“I stepped into the world believing meaning would come from plans and intentions, only to discover that it revealed itself through disruption and surrender. Lost trains, broken luggage, unfamiliar customs, and chance encounters became my first teachers, quietly showing me that identity is shaped less by what I decide and more by how I respond. Paris was not merely a destination but an initiation: disorientation softened into wonder, fear slowly gave way to trust, and I began loosening my grip on certainty. As I drifted through streets, cultures, and the lives of strangers, I learned that becoming myself was not an act of control or conquest, but a practice of attention, of listening closely to what the world placed in my path and allowing it to change me.”
The Clock Strikes Twelve
The story begins right after my 18th birthday. I was counting the days, minutes, and seconds so that when the clock struck midnight on my 18th birthday, I would leave the house and never return. However, my birthday was in September, and I had planned to go to Europe, which would’ve put me there in the winter, a time I knew would be a bad idea. To say I was disenchanted was an understatement. I did not like the United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War, and I did not feel comfortable knowing I could be drafted for service if the war did not end soon. As a Black American, I did not feel I had a place in a society that did not ensure my well-being. I thought the notion of liberty and justice for all didn’t apply to me or those who looked like me. Chicago’s winters and my mother’s incessant complaining motivated me to look forward to the day when I could kiss them both goodbye.
I stuck it out at home until spring; I left in April 1973. Fortunately, my mother (whom I couldn’t wait to get away from) had a good friend living just outside Paris. I thought visiting her would be a perfect opportunity. Upon arriving in Paris, I needed to travel to Marly-le-Roi, a suburb outside the city, where my mother’s friend lived. I was told to take the subway to Gar St. Lazar, then the train to Marly-le-Roi. Well, that sounded easy, but the broken French I had learned in school didn’t get me very far.
When I finally arrived in Marley le Roi, I tried to make a phone call, but I didn’t realize that you don’t put the money in the phone until after the person answers. I was using the phone like we do in the States—you put the money in first and then make the call, so I ended up losing the money. A guy who saw my frustration offered to help and told me to wait until the person answers before putting the money in, which I did. I got connected with my mother’s friend, Jean, but she wasn’t going to be home until later, so my new friend Georges, whom I had just met at the station, suggested I go back to Paris to spend the night and come back tomorrow. That was a good idea, except that the handle on my twenty-year-old bag, which I bought from a resale shop, had broken, and it was rush hour. I had no way to carry the bag. Luckily, the two of us managed to carry it through the subway, each of us holding one end.
Georges took me to a street in the Latin Quarter called Rue Saint-André des Arts. It was off Boulevard Saint Germain, right in the heart of everything happening in Paris at that time. He booked a room for me at the Hotel Saint-André des Arts, which cost five dollars a night. The bathroom was down the hall. After I settled in and changed clothes, we went to the bar on the corner for a pastis, which I didn’t realize was a type of drink. It’s a green liqueur that, when mixed with water, turns white and has a licorice-like taste. As I stood there, Europeans, Africans, and Arabs moved smoothly in and out of the narrow room. It was like a wonderworld of sights and sounds: the air was heavy with a mix of patchouli oil and Gauloise cigarettes, which smelled more like burning leaves in autumn than cigarettes. I could hear motorbikes shifting gears, bicycle bells, the occasional “dee-dah, dee-dah” of a police car in the distance, and the cacophony of everyone speaking French. I had never seen anything like those fashions: big bell-bottoms, sheepskin coats, long scarves, and platform shoes. Sly Stone and the cast from the musical “Hair” would have felt right at home. I stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb; at least that’s how I felt wearing straight-leg pants and Hush Puppies. I couldn’t have felt more out of place, but I doubt if anyone else noticed. I knew I would have to buy new clothes ASAP!
