The Many Roads to Japan

by Robert W. Norris

  At last there he was: bounding through the door of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. His first impression of New York was an endless forest of skyscrapers that seemed to make the redwoods pale in comparison. He stood transfixed, overwhelmed by the sound of car horns and construction machinery, by the smell of exhaust fumes and Armenian bakeries. The scene was alive with movement. Slowly, he began to walk the sidewalks, mouth agape and mind empty. He found the William Sloane House YMCA on 34th Street and took a room.

  For the next week John explored the streets: Greenwich Village, Yankee Stadium, the Empire State Building, the United Nations, Rockefeller Center, Madison Square Garden. He watched double features in afternoon movie theaters for a dollar, then ate at ethnic delicatessens. The entire world seemed to pass him by as he paced the streets--the midget paraplegics, the hipster pimps, the hollow-eyed beggars, the decrepit winos, the Central Park artists, the sophisticated men and women in their business attire.

  Finally, he was on Icelandic Air Lines flight 181 on his way to Luxembourg. He was leaving behind the country of his birth, the country he no longer felt a part of, venturing forth with no itinerary, just the hand of fate to guide him. It was as if some divine source were dragging him toward an unknown destination. It was blind obedience to a gut feeling, not unlike his refusal to fight in the Vietnam War.

  Review for Chapter 3

  I. Comprehension Questions

  1. Why did John feel different from the other students at the junior college he attended?

  2. Why did John quit his job in Lake Tahoe?

  3. What things did John take with him on his journey?

  4. What was John's main method of traveling across the United States?

  5. How long did John stay in New York City?

  II. Use the Internet or go to a library to check a map of the United States. Find the cities that John passed through. Make a copy or draw your own map, then draw a line on it tracing John's journey across the United States.

  III. Discussion/Essay Questions

  1. John had difficulty fitting in with others at school and on the job. Can you relate to his feelings? Do you sometimes feel different from others? If so, in what way?

  2. John hitchhiked across the United States. Have you ever seen or picked up a hitchhiker? Is it now or has it ever been a common way to travel in your country?

  Chapter 4

  The flight took 14 hours, stopping once in Iceland to refuel. At last the plane touched down in Luxembourg. John was on foreign soil for the first time in his life. After passing through customs, he walked around the fortress city. The medieval architecture and narrow, cobble streets were pleasing to his eyes, as were the wooded hills and green landscape that surrounded the city.

  He was anxious, however, to be moving, to begin the adventure, so he boarded a train to Brussells, Belgium. He found a compartment to himself where he could be alone and think. In Brussells he took a midnight train bound for Paris. The night was long with scattered periods of sleep. Early in the morning the train arrived at the Gare du Nord. A heavy mist covered the city. John searched for three hours before finding a cheap room on the Left Bank. Fatigued from jet lag and walking, he passed out on his bed and slept for nearly 18 hours.

  For the next two days he walked the streets of Paris and watched the frenzied movement of tourists and natives alike. High cirrus streamlined an azure sky. Flowers were blooming. The trees in the parks were dressing themselves in green. The fragrance of spring was everywhere. Lovers walked arm in arm. Children bounded to and fro, ignoring their parents' admonitions. He was surrounded by activity and scores of people. For some reason Paris intimidated John. He was not comfortable and felt the need to retreat from all the confusion to a quiet place where he could reflect on why he was in Europe, what he should do, and where he should go. He decided to head toward Switzerland, to the Alps, where he could camp out and allow the changes he was undergoing to occur uninterrupted.

  He journeyed first to the foot of the Matterhorn in the Swiss Alps. For three days he dwelled in solitude. Not since his childhood in the redwoods had he felt so close to nature, to the trees and mountains and earth surrounding him, to the inestimable sadness of life and its transience. On the third day, as he sat staring at the Matterhorn, a shadow of loneliness fell upon him. The inner journey, the search for a faith, for a belief in life, manifested itself once again in physical movement. He hiked down the mountain road to the village of Visp and boarded a train to Italy.

