A Photographic Memory #6
eidetic • /aɪˈdɛtɪk/
Part six of my memory backup…
Well, not exactly a thousand years, but it certainly seems like it!
I always thought I should write a diary, but never got around to it, because I figured it was more interesting and spontaneous to just photograph everything instead. Having just scanned some negatives that I haven’t seen for decades the memories came flooding back…
The Eiger Sanction
In August of 1978 I found myself freezing my arse off in a summer sleeping bag in a very small tent at the base of a mountain called The Eiger, in Switzerland. My muscles contracted, and my teeth chattered uncontrollably in a ridiculously small, flimsy tent that I shared with my traveling companion called Keith. Keith was okay. Keith had a very thick sleeping bag, and I didn’t, and I have never, ever, in my entire life been so absolutely bloody freezing.
For some lamebrain reason we’d decided to pitch our tent next to a stream that had blocks of ice flowing down from the top of the mountain. The Weisse Lütschine and Schwarze Lütschine are two streams that flow down the Eiger's west and north faces. I prayed for sunrise.
Part of the shock was probably due to the fact that just twelve hours earlier, we’d been sunning ourselves in the 84 degree climate of the French Riviera before we got bored and said, ‘Hey, let’s go to Switzerland!’ In retrospect, I wish I’d taken some photos of the mountain, but my fingers were frozen rigid!
Inter-Rail
Just to rewind a bit… I need to remind myself how I ended up in this rather uncomfortable predicament.
In 1978 we had the Inter-Rail pass. An absolutely genius idea for young people to travel inexpensively around Europe and get a taste of different cultures, and the reason I decided to buy one began in my hometown of Purley in Surrey.
1978, was also the year of some pretty cool parties in my neighbourhood. Some of the larger houses belonging to the more affluent folks in the area had hired French *au pairs, and I happened to run into one particular au pair at the bus stop. Her name was Andrée, from the South of France, and she was staying in a massive house just over the road from my family’s place. Andrée was keen to meet people, and we hit it off straight away. The next time I saw her at the bus stop she was with her new friend, Michèle, another au pair, but from Paris.
Michèle decided to risk having a party at the place she was living, while the owners were away. A bit of a dodgy move, but we were all teenagers and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It was a great party. I can’t remember if there was any fallout from it, but I got to hang out with Andrée more after that, and when she finally returned to France, she invited me to visit her in Aix-en-Provence to stay with her family.
At the time I was attending a youth club called The Attic, and Keith was one of the guys I got to know. This was still the Punk era, and we went to a couple of gigs together. I shot the following photo before going to see The Damned at the notorious punk venue, the Greyhound in Croydon one night. I didn’t take my camera with me, but now I kinda wish I had!
Having just rediscovered the negatives from the rather youthful Inter-Rail trip that I haven’t seen for forty seven years… (a scary concept), I decided to scan them and add them to this post. It seems by the odd quality and the fact that a few of the shots were only half a frame, I must have taken my rather battered Praktica Nova with me rather than my brand new Nikon FM that had cost me a small fortune at the time.
Waiting for our departure, our girlfriends were looking a bit pensive in this one. Probably wondering what we were going to get up to. Sheesh! we were young.
This shot was taken on the deck of the ferry from Dover to Calais. My rucksack is the much tidier blue one on the far left… (useless info Dept).
I can remember when we arrived at The Gare du Nord, the main train station in Paris, we had no cash on us. In those days it was all about traveller’s cheques. So Keith decided to go and find a bank to cash a couple of cheques, while I waited on a street corner with the two rucksacks. Within seconds a dodgy looking guy came up to me and said something rather menacingly in French. I explained that I didn’t speak French, and he then translated that he wanted all of my money. The fact that I didn’t actually have any money on me worked in my favour, and after an incredibly tense minute or two, he left. This was not a good ‘Welcome to Paris’ scenario.
The colours went a bit weird with this negative scan of la Tour Eiffel, but I kind of like it.
This was my first time in Paris, and I really began to wish I’d paid more attention to the French language lessons in high school. Ce la vie!
I really can’t stand heights. Why I even agreed to go up the Eiffel Tower I’ll never know. Makes my legs go all tingly just thinking about it.
I honestly have no recollection of this photo; unusual for me, but it looks like a bit of a grim slog wherever we were.
Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, long before it burned down and had to be completely rebuilt.
The famous Rose Window from inside.
Back on the streets, and for some unfathomable reason we convinced ourselves we’d spotted Brigitte Bardot; so I surreptitiously took a photo, but then we asked ourselves, what would B.B. be doing standing in the doorway of a shop in the red-light district of Pigalle? She’d more likely be skipping barefoot through the streets of St Tropez or lounging around on a private beach somewhere along the Riviera.
Brigitte Bardot Was Here...
While I’m on the subject of Brigitte Bardot, I'm not usually enamored of autographs, but I do have one prized exception that I was lucky enough to find in an old flea market a few years later; this postcard sized print that B.B. had actually signed with her own fair hand - Ooh la la!
Anyway, back to the far less glamorous reality of being teenagers with very little disposable income, we opted to doss for a night or two on a local campsite. Staying in more upmarket accommodation at this age was just a dream. Our tent was the ludicrously small yellow one.
Terrible looking shoes. I don’t remember wearing those! Also, patently obvious by this, that I was wearing one of those ‘invisible’ money belts recommended for travelers.
From Paris we took the train to Aix-en-Provence, a city in southern France known for its art, architecture, and markets. It's also the birthplace of Post-Impressionist painter Paul Cézanne, and the family home of my friend, Andrée.
Our train was standard second class, though it seemed more like third, and was packed to the gills with young guys doing their military service, so there was nowhere to sit. We had to make do with setting ourselves up in the corridor. The train ride was overnight and lasted hours, and being young and stupid we didn’t think to take anything to eat or drink for the journey. As a rather desperate measure we decided to risk running water from the tap in the toilet into a cup, and dropping purification tablets into it. At least we’d had the foresight to pack Aquatabs in our rucksacks.
As dusk turned into night, the journey became inconceivably long.
To be continued…
Now it can be told... For years I've heard that Eiger anecdote, your travelling companion snug and smug in his deluxe sleeping bag, while you were slowly entombed in a glacier overnight. At last the embargo is lifted and we have not only photos, but a name. We see you, Keith!!!
That reminds me of some of my more adventurous holidays when money was scarce. Heaven and Hell!!! A small correction - Notre Dame cathedral didn't burn down. The main structure was saved but there was a lot of reconstruction to be done on the roof and the spire. Basically everything made of wood was burned but the building was mostly intact. Most of the art works and the organ were saved as the stone roof of the main building protected the interior when the wooden parts of the structure collapsed.
-Pedantic Dave