Change of Plans: Stockholm to Oslo

The original plan was to head south from Stockholm to Amsterdam. Tom and Jim reasoned that even with a two-month Eurail pass, they wouldn’t have time to see everything before the pass expired and they’d need to head back to the States. So they made the call: Denmark and Stockholm would be the totality of their Scandinavian experience. Norway was taken off the list.

The backpackers aboard the Af Chapman—the 19^th Century, full-rigged steel Swedish ship-turned-youth-hostel—were aghast. Some even appeared offended. What? You’re not going to Norway? The fjords? The most spectacular scenery in Europe… in the world? Are you crazy?

Most were just trying to be helpful, offering some valuable don’t-miss advice. Others seemed to relish the opportunity to show off—in slightly condescending tones—their travel chops. But enough of them had made it clear to Tom and Jim that skipping Norway might be a serious mistake.

Norway went back on the list.

They hopped on a day train for Oslo, hoping for clearer skies to frame the beauty the more experienced backpackers had so confidently promised. The rain clouds kept pace with the train, and it wasn’t until they reached Oslo that the elusive Scandinavian sun finally broke through.

Stepping off at Oslo Central Station, Jim was struck, once again, by the elegance of the European train stations they’d experienced so far. Like London, Copenhagen, and Stockholm, Oslo’s station featured tall windows, spotless floors, and lots of shops, restaurants, and cafes where you could sit as long as you like, sipping a cappuccino while doing serious people-watching. Often located in the heart of the city, these stations served as both transportation hubs and public spaces for both travelers and locals. With the massive, constantly flipping and clattering (pre-digital) departure boards, people bustling about, and announcements in half a dozen languages, it felt less like a train station and more like the setting of an espionage film.

That’s Bond. James Bond.

Venturing out of the station, they found cheap (for Norway) accommodations nearby at the Cochs Pensione, a quaint old hotel in central Oslo.

From Tom’s journal: Despite the long train ride across Sweden, we arrived in Oslo with thoughts of not doing a number (tourist jargon meaning to really visit and analyze a city). So we spent a night and half a day walking up and down Karl Johans Gate, from the train station to the Royal Palace or the Slottet, casing the Norwegian capital city. 

They meandered through narrow side streets, past shops selling heavy, hand-knit sweaters and overpriced smoked salmon. They walked past the National Theatre under what Jim thought was the disapproving glare from the towering statue of Henrik Ibsen. They also felt compelled to visit the Viking Ship Museum, imagining how those experienced backpackers from the Af Chapman might react (“You went to Oslo and DIDN’T go to the Viking Ship Museum?”). The visit was worth it, though. How often do you get to see thousand-year-old longships?

 From Jim’s journal: While I want to see more of the countryside, I wouldn’t mind spending more time in Oslo. Seems very livable, if expensive. We met and had a beer with a woman named Lo, ten years older, been traveling for a year! Stories of abuse back in the States, places she’s been since she left him, and way too much info on the men she’d met here and there. How much true, how much exaggeration? I asked if she enjoyed traveling for so long. Response: “I’m not really traveling, anymore. I’m just wandering.”  

###

That was Then. Now for NOW: Reflections on "A Change of Plans"

Comments, Observations, Questions? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Stockholm: Dreary Weather, Bright Advice

After their first of many overnight train rides to follow, Tom and Jim arrived in Stockholm at 9 a.m., tired and hungry after trying—and mostly failing—to sleep sitting up. This may explain why their first impressions of the Swedish capital were less glowing than when they first glimpsed London and Copenhagen. The cold, dreary weather that greeted them when they disembarked didn’t help.

Finding an inexpensive place to eat in famously expensive Sweden was difficult—even Let’s Go! seemed at a loss. But they hit the jackpot with their accommodations. Docked just across the water (Stockholm is situated on 14 islands connected by more than 50 bridges) from the Gamla stan, Stockholm’s medieval “Old Town,” is the Af Chapman—a full-rigged steel ship built in the 1800s that sailed all over the world, later served as a training vessel for Swedish naval officers, and later still became a youth hostel.

The ship has undergone several major renovations, most recently in 2022. Today, the “hostel” looks more like a standard Hilton or Marriott hotel room. But in 1977 the accommodations were basic: double bunk beds, a small writing table, and three (not four, for some reason) chairs. After tossing their backpack on their assigned bunks, Tom and Jim joined a rather large group of people—young backpackers, as far as they could tell—gathered under the gray skies. A bedraggled man was playing the guitar and doing an excellent Gordon Lightfoot’s, “If You Could Read My Mind.”

“Where in Canada are you from?” Jim asked, sure the singer would be impressed with his ability to discern accents.

“No Canada,” he said, smiling and revealing a prodigious set of choppers. “No English.”

