Prisoner of the White Lines: Chronicles of a Vagabond

By R. E. Urycki

Prisoner of the White Lines is a travel memoir. R. E. Urycki's account of hitchhiking through Europe, Africa, Israel, and Alaska is a sojourn back to a time long gone, what the author describes as "a golden era of travel." Beginning in 1969, the narrative follows this vagabond who, through his journey of self-discovery, reveals the beauty and kindness of people everywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristin Dages
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201402815

Book preview

Introduction

The idea of doing something unique and atypically rare (at least for us) was born at the Varsity one Friday night early in 1969. A student bar just south of the University of Akron, the Varsity happened to be one of the few college taverns in the area worth spending time at; girls liked hanging out there and beer was cheap. Those were the days of 3.2% alcohol beer and a drinking age of eighteen. Kent State had much more to offer in terms of music and a bar scene, but at fifteen miles away, convenience trumped.

I knew Kevin from high school where we once called off sick to sneak away and play golf at the Firestone North course. After getting off the bus at Archbishop Hoban High, I walked directly to Kevin’s vintage WWII Willy’s jeep parked just out of sight of school property and away we went. Just before the final bell rang at 2:50 PM, he dropped me off at school where I cautiously slipped back onto my bus for the return ride home. His sister had played the role of our mothers and reported us off. And my innocent mom, ever so trusting, was completely oblivious to our cunning.

Kevin was neither a follower nor a leader, but he had a strong independent streak. A nonconformist, he had always seemed open to the path not taken. He could bring a smile to my face and flat out crack me up with some outrageous comment, laughing at my reaction afterwards. I thought he just might make a good travelling partner. On the other hand, I wasn’t convinced how much he was willing to compromise while being mutually dependent. For that matter, I wasn’t certain of my own willingness to meet someone halfway, but my desire to take off and hit the road made it worth the risk.

The Varsity was often crowded. Elevated voices competed with loud, nonstop music. Conversation was superficial due the decibel level and intermittent surveillance of those coming and going. Despite all that, I recall suggesting a trip to Yellowstone or some other national park for the entire summer. One of us halfheartedly suggested a trip to Europe. As we drank cheap beer and laughed at lame jokes, dreams of adventure to some far off place seemed attainable. How serious were we? Well, Kevin had been known to walk into a bar, have a beer while laying a few pearls of wisdom on anyone listening, and then suddenly leave, not to be seen again for months. But if anyone was game for trying something out of the norm, it was Kevin. And I, in dire need of an adventure, was definitely in. Were we kidding ourselves?  Perhaps, but it was 1969, we were dreamers, and it was time for something truly out of the ordinary to take place.

My life till then had been unremarkable. Don’t get me wrong - my siblings and I always had the basics, i.e., food, a roof over our heads, and a mother who was always there for us.  But our family had never gone anywhere worth noting outside of a camping trip to Canada when I was fifteen. R&R, a military acronym for rest and relaxation, didn’t apply to us. But that didn’t erase the hunger I had for a quest, a journey to some far off place, any place.

At the age of eleven, I began delivering papers for the Akron Beacon Journal. At thirteen, caddying at Congress Lake Country Club along with my older brother Stan felt like a promotion. A job as a carhop at a hamburger joint called Pogos followed when I was sixteen. Working as a stock boy for J.C. Penney’s a year later lasted until I hit the mother lode: I was hired as a teamster on the trucking docks at Pacific Intermountain Express, P.I.E. The money was exceptional and opened up a slew of possibilities.  Paying for school without loans or help from my parents was suddenly a reality and a release from what had been a payday-to-payday existence.  Though I had never been averse to working hard, playing hard had never been part of the equation. At long last, that was about to change.

