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.

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