Reunited (in Cairo) And It Feels So Good

Before setting out on their next round of backpacking, this one across the Middle East and Asia, Jim and Tom had arranged to meet in Cairo on June 2, 1979. During the months traveling apart—Jim in Europe and Israel, Tom in Africa—the two had no way to communicate with each other should something come up that would delay or even cancel the planned reunion.

Although the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty had been signed in March of that year, direct flights from Tel Aviv to Cairo were not yet available for most travelers. So Jim, who was in Israel as June approached, flew first to Athens, then over to Cairo, landing a day earlier than the planned reunion. He arrived in the afternoon, checked into a hotel, and spent the rest of the day getting lost in the hot, dusty, and crowded streets and alleys. The next day, he checked out of the hotel because another night would have been a budget-buster. He headed back out to the airport, hoping that he or his friend hadn’t somehow mixed up the date of their planned reunion. Fortunately, neither had. Jim was tremendously relieved when he saw the familiar orange backpack bobbing up and down above the heads of the disembarking passengers, and Tom was equally reassured when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Binks!” After months of traveling solo, they were reunited and, as Peaches and Herb (Boomer alert!) might have sung, it felt good.

Meeting the (Unofficial) Ambassador of Cairo

Characteristically, Tom had chatted up some fellow passengers on his flight and became fast friends with Tom and Annie, a couple from Australia. They had read about cheap lodging at a place called the Golden Hotel and invited Tom and Jim along. Located in the heart of Cairo, the hostel offered rooms with two single beds, a squatter toilet, and a shower—rather luxurious for $3 a night. Its owner’s name was Faris, a delightfully eccentric Christian Coptic and former real estate lawyer. Faris was 76 years old, completely bald, sported a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses, and a pencil mustache. He had retired from lawyering 10 years previously and obviously relished his new vocation as ambassador to backpackers and budget travelers. He spoke excellent English —accompanied by energetic hand gestures—and insisted on helping Tom and Jim plan their own walking tour of the city. 

First to the Mosque of Sultan Husan. Built in the mid 14^th century, it remains a vibrant symbol of the Islamic religion and, for the boys, a great introduction to Islamic art and architecture with its inside central courtyard, impressive mihrab (a semicircular niche set into the qibla wall of a mosque, indicating the precise direction of the Kaaba in Mecca, which Muslims face during daily prayers), and striking minarets.  

Mihrab (prayer niche), Mosque of Sultan Hassan

Onto the Khan el-Khalili Bazaar area, a myriad of shops and owners enticing you to buy goods ranging from exquisite gold creations and exotic spices to T-shirts and traditional Egyptian apparel. It was a great introduction to the idea that everything has a price and haggling is mandatory. Case in point: Tom, having already experienced the confusing maze of Cairo’s streets and alleyways, asked a shop owner for directions to their next destination. The shop owner insisted that Tom buy “only ten” of his tchokes before helping. After Tom forked over a few dozen piastres, the shop owner said, “Go out door and turn right.” That was it.

The pay-to-play destination Tom inquired about was the Egyptian Museum, home of mummified Pharaohs from 3000-1000 BC, including perhaps the most famous of them all, Tutankhamen. Unfortunately, most of the Boy King’s treasures were on tour in America,  yet the famed Golden Mask was somewhere in the musty museum. Tom channeled Howard Carter, who in 1922 discovered Tutankhamen’s burial vault, and searched for the Golden Mask. After turning several corners, he had an inkling about the next one. Sure enough, he turned another corner and found himself staring right into the eyes of the Golden Mask!

Horsing Around the Pyramids

Tom and Jim were surprised to find that the Great Pyramids of Giza, Wonders of the World, were not to be found in some remote desert location but right on the edge of the ever-expanding city limits of Cairo. 

They ventured into the Great Pyramid of Cheops, following the tour guide through the cool (temperature and general awesomeness) secret corridors and tunnels (mostly bent over) to the inner sanctum, the room of the sarcophagus, where hopefully, after mummification, Cheops would continue his afterlife journey to the gods.

After leaving the Great Pyramid, the boys were gazing out at the other pyramids, bodies and eyes adjusting to the sudden heat of the blazing sun, when a young entrepreneur approached. "You rent horse for one hour, you see everything!"  This was not in the day’s plan or budget, but it was an opportunity too good to pass up. Jim, whose family at one time owned a couple of horses, hopped on the saddle and took off at full gallop. Tom, holding on for dear life, caught up to him when Jim stopped to take in the sight of the pyramids and vast desert before them.

Tom (foreground) and Jim outside the Great Pyramid of Cheops

In the distance was the Step Pyramid at Saqqara, designed by the legendary architect Imhotep in the 27^th century BC. “Let’s do it,” Jim said, and once again took off at full gallop. Tom felt more comfortable with each passing minute in the saddle, and soon caught up. When they reached the pyramid, they sat on their horses for a while, taking in the view and enjoying the absolute stillness of the desert. It seemed that both were speechless over the fact that they were in the very cradle of civilization, on horses no less! They exchanged can-you-believe-this looks, then started laughing at being in another world they never thought they’d see.

Tom (in foreground, again!) and Jim near the Step Pyramid at Saqqara

Domers in the Desert

Back in Cairo, it was now late afternoon. The hour had not diminished the scorching heat, and the streets seemed impossibly crowded and noisy after the quiet of the desert. The boys were parched. The extreme heat and thirst sapped their budgetary discipline. They needed air conditioning and something cool to drink. The lounge at the Cairo Hilton offered both. Surprisingly, given their dusty clothes and overall scraggly appearance, they were seated. As they sipped on Heinekens, Jim noticed a gentleman in a business suit, seated at the bar with another man, staring at him. Eventually, he walked over and pointed at Jim’s t-shirt. “You went to Notre Dame? Me, too!”

