she’d volunteered to take on the task of re-typing and
duplicating summaries of my handwritten letters. This would mean that I’d send only
one letter to her, and she’d copy and resend them from home. She typed her summaries
on mimeograph stencils, made copies, and mailed them to 20 or 30 persons at a
rate of about one letter a week. I was grateful to her for this form of
support.
As she put it in her first duplicated letter, dated Oct. 28,
1960, “This way, perhaps, we will all hear more and oftener, as it has been
difficult for him to keep up the correspondence he had wanted to.” She
certainly got it right about the difficulties. It was one thing to write, but my
penmanship declined when I wrote in the Kombi moving through the countryside.
In her letter of Nov. 9, she wrote of her conversation with
me by telephone, “He sounded as though he were close by, and it was nice to
talk with him.”
That was typically Orleen: cool tones, practical, and right to
the point. Once she’d identified one practical thing she could do to support her
traveling son, she stepped up to the plate and did it. For me, that stable and
dependable support spoke out more than the brief voice contact over a long-distance
phone line. I was sure that she was keeping the office duplicator pretty busy at
work. She gave me time to explore—the most important item on my agenda during
my months of meandering.
Gotthard Pass at Gunpoint
Before leaving Zurich, Bill and I had mapped out a route over
St. Gotthard Pass from Lucerne to Interlaken. Our objective was to cross the
famous high pass. It wasn’t the most direct route! The Kombi would take us south
over a chain of the Alps, then west along the southern flank of a cluster of mountains,
and finally north over St. Gotthard, then, by backtracking, on to Interlaken. The
road out of Andermatt, the final major village before the pass itself, should
have been closed for winter according to a notice on the map. But when we
arrived at Andermatt the road was not marked as closed so we drove on through a
valley enclosed on three sides by mountains—a huge box canyon with sides
thousands of feet high.
The paved road led to a dirt road right up the final wall of
the canyon. This one-way
dirt track was covered in places by snow and ice, and the snow level beside the
road grew deeper as we gained altitude. Since the road appeared to be plowed
and passable, we continued past a “road closed” sign, gaining altitude at each
switchback.
Finally we arrived at a point where a no-nonsense Swiss soldier,
armed with a rifle and standing beside his brown jeep, motioned us to stop. We
were at the top of the wall of switchbacks. The closure we’d read about on the map
and the sign became a blunt reality when the soldier required us to turn back and
find another route to our destination. But at this elevation we momentarily enjoyed
a tremendous panoramic view of the nearby Alps, and a mountain high. The price was that we
slipped a day in our travel plan.
Dwarfed (and awed) by the Alps at Gotthard Pass
The Dogma Chateau
We halted in our journey to Geneva to spend the second
weekend of November in an institute self-managed by an American theologian, Francis Schaeffer.
Rev. Schaeffer’s delightful chalet was located at Huemoz, high above the Rhone
River on a rugged Alpine mountain above the town of Ollon, Switzerland. We were
then about 40 miles from Geneva, and appropriately since the city of Geneva was
the home base of a branch of the Reformation led by John Calvin in the 16th century.
Francis Schaeffer didn’t claim, exactly, to be the 20th century Calvin, but he
did aggressively present and argue a theological position in opposition to
secular and liberal 20th century theological thought. Schaeffer appealed
especially to young people, intellectuals in particular. He drew a following
from all over Europe and North America.
Meeting Schaeffer had been a major goal of the trip for Bill,
and for me as well. I’d read about him in “Time Magazine” and read his material
in “Christianity Today.”
Schaeffer cut a rugged appearance with his long, dark hair
swept back from balding temples. His face was wrinkled, and he sported a white
goatee, like that of many a Swiss farmer.
“My ministry,” as he explained it to us, ”is to provide tailored
tutoring for young professional people who want a strong reformed Christian
view.” He was precise in his understanding of his calling. That appealed to me.
Specifically, what sorts of young people came to Schaeffer
for education and enlightenment?
Those who were there that weekend included a
former agnostic-atheistic student from Holland who’d recently converted to
Christianity, a young Jewish woman, a formerly Communist-atheist, a well-known
opera singer who’d converted to Christianity at the Chalet, and a South-African
honors graduate in law from Cambridge who’d subsequently taken up theology and
had reacted against theological liberalism. Others were three American students
enrolled in the Swiss university at Lausanne, a ballet dancer, and a student
from Oberlin whose father and mother were Christian Scientists. They were an
eclectic and stimulating group.