Stories about my dad’s journeys to places with wildly adventurous names like Casablanca, Morocco; Quito, Ecuador; Guatemala City, Guatemala; and Karachi, Pakistan stirred my imagination. Thanks to General Tire International, Dad traveled worldwide for many years, with some trips lasting more than six months. I don’t know how my parents’ marriage survived such lengthy separations, but it was a different era. In grade school, I once tried persuading him to take me on his next trip to Morocco, knowing General Tire picked up the tab for housing and schooling when families accompanied their employees. I think my mom would have loved that kind of adventure, but both parents had to be committed and my dad just wouldn’t consider it. Taking our family overseas would have been a huge responsibility for him. Looking back, I can vaguely see his point of view, but I would have opted to have my kids experience other cultures. It became clear that if there were to be any adventure in my future, I would have to make it happen myself.

When New Years Day ushered in 1969, I had no idea it would be the best year ever. Things started looking up when Kevin and I visited Europa Travel on Grant Street soon after our serendipitous meeting at the Varsity. The little Hungarian owner of the modest neighborhood travel agency in Firestone Park informed us of all the upcoming flights to Budapest and other European destinations. Discussing a trip to Europe was like considering how much money I would allocate from my lottery winnings for my trip to the moon. Nothing seemed real or possible, not yet anyhow. The travel agent advised us to get our passports (a $10 fee), and then return. Once our passports arrived, reality began to sink in. We returned to Europa Travel, and after a few more questions were answered, boldly purchased one-way tickets from New York to Luxembourg by way of Iceland on Icelandic Airlines. Only when the die was cast were my parents informed - no sense creating barriers needlessly.

It’s been said that the Hippie Trail from the U.S. began on Icelandic Airlines to Luxembourg and overland through Istanbul to India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. The rationale for buying a one-way ticket was in case we traveled far and wide, a return ticket could be purchased without being forced to backtrack. We planned to work and save enough money by our departure date in early July.  I was totally psyched!

The year 1969 was full of unrest and tragedy, and at the same time, excitement. It had been only a year since the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. Demonstrations in Northern Ireland by Catholics against British rule defined the period later referred to as the troubles, and the names of Bernadette Devlin and Ian Paisley were in the news often. Both Russian (Soyuz) and American (Apollo) spacecraft were taking off almost monthly, each attempting to best the other during the space race. Richard Nixon became U.S. President and the Vietnam War raged on as anti-war demonstrations were a regular occurrence. The Stonewall riots in NYC marked the beginning of the gay rights movement. The Cuyahoga River caught on fire, sparking environmental awareness that led to the first Earth Day a year later. Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon’s surface. The Charles Manson murders scared the bejesus out of a nation in early August, while just a week later in upstate New York, Woodstock became the most celebrated music festival ever. Hurricane Camille, race riots, anti-war protestors taking over buildings on college campuses - it was just a crazy year and no better time to hit the road. Taking off to Europe for some adventure and self-discovery didn’t seem so ridiculous after all.

The writers and poets of the Beat Generation were unknown to me in 1969. It would be five years later on my third trip, in Alaska, that I was moved while reading Desolation Angels. Was it Kerouac’s pen or was I emotionally vulnerable 5,000 miles from home? Who knows? But this first trip, the one I think of as my most eye-opening and life-altering experience, didn’t require inspiration from a friend nor the pen of a writer but simply a deliberate decision to follow my gut and go for it.

Part 1: Europe 1969

I saw in their eyes something I was to see over and over in every part of the nation - a burning desire to go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from any here. They spoke quietly of how they wanted to go someday, to move about, free and unanchored, not toward something but away from something. I saw this look and heard this yearning everywhere in every state I visited. Nearly every American hungers to move.

John Steinbeck,

Travels with Charley

1   A Giant Leap

A few weeks before our scheduled departure, Kevin informed me that a buddy of his would be joining us. Surprised, I put on my best face and went along. I had never met Mike and was concerned how the three of us would travel together, especially when hitchhiking. This wasn’t how I wanted the trip to begin, and we hadn’t even left town. But I wasn’t about to torpedo months of planning and joyful anticipation on the eve of an adventure I never thought I would take. I bit my tongue and was glad I did because Mike turned out to be a genuinely likeable guy. 