It was not the first time Jim’s t-shirt would attract attention. On this day, it brought them another beer. Later, in Tehran, it might have saved Jim’s life.

It was now nearing sunset. Faris had recommended they take in the Sound and Light show at the Great Pyramids and Sphinx. Since Faris’s suggestions had proven excellent thus far, the boys finished their beers and headed back to the pyramids. There, a guide offered to take them away from the crowd gathering to an isolated spot with “the best view.” Skeptical at first, the boys eventually agreed to the guide’s fee and were led to a spot that did, as promised, offer a spectacular view. He also offered them some hash, which the boys declined (at least, that’s what they’re saying for the record). The guide stomped off just as a voice boomed as if from the heavens: “I am Ramses, Pharaoh of the Egyptians!" 

The open desert to one side, crowded Cairo on the other, the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, and the voice of Ramses thundering across the heavens. Who needed hash to fully experience, as Tom liked to say, another moment of nirvana?

***

That was Then. Click on the video for the Overlanders Now reflections on Cairo.

Comments? C'mon, tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Jim's Solo Trek Across Europe to Cairo

by James King

Even before I landed in New York, broke and jobless, I knew I would go back for more travel; more specifically, overland travel. But I’d need money, and I’d need to complete what I left Europe to do—write a novel. I couldn’t have been luckier on both counts. 

Jim's crazy wandering across Europe to Cairo

First, one of my university professors, Elizabeth Christman, offered to mentor me through the novel-writing process. She was a remarkable woman. Originally from St. Louis, she was an agent at a major New York literary agency for many years. Then, at age 55, she started teaching at the University of Notre Dame. I took one of her courses, Writing for Publication. She couldn’t have been more supportive and encouraging of my writing. When I called from Ohio to tell her of my determination to write a novel, she suggested that I get a job in South Bend so that we could meet in person instead of over the phone.

Fortunately, one of the jobs I had in Ohio to earn enough to afford the first trip was as a prep cook in a steak restaurant chain called The Boar’s Head. It so happened that there was also a Boar’s Head in South Bend. I visited my former boss at the North Olmsted (OH) Boar’s Head, and he was kind enough to call the manager in South Bend. He gave me a glowing and entirely undeserved recommendation. 

I don’t recall where I stayed those first few days in South Bend, but I quickly found a tiny studio apartment not far from the restaurant, the University, and Ms. Christman’s apartment. I couldn’t afford a car, so I bought a bike to get to work and Ms. Christman’s place. At the restaurant, I moved out of the kitchen and onto the floor as a waiter, where the money from tips was more than what I would have earned as a prep cook. Many of the other employees were Notre Dame undergrads or graduate students, and we all got along well. Maybe too well? After work, we’d often meet in the lounge for a drink or two or more, and then go somewhere else for more beers, hot dogs, and laughs. Too often, I found myself biking unsteadily back to my apartment as dawn broke.

In the meantime, Ms. Christman (it took me a long time to honor her request to call her Liz), mentored me as promised and, after several do-overs, helped me get my first full-length manuscript ready to send out to publishers. She even offered to—and did—act as a sort of agent by sending it out to publishers while I traveled. She never stopped telling me that she knew, just knew, that one day I’d be asking her to sign a copy of one of my novels. It still breaks my heart that she passed away before that could happen.

By the time I completed my novel (spoiler: it was never published—the first of several) and despite all the money I had blown on late-night beers and bad food, I had saved enough to head back to Europe and, eventually, the Middle East and Asia. Tom and I had been in touch to map out our journey. As Tom noted in the previous post, he wanted to explore parts of Africa, while I wanted to revisit parts of Europe and explore some countries we didn’t visit. We decided to meet up in Cairo, Egypt.

At last, departure day came. I took Air Icelandic to Luxembourg. From there, I revisited Amsterdam, Munich, Venice, Paris, and Nice. Then over to Spain, with a stop in Lourdes, France, which struck me as an interesting mix of tacky and transcendent. Despite my intention to spend more time in Spain, I ditched those plans in San Sebastian, on the Bay of Biscay. Time was starting to drag. I was not and am not an extrovert, which can make for pleasant solo travel but also very lonely travel at times. The weather was cold and rainy, which always affects one’s perspective of a place, and my perspective was getting gloomier by the day. I decided to move on, making my way back across Western Europe to sunnier skies.

On the first trip over, heavy seas prevented Tom and me from visiting Corfu, Greece. I decided to try again, and this time I made it. On the train to Brindisi, Italy, to catch the ferry, I met two women from California, Ann and Dawn, and we traveled together for the next week or so. Corfu was breathtaking. We rented bikes to explore the island. At night, these two extroverts were always up for dancing. Me, less so, but I tagged along. One night, Ann started a dance that she assured us was Greek. It involved kissing someone at random whenever the music paused. From the startled looks of the Greek recipients of her and Dawn’s touristy affections, this “kissing dance” was a myth. Fortunately, they realized this before the looks of surprise turned to interest.

In Athens, I said goodbye to my new friends, although we would later reunite when I lived in San Francisco. They went home to Northern California, and I flew to Israel. 

