Archive for September 2010

29 Sep, 2010 | Posted by: photosource







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ON THE ROAD TO SEVILLE




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WE LEAVE PORTUGAL



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WORKING MOTHER



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JAL AND HIS GUITAR







My Story


# 37


Back into Spain we went, this time through Andalusia, “…the colorful region of Spain full of magic and mystery,” the guide book said that Carlos gave us. The farther south we drove on our way to Gibraltar, the more we began noticing the definite influences that hundreds of different civilizations had on the region – Roman aqueducts, Moorish castles, Gothic cathedrals, renaissance and baroque monuments.
You have to wonder, how’d they build those things? I mean, did they have labor unions? volunteers? slave labor? Or some other way? A professor of history we met in a Lisbon café told us most of the great cathedrals were built by local unpaid workers and itinerant artisans who were promised eternal reward in heaven as thanks. All of this was under the direction of a celebrated architect who was paid by the church. It didn’t seem to matter that sometimes it took several generations to build a massive cathedral, -maybe more than a hundred years. And there was also the task of bringing in a new architect in when the old one died. And you can imagine, with the scaffolding they had in those days plenty of the workers died. And sometimes, because of faulty design, when the church or cathedral was almost finished the whole thing collapsed and they had to start all over again – if the enthusiasm was still there. Cathedrals are fun to look at, but you don’t want to go in them before saying a prayer.
The professor said slaves, of course, built the aqueducts and fortresses. It was an “inborn human tendency -- a cycle” the professor said. In those days and I’m talkin’ 800 – 1,000 years ago, you went to war against a local principality, or city-state, or fiefdom or country, and if you defeated the enemy you not only got their worldly goods and beautiful women, but you also got slaves to build a bigger castle, a bigger fortress, plus all the artisans that went with it to start the cycle all over again. More wars, more cycles, more castles and fortresses that got bigger and bigger, depending on who was defeated or who won. So when you look at those wonderful examples of ancient architecture, stained glass, ornate filigree, pottery, and sculptor, and all that - they might be foreign imports. They’re probably not the result of labor by the locals.
We got to Seville. It rings of charm and intrigue, doesn’t it? Seville, is one of the former capitals of the great Moorish empire. Back in the 800’s, …the 800’s not the 1800’s, the Moors, the Islamic people who lived in North Africa came over the water, the Straits of Gibraltar that separate Spain from Morocco. They invaded Spain, kind of a reverse Crusades. They took over Spain for the next few centuries. That must’ve been quite a clash. The Christian Spain taken over by the Mohammedans. It would be like the Canadians crossing over the St. Lawrence River and occupying New York for a few centuries. Since Seville was the biggest metropolitan area around, that’s where these Moors got established and started civilizing the Spaniards who were barbarians living in tribes in the Dark Ages at the time. Nothing was moving, no commerce, no major wars going on.
In the 900’s, the Moors began building architecture that still stands today like the Alcazar in Seville. When the Christians finally regained control of Spain several centuries later, they remodeled many of the Islamic mosques and one of them today is an enormous Gothic cathedral we later learned is the second largest in the world. You can look up the history of all this stuff in your encyclopedia. It’s fascinating and I wish I had known all this history before I left on the trip. But you can’t do everything.
Anyway, St. Peter’s in Rome built by ol’ Giacomo della Porta is the only cathedral bigger than this one. You can just imagine how many part-time gladiators were used to build St. Peter’s in Rome. Likewise, you can imagine how many Christian infidels the Moslem Caliph of Andalusia used in the 900’s there in Seville to build the Alcazar.
Now here’s something we didn’t encounter much so far on the trip. The Gypsies. I’ll tell you about them. Outside the town, in a section called Tirana, Rudi and I set up camp amidst a group of gypsy tent-houses called casetas. They’re pretty big tents, like you could get two families living in one. There were about ten tents like this and all evening long you could smell the sweet/sour smoldering smoke from their outdoor fires.
Rudi and I did some practicing on our guitars the first evening we were there and a couple of young Gypsy guys wandered over to listen. I was interested to see they were curious about our style of music. They didn’t say anything. They just listened and then they left.

