by Jack Vance
Several years earlier, at Poul Anderson’s house in Orinda, we had been introduced to François Bordes, an eminent French archeologist. We now visited him at his home in Bordeaux. He graciously showed us many implements from the Stone Age, and then took us out to dine at a restaurant nearby. During the meal I was served a little pot full of little things that looked like worms swimming in tomato sauce. Not wishing to appear gauche I ate these things, only to learn afterwards that that they were baby eels. I consider myself a brave man.
We spent several days at Les Eyzies, where Norma and John visited the famous Cro-Magnon caves. I, however, remained in our lodging that day with a cold.
Leaving Les Eyzies we continued south through Biarritz and into Spain, then westward along the coast road, which at that time was two-laned, and crammed with trucks moving at no great speed. If this road is now as it was then, it cannot be recommended as a scenic route.
We stopped at Altamira, the site of another cave decorated with paleolithic art. On this occasion I was able to join Norma and John, and the three of us explored the cave together and marveled at the wall-paintings. We spent the night at a nearby parador, one of the many splendid government-managed hotels that usually occupy an old castle or building of some significance.
Eventually we found a road leading south and in due course arrive in Portugal—a country which I hold in high esteem, and whose cuisine, though not fancy nor in any way spectacular, is simply excellent.
We celebrated John’s eighth birthday in the enormous Buçaco Palace Hotel, then turned to the east and once more into Spain, ultimately arriving in Torremolinos where, to our consternation, we learned that Gordon, Gwen and Tony had departed. They had returned to Ibiza!
Vicki, who on Ibiza had been Gordon’s girlfriend, welcomed us and invited us to share her apartment, which was situated on the sixth floor of a high building with windows on all sides and which we came to call “The House of Many Winds”. Vicki was now married to Ralph Cruet, a tall gray-haired gentleman whom we came to like tremendously. While we were there Relph fell down a flight of stairs and got himself a spectacular black eye, and we began calling him Lucky Ralph because he had escaped with his life.
Above Torremolinos lie the hills of Andalusia. These are rolling hills like the downs of southern England, specked with little white villages far away. One day we set off in the VW with the top down—Ralph, Vicki, Norma, John and I—and drove up into the hills to Ronda. We stopped often to pick flowers, so that the car was soon bedecked with them. Whenever we came to a village, Ralph would stand up and throw flowers to the children as we passed. The scenery was utterly beautiful. Eventually we turned south and came out into the town Marbella, where there is a fine yacht harbor and many beautiful houses, most of which are inhabited by English expatriates.
After several weeks we took leave of marvelous Torremolinos. We drove north into France along the Riviera, into Monaco where we booked into a casino but did not spend any money there, then along the corniche over the top of Italy and into Trieste, a strange and mysterious town which I wish I’d had more time to explore, and down into Dalmatia.
The Dalmatian coast is pleasant, but not as spectacularly scenic as some of the travel guides would have you think. The ancient city of Dubrovnik, however, is an interesting place, and seems very medieval. From Dubrovnik we left the coast road and drove eastward into the interior of Dalmatia, over some mountains, and after a day or so came to the old town Pec, which consisted of an ancient and dreary monastary, and a large but dilapidated hotel. Nevertheless we checked into the hotel and took lodging for the night. We found that the rooms and especially the bathrooms were even more dilapidated than we might have expected. At dinnertime we went into the dining room, which was pleasant enough, and were handed menus. The menu was of a sort to be found all over eastern Europe; it opened out into two pages and listed hundreds of dishes of many degrees of elegance, but the only ones available were those to which were affixed a price, and these were usually very few. Leaving Pec we drove south into Macedonia, and the next day into Greece. The change was instant. The Greek towns seemed so clean, bright and cheerful. We turned and drove west to the coast and there took a ferry to the island of Corfu.
