Machine Gun verses Small Stool (the wild conclusion) pt quatre

Conclusion (pt quatre) continued from part three.

Holding a small stool over my head like a weapon, the door flung open and I was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Not just any gun, but some type of semi-automatic rifle—a machine gun of sorts! Four guys stood in the hallway—two blocking the door open while the evil receptionist lurked in the shadows in background.

Do I strike the guy holding the gun?     Small aluminum stool verses Gun?      Gun wins!

The guy with the machine gun is wearing a bullet proof vest and is armed in riot gear. I breathe. It's the Police—three of them.

The officer holding the gun looks at me with suspicion and says, "This man here" motioning over his shoulder to sheepish-looking receptionist, "says you owe him money and that you might be..." (are you ready for this)... "that you might be BAD PEOPLE!"

Speechless—my mouth drops!    Us!       Bad People?

I can't believe it—my brain is frozen for a second—the guy is still holding the machine-gun that is strapped to his bullet-proof vest.

In a dramatic sweep of my arm I turn everyone's attention to the back corner of the room where my wife is standing and say (while pointing to her), "Do you see that lady over there? Look at her!" Suppressing rage... controlling my emotions to the best of my ability (with an-hours sleep in the past 64 hours)

I ask rhetorically, "Look. At. Her! Does. It. Look. Like. We. Are. Bad. People?"

Silence as they all look at Saint Kerry and know that there is something wrong with this guy's story.

Embarrassed they say, "This guy says you owe him money and he's afraid you will leave without paying."

Oh, this is the story he invented to tell the police as they came into the hotel.

Pupils pinpointed again and eyebrows furrowed I said, "What do you mean, we owe him money?"

Policeman with the gun. "He says, he lent you money from the register and is afraid you'll leave without paying."

I explained the situation. We have no Euros and had to use our card and the card didn't work and gave the guy more than sufficient American cash to hold the room and agreed to take care of it in the morning.  (I said all of this loud enough to wake up everyone on our floor—this injustice and this creep needed to be exposed).

All three policemen looked at me and then turned and looked at him. I said, "Wait..." as I walked across the room to the dresser and pulled out the signed letter showing that we had paid the guy and gave him plenty of American cash on deposit...handing it to the police. All three of them turn around and look at the guy in disbelief—realizing he had lied and we didn't owe him any money and that this story was nothing more than damage control—knowing he was busted.

They stared at him, waiting for an answer. Cowering against the back wall of the dimly lit corridor, he says, "I checked online. I should have charged them a transfer fee on the transaction and..." (WAIT FOR IT...YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS) "...they owe me 6 euros!"

                                                          6 euros is about 8 dollars

"Six Euros!" I shout. "Six Euros? Hold on. You mean to tell me that I had to fight this guy off and keep him from coming into my room at 4:00 in the morning for six Euros?!"

Still intentionally speaking loud enough for just about everyone on our floor to hear—What a crook, I thought. This guy was full of it and the police knew it.    Now, I wanted answers.

"You...(plural to all three policemen)...you ask him. PLEASE tell me why he felt that he had to break into my room at 4:00 in the morning. And ask him why I had to fight to keep him out for six Euros!

I. Need. To. Understand." I pleaded with them.

No one says a word!  The officer in the riot gear and with the semi-automatic machine-gun looks at my wife and beings to silently mouths the words "I sorry" over and over several times.

They refuse to throw him under the bus, however, we are at at stale mate. I walk to the dresser drawer pull out a $20.00 bill (American) shove it into the hand of the gun wielding officer and demand that he give it to the lying-cheating-swindler crouched in the shadows behind.

He hands the twenty dollars to the French-Mafioso and I insist that they also ask him why this guy felt it was so important to try to break into my room? Why I had to fight to keep him out? Why he changed his story and why all of this for a measly six Euros when we had an agreement and that we could have easily taken care of this in the morning?

I really did want an answer!   I. Asked. Them. To. Ask. The. Guy. "Why at 4:00 am in the morning?"

I wanted to know and I wanted to expose the guy for being a lying-pawn of the French-or-Turkish mafia who definitely had some type of ill-intent!

With no intention of leaving the place while it is still dark at 5:00 am in the morning, we barricade ourselves back in the room and anxiously wait until first light so we can flee safely.

The American Embassy calls back  to check in on us. They still can't believe it and ask if we have an exit strategy - because we needed to get away from that place as soon as possible.

Fully clothed we laid on the bed, hearts pounding, rehearsing the events over and over again trying to get it to make sense. We do the "pretend scenario" of the "nice receptionist" who is acting in innocence believing that we might try to rip him off— in this version he's the good guy—we're the bad people from his perspective and it just doesn't work out!

                                                     66 and 67 hours - one hour of sleep.

We leave in the morning. He's still there—again standing against the wall. I don't owe them a thing— I'm certainly not going to give them my credit card and I don't even ask for the money they owe me.

I tell the new receptionist (in front of God and everyone else in the hotel) that this was the worst night I have EVER had in a Hotel and that the man standing against the wall was a, "Bad-man"(using his language).

