Arrested in Lamia

July 31, 1971

Not knowing where you will sleep when you wake up is one thrill of hitch-hiking long distances.

I woke up on a cot in the courtyard of a house beside the main highway in the middle of Greece one morning in July 1971. I ended up there after a hitching a ride on a truckload of watermelons the day before. Literally. I rode on the watermelons. The truck’s cab was full of watermelon farmers.

I started out for Athens after breakfast.

Hitchhiking across Europe was easy then. Maybe it still is. I doubt it. I was picked up right away.

The man who picked me up asked where I was going. I said the Acropolis. It was the only tourist destination in Athens I knew I wanted to see. I had been travelling for about six weeks. Lisbon, Seville, Barcelona, Genoa, Florence, Rome, Naples, Corfu. I got one ride from Perpignan in France to Genoa in Italy so I missed the entire south of France.

My ride dropped me at the ticket booth of the Acropolis at about 1:30. I spent about 90 minutes touring the site. Of course, it was awesome. But I’m not the kind of person who is whelmed by these things. I’m happy enough with a good look see. I wasn’t budgeted for guided tours.

When I was done I found my way to the American Express office where backpackers congregated. I would’ve checked to see if there was any mail waiting for me but I had suggested Vienna as the place people write to me. If anyone did write, the letter is still waiting. I’ve still never been there.

At the American Express office I approached two girls who seemed aimless. I wish I could recall what I said. Within a few minutes one of them and I were on our way, hitch-hiking, to Istanbul. The world was a more civilized place then.

The way inter-city hitch-hiking worked was to walk towards the main highway along city streets with your thumb out. Eventually someone picked you up and you were on your way. Only Rome was different. The recommended tactic was to train to Siena and hitch from there.

Of our rides north that day, two were eventful. One was on an empty tour bus. We were the only passengers. At the end of our final ride we were dropped, as Arlo Guthrie would have said then, by the side of a side road, within site of the lights of the city of Lamia. Before we could start walking into Lamia a police car stopped to greet us. It was about 11 p.m.

The policemen checked our documents and then put us in the car to drive us into town, to a police station. There was no communication. They didn’t speak English. We didn’t speak Greek. We thought it best not to rebel. It was the time of the Colonels in Greece. If you remember the movie Z, the Colonels were a dictatorship not known for kindness. I wasn’t the smartest guy but I had seen the movie.

Well past 1 a.m. we were finally put on the phone with a local English teacher who explained what was going on. Apparently, that day, in Athens, a north American couple had murdered a local and were on the run. It took the police a couple of hours to determine that we weren’t the gringos in question. That’s when they got the English teacher to bring us the good news.

The police put us up in a hotel for the night.

I could have guessed I would sleep in a hotel when I woke up that day. I wouldn't have guessed it would be police hospitality after being arrested on a murder charge.