My Week as a Cave Man
by Bob Coughlin
When I was a sophomore at the University of Notre Dame, academic year 1967-68, I had the most astonishing opportunity a working class boy from Euclid, Ohio ever had. For the same tuition (including room, board, books) we were paying to attend Notre Dame, $2500 per year (paid with a small scholarship, a summer job, and loans taken out by me and my parents), I was able to study in Salzburg and Innsbruck, Austria. The $2500 fee included boat travel over and back (SS United States), train travel from Le Havre, France to Salzburg, Austria, field trips, three meals a day, a shared room in a pension, and courses in German at the Salzburg Sommerschule (5-6 weeks, late July to early September), and two semesters at the University of Innsbruck. What would that cost in 2021? $60,000? More?
Anyway, we had a couple weeks of spring break in late March and early April of 1968. My roommate, Brian Wilson, and I decided we would hitchhike to Vienna, Austria, and then just play it by ear for the rest of the break. We stayed in a very odd Youth Hostel (Jugendherberge) in Vienna, in a converted Nazi bunker with thick concrete wall and doors between rooms that looked like submarine or battleship doors. The cost per night was about 20 Austrian Schillings, about 80 cents. While we were there we heard other young people talking about a town on the Isle of Crete where you could live free in caves.
From Vienna we decided to take a train down to Athens, Greece. It was a very long ride, on a train pulled by a steam engine through Yugoslavia. We spent the first night in an inexpensive hotel room in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. We were so confused by the money (“Stari Dinars”) and the language, Serbo-Croatian. I had studied Russian two years in high school so I could read the signs written in Cyrillic--and once in a while I could figure out the meaning. I do remember one funny incident at the train station. Two girls, about our age, sat down by us and tried to talk to us. We weren’t too successful communicating, but in the end I did learn two sentences in Serbo-Croation. Something like “Vreme je lepo” (the weather is nice) and “Ti si lepa” (you are pretty). To this day that’s all I know about Serbo-Croatian!
The following morning, which might have been April 3rd, 1968, Brian and I boarded a train headed to Athens, Greece. There were no seats for us on the train, so we stood for hours on end. Finally, I decided to sit--in the bathroom! The only possible place to sit on our long train journey.
After a long ride, we reached the Greek frontier at a city called Salonika (maybe more formally called Thessaloniki)--the city where two of St. Paul’s epistles were set.
Right before we reached the Greek border, a man standing near us asked us if we would claim a package as our own as we crossed the border. He said that it was a tape recorder and he wouldn’t be allowed as a Greek to bring it into the country. Brain gladly said sure, glad to help out.
When the border patrol asked to see our passports, we handed them over. Then one of the agents asked if we had any packages to claim. I said no, the truth, and Brian said, yes. So at the back of Brian’s passport the agent wrote something in Greek. and then they moved on. When we asked someone on the train what had been written, we found out that on Brian’s passport there was a statement that he could not leave Greece unless he had the package in question on him!
O no! we thought. We immediately got off the train and ran to find some people from Customs. Brian told them what happened, that we had been tricked, and then he handed over the package (which we assumed was a tape recorder). They took the package, and then added another note on Brian’s passport which we understood to mean, “Disregard the previous note.” Since we couldn't read Greek, we were relying on other people for translations. I think Brian could have been arrested for smuggling, but they let him go and we continued on our way to Athens. We never heard what happened to the man who initiated the little smuggling operation and we never found out what it actually was. Later we found out that there was some sort of terrorism going on in Greece and that it was at least possible that this package had materials for bomb making. We’ll never know!
When we got to Athens, we found the youth hostel and did some walking around the incredible sites of Athens for a day or two, including a walk up the Acropolis Hill, wandering through the Parthenon, and admiring the Vestal Virgins (Porch of the Maidens) on the Acropolis.
Above, Brian Wilson (now Dr. Brian Wilson, Hilo pediatrician)
(above, me, Bob Coughlin, by the Parthenon, early April 1968. I was 19 years old)
We did have a funny incident near the Acropolis. A man on the street in front of a bar grabbed us and asked us, “Do you like girls? Do you like girls?” Of course we like girls! Then he pulled us into his bar and it didn’t take long before we found out what he was up to: “Bar Girls,” trying to entice us into buying drinks. And maybe they were more than “Bar Girls,” but we didn’t hang around to find out!
(above, Porch of the Maidens, by the Parthenon, Acropolis, Athens)
The next day, which might have been April 4, 1968 (a day that will live in infamy!), Brian and I boarded a ferry at the port of Piraeus, and headed toward the island of Crete. Our plan was to live free for a week in a cave in the town of Matala, on the south shore of Crete--the rumor circulating in youth hostels.
The ferry was very interesting, loud, and crowded (and cheap!). Music was being played all night on exotic instruments which I had never seen before. We saw women nursing their babies in public, something not seen at that time in the United States, especially at all-male Notre Dame! Some time in the middle of the night, Brian walked over to me with a girl he had met. “Bob, I want you to meet a girl from the East Side of Cleveland, Sally Kovach” [not her real name].
