1. Turkey
It took us just over two years to save enough money. By then, I had nearly finished my pupillage at Jacob Keren & Associates. Pilkin was slogging his way through his course at the Hebrew University and making every effort to shine on the stage.
Sipping a second glass of Cognac in the comfortable dining room in Pension Kegel, I recalled with amusement the unadorned berth my friend and I had taken on a Turkish ship sailing along the coast of Anatolia to Istanbul. It had been a no-frills trip marked by the need to economise. Yet, despite the parsimony dictated by our circumstances, our adventure had left a deeper impression on me than the many high class tours and neatly planned excursions I had enjoyed later on in life.
In the ancient port city of Iskenderun, the sight of women in Purdah startled both us. In Israel, the attire (even the veil) had been dropped by Arab girls for years. During the subsequent stops of the ship, we were captivated by the sprawling market in Mersin, although both of us closed our nostrils as we passed by the bags of salted fish, and by the beauty of ancient Izmir. Unexpectedly, we had traversed back in time, from modern and prosaic Tel Aviv to an environment we should have known from our books but which, in reality, was alien. I recall vividly how a taxi driver drove in a remarkable zigzag as we returned to the port from Izmir Peak along the steep and poorly formed road. When, at long last, I managed to convey our concern, he explained he had to proceed in this manner because his car had no brakes. It seemed best not to translate his retort to my bewildered friend.
We felt more at home in Istanbul, where Pilkin secured us a room in a youth hostel. After a few hours of rest, we proceeded, as planned, to the notorious district whose fair occupants had contributed so much to the history of the town founded by Constantin the Great. For a while we watched the demi-monde women, smiling at passers by from the windows of their ramshackle houses. Then, as planned, we separated, agreeing to meet ‘later on’.
Pilkin arrived at our rendezvous some twenty minutes later than expected. To my surprise, he was scowling. “Well, how was it?” he wanted to know.
“Awful!” I admitted. “She did her best to finish me off as fast as possible. It was disgusting – might as well have pulled myself off!”
“What language,” muttered Pilkin, trying to keep a straight face. “But, Bushi, did you pay straight away?”
“Well, yes; she told me that was ‘the custom’!”
“No wonder she rushed you off!”
“And you? I suppose you got a better deal? “
“To tell you the truth – not really!”
“But then what took you so long?”
“I haggled with her. So she told me all about her drunken father; her sick mother in hospital; her younger sister with her two bastards; her twin brother in jail and her nephew without shoes!”
“How about her grandmother?”
“We didn’t get that far! I gave in after the ‘nephew’!”
“How much did you pay the bitch?”
“25 lira!”
“That’s what I paid!” I conceded, adding with a touch of Schdenfreude, “and without a fuss! But what happened after you struck a bargain!”
“She got me off in a flash. Said she had to visit her sick mother. But she promised me a discount if I came again tomorrow!”
“Pfui,” said I.
“Stunk” sighed Pilkin.
“Might as well have saved our pennies,” I muttered. “Think about it: we work like coolies for two years and then throw the money away on two brainless tarts! Might as well have stayed in tonight!”
“I am not so sure about that,” said Pilkin thoughtfully.
“Well, we might have gone to a show or a concert?”
“But, Bushi, what would our friends say if we hadn’t had a go? They’d call us chickens and worse!”
“And what will they say when we tell them!”
“But we won’t tell them the truth!”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll tell them it was exhilarating – a touch of real life!”
“And next thing is some harmless clods will also get cheated because they believe us?”
“Just as we made fools of ourselves because we listened to the nonsense of some other yokels!”
“Oh, very well,” I agreed, thinking that equality was rough justice.
We were by then well past the red lights district. Suddenly, a delicious aroma struck my nostrils and the sight of the Shwarma, rotating on the spit in the window of the small Donner Kebab stall, made my mouth water. A swift glance at Pilkin confirmed that he, too, was going through agonies.
“Well, how about, Mr. Chief Treasurer?” I coaxed.
“It smells good, Bushi,” he groaned. “But we’ve spent too much money today. We’ll come back tomorrow or the day after. We must be prudent!”
“I know,” I capitulated and walked on briskly. Initially, Pilkin followed resolutely in my steps. Then, deliberately, he turned round on his heels.
“Bushi, I dropped my note-book; I’m sure I took it with me. We better look for it. Let’s walk back!”
