How I Almost Broke the Venus de Milo

This is the first in a series of five stories about my first overseas trip during the summer of '69. I was 18 years old at the time, and, for three months, my three best friends and I hitchhiked around Europe and managed to grow up a bit in the process.

The whole idea for the trip started with the youngest of the four of us -- Kent. He was still in high school, while the rest of us (myself, Eric, and Frank) were college freshmen.

It was a time of changes, not only for us teenagers growing into men, but for the nation as a whole. Country Joe and the Fish was on the radio; the smell of marijuana was in the air, and anti-war protesters were in the streets.

Three of us worked together in a Sunnyvale restaurant, and all of us had known each other since elementary school.

The plan was simple: Get the cheapest air flight we could to England and, then, see Europe on our budget of about $3 a day. (I actually came back with a couple of bucks in my pocket.)

Well, we found a round-trip charter flight for just under $300 each, bought backpacks, told our parents, and got our passports. (Mine is shown above. By the way, if you look closely enough you can see the moustache I was trying to grow at the time. At least, I think you can.)

On Tuesday, June 17, 1969, Kent, Eric, and I took off from the Oakland Airport. (Frank followed a week or so later). After nearly 12 hours in the air, we landed outside of London and were greeted by Keith, a WWII buddy of Kent's father. Thanks heavens for that! We couldn't even decipher the British accent. Keith drove us into London with the intention of showing us a few of the sights and then leaving us at a youth hostel or cheap hotel.

You see, while we wanted to see England and Europe, we hadn't made any plans about what to do once we actually got there.

In any case, Keith quickly realized we would be lost in the crowd and took pity on us, driving us back to his home, a goodly drive north of London, and letting us settle in for a day or two before beginning our adventure on the road.

My diary entry from that first day reads, in part: "The driving in London isn't real! All sports cars zipping around ... I was scared to death. Keith took us to a pub -- we had steak-and-kidney pie and a beer! Then, we drove to Petersborough, because the money and the pace in London were too much."

Keith's home town, population about 40,000, gave us a chance to catch some sleep and make some sort of plans.

During the coming weeks and months, we managed to lose weight and gain confidence as we set out on our own. I ended up traveling through England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark, Austria, Italy, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and France.

Oh, and while in Paris, I almost broke the Venus de Milo.

It was a windy and rainy day that I first stepped into France's most famous art museum -- the Louvre.

I wore a U.S. Army coat to ward off the cold and, as always, carried my aluminum-frame backpack (something that would never be allowed inside the museum in these terrorist-conscious days).

The museum had very few visitors that dreary day, and I was often alone in its seemingly endless hallways and rooms. I don't recall even seeing a single security guard on duty.

I was having great fun. But, not being much of an art student, I couldn't identify much of what I saw.

While walking through one seemingly abandoned room, I noticed a glass case with some broken bits of marble.

Much to my wonderment, I saw a label in English declaring the shattered bits of stone were actually fingers of the Venus de Milo.

I was in culture shock! I was really looking at pieces of that famous Roman statue of the goddess of love!

Transfixed by the fact I was staring history in the face, I failed to notice that the actual Venus de Milo was right in front of me, cordoned off with those poles and ropes they use in banks to funnel their customers to the tellers.

In any case, there was an opening in the roped-off area around the statue, and I walked right through -- still staring at the glass case with the marble bits.

BAM! I ran headlong into the statue, hard enough to see stars.

As I looked up and realized I had just crashed into the Venus de Milo, I got one of the greatest scares of my life. I still don't know if it really happened, or it was simply the aftereffect of cracking my skull on the statue's thigh.

But, I swear I saw the statue rock slightly back and forth.

Can't imagine how my life would have gone if the thing had actually fallen over.