It was in vain. I don't think anyone understood my English. We left. Our debit card worked perfectly across the street and we found an Uber-driver in a Mercedes to take us to the Viking longboat!


 Hallelujah!

The veins in my neck still stand out when I tell this story, as if I am reliving it—still inside the room, pushing against the door—fighting for my life to keep a very evil person out.

Welcome to France.  How was our trip?

It's like someone asking Mrs. Lincoln on the night her husband was assassinated at the Ford theater, "Other than that Mrs. Lincoln did you like the show?"

Granted, I jest and it was not nearly the same thing, but "other than this" we loved every minute of our time in France.

Here are some pictures of  our time in France, and as a reminder, this quick flight to Paris from London was on brought on by the refugee crisis that had the The Chunnel back up for hours.

I think if is only fitting to realize that there are global issues of poverty, the need for clean water and perhaps the immediate crisis that should mobilize our hearts (with link below).

Eiffel Tower 

  random door Paris 

 through the clock at Musee D'Orsay

 The Louvre 

 Kerry at Monet's famous garden

 Notre Dame Cathedral of Rouen Normandy

Notre Dame of Rouen Lit up at night 

  360 degrees of breathtaking Stain Glass windows, La Sainte Chappelle, Paris. "The most beautiful stained glass windows in the world." 

 Inside Sainte Chappelle as the sun sets, making a magnificent light show while an ensemble plays Vivaldi's "Four Seasons"  

 Sunset over the Seine River

Being from Venice and being a Dahlin - means that there is never a dull moment!

Just as a reminder, this sudden hop over to Paris that landed us in the worst night of our life at the Hotel Balladins St Antony was because we tried to avoid The Chunnel due to the immigration crisis of those refugees fleeing Isis in Syria and Africa. Here is a link you can explore that might help you find some ways to get involved somehow in the greatest refugee crisis since WWII.        

      

  



           

The Russian River, The Manhunt, and Elephant Man!

From Last time: I figured that I was safe and that there wasn't a whole lot that could go wrong on this family adventure.

This was not just an escape from Venice...I was on a journey. This was more than just a trip to Northern California. I was determined  to find out what love is...all about. I heard about it enough.

The Beatles sang all about love.  I saw the words painted on the sides of brightly colored Volkswagen vans that read "Make Love not War."

"I can't stop now, I've traveled so far" I wanted to know what other people knew - what normal people understood about things like love.

I climbed into the back of my dad's station wagon with apprehension as if testing to see how cold the water was...testing to see how deep could it be and to see how dangerous the current...was.

I got in slowly...with the hopeful expectation that this journey was a path that would lead me to connect with my brothers in a special way that - brothers and sisters do in regular families... like I'm sure the Lennons do.  They're normal.

So off we went!

Our low-down-and-dirty caravan was an eclectic potpourri of hippies and regular people...in a percentage ratio of 92:8.  Me, my dad and my two sisters were the four normal people among the hordes of "herb-smoking" irregulars crammed into our station wagon and into "Red" Sasson's conversion van - as we took off through Santa Monica and headed up the coast route to the Russian River.

We passed the red beach-house on PCH at the foot of Tuna Canyon drive. My eye began twitching and my stomach churned thinking about the Hippie Fest and the betrayal of rope incident. It made me feel as though the Wolf Pack couldn't be trusted and that I shouldn't let my guard down. But since dad was with us, I figured they would be on their best behavior and that I would be safe!


What could possible go wrong?



You couldn't blame someone for having gas...could you?  Kurt and his Water Polo friend, Mario, had both graduated from Saint Monica's. Kurt was famous (scratch that out)... he was infamous for the lethal power of his toxic farts, but was a mere 6 on a Richter-scale compared to the seismic phenomenon of Mario. Deep within, Mario had the unbelievable capacity to blow up an entire city block―that at times measured a 10 on the Richter-scale along with unrelenting aftershocks measuring well above 8.

 (Here is the Poster for the disaster movie that came out last year - 1969)

Every fifteen minutes "Krakatoa" erupted that caused the caravan to pull over so we could exit...take cover and find fresh air.
Long-haired bodies dramatically gagging (as if on stage) stumbling out of the car―pushing―shoving―laughing!      

Point Dume - BAM! "Krakato - East of Java" Mario exploded - mayhem ensued.

Like clockwork - another aftershock - Mario clears the car!

Past Sycamore at "Sand Hill"  Bam! A Mario Explosion. Caravan pulls over giving us the time and excuse to run to the top and slide down on pieces of cardboard.
                                               
ONLY!

Only my dad was building an immunity to the stink and grew more and more impatient with the delays.

THEN!

Then he remembered the button: later to be called, "The button from Hell"

Our top-of-the-line, Ford Esquire wagon was loaded and came with door locks, power windows and all the bells and whistles... One bell and whistle was a button on the driver-side door-panel that locked all the windows.

After we got through Ventura, my hilarious father rolled up all the windows and locked them shut every time Mario exploded with flatulence in something on the scale of Mount Vesuvius that smelled like your head had been forced down the hole of an outhouse on a pig farm.

