A STRANGE LAND
San Francisco International Airport was a bustling stew of agitated people pushing, shoving, and running to get to their destination, though it seemed to Alex that many of them were not certain where that was. Since exiting the plane, he was following a group of soldiers who seemed to know their way around. After a harrowing several minutes of dodging irate executives and other travelers with bad dispositions, he arrived at the baggage claim area. Around him, his fellow passengers stared anxiously at the empty slowly turning luggage carousel. It was a noisy thing that sputtered, jerked, and even screeched as if begging for lubrication. Those gathered around him paid it no mind. The older travelers stared at the contraption as if willing their suitcases to appear magically, while the young soldiers talked and laughed among themselves, ignoring everyone around them.
When the luggage eventually arrived, there was much pushing and shoving as people grabbed at anything resembling their belongings. Amidst all this chaos, the soldiers calmly took their duffel bags as they appeared, each one knowing instinctively which bag was his. Alex saw Jim Parsons one last time as he found his duffel bag on the other side of the carousel. The army private was walking away when he turned and glanced back at him in the dwindling crowd. Private Parsons hoisted the bag across his shoulder then, with a smile, raised his hand and extended him the peace sign. Before he could respond, Parsons disappeared into the crowd. Alex noticed that all the soldiers on the plane were gone now, soon toOakland, then to war.
“Good luck and Godspeed” he said loud enough to draw the stares of some older men in suits and ties who were still irritated over their tardy luggage.
With suitcase in hand, and away from the noisy carousel, he began to relax. He took his time walking through the airport madhouse in search of a pay phone. He was almost to what looked like the main entrance of the facility when he spotted a bank of phones near the slowly revolving glass door.
The only phone not in use had a large peace sign sticker covering the coin slot. Using a dime, he managed to punch out enough space to insert the coin. He pulled the folded paper containing a phone number out of his wallet and dialed the seven digits. The phone on the other end rang several times before someone answered.
“Yeah” a male voice said.
“Hello, I’d like to talk to Chick,” Alex responded. He heard the phone drop then faintly “Hey Chick, Paco’s on the line”.
Who is Paco? He wondered as he listened to what seemed to be many people talking and rather loud music playing. For some time, he waited on the phone thinking he had been forgotten and wondering how many minutes ten cents gave him. He stuck another dime through the peace sign just in case. The sound of the phone picking up was a great relief.
“Paco, hey man, sorry ‘bout the Airplane tickets mix up. I could have sworn they were playing Winterland. Man, I heard you waited in the parking lot for over three hours. Again, sorry brother.”
Alex took a deep breath. “I’m not Paco. My name is Alex Conley. Your uncle Maxwell Bestwick told me to call you when I got toSan Francisco.”
There was a long pause, then “You’re the guy who works for Uncle Max’s newspaper?”
“That’s me. Your uncle said that you might be able to help me out on some stories I’m doing on the summer of love.”
“The summer of love. You missed that by a year champ. Not to worry, I’ll help you out as best I can. Know the sites, know the people.” After a moment of silence, Chick said, “you’re not going to write anything bad about us, are you?”
“Oh no,” Alex quickly replied. “I just want to give an outsider’s point of view to what’s going on here.”
“That works for me. See you soon.”
“Wait!” Alex said loud enough to turn a few heads. “I need to know where to meet you.” Silence. “Chick?” More silence. “Chick?”
“I guess that would help, wouldn’t it?” Chick replied, and Alex jotted down the address.
The cab ride to the Haight Ashbury section of the city was interesting if uneventful. Though the buildings looked similar to his hometown, he could not help but notice the differences in the residential properties. InBaltimore, rows of brick homes lined the streets, many with marble steps to access the front door. It was a common sight to see those steps lined with their owners, on pleasant evenings, sitting and socializing with their neighbors.
Here, many of the homes were of the Victorian style with large front porches and comfortable chairs substituting for cold marble. Their differences in appearance maintained his interest for a time, but soon he became restless. They had been driving through the city for some time now and he had yet to spot a single flower child.
Things changed quickly, not long after that, as they passed by the Golden Gate Park. Hippies covered the grassy expanse. Most walked about mingling with others of their kind. Some lay out on blankets. Others played guitars to themselves or to groups of admirers. In just a few short minutes, the attire had changed from suits and ties to tie-dyed shirts, jeans, and sandals.
The middle-aged cab driver noted the development and began an obscenity laced rant about the deterioration of morals in today’s young people. Alex barely heard a word he said. A good portion of the older people inSan Franciscoobviously had no tolerance for hippies or soldiers. An irate cab driver would not dampen his excitement. His world had changed in a heartbeat from a drab gray to color.
