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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

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

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!

Spain - Trouble in Torremolinos

After the solo trip to Spain and a couple of days in Valencia, Jim was eager to meet back up with Tom and explore Spain together. While traveling alone offered a certain level of freedom, it could also get extremely lonely.

Separating for a day or longer in Europe had been different, since there were fellow, English-speaking backpackers everywhere you went. But in 1977, Spain was not on the list of “must-sees” for backpackers. Neither Tom nor Jim heard even the most seasoned backpacker say, “Going to Spain! Don’t miss the Alhambra!” Few of the people in the pensione, restaurants, or shops spoke English, and Jim’s rudimentary Spanish produced little more than puzzled looks when he attempted conversation. In one journal entry, Jim complained that he couldn’t even eavesdrop on nearby conversations, since they were all in rapid Spanish.

Tom seemed eager to reunite as well, for when they unexpectedly met on the train platform in Valencia, waiting to catch the 1:08 AM train to Granada, they nearly hugged. Guys didn’t do that back then. The gods apparently approved of this early reunification, for the boys found an empty compartment and were able to stretch out and sleep during the overnight trip.

They spent the next morning in Granada, mostly exploring the aforementioned Alhambra. Tom resumed his tour-guide ways, reading aloud about how the Alhambra became a beautiful symbol of the flourishing  Islamic period on the Iberian Peninsula in the 13th century.  This was a rare period of time of tolerance of religions as Muslims, Christians, and Jews were able to contribute to this high point of the Moorish world until the famous year of 1492 when Spain's Isabella and Ferdinand conquered Spain.  But what remained, the Alhambra, was a wonderful combination of courtyards filled with pools, fountains, and intricate carvings. This beautiful palace dominates the Granada landscape still today!

Eager for warmer weather, the boys decided to take an afternoon train from Granada to Malaga, on the Costa del Sol. Today, you can make the trip in under two hours. Back then, it took five.

For Tom, the trip was another welcome opportunity to let the scenery speak for the country. He had expected Spain to resemble much of Mexico—dry, dusty, maybe a little rough around the edges. And there was a stark beauty to the land, even more rugged than southern Italy. But then the magic happened: the railway curved right along the Mediterranean coastline. On one side, the endless blue sea; on the other, the Pyrenees rose majestically.  Totally unexpected. Totally unforgettable. As he read in Let’s Go, the rocky soil, their major crops were not from the ground but from trees, as olives and oranges were dominant in village markets.  The local architecture reflected the harshness of the soil with large stone blocks covered with adobe plaster, apparently the best protection from the brutal sun, which even in December was making an impact.

The Spanish countryside offered plenty of time to reflect on whether to end the trip... or somehow keep going.

Both Tom and Jim found the Spaniards to be warm, kind, and appreciative of the boys’ pathetic attempts to communicate in Spanish.  And best of all, Spain was easy on a backpacker’s wallet, as they discovered when they reached Malaga. As they searched for lodgings, they met two Canadian girls, Jackie and Shelly, who told them to push on to Torremolinos, only a half-hour away, where the rooms were cheaper and the nightlife more… existent.

On the beach, Torremolinos

This turned out to be an excellent suggestion. The boys found a large room, complete with a full bathroom, kitchen, and fireplace, for only 275 pesetas a night—about $4 back then! They were also close to the beach, and the town’s vibe was young, carefree.

Tom and Jim, though, were not feeling particularly carefree. They were now just days away from the expiration of the Eurail passes—and their savings. While Tom had made up his mind to take a chance on finding work in Garmisch, the German ski resort, Jim was still vacillating. He wanted to stay. Tom encouraged him to stay and go to Garmisch with him. Jim was torn.

He made up his mind the next morning at 2 am. He’d had trouble sleeping, knowing that a decision had to be made. To try to tire himself, he went into the bathroom so as not to disturb Tom, and continued reading “The Onion Field,” by Joseph Wambaugh. It wasn’t Shakespeare or Hemingway, but the writing was so clear, so captivating. At one point, he read a passage so moving that he closed the book sharply. He’d made up his mind.

The next morning, as he and Tom walked through town to find a breakfast place, he told Tom that he felt compelled to return to the States and attempt to write a novel.

“I can’t explain it,” he said. “It’s just something I need to do. Something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid.”

Tom didn’t react. They walked on in silence. Finally, Jim said, “Well?”

Tom hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “I just hope your ego can take it.”

Jim stopped, not sure he’d heard correctly.

Tom turned. “You’re a good writer. But you have a big ego. Not sure you can handle it.”

There was more, and it got uglier—at least, for Jim. Tom covered a lot of ground: Jim’s stubbornness, his inflexibility, his seeming inability to let people get close to him. Tom predicted a very lonely future for his friend.

Jim was too surprised to respond. It was so out of character for Tom to be even the slightest bit confrontational. And here he was, jabbing away at Jim like Muhammad Ali. The best counterpunch Jim could muster was, “Well, I’m surprised you had the guts to say all that.”

A cool-down period was needed and taken. They set off in different directions, both wondering if they’d be able to stand each other during the final days of the trip.

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 That was the "Then." Watch the Video below for the "Now" reflections on "Trouble in Torremolinos."

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