I’ve never known much about Gypsies and I’m sure Rudi hasn’t either. Hitler had a lot to do about that since Gypsies are not an Aryan people and he whisked them off to concentration camps, so there weren’t many Gypsies to be seen when I got to Germany. The Nazis exterminated about 300,000 of them it’s been said. Since Gypsies don’t have any central political representation, I guess that’s why we don’t see Hollywood movies or read newspaper articles on how Gypsies were treaty during the Nazi area. They are a nomadic people, always moving across Europe according to the seasons or some other reason.
It wasn’t ‘til France that I began seeing them, what with their horse-drawn wagons, men in baggy dark clothing, women in colorful long skirts, and dogs.

It always fascinated me, these homeless-looking nomads who call themselves ‘travelers.’ After all I am a part gypsy too you might say cuz I am a traveler also. Maybe we all are part Gypsy. We sometimes imagine ourselves free from restraint of the material world, unburdened from education, sometimes sinister and cunning, with music in our blood, and living close to a state of being that deals with ghosts, our ancestors and the dead. Pretty ugly stuff, eh?

Me a gypsy? Not really. I am like most conventional Americans where the pursuit of a life of acquiring creature comforts prohibits most wasps (white-Anglo-Saxon- protestants) a manner of Gypsy living that you never get to experience or barely understand. It’s like the Mennonites or Amish. Unless you’re a curious type, you probably have never known anything about them either. But unlike them, the Gypsies are a world apart. They are migrants. They don’t stay in one place. Not very often anyway. I guess comparing the Gypsies to the Amish and the Mennonites is not the best way to give you an idea of my impression of the Gypsies. But it’s one way.

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22 Sep, 2010 | Posted by: psnotes








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LISBON DOWNTOWN




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ROHN AND RUDI OFF TO AFRICA





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LAVINIA




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OUR NEW MOVIE CAMERA






My Story


# 36






“You’re only as good as your word.” I think that’s how the saying goes.
The CEO over at the Vespa place said he’d “take care of us” if we got the motor scooter on to the Lisbon TV show. Mission accomplished. Now I wanted to see if he would live up to what he told us.
Before we left Lisbon, we decided to drop in there. Lavinia promised she’d have lunch for us when we returned.
The receptionist asked, “Do you have an appointment?” And then she looked again, “Oh, you’re the two who were on television Saturday night. Just a minute.” She disappeared into the CEO’s office, “You both can come right in.” She smiled.

“Let me do the talking,” I whispered to Rudi. I repeated it. ‘I’ll do the talking.’
The director was waiting for us. He had his arms all folded and sitting back in his fat office chair.
“And how did you like our program Saturday night ?” I asked the director as he pulled out another cigar and lighted it.
“Sorry, I didn’t get to catch it, but my assistant told me it was good.”
“Fine,” I said, and shut up. We both shifted on our feet and looked for a response.
He paused a while, probably trying to think of something diplomatic to say, and then came out with, “Well, how much would you like for your services?”
I had already prepared an answer. I shot out, “14,000 escudos, sir.” (That’s about five hundred dollars.)
“What!” he said, nearly flying out of his seat, “14,000 escudos!”
I figured if he didn’t like it, he could always come down. If I told him something modest, businessmen like this guy are never charitable and never ask you if you want more. He stared at me and then got on the phone. He talked with someone in Portuguese for a few minutes.
When someone speaks in a language you don’t understand, and it’s about you, I find that very uncomfortable. But I guess that was his strategy. He wanted to make me uncomfortable. When he put down the phone he gruffly said, “There’s a check for 7,000 escudos waiting for you down at the cashier’s office. That’s the best I can do.”
We tried to look a little hurt, but we nearly did a jig all the way down to the cashier’s window.
“There you are boys, a check for 7,000 escudos. Good work!” The bespectacled man behind the bars gave us a rubber band smile.
“Let’s buy Carlos and Lavinia a present,” Rudi said as we got out into the street.
“I was just thinking of that!” I answered, and we buzzed off to a department store downtown.

Just like in Germany and the USA, Lisbon had these big ‘ol department stores with creaky floors and a variety of sales gals ranging from super good-looking chics to librarian-looking grandmothers. We wandered around the huge place trying to figure out what to buy as we marched through floor after floor. Rudi was more interested in consulting with the sales girl at the lingerie counter than looking for a present. Then he shouted to me and pointed with his thumb, “Hey, Engh, how ‘bout that?” He pointed to a lady that could have been his Aunt Hildegard. It dawned on me he was talking about what she was carrying, not the woman herself. It was a framed picture.