  He found himself in Florence wandering through the city, barely conscious of the history surrounding him. He passed through the Uffizi and was attracted to Botticelli's paintings. John had the feeling that surely Botticelli's had been a mystic soul possessed by the demon of intellect and condemned to a restless existence. He wondered if his own life would continue in the same restless manner, if he would always feel he should be someplace other than where he was.

  At the Michelangelo Academy he discovered in the David an answer to the problem that has tortured mankind throughout the ages: the inevitability of death. In the David John found preserved for eternity a moment of poignant thought, of tender expression, of profound emotion. What men these Botticellis, these Da Vincis, these Dantes had been! What purpose of mind they had possessed. Perhaps art was the road to salvation, John thought. Perhaps art could liberate the soul from the pain of living.

  John left Florence and lived for two days on the trains, getting off only to buy bread and wine. One night he stopped in Naples and found an abandoned construction site in which to sleep. Several times during the night he awoke to the sound of rats scurrying around him. He boarded a southbound train early the next morning. The compartments were crowded, so he had to try to sleep on the floor of the narrow corridors. He rode the train ferry that crossed the strait between the mainland and Sicily. Only a few peasants rode the train from Messina. About half the distance across the northern coast of Sicily the train stopped at the fishing village of Cefalu. On an impulse John got off.

  The sun was high in a cloudless sky. It was very warm. The village lay at the base of a large headland. The buildings were all old and made of adobe. The smell of salt and fish and sea filled the air. Long lines of laundry on many rooftops flapped in the breeze. Copper-skinned children ran laughing and shouting through the narrow, meandering streets. Many small skiffs were docked in the harbor, where weather-beaten men patiently mended their nets. A castle rested on a hill overlooking the village. Nearby was an old cathedral.

  John walked along the long stretch of beach outside the village for about a mile until he found a comfortable, isolated spot to set up camp. The white sand shimmered under the hot sun. He washed his clothes and hung them to dry on a tree. For most of the next two days he lay on the beach and watched the fishermen in dinghies gather in their nets. It was a peaceful time and the United States seemed far away.

  On the third day John packed his things and walked back into the village. He boarded the first train back to Messina, settled in an empty compartment, not knowing where to go next, and contemplated his future as the poverty-stricken countryside flashed by the window.

  *****

  John headed up the western coast of Italy. In Paola he boarded a train inland to the mountains. The train chugged up a steep incline until the ocean was far below. The sun was a dazzling brilliance on the water as the train rounded the final bend to wind its course toward the heel of the boot of Italy. The country was green and fresh with many beech and pine trees. In the village of Cosenza he waited a few hours before catching another train.

  The next evening he was in Brindisi, a southern Italian port town, boarding a ferry to the Greek island of Corfu off the coast of Albania. The following morning the ferry approached the island. The sun was just above the calm sea. The town of Corfu was bleached in the morning light. Low mountains rose jaggedly in the distance. Once on land, John exchanged some money, then set out to explore the streets of the town before hopping a bus into th
e countryside.

  He joined a group of travelers at a camping site a few miles north of the town. It was a peaceful place across the road from a stretch of white beach. There was plenty of shade provided by a grove of olive trees. Most of the other campers were young people: Germans, Scandinavians, Canadians, French, Dutch.

  The days on the island were tranquil days of lounging around and lying nude on a ledge of rock by the sea. The outside world ceased to exist. In the evenings small groups gathered at a nearby cantina for suppers of souflaki, cucumber salad, and potatoes cooked in olive oil. Everyone drank ouzo, the potent Greek wine. The local patrons, warm and friendly people who had lived their entire lives on the island, danced to the music of a juke box. There was much laughter, handshaking, and toasting of drinks.