John’s reading matter at this time, aside from his schoolbooks, consisted mainly of the works of Enid Blyton, and also those of Gerald Durrell, whom he found highly entertaining. It so happened that Durrell at one time had lived on Corfu north of town, and so John required that we visit this hallowed site. As I recall, we failed to locate Durrell’s house, but no matter; John by now had become a naturalist and he insisted that we stop to investigate every strange bug or odd plant that we found alongside the road.
Incidentally, my grandson Glen, who of course is John’s son is now at about the age that John was at this time, and he is almost the exact replica of John in this naturalistic proclivity. Both were and are handsome kids; both were and are well behaved and highly intelligent, and I am proud of them both. But, I suppose, this is neither here nor there.
Corfu is a beautiful island with unique scenery. Conspicuous are the ancient olive trees, which stand with scraggly, lightning-blasted branches and very little foliage. They don’t ever seem to die.
We finally took up residence at Madam Adriana’s Taverna, or guest house. Madam Adriana was a short, not quite plump lady about fifty years old, dark-haired, sharp-featured, shrewd, and not at all reluctant to extract a few more dollars than absolutely necessary from the American tourists. However, we got along fairly well with her, mainly because we were willing to run errands for her. She had no car, and often when she wanted something we were obliged to provide transportation. On one particular occasion we took her to market to buy corn-on-the-cob, and therefore we expected to have corn-on-the-cob for dinner. But when dinner came, the corn-on-the-cob failed to materialize.
No matter. We were comfortable. Across the water, we could see the dread land of Albania where, so we were told, if we rode across in a boat and landed on the shores, we would be seized and killed.
As always, Norma and I worked, producing fiction. Every night in the saloon there was Greek music played, very loudly, and dancing, and this Greek music still reverberates in my mind.
One day Harry Barker, an Englishman from Manchester, appeared on the scene. He and his wife Esmé had come to Corfu as part of a tourist group now residing in a nearby hotel. As Norma and I wandered here and there, we naturally encountered a large number of people, and a few linger very sharply in my memory. These naturally include Gordon, Gwen and Tony, Reynolds Packard from Positano, Ralph Cruet from Torremolinos, and to this list I now add Harry Barker, who was a constant source of amusing ploys and enterprises. One day he and I evolved a scheme which we thought might make for a memorable evening. He should enroll five or six of his fellows from the tour group, then we would approach Madam Adriana. She would be asked to procure the carcass of a sheep and arrange it on a spit over the firepit in a field on the other side of the taverna. There Harry and I would light the fire and turn the spit, thus roasting the lamb. Madam Adriana said yes, it was an admirable plan, but her nephew would be in charge of the cooking because he was an expert and knew exactly how to use the spit and how to baste the meat with the proper Greek seasonings.
So it was settled, and so it occurred. The group, with Harry Barker and myself, gathered in the dining area on the terrace, while on the field Adriana’s nephew and a gaggle of children including John, turned the lamb over the fire and, presumably, applied the Greek condiments. The lamb was a long time in cooking, but it made no difference; we sat on the terrace drinking wine. Incidentally, this was not the retsina one usually associates with Greek cuisine, but ordinary red wine. In due course, apparently, the lamb was cooked and taken into the kitchen. Madam Adriana brought some bread and olives to the table, and left us to wait. We waited, and waited more. Eventually, Madam Adriana served us some plates containing bones and gristle, which we looked at with raised eyebrows, while in the k
itchen Madam Adriana and all her relatives were feasting.
A few days later Harry Barker and Esmé left Corfu, and shortly thereafter so did we. Back on the mainland we drove south into the Peloponnesus and ended up at Pylos, at the southern tip of Greece. From Pylos we drove to Athens, where we spent two or three days. I must admit that I was not enthralled with the city and spent most of the time in our hotel room writing, while Norma and John went to visit the Acropolis.
From Athens we made our way into Turkey, where we discovered the Turkish drivers to be the most volatile and reckless in the world. I have never seen such insanity on the road. We needed to cash some traveler’s checks, but could not find any banks open, so we lived on pistachio nuts for two days before we managed to do so.