The flight from Cleveland to New York City was my first experience with air travel, and so a few butterflies were in order.  After checking in at JFK International and following a brief delay, we were finally instructed to board our Icelandic Airlines jet. Walking down some stairs from the concourse onto the tarmac, we were captivated by one behemoth of a plane. To our surprise, there were two huge propellers attached to each wing. We were flying in a prop??? The three of us had assumed we were taking a jet, but incredibly, it wasn’t a mistake. It would be a slow flight to Keflavik Airport in Iceland, and after an hour layover, to Luxembourg. With the time change, the total flight took twenty-one hours for the one-way trip, which cost each of us $205. I guess that could be interpreted as a deal if we were paying by the hour. The CL-44J turbo prop was the largest passenger aircraft flying over the Atlantic at the time. It was also the year that the 747 jumbo jet took its maiden flight . . . we just happened not to be on it!

In spite of the slow, rumbling boxcar that carried us to the continent of my grandparents, I was on cloud nine as we flew over Scotland, England, Belgium, and France before landing at Luxembourg’s Findel Airport. Like children at Ben and Jerry’s for the first time, it was impossible to disguise our excitement. We must have been comical, as one of my first memories was of the three of us relaxing at a table in the quaint Luxembourg town square enjoying a large mug of beer and smiling at everyone. We had arrived! Just nineteen years old, I felt ecstatic. But I had also planned poorly, unsure of my travel itinerary and the means to support it. I soon realized that the ancient suitcase I had grabbed out of the attic for this adventure wasn’t going to work. After jettisoning the outdated luggage, I purchased an army duffel bag, another poor choice but superior to an ugly suitcase. Afterwards, we decided to buy one-speed bicycles (Kevin’s idea, I think) on which we would discover Europe.

On the morning of the third day, we snapped pictures of each other next to our bikes and began our ride north through the hilly Ardennes Forest to the town of Bastogne, Belgium, about forty-five miles away. We pedaled along hilly country roads dividing fields and forests of various shades of green. We were preoccupied with adventure, and to a slightly lesser extent, girls. I recall riding by a cluster of small houses, one of which revealed several girls in short dresses   smoking cigarettes and smiling as we passed. Kevin said they were prostitutes. We laughed at the suggestion, but kept pedaling.

By the time we got to Bastogne, we were sunburnt, tired, and in need of a room and some food. The town square displayed a WWII American tank, a reminder of the legendary Battle of the Bulge. All was peaceful that evening, however. Once we reassessed our genius decision to cycle through Europe, we agreed to ditch the bikes and hitchhike from that point on. Not only would we interact more easily with the locals, we reasoned, but we would also cover more territory with less pain. Without having enough time to sell our bicycles, we gave them to three young boys in the town. They looked surprised and probably thought we were nuts, but we felt good about our philanthropy. Our romantic European bicycle adventure had come to an abrupt end after only one day on the road.

Next morning, we hitched to Brussels, then to Oostende, Belgium on the English Channel. We knew from that first lift that we had made the right decision. Hauling a duffel bag up and down hills on a one-speed bicycle wasn’t that much fun.

Oostende was an attractive coastal town with numerous shops, cafes, and bars amid the ubiquitous cries of seagulls. We planned to take the ferry across the narrow channel to Dover, England later that night, but until then, there was time to explore. Luckily, we found a bar with the music of the Rolling Stones blaring and young people dancing. It was fun, we were young, and our heads were in the clouds. We were on top of the world. I still remember the German girl wearing a red dress who nodded yes after I asked her to dance. Jesus!

Once we left the club, we sat outside near the seawall to watch ships from the Belgian navy sail in and out of the harbor. We joked about joining, wondering aloud what everyone at home would think. That’s called sleep deprived, alcohol induced conversation. We amused ourselves until it was time to board the late night ferry to England. With very little sleep during the night crossing, we feasted our tired eyes on the sunrise and the beautiful chalk-filled white cliffs of Dover. After passing through customs, we decided to head to London, but not before climbing a hillside pasture above the country road leading out of town to lie down and catch a long nap. A couple of hours later, we were awakened with a tap on the shoulder by two policemen or ‘bobbies’ wondering what we three vagabonds were doing lying in an open field on private property. Trying to wake up, we fumbled for an explanation while being escorted back to the road. We had a good laugh afterwards and chalked it up to one of the many unforeseen experiences of the trip. I can’t speak for the others, but I was continually in a state of bliss, taking in the sights, smells, language, and culture everywhere we went. Deciphering the British accent, observing cars driven on the left side of the road, taking in the beauty of the three hundred-foot high white cliffs and surrounding countryside, I was a sponge soaking up a newfound world. Kerouac once said, Why travel if not like a child? Hear! Hear!

