GETTING AWAY FROM THEM ALL

The tradition in Summer in Northern Europe is to gaily head south for several weeks to enjoy the bright sunshine and warm weather. Swim togs, cold drinks, and cool dark discotheques in the evening. Plus shenanigans sexual or otherwise out of sight of the parish priest, who is stuck in place and has never been further south than Rome, once in his life, it was wonderful and he still talks about it. Then everyone comes back refreshed, with sun tans, and speaks endlessly about the Costa Del Sol, greasy food, flamenco for foreigners, Englishmen in shorts, a lizard in the bidet, and the beautiful weather.

It's hitting one hundred degrees in Den Haag and Eindhoven these days.
Whereas here in San Francisco it might cross sixty.
Subtract for cold breezes.


When we were living in Valkenswaard, the first time it hit eighty degrees Fahrenheit in the Netherlands my mother kept us boys indoors lest we get sunstroke. It was unheard of, what was the world coming to? The furthest south we had been till then, by the way, was Lake Como, in Italy. Not even as far south as Rome.

Which was very nice. Sub-tropical.
And filled with Dutchmen.

One distinct facet of European vacations back then was that one had to be sure to bring along cartons of cigarettes, enough for all the chain smokers in the family, up to the legal limit, because decent fags might be impossible to get. Southern Europe was notorious for dark tobacco smokes that would rip your lungs out, make you cough up hairballs, and give you a Mediterranean accent that was unitntelligible. And you might have to occasionally share your smooth rich tasting northern smokes with curious natives, so bring extra.

As a grammar school kid back then, es war mir allen scheißegal.


But my mother was more fastidious. An absence of Kent Filter Kings would be roughing it. Famous micronite filter, distinct perfume of camel dung. Reminiscent of refined living in San Francisco and Berkeley before the beatniks and bad poetry ruined everything. As a published author and poet this was naturally very important to her. Harmonious patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables were more easily achieved if the cigarettes were smooth and agreeable.

Which is something I can well undertand. As a pipesmoker, I suspect that most rock and roll lyrics were influenced by shitty aromatic cavendish mixtures drenched with preservatives and propylene glycol. Punk, of course, was cause by smoking dark Dutch "superzware" shag or black rope in your pipe. Burley meant Country-Western, and jejune paeans about pick-up trucks, a girl named Debbbie, and Jesus.


When I finally returned to the Bay Area, Berkeley smelled of Gauloises and Gitanes. Over in San Francisco, the Caffe Trieste did too. Which was quite splendid. I would fill up a Peterson System Standard at my preferred lunch counters, with Drucuer's Royal Ransom, or Blend 805, and reek for a while before heading out again to dabble in academia. It was lovely.

Nowadays the entire place smells like wheatgrass and pot.
It's not quite the same.



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