As we got to talking I realized I knew Sally’s cousin, who was in my class at St. Joseph High School in Cleveland. And I had been to a store that her parents owned. It was uncanny!
After a long ferry ride, we arrived in Heraklion, on the north coast of the Island of Crete. Right away we began to hitchhike. All we knew is that we wanted to go to the village of Matala, on the south coast of the island of Crete. It didn’t take long before we were offered a ride by the driver of a dump truck. Sure we would take the ride, but where would we sit? Brian offered to sit on the load of gravel, and Sally and I got into the truck next to the driver. The road was bumpy and occasionally the road was severely damaged by earthquake activity. There were places where you could see the tectonic movement rearranging the roadbed!
During the long ride, we tried to communicate with the driver and he tried very hard to tell us something. We tried English and even German (because I only knew two phrases in Greek, “Thank You” and “You’re Welcome!”). The driver knew a little German from World War II years when Germans were in Greece. He finally got it across to me that Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot and killed. I still wasn’t sure I had understood him until a little later that day.
We finally got left off at an archeological site known as Phaestos, a 4-6000 year-old Minoan site, one of the most important archeological sites in the world. Unfortunately, we spent a very short time there because we had a long walk to Matala, about 22.6 kilometers!
Bouzouki
We travelled pretty light in general: we each had small backpacks and sleeping bags. But we did have one large item: Brian's guitar. The guitar became a great entré device. One person we met on our long walk asked to see Brian's guitar and started playing "Never Kiss Me on a Sunday," a song with a Greek feel about it.
Further down the road a man saw the guitar and invited us into his beautiful little home. Then he pulled out his pride and joy, a spectacular bouzouki.
He played it for us and agreed to pose with his family and his priceless bouzouki.
[Below, a few photos I took of Matala and our cave. I wish I had taken more, but film was expensive for us as was developing film and getting prints. In one you can see one of the cave-pocked hillsides by the little cove. In another, the tiny village of Matala as seen from inside our cave. I think that's Brian swimming below. In one photo, taken from the hilltop, you can see the caves on both sides of the cove and an island 10-20 miles off shore.]
Brian and I continued on the dirt road to Matala. At one point we encountered a rather fancy restaurant with people sitting outside at little tables. To my astonishment, they were eating snails! I had never even heard of that back then.
We finally arrived in Matala. It was a very tiny village, hardly a village at all. It was set at the head of a small cove of blue-green water that opened up to the Mediterranean Sea. In the distance you could see a small mountainous island. And far in the distance you could see snow-covered mountains. On each side of this cove were steep hillsides pocked with caves, many on each side. Brian and I found a cave up about 40 feet above the water and that’s where we stayed for the week. Our cave was clean and empty, carved out of the stone. It might have been about 9 feet square approximately, big enough for us to lay down our sleeping bags. I remember there was a kind of stone bench inside the cave, nothing else. At the time we had no idea how these caves got there--they seemed to have been made for us, ha ha. But as I think about it now, I wonder if these had been burial caves at one time.
I can hardly remember the details of living there. We did go in swimming, but the water was fairly deep, clear, and cold (Brian swam more often than I did). And we got some meals at a tiny little restaurant there. I remember getting delicious egg omelets. And I do remember one evening drinking the inexpensive local red wine. I was pretty “beschwipst,” and faced some danger getting back to my high-level cave. And the next morning, I had a terrible headache from the red wine.
I remember one day wandering on the hilltops above the cave in incredible fields of wildflowers buzzing with bees. It made me think that the honey used in delicious baklava was made by these bees!
A few years after our sojourn in Matala, Joni Mitchell, the great Canadian singer-songwriter, wrote a song about her visit to Matala, the song “Carrie.” The words of the song are pretty accurate though in 1968 Matala wasn’t exactly a tourist town--that happened soon after. I don’t remember the tiny restaurant being called the “Mermaid Cafe,” though it might have been. And for historical purposes, I want to make it clear that neither Brian nor I was “Carrie,” ha ha. We didn’t steal Joni’s camera and didn’t sleep with her, at least I didn't.😉
Lyrics to Jone Mitchell's song "Carey"
So after a week or maybe less, Brian and I left Matala and started the long trek up the dirt road to a place where we could hitchhike. Amazingly, an army troop vehicle stopped and picked us up. With our backpacks and guitar, Brian and I entered the truck. There sat around 10 soldiers in full battle array. The truck drove on for a short distance and then for reasons unknown to us, they stopped and ordered us to get out, which of course we did (they all had guns; we had a guitar). We were unaware of the political situation in Greece at that time, but I think there had been a coup d’etat and the army was on terrorist watch. So we were happy to start walking again.
We finally made it to Heraklion, on the north coast of Crete, after many hours of walking and hitchhiking. There we caught a ferry boat headed for Bari, Italy. We had started on our way home to Innsbruck, Austria. A few more adventures awaited us.