Though he couldn’t speak it, he sure could sing it. Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” came next, followed by Donovan’s “Catch the Wind.” All were excellent. Different languages mingled in the air, but English predominated and Tom and Jim enjoyed listening to the more experienced travelers share their tales of the road.

“If you go to Amsterdam, do the Heineken tour. It’s cheap, and you can get a buzz on by noon.”

“Skip the light show on the Acropolis. It’s a rip-off.”

“Cairo is full of ****ing pickpockets.”

What struck them was that there was very little discussion of the experience of visiting these places versus how to stretch a buck. But they were budget travelers and some of the tips came in handy. One, in particular, caught their ears.

“Make sure you stop into the Pudding Shop in Istanbul. Everyone goes there and you can get some good tips on the overland to India.”

That may have been the first time they’d heard the word “overland.” Some of the people had traveled across Europe and through the Middle East to Asia. No planes. The idea was almost too exotic for Tom and Jim. And then Jim struck up a conversation with a young Austrian couple. They had worked for three years—he as a microbiologist, she as a teacher—before quitting their jobs to see the world. They had been traveling for nearly a year. Jim felt like a complete rookie and made a mental note to toss his backpack in the dirt somewhere so he looked more like a seasoned world traveler. He looked over to Tom, who was listening, wide-eyed. Jim had a feeling that Tom’s next out-of-budget purchase would be a copy of Let’s Go—Asia!

The weather report for the next few days forecasted rainy skies and chilly temps, so Tom and Jim decided to see as much of Stockholm as they could during the rest of the day and the following morning. The plan was to head north to Bergen, Norway, then back down the Scandinavian coast to Amsterdam.

They set out together for the Old City, Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s original city center. Tom loved wandering the maze of narrow lanes (seemingly narrow enough to stretch your arms and touch the buildings on opposite sides), lined with 300-year-old buildings. He was again struck by the limits on automobiles in the city in favor of pedestrians, and awed by the way people of all ages wandered the Gamla Stan and central Stockholm's numerous parks without fear. Remember: This was the 70s, when most American city centers shut down after the workday, and walking through parks in the dark could be hazardous to your health.

Tom wanted to take in more of the Gamla Stan and its nearby sites, such as the imposing Royal Palace. Jim wanted to simply wander, so they agreed to meet later back at the Af Chapman. Once Jim was out of the Old City, he found himself roaming the streets and bridges of a beautiful, modern city. Somewhere along the line, he found himself at some sort of flower-arranging competition. He didn’t understand a word of what was going on, but got a kick out of watching the contestants working furiously at something out of sight, then revealing their work with a victorious flourish to the accompaniment of lusty cheers and applause. Jim was mesmerized.

Back at the Af Chapman, he found Tom deep in conversation with another backpacker who, in the slightly condescending way that some of the more experienced backpackers talk to rookies, told Tom that it was crazy to go straight to Bergen.

“Take the train to Oslo first,” he said, which sounded more like an order than a suggestion. “From there to Bergen is one of the most beautiful train trips you’ll ever take.”

And so Tom and Jim amended their plans. They would do so again in Oslo, onto a path that a certain famous poet would say made all the difference.

***

That was Then. Now for the NOW: Reflections 50 Years Later on
"Stockholm: Dreary Weather, Bright Advice"

We'd love to hear from you. Share your comments, questions, or any reactions to this post in the comments section below. And thanks for reading/watching!

Copenhagen: City of Spires

Tom and Jim had an inexpensive dinner after their time at the Lion’s Club and finalized their strategy for traveling together without driving each other crazy. They would skip the expensive guided tours, which were major budget busters. Instead, each would consult his own travel guide to pick the sites they wanted to see. If their choices meshed, great. If not, they would separate for the day and meet together at dinner—or later—to share their experiences.

With that settled, they decided to check out Copenhagen at night. They came to a discotheque with a line of people about their age waiting to get in. Half an hour and twelve kroner later, they found themselves in a whirlwind of strobe lights and thumping music. They pushed their way to the bar, a highly polished affair that stretched the entire width of the venue. Tom struck up a conversation with two guys from Great Britain, but how they conversed with Donna Summer and “Love to Love You Baby” blasting out over the speakers was beyond Jim.

After a few excellent beers, they decided to call it a night. But on their way out, a young woman sharing a table with another woman called out, “Do you speak American?” Soon, she and her friend were sharing drinks and peppering Tom and Jim with questions: “How do you like Copenhagen?” and “Where in the U.S. do you live?” “How long will you visit in Copenhagen?”

The women were friendly and attractive, and Tom and Jim were starting to wonder just what might be in store for the rest of the evening—until one of them asked, “How old are you?”

Tom answered and returned the question. 

“Fifteen,” she replied.

