Fragment 26: The Life and Times of a Social Experiment
The start of the '70s - life in north-east England, a trip to the U.S., and motor racing lessons.
The above image, from Shutterstock, is of 1970s police cards on display in New York’s Times Square. We’ll get there soon enough but, to start, we’re an Atlantic Ocean away, in the UK, geographically poised twixt central London and Croydon at the Hertz Rent a Car head office in a place called Balham, memorably described in a 1958 recording by Peter Sellers as Gateway to the South. There, for a time, I worked with Mike, the Hertz Rent-a-Car Training and Development Manager, helping create and deliver some training modules. But not for long because, next, I was asked to take on the role of District Manager for the Tyneside area, based on Newcastle in north-east England.
Hang on, I’m jumping ahead of myself. By this time, in my personal life, I had moved from Colosseum Terrace, Albany Street (because my landlady was leaving the country after the untimely death of her husband), to Croftdown Road (where my room was small, but the rent wasn’t) to a brief house share in Golders Green (the only time that I’ve lived in a property with mezuzahs affixed to the door frames), where I met a chap called Wayne Morris (South African and training as a chef). Subsequently, Wayne and I took on a house on North Hill, Highgate. By which time I was also dating a young woman who was a Hertz training manager.
Now, let’s get back to the bit where I go ‘whoosh’ up to Newcastle which, if you’ve read earlier fragments, you will recall was familiar territory to me from my time with P&G. Hertz Tyneside district had just two car rental branches: one situated in a central Newcastle multi-storey car park, where I had my office, and the other out at Woolsington Airport.
En passant, it fascinates me that, in the decades since the events that I’m outlining here, quite a few airports have taken on grander labels than once they had. Dear old Woolsingon Airport, for example, has now matured into Newcastle International Airport.
The District Manager to the south, in Tees-side, was my colleague John Midlane. He and I both reported to our Regional Manager in Edinburgh - Neil Kirk. Also reporting to Neil were District Managers for East Scotland and West Scotland.
The job was not exactly arduous, or perhaps I never worked out all of the things that I should have been doing. But life was quite interesting. My key rental rep in central Newcastle was a young woman called Marina. She was bright and industrious, a bit bossy to be honest, but she really did help make my task quite straightforward. She was also the mistress of a chap called Ray Bernstone. Ray, the head of a nationwide money lending business and a travel company, was the local Association of British Travel Agents (ABTA) lead. He was a big wheel in Newcastle and we became friends.
Then, I learned that an old friend was also in Newcastle - Atis Krauklis. Atis, you may recall from Fragment 21 was an accomplished rally driver and navigator who had taken part in the 1967 Monte Carlo Rally with John Sprinzel. However, by late 1970, I discovered that he was working in the travel trade as a tour guide.
A little explanation is perhaps in order here. Armed with a good degree in mathematics, Atis had an excellent grasp of probabilities. One area of application for this knowhow was in gambling - particularly card games. Atis’s game of choice was blackjack because he reckoned he could successfully card count his way through umpteen decks of cards, a skill that, while not guaranteeing a fortune, should ensure a good, steady income.
Well, maybe he could or maybe he couldn’t card count, but success in that particular skill requires that, in the first place, you have reliable ongoing access to casinos. However, casino owners do not like card counters and, if they believe someone is doing it, they have a habit of unceremoniously slinging ‘em out.
Atis decided that one way to overcome this challenge was to maximize his available pool of casinos. What better way to do that than travel around the world? They kick you out of a casino … there’s always another one to go to. This may not have been the sole reason he re-created himself as a tour guide, but it was certainly part of it.
Tour guide was also a role that suited his character. Atis was an archetypal wheeler-dealer with bucket-loads of charm to help lubricate all of the necessary connections. If you were in, say, Prague, or Bratislava, or Naples, or Berlin, or wherever, and wanted a meal at two o’clock in the morning, Atis was your man - he knew the place to go … and the fact that he was quietly scooping x per cent from the supplying restaurant never occurred to you.
So, it was a happy coincidence that we found ourselves in the same place, and Atis and I had several adventures.
At this time, I rented a room in a shared house in Jesmond but would quite frequently head back to London for the weekend - particularly since getting romantically entangled again! I normally flew down and back but, one weekend, Atis and I decided to drive. My Hertz role meant that I had access to available rental vehicles and, on this particular weekend, this included a fairly flashy Ford Capri - a 3-liter model if I remember right.
We set off around five in the morning to avoid traffic and to get to Atis’s mother’s north London home in time for breakfast. Atis drove. The motorway system was nowhere near as complete or good as it now is but, nonetheless, we covered the 300 or so miles in around four hours. This inevitably entailed travelling, whenever possible, at high speed! Along the way, Atis gave me a running commentary on his driving decisions: I remember numerous references to Piero Taruffi’s classic text, The Technique of Motor Racing. I learned more about ‘the correct line’ on that trip than ever before or since. And despite the speed I felt perfectly safe throughout … although that may just have been stupidity on my part.