We left the bar and took the metro to go to a concert at the American Center. When we reached the American Center, Georges told me I didn’t need to pay, that I should speak English, and that I could walk in, which I did, and it worked. Ironically, I saw some musicians I knew from Chicago. We connected, and they explained that I could come to the Cultural Center on Boulevard Raspail; that’s where they all hung out.
After leaving the concert, we decided to go to a jazz club called Le Chameleon, which was on the same street as the hotel, but of course, I didn’t know that. We took the metro, and Georges asked me if I smoked hashish. I said, “Yeah, but we only have weed in the States. Rarely do you get hash.” And he said, “Well, we never get weed; it’s only hash, and the weed that we happen to get is no good.” He said that we could meet tomorrow. He would try to get some hashish.
Looking back on this journey, if I were asked what I was looking for, I could say I was interested in discovering myself and the meaning of life. Subconsciously, I was, but consciously, I believe I was simply looking for the best high money could buy. I was a committed weed smoker, and so was everyone I knew. Remember, I was part of the ’70s counterculture, Jimi Hendrix, etc., so I was always on the hunt for primo weed and hashish, like most people who found themselves on or off the “Hippy Trail.”
Traveling to Afghanistan was a pilgrimage for true dope heads. It was indeed a pilgrimage…a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience the best opium-laden hash on the planet. Afghanistan was our Mecca and Medina, and the trip was not for the faint of heart. Once people knew you had been to Afghanistan, you had instant gold-card status in their eyes. You were automatically inducted into the dope heads’ Hall of Fame. At some point in my life, before I died, I hoped to make the pilgrimage to Afghanistan.
Back on the train, an African guy approached us wearing a long, oversized, dirty overcoat and asked if we knew where he could buy some weed. We looked at each other and said we didn’t know anyone, so he walked away. Less than a minute later, he returned and opened his coat, revealing about a pound of weed wrapped in a newspaper. He told us to take some. We looked at each other, surprised. We explained that we didn’t have any money, and he replied, “No, no, pay; just take as much as you want,” so we took a little, exited the subway, rolled up a joint, and sat by the Seine River to smoke it. Georges told me, “Man, I told you this weed over here is terrible. It’s so bad they’re giving it away.” After we finished smoking, neither of us felt anything, and he said again, “See, I told you this stuff was no good.”
Needless to say, we didn’t get more than half a block away from the river before everything started to change. Sights, sounds, noises—everything became more intense, almost like we were on LSD, mescaline, or some other psychotropic drug. It was crazy. I had never felt that high in my life, definitely not from weed. But this was hallucinogenic weed, and it was free. We went to the bar, and you descended a few flights of stairs into a smoke-laden lounge of jazz enthusiasts grooving to Miles Davis’ “Seven Steps to Heaven.” Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it. Here in Paris, listening to the muted trumpet that was Miles’ signature and paying attention to the silence between the notes, which was punctuated by the sound of people present in this place—old folks, young folks, hipsters, and hippies alike—made me feel as though I was in seventh heaven myself. We stayed there until the bar closed around 2 AM, and I was feeling higher and higher.
I stepped outside. Georges said he would try to get in touch with me tomorrow, and I looked around after he left, but I couldn’t figure out where I was. I was somewhere in Paris, but I didn’t know exactly where, and I didn’t know where the hotel was. I didn’t remember the name of the street. I didn’t know my location, and it was two in the morning. I started to freak out, especially on this killer weed. It made me extremely paranoid, so I decided to walk down the street, and lo and behold, there was the hotel right in front of me. I said, “Thank you, Jesus.” The next day, I called Jean, remembering to put the coins in after she answered. She came down in her 1958 MG and drove me back to her house in the suburbs. I returned to Paris several times and hung out with Georges until Easter. During the Easter holiday, French people go on vacation to the south. Like all good French people, we packed our bags and headed to southern Spain.
Unfortunately, when we arrived in Spain, the weather was terrible; it was cold, rainy, and windy above all. There were no hotel rooms available. The ferries hadn’t been running for a couple of days due to the wind. All the decent hotels were full because people wanting to go to Morocco, like us, couldn’t leave. People kept piling up, and Algeciras, Spain, turned into a nightmare.