“Of course,” I volunteered, although I recalled vividly that, just before we went out, Pilkin had hid his note-book beneath the false bottom of his suitcase. When we were again in front the Shwarma stall, Pilkin succumbed.
“The hell with money: its smell’s delicious. Let’s have one! We’ll go without lunch tomorrow!”
“Amen!” said I.
The vendor smiled at us sympathetically as we produced our crumpled notes. Taking in my friend’s enormous bulk, he added some extra scraps of mutton to what was, in any event, a generous helping. Munching away with zest, I concluded that gluttony was a sin more rewarding than lust.
During the next few days we went to the museums, to the Blue Mosque and to St. Sophia. All were fascinating. We also took a trip along the Golden Horn and another to the ancient citadel policing the sea route to the Marmara sea. We were, of course, aware that, in modern times, Istanbul did not occupy a place similar to ancient Constantinople. It had long lost its status as one of the major centres of the old world. But, even so, the splendours of the ancient town made us gasp. The porcelain museum, in particular, made me open my eyes wide.
Although we used public transport and took advantage of all discounts available to students, our meagre funds were dwindling fast. The Shwarma and Falafel stalls, the brilliant cafés – each of which appeared quite inexpensive in itself – produced their domino effect. We were perusing our accounts with concern, when my favourite Goddess – Fortuna – sent us her angel, clad as a middle aged, one eyed Turk, with a sharp goatee and a sizeable paunch.
“You two boys want work?” he asked in broken English.
“Yes,” said the spokesman, viewing him with overt suspicion.
“My tour guide is hospital! Porter tells me small chap speak German.”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“You now guide. I pay 35 Lira a day and you get tips!”
“But I know very little about Istanbul!”
“Here is book for guide. You learn.”
“And my friend?”
For a while Mercury scratched his beard. He then came up with a splendid offer. His ‘Organisation’ was running a gambling joint. Pilkin would be paid 50 Lira a day for acting as scout. If there was any sign of the police he had to take off his hat and scratch his left ear. The policemen were uniformed and so easy to spot.
We served our new boss loyally for two weeks. In the process, I acquired an expertise in the history and demography of the ancient capital of Byzantium. Pilkin, in turn, developed into a master spy, with an understanding of Istanbul’s underworld. As we counted our accumulated earnings at the end of the period, we discovered it added up to more than the modest amount we had at the beginning of the journey. Thanking our cycloped benefactor warmly, we promised to be again at his service on our next trip.
2. Onwards
The sense of financial security, prompted me to propose that we take the train to Saloniki. Pilkin exercised his veto. Wealth, he asserted solemnly, should not ‘go to a sane man’s head’! The appropriate procedure was to get free passage.
Making myself comfortable in the neat dining room of Pension Kegel – some 40 years after our jaunt – I could not help smiling at the financial prudence accommodated by youth and high spirit. Who from amongst my long line of students – in New Zealand, in Australia and in Singapore – would believe that his grey faced, bald headed, Professor had ever contemplated as undignified an act as ‘bumming a ride’? The truth is that ‘Prof.’ had waited patiently in a queue of youngsters, at the outskirts of Istanbul, until the kindly driver of a goods truck offered him and his portly friend a trip to the desired destination!
In the event, Salonika was a disappointment: yet another prosaic town without character. We were equally disenchanted with the Thermopylae. The modern coastline and mountain pass bore no trace of the heroic stand of Leonidas and his Spartans.
To my relief Pilkin came to life in Athens. We were relaxing in the ancient amphitheatre, each lost in his thoughts, when Pilkin got up, raised his right arm majestically, and recited without a flaw the sparkling Hebrew translation of a passage from Iphigenia in Aulis.
“Brilliant,” I said, clapping enthusiastically. “So this is where Euripides staged his plays!”
“And the stupid Athenians pelted him with mud!”
“And that fool of an Aristophanes parodied him,” I muttered in disgust.
“Out of envy – surely,” observed Pilkin, who admired Lysistrata and The Birds.
“Quite,” I admitted, adding after a pause: “So this is the way to see Athens!”
“How?”
“By experiencing the atmosphere and charm of this modern town whilst recalling, when possible, the glory of the past!”
“I agree,” nodded Pilkin.
This sensible orientation stood us in good stead during our days in the Greek Islands, in Corinth, during the short visit to Mycenae and on our trip south to the ruins of Sparta. Then, after a few days in Kalama, we were engaged as crewmen on a freighter sailing to the Bay of Naples.
