We named him Langinger. He was in his twilight even when we met him, maybe 20 years old or so. Since that was way back in late 1973, that’d make him about the same age as Dennis, Paula, and myself. Langinger was a noble, charging VW bus. We met him in the south of Spain after spending a few glorious weeks floating around the beautiful country of Morocco, from Tangiers to Fes, Fes to Marrakech on the Marrakech Express, then on to Essaouira to drink mint tea in Jimmy Hendrix’s castle in the sky.
Upon returning to Spain, we met some European travelers who, after a couple bottles of red wine, gave us the keys and birth certificate to their four-wheeled traveling companion—a 1953 VW van. Pictures of John Lennon, yellow submarines, and full rainbows adorned its patchy green exterior. A rickety sliding door (equipped with extra bungee cords and axle grease) served as the entry door into the magical vessel. There was sleeping for three, a four-star kitchen with burners, frig, and sink, and every inch collaged in late 60s rock star visage.
One look is all that was needed. The three of us immediately went to our hidden money belts and pulled out the cash. As the last drops of red wine were consumed in a three-way salut, we christened our new friend Langinger. And there began a long and wonderful relationship. We meandered up the coast of Spain, up and over the Pyrenees, down into southern France. Everywhere we went, Langinger proved his worth by being an amazing people magnet—food was cooked, wine was drank, music just happened, and life was good. Nice, Monte Carlo, then on through Italy, Florence, Venice. Pasta, antipasta, and more red wine. The long hairs, hippies, and most everyone we met greeted us with open arms (almost everyone—the policia maybe a little less welcoming).
It was now just before Christmas and a coin was flipped. This was our preferred way of decision making. Heads: back to the relative warmth of the Italian and French coastlines. Or tails: cross into Yugoslavia (this was before the war) and cross the mountainous pass into Greece. Tails it was.
Split, Dubrovnik, kebabs, shots of slivovitz, more red wine. Leaving the friendly roads of the coast, we slowly climbed the gnarly switchbacks, higher and higher into the Yugoslavian mountains. Winter was upon us. Snow blanketed the landscape. The roads went from snow to ice. Langinger was in trouble, way out of his league. His nearly bald feet were no match for the long stretches of slip and slide. We turned his wheel to the left, he went to the right. 360 round and round, out of control. We came to a very fortunate, extremely lucky stop—just short of a guardrailess fall off a steep descent.
We jumped out to peer over the cliff and there, 100 yards below us, was the shiny Mercedes Benz that had passed us just a few kilometers earlier. Luckily, they weren’t badly hurt. We were shaken. Langinger was shaken. Red wine and hot café were consumed, kebabs were devoured. Finally, we made our descent into northern Greece, leaving the snow and ice behind.
Relieved, and feeling a whole lot more secure on his feet, Langinger carried us into a land of cinnamon, filo pasties hot off the street vendor’s cart, cafes that could be eaten with a spoon, moussakas and pasteles, olives, and crumbling mounds of fresh feta, all to be washed down with endless bottles of retsina and ouzo. Athens on Christmas Day.