At Istanbul we did a good deal of walking, visited the Hagia Sophia, and took an excursion up and down the Golden Horn in a boat full of other tourists. After three or four days we departed for Bulgaria.
At the border we expected—since Bulgaria at this time was a communist country—to be subjected to a dozen tedious formalities, searches and interrogations, but to our surprise we drove past the border post with scarcely a nod from a disinterested matron officer, and with no more fuss than if we had entered France or Italy*.
Somewhere along the road through Bulgaria, we stopped at a village grocery to buy a loaf of bread. Outside the door was a queue of women, at least twenty of them, waiting to get into the shop. Norma went to stand at the end of the queue, but when the local ladies saw her they insisted, in a humbling display of good-naturedness, that she come to the head of the queue. I do not know why Norma was extended this privilege. Norma, grateful but embarrassed, at first demurred, but the ladies persisted and all but hustled her to the fore. We enjoyed the bread, but it was almost an anti-climax after being so charmed by these Bulgarian village women.
One evening we entered an establishment which I can only describe as a hybrid of restaurant and nightclub, where the entertainment was provided by the “Mickey Maus Orchestra”. This ensemble consisted of piano, accordion and drums. They were playing a close facsimile of American jazz, so we made their acquaintance and had them sign a beer label, which is now découpaged into the ceiling of our bar among many other beer labels.
The next night we stopped at an ancient monestary, a picturesque building, and slept in what was formerly a monk’s cell. In the morning we continued north and passed through Rose Valley, just below the Balkan mountains. The name itself is sufficiently descriptive of this place, but I will say that the perfume of roses pervaded the air of the vicinity for miles around. The region for centuries has exported a famous attar derived from these valley roses. We learned that an inordinate number of blooms were required to produce one ounce of attar. We purchased a small bottle as a keepsake.
Crossing the Danube we entered Romania, drove to Bucharest and spent the night. The next day we drove up the country to the north and visited the famous painted churches of Moldoviţa. These are fairy-tale structures beautifully decorated in patterns of color, predominantly blue and white. After a day or two we turned south, then west, into the Carpathian Basin and Transylvania.
The Carpathians are dramatically beautiful mountains, reminiscent of the Alps in truncated form, and lacking the snowfields, glaciers and large lakes. At their edge lies Bran Castle, once the seat of Vlad, that Wallachian voivode known as “the Impaler” and possibly the inspiration for Dracula.
I have not delved seriously into the history of the real Vlad, but it appears that he was a very impatient man and did not take kindly to argument. Rather than propound a reasonable response to an affront, he would instead make a signal and the over-zealous offender would be taken aside and impaled on a stake. A famous anecdote tells of a visiting envoy from Braşov whom Vlad invited as a guest to a royal banquet. When asked whether he enjoyed the meal, the envoy complained about the stench issuing from the many impaled bodies which made up the skyline. Vlad looked at the envoy sidelong, eyebrows raised, and said: “Then by all means we must find you a higher seat, where you will not find the stench so offensive.” And Vlad gave his signal.
Leaving Transylvania we pushed west through Hungary, Austria, and into Germany. We stopped for breath at the lovely Bavarian city Passau, which is situated on the spot where three rivers meet: the Danube, the Inn and the Ilz.
By some means or another we had got wind of a science-fiction gathering soon to convene at Heidelberg. We drove there and presented ourselves at the hall, where we found Poul Anderson, John Campbell, Alan Nourse and a few others we knew. Heidelberg, of course, is the site of one of the oldest universities in Europe, and where there are universities to be found, there are also taverns. We discovered several such wonderful old establishments. In one of these was a lifesize replica of a lion, or perhaps a real taxidermied specimen, mane and all, that roared at half-hour intervals, I suppose to wake people up and remind them to order another stein of beer.
