TRANSIT E-Book

Thomas Ludwig-Kelley

• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 196

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The book carries us like a Road-Movie trough all kind of situations (pleasant, scary, shocking, new) through several countries on the Balkan route . We meet all kind of interesting persons, places of beauty and ugliness . The used motorcycle is as well transport vehicle as driving act through the trip which has not to much in common with purely vacation and the pleasure of doing so.

Leseprobe

Thomas Ludwig Kelley

TRANSIT

a motorcycle

some thoughts and observations

and

a lot of little stories

It is not so important where you’re coming from, it is important where you going to.

(Rambling Jack Elliot)

Whatever is inside of you, one day it wants to come out.

(John Lee Hooker)

Before we start

Despite some childish situations, it has to be said, this will not become a book for children.

And it should be printed on triangular paper since it doesn’t fit into categories:

it is not a travel book, but it travels! It is not a biker book, but the bike is a character!

It is not a Love Story, but about love and pain! It is not a history book, but tries not to forget history! It is not a religious book, but it deals with believing.

Believing in ourselves! There is no happy ending, no hero-theory, just life as it goes on despite all conditions.

Finally understanding why crime stories are so popular:

better hitchhiking on feelings of others than battling with your own boringness. A kind of soul-porno, a peepshow into the dark side of human existence .

The Starting Gun

It happened very silently, concocted somehow. Just like a fart, not realizing that it had let loose.

A fart stinks, however much a relief.

For everybody who doesn’t need to smell it.

As often, hard to see the little step which divides one condition from the other. Just when it has already happened and become irreversible.

For example:

when you wake up from a nice dream in this so called reality and find out you haven’t won in the lottery.

“It is not your fault, that I’m going!”

“And it isn’t mine that you go!”

Often we don’t know exactly what we’re doing, what we should do, but we feel very clearly, we have to do it.

Are we all crazy? Ore just some of us? Or are the crazy ones those who don’t allow themselves to be crazy? The ones with cruise control in their hearts, with the thermostat in their bones. The ones who shower on Saturday and screw on Sunday! Every week! Always at the same time.

Hurting others hurts almost like being hurt yourself since you know who did it: you!

It is very difficult to point a finger at yourself. At least in a truly believable way.

And without becoming ridiculous like those Selfie-Stick-Wavers who swarm all tourist meccas like locusts, and on the internet.

“Me here, me there, me, me, me, ……” without realizing nobody gives a flying shit about all these limelight games.

Here he stands and knows, soon he will start crying. And laughing when the engine starts. The sound bouncing off the walls of the garage, the loud noise numbing feelings, beating out the rhythm of his blocked emotions.

The garage door becomes the gateway to the world out there, from darkness to light. Even while feeling the cold wind in his face. It’s still early morning and the sun battles with the clouds for center stage. Clouds, which like stubborn old people, try to stop whatever they can no longer do themselves.

And here she is:

just like him, showing all her years gone by. And just like him, a bit stinky at times.

Due to the fact that she spends too much time in the dark garage, she jumps at the chance to push herself into the leading role, hence becoming the common thread of this journey.

Built in 1972, nobly one-cylindered, a bastard child from her earliest days.

Born in northern Italy as a skinny Aermacchi but soon added like a little sister to her heavyweight American brothers Harley and Davidson, as if the lovechild of some extramarital fling. Out of fear of Kung Fu, Kawasaki, Honda, Karate-Kid and other raw Sushi-like stats that were pounding on the doors of “has-beens.”

And this is how she behaves, our not-so-young lady, always a bit of a princess, she wants it when she wants it or (often) not. But treated properly (naturally from her point of view, and this is what counts with ladies) she converts the beat of the piston into the purring of a horny pussycat. This is when she speaks to the rider, singing in four strokes. Then she merges with him like a centaur, steed and rider become one.

They say they were lusty folks, those centaurs.

Gadharva, lesser gods for the Indians. And just like them, often relegated to the back seats of existence.