Tom and Jim glanced at each other. The unspoken thought: “Between this and the Lion’s Club, we definitely need to up our bar game.” After a few polite farewells,  they headed back to Hotel Absolom.

The next morning, Tom decided to return to the Strøget, a part of the city that had caught his eye on the bus tour the previous day. When he entered the area, a pedestrianized zone consisting of five winding streets in the heart of the city center, he felt that he had finally stepped into the essence of a true European city—where people mattered more than cars.

As he meandered through the area, he was struck by the apparent high quality of city life for people of all ages, a stark contrast to many cities in the United States. Bike paths were an integral part of the urban landscape, allowing people of all ages to pedal safely through the streets. The streets and sidewalks were impeccably clean, and the cars—smaller than the American-style gas guzzlers—were well-maintained. Lovely parks, gardens, canals, and lakes encircled the downtown area. His wanderings also led him to Christiania, a former industrial area now transformed into a community of adults seeking personal freedom to pursue life's pleasures and interests. Artists, free spirits, and hippies enjoyed life on their own terms. The culture seemed years ahead of the USA in accepting alternative expressions of life. And the city felt safe: People of all ages walked around the town at all hours. Tom felt that Copenhagen's urban life was balanced, people-oriented, and allowed its citizens to truly enjoy life. This first impression became the benchmark against which Tom would compare the many other European and Asian cities they would eventually visit.

Tom was also struck by the openness of Danish society. Pornography shops were as common as coffee shops on Strøget, and sex and its promotion seemed normalized. Marijuana was sold openly in stores and little cafes, offering a wide variety of options. This was unheard of in the States back in 1977.

As for Jim, he had left the Hotel Absolom with no particular destination in mind. He wandered the streets, stopping now and then to sit and people-watch and scribble in his journal. He also visited the Strøget, but more by happy accident than a planned destination. Like Tom, he found himself a bit wide-eyed at all the adult bookstores, explicit posters, and theaters advertising live sex shows. This was a far cry from the theater in downtown Cleveland, the “Roxy,” which—as Jim had heard but could not verify from personal experience, of course--featured rather tame burlesque-type strip shows.

Jim spent most of the day in Frederiksberg Garden, Copenhagen’s largest park, where he met more Americans than Danes. A guitar-wielding young woman with a dazzling smile introduced herself as a “Child of God” and asked if Jim could spare some money to help her bring others “closer to the source.”

“What’s the source?” Jim asked.

“You’ll know it when you get there.”

Jim begged traveler’s poverty. Later, a couple with the U.S. flag sewn to their backpacks apparently mistook him for a native and asked for directions to the palace. Jim told them that he had only arrived in the city the night before. He expected a friendly greeting and perhaps some tales of the road, but the couple merely thanked him and continued on their way.

The only Dane Jim spoke with that day was one outside the train station--Kobenhavns Hovedbanegard—where he waiting for Tom so they could catch the overnight train to Stockholm. She was short, blond, and wore an extremely mini miniskirt.

“American?” she asked.

Jim smiled and nodded. It would be nice to chat while waiting, he thought. Maybe learn a little bit more about life in Copenhagen from an actual citizen. And wouldn’t Tom be impressed to find him chatting with a pretty young local.

“Want sex?” she asked.

Jim decided to wait for Tom inside the station.

***

That was Then. Now for the NOW:
Reflections 50 Years Later on
"Copenhagen:City of Spires

We'd love to hear from you. Share your comments, questions, or any reactions to this post in the comments section below. And thanks for reading/watching!

En route to Copenhagen: Signs of Strain

There had been minimal friction during their first few days of traveling. Thanks to their close friendship in college, they were already well-acquainted with each other's more irritating quirks: Jim's introverted stubbornness, Tom's extroverted impulsiveness. While in England, nothing gave rise to any differences of opinion or preference, as Jim’s brother and sister-in-law put them up in their home, fed them, and made all decisions on where to go and what to see—and then took them there.

Things began to change on the London-Oostende-Copenhagen leg of the journey. They now needed to make all decisions about food, lodging, and how to spend their days. On the train to Dover, the ferry to Oostende, and then on to Copenhagen, Tom spent a lot of time with his nose deep inside “Let’s Go Europe.” He read passages about the city’s history and its most famous landmarks—aloud and often—while Jim half-listened, watching the scenery pass by. Tom would suggest a place to stay and some sites to visit, and after some back-and-forth, they came to an agreement. But then Tom would read about another hostel or pensione and another “must-see,” and the decision-making process would start all over again.  Jim admired his friend’s insatiable curiosity but felt bombarded by too many options. He knew that decisions had to be made, but he felt that once they agreed, it was time to close the travel guide and move on.