After a day or two in Tel Aviv, I spent nearly a month hitchhiking around the country, from Tiberius and the Sea of Galilee in the north to Dahab and the Red Sea in the south. 

My first glimpse of Kinneret--The Sea of Galilee

    As always, the memory of place is brought back to life by the people I met: The farmer who picked up a hitchhiking me, Uzi on the dash of his tractor, as he made his way to a kibbutz near Kinneret; the schoolboys who engaged me in kicking a soccer ball around a street in Nazareth--still one of my favorite photos, which I keep framed on my desk;

My Nazarene soccer pals

Yeah, me, a year or two ago.

the boys' school teacher, who invited me into his home for lunch in return for sending him a Parker fountain pen when I returned to the States; the young Texan I met in a Jerusalem hostel who liked to walk the stony streets of Jerusalem’s Old City in a Stetson and duster (and who promised that the South would rise again, with disastrous results for Yankees like me); the couple, Ed and Mareet, who I met on a bus in the Negev Desert as we made our way to Dahab (then under Israeli control but returned to Egypt in 1982), where we slept on the beach, under the stars, and discovered by tire tracks in the morning that we had barely escaped being run over by a jeep on patrol. 

    

Sleeping under the stars in Dahab

And then back to the Old City of Jerusalem. I just could not get enough of it. I visited the Western Wall so often that a rabbi approached me one day and asked, in broken English, if I was Jewish. When I told him I wasn’t, he shook his head and insisted I was. After some back and forth, we came to the agreement that we, and everyone in this sacred space, were brothers.

The Western Wall, 1979

Two young shepherds, watching and waiting to see how long it would be before someone would stop and pick up this hitchhiker.

A market in Bethlehem

Soon it was time to fly to Cairo to meet up with Tom. I arrived a day before the agreed-upon meet-up date and wandered around Cairo, killing time, not really taking in much. The next day, I took a bus back to the airport, wondering whether Tom had decided to stay in Africa or had mixed up the dates. There was no way to know.  The various possibilities, all negative, nagged me until I saw, among a crowd of people heading toward customs, a familiar orange backpack bobbing up and down. It was Binks, and it was good to be back together after so many weeks of traveling alone. We shook hands (this was 1979; males didn’t hug each other back then) and in no time at all fell into our pattern of traveling together, splitting when we got on each other’s nerves, and then reuniting.

As we left the Cairo airport, Tom raised his fist and yelled at the top of his voice, “The boys are back!”

(Not sure that actually happened, but it was definitely something Binks would do. And it makes for a nice Hollywood ending to this post.)

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Tom's interview with Jim about his Now reflections on his solo trek to Cairo.

Next Post/Video: Down the Nile: Luxor and the Valley of the Kings.

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Into Africa

by Thomas P. Bingle 

Toledo was quite comfortable for me and the time home, 11 months, went smoothly and quickly.  Jim and I reconnected and discovered that neither of us had gotten rid of the travel bug.  So we started planning another Joint Adventure! This expedition involved one of the most challenging explorations of the backpacking world: the Overland Journey from Istanbul to Kathmandu. We decided that our rendezvous point would be in Cairo, Egypt.

Cairo was a natural meeting point as Jim was looking first to return to Europe and then to explore the Pyramids and venture along the Nile prior to Istanbul. I, on the other hand, felt I could journey my way through Africa by visiting two friends who embarked on two-year stints with the Peace Corps in western Africa.  Both Carl in Sierra Leone and Steve in Ghana had already been in their fascinating roles for some time and were excited about someone visiting them.     

 As the plane took off, I was full of apprehension, taking another BIG STEP, away from security and stability, to venture into the unknown, Africa! Yet, with the world of travel, there always seems to be some help, as my seatmate as we crossed the Atlantic was a Dutch girl crushed by a relationship crisis on her way back home.   Through our conversation, we lifted each other's spirits and confidence so that we both could face the unknown once on land!

Tom and Richard, Sierra Leone

To help my entry into Africa, I was hoping Carl could be at the airport, he could not make it, and after walking on the tarmac from the airplane to the airport, I got my first taste of the friendliness I would experience in Africa when Richard, a young man in Baggage Claim, with his kindness helped me through the chaotic Customs without any expectation of a tip.   In addition to a grateful Thank You, I only mentioned I would hope to see him upon my departure! 

The nighttime transfer into Freetown, Sierra Leone, was full of new scenes with children playing along the side of the road, mud huts, no streetlights, and mothers breastfeeding.  To make the arrival into Africa even more dramatic, you had to take a ferry to enter Freetown, so named as it was one of the first cities in Africa to welcome Freed Slaves, and so with the wind in my face on the top deck, a beer in hand, 110% humidity, and talking with locals, I entered Africa, land of the earliest humans, phenomenal nature and a world that few backpackers visit! 

I met Carl the next morning, and by walking the streets of Freetown, he introduced me to a dominant aspect of financial, cultural, and social life of Africa: The Market!!!  The Capital City featured fabulous markets selling nearly every type of vegetable and items from hairpieces to harmonicas!!! 

The next day, we were on a Mammy Wagon, an open-air mini truck replete with unpadded wooden benches, careless drivers, a great African cast of mothers with their market goods, men returning from the diamond fields, and school children all cramped in.  Our destination was the upcountry home of Carl, the small village of Sumbuya, a land of no electricity, bars, restaurants, or billboards.  His home was on one level, with a living room, storeroom, and bedroom, kitchen, and latrine out back.  From here, Carl would hop on his Honda 50 motorbike and visit 5-6 villages a day.  In the evening, we enjoyed visiting with neighbors on his porch lit only by a lantern.  A nightly ritual was the sound of the BBC radio providing an update on the outside world before getting some sleep, unless the African rains pounded on his zinc roofing! 