As Schaeffer put it, he was targeting young people headed
for influential career positions. The presence of several such persons at the
Chalet confirmed that he was succeeding in his goal. I found it exciting to
participate in conversations with people of these wide-ranging backgrounds and
especially with Schaeffer himself.
With regard to conversing with Bill and me, Schaeffer was
generous. He spent much of a beautiful morning on a veranda with us, just
casually conversing. The setting was stunning. A bright sun was shining on us
from the south. Schaeffer pointed out the Rhone, running toward Lake Geneva
through the valley below, and talked of the vast cultural difference between
Reformed Swiss culture on the right bank and Catholic culture on the left bank of
the river.
Almost immediately, I felt myself recoil as Schaeffer’s
remarks took on the tenor of a call to arms. Yet, the range and breadth of his thought
was staggering, seemingly, and his confidence would be attractive to university
students. He constantly contrasted his conservative Reformed Protestant Christian
thought with modern thought. No wonder he chose a base in proximity to
Geneva.
The dividing lines he drew were stark and startling. He argued
against Karl Barth, Rudolph Bultmann, Sigmund Freud, Pablo Picasso and other intellectual
and artistic leaders. Schaeffer’s own foundational thought appeared to be the
objective reality of God.
“Some modern thought might appreciate the therapeutic value
of faith, but this is secondary,” he said. Also, in referring to modernity, he
said: “The damnation of mankind is that we cannot live by our own principles.”
This insight did not cause him to abhor principles. He seemed to cherish them.
I was assigned a small bedroom of my own in the chalet. Unable
to fall asleep after the stimulating conversation, I contemplated my own
Christian faith. I framed it, and probably oversimplified it, as a choice
between Meinhardt and Schaeffer. I found myself thinking that it was better to
actually do Christianity than to sharpen Christianity into such an attack
weapon.
I also considered which choice my dad would recommend. I recalled
that Dad had given me what he called the most important book on faith he’d ever
read: Thomas Merton’s Seeds of Contemplation. I had read the book and agreed:
it was one of the most important I’d read also. In giving me that volume, Dad encouraged
me onto a course that valued contemplative Christianity and openness to other
faiths. Remembering Merton helped to answer my question.
For me, it would be Merton,
not Schaeffer.
All of this was in my mind as I considered, which type of
Christianity would give me the most integrity: a Meinhardt serving style or a
Schaeffer doctrinal defending style? Rev. and Mrs. Meinhardt pursued a practical
Christianity of open boundaries, and of finding and meeting needs in the name
of Jesus. Schaeffer was pursuing a Christianity of dogmatic combat with the
world. Given this choice, I knew that I’d stay with the practical Christianity
of the Meinhardts. I shrank back from the hard-core rationalist Christianity creeping
out of every chink in Chalet Huemoz.
I also asked myself this question: Where would Jesus situate
himself on this continuum between doing Gospel deeds (Meinhardt) and precipitating
intellectual, dogmatic conflict with the world (Schaeffer)? Jesus healed the
sick and fed the hungry. He told parables but didn’t develop dissertations. If
Jesus were the model, seemingly he legitimated the Meinhardt model.
I’d decided. I chose to locate myself on the Meinhardt/Merton
end of the continuum and would hope to attain the high goal of service in the
name of Jesus.
But wait! Should I not be considering other models of
Christianity? Probably yes, and perhaps I’d be encountering compelling options in
Africa. I was looking forward to that possibility, especially now that I’d
committed to traveling there very soon.
I opened my window a crack to the cold night air and slept
soundly under the feather-stuffed comforter.
When I awakened the next morning,
I felt refreshed, not so much that I slept well but that I’d clarified my own
identity against Schaeffer’s thought, just as he’d clarified his identity against
Freud and Bultmann. The weekend with Schaeffer had done wonders for me. He successfully
pushed me and succeeded in helping me to clarify my commitments. It was time to
check out of Chalet Huemoz and the mental zone for which it stood. I was glad
to hop into the Kombi and drop down the switchbacks from the mountainside, finally
levelling out on the valley floor below.