They eventually agreed on a place to stay in Copenhagen: Hotel Absolom (now defunct and not to be confused with the luxurious Hotel Abasolon). It was a small room with a tiny window, twin beds, and a sink. The Water Closet was down the hall and shared with everyone else on the floor. A shower was nowhere to be found. It was then time to decide what sites they would see. Tom’s bed was soon covered with street maps and notebooks as he busied himself with planning out the sequence of sites they’d visit in order to see as much as possible in the day and a half they’d allotted for the City of Spires—so named for its plethora of Medieval and Renaissance spire-inspired architecture.  Finally, one of them suggested a guided city tour via bus—either Jim out of annoyance or Tom out of frustration in trying to put together an itinerary the two of them could agree on. The tour would break the daily budget they had set for themselves, but it would help them decide which sites to focus on the following day before catching an overnight train to Stockholm.

 Among the highlights they passed: Tivoli Gardens (the world’s second-oldest amusement park, closed for the season), the Strøget (car-free, completely pedestrianized zone of five winding streets right in the heart of city center), Nyhavn (colorful 300-year-old houses lining the harbor canal, along with historical ships) the Rosenborg Castle (the first of too many, as far as Jim was concerned), and the famous statue of the Little Mermaid (perhaps the most disappointing tourist site they would visit anywhere, situated on the least inspiring vista of the harbor and under the constant and creepy attentions of male tourists picture-posing for friends/wives.)

When the tour ended, Jim suggested ducking into a bar for their first European beer. Tom enthusiastically agreed and reached for his Let’s Go.

“No!” Jim said, maybe louder than he’d intended. “There’s a bar right across the street. We don’t need Let’s Go’s approval. Let’s live dangerously.”

The Lions Club was all but empty. Taking a seat at the bar, Tom ordered a Carlsberg, Jim a Tuborg. The bartender delivered both with a monotone, “Skål.” He knew a tourist order when he got one.

Tom was pumped from the tour. He pulled out a map, his journal, and a pen, and started to list all the places they would visit the next day for a more “in-depth” visit to selected sites that intrigued him during the tour. He also added sites that the guided tour hadn’t covered. Jim was convinced that no human could visit all the sites Tom wanted to see in a single day. He suggested maybe cutting out a site or two or five. Tom agreed, but when he reworked his list and consulted Let’s Go, the list somehow grew longer.

Not wanting to dampen Tom’s enthusiasm, Jim grew quiet. And Tom, not wanting to push his agenda on Jim, searched “Let’s Go” for more and more options he thought might appeal to his friend.  As they talked, the bar started filling up with people. Someone started the jukebox. Barry White’s bass-baritone made it difficult to hear Tom’s suggestions.

Finally, Jim spoke up. “Binks, we need to figure out how we’re going to see what we want to see without killing each other. We don’t have to check Let’s Go for every decision. We should just let things happen and be more spontaneous, kind of like we did for this place. Who knows? We might even meet some women interested in meeting Americans.”

Tom nodded enthusiastically. They both sat back and took a sip from their beers. During their planning, the Lions Club had gotten crowded. Lots of laughing, loud conversations, and even some dancing in front of the jukebox. The joint was jumping, and Tom and Jim nodded to the beat of the music. And then they noticed that the dancers—and everyone else in the bar—were men. Not a woman in sight. Tom and Jim exchanged glances.

“Well,” Jim said. “I’m not suggesting we completely ignore Let’s Go.”

                                                   ***

That was Then. Now for the NOW:

Reflections on "Signs of Strain"

Question from the Overlanders

What's your #1 strategy for ensuring that traveling with someone doesn't drive you or the other person crazy?  Tell us about it! We'd love to hear from you. Put your answer--or any other reactions to this post--in the comments section below. And thanks for reading/watching!

Welkom! Bienvenue! Willkommen!

 Neither Tom nor Jim had ever heard of Oostende, Belgium. When they booked the ferry crossing in Dover, they assumed they’d disembark in the more famous port of Calais, France. Tom, especially, had been looking forward to impressing a real, live French person with his command of high-school parlez-vous.

So when they learned they would disembark in Oostende, they were disappointed. But that disappointment quickly turned to excitement when they reached passport control and Tom saw all the signage in French—prominent among several other languages. Tom stepped forward eagerly, his moment finally at hand, and offered the passport officer an exuberant “Bonjour!” 

The officer looked up, unsmiling. In perfect English, he asked the routine questions: purpose of visit, length of STAY, and so forth. After a glance at Tom’s American jeans and the familiar wide-eyed expression of a first-time-to-Europe backpacker, he stamped the passport perfunctorily and handed it back to Tom.

“Bedankt,” he said, flatly. “Welkom in Belgie.”

