Travel Biography - Week 25.

1978 Arrival in Portland, Oregon, with some bad memories.

In this week's blog, I shall resume the 1978 trip across the USA, after distracting for one week due to a hospital appointment. In a sense, the best part of the entire holiday was the visit to the Grand Canyon and the unscheduled hike from South Rim to Phantom Ranch, and then back up on the next day, which is now behind us. I then continued with the diary into Los Angeles, and my stay at the Hotel Cecil, with its dark past. And how I was coaxed to listen to a lecture delivered by the Moonies before boarding an overnight Americruiser bus to San Francisco.

And now, I'm ready to move on, this time to Portland, as I did a year earlier in 1977. But unlike the previous year, I did not look for a hotel but had intentions to leave on the evening of the same day. 

It was a Sunday when I arrived in this Oregon city in 1978. Heh! I recall the previous year when I found myself caught up with the Church of Scientology here in Portland. It goes to show how easy it was to be tricked into parting with my cash, which after all was said and done, was all about, regardless of the pretences they claim to bestow for my own personal benefit. Back then, I very nearly paid them $200 for the use of their electropsychometer, or E-meter for short. This device has no real practical purpose, rather I tend to think it was an elaborate version of a lie detector. As one who was "unclear" of all personal trauma, this device was meant to "clear" me of all past negative experiences and to leave me happy and unrestrained from all that would hinder my happiness.

But I had a sliver of doubt about the whole programme, and eventually, I refused to pay them anything. Instead, I left them to continue on my way, feeling none other than a mighty sense of relief that I hadn't fallen into their trap and found myself out of pocket at a location thousands of miles away from home. And yet, one American celebrity, Tom Cruise, the titular of the movie, Top Gun, was an ardent disciple of the Church of Scientology.

Tom Cruise in the movie, Top Gun.

Back to my visit to Portland a year later in 1978. After alighting at the Greyhound Bus Station, I paused briefly outside the Church of Scientology building and moved on to look for a proper church. Nearby was the First Baptist Church of Portland, and I entered in time for the morning service. The service itself was okay, conforming, as expected, with the normal Baptist liturgy. It was after the service, whilst consuming a coffee and a doughnut or two, that I ended up talking to a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Johnson. As the conversation progressed, they asked whether I would like to have lunch with them at their home. I accepted their invitation. Presently, I found myself in their car, driving to their residence.

The house was in a typical American suburb, detached, and with a spacious back garden which boasted an outdoor swimming pool. After a sumptuous meal, we sat and talked. During the conversation, he began to boast of his son's achievements. Unfortunately, he was not at home, or else I would have liked to have befriended someone of my own age, especially if he was a committed Christian. 

Mr Johnson then produced a vinyl LP, complete with its sleeve. On it was the title, The Anvil of God's Word, with a drawing of a broken hammer resting on a solid iron anvil. The message behind the title and illustration was that the Bible will endure as the Word of God forever, despite the constant hammering of it by sceptics and atheists. At the end of the day, it's the hammer that breaks, leaving the anvil completely intact. The 12-track record, with six tracks on each side, was as authentic as any other vinyl album that was sold in record shops at the time. It was composed by Jeff Johnson, the son of the couple I had lunch with. The proud father didn't just allow me to look at the album, instead, he insisted that I keep it, pack it away in my luggage, and take it back home to the UK. And so, it's been in my possession ever since.

Later that afternoon, they offered to let me have a swim in their garden pool, despite the weather not being very warm. I changed into my trunks and jumped in. The pool was too small for a serious swim, and the chill in the air reduced any length of time to a shorter, twenty-minute dip. However, all this was a taste of American domestic life, a sampling of their culture without the trimmings of tourism.

Later that evening, Mr Johnson drove me back into town, from where I headed for the Greyhound Bus station, as was originally intended.

This Album was given to me by the Johnsons in 1978.

The Journey Continues.

I have to say that the rest of the journey around the United States was not as eventful as the first two weeks were. Hence, rather than go into detail about every town or city I stopped at, instead, I'll give a list of the places I stopped at and highlight those worthy of commentary.

From Portland in Oregon, I travelled east this time (and not north towards Canada, as I did the previous year.) Some 37 hours later, around breakfast time, I arrived in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Here, I met a young Frenchman, 18-year-old Florence Cozon from the French city of Lyon. We talked, and we became friends. Or at least, I tried hard to converse as smoothly as I could, even using the few French words I knew. Although his French was fluent, he couldn't speak English, and there he was, in America, an English-speaking nation, on his own, as I was.

