Apparently no one told Pier Andrea that in England people drive on the wrong side of the road. Of course, the English don’t think it’s the wrong side of the road. That’s why the driver’s seat in English vehicles is on the right and not where it should be – the left.  Think we should tell them that they’re woefully misguided?  Probably not a good idea.

Driving on the four lane highway leading into London hadn’t been too bad but following a speeding Ferrari through a huge city’s crowded streets, often into oncoming traffic, was like being on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride in Disneyland (my favorite ride by the way). Finally Carolyn and I pulled over and parked the car until the boys realized we weren’t following them and turned back to find us. They had to be in Worksop by mid afternoon so the plan was to have lunch together and then say good-bye. They parked the Ferrari in front of a one of those Dr. Who phone booths and we walked across the street to a place advertising pizza. It was a hole in the wall, with a few laminated tables and a greasy counter where you ordered your pizza. Alberto grabbed a copy of their one page menu and began translating for the other two. The lady behind the counter made a face and then greeted us thusly: “You’re too Cilla Black for Rosy Lee and you’ve parked on the Pete Tong side of the blimey frog and toad.”\

“What?” I asked.

“Daan’t ask me ter repeat myself. I’m speakin’ blimey english – wot the chuffin’ Gypsy Nell ‘re ya speaking?”

“We’d like some pizza?” I said, more as a question than a request.

“We daan’t serve the likes of them in this establishment,” she said referring to the Italians. “Gypsies – ya can na trust ‘em.”

I turned to Massimo who could understand her no better than me. “They’re closed.” He glanced at his watch. “Heh?”

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

We walked down the narrow streets until we found a pub that was slightly friendlier and shared a platter of fish and chips. Then they went on their way.

Carolyn had found us a cheap place near the St. Pancras/King’s Cross underground station which we finally managed to find as the sun was setting.

It was a run-down row house whose unsmiling proprietor had a hook for a hand and a face straight out of Dickens. Turns out he was letting an Irish couple whose daughter was in the hospital with an undiagnosable illness stay practically for free. He was a real nice guy.  We spent about four days in London traveling from touristy site to touristy site on the underground.  On our last day there Jimi Hendrix OD’ed.  Someone released hundreds of white doves in Hyde Park.

Massimo and I kept in touch until I returned stateside and then, you know, shit happened.  Here’s one of his beautiful letters.

Note:  This is the seventh installment of Europe on Five Dollars a Day which I began in February (in case you’re new to the site and wondering.  By the way – welcome and thanks for stopping by.)

We arrived on the outskirts of Ostende fifteen minutes after the last ferry to Dover was scheduled to depart thus we almost didn’t  bother to drive down to the docks. But we took a chance figuring it might have been delayed by the rain or the wind or the rough seas.  Surprisingly we were right. It had been delayed. But not by the weather.

Ticket for the car ferry.

It had been delayed by three wildly gesturing Italians, who stood at the gates with the very irate captain as we arrived. Quickly they scurried us onboard where, as soon as we parked, the boys escorted us upstairs to a dimly-lit smoke filled cabin whose large windows were fogged over by the soggy crowds trapped inside.

They were an odd trio. Pier Andrei was the “wealthy playboy,” Massimo explained with a slight whiffle of disdain, while he and Alberto were serious college students. They were on their way to study English in a town north of London.

I don’t remember how long the ferry ride took but it was around midnight when we finally docked.  The full moon shown down the famous white cliffs of Dover which stirred a  strange swelling of pride in me.  I’m not sure why – my Puritan ancestors left England in the late 1600s and never went back.  Perhaps it’s in the DNA.   At any rate the streets

were unwelcoming and we had no place to spend the night. So, Carolyn pulled out her Europe on Five Dollars book and found a cheap bed and breakfast not too far from the center of town. Luckily  the proprietor was still awake and had rooms for all of us. However he and his wife were anxious to turn in, thus  we were mindful to go to our rooms immediately and remain quiet. Carolyn and I were on the second floor and the boys directly above us.   In the middle of the night we heard footsteps coming down the stairs and then a gentle rapping on the door.

“I am a Latin Lover, non?  Por favora, Carolina, una momenta.”

It was Pier Andrei  pleading for “Carolina” to join him.  We giggled quietly in bed until he finally went away.  In the morning the boys pretended to be confused by our breakfast of cornflakes in milk.  They shook their heads at the oddity and then took forks and knives and pretended to cut into the mush while we laughed.

The East Lee Guest House in Dover. Probably not the place we stayed but a lovely place non-the-less.

As we were leaving Massimo said we should follow them as Pier Andrei claimed to know his way around London.  It was – shall we say? – a slight exaggeration.

Readers – I regret that we ran out of film in Spain so I have no photos of Massimo, Pier-Andrei, Alberto and their fabulous ferrari; however, Massimo did send me a couple of letters back in Gunthersblum which  reveal his poetic, sensitive nature.  They also reveal that the yearnings for peace and brotherhood are universal among the young and idealistic all over the world, then and hopefully now.

One of the letters from Massimo of Carrera Italy.

Next – We finally get to London.

After Mont Saint Michel the plan was to drive up to Calais and catch the ferry to my must see place. London England, where I planned to meet the Beatles and be instantly accepted into their inner circle.

Which is exactly what happened.