“That’s it !” I shouted, causing some of the sales girls to stare at us. “Let’s get them two reproductions of paintings, one of America and one of Germany.” The lingerie gal told us where we could find all kinds of pictures framed ready for hanging.
“Yeah! That’s a good one!” Rudi approved a middle-sized watercolor of the Bavarian Alps, and I found an oil reproduction of a Chesapeake Bay fisherman and his boat. “Wrap ‘em up real pretty!” Rudi smiled to the sales girl and got her to put a fancy ribbon on each package.
As we were about to leave the department store, Rudi spotted something that made him stop suddenly. “Here it is!” He said pointing to a counter, and motioning to me as though he had previously talked with me about the movie camera he was pointing to. “Here it is, the 8 millimeter!” and he held it up examining it. “It’s on sale, too!” What’d ya say, shall we buy it ?
“Get what ?”
“Get this movie camera. I thought I talked with you about it!”
“ You didn’t say a thing to me .”
Whenever Rudi had an idea, he was usually a long time in bringing it out. I guess because he wanted it to be a good one. He would sometimes spend days in refining his plan or his idea, in typical European fashion, and then later let me know about it. This time he had thought much about it, but never expressed it to me.


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15 Sep, 2010 | Posted by: photosource







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A SUNDAY PICNIC




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A “FIRST” AMERICAN and “FIRST” GERMAN on PORTUGUES TV





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PRACTISING FOR THE TV SHOW




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OUR VISIT TO LISBON VESPA




My Story


# 35


Well, around midnight we bid goodbye to the folks at the The Garden Restaurant, to the Professor and his wife, to the Nunes’. We jumped on our motor scooters and headed back down the twisting road into the shimmering nighttime lights of Lisbon. We passed outdoor cafes bulging with customers, Latin music and exotic aromas wafting out onto the boulevard.

Ah! Nighttime in Lisbon.

This was the life for young people, and we were there to take it in. It’s funny, how when you’re young like this, you just expect the next moment, the next hour, the next day is going to be one of excitement. One new adventure after another. You just expect it. If it doesn’t happen, well, you didn’t notice it cuz another one just hit you. Another adventurous thought, or scene, or memory. It’s just too exciting -- you’re thinking. And you think it will never stop, and you can’t imagine it stopping because you’ve never known anything different. You’re young!

“Wanna stop for another drink?” Carlos yelled over to me at a stop light.
I looked over my shoulder to Rudi. He said, “Engh, we have to get this scooter looked over tomorrow. We have to practice our songs for the TV show.”
I shouted over to Carlos but I was looking at Lavinia, “Thanks. I wish we could.” And placing my head onto my hands folded in prayer fashion I said. “We’ve got to get some sleep.”

We did. In the morning, Lavinia changed the bandage on my hand, “Boy! My hand is is looking good” I said. It was healing fast.
“You’re a healthy fellow,” Lavinia smiled.
“You’re an expert nurse,” I smiled back.
After breakfast Carlos directed us to the motor scooter agency on his way to work. “It’s only two blocks to the left,” he said, pointing to a side street, and then driving off to be at his job on time.

This was the main headquarters for the Vespa motor scooter in Portugal. “Welcome to Lisbon!’ the manager of the repair unit of the agency greeted us, in a Spanish-French combination.
“Saw your article and photo in the papers, boys. You must be having a fine time!”
“How’s that scooter holding up?” one of his assistants asked.
“Doing a good job,” Rudi answered. “We need a few minor repairs, though.”
“Looks like you took a spill from what I see on this one side,” one of the mechanics that had gathered round remarked.
“We had a little accident in Spain,” I said.
“Is that what happened to your hand?” the manager said, looking at Lavinia’s bandages”.
“Yes,” I answered. “It was pretty bad at the beginning of the week, but now it’s getting a lot better.”
“Let’s take your scooter into the shop, and we’ll give it an inspection!” the manager said.
We wheeled the scooter into the massive repair shop and Rudi helped the mechanics remove the motor to give it an examination.
When I first met Rudi he knew little about motor scooters –only bicycles. People around where he lived in Wuesterheide didn’t have money to buy a motor scooter or a car. As the trip went on, he took a lot of interest in the scooter until he was doing all of our repairs himself. He could see I didn’t have any aptitude for motors or any interest in learning about them expect maybe how to clean a spark plug, or put air in the tires.

