Crossing Borders  by  Will Carr                 Chapter One

Crossing Borders

A personal journey

engaging the heart and mind

Will Carr

as told to Rebecca George

GLB PUBLISHERS        San Francisco

First Edition, Copyright © 2007 William Carr
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of an electronic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, translated into another language, or otherwise copied for public or private use, excepting brief passages quoted for purposes of review, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published in the United States by
GLB Publishers
P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco, CA 94107
www.GLBpubs.com

Cover Design by GLB Publishers

Library of Congress Cataloguing Control Number
2007908825

ISBN 9781934203064
1-934203-06-8

First printing Jan. 2008

This book is dedicated
to all the angels
who protect us and
four-legged creatures
who heal us.

Sometimes my memories come back to me like scenes in a play: In the opening act
I'm a bold young (27 years old) American man at my going-away party, primed to drive
a car through eighteen countries on the other side of the world. All subsequent acts
are filled with scenes of adventure, awe, friendship, discovery, and love.

Other times those memories flow as a series of vignettes, like an author's chapbook
of stories. Tales of traveling from the United States to Europe, through France,
Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Greece, and Italy. More adventures in Turkey,
Lebanon, Jordan, and the less-welcoming land of Syria. On to Egypt, Libya,
Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, and Spain.

Usually, though, the images reel through my mind like the unbroken stream of a
movie. Starting with the farewell in Greenwich Village, New York, followed by a
journey across the Atlantic ocean; segue to my arrival in France where I pick up
my new 1953 Renault 4CV. I drive around the Mediterranean, exploring ancient
lands, cultures, and peoples, encountering thrills and dangers, and coming of age.
My constant companions are my journals, camera, and sketch pads.

As I traveled long roads that were sometimes dark and lonely, my mind turned
with the wheels of my car. Intimate inquiries and personal realizations were
substantial facets of my journey, and I learned first hand that the very act of
self-examination is a significant aspect of the answers it can reveal.

For six months, I crossed many borders, and not only on land. I sought to press
through those walls that separated my sense of self and self-respect from the
attitudes and prejudices of my fellow human beings. I searched the pathways
that connect me to all the other people in my life, as well as studying every curve,
corner, and niche of my own mind, spirit, and personality.

This style of journey can't be accidental; it must be pursued. It happened more
than fifty years ago, yet to this day, I am unwilling to settle for what are merely
acceptable parameters. I will always explore beyond what is expected. If I were
to live any other way, my life would lose its art.

Farewell to the Village  Chapter One

On a warm September night in Greenwich Village, New York, in the year 1953,
my roommates threw a going-away party for me. I had been sharing a simple
2-story house on Charles Street with two other young men, neither of whom
ever became more than sharers of the rent. We were all too busy creating our
adult lives to get to know each other well; while my roommates followed their
own dreams, I worked at a reputable advertising agency during the day, and
supplemented the goals I had envisioned for myself by attending Cooper Union
artist's college at night.

Why was I about to leave my home, my job, my state, my country? Because I had
come to the realization that those brilliant, tunnel-ending ‘goals,' those
self-and-society-defining prizes, were less important than the general
expansion of my life.

It came as a pleasant surprise that my busy roommates decided to celebrate
my journey with a party. As our guests arrived, I regarded them with the nostalgic
eye of a soon-to-be world traveler. The poets, musicians, artists, and students,
male and female, wore their hip uniforms of jeans with rolled cuffs and t-shirts
(no logos back then, unless you count university insignias), and the girls' t-shirts
usually had collars. If sneakers were worn, they were Keds or Converse.
Hairstyles for the boys were short, and many of the girls wore bangs in front
with the length in back pulled into a ponytail.

My neighbor Mary was an exception in style; she showed up with a short,
expensive, Audrey Hepburn-like hairdo, a cheap, simple black dress, and bold
bulky jewelry. She also brought her pet skunk, for show. Mary tried hard to be
considered ‘bohemian.' By coincidence, she would be boarding the same
trans-Atlantic ship with me in the morning. Mary, who hailed from a wealthy
family, would be traveling first class all the way. I would not be able to travel
first class, because although my family was far from poor, I intended to finance
my own trip. How could I otherwise test my own mettle? The sort of answers I
sought were not based on the questions of my family or my social standing.
Any curiosities and subsequent illuminations had to be my own. I didn't want
to be a tourist, I wanted to be an explorer.