Italy
Our ferry finally arrived at the city in Bari, a fairly large town on the southeast boot of Italy. Then we found the road west and hitchhiked across Italy. We arrived in Napoli on Good Friday or Holy Saturday, that is April 12 or 13 of 1968. Martin Luther King Jr. had been dead for a little over a week and we finally started seeing Italian newspapers covering the chaos, anger, and riots back in the USA. We still had not seen any TV or heard any radio (and the truth is we saw almost no TV nor heard any radio that year we were in Europe).
We went to mass on Easter Sunday, April 14th, at what I think was the Cathedral in Naples. There was a level of poverty in Naples that I hadn't seen before and I was amazed at the density and excitement if the city. One thing that surprised me was the commerce taking place during mass on the steps of the church, unheard of in America.
One remarkable thing I remember about Naples is the great volcano, Mount Vesuvius, not far from town. Unfortunately I didn't go to Pompeii, the famous city buried in an eruption of Vesuvius.
The day after Easter, Brian and I started hitchhiking toward Rome. Unfortunately, we got separate rides and would be separated for days until a miraculous reunion in Northern Italy.
On my way to Rome I was picked up by a young Italian couple. We struggled communicating but got by with bits of Italian, English, German, and Latin. The took me up to Monte Casino, where St. Benedict established the Benedictine order and rule about 1500 years ago. As we drove up the small mountain toward the monastery, they told me about the Allied bombing of 1944 that destroyed the building. By 1968, the monastery was fully restored. I was embarrassed that my country had destroyed this historic monastery.
Rome. When I arrived in Rome, I located a youth hostel and began my wanderings in the city. I now had almost no money and a long hitchhike back to Innsbruck--and I was by myself. I had no idea where Brian Wilson was and back then there was no way at all to communicate with him. I started wandering around Rome on foot and found my way into Vatican City. I had no guide book, no money, and I was on foot so I didn’t see much of Rome. The parts of the city I saw included pretentious Mussolini-like memorials (the Victor Emmanuel II Monument) and very busy streets. Luckily the Vatican was quieter and more intimate. I walked around St. Peter's Square and I was lucky enough to see the Pietà, one of the greatest works made by human hands. Michelangelo carved this from Carrara marble circa 1498-99 and it’s at home in St. Peter’s Basilica.
(Above photo from a Google search)
I also saw the Roman Forum. I was struck by how strange the forum looked, everything in ruins, and I didn’t know how to think about it.
North to Bolzano. From Rome I headed north and got a ride in a little sports car going 120 mph on the Autostrada. I felt relieved when I got out! The trip to Bolzano was about 380-400 miles, a long day hitchhiking back then. But I made it to the bilingual (German and Italian) town by 6 pm or so and immediately tried to figure out where I was going to sleep that night: I had no food and no money. What was I going to do?
Bolzano, Italy has another name--Bozen, in German. After World War II, the area called “Süd Tirol,” was taken away from Austria. The area had long been trilingual--German, Italian, and Ladin (an Italic language derived from Latin, spoken in certain mountain valleys). There was huge resentment even in 1968 about this and there was occasional acts of terrorism and you could see graffiti around stating “Süd Tirol bleibt Deutsch"-- "South Tyrol remains German." So that is the background.
I looked around town for a place to sleep and spotted the bed of an old pick up truck outside a house. Maybe I could lay my sleeping back down there and then get up early before the people in the household. So that’s what I tried to do, but I caught the attention of their dogs, and a very angry Roma man (what we used to call a Gypsy) ran out of the house and I quickly grabbed my sleeping bag and rucksack and ran! Guess I wasn’t going to sleep there.
After that I tried to find a park with a bench. It was now getting dark. There was someone in the park, but she left, so I stretched out my sleeping bag on a bench and tried to go to sleep. It wasn’t long before a federal policeman, a carabinieri, came by, machine gun in hand, and ordered me to stand up and raise my hands into the air. He spoke to me in Italian and I answered him in German, which made him even more suspicious. Then he began searching me and my pack for, I suppose, bombs. I tried to explain to him, in German, what I was doing, that I had no money left and was travelling north to Innsbruck, Austria. He finally accepted my explanation and then told me to go sleep in the train station. So again I gathered my sleeping bag and backpack, and headed to the Bahnhof to sleep. I went inside and tried to sleep sitting up on a bench. But at a certain time of the night, everyone had to leave the inside of the train station, no exceptions. So i went outside and wondered what I should do. Finally I did something crazy. I stretched my sleeping back out on the steps of the train station and went to sleep. I actually slept--I was so tired! Very early the next morning, I woke up and looked around and saw a crowd of people gathered around, wondering who was in the sleeping bag and what the heck he was doing there!
So I got up, rolled up the sleeping bag, grabbed my backpack, and started walking. By now I was very hungry, and almost totally broke. I walked for about 15 minutes when I saw a guy walking toward me. It was Brian Wilson, who I last saw in Naples! I was so happy to see Brian, and my first remark was, “Brian, do you have any money for food?” He did, hurray, and Brian and I got breakfast and soon started hitchhiking the last stretch, across the Alps, to Innsbruck, Austria.
Thus ended an incredible couple of weeks and my week as a cave man!
[I took all the photos in this piece except for the one of the Pieta.]