For me, this is a crazy mind-set to have for someone like me who has set out to see the world on a motor scooter. I was just lucky to have met Rudi in Rotterdam. I have often wondered if I hadn’t met him, what would’ve happened? Probably one of two things. I would’ve given up, taken a trip over to England and just flown home to the USA from London.
Or, I would’ve found a way to move forward. My desire to make this world trip was so strong, even if I had to leave the motor scooter on the side of the road, all broken down from lack of maintenance and attention to it, and hitch-hiked my way through Africa.
In fact,, I don’t know if I’ve told you, but that’s how I first got the idea to travel to Africa. Back when I was driving my Volkswagen around in my CIC job in the army in ‘56, I picked up a hitch-hiker, a German girl, who told me she and her brother had hitch-hiked to Africa the summer before. They had actually gotten all the way to Johannesburg.
“Jeeze!” I thought to myself, I could do that if a girl could do it.”
So I guess my answer would be I would’ve left that ol’ motor scooter on the side of the road and just bought a knapsack and got on the road and started hitch-hiking the rest of the way. There was no urgency for me to get back to Maryland.
I felt O.K traveling like this on the scooter with Rudi. My homesickness, or loneliness, or whatever you would call it seemed to have gone away. I was learning that the people I was meeting were friendly enough. I think I would’ve stuck it out one way or the other.
But as it turns out, as I said, I’m lucky I met Rudi, cuz having your own wheels on a trip like this can bring ever-so-much more dimension to a trip like this, as you’ll learn later on when I tell you what we did over in North Africa where the Algerians were still fighting for independence and later on down in Africa where Rudi actually used the motor of the Vespa to power a raft we built on the Niger River in Nigeria.

Well, I digress. Back we go to the Vespa shop.
As the mechanics worked on the engine, Rudi continually asked questions, and sometimes much to their dislike. Usually you’re not allowed to be in the shop whenever someone makes a repair to your car, or truck or motor scooter. But in Africa there would be no one to help us but ourselves, and he was determined to learn about the scooter that he could, and hoped they would consider his curiosity an exception.
In the meantime, I went to the offices of the distributor upstairs in another part of the building, to speak with the director about our upcoming television appearance.

“Yes, I hear you boys are going to be on television Saturday night. We’ll all be watching!” the director said in English, leaning back in his swivel chair and filling the large office room with cigar smoke. He spoke English really well, and I guess you’d have to if you had a job like his, director of the Lisbon office for the country of Portugal and head distributor for Vespa to America.
He was a tubby older guy with gray hair around the temples and a swarthy complexion. He looked more like an Arab than a European. And he probably had some Moor blood. As you probably know, this part of Spain and Portugal was occupied by the Moors from over in North Africa back in the 800’s for several hundred years so there’s a great Arab influence all over Portugal just like there’s a great Spanish influence from the Mexicans all over the southwest in the USA.
“Do many people watch that Saturday evening TV program?” I asked. I already knew the statistics but I wanted him to actually tell me what we both knew.
“You bet they do! That’s about the best program on TV here in Lisbon.”
“Well, that’s good to know. It’s quite a compliment to us that they asked us to appear.”
“What will you do on the program?”
“We’ll mostly sing, I suppose. We have a rehearsal this afternoon, and we’ll find out the details then.”
“Will you include the Vespa on the show, too?” he asked.
“Well,” and then I looked aimlessly out the window, delaying my answer. I had to be cagey here. I needed to delay and pause to give him an opportunity to commit to rewarding us to get his product before thousands of Lisbon TV viewers.
But he didn’t bite. I could see he had the kind of ‘street-smarts’ that got him the kind of job he had. He had a natural talent when it came to discussions like this. This is where you’re actually negotiating. If you purposely make a pause in your conversation, the next person that speaks falls behind. You’ve haven’t really lost, but you’re behind and have to climb back uo.
I’d didn’t want to appear uncooperative, so I had to come up with a response to make our visit here to Lisbon seem useful to him. I broke the silence and said, “I think they’re only interested in having us appear with our guitars and sing some European and songs. Besides, I think there’s some kind of fire regulations about not allowing gasoline motor vehicles in the studio.”
He folded his arms and thought for a while. Then he said, “Well, you can take the gasoline out of the thing, can’t you?”
“I suppose you can,” I said, pondering his question as though with some doubt. TV was brand new in Portugal and they weren’t sure what they were doing.
I could see he saw Rudi and I weren’t a couple of guys born yesterday and that we expected some kind of compensation if we were to go to the effort of getting the motor scooter on Lisbon TV.
He sat back in his office chair, took another puff of his cigar and said,
“Well, look, young man, if you can get that Vespa scooter on the show with you this Saturday night, I’ll make sure that you’re well treated the following day!” He leaned forward and looked me straight in the eye as he flicked a cigar ash into his ashtray. He didn’t say anymore. He just stared at me.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” I said, knowing only too well we would stop at nothing to get the scooter on the show.
“And don’t worry about the cost of the repair of the scooter downstairs,” he said winking at me. I’ll take care of that personally.”
I saluted him and returned to Rudi in the repair shop. Our scooter was all in working order by lunchtime. And at four o’clock we went to the television studio for rehearsal.