(Later, a quick check of Fodor’s revealed that most people in this Flemish region of Belgium—Flanders—speak Dutch. The other two official languages are French and German.)

  With that less-than-welcoming welcome, the two made their way to Oostende Station to catch the 23:05 train to Copenhagen, a 17-hour trip. The plan was to visit the Scandinavian countries first, then head back down to “Do the Continent.”

Like many Americans, especially Midwesterners, the experience of train travel was limited. In Jim’s case, this meant occasional trips to downtown Cleveland via its electric-powered Rapid Transit System, designed to cram as many commuters as possible onto its rows of hard, bench-style seats. So he and Tom were pleasantly surprised by the comparative luxury of the European train.  Their compartment had two sets of seats facing each other, three on each side, upholstered and clean.

Heaving their backpacks up and onto the overhead storage rack—the heft reminding them that reducing the load even more would be a good idea—they collapsed onto opposite seats and smiled at each other. They could not believe their luck: an empty compartment. They could stretch out, sleep on comfortable seats, and wake up in Copenhagen. Couldn’t get any better than that.

Before they could even take off their walking boots, a conductor barged in and demanded to see tickets. Tom, eager to flash his Eurail pass, handed it over as if presenting his credentials to a foreign potentate. For him, the flight from JFK to England, the ferry crossing, the passport stamp, and now the Eurail pass marked—once again—the “official” start of their adventure.

As would later happen in southern Pakistan—where they found themselves alone atop a bus for a surreal, overnight desert journey—they were soon disabused of the notion of a peaceful night’s rest.

Two young men entered the compartment just as the train pulled away from the platform. They tossed their own, considerably less bulky backpacks onto the rack, took their seats, and stared.     

This was yet another “official” start to the journey: meeting fellow backpackers.

The two newcomers appeared tired and a bit standoffish, but they soon discovered that with Tom, no stranger remained a stranger for long. The questions began. Names? Mick, Carl. Speak English? Um, we understood your first question, so… yeah.  From? Britain, Jamaica. How long traveling? A while. You? Same.

Gradually, the questions sparked full sentences, then something resembling conversation, and soon stories of the road and jokes and a lot of laughter filled the compartment—and went on until 3 a.m.

This pattern—meeting people on trains, in hostels, in public squares—repeated itself throughout the journey. For both Tom and Jim, these spontaneous friendships remain among the highlights of the journey. Sometimes they would meet one or more backpackers and hang out with them in a new city. Sometimes they’d even travel with them to the next destination before parting ways.

Tom described it as a brotherhood, and thanks to his highly extroverted nature, he was almost always the catalyst for these meetings. Jim, more reserved, was content to let Tom do the heavy lifting of breaking the ice and then jump in when the other person(s) recovered from his pal’s friendly and enthusiastic barrage of questions.

When they finally arrived in Copenhagen, Tom and Jim and Mick and Carl exchanged home addresses and assurances to keep in touch which, predictably, they didn’t. But this wasn’t always the case. They stayed in touch with several fellow travelers and, decades later and thanks to the internet, they’ve reconnected with several more of those they met on the road all those years ago.

A brotherhood, indeed.

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on Welkom! Bienvenue! Willkommen!

***

Question From the Overlanders

Have you ever had an Oostende-instead-of-Calais travel experience--an unexpected change in plans that started as a disappointment but ended up being especially memorable? 

Tell us about it! We'd love to hear from you. Put your answer--or any thoughts or question of your own for the Overlanders--in the comments section below.

London: The Real Journey Begins... Again

For two boys from Ohio in 1977, crossing the English Channel aboard a ferry was as exotic a thought as entering Timbuktu aboard camels. So, after a few days of sponging off Jim’s brother and sister-in-law in the idyllic village of Hilton, Cambridgeshire, they were eager to get started with the “real” trip; namely, The Continent. Tom was especially eager to start using his two-month Eurail pass (not valid in Britain) to see as much of Europe as possible, and Jim was ready to start collecting the experiences he was sure would fuel his future career as a worldly-wise writer.

After finalizing plans to revisit Captain (later Colonel) King and his family before heading back to the States, Tom and Jim boarded the train to London’s King Cross Station. The itinerary called for a day taking in all the major London landmarks before catching the train from Victoria Station to Dover. From there, they would catch the ferry that crosses the English Channel to Oostende, Belgium.

            They’d heard about it all their lives: the white cliffs of Dover, Operation Overlord, courageous (crazy?) swims against the strong and unpredictable channel currents. They anticipated a body of water unlike any other they’d seen, which was largely limited to Lakes Erie and Michigan (awesome but familiar) and the Maumee and Cuyahoga (fire!) rivers. They sensed the crossing would be less about the view than the experience of sailing away from signs they could read and a language they could speak into the great unknown—to them, anyway. They couldn’t have known it at the time, but it would be a very different sort of connection to the water that they would later feel a year or so later, in Varanasi, India, as they floated aboard a boat on Mother Ganges and, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, took in the sights of crematory fires, floating bodies, and vultures. Lots of vultures.