Both of us enjoyed Italy. Notwithstanding his portly expanse, Pilkin joined me on the climb to St. Michele in Anacapri. After a fierce argument, he accepted my views about Tiberius Caesar. With some chagrin, he conceded that an emperor who retreated from the hustle and bustle of Rome to the peace and quiet of this enchanting spot could not have been as evil as depicted in The Twelve Caesars. He grinned when I told him fiercely, that Markus Suetonius was yet another unreliable historian.
“You are not thinking of Josephus, by any chance. You made a reasonable argument to exonerate him from treason. But wasn’t he unreliable and gullible?”
“Oh well,” I gave way.
We had comparable, political and sociological arguments, as we visited the shrines of Rome, the museums of Florence, the Scala and The Last Supper in Milan and the Piazza St. Marco in Venice. Throughout the inspiring trip, we replenished our ever dwindling funds by securing odd jobs in bars, in restaurants and in other establishment that thrived on the toil of lowly paid transient employees.
After some deliberation we agreed to proceed to our next destination – Genoa – on a night train. To our surprise, the conductor offered us a first class cabin for a small handout. Making ourselves comfortable in this luxurious accommodation, both of us soon fell soundly asleep.
3. Zermatt
When the brusque knocking on the door brought us back into our surroundings, the sun was glimpsing warmly through the window blinds of the cabin. A glance at the watch told me it was close to 8.00 a.m.
“Quite a long trip for such a short distance,” muttered Pilkin as we munched the sandwiches we had got in Venice.
“I suppose the train stopped for a while on the way,” I guessed.
“Maybe,” said Pilkin.
Even after we alighted, we were pondering about the length of the journey. The mystery was solved when Pilkin, who was looking in amazement at the large lake and fountain in front of us, bumped into a passer by.
“Salud,” yelled the fellow as he pulled away.
“I thought ‘Porco’ would be more like it,” commented Pilkin as his protagonist rushed on.
“Quite,” I agreed, “but, Pilkin, something’s not quite right. Listen to them talking! They speak French – don’t they? And this fountain and lake – do they look like the Bay of Genoa?”
“Well?”
“Pilkin,” I said, having just noticed the signpost of the station, “Pilkin – do you know where we are?”
“Don’t keep poor me in suspense!”
“We are in Geneva! That idiot in the ticket office confused the issues.”
For a few moments Pilkin gazed at me dumbfounded. Then, oblivious to the hostile glances bestowed on us by the seriously minded populace, he burst into peels of hilarious laughter. Before long, I joined in his mirth.
“So we gave Columbus’ birthplace a miss,” guffawed Pilkin, “and landed in the City of Calvin; not bad – for a pair of ‘greenhorns’!”
“What are we to do?” I asked when I recovered.
“Make the most of it, of course,” retorted Pilkin, soothingly. “After all, what’s wrong with Geneva?”
“Nothing! Except that it wasn’t our destination!”
“So what? So we’ll put it on our map!”
For three days we toured the ancient capital of the French speaking Canton. The Clocks Museum, the Voltaire Museum and, above all, the Art Gallery were alluring. So were the lengthy walks along the shores of Lake Laman and through the old city.
It was towards the end of the third day, that I noticed that Pilkin was dragging his feet and, occasionally, slurring his speech. Alarmed, I had a word with the matron in charge of the youth hostel who, we had been told, was a nurse by training. She listened patiently and, after some reflection, suggested the trip must have been too tiring for my friend. She counselled a few days of rest in a quiet, even secluded, place. As neighbouring Montreux was expensive, she recommended we move on to the mountain resort of Zermatt, distinguished by its peaceful atmosphere and by the absence of any motorised traffic except electric cars. She offered to secure us a suitable room at an inexpensive establishment patronised by young mountaineers.
For years to come, I had a vivid recollection of splendours of our trip to the Resort – my very first glimpse of the Swiss Alps, of the spreading green valleys and of the snowy peeks high above them. Pilkin and I were enchanted. My own visits in later years underscored my original admiration.
For a while I kept thinking of the past. Then the lights of the dining room in Pension Kegel were discretely dimmed. Glancing at my watch, I realised it was well past 10.00 p.m. and that I was the only patron left in the spacious hall. Mumbling my apologies, I appended my initials to the bill. After a short walk to the deserted centre of town, I returned to Pension Kegel and climbed up the stairs leading to my room. In no time, I fell fast asleep.'