Mammy Wagon

What was fascinating was the role that both Carl and Steve were living while working for the Peace Corps. Situated up in the country, they were involved in establishing Health Committees in the villages by introducing elementary Western health care ways to the vital indigenous healers, local herbalists, and fetish priests of the region, who were very respected in the countryside.  As the African populations accept each health care system as viable, the goal was to have each tradition complement each other  As Carl noted, “one of the most unique Peace Corps programs, as there was great potential with its goals to solve being basic ones.” If only to stem the high rate, 50%, of infant mortality in Sierra Leone, but also at this time 50% of the world's population did not have access to a medical doctor.  I noticed that both Carl and Steve were respected in their villages.

Carl and Steve, were instrumental in another vital local function: securing well-diggers to increase the number of freshwater wells. Highly respected in the village, the well-digger amazed me in the way they could keep a perfect circle for nearly 40 feet underground. As Carl would go to brush his teeth or cook some vegetables out back, he would pass a recently dug well.

Tom's friend, Carl (l), and the village well-digger.

After two weeks with Carl in Sierra Leone, where due to reliable rains, there seemed an abundance of food sources and a lower population, I boarded a flight from Freetown, where I met up again, as hoped, with the friendly Richard, to Accra, Ghana.  Quite a difference between the calm of Sierra Leone and the hectic, dynamic, intense, and populated world of Ghana. Several negative sights on the ride in from the Accra airport revealed more evident problems with pollution, poverty, and sanitation. 

After Accra, we went up to Steve’s house in the small area of Techiman, Ghana, which was similar to Carl's Sumbuya but with a little more creature comforts.  Again, friendliness was experienced everywhere, as when walking in his village, it seemed that you were returning hellos to everyone, and if you ever said a word or phrase in Twi, which Steve often did, the local language, you were celebrated!!!

Techiman and the surrounding area were enthused with Steve's meetings focusing on the coordination of Western medical techniques with the health care of the indigenous traditional healers in an attempt to create a collegial, cooperative link. One day, Steve and I went to nearly 10 traditional healers to discuss their daily lives of helping to heal many different situations involving medical ailments, but also daily life predicaments. Fetishes, which are inanimate objects that followers believed to be capable of supernatural powers, were present in all shrines. On several visits we were fortunate to witness the traditional healer or fetish priest presenting the potential healing power and the revealing element of fetishes mixed in with some modern medical wisdom!

Ghana, not to be outdone, has one of the largest markets in all of Africa, as Steve mentioned that there are up to 10,000 vendors at the Kumasi Market. What a world, so many vendors selling the same items, but still all making a living. A vital world for the women of Africa, as the daily time allows for socialization, so precious for their livelihood, as in the upcountry throughout Africa, the woman is the backbone of the culture, family, and values from early morning to late evening!!!  Thieves are not welcome!

I truly enjoyed and was honored for the perspective that Carl and Steve provided about the strength of these West African cultures, as seeing the upcountry in depth was very unusual for travelers. These lands and peoples were bombarded back then with an onslaught of Western and Modern thinking, ways, and values.  There was a tension in all countries over how to incorporate these movements without losing or discarding the respected and entrenched African traditions and cultures.  Carl and Steve respected the native traditions and cultures, which helped them to move people closer to modern medical and adaptable insights.

Tom's friend Steve, Peace Corps volunteer. Ghana

Steve and I hitchhiked back down to Accra and then, on a whim, climbed a nearby mountain for a final moment together in Ghana.

Then it was onto East Africa, last stop before Cairo, via a wonderful flight pattern to Lagos, Nigeria, Yaoundé, Cameroon, to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and eventually Nairobi, Kenya!

It was quite a contrast to West Africa, as Kenya presented a land of modern skyscrapers, fancy restaurants, working systems, and a National Game Park just fifteen minutes away. 

Kenya presented a chance to experience the amazing wildlife and diverse landscape for a budget, short-term (four-day) safari!!  Loaded into one minivan, three other German backpackers and I headed out, expecting that we would encounter face-to-face, man-eating beasts!  The views were outstanding as Mount Kilimanjaro never disappeared, and the abundance of birds made you a Birder, no matter what!!

It seemed like the true residents of Tsavo and Amboseli National Parks, however, headed indoors, and I felt like I was a caged animal in the mini-van.  I thought I almost heard the one tattered lion, the three elephants and one hippo whisper to one another, saying: "New Model of Toyota: Not Bad!" 

Also, on the safari, we met the famous locals, the Masai of Kenya, and very impressive in their lands, but I did stop in my tracks when hearing that visiting their rustic village would cost was $25US per person. Seemed a bit commercialized out in the Bush, but could fully understand their motives!

Could not help myself, as for a final stop out to the Indian Ocean communities of Mombasa, Malindi, and Lamu, I hitchhiked by pounding the back of my left hand into the palm of my right hand, and a lorry picked me up. A true mixture of nationalities out on the Indian Ocean, with Indians from India imported by the British Empire to run shops, businesses, and railroads, along with Muslims who have been trading for nearly two millennia from the Middle East due to the favorable trade winds, and finally, the African Kenyans living their lives.

In all, a great introduction to a different world, and I felt so blessed to experience Africa through various lenses. But in all lands, there seemed to be one characteristic that surfaced always: Friendliness!  