Our Travel Plans Unravel
Bill and I left Huemoz above Ollon for Geneva on the
lakeshore. Both Ollon and Geneva enjoyed lovely situations. I looked at the old
churches along the route and was glad to remember that Calvin’s autocratic rule
of Geneva had ended four centuries earlier. If Calvin were in control, I’d be
denied entrance at the city gates, given the decisions I’d just made.
Unexpectedly, Geneva proved to be very expensive for two young
travelers who needed to scrimp. To save funds, we ate several meals in the YMCA
“soup line” over our week’s stay.
Bill and I were dazzled by the beauty of Swiss lakes and
mountains, but snow was about to fly in the Alps. It was time to head south for
the winter months. But we still had to find solutions for some travel problems looming,
threatening to hem us in and turn us around, like the closure of Gotthard Pass
had done a few days earlier.
One problem was easy to solve: right in Geneva we found a Consulate
of Liberia and obtained visas for travel in Liberia, valid for two months from Dec.
31, 1960.
An enigma remained: how to obtain visas for the Republic of
Guinea. We’d already purchased tickets from Bordeaux to Conakry, with the help
of Schneider-Jaggi in Basel, but had no visas for Guinea, the country in which
we planned to disembark. We’d counted on finding a representative of the
Republic of Guinea in Geneva but learned that Guinea maintained no embassy or
consulate there. It seemed reasonable to assume that we’d find a consulate in
Bordeaux, so we shelved this matter until later.
More urgent and necessary: Bill had to locate funds his family
had sent recently from the United States. He was certain that the money was sent
care of a bank in Geneva. However, after checking with all the banks in town, he
couldn’t locate the funds. Another problem was to find a garage in which to
store his father’s Kombi, but the search would have to wait until we arrived in
Bordeaux.
As the clock ticked and the days of the week slide by, Bill
still couldn’t locate his funds. I patched together some alternate plans for
myself that would get me to Guinea and on to Freetown, Sierra Leone. I ran my
ideas past Bill. By Saturday, we’d agreed that I would proceed to Bordeaux
alone. Bill would wait in Geneva for his funds. Then he’d drive to Bordeaux,
where we would meet up again before departure by ship at mid-week. In Bordeaux I
would locate car storage for Bill and check in with the Compagnie Maritime de Chargeurs
Réunis, on whose vessel we’d soon depart. I’d also find out how to obtain visas
for entry into Guinea.
I left Geneva for Bordeaux by train that very evening, Nov.
19, 1960. The ship was to leave on Wednesday afternoon, Nov. 23. Bill had three
and one-half days to get to Bordeaux, or he’d miss the boat. He’d have to scoot
after he located his funds, but it would be possible.
Crunch Time
It was Sunday morning, Nov. 20, when I dropped from the overnight
train from Geneva onto the concrete concourse in the Bordeaux train station. I searched
throughout the vast, dark-toned building for directions to a hotel. Also, I
tried to find information about the locations of the Compagnie Maritime des Chargeurs
Réunis—its office or even its dock—and the Guinean Consulate. I knew the
offices would be closed on a Sunday, but I wanted to get my bearings. Surprisingly,
I could find no map of the town in the train station. Also surprisingly, I
could locate no one who could give guidance in English to any of my
destinations.
For a while, I walked about, still looking for help and more
and more amazed at the building itself. The more I saw of the train station,
the more I realized that it was very grand. Passengers, walking to and from
trains, were protected from the weather by an upwardly curving, high ceiling
aligned over the parallel rows of tracks. Out in front, the exterior wall consisted
of many doors, each located below a tall, arched window. The entire façade was crowned
by a very large clock.
Even after all of my searching, no map and no guidance came
to light. I then decided that I’d just walk around town searching for a hotel, the
consulate, the docks, and the Compagnie Maritime. I hoped they’d all be located
in a single zone within walking distance of each other.
Through my exploring—and, I believed, in combination with God’s
care—I found a small, clean walkup hotel with a room at a minimal price. The
innkeeper assured me that the location was within walking distance of the
offices I’d need to visit on Monday. He could not, however, locate the Guinean
consulate—the sole source of the visas Bill and I absolutely needed to make the
travel plan work.
