Innocents Abroad and Letters Home

It's difficult to understate how generally unprepared we were for our first real adventure on our own.

I, at least, was able to figure out how the money worked (pounds, quids, shillings, pence, etc.), but there was no doubt we were strangers in a strange land at a strange time (the summer of '69).

Things as simple as ordering a coffee with cream ("white coffee") or finding the bathroom ("the W.C.") threw us for a loop.

And, as for our planned manner of transportation -- hitchhiking, I think Kent (pictured at left in this picture with a palace guard) was the only one who had actually stuck out his thumb on a highway before. (Eric is shown on the far right, and I'm the dorky one in the middle with the ridiculous, striped short-sleve shirt.)

Nevertheless, we were young and didn't know, yet, how little we knew and how out of place we looked.

While it's tempting to recall each journey, I'll stick to several stories during that time that highlight some of the recurring themes of our trip.

Probably, the thing that most sticks in my mind after all these years was the total sense of discovery. Every time we turned a corner there was something we had never seen, tasted, heard, or touched before.

Just drinking milk out of a plastic bag, instead of a waxed-paper carton, was new and exciting. (The picture below was taken by Frank shortly after we took the ferry from England to Belgium.)



At this point in our journey, we were still a bit anxious about traveling alone, and we tended to split up into groups of two and meet at a youth hostel in the evening. It didn't take long, however, for all of us to gain the confidence to strike out on our own. If nothing else, it made for more stories to swap when we did get together.

By the way, do teenagers still hitchhike through Europe? If you have stories or pictures, send me a link about your experiences.

Well, on to the story for this posting. It's about letters home. I had just finished my first year as a journalism major and would write these long letters home to my mother and to two young ladies I kind of thought of as girlfriends. Eric and Frank, likewise, were writers of sorts. The written word, however, was not Kent's best friend.

Since my mother and his knew each other, mine would call up Kent's mom and read her my letters. But, Kent's mom kept waiting and waiting each day at the mailbox.

He finally got around to sending her a postcard when we made it to The Netherlands.

While I don't have the letter in front of me, I think I can recall the entire message: "Dear Mom, I'm in Amsterdam. They have legalized drugs and prostitution here. Having a wonderful time. Your son, Kent."