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08 Sep, 2010 | Posted by: psnotes





WHAT’S THIS ? When I was 26, and living in Maryland, USA, I made a wanderlust trip through Europe, Africa, USA, Mexico and Central America that lasted over 35 months, almost three years. That was in 1957-60. When I returned home I began writing a memoir during 1960 and ’61. When I finished, I put it away in a closet and forgot it. I really didn’t forget it. I just didn’t think I should publish it because there were so many episodes and descriptions in there that would prove awkward to people like my relatives and my friends along the way. So I left it all alone. It’s now 2010, almost 40 years later and my family and me are living on a farm in western Wisconsin. I’ll dust off the manuscript and publish it here for the first time. –RE



After the first leg of my voyage through Europe and Africa, I sold my photos and story to the Saturday Evening Post, a popular magazine in 1958. This taught me that maybe I was cut out for a career in photojournalism. -Rohn Engh







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OUR ARRIVAL IN LISBON




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OUR HOSTS, CARLOS AND LAVINIA





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OUR RADIO APPEARANCES




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THE PEOPLE GET TO KNOW US







My Story


# 34



I liked being around Lavinia. There was something “motherly” about her. It’s funny, I don’t mean like she was protective and instructive like those nice and loving mothers you see doing things for their children to keep them on the right path. She was like that I’m sure, like preparing the dressing on my hand every morning, but more like I would’ve like to lay down on the couch with my head on her bosom and just go to sleep hearing the beat of her heart and the soft touch of her fingers as she ran her fingers through my hair and sometimes scratch my head a little bit.

I can’t ever remember my own mother doing that cuz we had five brothers and sisters in our family and my mother, we called her “Muzzie”, never had time for any of that kind of stuff, not even if we fell down and scraped a knee, but I must’ve seen that tenderness kind of thing in a movie or in real life like seeing a mother in a park somewhere in Germany or France or New York City. It’s a scene some great artist ought to paint; I mean a painting that endures, like the Mona Lisa that needs no explanation. It’s just there and you get it.

Oh well, we had excitement going through the apartment this day. We were anticipating going to dinner tonight at a fancy restaurant. All four of us at the invitation of Bartholomew Nuñes, the guy and his wife that stuck the flower on our Vespa, and left a little note in German that all four of us were invited to go to his Garden Restaurant up on the hill overlooking the Lisbon harbor. Carlos said he had heard of the restaurant but they had never been there. Too costly.
When we climbed the hill on our motor scooters, the sun was just going down and the lights of the harbor were starting to become more visible and the Lisbon Bay was getting darker now, every single tiny light in Lisbon out there sparkled like a Christmas ornament. And this is why driving a motor scooter is so pleasurable. Not like in a car. You feel the whole thing. What a show!

And it brought back memories of the excitement to me of back home when I was 8 years old and my friends and me would ride our bikes to the week-long carnival that arrived at the edge of town every summer the second week in August and all the gaudy night lights of the circus were beckoning you to come join the excitement that the little carnival can give you.