Onto Cairo, to meet back up with Jim.  Back in the States, we had planned on the date and time we would meet up at the airport.  But in the world of backpacking, plans can change for any number of reasons.  What would I do if Jim weren’t there?

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Jim's interview with Tom about his Now reflections on his journey into Africa.

Next Post/Video: Tom interviews Jim about what happened between Paris and Cairo.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Jim's Not-as-Excellent-as-Tom's Post-Paris Adventure

Overlanders Note: Paris was the last European city Tom and Jim explored together. By then, time was running out on their Eurail passes, and they parted ways—Jim back to England and then home to the States, Tom to Germany to find work and continue traveling. Although they didn’t know it at the time, they would reunite nearly a year later for a lengthy trek across the Middle East and Asia. In the previous post, "Tom's Excellent Post-Paris Adventure," Tom described what he did once Jim left. In this post, Jim tells his side of the story.
*** 

Jim’s Not-as-Excellent-as-Tom’s Post-Paris Adventure
By James King

Tom Bingle (Binks, to me) had decided to stay in Europe and take a chance on finding work in Germany. I chose instead to spend Christmas with my oldest brother, Rick, and his family, stationed in England, before heading home to pursue a writing career.

Before I even got to Paris’s Gare du Nord, however, I was questioning my decision. On the train and the ferry across the channel, I wrote in my journal a masterpiece of uncertainty and self-doubt. What was my hurry? Why not at least try for a job abroad, as Binks was about to do? How many opportunities like this come along in life? Why not just turn around, head to Garmisch, reunite somehow (no cell phones in 1977) with Binks, and continue the journey?

Then again, why postpone getting on with “real life” and doing what I most wanted to do? More and more, the idea of writing a novel, or at least trying, occupied my thoughts. Wasn’t the decision I made in Torremolinos—to do what I was about to do—the right one? What if I went home, set up my idealized writer’s garret, and then realized I had nothing to say? A novelist? Who was I kidding? Wouldn’t Bavaria be better than a blank page?

Hamlet had nothing on me.

Journal entry after leaving Paris for England... and then home... already second-guessing my decision.

I let my indecision and nearly empty wallet carry me on to England. Reuniting with Rick, Sheryl, and their two young sons, Kevin and Colin, was a welcome relief from two months of constant travel. No thumbing through Let’s Go for hostel and restaurant recommendations (Sheryl is an excellent cook and baker). And the clipped British accent of five-year-old Kevin and three-year-old Colin was a constant delight.

But first, USAF Captain (eventually Colonel) King took me to the base barbershop. I thought my long hair looked appropriately cool and backpack-y, but there was no way Rick was going to take me into the officer’s club looking like I’d gotten lost on the way to Woodstock.

Rick and Sheryl were generous with their time and their friends. I attended several parties with them, and one extremely early morning, I got up to go pheasant hunting with Rick and a couple of his Air Force buddies. I’m quite sure that within two minutes of meeting me, as we drank pre-dawn coffee and downed a few donuts, they sized me up as Rick’s nerdy, non-hunter little brother. Nonetheless, they let me tag along, carrying a shotgun, which led me to wonder about the decision-making capabilities of these fine officers.

Christmas in England felt Dickensian with its “Father Christmas” instead of Santa and its “Happy Christmas” instead of Merry. As we celebrated, I wondered if Binks had secured a job. Sure enough, he called later that evening to say that he’d landed a job as a dishwasher. I told him I was happy for him while kicking myself for not doing the same.

But the die was cast. After a few more days with the Kings of England, I caught a flight out of Gatwick to JFK, scheduled to land around 9 pm.

Ending of a journal entry over the Atlantic, in which I tried to cram all the highlights of the trip before I forget them.

I made my way to Times Square, which was as tawdry as I’d left it, and over to the Port Authority, where I bought a bus ticket for the overnight ride. While waiting for departure, I was approached by a woman in her 50s who told me she could see I was a fine young man and wanted to include me in a “confidential” deal with her and her niece—nowhere to be seen—for not a lot of money. She reeked of alcohol and vomit, and when I told her I was broke, she loudly suggested I perform a physically impossible act upon myself.

Welcome home.

Finally, the long ride aboard a Greyhound bus from NYC to CLE. The glory days of bus travel, with men in suits and women sporting fancy hats, were long gone. The ride was fairly smooth but unending. I couldn’t sleep and, judging from the toxic output from others in those pre-no-smoking days, not many others could, either.  My seatmate, an older man who frequently apologized for his gassiness, got off in Buffalo. A few hours later, I stumbled off the bus at the Greyhound station on Chester Avenue in downtown Cleveland.

I was almost home to Lakewood, but already planning to leave again.

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Tom's interview with Jim about his Now reflections on his Not-As-Excellent-as-Tom's Post-Paris Adventure.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Tom's Excellent Post-Paris Adventure

Overlanders Note: Paris was the last European city Tom and Jim explored together. By then, time was running out on their Eurail passes, and they parted ways—Jim back to England and then home to the States, Tom to Germany to find work and continue traveling. Although they didn’t know it at the time, they would reunite nearly a year later for a lengthy trek across the Middle East and Asia. The next two posts/videos will recount and reflect on what each did after they shook hands goodbye in Paris.  Tom is up first.