After passing through the pretty village of Canterbury, we quickly reached London, only sixty miles farther north. Luck was with us when we sought an affordable bed and breakfast. We were directed to take the Underground (London subway system) north to the outskirts of London to Hampstead Heath, a beautiful area with ponds and parks. Hyelm Hostel, an old stone Victorian boarding school with dormitories, was open to young travelers during the summer for an English pound per night, including breakfast. That’s $2.40 per night for a minimum week’s stay, which was fine by us. In London, one needed at least a week or more just to touch the surface. As neophyte visitors, we saw the required landmarks, including Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, Hyde Park Corner and Buckingham Palace. Like other young travelers, we gravitated toward pubs filled with music and people our age. It was a time of change and turmoil, and we struggled to understand the significance of it all.

While in London, we visited one of its many travel agencies and discovered information about a ship that would be sailing from Le Havre, France to New York City at the end of August. The Aurelia, an Italian liner of the Cogedar Line, was transporting students on an eleven-day voyage for $210. Without question, traveling home by ship would be a sweet way to end our trip.  In addition, purchasing our fare early would help us budget our money until we embarked in Le Havre. Once we concluded it was our best option, Kevin and I bought tickets, ensuring we would be home in time for fall classes. Mike, however, planned to stay longer and therefore declined.

The weather was uncharacteristically warm and sunny, adding comfort to the thrill of our first time in London. It felt great to be alive. There was one event that I will always associate with our visit there - the Apollo 11 moon landing. We had been following the progress of the space journey and had heard that a huge screen was being erected in Trafalgar Square in central London where people could witness the historic event live. There was nothing more exciting, it seemed at the time, than being an American in England during the impending moon landing. Sometime after dark on July 20th, with Trafalgar Square crammed full of people, Neil Armstrong stepped onto the lunar surface and everyone cheered. It gave me goose bumps. All those folks cheering for America’s moon landing success were also cheering for themselves. After all, it was a giant leap for mankind.

As the end of the week neared, we discussed our next destination. Kevin intended to visit Ireland, specifically County Cork, the home of his ancestors on his father’s side. He had never had any contact with distant relatives in Ireland and had no idea if any folks would even be found. But none of us had ever been there, and so we reasoned, Why not?

Nobody can discover the world for somebody else. Only when we discover it for ourselves does it become common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.

Wendell Berry, American Poet

A Place on Earth

2  The Irish Connection

After studying a British road map and acquiring information regarding car ferries to and from Ireland, the three of us began hitching northwest through England and northern Wales to the coastal town of Holyhead. On the way, we passed through the Welsh town with Europe’s longest name . . . Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwill – llantysiliogogogoch, meaning St. Mary’s Church in the hollow of the hazel near the rapid whirlpool and the church of St. Tysilio of the red cave. Try saying that three times.

Most of the day had been rainy with low clouds and fog, but the weather cleared as we reached Holyhead. We arrived in time to catch the evening ferry to Dun Laoghaire, just south of Dublin. The trip across the Irish Sea was rough, the closest I had ever been to feeling seasick, but it felt great to land in the Emerald Isle. Kevin, in a performance worthy of St. Patrick’s return, kissed the ground upon our arrival . . . or maybe I just dreamt it.