At that time in our nation's history, my generation carried a strong sense of pride.
Our country had saved the world from its terrible war less than ten years before
(World War II), our citizens were artistically and intellectually innovative, we were
a strong, young society with a few dollars to spend. Gender roles were strictly
defined by Barbie dolls for girls and Davy Crockett paraphernalia for boys. Korea
was a bit of a stickler, but by late 1953, our troops had reportedly left that country.

Carried by conversation, we flowed through the kitchen to the front stoop, or out
to the small park behind the house. A friend who worked as a local disc-jockey
had borrowed a stack of records from the station, and spun popular show-tunes
for us on a record player. Occasionally, he threw in some Nat King Cole, Louis
Armstrong, maybe Glenn Miller.

In and around the music, our voices bounced from topic to topic. The New York
Yankees were headed toward winning five championships in a row, while on
television, Lucy Arnez had broken prudish censor barriers by going to a hospital
for (gasp!) childbirth. Ray Bradbury published Fahrenheit 451 and Jack Kerouac
put out On The Road. Barbara Stanwyck was still hot, and Marilyn Monroe was
catching the attention of the world and the heart of Joe DiMaggio. A new President
had been sworn in that year, too. Eisenhower.

The subject of politics did arise at that party, especially since I would be traveling
to where the world war had ended not long ago, and where still more wars were
being waged. One particularly loaded question was asked by Terry, a struggling poet:
"Do you think Eisenhower means it? About that ‘even-handedness' business in
the Middle East?"

I answered, thoughtfully, "It's hard to say. I think he wants to be more ‘even-handed'
toward the Arabs, because they have all that oil." I expected the President's new
policy, specifically the adjustment in attitude toward Arabs-versus-Jews, might have
some impact on my travels since I am Jewish.

"They're battling over there, Will." This comment came from another friend, Richard,
who had joined us with a glass of beer in hand. "There's a lot of guerrilla warfare
going on, and here you are a Jewish man, about to travel through Syria, Palestine,
and Egypt."

"That's what worries me, too," said Terry. He gestured freely as he spoke to me,
dotting his words with puffs of smoke. "They're not going to want a Jewish man
in Syria. How do you propose to get into that country?"

When Terry sucked on his cigarette, it drew my gaze to his mouth. Not a month
before, I had french-kissed a man for the first time in my life. We had only engaged
in ‘necking,' which literally meant not going below the neck, but still. The lips that
now held my attention had received that first kiss.

However, Terry's question was an important one. I had already heard about Syria,
and had been told I would be allowed to enter that country only if I could prove I was
not a Jew. I explained to Terry and Richard that a letter had been provided to me
by a friend who was close to a Christian Science minister. Because the word
‘Christian' stood out so boldly in the letterhead, I assumed it would be acceptable
to anti-Semitic border guards.

The letter stated the following:
William Carr, a devout Christian, wishes to visit your country. He has no political
affiliations whatsoever with any of the countries of the Mediterranean or Adriatic
Seas, and only wishes to see Syria as a tourist.

Even if they couldn't read English, they knew the word ‘Christian' like I knew the word
‘Moslem.' The lie about my faith didn't bother me because, although I had respect for
my religious upbringing, it was not a driving force in my personality. In fact, what was
the most profound aspect of the 27-year-old Will Carr, and the very nugget of my
desire for self-expansion, was an ache of romantic absence, and a yearning for
honest, potent love.

Which brings me back to Terry. He had caught my moment of sensual distraction,
and he drew on his cigarette again, more seductively. Before I could respond to that
gesture (unsure of how I should respond at all), Mary and her skunk interrupted us.
She wore that animal like an excitable stole.

"Will? You've heard about Trieste, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. The UN just turned it over to Italy."

"Tito—he isn't very happy about that."

"Apparently nobody in Yugoslavia is happy about it. They're about to go to war."

Terry asked, "Couldn't you have chosen a safer time to go exploring that particular area?"

All four of our well-schooled minds absorbed that question, and we laughed with sad
resignation. Is there ever a safe time to explore the countries surrounding the
Mediterranean?

The sound of a new arrival gave me a reason to excuse myself. Her name was Mabel,
and we had met the day before in the Yugoslavia Consulate. I had been speaking with
a desk clerk, trying to sell him on the idea of an art show about his native country. I wasn't
getting anywhere with the proposition because the frustrations of bureaucracy don't
discriminate against any nationality.