After the convention we were ready to return home. We drove south from Heidelberg into France to Bordeaux, and there bordered the Michigan, a cargo-passenger steamship which, after crossing the Atlantic, discharged us and our Volkswagen at Panama.
Gordon, Gwen and Tony, some time before, had visited Bogotá in Colombia, where Gordon had met Carolina, a woman from a socially prominent local family. Gordon and Carolina had married. Gwen and Tony at this time were still in Ibiza, but Gordon remained in Bogotá.
We telephoned Gordon from Panama and he was anxious to see us. He sounded lonely. We boarded a plane and flew to Bogotá. We remained there several weeks, and on one occasion drove south into the jungle where the family owned a coffee-growing finca. We spent several days there before returning to Bogotá.
Gordon, I thought, had made a terrible mistake in marrying Carolina. Not that she wasn’t a perfectly nice lady; to the contrary, she was. But she refused to leave Colombia, an impossible predicament for so deep-dyed an Englishman as Gordon, who as a consequence was languishing of homesickness. Yet in true English fashion he never complained of this to Carolina.
We returned to Panama, jumped in our Volkswagen and started north along the Pan-American Highway. There were many borders to be crossed on the way north, and at every border the routine was the same. On the south side of the border would be immigration, police and customs. Then once we had passed through, on the north side there would be customs, police and immigration. For each of these individuals a mordita was required, so that every time we crossed a border there would be six morditas involved. At one border we found one gentleman on duty who had evolved a racket. He asked to see the registration certificate of the Volkswagen, which he checked with the engine number. He found that there had been a mistake; instead of a nine there was a six, or something similar. He looked at me with a sober face and said, “Señor, this is a very serious situation. I can hardly believe that you have stolen this vehicle, but the evidence is…interesting.”
I wordlessly opened my wallet, gave him $5; he nodded, went back to his hut; we drove through, and that was that.
The trip up through Central America to California was very pleasant indeed. We found that in every town, no matter what size, there was always a Chinese restaurant, and this was where we generally took our meals. At one town in Mexico, we came upon an ice cream parlor which advertised 57 flavors, including avocado. Yet when we looked into the place and inquired after some of the more exotic varieties of ice cream, we discovered that only two were presently available: chocolate and vanilla.
We drove up through Nogales into Arizona, then into California, and so after many a weary mile once again arrived home, where as usual we kissed the ground and joyfully resumed our old routines.
Chapter 9
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Laurence Hope
In 1974, when John was thirteen years old, we found ourselves in funds again and set off once more to travel around the world.
Parenthetically, there ought to be a word to describe this sort of travel; circumnavigation is when you travel the world by sea, but to the best of my knowledge there is no corresponding word to specify traveling around the world by land or air.
We flew from Oakland to Shannon Airport, where we rented a car and set off across the Irish countryside. We went first to Cong, in County Mayo, then drove another seven miles along the north shore of Loch Coirib, and visited our former landlords the Molloys. On this occasion we undertook a venture which we previously had neglected. Behind our old cottage rose Mt. Gable. We climbed to the summit and were rewarded by a view of awe-inspiring magnificence. To the south spread Loch Coirib, all the way to Galway. To the north we overlooked the even larger expanse of Loch Maske.
We also encountered a mystery which to this day remains unsolved. This was a rick containing two or three hundred peat slabs*. Yet since there was no road leading up to the summit of Mt. Gable, and certainly no peat bogs for miles around, the circumstances were more than puzzling.
In due course we took our leave of the Molloys and drove eastward through County Mayo to County Meath, where we visited the town Kells and the abbey where, in 800 A.D. Celtic monks had produced what is now known as Ireland’s most precious national treasure: The Book of Kells. At Trinity College we visited the glass-topped case which allows passersby to view one page of this marvelously illuminated manuscript. Every day a steward opens the case and turns the page, so that if some diligent bibliophile wished to make a daily pilgrimage to this quadrangle for a year or so, he might view the entire book.