It was late by the time we arrived, but fortunately we caught a short ride to Dublin. As in England, pubs and restaurants closed early, around 10:30 PM and very little appeared to be open. The young Irishmen who gave us a lift tried to help us find a reasonably priced B&B, but it was July and nothing was available. When our search began looking futile, they dropped us off in the center of town, wishing us some much needed luck. It was time to come up with a plan, as paying for a bed and breakfast at that late hour seemed like a waste of money. We decided to search for an all night cafe and tough it out until we could check into a B&B in the morning. There was only one problem: nothing was open. Not a café, not a restaurant, nothing! We couldn’t believe it. We felt like homeless drifters walking the streets to find some place to drink coffee and stay warm until sunrise.  How could a city the size of Dublin not have a single twenty-four hour coffee shop or restaurant for its night crowd? I could have named half a dozen places in Akron that were open all night, and would’ve catered to red-eyed vagabonds like us - not to sound like an ugly American.

That first night in Ireland was the circumstance I would think of when planning future trips. We had no sleeping bags, and Dublin gets cold at night. Everything in our duffel bags that could supply warmth was utilized as we tried to sleep in a small city park. Unable to get comfortable in the cold, we wandered aimlessly around the city center trying to generate heat by constantly moving. We found a cathedral with a small sign next to the entrance indicating its doors opened at 7 AM for 7:30 Mass, our saving grace. We planned to survive until the church doors were unlocked, sit in a pew throughout Mass for warmth and any heavenly inspiration God might impart, then find a B&B and sleep all day. That’s exactly what happened, except for the heavenly inspiration component. The night from hell finally ended.

My first impression of the Irish was how friendly and good-humored they were, more than any other people I had the pleasure of meeting. Nothing during that trip or subsequent trips to Europe, Israel, and Africa would change my view. Their witty storytelling, especially after a few pints of Guinness, was legendary. They were genuine, and even if they were dishonest, by God, they were genuinely dishonest. One unsettling experience during our time there, though, was seeing children begging on the street. A penny for bread? was the refrain. One of the poorest European countries, Ireland was the only country where I encountered beggars.  I had heard stories about children begging for their parents in order to buy liquor, but who knows?  Still, my overall experience with the Irish people was pleasurable and one of the highlights of my travels. I was about to learn just how accurate those first impressions really were.

From Dublin we hitchhiked south along the Wicklow Mountains to Wexford, and continued southwest through Waterford, home to the famous Waterford Crystal glassworks. Along that road, two older fellows picked us up, and although there were faint hints of English being spoken, we barely understood a word. Talk about an Irish brogue; it was incredibly amusing and quaint, very old-world. Eventually, we arrived in the city of Cork.

After finding a room in town, the three of us went pub-hopping in order for Kevin to do his unofficial family-ancestry research by asking an unsuspecting bar patron, Excuse me, do you know of any O’Sheas around here? He didn’t get far, but it was good fun, not the least of which was my introduction to Guinness. We also discussed how long we should stay in Cork.  There were still lots of places to see, but time was limited for Kevin and me; we had less than six weeks before the Aurelia sailed for New York.

The next day we roamed around the city before visiting the nearby village of Blarney, home to Blarney Castle and its legendary stone. Like most tourists, we climbed ninety feet to the top of the old ruin and positioned ourselves upside down to kiss the stone. The kiss, we were told, would impart the skills of eloquence and flattery. I want my money back!

On our way back to our room in Cork, we noticed a dance club nearby and decided to check it out later that evening. Cleaned up, we returned to the club where two burly bouncers met us at the door. They wouldn’t allow us to enter due to our casual dress. I think Mike wore shorts while Kevin and I wore jeans, and all of us had on loafers without socks. Everyone inside seemed to be wearing sport coats and ties, with the girls in dresses. We explained that we were Yanks visiting Ireland with limited apparel. They relented somewhat, indicating we could enter if Mike changed to long pants. Mike sprinted back to change and soon returned in jeans, after which we were finally allowed to enter.