***
My Excellent Post-Paris Adventure

by Thomas P. Bingle

With two days left on the Eurail Pass, I headed from Paris to Garmisch, Bavaria, Germany, where the Arbeitsamt (work center) would determine my fate: a job of some sort or no job, forcing a return to England using my last day of the Eurail Pass. Next morning at the Arbeitsamt, I was greeted with "Come back at 10 o'clock" and then the magic words in broken English, "Dishwasher at the Hotel Sonnenbichl!"
 
With the help of a local young German man working on his English, Alex Frier, the official processes were finished, and soon I was introduced to fellow workers from all over Europe: our housekeepers, Manju, Jane, Angela from Great Britain, Karin from Romania, and Peter from Newcastle, England. We worked hard all day and bonded at night at Clausings Bar, a German disco, featuring international music. The World Championships of Skiing were held in Garmisch and in a ski shop I met Jim McKay/Bob Beattie from ABC’s Wide World of Sports!

This was great work. I saved $1000, leading me to think of more travels.  Peter was in on the idea of hitchhiking through Yugoslavia to Istanbul and for some unusual reason, fly to Israel. After three months, time to go, Peter and I stuck out our thumbs, raised our AUSTRIA sign and there was no turning back as we made Venice and Peter’s friend, Sandro. that evening. Then, we hitched through Yugoslavia, a Communist country, yet anything but, as Marshall Tito had done a superb job in uniting the different Slavic ethnicities into one country.  Stops included the lively Adriatic Sea coastal towns of Split and Dubrovnik!

Onto Istanbul and a wonderful entrance provided by truck driver, Mehmet Cavaet, who saw Peter's Union Jack on his backpack and stopped. His goal, the Pudding Shop, a haven for backpackers, and the Hotel Gugnor at $1.40 a night, our home in Istanbul. The Gugnor was near the historical sites of Haiga Sophia, the Sultanahmet (Blue) Mosque, Topkapi Palace, which provided an introduction to the Islamic World. At a backpacker stop, the Turkish Bath, met Mark Horrigan, an Australian, who provided his phone number in Sydney, Australia if ever our adventures lead us Down Under.

    
Onto Israel, went through the land at a quick pace, up north following to the Roman town of Caesarea and then to Tiberius walking in the footsteps of Jesus Christ seeing Capernaum, the Church of the Loaves and Fishes and the Mount of Beatitudes. Jerusalem's Old City was special with each major religion, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, having an important monument right near each other.

Peter and I ventured down to Eilat and the Sinai Peninsula where with several German backpackers we overnighted in a Bedouin Tent to view Mount Sinai.  The backpackers were staying to experience, with minimal pay and room and board, a work-stay on a Kibbutz.
 
Peter and I returned to Istanbul and headed to Germany to see our new friends and then onto Great Britain via the Long Thumb, Hitchhiking from Istanbul to London. We had an assortment of wonderful rides starting at the Turkish-Bulgarian border.  Two ladies, after we fixed their flat tire, drove us through Bulgaria and up to Munich for a return visit with the Wuscheks.  The Wuscheks’ lively discussion supported our thirst for travel, constant education and the need to follow one's passion. 

We then hitched to London, crossing the English Channel with some sadness of leaving the European Continent. But with my American Flag and Peter's Union Jack on our backpacks, we had no trouble getting a ride, longest wait in the UK was 15 minutes. 

Peter left to see family and I also left to see family: Jim's brother Rick, Rick's wife Sheryl, and their two boys, Kevin and Colin, back in the idyllic village of Hilton.  Just wonderful to share stories of Jim and my adventures and to hear their ideas of travel in the UK!

Peter and I reconnect and onto Oxford, the Moors, the Lake District, and to Scotland with Edinburgh, St. Andrews, the Highlands, Inverness, Glasgow. From Stranraer, we took a ferry to Northern Ireland during the TROUBLES!  Peter took off his Union Jack from his backpack. We visited the "war zones" of the IRA and the Ulster Youth Front, as Shankill, Falls Road, presented boarded up stores, massive graffiti and fences around pubs!  
 
We then headed to the Republic of Ireland with a visit to Dublin. Yet we long for the countryside of Ireland, so we hitched to Killarney for its natural beauty but we loved the Peninsula Dingle as we camp out for a week in people's yards. Took the ferry back to Wales and continued onto the dramatic landscapes of Cornwall and Devon! Back to London and after watching a cricket match, Peter and I head out to Heathrow for my TWA flight back to Boston. A final surprise, Manju, our Garmisch friend appears, and there are tears as I go thru security.

Saw my return journey from Boston to Toledo as a chance to visit with friends.  All four households, Jay Williams, TR Paulding, Danny Borrelli, Ben Van Willigan, provided tremendous hospitality. Arrived in Cleveland, the home of Jim King, but he had already headed out to his new life in the Midwest!  Hitched to Toledo, walking the final steps I approached our driveway and out came my mother and the journey ended! 

After all the hubbub, my oldest brother, Bill (THE DUCK) came over for a huge dinner, and my Mom, the Duck, and I chatted over a beer.  I looked at Mom, and said "Mom, I may head out again!" At first startled, then she said, "I will understand if you do." 

Went up to bed, laid down and funny did not cry to think it was all over. Before I doze off my mind started to work.

Steve Bova and Carlos Manana: classmates in high school and college now Peace Corps West Africa; Check out the Kibbutz movement in Israel to work; The Holy Cross and Jesuit Priests of Mrs. Metty in India; Vince Walsh, family friend, in Peace Corps in Malaysia; Istanbul friend: Mark Horrigan in Australia.   

 I nodded then fell asleep with those comfortable thoughts, and thanked God for everything, my life, the trip and what was to come in life.