  Afterward the travelers returned to the camping site to gather around a fire, pass bottles of ouzo, and watch the stars. The conversation was animated. It covered many topics in many languages--voyages to other lands, politics, music, art, literature, philosophy. John had never seen such a gathering before. Poets, musicians, painters, political dissidents, refugees, everyone seemed involved in something important and meaningful. Their lives seemed fulfilled and exciting. John had suddenly found himself in the midst of an international underground group with its own grapevine of information, its own lifestyle that enabled all to travel in an inexpensive manner to many countries exchanging cultures, knowledge, and love. He envied the zest and capacity for life these people had.

  When it came his turn to speak, John told of his experiences as a conscientious objector and his life in military prison. He was baffled by the response of the others. There was an admiration for what he had done, for the courage of his convictions. The others listened respectfully and offered encouragement and advice. He was flooded with names and addresses in many countries, offers to stay should he happen to visit. He was given books to read. He no longer felt the outcast, the pariah, the fugitive. He bathed luxuriously in this much-needed boost to his ego.

  A woman entered his life. Her name was Kreta, a lovely Norwegian with soft, blue eyes, a radiant smile, and long, flowing blond hair. She was an artist who had just come to Corfu from Spain. Her lust for life was infectious. Her uninhibited approach to life made a great impression on John. The image she created of the world as she had experienced it was rich with romance, vibrant with life, alluring in its potential for adventure. She excited him most when she talked about Spain.

  "You must visit Spain by all means if you are traveling in Europe. Your education will not be complete, my American lover, without the experience. It is so different from, yet so representative of, Europe. If you wish to understand life, then you must see Spain," she said.

  "Spain is the true melting pot of culture, not your America with its machines of destruction and arrogant populace so much like spoiled children. And Spain's artists! Her Picassos, her Dalis, her Goyas, her Velazquezes, her one and only El Greco, who was really a Cretan but found refuge and a source of inspiration among the people of Spain. You, too, may find inspiration there to explore the confusion in your heart. You have an artistic soul. Perhaps there is a writer or painter hidden away in you somewhere. I implore you to go to Spain."

  John spent the next week with Kreta, swimming and laughing, sunbathing and drinking, learning about the world of art. It was a time of broadening his perspectives, of dreaming and thinking and reading. But soon the wanderlust was upon him again.

  He left Corfu early one morning after having spent three weeks on the island. The sky was filled with grey clouds, strands of dawn-light sifting down through them. Far away on the water a freighter moved along peacefully. Seated on the edge of the road next to the beach, a Greek boy watched the freighter's steady movement. John kissed Kreta goodbye, hoisted his backpack, hitched a ride into town, and bought a bus ticket to Athens.

  Review for Chapter 4

  I. Comprehension Questions

  1. Why did John decide to go to Switzerland?

  2. What did John learn from seeing the works of famous artists in Florence?

  3. What did the group of young travelers on Corfu talk about?

  4. What did John talk about when it came his turn to speak?

  5. What did Kreta say about Spain compared to the United States?

  II. Mark the following statements as true (T) or false (F).

  ( ) 1. John spent more than a week in Paris, France.

  ( ) 2. John went to Switzerland because he needed a quiet, peaceful place to think about the changes taking place in his life.

  ( ) 3. The historical and artistic atmosphere of Florence, Italy made a big impression on John.

  ( ) 4. John stayed in a large, bustling city on the island of Sicily.

  ( ) 5. John met a group of young, vagabonding Europeans who made him feel accepted and a part of things.

  ( ) 6. John found a lover who filled him with excitement about life and art.

  ( ) 7. The local people on the island of Corfu did not care for the young travellers.

  ( ) 8. John wanted to stay on Corfu for a long time.

  III. Discussion/Essay Questions

  1. John spent three peaceful days in the Swiss Alps thinking about his future. Do you have a favorite or special place to go where you can be alone and think? If so, describe the place. When do you go there and what do you think about?