As planned—well, as Tom had planned—they spent the day racing around London: Big Ben, check; Parliament, check; Buckingham Palace, check; St. Paul’s, check; Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, Westminster Abbey, Fleet Street—check, check, check, and mate. They slowed down around happy hour to grab a beer (Newcastle for Tom, Old Speckled Hen for Jim) at a Fleet Street bar, expecting and hoping for a raucous crowd of boisterous Fleet Street journalists.

St. Paul’s Cathedral was more raucous.

Finally aboard the train to Dover, Tom dove into planning their next major outing—Copenhagen!—while Jim tried to record the day’s activities and insights in his journal. When he finished, he re-read his entry and decided he had a long way to go before he’d be giving Paul Theroux a run for his money.

Training through the Kent countryside, Tom and Jim had their first major “challenging” discussions. Paging through their respective travel guides (“Let’s Go Europe!” and “Europe on $5 a Day”) they agreed, disagreed, then agreed again—temporarily—about what to see at what pace, where to stay and where to eat and for how much, when to get started in the morning, and when to call it a day. It would have been difficult for an unbiased observer to determine who was the bigger control freak.

And then they were on the Ferry. It struck them both as a misnomer. This was no 20-minute trip from Port Clinton, Ohio, to Put-in-Bay Island. It was a five-hour voyage aboard a multi-tiered ship with restaurants, bars, shops, and even sleeping cabins for those who’d rather nap. Tom and Jim were way too keyed up to nap. They spent most of the time on one of the decks, staring at the receding white cliffs until they were out of sight, and darkness settled in.

“This is it, Doc,” Tom said. “This is where our real journey begins.”

There would be many real-journey beginnings to come.

###

And now for the NOW: Reflections on The "Real Journey" Begins... Again

We'd love to hear from you. Share your reactions, thoughts, or your own travel story in the comments section below.

England: Landing in a Cliché

If it were a script, Hollywood would probably reject Tom and Jim's account of their time in England as way too cliché.  

***

FADE IN

EXT. LONDON GATWICK AIRPORT – NIGHT

Thick fog as Pan Am Flight 100 lands at Gatwick.
Tom and Jim (T&J) struggle with their overpacked backpacks as they disembark.

EXT. MOTORWAY TO CAMBRIDGESHIRE – NIGHT

The fog only gets thicker as they make their way to Hilton—the village in Cambridgeshire, not the hotel. Jim’s oldest brother, Rick, drives. His wife, Sheryl, rides shotgun. T&J sit in the back. Jim white-knuckles his seat during the 75-mile trip on the “wrong” side of the road as huge trucks—

SHERYL (Voiceover, Texas accent)

They’re called lorries. 

—suddenly emerge from the fog like ocean freighters bearing down on a dinghy. Tom peppers Rick and Sheryl with questions. Jim closes his eyes and prays that his brother is as skilled a driver as he is an RF-4 Phantom pilot.

EXT. RICK AND SHERYL’S HOUSE – EXT.

They arrive safely at the off-base house, but the fog is so dense that anyone would be forgiven for thinking that they had arrived at the only standing structure for miles around.

EXT. VILLAGE OF HILTON – EARLY MORNING 

(Cue chirping birds.)

The fog lifts to reveal a winding road lined with cottage-style homes. Exposed brickwork. Timber framing. Pitched roofs. Tudors everywhere. A thatched roof or two. Gardens full of boxwood and newly sprouted bulbs. Smoke curls from chimneys, thanks to the October chill. An OLDER WOMAN rides by on an old-fashioned bicycle. Head wrapped in a heavy scarf. Dark woolen skirt, thick gray stockings, no-nonsense black shoes. Bicycle basket filled with lilies. 

TOM (V.O.)

Or was that in France, later? And a baguette in the basket instead of flowers? Doesn’t matter. We were in quintessential England.

EXT. VILLAGE OF HILTON – VARIOUS SHOTS

• ARIEL PAN reveals the green spaces, parks, and countryside views.
• CLOSE UP on the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, built in the fifteenth century.
• PAN OUT to reveal Village Green and the Hilton Maze

TOM (reading brochure)

The maze was created for fertility rites… or penitential rituals… or recreation. Cut back in 1660 by William Sparrow. The village of Hilton was mentioned in the Domesday Book in 1086.

JIM (staring skyward, doing mental math)

Let’s see. 1977 minus 1086… that’s… um… about… a long time ago.