Somehow, I envied him. I knew for sure that at 18 years old, it would have been unlikely that my parents would have allowed me to fly across the Atlantic on my own. But he did say that his mother gave him a string of warning lectures before he took off. On the other hand, in 1978, France still had mandatory conscription for the majority of young, 18-year-old males. Whether Florence was travelling in preparation for military service, whether he had just come out of the army, or backpacking to avoid the call-up altogether, I will never know. He might have even received an exemption. But being slim, slightly taller than me, and looking quite fit and abled-bodied, I couldn't imagine him receiving an exemption unless he had an asymptomatic illness.

The friendship couldn't last. At Cheyenne, the bus was at a service stop. After re-boarding, we travelled together until we arrived in Denver, Colorado. At Denver, we both changed buses. He went west into Utah, whilst I went south into New Mexico. Like with all people I meet whilst travelling, we never saw each other again.

As I travelled south, I found myself sitting next to a bearded fellow, I believe, in his thirties. We both found out that we were Christians, and having a spare Bible, he gave it to me and asked me to keep it. It was well-used and crumpled, but I was able to read it whilst on the move.

St Antonio, New Orleans.

I continued the journey south, During the small hours of the night, the bus had a service stop at Amarillo, Texas. But I was in no mood to step outside the station premises. Therefore I rested before moving on. In the early evening of the next day, I arrived at St Antonio, also in Texas. During the service stop, I managed to make my way to the River Antonio, where a pier for boarding a riverboat was based. Among others, I boarded the riverboat that plied along the river which winds its way through the city. Afterwards, the bus stopped at the Alamo Mission Chapel. Although it was shut, it was still enough for me to take a good look at the main face of the historic building.

The Alamo Mission Chapel, Texas.

I arrived in New Orleans, Louisiana, by the next morning, and I decided to spend a few days here. The hotel I stayed at was actually the YMCA in the new part of the city, a short walk from the French Quarter. Whilst under the most refreshing shower I had for a while, I was ogled at by one elderly gentleman sitting on a nearby bench. Although he called out to me, I just ignored him and said little or nothing.

This reminds me of the song, YMCA, by the Village People, with its lyrics aimed at young men meeting at a venue where women were forbidden to enter, and thus, coaxing gay relationships. It was released in October 1978, just two months after that incident in New Orleans, and I believe, made it to the top of the British pop chart. 

Which also reminds me...

In 1978, at Bourbon Street, there was an all-night gambling house and strip club, Rising Sun. This goes to show how pop entertainment can also teach where my school failed. The 1960s singer Eric Burdon with his band, The Animals, released a song in 1964, House of the Rising Sun. Although apparently non-existent at present, according to Google Maps, back in my day, not only did this establishment exist, but I actually went in to look around. The upstairs floor had gambling rooms, where customers sat at a table, each with a deck of cards and playing for cash winnings. Downstairs was the strip club. And yes, I did sit towards the back and watched.

I know, as a Christian, I should have walked straight out, according to my church friends. Surely, this was no place for a Christian! But what I felt in my heart matters. It was a deep sorrow for the woman who performed on stage. She did it for a living, and she didn't look that happy. I felt sorry for her, what it must be like having an audience of lecherous eyes gazing at her. Eventually, I rose and walked out mid-show, feeling none the worse for wear.

On another occasion, I was walking along the street, and I was stopped and spoken to by what I first thought was a young woman but turned out to be a male cross-dresser or transvestite. I was beginning to wonder whether this city was really God-forsaken as some had reputed it to be.

Yet, New Orleans French Quarter is steeped in history. In the evening, a band marches through Bourbon Street. Whether or not this was a remnant of the slave trade where servants were, in the past, publicly displayed for sale, I wasn't certain. But it's not to be confused with the annual Mardi Gras, a street performance similar to the Notting Hill Carnival, but unlike the Summer London festival, the Mardi Gras takes place in February.

Whilst checking out the French Quarter, there were two other British visitors, both from where I worked at the time, British Aircraft Corporation in Weybridge, Surrey. They too were backpacking the States at the same time I was. Back at work a couple of weeks later, these two approached and asked me if I was in New Orleans. When I answered yes, they replied that they saw me there, and had asked whether I was on my own, and also answered yes to that, they gasped, and said how brave I was!

I was impressed with the Creole architecture of the French Quarter, with the first-floor balconies fronting many of the upstairs bars. Yet, despite the uniqueness of the architecture, one friend of mine, who saw the slide I took of one of the streets, said what a dump New Orleans was - just like (the town of) Maidenhead, eight miles north of our hometown of Bracknell.

Creole Architecture, French Quarter, New Orleans.

The main square of the French Quarter was Jackson Square, backed by St Louis Catholic Church, in which I sat and meditated one afternoon. Fronting the Square is the bank of the Mississippi River with raised levees preventing the river waters from overflowing and flooding the city. 

Eventually, it was time to move on.

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Next Week: Miami Beach and back to New York.