Today she certainly triggers a few smiles, but she still shuffles along with her 30 hooves quite powerfully and carries him, when she wants, anywhere he heads her. As long as the sun is shining on the full tank and the road promises nice curves .

He thought, “grab the bike and off it goes,” southbound, there where Goethe wrote that lemons bloom………… but even that’s long-gone. The lemons of the last harvest were already sold and probably taste like old socks……….as they say.

Actually, he had never tried them, those socks.

He intended obviously the South which non-Italians dream about…

Those movies with Gina Lollobrigida, Claudia Cardinale and Marcello Mastroiani.

The problem is, this “South” doesn’t exist anymore! And for quite some time.

It didn’t even exist anymore when they made those movies.

Those movies made us all believe that real life happens just there, just south. Already then, they were romantic memories of Italians, pouring over bygone times. Or perhaps those old enough have started living in the past.

A problem we’ll be exposed to one day.

OK then, better in the North? Or even east? But then better southeast because from there it is just a little hop to the south. Simply better heated. And even better broiled. Not to mention the wine! How nice is Norway, but the wine from there?? Or Ireland, always having salmon and Guinness……?

Almost as bad as the Hamburger-Emergency in the Scottish ethno-restaurant starting with Mc. Or this un-ending marathon of Pizza in greasy stinky boxes. Many think this is an expression of Italian cuisine. Best ordered on the phone, delivered directly to the sofa .

No hello, no hi, just “ Pizza Service? One N° 3 and one N° 7 with extra cheese!”

“No, no onions!”

“Ciao, see you later.”

Not knowing that “Ciao” is used just with very close friends, kids or family.

Achen Pass

It started already “promisingly,” a little town right after this pass road on the Bavarian-Tirolean border, the name Schweinau (pig-meadow) should have warned him.

Remember how badly the Bay of Pigs, Cuba, in 1961 turned out…?!

In front of him a sputtering, stinking Volkswagen Beetle, clearly showing all its years.

Right turn signals, but turning left.

Sure, he knew, not to follow all blinking lights like a moth. Sometimes they’re fireflies, sometimes the girls on certain streets, sometimes airstrips ready for crash landings.

“I know, I know!” Or should know, but…….

He had started already passing when the girl clearly had her right turning indicator blinking and was even looking right, but pulled sharply left. Fortunately he wore heavy motorcycle-boots. At least for him, not so for the fender of the beetle. Separating it from the car like a sleeve, torn off an old jacket but throwing him and the bike into a tennis court net on the other side of the street.

The net was of very good quality, not only catching him, but even catapulting him back like a tennis ball.

Meanwhile a good half of the village gathered at the scene and all without exception had “seen” the mean attack on the combination beetle-tirolean girl.

“I’ve seen it all!”

“Me as well “

“Me too”

“Always those speedsters with those bikes”

“Rocker, we know them well!”

“After all a Piefke (bad name for Germans in Austria).

The fact that most call the girl by name makes it very clear who will soon be the runner up here without a match point.

After they noted the licence plate, he quickly got on his iron horse, digging in his spurs, and so escaped tar and feathering under the red-white-red-flag (Austria). Some kind of KuKluxKlan with Lederhosen (leather pants) and Gamsbart (tuff of mountain goat beard atop Tirolean hats).

The bike had practically no damage, the brake lever was a bit bent but still worked. Not really essential for a quick getaway.

Being forced to stay longer would have produced accusations like trying to place some new Sissi on the throne of the “K&K-Empire”, another attack on the crown prince Ferdinand, the loss of the port of Triest ! Not to mention the stupid rumour Germans spread , Hitler was Austrian .

Sure, he could have pointed out Kurt Waldheim, but none of them would have taken this as invitation to smile. They already hadn’t even laughed at Qualtinger’s “Herr Karl” (very ironical comedy sketch)…

Before forgetting it : the bill for a spanking new fender, its careful assembly, and a loving car wash and wax were awaiting him upon his return. Accompanied by two reminders to promptly pay since two months had already gone by . The Schilling wanted to roll just like any other coin.)