On Monday, I set out again and, with some additional helpful
guidance from the hotel owner, located an affordable parking garage. That fortunate
discovery solved Bill’s car storage problem. I visited the American Consulate where
I collected mail from home. I then walked into big trouble at the office of the
Compagnie Maritime des Chargeurs Réunis, just to check in and confirm our
reservations. The agents at the passenger desk let me know very emphatically three
things. First, he confirmed our reservations. Second, we would be prevented
from boarding the ship without a visa for Guinea. Third, we could obtain visas only
at the Guinean embassy in Paris.
Compagnie Maritime des Chargeurs Réunis, Bordeaux
Immediately, I tried to telephone Bill in Geneva with this
news. I spoke with the clerk at the front desk of the hotel where Bill had been
staying, only to learn that he’d checked out and left no instructions on further
contact. Now I was truly alarmed. I realized that I had absolutely no choice
but to do my best to get a visa for myself, independent of Bill. I headed for
the train station.
Lifted my Spirits
Moving quickly, I bought a train ticket to Paris and departed
on the night train at 10:30 p.m. on Monday, sea bag over my shoulder. I arrived
at the Embassy of Guinea at 8 a.m. on Tuesday, only to be told that the visa
section wouldn’t open until 3 p.m.! More delay. A staff person did furnish visa
application forms, however. I checked in at Hotel des deux Continents, with
which I was familiar from my initial stay in Paris eight weeks earlier, and spent
time completing the visa application form. I enjoyed some interesting
conversations with people I met in the hotel. Also, I left a message for Bill
at the American Consulate in Bordeaux, just in case he called there for
information. Time was running very short. The crisis was worse for Bill than
for me.
At 3 p.m. on Tuesday, I returned to the Guinean Embassy. The
secretary of the visa official was at her desk now. When she heard my sob
story, she told me that a four-day waiting period was usually required.
“But I have a ticket for tomorrow’s departure from Bordeaux!”
I pled. “I’ll miss the boat!”
She said, “Well, I’ll try for you. No promises.”
While I was still waiting at the desk, the phone rang. The
secretary answered. In a moment, she covered the phone with her hand and
reported to me that it was Bill, telephoning from Bordeaux to see whether there
was any way of his obtaining a visa for Guinea.
Back on the line, the secretary was forced to reply, “No, impossible
without your passport!”
Since he could not come to Paris in time to present his
passport and then get back to Bordeaux by the scheduled departure time, the
crisis hit full force. Bill could get no visa and would miss the sailing.
For me, though, events turned in my favor. The secretary took
my case to her boss and returned promptly with my passport and a broad smile. The
coveted visa was stamped in my book, signed and approved. I was on my way again,
but it was clear that I would have to split with Bill. He’d have to find
alternative transportation to Africa.
On the way back to the hotel late Tuesday afternoon, I ducked
into aux Printemps. This grand old department store was festooned with copious Christmas
decorations. Shoppers were gazing at displays of gift items and stocking up on purchases
for the holidays. Since I had no spare cash, I could buy nothing but sheer
necessities. I would love to have ordered a meal in the restaurant of the
department store but couldn’t afford the luxury.
But I did recall my grandmother’s words when she was recalling
her childhood in Switzerland and said to me: “When we went to town, we went to
Paris.” I could understand her better now. Paris was metropolitan. Swiss towns and
cities, even, were rustic by comparison. The festive atmosphere in aux Printemps,
even though I couldn’t buy a thing, raised my spirits. The visa I’d just
obtained would be my souvenir of Paris—and a good one, too.
Unfortunately, I truly needed to scrounge. In fact, I ate
only two restaurant suppers and no lunches between Sunday and Wednesday. With utter
frugality in mind I survived primarily on bread, cheese, and apple snacks,
waiting to board the ship when, I thought, I’d dine abundantly, like a dolphin
amidst a school of herring.
I redefined my dilemma. The question boiled down to
travelling to Africa on the boat without Bill, or staying on in Europe with Bill
while he searched for his funds. The former I could afford; the latter would
cost me a lot because I’d have to purchase an airplane ticket to Sierra Leone.
Neither was a good alternative.
On Wednesday morning, the maid awakened me at 6 a.m. I
arrived at the Paris train station with very few minutes to spare before the 8 a.m.
departure for Bordeaux. This train was very fast compared to the night train. It
roared through an industrial town, passed a slower passenger train, and flew on
through villages, farms, and past old chateaux.