We parked our scooters and walked up a series of stairs to reach the front. The Garden Restaurant was perched higher than other buildings on the side of the hill so it must have been a private mansion back in the old days. It had a balustrade all along the front, some umbrellas for outside dining, and waiters moving around.
Senor Nuñes greeted us when the maitre’d told him we had arrived. Remember, their message to us was in German, but they had a Portuguese name, Bartholomeu Nuñes. That was odd. I guess they must have emigrated from Germany to Lisbon before or after WWII or even WWI.
As you can imagine, the Nuñes’ were Teutonic-looking people, and they looked like they enjoyed their occupation of restaurateur, all roly-poly and gracious.

We sat down at a wide round table that gave a nice view of the harbor. Another couple was already seated there, and he turned out to be an instructor at one of the local schools, the Deutsche Schule Lissabon
He was Portuguese and he spoke English and German well.
Senor Nuñes said, “I thought you would enjoy meeting , Professor Olavo Berneque, and his wife, Merlene. He lectures in history and could answer a lot of questions you probably have about Portugal.”
“Are you going to join us, too, Senor Nunes? ” I asked.
“Yes, yes” he said as he motioned to his wife, Marlene, who was just arriving too.
“I see you got our note and little flower,” she smiled.
The Germans like to do that. I mean they liked flowers, the fresh ones. Back in the army in Wuerzburg, in the CIC, I drove around the territory for my interviews in a new ’56 Volkswagen, and it had a tiny vase stuck to the dashboard where it was customary to put some flowers. The VW came from the Army Motor pool and the German mechanic had a flower garden and he supplied all the cars and trucks with a flower or two each day. Almost everyone who had a car in West Germany at that time drove around with a flower in the vase on the dashboard.
The meal was great! I wanted to get something typically local so on the fancy menu I got the grilled sardines with some leitao , roasted piglet, and the local vegetables. Senor Nunes served two port wines, a dry for dinner and sweet port later on. It was really something to think Rudi and I were happy with a half a loaf of bread and some butter, just a week ago over in Spain. Oh, well, feast or famine. We’ll be heading out in a couple of days, so better eat hearty!
We did.
After dinner we sat around drinking the sweet port wine, as Carlos pointed out highlights of the city to us - - Belem Tower, The Hieronymites Monastery, and the Black Horse Square, where we had all met earlier in the week. I took a couple night photos.

Who was the Professor? What was he doing here? I was expecting to have dinner with Carlos and Lavinia to get to know them better.
Well, I should’ve expected it. I mean, Senor Nuñes inviting a third party like the Professor. Heck, I didn’t want a lecture on Portugal,. We could have gotten that from the library or when we got home. Rudi and I were more interested in getting to know people, and seeing the sights. History, and all that could come later.

And besides, I hate it when someone invites you to dinner, and then sure enough, they have another couple sittin’ there to join in. They always say, “And we thought you would also enjoy meeting so-and-so. It always turns out to be like a proving ground or something where you’re expected to listen to these other people and how accomplished they are and all that. And all this when you actually wanted to meet and get to know the original people who invited you.

Oh, well, as it turns out, the “Professor” monopolized the time at the table with his scintillating elucidations about Portugal. As it turns out, it was pretty interesting and no one wanted to interrupt him and change the subject.
It all started when the Professor, waving his arm, said, “Yes, out there at the entrance to the Atlantic Ocean, at the mouth of the harbor, ship after ship in the mid-1400’s arrived filled with slaves from the west coast of Africa.

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01 Sep, 2010 | Posted by: psnotes








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A FLOWER & A NOTE ON OUR VESPA




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LISBON SCIENCE MUSEUM





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OUR HOSTS, CARLOS & LAVINIA




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IN THE CONSULATE'S OFFICE






My Story


# 33





I paused for a moment trying to think of an answer to his question, “Where are you staying in Lisbon?” Lavinia interrupted, “He’s staying at our place. He and his friend are touring the world, and they’re going to stay at our house until his arm and hand heals.”
Lavinia looked at me and winked. There wasn’t much I could say to her. Jeeze!… It meant I didn’t have to sleep in a shed tonight out in some desolate landscape like last week, or I didn’t have to sleep in our tent outside the city in a park somewhere. My hand was swollen and throbbing. It was all red. And now it was extending up my arm. It was tough driving the motor scooter. I was in poor health, even coughing. I don’t do that!

