Encore Presentation

Lynn White

 


By Lynn White

Between 1965 and about 1970 I took every opportunity to travel in Europe (college vacations, Annual Leave from work, unpaid leave from work, time between different jobs). Mostly I hitchhiked with various friends. The poems attached relate to travels with my flatmate, Pat (we still keep in touch after all these years!).
The photos are of the time,! The first was taken in our flat - me, Pat and her sister, Lynda. Can't remember who took it. The second is in Paris - a long weekend, Easter 1966. I'm in front, Sue slightly left, behind me, Lynda centre, Pat to the right. Pauline, the 5th member of our group took the photo. We hitched in a twosome and a threesome.
 


That Was Us

That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps or money, 
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot, 
but didn’t get raped or murdered. 
So far as we can remember.

Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free. 
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere 
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not speak, 
why this was necessary. 

Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French 
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’ 
Sod off! 

That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came, 
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies, 
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace. 
This being the main street in Trieste.

Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the conversations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty roadside and fantasise 
about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden. 


Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals 
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance! 
No class traitors, us! Not us, 
Not us.

They’re not like us, 
these two old women in the mirror 
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us, 
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.
First published in Necro Production Magazine, Issue 2 ‘Youth’, 2020


Barcelona Past

It was our first trip to Spain.
We were determined to travel
and little money we hitched to Spain.
Barcelona was the choice.
Well not choice exactly.
It was where the driver was going.
He found us a pension
in an old street.
He knew the owner.
Well he’d stayed there himself.
It was cheaper than cheap
and friendly.
We went out to explore that first night.
So different,
so much character.
Then we returned,
returned to a locked door.
No bell or knocker
and shouting roused no one.
A passer by understood our plight
and clapped his hands. smiling.
Seconds later a man appeared
with a huge bunch of keys.
He let us in.
This was the time of Franco.
This was the system in Barcelona past.
We understood it then.

First published in Dashboard Horus, April 4 2022


Barcelona Sandals

Standing in the Andorra snow
shivering in our Barcelona sandals.
Glad of a lift down to Foix
as darkness was falling.
And the driver knew a hotel,
Hotel du Centre.
Very grand
and full
of people looking down
long noses.
But the driver knew the owner
who was a kind man,
a nice man.
So we shouldn't worry 
about the cost, he said.

A lovely room
and in the morning,
breakfast!
We must eat
the owner said.
Warm bread and jam.
Coffee with hot milk
which tasted sour.
But I don't like
the taste of milk,
anyway,
so most likely
it was sweet.

And then the bill.
But there was no bill.
Save it for the journey,
the owner said.
A kind man,
a nice man,
who believed
the driver's story,
whatever it was.

A few years later, 
we returned to Foix
and went to find 
Hotel du Centre.
But it wasn't there.
No one knew it.
It didn't exist.
Did it ever exist?
Did any of it happen?
Or did we somehow
share
a memory 
from our 
imaginations.


First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016


Roundabout

He picked us up near Torino,
a dapper Frenchman 
with an impressive moustache.
He was going to Nice.
So were we!
Such luck.
One lift
all the way from Torino to Nice.
We settled back to enjoy the ride.
We came to a roundabout.
With gesticulations of frustration
and twitches of his moustache,
he missed the turning.
We went round again
and the next time,
he missed it again.
The third time we were ready
to call out and point it out
in good time.
But with more expansive gesticulating
and moustache twitching
he still missed it.
There were many roundabouts 
between Torino and Nice.
We came to know them intimately.
On arrival we were hugged and kissed
in thanks for our help.
Without us, who could say where he’d be.
Not us, for sure!
He invited us to accompany him
to Monte Carlo the next day,
if we would like to.
Yes! We would like to!
We turned up at the allotted time and place,
but he never came.
So, we never went to Monte Carlo.
Possibly he never went there either.
We imagine him still,
going round and round a roundabout
somewhere in Nice,
his moustache twitching in frustration.
He’ll be a very old man by now.

First published in Ramingo Magazine, Issue 1, 2017


Where Are They Now

In 1967 I hitch-hiked to Belgrade.
My friend and I would take an over-night train
to stay with our Albanian friends
in what is now Kosovo.
Until then we had some hours to kill.

The local cafe culture called
and we ate a modest meal,
two great slabs 
of the ubiquitous cheese puff pastry
washed down with colas.

We went to the counter to pay
but the Server refused our money.
He pointed to a table where some guys
were enjoying a few beers.
They had already paid, he said.

We were mystified.
They had made no contact with us
and we tried to tell them we could not accept.
They explained that
they wished to thank us
for the help Britain had given in WW2.

Fast forward to 1999 
when the right to self determination was all the rage.
and NATO bombs were falling on Belgrade.
I thought about them a lot back then.
I think of them now 
when territorial integrity is all the rage
and the right to self determination
a forgotten dream.

Yes, I think of them now
when the bombs 
fall in Europe
once again.

But I still have my friend in Kosovo. 
Sometimes we feel human,
sometimes not.


First published in Topical Poetry, March 13 2022