Over breakfast, I recall, Atis’s Mum explained how, at the end of the Second World War, she had brought Atis out of Latvia on the last train out of Riga before the Russians clamped down on all movements.
Of the rest of the day’s activities I recall just one thing because it was so surreal. We were in Soho, walking south on Greek Street. Somewhere near the Old Compton Street end, Atis stopped and tapped on an unmarked door. A panel opened and a face appeared - a Chinese face. Atis was instantly recognized as a known friend and we were invited in. It really was like something out of an old movie.
Inside, we were led to a room where the noise was deafening: a din of Chinese chatter and the clatter of mahjong tiles. The air was a thick fug of tobacco and, I suspect, other smoke. We were presented with drinks and Atis talked with a couple of the Chinese chaps. No more than fifteen minutes later we were back out on Greek Street.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
”Just a bit of business.”
Meanwhile, back in Newcastle, Ray Bernstone told me that a special offer was available for travel trade employees and that, with his endorsement, I would qualify. It was a trip for two people, to New York, free of charge. Accommodation provided at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, no less. Would I like to take up the offer?
At this point in time I had never set foot outside the UK. I didn’t even have a passport. But I said I liked the idea, and it occurred to me to line up Atis to go with me. Ray thought this a good move: after all, Atis genuinely was employed in the travel trade, and as far as I was concerned, well, car rental was part of the same industry, wasn’t it.
So, I applied to the nearest Passport Office (Glasgow) and got my first passport. Then, from the Consulate General of the United States of America branch in Edinburgh I got a non-immigrant visa, “Indefinite for multiple applications for admission into the United States”. My, how times have changed! And so it was that on Wednesday 3rd March 1971 Atis and I landed in New York, having flown Loftleidir (Icelandic Airlines) from Glasgow, with a refueling pause en route at Keflavik Airport in Iceland.
Our stay is all a bit of a blur. I do remember that the Waldorf Astoria was an excellent hotel. I remember, too, that we did some of the touristy things, like visiting the Empire State Building and the Algonquin Hotel (that was my personal choice because I wanted to see where the Round Table members met throughout the 1920s).
Before leaving the UK I had arranged to visit Hertz head office in Madison Avenue, at which meeting I was offered a free rental car. So off Atis and I went and picked up a Ford Pinto. This particular model apparently proved to be a bit of a disaster because the fuel tanks could explode into flames but, fortunately, we experienced no such problem.
First, we pointed the Pinto towards Boston, Mass., to visit one of Atis’s friends, a lovely lady who was a well-known interior designer. I remember that we ate at the Boston Beanery and then the three of us set off to visit our hostess’s cabin near Manchester, Vermont. Outside, it was cold and snowy but the inside of the cabin was gorgeous and warm - we stayed a couple of nights.
This image, from Shutterstock, is a Vermont winter scene.
Question to self: Was Atis romantically involved with our hostess?
Answer to self: I don’t know but I think it unlikely. If they were involved, they kept it jolly quiet.
My passport also carries a stamp, on 9th March 1971, from Canadian Immigration at the Blackpool Crossing (more formally, the Champlain–St. Bernard de Lacolle Border Crossing). This crossing, about a three-hour drive due north from Manchester, Vermont, is right by Niagara Falls.
Question to self: Did we go there to visit the Niagara Falls?
Answer to self: I can’t remember but I can’t think why else we would have gone there!
Following this adventure, we drove back to Boston, said our goodbyes to our hostess, and drove back to New York City. There, we visited a lot of bars, and searched for jazz venues. Sadly, my all-time jazz hero, John Coltrane, had died four years earlier, in 1967, aged just 40 years. These activities involved the taking on board of large quantities of alcohol, which helps explain why my recall is so poor.
Question to self: Was this the closest you ever got to your biological father?
Answer to self: Wow, that’s a sneaky one! The answer is ‘Probably’. But I don’t know, nor could I have known at the time. It was nearly four decades later, in 2009, that I discovered my biological father’s identity. Subsequently, I have pieced together the facts that he was born in 1912 and died in 2004, and it looks as though both the birth and the death happened in or around Buffalo, New York. Buffalo is at the northernmost tip of Lake Erie and the 1971 trip meant that I was less than 400 miles from there.
Supplementary question to self: Will you expand on this intriguing topic in future fragments?
Answer to self: Maybe.
My old passport then shows that we flew back to Keflavik (now Reykjavik International Airport - see what I mean about airport names?) and over-nighted in Iceland on 15th March 1971. As you may already have gathered, the special deal that Atis and I benefited from was an Icelandic tourist industry promotion. So, that night, we were extremely well fed and accommodated at the Loftleidir Hotel, and flew out the next morning back to Glasgow.
One thing that did fix itself in my mind about Keflavik was the fact that, in 1971, it co-hosted the U.S. Air Force (at this time, remember, the Cold War was in full swing) and some seriously impressive American machinery was on display there.
Coming next: I conclude my time in Tyneside and, at long last, take up a Marketing role. The question is, am I really equipped to do it? The answer, at the outset anyway, is … No bloody way!
Thanks for reading.