The engine drives him forward, crossing mountains till Brixen where his friend Hans used to run a motorcycle shop in the basement of an old house.

This was mainly the reason for the musty smell of this place, and was possibly the reason for giving up and turning back to the stomach aches of the snowcats dotting the mountains around him. Just him and his engines, at work with oily hands and black fingernails, but always friendly, always grinning, in one word : Hans !

Lunch at a long wooden table with long benches full of family as well, a very quiet act. Him babbling like an excited toddler was tacitly excused by the fact that he was not from the valley, an outsider.

Or did he just want to believe this to calm his conscience ?

He was fascinated from the constant view in the very same direction of all of them, like following an invisible tamer. A silent prayer maybe, were they actually the sextons, the custodians of the nearby church?

Later he realised that they simply watched the edge of the hilltop to understand the upcoming weather to make the decision what work had to be done in the afternoon.

The famous “I thought, you think that I was thinking” and so on. The infamous cul-de-sac of so many relations, in their own house, in politics.

Often raising defensive actions, even though there had been no attack at all.

Amazingly forgetting, there is a very simple solution : asking! But talk is cheap and conflicts generate money. Not just for the press, for the media, the industry producing rechargeable tools for both sides of the conflict.

“Asking? Why ? We already know….!”

Asking like kids do ! Especially at a certain age, they get on our nerves with “Why? How come?”

And they're right to ask. And should never stop asking, never ever!

Certainly we don’t always have the answers, but it is to believed nobody really expects that all the time. Especially not kids. They know how to live every day with unanswered questions and sleep peacefully anyway.

We should never ask for permission to wonder, even if this is often like bending up fingernails, like dropping your pants in the middle of the marketplace.

The famous dreaded sitting in the nettles.

Who likes consequences? String-Tangas don’t warm the buns!

What we want is quite simple: the summer not too hot, the winter not too cold, the rain not too wet.

High quotes in bills when we write them but not when we receive them.

Lottery wins without buying tickets, innocent sex, living for ever and so on.

In all modesty, are we asking too much?

We cannot escape from a place where we are not. When we have nothing and nobody, we start dreaming, in search of where we want to be, to whom we want to belong? And often finding the wrong doors, just because they were open. Falling down the basement stairs because they looked like the stairway to heaven.

The signals are always there, we might even see them , but for the most part we cannot read them.

So easy to fall into bed with someone, after dancing, after the bottle of wine is empty, its just that the words the morning after are tough.

Thank god, there is my alarm clock and the urgency to find a way to get into the rhythm of the next day.

Friaul (Friuli)

Now the heartbeat of the engine carries him away from daily stuff, now he feels the wind, blowing right in his open face. But he knows, the wind has no issues with him, it’s simply there to be taken or not. Not logical, not controlled, simply there. The opposite of us.

In snaky curved lines through the hills of the Collio Orientale ending on curved lines in his head, in which the Friulanian red wine had taken control.

Good that he knows from vineyards where people work during the day but nobody stays at night.

Rolled out his sleeping bag on the bench. Finding sleep isn’t complicated, the wine lays in his veins like lead weights on the end of a fishing rod.

The morning arrives as usual, too early, all his bones are stiff as cast iron and his ass is frozen. But the view from up there, the view …..he puts on his boots, his head hanging upside down, everything from above becomes upside down and vice versa.

Since not even God can live in all the places at the same time, I’m sure here he passes quite often just to see what’s going on.

Some slices of prosciutto from Sauris, a glass of Pomedes from Roberto Scubla, a glass of Sossò from Felluga certainly help even him see it all bathed in the soft light of pleasure. And when he stays longer, there is even time for an Orzoto with Frant from Bolder or a Frico in Jose’s La Badia, both nicely nestled on the hills nearby, both with nice views over with vineyard-covered flat lands. Often covered from this deceptive blanket of silence

which lays over work-intensive areas. Here the fantasy of the ignorants blooms, the dreams of the uninvolved. Like a sticker for the day tripper .