This might have been funny for most people - but this did not take into consideration my "Superpowers."

My dad thought he was being funny. He laughed as fights broke out and I heaved my guts up in an empty Folgers can that was supposed to be used as a "thunder bucket." A thunder bucket was the traveling port-a-potty all the boys were supposed to use instead of pulling over to make potty-stops - it sounded like thunder whenever anyone had to take a pee. It was gross, but that's the way it was.

Anyway, you could probably guess how much happier the boys were that I was being tortured to the point where I vomited every time Mario "pooped" his pants!

I wanna know what love is

I want you to show me

I wanna feel what love is

I know you can show me...

After the flatulence terrorism we finally - FINALLY - arrived at Roger Sasson's new property - up at the Russian River. From all the vomiting, I felt drained of life as if having gone through grand-mal seizures!   

Everyone had a great time!  

Me, however, I needed the break.  I needed to run away and hide to get my strength back!  

"In my life there's been heartache and pain

I don't know if I can face it again

Can't stop now, I've traveled so far

To change this lonely life"

Sweaty! Stinky! Sticky long-haired bodies squeezed out of the car like toothpaste from a tube under pressure...out we poured like a swarm of blonde locust!   

I rolled onto the dirt like a sailor returning from long voyage and kissed the ground. "Terra-firma!" 

I looked over my shoulder to see the Wolf Pack assembling in a secret meeting that intentionally excluded me and dad. 

There were adults here. I was safe―right? They would protect me if the boys had some sinister scheme to bury me...or to tie me to a tree...or to put me in a straight jacket and throw me over a cliff. 

This couldn't happen―not here―not when all of my physical strength had been drained from my 98-pound-body.  I was too weak to fight them off.  They must have been having a tribal council about the timing and place for them to smoke a little "herb." 

That's it! 

THEN I HEARD MY NAME! Endorphins pumped - adrenaline flowed - my heart raced... brain cells synapsed - Fight or Flight!  Like the Grinch when he held the slay of stolen toys over his head - I now had the strength of five 180-pound hippies.  

I was in danger...and I wanted dad to protect me. Hoping not to incite them (like wasp in a hive), I was careful not to draw their attention. Slowly, I walked in dad's direction.  WHEN I SAW the crowd break like a football team after a huddle and ominously move in my direction - I knew all was not right.  

THEN HEARD THEM SHOUT MY NAME! I ran!  

"Mark" screamed one of the Alpha Males. "We're going to give you a 30 second head-start, then we're coming after you."

Zealously, Erick began pumping the daisy BB gun. This was serious. They meant business. Ironically the MANHUNT included peace-loving hippies armed with BB guns and armed for war. 

     

They didn't care what my dad said... they were coming after me! Life wasn't fair, but I couldn't complain because dad had always said, "Life isn't fair."  

We were in a flat plateau in the bottom of an natural amphitheater surrounded by towering pines and all kinds of scrubby looking brush... I HAD THIRTY SECONDS! 

I ran up up a hill for my life!  The hordes soon took flight and came after me like blood thirsty ZOMBIES... 

Up I ran... "DAD!" I yelled.  Nothing! I was on my own.  

The hippie Wolf Pack - all of them - fanned out and came up hill after me. 

In my mental-sickness, I felt honored to be counted such a worthy prey. 

BUT...I was tired of the game. I was tired of pits and ropes and electrical wires and pink-bellies and the "knock-out" game. I was tired of being chased and dragged and shot at with BB guns and needle-tipped arrows... I hated that fact that bigger people found pleasure in hurting weaker members of the pack.  I hated feeling left out. I hated the betrayal that was nothing more than a funny game to them. I hated not knowing what human kindness and what love felt like... I just wanted to be included. 

There was a lot of talk about Love it two years ago at Haight-Asbury... "The Summer of Love" everyone seemed to know what it was all about - except me!  

John and Yoko knew―right? 

I ran for my life... UNTIL! 

Until, I spotted a shrub with clusters of three leaves that were turning shades of ugly red that I had recognized from Camp Slauson in Malibu. 

I been on snipe hunts a thousand times and never got poison oak. I think I was immune. I wasn't sure, but decided to take a chance anyway as the throng of blonde-haired Zombies closed in. I dove head first into a giant shrub and hid inside.  Then it dawned on me... "Hey stupid dummy" the voice in my head said... "you have three older brothers who are crazy allergic to toxicodendron diversilobum" I ripped two large twigs of the dangerously toxic plants and charged after the delirious band of brothers who took off running in the opposite direction.

What a sight. Markie D was now chasing 300 hippies down a hill!  

I didn't care if I got the horrible plague - it was a risk I was willing to take.  At the moment, all I could think about was that fact that I was winning...all 98 pounds (dripping wet) against an army of that weighed in at 4,228 pounds collectively. 

"The bigger they are. The harder they fall. One and all."  

Did I mention anything about the "Elephant Man?" Oh, I thought I did. Sorry to leave you hanging, but I'll save that for the next time in the big conclusion of who got what and how!