From 1978 to 1980, I lived in Israel; as a visitor, I was required to extend my visa every 3 months.
I make my way up the yellow brick road after visiting the Old City to buy bacon, reaching immigration where I schlep up 3 flights of stairs, sitting on a fake leather sofa and waiting. The room is painted la couleur verte; eyeballing a sepia photo of Ben Gurion, I knock,
come in,
like a jackass, smiling I greet the official,
marhaban habibi, and he replies,
habibi go sit down.
The civil servant stands, turning and going to a metal cabinet packed with ring binders, flips through files like he's dealing a poker hand, which he is in a way, the deck is stacked against me.
Taking off his bifocals and raises his eyebrows, Ori looks at me and says,
Mr. Lucowski, I'm sorry your visa expires in 3 days. You can convert to Judaism, relocate to Gaza, or take a bus to Shelomi and swim to Tyr, Lebanon.
Toda raba habibi,
Time to take a powder; Eratz Israel is Challah toast; I flip off the sepia picture of Ben Gurion, walking into the stairwell.
Back in Tel Aviv, on the way to Cafe La Petite Classe, I jaywalk acroos Levinsky Street, in a split second a Sabra police officer blows her whistle, I tell her fuck off, well known slang.
In a Tel Aviv jail, I'm allowed a call, so I call an Israeli friend, Uzi, asking him,
can you call my old man collect in Chicago? Here's the number 1-312-7867,
what did you do, Henry?
Nothing, a misdemeanor,
Uzi obliges.
Pops, Victor Lucowski, an habitual gambler with mob connections, calls Bill Rose, a Jewish bookmaker who knew people in Israel.
I'm out in the moring, on the way out I comment to the PO,
habibi, the pita bread was stale, he looks at me saying,
la zay yen a ka,
fuck off in Hebrew.
Anyway, it's a 2-hour bus ride from Jerusalem to the Haifa station.
In Haifa, I walk to the Port of Haifa, where I buy a ticket
to Lavario, Greece, for 175 Shekels.
With a few hours to burn, I sit in an outdoor cafe, ordering schnitzel, tomato, and cucumber salad, and a bottle of Goldstar beer, eyeballing the sexy IDF soldier girls in short khaki dresses passing by, then hustling to catch the ferryboat to Greece.
Aboard, standing on the deck, I lean on the taffrail and watch the Land of Milk and Honey disappear on the horizon. My feelings are mixed. On the one hand, I got laid a lot and had a ball in Israel. Still, on the other, politically and militarily, the Israeli crusades into the Arab world are justified by the oft-repeated sentence;
the Arabs will push us into the sea.
That's right, give Hamas a chance, and they will drag Israelis into the sea.
After boarding the Greek ferry, I stand on the deck, the ferrie's keel's turn out as the vessels makes it way to sea.
Once at sea the mini ship navigates a waveless sea smoothly.
I see a girl and walk up to her, looking her in the eye and asking,
Hi, I'm Henry, what's going on with you?
I miss my boyfriend and family in Australia; I'm lonely, let’s get coffee below deck in the cafeteria, oh I'm Melody,
okay,
Sitting over coffee she says,
are you a travelor Henry?
Yes I'm traveling.
There's a gang of Greek truckers who take up all the tables; there faces are bulbusand viened, edged by years of chain-smoking, drink Ouzo, and beer boilermakers that're ready to cornhole willing travelers or each other.
I asked Melody,
do you have a cabin?
I was going to sleep on the deck, I carry a sleeping bag,
I see dear; let’s buy some beer and go to my cabin; I'm dying here; it's filthy.
Melody has an itch to scratch, and I'm just the man to do the job.
We walk below deck to her cabin, going in and locking the door, sitting on the bed, and chatting she says,
Henry, I'm attracted to the Blackbeard side of you, is your cock pierced?
laughing I say,
how'd ya know? Let's go sit on the deck and look at the stars tonight? I'm a fortune teller, a guru, my long hair reaches my ass, I can levitate in lotus position,
that i'd like to see, Henry.
she invites me she strips down and invites me into the head for bath, saying
I'm a nurse you know.
Melody has an ordinary face and mousy hair, she’s alluring with natural breasts, unshaven legs, underarms, and a hairy bush; she's blond with freckles.
We shower together in the head, she lathers my cock up and down, paying close attention to the line between the shaft, and the head, coming down on me, sucking, I cum and Melady swollows it. We rinsing me off with cold water then wrap up in a large towel, dying off.
When the ferry docks at the Port of Piraeus, we grab our bag and walk a few blocks, catching a taxi to Athens, a 20-minute drive.
The driver who's smoking recommends the Hermes Hotel, in the Plaka.