Stay in the comforts of a house? And with a gal like Lavinia who truly was concerned about my hand and arm. It made me feel wonderful. I think she saw it in my expression.

The doctor redressed my arm and gave me two different kinds of medicine to take. He started to give me the bottles and Lavinia intercepted them. “Here, I’ll take those.” She smiled at me like a mother who had just taken her teenage son in for a check-up after a bicycle scrape.

“There’ll be no charge, ” The doctor looked at Lavinia. She had such a beautiful smile I think the doctor was under the same spell with her that I was.
Actually I found out later that the doctor pretended I was Lavinia’s brother and in Portugal at that time health care was free to all families.

“No charge?” I thought to myself. Another bonus! I got the services of a doctor and didn’t have to pay for it. You couldn’t do that in Maryland. I don’t think so. I thanked him, and when we left I turned to Lavinia. “Are you sure it’ll be all right with the both of you for us to stay at your home? We’ve put you to so much trouble as it is.”

“Of course it will be all right; Carlos suggested it to me this morning. It’s no trouble at all.”
What a swell gal she was!


That evening we drove back to Lisbon and to the apartment of Carlos and Lavinia daSilva. They lived in a large apartment building in a residential section downtown. They had a spot where we could keep our scooter right next to theirs in a small garage on the first floor. We walked up three flights of stairs to their apartment. They used the main room of their apartment as a dining room and living room. Next to it was a good-sized bedroom with a double bed, and next to that was a small room with a day bed. A small kitchen and a bathroom were on the other side of a short hallway that divided the apartment. I don’t know why it was designed that way but it seemed to work.
“Now you fellows are going to sleep in a bed!” and Carlos pointed to the bedroom.
“But where are you all going to sleep?” I said.
“Now don’t worry about that. Just make yourselves at home; we’ve had guests before. We can figure it out.” And he showed us where we could find things we might need in the apartment like the john.
Before going to bed we sat around sipping hot chocolate.
` “Do they have a radio station here in Lisbon?” Rudi asked.
“Of course,” Carlos answered, “They have three or four.”
“They also have a television station,” Lavinia said. “It’s only three months old, but a lot of people watch it. Are you going to try to get on television?”
Rudi looked at me.
Lavinia continued, “I bet if you could get the scooter on television here in Lisbon, the motor scooter stores in Lisbon would really be happy. Have you ever been on television?”
“No, but we’ve been on radio in Madrid.” Rudi said.
Carlos said, “And the way you have the scooter all decorated, I bet the television people would be eager to have you. And you could sing your songs. We love music here in Portugal.”
“Would they pay very well?” Rudi asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Carlos answered, “But I imagine it’d be better pay than the radio.” Carlos had a job in Lisbon that sold tires, Michelin. I guess that’s why he spoke French so well.

“We’ll have to see tomorrow,” I said, taking the guitar out and beginning a song. It pleased Carlos and Lavinia to hear us sing. Although they weren’t musical themselves, they were always requesting a song until the day we left. Lavinia liked one song especially, “Annaliese,” it’s a German folk song, and she had us singing it so much she almost knew all of the German words herself.

The next day we visited the television studio. It was located near the apartment. It was a compound of several small offices and one large studio that at one time might have been a summer theater. In one of the offices we talked with a Senor Vargas, one of the program managers.
“I’m sorry boys, the only program we have that would lend itself to your kind of entertainment is going to be filled up for the next month. Are you going to be here any longer than that?”
“No, we’re only going to stay a few more days until my hand heals,” I said.

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you fellows,” he said. “Leave your address and phone with my secretary, and if anything comes up I’ll have her contact you.” And he extended his hand to show that he was busy.

Disheartened… that’s what we were. We had puffed ourselves up so much when we went to the studio, now we looked like a couple of flat tires. I grabbed a chair at an outdoor café as we passed and sat down. I think I dropped a couple of notches in Rudi’s estimation what with my failure to get a singing date at the Lisbon TV station. He didn’t say anything.
We must’ve sat there fifteen minutes without saying anything. “Lisbon is a sailing port for cruise ships isn’t it?” I asked Rudi.