MONTAGE:

• Tom admiring well-kept lawns—oops, gardens—and engaging in highly animated conversations with the owners.
• T&J in the even more storybook English village of Wadenhoe,  talking to a couple of young kids on bikes who turn the tables on Tom by peppering him with questions about America.
• Sheryl guiding T&J through an ancient, drafty church, pointing out various engraved memorials used for brass rubbings—several of which hang in their home even today.
• Rick and Jim drinking warm beer in the Prince of Wales pub. Tom at the bar, engaging others in highly animated conversation.

INT. LOCAL PUB – NIGHT

Rick opens his personal set of darts, de rigueur for any reputable pub patron.

JUMP CUT:

Jim throws. The dart sails wide. LOCALS burst into laughter.

INT. RICK AND SHERYL’S DINING ROOM – NIGHT.

Around the table: Rick, Sheryl, Tom, Jim, Kevin (5), and Colin (3).

KEVIN (V.O. British accent, sounding professorial)

Mummy, please pass the peas.

COLIN (V.O. British accent, sounding like the three-year-old he was)

I need to go to the loo.

RICK (V.O. Midwest accent)

They'll lose those accents soon after hitting an American playground.

EXT. HUNTINGDON STATION – MORNING

T&J are two lone backpackers among commuters dressed properly for the office, waiting politely in line—

SHERYL (V.O. Texas accent)

Bless your heart--they’re called queues. 

—for the train to London. Tom’s backpack appears 20 pounds lighter. Soon, he will be down to two shirts, a pair of shorts, jeans, and three pairs of boxers. Jim will eventually follow suit, although he will have trouble parting with his 10-day supply of underwear.

BEGIN FADE

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Cliché… but true—just the way most things become cliché.

FADE OUT

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on "Landing in a Cliché."

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A Slice of the Big Apple

Cleveland’s Hopkins Airport proudly called itself "international," but in 1977, that designation meant Canada and a few scattered destinations just beyond the southern border. There were no direct flights to Europe. So Tom and Jim—feeling cooly hippie-ish with their new backpacks (one external frame, one internal, both orange and both overloaded)—had to detour: first to New York, where they'd spend the night, then onward from a truly international hub: JFK.

Tom had visited New York as a young boy, but his memories of the Big Apple were hazy. Jim had never been. What they knew of the city came secondhand from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Toledo Blade, and their local TV news back home. The headlines were bleak. New York City teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. The Bronx was literally burning. A serial killer known as the .44 Caliber Killer—soon to be dubbed Son of Sam—was targeting young women across the boroughs. A recent citywide blackout had triggered looting, emboldened street gangs now ruled the subways and roamed Central Park, and 42nd Street and Times Square had descended into a den of crime, sleaze, and porn. 

They couldn’t wait.

The short flight to LaGuardia gave them just enough time to settle into the reality of what they were doing. No more hesitations. No more second thoughts. 

“We’re doing this, Doc,” Tom said. “We’re really doing this.”

Jim nodded, not-so-discreetly checking under the waistband of his jeans to make sure the money belt —stuffed with his passport and a thick stack of American Express Travelers Cheques—was still there. He’d read that this essential, if awkward and sweaty accessory was essential for travel—especially when visiting sketchy destinations. And to Jim, New York City definitely qualified.

As luck would have it, their seats were on the right side of the plane--unfortunately, the wrong side if you were hoping for an inspiring, birds-eye view of the Statue of Liberty, the Twin Towers, the necklace of bridges linking the boroughs. The famous skyline passed unseen as the plane began its descent. 

As would sometimes happen in the unlikeliest of places (a deserted train station in Germany, a hotel bar in Cairo, a busy street in Tehran), Tom and Jim ran into people they knew—or people who knew people they knew.  On the Carey airport bus into Manhattan, Tom spotted a high school friend, Phil Andrye, who worked in the financial district. Phil gave them an insider’s tour and joined them for dinner, along with one of their college housemates, T.R. Paulding, who caught a train down from Hartford. They shared plenty of laughs—thanks mainly to T.R.—but wrapped things up early. T.R. had law school the next morning, and Phil had to be at the office. They lived in the real world.

Later, back at the LaGuardia Holiday Inn, Tom and Jim toasted the start of their adventure with overpriced beers at the Kitty Hawk Lounge, spending more of their hard-earned savings than budget travelers should have. Still, they raised their glasses in quiet self-congratulation, happy to be marching to a different drummer—even if they’d only traveled 600 miles so far, and by jetliner.

The next morning, Tom reported a restful night. Jim said the same, though he’d had trouble falling asleep—not from anticipation, but because his mind kept replaying the scenes they’d walked through: Central Park, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Times Square—and, most vividly, a 42nd Street theater marquee advertising an “exclusive” experience: Watch a Man Get Devoured by a Lion-- LIVE AND ON FILM!