Hermes is an old hotel, 2 stories, we walk up to room 203, dropping our bags on the bed, we rush outside; walking nowhere as Melody asks,
why are the Greek women wearing black?
Who knows? Either it's a fashion statement or their on their way home from church, maybe.
After walking some, we sit at an outdoor table in front of the Melina Mercouri Café, named after the iconic Greek actress, singer, activist, and politician.
We order yogurt with honey, coffee, fried eggs, and toast, I tell Melody,
A typical Greek breakfast is coffee and a cigarette, she says,
that’s sickening.
I mention her boyfriend in Oz, and she tells me;
you a much better fuck, Henry.
Tired from walking, we crash early at the Hermes.
The following morning we wake at 10, leg wrestling in bed for an hour; My legs were much stronger than hers.
After showering we're hungry, ΕΣΤΙΑΤΟΡΙΟ OVIO, a Plaka Landmark, eating cafeteria style and carefully filling our plates with spoonfuls of; yogurt, fruit, fresh ground mint, granola, and pecans. Melody looks at me and lifts her napkin slightly; pointing to points an 8 ball of yeyo in a small Ziplock bag, smiling and saying,
it's a separate charge, darling.
After reviewing the the menu, we order an eye-opener; Greek coffee with hot milk and Ouzo.
After a few we're blasted with the feeling the world's our oyster, feel free and alive, feeling like the coolest couple in the world.
Melody looks faint; I signal the waiter with my hanky, ordering,
Okay, Taramasalata with sliced white bread, Moussaka, Soutzoukakia, lentil rice, and a liter of Uliveto soda water.
The diner's majestic, Melody pays the bill, sleeping the small baggy of cocaine into her purse,
snifters of Metaxa.
on the way back to the hotel, we stop at Zorba's for a nightcap,
Melody pays in dollars.
It's her last night in Athens.
That morning she packs hurridly, tossing things into her suitcase
At the airport, we heavy kiss, saying goodbye.
I catch a taxi to Sita Port and am lucky to catch a ferry to Crete straight away.
As the ship passes through the Hellenic Trench, I strip down to my boxer shorts and lay in the blazing sun.
8 hours later, the vessel docks at the Port of Souda; I wake in pain, I'm sunburnt from head to toe.
In Minoos, walking past a cafe 2 Greek men with handlebar mustaches signal with their hands saying,
bárbaros come drink,
We sip ouzo, munching chickpeas and dry olives, Greek farmers can drink 24/7 and carry on.
They don't speak English, 1 farmers calls a local woman to translate for him, and she says,
Atlas here, is wondering if you'd watch his goats in exchange for a place to stay up the mountain?
Sure, why not.
I get on the back of Atlas’s Vespa, and we wind up Mount Ida to my new home; it takes 15 minutes.
Atlas is proud of the tiny plot of land, pointing to a hand-powered water pump where you fetch water for the goats and pour it into a driftwood trough.
Then we walk through tall grass, Atlas picks up a sickle, cutting a bail of hay, pointing to his mouth.
I get it, he doesn’t eat grass, but the goats do.
Atlas disappears into the even fog.
I walk into the stone hut, laying my sleeping bag on straw mats — it’s fall, the temperature is in the low 20s Celsius, I pass out on the mat, half drunk.
That morning I'm up early, and I cut a batch of fresh grass for the goats and fill their trough with fresh water.
The kids jump straight up and down, landing on their feet. They let you pet them; they smell sweet because their nannies have licked them clean.
The goats chew, chew, and chew again, eating like camels but nowhere near as cantankerous.
I haven't seen Atlas in 30 hours, and I don't have a think to eat.
Thinking goat milk would hit the spot I take a bucket, place it under a nannie's utters, pinch and pull, pinch and pull, nothing comes out.
Frustrated and hungry, I sit on a rock overlooking the Aegean Sea, thunderstruck; I hear Pink Floyd from the beach below.
I walk a worn pathway to the beach and stubble onto a tribe of German hippies celebrating something, existence maybe, dancing around a bonfire.
I'm blindsided by a blond frau who hugs me and asks,
your hair is so long, baby. Are you Native American?
Let's play, I'll be the Indian, and you be the cowboy, she giggles saying,
let's get high wunderschön,
smiling, she drops a purple wedge in my mouth, communion
mescaline. We pass a boda bag of Blue Nun back and forth, comming on to the dope, breaking through bardos of purple flame, and walking through it.
By midnight, we wake up naked and wasted, making out, balling, feeling born at the gate of the Garden of Eden with transexual Eve who's munching on a McIntosh apple.
McIntosh, Romen#15, page 257