At about 11 a.m. I ate my bag lunch of cheese, bread, apples,
and, as a luxury, drank a soda. Quality bread and cheese—pure flavors, deep,
intense, varied! Frugal eating in France, at least, was good. I enjoyed my 35-cent
lunch as much as if I were eating steak in the dining car. The garlic I got
from fellow passengers’ breath was sufficient seasoning. At 1:45 p.m., I
debarked in Bordeaux; the train rushed on to Madrid and Lisbon.
Bill Splitting with Me
In Bordeaux, Bill met me at the train as it arrived! How
great to see him again after the confusion of the past hectic days. He reported
that he’d located his funds but hadn’t pocketed them yet. “So where are the
funds, Bill?” I asked?
“In Madrid,” he said. He’d already cancelled his plans to
depart by boat in favor of driving to Madrid where he’d collect the money wired
from the States and would store the car. From there, he planned to fly direct to
Sierra Leone. He’d have no need for a visa for Guinea.
“Good plan,” I thought. Personally, though, I’d decided to continue
my plans to travel by ship.
I promised Bill that I’d meet up with him again when
I arrived in Freetown.
Time was very short. The ship would push off at 4:15 p.m.,
and meantime I had to arrange for storage of my winter clothing and check at
the American Consulate once more for mail. There was no time for idle chatting.
I had to move fast to get everything done.
I tried to kill two birds with one stone. At the U.S. Consulate,
I asked the consul whether I could leave my bag of winter clothing in the
office since I wouldn’t need an overcoat and heavy jacket in Africa.
“Absolutely not!" he said, “But I’ll make inquiries for
you.” Time flew by as I hung tight, waiting for replies to his calls.
While cooling my heels in the outer office, I wondered: what
do these people do for Americans if they can’t keep my clothes for a few
months? When the clock demanded that I act, he had received no replies at all. I
decided to leave the consulate in order to check with the good innkeeper at the
hotel. Would he keep my bag?
“Pas de probleme!”
He’d do it, no problem. He’d become such a helpful friend in just one day!
I had $80 American left in my billfold. I calculated that
I’d need $100 for the stay in Conakry plus transportation on to Sierra Leone. I’d
have to continue to save funds on board the ship and hope that my tiny fortune
would last until I reached Freetown. Otherwise I’d be stranded.
Then, at 4 p.m., while we were standing on the dock by the
gangplank expressing our goodbyes, Bill told me his full story. He’d called the
Swiss National Bank in Geneva, finally, and found that his funds had been
waiting there for him for a week! He’d never thought that his funds would have been
sent to that particular bank. He’d checked with all the other banks in Geneva but
not the SNB. When he finally made that connection, he had asked that his funds
be forwarded in their entirety to a bank in Madrid, not to Bordeaux. I then
knew that he’d made his decision to go his own way days earlier.
Now he brought up the main issue: He had no cash at all, not
even for gasoline to get to
Madrid. He could sleep in the Kombi, but how would
he get food and gasoline?
We quickly brainstormed all options, such as getting a refund
on either his airline ticket to Africa or on his boat ticket. He reported that
he’d be able to get a refund of the price of the boat ticket but not until the
next day—Thursday.
Crunch time came five minutes before castoff when Bill asked
me at the bottom of the gangplank to loan him $20 of my remaining $80. There
was no time to quibble, and hardly time to think. The absolute deadline for
boarding the ship had arrived.
I quickly considered my view of Bill’s and my options and
risks. Bill knew he’d get a refund in Bordeaux the next morning. That would
definitely buy him enough gasoline to drive on to Madrid as well as food and
lodging along the way. He could stay in the Kombi tonight with nothing worse
than a bit of discomfort and perhaps an overnight fast. For my part, I had only
the $80, which was sufficient only in the best case, with no way of obtaining
more money if I needed it en route to Sierra Leone. I was willing to share my
money in most situations.
However, under the circumstances, I knew I must keep
my small kitty intact. My situation could become very grim if I were stranded
without funds on the way to Sierra Leone. I’d found that the American consul in
Bordeaux had a fund available to aid Americans in really bad situations. I suggested
to Bill that he check at the U.S. Consulate for an overnight loan. That was the
best, and all, that I could do for him.
Sadly, so sadly, I had to refuse my friend the request he’d
made. On Nov. 23, Bill and I bid each other adieu, and he left dockside quickly
to check with the Consulate for aid before office closing time.
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