Hanging with the boys at John’s estate. My truncated feet inspired John to write “I am the Walrus.”

Once again we’d fallen into the “it doesn’t look that far on the map” trap. Readers – never make this mistake in rural France!   In my defense, I was from Nevada – a vast, scarcely populated state with (at that time) no speed limit.   And Carolyn, well, she was from Southern California, a maze of freeways on which people drive as if there is no speed limit.  France is a little different. From Saintes it took us three hours to reach Mont Saint Michel where, as luck would have it, rain lightly fell. The gravel parking lot already looked like a swamp so it wasn’t a big surprise when the attendant informed us we had only one hour until high tide would make leaving the Mont impossible (unless we had a boat.)  Thus we were forced to make a mad dash up the crooked cobblestone streets to reach the top.

View from the chapel at the top of the Mont Saint Michel – a sea of mud.

We arrived back at our car just as the deluge deluged.

In wind and rain there is one car you do not want to careen wildly down unknown roads in:  A Volkswagen Beetle.  Especially one with flakey wipers and wimpy headlights.  Beetles have a tendency to spin like the tea-cups at Disneyland if you brake at high speeds.

Roadblock in Normandy

I honestly don’t know how we survived that drive but our recklessness was all for naught.  By the time we arrived at the docks in Calais the last ferry to Dover had sailed.  However we were not alone.  Standing at the locked gates were three young men also watching the ferry chug away.  Noting the two us, they exchanged words and then approached.

“You are American?”  One of them asked.  He was tall, dark-haired and very good-looking but not in a self-conscious way.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you go to England?”

“Not now I guess.”

The other two began pelting him with questions in a language undeniably Latin. “I have forgotten me of my manners.”  He finally said to us. “I am Massimo Punatelli of Carrera Italy.  Here is Alberto and Pier Andre, also of Carrera Italy.  You may know – for marble?”

“Yes, of course.”

He took in a breath, thought of his next words and continued. “My compatriots – that is the right word, non? They do not speak English but I am at University of…”  That was as far as he got before the one called Pier Andre became impatient and interrupted him with gestures of wild intent.  He was shorter and had a profile more distinctly Roman than the others. Massimo translated: “Pier Andre has urge me most passionately that we depart.  There is a ferry to Dover which departs Ostende at nine so we must away fastly.”

Alberto, a pale man with Art Garfinkle hair, gestured toward an emerald green Ferrari parked nearby as Pier Andre turned and ran towards the car.

“Pier Andre say you follow us.”

Carolyn and I engaged glances. She shrugged her shoulders.  “Okay,” I said. What did we have to lose?  Besides, she pointed out, they were driving a new Ferrari (Pier Andre’s) so they had to be trustworthy, right?  Sure.

They kept track of us for a little while and then sped off when they realized we could not keep up; if they were going to catch the last ferry from Ostende, they had to dump us.  Well, that’s that, I thought.  They’ve abandoned us.   But I was wrong.

The boys insist I go to India with them.

Next time:  What the heck language do they speak in London?

After abandoning Elizabet and Soboric to their fate, we stopped in Cannes which is a noisier, more crowded city than Nice.  The beaches weren’t nearly as nice and the people decidedly rude.  At Carolyn’s insistence, we rented a room for the night at a rundown hotel which we could barely afford. She simply had to have a bath after spending the previous night in a car and the morning sleeping on a beach that smelt of fish.   I can still remember guarding the lockless door to the communal bathroom while she showered.  Ah, the annoyed stares and perturbed grunts I got from other guests who had to take a dump but were forced to wait for the spoiled, puritanical American to wash her already clean body!  Then we slipped into a twin-sized bed with no sheets for a very restless night’s sleep.  In the morning, we left Cannes firmly believing we would be sleeping on the beaches of the Costa Brava that night.  We did not realize that August is the month eighty percent of all Northern Europeans take vacation, generally to affordable places to the south.  Like Spain.  Thus we were about to find ourselves in a two day traffic jam with no food, no water, no detour.

We spent eight hours sitting in stop and go traffic, looking toward the famous French Riviera and seeing nothing but hot, dry beach towns, until the traffic finally came to a dead stop. It stayed that way for about an hour as the sun set.  Gradually families began abandoning their cars and setting up camp in fields that had gone dormant.  We had no idea what was going on until two young Germans in the Mercedes next of us came to our rescue.

Klaus, Hans and Carolyn after a night spent sleeping in a field.

This happened every year, they explained in German (they spoke little English), the reason being that the Spanish border guards would only allow a certain number of cars into Spain before the borders were closed.  We would have to spend the night in our car or sleeping on dried hay in the fields. As they had expected this to happen, they were supplied with bread, sausages, and most importantly – wine – which they were more than happy to share.

We woke the next morning hung over and thirsty as hell with hay in our hair.  Luckily Klaus and Hans had orange juice and apples which we ate in the morning light, chatting until people started returning to their cars.  They asked where we were staying and I replied that we had no plans.  Why not stay at the campingplatz with us, they suggested.  There were hot showers, toilets and beautiful beaches at the campingplatz and, being that it was full of Germans, it was safe.  After I translated the word “shower,”  Carolyn said, “Well, let’s try it for a night. They seem like gentlemen.”  Famous last words, everyone, famous last words!

Coming soon – Never joke with a border guard (no matter how cute he is.)