As I changed tactics and was extracting a map of Yugoslavia from the clerk, Mabel
politely interrupted. She introduced herself to me and asked, in a delightful New
England accent, "You're planning a trip to Yugoslavia?"

"Yes," I answered with equal politeness. Mabel was old enough to be my grandmother.
She had pure white hair, compassionate eyes and a huggable vibe. I told her, "In fact,
I'm planning to drive around the entire Mediterranean."

"My goodness!" Her eyes lit with interest. "I don't think that has ever been done before."

"As far as I've been able to discover, it hasn't." I examined the crude map the desk
clerk had handed me. "This seems awfully outdated."

Mabel stepped closer, her eyes still bright and friendly, and looked over the map.
"You won't find anything current, but I can tell you a bit about the country. My husband
is a Yugoslav, the captain of a merchant ship."

What a fateful coincidence! Stepping away from the uninspiring desk clerk, I asked
this kind woman, "May I buy you lunch?"

"I would like that very much."

Although Mabel could have been close to 80 years old, she walked with a spritely step,
and spoke with the enthusiasm of a precocious child. That childlike sweetness was
enhanced when she took my hand while we walked, and we strolled down the avenue
like May-December sweethearts.

We decided to dine at the Automat, an automated diner that needed no waiters or waitresses.
All the food choices could be examined through glass-fronted machines, and once the
decision was made, it was a simple matter of dropping coins into a slot and sliding open
the door in front of your meal. Questions arise, now; how fresh could this food have been,
how nutritious? What were the standards of cleanliness? The restaurant itself fairly glowed
with polish, and the food-dispensers were spotless. The meal tasted just fine, well-seasoned
by the novelty of it all. Also, this was a place where presentation had been developed to a
consumer level of art.

Over our auto-lunch and coffee, Mabel enthusiastically described her husband's country.
"Yugoslavia is still very…rustic. You'll hardly need a map to find your way around, just follow
the road in front of you. It is a lovely road, I can assure you of that. The beauty of the country
is boundless. You'll be in an artist's paradise."

She continued. "Let's take a look at that old map, and I'll tell you of the prettiest areas I've seen."

Mostly, I listened as she spoke, but occasionally I asked a question. One such question was
about the anger over Trieste, and she responded by saying, "It has changed hands more than
a few times, and Tito is becoming quite frustrated. Their most important port is being handed
over to Italy! You must be especially careful in that area."

Just as I suspected. I next asked about local customs, and Mabel gave me some tidbits of
information, but reminded me I would be learning it all first hand, soon enough. (I certainly
would, most notably with regard to uninvited strangers in one's hotel bed, but I'll save that
for its proper place in my story.)

Mabel returned to the topic of the possible dangers. "There's so much unrest over there,
and not only in Yugoslavia. The Israelis and Arabs are also at odds, and Nasser is angry
about the Suez canal, while the rest of Northern Africa is upset with the French and the
British. Please, be especially careful with the military everywhere you go. Always remember
that if you treat them with respect, you should have no trouble."

* * *

At the end of my conversation with Mabel, I had invited her to my going-away party the
following evening, and to my surprise, there she was, stepping out of a taxi. My friends
greeted the older woman cordially, while I welcomed her with real pleasure and led her
into the house. I could tell she felt awkward in the youthful group, and whispered to her,
"Why don't we go to my room, where we can sit down and talk?"

With disguised relief, she nodded.

On the way up to the second story of the house, I apologized for the creaks and slants
in the old floorboards, but Mabel brushed at the words with a wave of her hand.
"This is a perfectly nice old place," she replied. "Are you going to live here again
when you return?"

"No, I've already moved most of my possessions to my parents' home. I'll be gone
quite a while."

I showed her to the desk and chair (which had come with the room), and sat myself
on the bed (also included in the rent). "All I have left here," I told Mabel, continuing
our conversation, "is what I'll be able to fit into my Renault."

"I can't imagine how you would pack for such an adventure. I'm still amazed that you'll
be sleeping in the car."

"Would you like to have a look at my provisions?"

"I am curious. If you wouldn't mind?"

First, I showed her some of the gifts I had received during the current going-away
party, including a nice mess kit and a sturdy flashlight. I then opened the large box
of the traveling supplies I had gathered on my own. Using my bed for the display,
I laid out a sleeping bag, air mattress, first-aid kit, map book, Coleman stove,
and my gun.