In the words of Leonard Bernstein: New York, New York. It's a helluva town.

***

Our good friend mentioned in this post, T.R. Paulding, passed away this year on March 27. No one was a prouder Notre Dame alum and fan. No one had a kinder heart. All who knew him miss him terribly. 

Godspeed, friend.

***

And now for the NOW: Reflections on "A Slice of the Big Apple"

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The Decision

The decision that eventually landed Tom Bingle and Jim King in the luggage rack atop a brightly colored, intricately patterned jingle bus, choking on sand dust for 24 hours on unpaved roads through the Baluchistan desert, was made the way many decisions are made by guys in their early twenties: too many beers and too little thought.

The beers were poured at Nickie’s, a sticky-floor college bar just steps from the off-campus house they shared with three friends they’d hung out with since freshman year at the University of Notre Dame. It was 1977 and they were nearing graduation. Their buddies already had post-graduation plans nailed down—law school for some, MBAs for others. They seemed confident, secure, and certain about their paths forward. Tom and Jim? Not so much.

   “So. Binks,” Jim started, raising his glass. “Ready for law school?”

   Tom shrugged. He had been accepted to Loyola School of Law in Chicago and the College of Law at the University of Toledo, his hometown. He liked the idea of following in the footsteps of his older Bill, aka Duck, but Jim detected some hesitation.

   “Law school, I guess,” he said. He took a sip of his beer. “We’ll see how it goes, you know? I just… I don’t know, Doc…” Another, longer sip. “What about you?”

Jim had ruled out graduate school, citing a lack of funds but it was mostly a lack of interest. During a previous night of being over-served at Nickie’s, he admitted to a secret desire to become a writer, but also knew he’d need to earn a steady paycheck. Sales jobs were on his radar, and he’d been offered a position with a Midwest glass manufacturing company. 

“I know I’ll sell tons when I tell potential customers I majored in American Studies,” he joked. "But..." 

"But?"

 Jim grinned. “You know my brother in the Air Force? He’s stationed in England for the next year or so. I’m thinking of working for the summer to earn enough for a trip over to see him and his family, then backpack around Europe for a month or so.”

Tom froze mid-sip, then slowly put his glass down. It wasn’t often you saw Tom Bingle at a loss for words.

“Whaddya think?” Jim asked. “Interested?”

* 

A trip abroad might not be a big deal for grads these days. But in 1977, for two broke, about-to-graduate young men who’d hardly been out of the Buckeye State, it was a very big deal. No one they knew was putting off careers for low-budget travel.

The morning after that warm-beer night at Nickie’s, Tom wanted a reality check. He called his oldest brother, Bill—“Duck,” as everyone called him—who'd been a sounding board and mentor ever since their father passed. So he laid the question out: law school and the “real world” or shoestring-budget travel?

“You can always go to law school,” Duck said.

Decision made.

For Jim, the idea of traveling with a friend sealed the deal. He had no misgivings about traveling with Tom, despite their contrasting personalities. Tom was outgoing; Jim more reserved. Tom was a planner; Jim was more content to let events unfold. What might have been a recipe for tension felt, to Jim, like balance.

They also shared a deeper connection that made their differences work. Both had grown up in large families—Binks with four brothers; Jim with six brothers and two sisters. Both had experienced loss early in life—Tom’s father, Jim’s mother--and both struggled to pay for college tuition and room and board. Theirs was a strong bond—one that would be tested once they hit the road.

The more immediate test, though, was getting up the scratch to make the trip. They decided that $1500 would be enough for airfare, a two-month Eurail pass, and accommodations in the hostels they learned about through various budget-travel guides. They worked several jobs in their respective hometowns--Toledo, Tom; Cleveland, Jim--from graduation through the early fall. Finally, they made their first purchase for the trip: one-way tickets from Cleveland to New York to London for the princely sum of $170. And then, in late October—with new and overpacked backpacks—they met at Cleveland’s Hopkins airport for the first leg of their journey: New York City.

This was before security checkpoints and jetways. Several family members accompanied them to the gate to see them off. Tom’s mom, his brother Duck, and Jan and Katie, two close family friends Tom considered as his sixth brother and only sister.  Jim’s father was there, along with his sister, Patty, and second-oldest brother, Bob, who loaned Jim his treasured 35mm Konica camera that, much later, would be stolen sometime between 1 and 3 a.m., as an exhausted Jim slept on the ground somewhere in the middle of a Pakistani desert.

After hugs and handshakes, they stepped out onto the tarmac, waving back from the mobile stairs to American Air Flight 123. Just as they were about to board, a voice called out:

“When you come back, you will be entering the real world. So enjoy!”

Duck, of course.

###

And now for the NOW: Reflections on "The Decision"

###

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