  2. Kreta, the Norwegian woman, was passionate about the Spanish painters. Are you interested in painting? Have you ever visited a museum? What kind of paintings do you like? Who are your favorite painters? Who are some of your country's famous painters?

  Chapter 5

  John spent three more months bumming around Europe. From Athens he hitchhiked his way through the pastoral Yugoslavian countryside, the Alpine meadows, forests, and mountain peaks of Austria, and the deep green of southern France before heading to Spain as Kreta had recommended.

  He traveled about Spain for three weeks on anachronistic trains. From the train windows he could see everything with a casual air: dusty red plains, dark mountains in the distance, olive trees and chestnut woods on high hills, green country with slow-moving rivers, empty spaces, and crumbling villages.

  He took up residence for a week in a room in Seville. From there it was on to Madrid to see the Prado Museum. He spent an entire day there studying the paintings of El Greco, Velazquez, and Goya. Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights held him in complete awe. He felt a kinship with Bosch's madness, with his distorted perception of the world, his hallucinogenic portrayal of life and its absurdity. In John's ignorance of the world of art, he had not dreamed the insanity of man could be portrayed with such power of sinister hallucination. He resolved that if he could ever learn to express himself in some medium, the picture of man he eventually portrayed would contain many parallels to the grotesque perception of Bosch.

  His money was nearly spent. He boarded a train to Paris, where he confirmed his reservations on a Luxembourg Airlines plane back to New York. He hitchhiked to Luxembourg and spent his last night sleeping in a wooded field an hour from the airport. A day later the plane descended upon the runway of John F. Kennedy Airport. The European experiences and revelations and the entire dream-ambience of that portion of his life were gone. It was as if he had awakened from a long, undisturbed sleep to find himself groping with reality again.

  After passing through customs, he took a bus from the airport to downtown Manhattan. It was the middle of summer, hot and muggy, and sweat poured off him. The harsh sounds of jackhammers, hydraulic equipment, and car horns blasted his ears. The smells of soot, garbage, and pollution burned his nose. He bought another bus ticket to New Jersey to escape the congestion. It was near sundown when he got off the bus. He found a place to camp on the outskirts of some town. Early the next morning he packed and ate a breakfast of oranges and cheese. He checked his wallet. He had $22 left. Then he walked to an onramp leading to Highway 80, the great road west.

  Two r
ides took him into Pennsylvania. Then he hit the jackpot. A Navy man being transferred from the East Coast to the West Coast swooped him off the long stretch of highway. They breezed through the thick green of Pennsylvania. Then it was on into Ohio. Halfway across the state they stopped for a night's rest. With an early start the next morning they plowed straight through Ohio and Indiana into Illinois and Iowa, then across the Mississippi River westward to Nebraska, through dusty corn and wheat fields, then into the plains of Wyoming as far as Cheyanne. It was a long day, the summer sun spilling waves of heat on the road. A steady haze lay constantly before them until nightfall. They pulled over by a truck stop to sleep.

  In the morning it was out of Wyoming into the Wasatch Mountains of Utah. In Salt Lake City they parted company, the Navy man heading south and John west. A Mormon student gave John a ride 50 miles into the desert before his car developed a radiator leak and the engine overheated. The driver disappeared to the other side of the road to hitch back to Salt Lake City. John began to walk. Soon he was in the middle of a straight stretch where he could be seen from a long way off. He set his backpack down and waited.

  A white sea of salt surrounded him. The road ran straight as far as he could see until it narrowed into a cloud of heat rising into the distance. The afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders. A strong wind sent tumbleweeds rolling at great speeds. Particles of sand lashed at his body and penetrated his eyes. He stood for what seemed an eternity with only an occasional freight truck rumbling by. Finally, a family in a pickup truck stopped and gave him a ride as far as Wendover on the Utah-Nevada state line. Shortly after sunset a station wagon on its way to San Francisco stopped. John slept in the back, waking to the sight of the Oakland Bay Bridge.