It was evident that the Irish kids were more formal in terms of their music, dress, and youth culture. Things appeared much more conservative than in London, yet there was something innocent and refreshing. We hung out for about an hour, eyeing the girls but too timid to initiate a conversation. I was standing at a balcony overlooking the main dance area when a girl walked up and asked if I was enjoying the view. Her name was Anne Ahern. We talked for a little while before I gathered enough courage to ask her to dance, trying not to trip over myself, literally and figuratively. When I told her my friends and I were thinking of leaving the next morning, she insisted that I stay longer because there was much to see. My enjoyment at the dance hall suddenly intensified. Anne indicated her family was leaving on holiday to their cottage in nearby Crosshaven and suggested I join them. Did I hear that correctly? I must have pinched myself at that point. She was a pretty girl with long black hair and hazel green eyes. Some female companionship sounded great after a couple of weeks with ‘those’ guys. Was this unexpected opportunity with a pretty girl one I should investigate further?  It seemed that way.  The three of us had talked about the possibility of heading in different directions anyhow. Kevin was considering heading north toward Belfast, and Mike wanted to see Scotland. I had hoped to travel back to central Europe and Italy if time allowed.

I agreed to meet Anne the following day in town. The guys were eager to find out what was going on when I returned. I wasn’t sure myself, but it felt like an offer I couldn’t refuse. We concluded it was time to go our separate ways. We all felt the need for space, although there had been no disagreements. We had cut our teeth while on the road and felt comfortable traveling alone. Hitchhiking solo would also be an improvement over three guys trying to hitch a ride together. I wished Mike good luck and told Kevin I hoped to see him in Le Havre in several weeks.

The Ahern family was incredibly welcoming. I was floored that Anne could bring me home to meet her parents and a slew of brothers and sisters. They invited me to their summer cottage for two weeks as if I were an old schoolmate or a close relative. Her parents, Michael and Bridget, were warm and hospitable, just beautiful people. It was apparent that this family loved life and each other. Anne’s siblings from the oldest to the youngest were Nicholas, Mary, (Anne), Michael, Bridie, Madeline, Thomas, and Vincent. I stopped counting when the cousins arrived.

The Aherns lived at 11 Quaker Road in a type of row house. Common in England and Ireland, a row house is a row of identical looking homes sharing sidewalls and found in many working class neighborhoods. It was a short distance to the city center and the River Lee and perfect for taking walks. From our conversations, I discovered she had an aunt and uncle living outside of New York City and relatives on the Caribbean island of Trinidad. Her parents asked about my family in Ohio, while I raised dozens of questions about Ireland. The troubles were just beginning in Belfast and Londonderry and were the subject of many late night talks. I recall sitting at the table with Anne’s dad after everyone had gone to bed. We discussed WWII, Northern Ireland, Irish history, and most subjects shared by the U.S. and Ireland, all over coffee and cigarettes. He could hold his own when talking about their history, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. There wasn’t a more genuine man than Michael Ahern. And although I felt he trusted me, once the lights were out, he made sure I had no visitors until morning.

A small village fifteen miles southeast of Cork, Crosshaven was the annual summer holiday destination for the Aherns. The getaway began with giving their old English Ford a push to get it started before leaving the city. Michael Ahern was straightforward about everything and never got overly excited, even over a car that wouldn’t easily start. He was a kind, gentle man, with no stereotypical Irish temper. On the way there, we passed a tiny boat anchored on the water, which he explained with a straight face was the property of a leprechaun. Evidently, he had been to Blarney Castle as well. Once we arrived, everyone piled into a small cottage in the village, their base for two weeks. Michael told me about his plans to build a home in Crosshaven someday. As it turned out, his dream was realized several years later when he built their home on a beautiful hillside in Crosshaven at Church Bay in Temple Breedy, overlooking the entrance to Cork Harbor.

I spent most of my time with Anne, at the beach, going to the summer carnival, and taking walks alone whenever we could sneak away. She took me on a short trip to the scenic Old Head of Kinsale, a headland where we walked to the end of a peninsula that jutted out into the Atlantic Ocean. The view was spectacular. Eleven miles south of Old Head is the location of the RMS Lusitania, torpedoed by a German sub in 1915 with 1200 lives lost. Researching this book, I was surprised and disappointed when I discovered that a private golf course opened on the