“New Venice in Las Vegas, no problems with language and currency, air conditioned and valet parking just below.”

He would have stood a little bit longer as Jackson Brown sang yet another song. Here is not the Yellow Submarine, the bike is blue, metallic blue to be precise, 1970s chic.

The next gear changes the music, a hard beating, four-stroke one-cylinder.

German spark plugs send little lightning bolts to the Italian engine, hanging under an American gas tank. International relations with a good chance of tension and misunderstandings, things nobody expected.

Just as quickly, his tongue burned on hot Capuccino in the nearby bar, the powder sugar of the Brioche snowflakes the gas tank. This has to be it till reaching the ittiturismo of Muggia, where Giancarlo surely awaits withfresh stories from the sea.

Since it is on the way, a little detour to Sezana. The worn-out map indicated it is nearby. Then a quick stop in Lipica, saying hello to the white steeds they’re famous for. Anyway, they stink. Horses.!Attracting thousand of flies which find a lot of work there.

He parks his horse-powers at a respectful distance, you never know . She too, the machine, is a mare as well.

When seeing them at the Spanish Riding school in Vienna with their raised legs, they seemed somehow more impressive than here, just chewing grass and neighing.

But this happens to all of us: a little bit of illumination, the right background music, and it all seems to be more appetizing.

Even the appearances of horrible dictators or other rabbel-rousers. Elections have been replaced with shares, with call-in’s, with clicking “likes.”

From here it is not far to Staniel, probably once Saint Daniel. Maybe shortened by Tito, not by the lions. At least leaving the heavy stone rooves on the low houses. The Ferrari Garden, from the 1920s , not connected at all to some car brand. We forget quite often, the name Ferrari is in Italy as rare as the name Smith. Italy? Yes once Italian borderlines included this area. Ferrari from “ferro (iron)” and here is the connection: even the smith has to deal with it. Mister Ferrari was a doctor from Triest who created this park on the terraces like many rich persons think they need a bit of Versailles, a bit of Sansouci.

The top of the S. Daniel church reminds us a bit of muslim construction. Maybe, the Turkish builder remained here. Maybe he found a taste for wine, women and song in another tongue and let the Turks go where they were forced to go after the non-retreat of the Ottomans.

OK, it was not completely voluntary, they planned to construct some more mosques after taking over Vienna.

For some hundred years the Viennese had a break from that, but they arrived anyway, the Turks, the Döner Kebab , the Burkas ,the minarettes on the Hubertusdamm.

Carrying with them permanent discussions and some things, not only Vienna woud miss today:

- the coffee

- the breaded veal

The last one, ignoring the historical facts, called“Wiener Schnitzel.” Something the Milanese call “Cotoletta alla Milanese.”

As many times in history, two fighting sides ignore the Trigonometry of the third side of the truth.

Karst (Carso)

The Karst, an elevated plateau of limestone and gypsum with many naturalcaves, offers especially in fall a explosion of colours , competing with New England’s National Parks, but offering a rich cuisine. A mix of north-eastern and Mediterranean traditions, having both forests and the sea nearby.

Not now, but this ever-changing play of colors you’ll find in a glass of Teran even now, a red wine tough like the population and nature there.

Then you’ll find the Fifty-Shades of leaves, no need to paint them, nature has not left one color out when it swung the brush.

Even when the smell of grilled Cepapcici treacherous and tempting creeps under his helmet, he holds his hunger till Muggia for the seafood there.

The bike reacts to the throttle like a plowhorse but changes into a racehorse, and snorts, running where it believes it should go.

Travelling on a bike reminds you of travelling on a horse in many aspects. You sit on top, in the open air, catching all the wind, rain. Andthe flies !

But always in the middle of the landscape you’re crossing. It’s enough to put one foot on the ground and you’re part of it.

So close to the stomping engine is like feeling how the horse is straining its muscles.