The gun, of course, caught Mabel's immediate attention. "Why on earth," she asked,
not unreasonably, "are you bringing a gun?"

"I was advised to take it for protection." I reached toward the weapon, but my hand
dropped to my side before I touched it.

"Will." Mabel rose, stepped close to me, and took my arm. It wasn't exactly a clutch,
but the grasp did convey a sense of earnest import. Her eyes examined my face,
my mouth, my eyes, even my hair. "Look at you. You're a charming, handsome,
well-intentioned young man. Nobody is going to want to kill you." Her fingers left
my arm and pointed to the gun. "Unless they find you with that."

"But if I'm accosted on the road, I'll have protection against—"

"If you're searched by the military and they turn up a gun, they're going to assume
the worst. Only yesterday we spoke of the troubles in half the lands you'll be visiting.
There are troops everywhere, and you won't be safe if anyone considers you a threat."
She took my arm again and leaned closer, pulling me in with both her serious eyes
and her physical hold on me. "If you're carrying a weapon, you could be shot instantly,
but if they didn't do that, imprisonment might be even worse."

Covering her hand with my own, I said, "I promise to think carefully about what
you've said."

"Please, please do."

I repacked my provisions, and as we rejoined the party below, I contemplated the
conflicting advice I'd been given. At the bottom of the stairs, Mabel embraced me.
"I'll be off now. I only came to say farewell."

"I'm glad you did." I walked her out to the street and hailed her another taxi. Before
she closed her door, she said again: "Please, whatever you do, don't bring that gun."

The intensity of her tone struck me as more powerful than that of those who had
suggested I bring a weapon in the first place. Who was this woman, and what
was the import of her fleeting appearance in my life? She had brought no gift
but that of her warm, loving self. No—she brought more; sage advice. I could
only have heard it best from her, a bystander who seemed objective, but who
lost that subjectivity through the warm, brief meshing of our spirits, an angel who
had one message for me that brought me safely through my trip.

I find it hard to believe I would have survived my Mediterranean adventure if I had
not heeded Mabel's warning. Like a visiting angel, she came into my life for one
purpose. I never saw or heard from her again.

* * *

The following day, my sister Anne stood with me on the dock, moments before
I would board a ship called the Andrea Doria. Very few men passed us without
at least two appreciative scans of my voluptuous sister. She either ignored them
or didn't notice them at all—I've always wondered if she has ever been aware of
the devastating effect she could have on men. Thick, dark, wavy hair, usually worn
long, and smooth, olive-complected skin, combined with a finely balanced, neatly-
featured face and a beautifully curved body, wow. All that, and she still radiates
inner-strength and intelligence. Men can fall over themselves around her, yet that
never trips her up.

With a mix of pride and shyness, she held out a package. "Here's your present."

"Ah, the secret!" She had shown up late to my party the previous evening because
she had been working so hard on my parting gift. Unable to complete it in time
for the festivities, she had promised to finish it before I was set to sail. I suspected
she had stayed up half the night working on it, but I still had no idea what it might be.

Packages back then were covered in brown paper tied with string, which I pulled away,
and a richly woven material fell into my hands. I held it up and stared, impressed.
"You made this yourself?"

She let loose her full smile and told me, unnecessarily, "It's a sweater. The design
is Norwegian. Do you like it?"

"I love it! It's gorgeous!" It truly was. At first glance, it could have been knit by a
professional. I'm wearing it in many of the photos that were taken of me on the trip.

Anne asked me, "Are you going to try it on?"

I shed my jacket and pushed my head easily through the neck of the sweater.
Perfect dimensions there. I slid my arms into the sleeves. Just the right length.
The shoulders were a bit large, but I liked the broadening effect. I pulled the bottom
of the sweater down toward my waist, pulled a little harder, and stopped. The length
didn't quite reach my belly-button. Okay, so maybe it couldn't have been made by
a professional, but that didn't mean I loved it any less.

Anne stared at me in a moment of mute concern for the fit, then we began to laugh,
falling into each other's arms. Anne stepped back and said, "It won't hurt it to keep
stretching it until it looks more presentable." Although she's younger than I am, she
fussed like a mother trying to dress her son, giving a tug here and a yank there, until
it hung with some measure of respectability.

The ship howled its final boarding blast and we embraced once more. I took a step
back, then another, but she came to me and held me for a final short moment. Near
my ear, she whispered, "I hope you took that lady's advice about the gun." She
leaned her head back and regarded me closely, her dark, spirited eyes demanding
the right answer.