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Jim's interview with Tom about his Now reflections on his Excellent Post-Paris Adventure.

Next Post/Video: Tom interviews Jim about what happened after Paris.

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Paris and the Big Adieu

The Puerta del Sol bound for Paris left close to midnight. Tom and Jim got to the Madrid Chamartin train station early to snag an empty compartment. It was a 12-hour trip, and they hoped to be able to stretch out, maybe catch some sleep.

They discovered they weren’t the only ones with this strategy.

After a panicky search down the train’s crowded, narrow corridor, they found a compartment with two empty seats. The eyes of the current couchette occupants shot darts at the boys as they slid open the compartment door, hefted their backpacks onto the overhead luggage rack, and tried not to step on any toes as they took their seats. Tom’s loud apologies (“Scuzi, scuzi!”) and his frequent sitting-standing-sitting to retrieve a guidebook… then his journal…. then his trusty map… didn’t help lighten anyone’s mood. Then again, Tom and Jim’s mood was already somewhat depressed, as this was to be (they thought) the final train they’d take together before Tom went to search for a job in Germany and Jim went home to take on the role of starving artist.

As the train left the station, one of the other passengers started talking to the young woman seated next to Tom. Tom perked up. As with Jim and the Spanish Abogado, Tom saw an opportunity to put his high school French to the test. Laughter ensued. And it continued for the next hour or so, when it became clear that everyone in the compartment, except Tom, wanted to try to get some shut-eye.

Thirteen hours later, the Puerta Del Sol arrived at the Gare d’Orléans. The boys found a room on the Left Bank for thirty francs (about $6) and, though exhausted, explored the nearby Sorbonne area. The rest of that day and into the night, they wandered about with no particular destination in mind. The lights of the sidewalk cafes, the cabarets and bars, the boulangeries and boucheries and fromageries—all made for an excellent introduction to Paris. But they were exhausted from the sleep-deprived train ride, so they headed back to their pensione early.

The next morning, the sun shone brightly and the weather felt unseasonably warm, which lifted their spirits as the boys set out to explore Paris more strategically than they had the night before. Walking up Boulevard Saint-Michel, they came upon an island in the middle of the Seine—Notre-Dame de Paris, the iconic cathedral. The massive structure seemed to rise effortlessly from its plaza, alive with pigeons. From the twin Gothic towers to the Rose Windows, and finally to the small park behind the cathedral that revealed countless architectural details, Notre-Dame unfolded slowly and beautifully.  Jim made sure to wear his Notre Dame t-shirt—the one honoring not the cathedral but their alma mater, just a few miles away in Indiana.

Next came the Louvre. This was another of those sites that backpackers had very different opinions—if not convictions—about:

You haven’t seen Paris if you haven’t seen the Louvre.

You need to spend at least one full day there.

Don’t go—not worth the crowds.

Tom and Jim never doubted it would be worth a visit. As expected, it was both fascinating and completely overwhelming. Treasures from the Orient, Egypt, Greece, and Rome flowed into sculpture and then painting. Thankfully, it was off-season, so the boys were able to get up close but not personal with Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, encased in plastic after a recent vandalism attack. Tom stared at her mysterious smile and wondered why it held such power. and wondering why her smile has such power. Jim sat on a nearby bench for a while, then approached his friend and suggested some fresh air.

They left the museum and walked through the calm of the Tuileries Gardens—a world of fountains, flowers, and quiet tucked inside the city—until they reached the Place de la Concorde. From there, they stepped onto one of the most famous streets in the world: the Champs-Élysées. One of them remarked how—not all that long ago—Third Reich soldiers marched down this same avenue, followed years later by victorious Allied forces reclaiming it. At the far end stood the Arc de Triomphe, a symbol of freedom and survival. But in 1977, Tom and Jim felt that the Champs was oddly ordinary: clothing stores you might find in any American mall, pizza parlors—even a McDonald’s—lined the wide sidewalks.

Continuing their touristy day, Jim and Tom followed the Seine toward another powerful symbol. As they walked, Tom read aloud from his Let’s Go guidebook that they were about to visit “the biggest oil well in the world”—the Eiffel Tower. They walked around the structure and debated taking the elevator to the top, but their funds were just about depleted. They contented themselves with sitting on a nearby bench for a while to people-watch.

That final night came quickly. With Jim ticketed to London the next day, the boys decided on a night on the town one last time, budget be damned. In the Sorbonne area, they found seats at the bar in a lively club and started working their way through a forty-franc ($8) carafe of red wine. With each sip, memories from the journey surfaced and spilled out. Their laughter and good-natured arguing drew other patrons into the conversation. The boys’ new drinking buddies were all French. They wanted to practice their English. Tom wanted to practice his French. The result was a lot of laughter and more drinks all around.

Bonus for the boys blowing their budgets: the French would not allow Tom or Jim to pay!

Somewhere near 2 a.m., they stumbled back to the pension, having been thoroughly overserved. Tom made it into the bathroom in time to do what you do when your stomach rebels against heavy drinking, then collapsed into bed and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the room from spinning. Jim, also terribly intoxicated, tried to set his alarm clock so he wouldn’t miss his early morning train, but the numbers kept jumping around.

Four hours later, Tom woke to see Jim already dressed, his backpack on. This was the moment both had been dreading—but both were too hungover to make too big a deal of it. They shook hands, wished each other luck, and told one another to take care.

And then Jim was gone.