We managed to find a hotel, but it was a dump, and when I say “dump,” I mean all the mattresses were infested with bedbugs. Jean Frederick, my friend’s son, had massive bedbug bites all over his back. I decided I couldn’t stay another night, so I said goodbye to Jean and Jean-Frederick and headed down the coast to Torremolinos. Well, Torremolinos was full too, and there were no available hotels, so I was about to sleep on the beach when a Black guy approached me and said, “Hey man, where have you been?” “What’s happening?” I looked at him, thinking, Do I know you? He said, “Man, come on, I got these two chicks up at the restaurant, and after we eat, we’re going to the club.” Since I had nowhere to stay, I couldn’t complain, so we set off together.
We arrived at the restaurant to meet two girls from the States who had come to Spain for Easter vacation. One of the girls was freaking out because she thought she had lost her purse. We looked around but couldn’t find it. She was crying. I said, “You know, I’m sure it’s got to be here somewhere,” so they decided to retrace their steps before they came to the restaurant. They told me to wait at the restaurant and that they’d be back in about 15–20 minutes, so I sat there.
I had a drink, surveyed the scene, and then looked under the bench seat. There, I found her purse. I looked inside. Her passport and $500 in cash were there—more money than I had. But of course, I wasn’t going to take her money. I put it back where I found it. When they returned, she was distraught because her money and passport were missing, and she didn’t know what to do. I pretended not to notice and didn’t tell her I found the purse. I just said, “Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to be all right.” Maybe you could contact Western Union and have your parents send you some money. Perhaps we can take up a collection to help you. I said, “It’s not going to be that bad,” and that only made it worse.
I couldn’t delay any longer, so I reached under the seat, pulled out her purse, and asked, “Oh, is this your purse?” She nearly jumped over the table to hug and kiss me; she was so happy that she shifted from upset to joyful in a matter of seconds. She wiped away her tears, and after we finished eating, we decided to go to the club.
I should mention that the guy who hijacked me—I can’t recall his name—had dibs on the cute girl, and her friend was for me. All I can say is she didn’t look like her friend (to be polite). We went to the club, and they knew him; he was a regular. We didn’t even pay. He was well-known in Torremolinos, and we had a VIP section.
There’s a naval base in Rota, Spain, that isn’t far away. The club was crowded with sailors from the base. One sailor came up and sat in our section. He started shaking his head and mumbling, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” I looked at him and asked, “What do you mean? What are you going to do?” He said, ‘My wife is here, and my girlfriend is at the door; both of them are wearing the same dress that I bought.” I replied, “What? You bought the same dress for your wife and your girlfriend?” He said, “Yeah.” I said, “Oh Lord, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.” Somehow, he managed to sneak out and disappear.
As you would expect, words were exchanged when the women saw each other. We stayed a bit longer, danced, and then decided to head back to the hotel, which was fine with me since I had nowhere to stay. Once we entered the room, they went straight to the bedroom. Two minutes after they went in, the headboard was banging—boom, boom, boom. They didn’t waste any time; I was left sitting on the couch with the other girl, the friend. I couldn’t do anything with her. I felt bad—I mean, I wanted to, for her sake, but I just couldn’t, so we sat there talking until the sun came up then I left.
Later that morning, I went back to the same spot where the guy had found me. I was sitting there, trying to figure out what to do next, when he showed up and said, “Hey man, why did you leave?” “Why did I leave? Why did you hook me up with the ugly one?”
He said, “Man, I apologize about that. Look, I have more. You’re going to love these.” I still didn’t have a place to stay, so we went to his house. He had four or five women living there in a communal setup. It was crazy—they were from Sweden and Norway, tall and blonde. He said, “Man, just make yourself at home.” I thought, finally, this is looking better.