Ittiturismo

It’s the cousin of agriturismo. In both you’re suppose to offer just products raised on your terrain or your own fishing. State-Tax-wise a very clearly-defined institution in Italy, which allows small farmers and fishermen to survive when facing big, maybe even multi-national competition. Unlike agriturismo, found everywhere throughout Italy, ittiturismo (just fish) is relatively rare.

The owners of such places have to fish themselves, have to have their own boats, and are not permitted to go more than 3 miles offshore. This guarantees the local context and preventslarge structures from overfishing, killing off fish and fishermen in the long run.

La Terrazza is truly a terrace on a pier, reaching out into the sea. You’ve got your choice of view, either the cranes of the port or the boats of the fisherman. That is, when you don't find all the tables occupied as usual...

The next choice you might have to make is: cheap plastic chairs from the construction market or slightly Asian pseudo-bamboo chairs, or last but not least the Beergarden-like benches, not comfy but matching the place the best. Especially for groups and families.

Having almost no choice about where to sit, he joins a wild flock of easy-going Klagenfurters, none of whom feels like some Americans caught in their underwear just because someone wants to sit at “their” table.

All that will not bother the young folks from Trieste. Tension comes up only when hardcore Friulani meet hardcore Triestini. There is a good chance to see or better to hear some sparks of their history flying. Theirs was a forced wedding at best, and some haven’t gotten over their sour wedding-night yet.

Their conversation sounds quite funny, one side speaking “Furlan,”the other some kind of “Venexian.” According to the national government, the first is allowed to call it officially a language, the other just a dialect. Causing so

another dose of friction .

The powerful burp of a Austrian tourist is hard to ignore and drives some colour in or out of onlookers’ faces, depending on their predisposition and education, depending on whether they are already a bit tipsy or have just arrived and are still rather well-mannered. Finally everyone starts to laugh, each complimenting the food and drinks in his own way.

A girl at the next table becomes a trap for his eyes, which are always on the prowl, he can’t take them away off her, and after she looks back he sinks in with no holding back. His fantasy starts cruising and his hands become nervous. His glass falls, the rest of the wine is spilled on the table. He orders new one, despite having planned to start leaving soon.

One more glass just to stay near her.

She looks at him and smiles and he feels liquid concrete entering his legs, he cannot move.

And fire blazes inside him, a fire cold and hot at the same time. That must be the feeling just before dying, just before rigor mortis, before complete stiffness sets in. Or like an apparently dead body under bright lights during surgery. Or granite with a seething vulcano below it…

He pretends his key fell on the floor by accident so he can bend down, just to congeal completely: she uncrosses her legs for the first time and puts her hand on her upper thigh. His fever-like attack cannot be blamed on the temperatures, or on the wine. It all ends suddenly when a young man with a beard puts his hand on her shoulder and says “Andiamo!”

“Let’s go,” but actually they go, go together and so goes she! Swinging her hip… that must be the movement George Harrison wrote “Something (in the way she moves” )This was about his first wife who later became Eric Clapton’s wife, for whom he’d sing “Layla, you got me on my knees.”. Both pictures make suddenly sense to him.

No hope here, she was already out of sight and before he gets on his knees, he jumps on his bike, driving the pistons through the cylinder the way Hitchcock drove his lovers into a railway-tunnel, pushing gas through the swollen veins of the engine and the herd of thirty horses snorts away with him.

She, the bike, had been away too long, and had her front wheel dangling boringly in the warm wind of the port.

They cannot stand this, machines want to work like organs want to live, wheels want to turn. And time wants just one thing : to elapse, and disappear in streams under the Earth…

According to Einstein, energy does not disappear, but time and opportunities do, as clearly and faster than we want, as we understand …..

The East

Here it really starts, at least once it was like that. The different reality and the obscure fantasies people had. Even nowadays you can find indications for it, despite their disappearing slowly. Just the western prices arrived much faster.

As always you’ll find long lines at gas-stations, all with Italian licence plates. No