When Tom woke a few broken hours of sleep later, the room felt hollow. The quiet was heavy. For the first time in two months, Tom was completely on his own. The fear was real, but so was a strange calm. This was what he had chosen. There was no one to lean on now, no shared decisions, no familiar voice to confirm the next step. Just Paris, and whatever came next.

Hours earlier, at the Gare de l'Est, Jim’s certainty about his decision began to unravel. What had felt so right only hours earlier—England, Christmas, the sensible next move—now felt rushed, even wrong. As the train pulled away from Paris, doubt flooded in. He questioned why he hadn’t stayed, why he hadn’t done what Tom was going to do: live and work in a foreign country. What could be a better experience to eventually write about? In a matter of minutes, confidence gave way to sharp and unexpected regret. As Paris faded into the distance, he wondered if the braver choice had been the one he didn’t take.

Neither he nor Tom knew it at the time, but this was not an ending. It only felt like one. This was a necessary pause. They would stay in touch and, before long, start making plans to meet up again—this time in Cairo, Egypt—packs on back, more experienced, ready, and eager to move past Europe and onto the Middle East and Asia.

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That was Then. Click on the video for the boys' Now reflections on Paris and the Big Adieu.

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Final Stops in Spain: Toledo & Madrid

After a tense few days in Torremolinos, Tom and Jim got back into the backpacking groove by taking a six-hour train ride north to Toledo.

Leaving the Mediterranean behind, the boys headed northeast through the olive groves, vineyards, and broad agricultural plains of Andalusia. Farther north, as they entered Castilla-La Mancha province, the terrain grew scrubby and spare. It was easy to imagine Cervantes’s famous duo, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, atop their mounts, trotting across the fields in search of windmills.

Then, almost suddenly, Toledo appeared, perched atop enormous rock foundations and sheer cliffs. Its Mudejar towers, temple domes, and church spires, set against distant hills and low mountain ranges, offered an inspiring panorama that seemed to testify to centuries of coexistence between Muslims, Jews, and Christians. The color of the city’s stone — warm browns — matched the surrounding landscape. The Tagus River curved around the base of the hill like a moat. Breathtaking.

For Tom, Toledo was felt in her narrow streets, the flea markets, the architecture of the old fortress Alcazar, the little souvenir shops, the old women dressed in black, the children running in the streets, the cobblestones, the arches, the red-earth buildings, and the leisurely pace of the city. As he noted in his journal: “Just to walk through the streets, it is easy to conjure up visions of earlier civilizations; in these small towns, the history of the land is so close.”

Rich in history and the arts, Toledo was the highlight of their Spanish adventure. This was the Spain they had imagined: rustic, unhurried, and deeply rooted in history. Again, from Tom’s journal: “I do not say this just because Toledo, Spain, is the sister city of my Ohio hometown, but because of the quaintness of the area and region. Toledo has successfully combined the old with the new, each respecting the other and striving forward.”
Despite their enchantment with Toledo, the boys pushed farther north to Madrid.
The contrast was sharp. Energetic, sprawling, and growing, the capital felt restless by comparison, and the effect on the boys was jarring. Still, they found two oases of calm amid the city’s bustle: The Prado Museum and Retiro Park.

The Prado remains Jim’s favorite museum. Unlike many of the museums they had visited, where he felt the need for fresh air after an hour or so, the Prado was compact and well-arranged. He and Tom took in works by Goya, Velázquez, Titian, and Raphael without getting lost or overwhelmed. They were even able to contemplate Picasso’s “Guernica” crowd-free. (The masterpiece was moved a decade or so later to the Museo Reina Sofia, where it became the centerpiece of the museum’s 20^th-century art collection.)

Speaking of fresh air, Retiro Park offered plenty, a relatively quiet island of green and calm amid the asphalt. The boys separated for the rest of the afternoon, and Jim headed to the park and one of its benches. An older man sat on the same bench and struck up a conversation. This was the most extensive test of Jim’s mastery of the Spanish language. From the gentleman, Jim was able to learn that the man grew up in Madrid, was an abogado (lawyer), and had an esposa and dos hijos. The lawyer, in turn, learned from Jim that

“España is muy grande.”

For nodding graciously instead of laughing outright, Jim remains convinced that the man he met on that bench was a saint.

Retro Park: An oasis of green in the middle of Madrid

For both Tom and Jim, Toledo was inseparable from El Greco, who arrived in Spain in 1577 from Greece. The artist’s stormy skies, elongated figures, and spiritual themes seemed to make Toledo a living museum dedicated to the painter and sculptor. A number of his works are in churches, where his paintings inspire tourist donations to maintain both the art and the building’s upkeep.

Madrid, of course, offered much more than the Prado and Retiro Park. Beautiful fountains flourished in major squares, and the architecture of many buildings spoke to Bourbon influence and the romantic period of Isabella II.  Life in Spain moved at a slower pace, shaped by heat, tradition, and long afternoons when shops closed and streets emptied.
For better or worse, this lifestyle rhythm was changing. Spain was emerging from four decades under the dictatorship of Franco—who had died just two years earlier—and cautiously transitioning toward a constitutional democracy under King Juan Carlos I.
But most memorable for Tom and Jim were the Spanish people. Friendly, patient, and hospitable, they defied whatever stereotypes the boys had unknowingly carried with them. It seemed everyone they met was looking out for them.

One example: As the boys checked out of their pensión to catch a train to what was likely to be their last destination together, the landlady thanked them warmly and wished them a good trip.

“And don’t forget to call your mothers,” she added.

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 That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections on Toledo and Madrid.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!