I supplied it: "It's at home."

Anne's arms tightened around me, relief seeping from her very pores. "Thank God."

"Time for me to board."

She stepped back again and reached up to touch my neatly combed hair.
"You be safe, and you be careful. I'd also tell you to stay out of trouble, but then
how much fun would you have?"

We grinned at each other, and I gave her a gentle pinch on the arm. Just as gently,
she slapped my hand away. "I thought you outgrew pinching me fifteen years ago!"

"Looks like I needed to get that final one out of my system. You take care of
yourself, too, okay?"

"I will. Wear that sweater, it will bring you luck."

With a nod, I began to walk away, but Anne called out, "Remember to write to me!
Oh—and tell Antonio I said ‘Hi'!"

The name made me falter in my steps. More on him soon. At the moment, I stepped
onto the gangplank with the light, firm steps of a twenty-seven year-old man, somewhat
saddened to depart family, friends and a promising career but excited for what the
future will hold.

As I stood waving from the ship's rail, next to the wanna-be bohemian Mary
(who had thankfully left her skunk at home), my mind began to prepare for my journey.

What did I expect from this trip? As I've already implied, something different from Mary's
apparent plans. I sought adventure rather than tourism, involvement rather than voyeurism.
The places I would visit were steeped in ancient history and miracles of mankind, brewing
with deeply embedded cultures, and alive with scents, scenes, and languages I had never
imagined. I would not only see, but experience, something more than the comfort of First
World countries.

America was an easy place to live, yet so many societies in foreign lands had been
endlessly oppressed and abused. What might it be like to sit in a café surrounded
by people who were willing to form revolutions against powerful, ruthless governments?
How would it feel to rub elbows with those who could trace their lineages and cultural
beliefs through thousands of years? There were elusive qualities in such people,
qualities I had never been able to find in myself. I hoped it might be possible to
absorb, perhaps through osmosis, some of their unique, admirable characteristics.

It was my intention to expand my fundamental self, and the timing was perfect. I was young,
strong, healthy, courageous (perhaps to a fault), restless, and intrigued by the world around
me. I hoped for more than what I had received from a relatively prosperous New York
childhood, a university degree, and the start of a ‘right track' advertising career. The idea
of challenge attracted me, and a part of me wanted to test my own sense of self-worth.
Living in a prescribed society can make it difficult to examine ourselves objectively.
To never follow any call but that of convention is a slow death of self, and a drastic change
in our day-to-day living is sometimes the only way to find our most honest answers.
Funny, though, how simple ‘drastic change' can be. Step outside your home, but instead
of going to work, board a ship to another country.

Change is actually easy because it's constant. Taking control of change is where the
challenge lies. Otherwise, we're nothing more than stones that are tossed and shaped
by a forceful flow, a river of others' expectations.

At the time of my trip, it was also becoming increasingly important for me to investigate
my sexual drive—at the relatively advanced age of twenty-seven, I was still a complete
virgin. There could be any number of reasons for this anomaly, but what stands out to
me now is that there existed a stalemate between what was expected of me and
unanswered questions within myself.

I recalled thinking a lot when I was young, wanting a close friend, someone to share all
my secret longings and mysteries of what my small world was like and the confusion
I felt about why my parents seem to always make me feel on edge, as if something
would trigger an emotional explosion between the two. It seemed I was always too
absorbed in my own thoughts, and since we lived for my first years upstairs from my
Grandparents and many uncles, there was rarely a feeling of loneliness. Our next door
neighbors, a polish immigrant family, had a son my age, Eddy, and several girls.
They formed part of my childhood. An old man lived in a cellar apartment next door
also, and he would give Eddy and me a penny if we would show him our penises
and let him feel it. It was our secret. After a few times we had enough money saved
to buy treats like ice cream sodas.

In back of my Grandparent's house was a slaughterhouse where they butchered
calves and cows. It was their living. I still remember the few times I saw the cow's
throats being cut by a rabbi and the blood falling into the drain. I must have had
nightmares about it. To this day, I can't face a vision of someone wounded with
blood flowing or a surgical operation on TV. I feel drained and empty inside my body.

In September of 1953, boarding that ship was a physical manifestation of a journey
I had already begun. Ignoring the call of adventure would have been an insult to
my spiritual designs.

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