“Yes, I think it is. I’m sure we’d find some German ships down at the harbor.” Rudi said.
Oops...that was not the right thing to say to Rudi. Anytime he saw a German ship, even if it was fifteen miles offshore, he got nostalgic. That was good to see. He could get soft. He knew all the words to all those brooding German songs about love and caring but he was rarely that way in real life. It was like he had different Rules of Life than what he was always singing about. So often, he presented himself as inconsiderate…someone with blinders on, as if the world was a straight road and he was bent on moving forward, the barriers and roadblocks be damned! Even the people.
I found myself continually adapting to his moods and style. I often wondered if he had the ability to see himself as others saw him. We never talked much about that. What would be the purpose? Why should he care? He was who he was. He saw the world the way he saw it and that was that. When he would get back to Wuesterheide, in a year or two, he would be the same person, nothing had changed, and that was good enough for him. He was like one of those impenetrable German tanks in WWII. Solid 3” steel. Bullets and shells bounced off it. And if he were the commander of the tank squadron and opened the hatch and stood up to survey the battle, bullets and shells would bounce off him too.

O.K., so I’m making an assessment of Rudi. On the other hand, I’m like a sponge. I notice more than I should. I’m wide-eyed, and this can be impractical if you’re on a trip like this. I have too many ideas. Like a Jack-of-all trades. I think too much. And that’s what I was doing right now.
“Why do you ask about the harbor?” Rudi said.

“Well, no, I wasn’t thinking about a German ship in the harbor. I was just thinking, maybe we could get a luxury liner and sign up to be the music entertainment on a ship that was going to the United States.”
“And why, mein lieber freund, should you like to do that?” Rudi sat up straight. He always stiffened his spine when he was ready to get into a discussion that didn’t fit the way he saw things.
“I just thought we could probably make some cash, store up some travel money back in the States for our world trip. We could tell a couple magazines what we’re doing, and they’d give us an advance and we’d head on to South America, and hit Africa on our way back. The States you know, is where all the money is, and that’s what we need at the moment.”
Rudi interrupted. “What we need at the moment, Engh, is to stay on course.”
He looked at me with those steely eyes. “We are going to Africa. It says right here!” And he opened my trip diary and flipped to a page with a newspaper photo of us on it. “See?” he poked his finger at the word Africa in the headline of a Spanish newspaper clipping.” He pounded his fist on it. “We’re not going to the United States. What’s wrong with you…?

“Well, how’re we going to make some money in this town?” I asked, admitting that he was right.
“We can always try one of the radio stations,” Rudi suggested.
“Yeah, but they’re already probably booked up just like the TV station. And, anyway, they’re not going to be able to pay like a television station. And besides, the scooter company would probably help us out if we got on television.” I said.

Rudi folded his arms and tilted back on his chair with his patent “I told you so” expression. “Well, what can we do? This is your department, my friend. Now you come up with the answer.”

There wasn’t anything I could say. I had some hair-brained ideas, like the luxury liner return to the States but I didn’t want to blurt them out. I wanted to get it right. I didn’t want to get his usual retort, “You Americans blah blah blah” response.

We had all the time in the world. No place to go. We sat there nursing the glass of water the waiter had brought us. I go out a piece of scrap paper from my saddlebag and started scribbling. Rudi sat back and watched the passing Portuguese women.

The biggest mistake we made was not to give ourselves a big build-up when we visited Senor Vargas at the television station. He probably gets tons of accomplished musicians and singers auditioning for his shows. If he thought we were in demand, he would’ve canceled one their numbers and suggested us.
“I think I got it!” I said to Rudi and explained we could get on TV if we worked it right.
“But how can we give ourselves a big build-up? You can’t just go in there and tell a bunch of lies. They won’t stand for anything like that.”

“We won’t build ourselves up, we’ll let someone else do it - - someone more influential around here than us - - all the newspapers in town!”
“All the newspapers? Now how are you going to do that?” Rudi said doubtfully.
“Every big city we’ve been in has a bunch of newspapers. Not just one. We’ve always just gone to one. The newspaper was always interested in taking our picture and writing a story about us, right?”

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