To America
an Art of Dying fragment
To me, one of the highlights of working for Our Prince on the Apollo was going away on missions.
A mission is an assignment where you (usually paired with another missionaire — our term for the Sea Org missionary, which really wasn’t or isn’t a missionary at all but a messenger cum fixer cum enforcer — but not always, as in the case of observation missions) leave the ship to fly to a remote organization (that we thought of as an “org” and which officially was called “church”) which could be anywhere in the world — Europe or the U.S. or Africa or Australia, or even Sweden.
There were two reasons an organization or church earned itself a Sea Org mission: things were not going very well, and the mission was sent to fix this — this was usually the case; or things were going extremely well, and the mission was sent to find out why and how and to reinforce those actions which were found successful — occasionally.
A third reason a mission was sent was to inspect (according to the quite brilliant LRH policy of “Look don’t Listen” — i.e., trust only your eyes) and gather data from various orgs and their staff — the observation mission, obs mission for short.
Late spring 1971 I was tapped for an obs mission. I was to fly to America, visit and observe (including interviewing staff) orgs in New York, Miami, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, and then fly back to the Apollo with my findings and report.
I recall the night I left. There was a party onboard; there was drink, dance, merry-making. Not sure what the occasion was, but I was all briefed and ready to go by nine or so, so I stopped by the B-deck dining room and joined the festivities for a while. I had a couple of beers and enjoyed myself for a couple of hours before my bus left for Casablanca. It was scheduled to leave Agadir around midnight.
I left the party, made the bus just fine, and we were soon heading north.
I had not given my two jolly beers as much as a thought until, after an hour or so on this dark, Moroccan road, they began to make increasingly strong demands to be voided, knocking more and more loudly (desperately) on the bladder door. I HAD to use the restroom in other words. In the worst way. No restroom on this bus, though, and who knows when, or even if, the driver would even stop for a break.
There’s a lot you can think about to try to distract yourself from not peeing your pants, but you will eventually run out of them, and I did, and was about to explode when the bus (yes, there IS a God) pulled in to an overnight roadside café for a leg-stretcher and a coffee.
Me, I found the restroom, just in time, just in time.
Back on the bus, a ton lighter both bodily and mentally, I managed to sleep a little before, just after dawn, we pulled in to the Casablanca bus station.
The first leg of my journey safely in the bag, my next task was to find and visit the American embassy to acquire a visitor’s visa for my trip.
My flight to New York was booked for that evening (I already had the tickets), so I could not brook any visa delay and definitely not a denial. Interesting, as in somewhat challenging, task.
But we had the saying in the Sea Org, “Make Things Go Right”, which meant that it was up to you to clear and overcome whatever barriers or obstacles there might be to be cleared and overcome to reach your goal. My goal was a U.S. Visitors Visa. Right. Now. By this evening’s flight. I would make it go right.
Part of this story is that, officially, the Apollo was NOT a Scientology ship. It was an OTC (Operation and Transport Corporation) vessel. OTC was the Panama based registered owner, and the fact that officers and crew, which officially were OTC employees, were all Scientologists was a tightly guarded secret. So secret and so guarded that to let that cat out of any sort of bag was one of the most egregious crimes we could commit — cause for expulsion on the spot; so mum was always the thorough word.
Imagine my surprise then when the U.S. Embassy visa staffer took a long look at me, then a long one at my passport, and then back at me before he leaned back and asked, sort of smiling, “Have you heard about Scientology?”
Almost flippantly, and with no lag whatever, I answered, “Sure. Hasn’t everybody?”
The visa staffer (a suit-and-tie man in his mid-forties, as I recall) didn’t say anything at all for quite a while which gave me ample time to assess the lay of the land — and it was listing badly, precariously.
For I was expecting the next question to be, “Is the Apollo a Scientology vessel?” which meant that I would have to lie and say no, it isn’t — for to say yes was completely out of the question — see above re thorough and mum.
Then again, lying to an official U.S. Embassy staffer (who might have been a cop or CIA for all I knew) was not a very good idea either. Not sure whether that would constitute perjury or not, but I’m sure it would have been frowned upon and would most likely have incurred a visa denial for this Swedish missionaire. I am saying this for, judging by the question and the guy’s demeanor, the U.S. Embassy knew perfectly well that the Apollo was a Scientology ship, and most likely that Our Prince was onboard. In other words, were I to lie, my man would obviously know that I did, and the truth was not on the table.
Rock — Hard place.
But for whatever reason (and yes, there still IS a God) that wasn’t the question that came next. The next question was, “How long do you intend to stay in the United States?”
“No more than three weeks,” I said. My mission was estimated to take two weeks at the most.
“Okay,” said the still-smiling suit-and-tie man (as if perpetuating a tacit understanding between us), “I’ll give you a month.” He stamped the visa into my Swedish passport, and handed it back to me. “Have a great trip,” he said.
I levitated my way out of that embassy.
The flight from Casablanca to New York City was not overbooked.
The airline was TWA. The plane was a Boeing 707. At a guess, the cabin crew numbered eight or ten.
At a guess, the passengers numbered eight or ten.
Room to spread out.
These 707s had a great feature whereby, in the three-seat row, you could fold the middle seat forward which then became a small, practical table at elbow-height, and with (not like today’s planes) ample legroom, you might has well have been in first class. Really comfortable. And with an attendant-passenger ratio of one to one, this was one of the nicest flights I’ve ever been on.
I had a (free) drink or two, fell asleep, and then here came the hot towels and here came breakfast and here came the runway at JFK. Hardly any line at all at passport control. None at customs. But would you look at that: the police had GUNS. Real guns in plain sight — for a reason, I presumed. Holy shit.
Anyway. I made it through passport control, no problem, customs, no problem, and made it to a cab which made it to a (driver-recommended pretty good) hotel near the New York org, no problem, where I checked in and got myself ready to visit the org first thing next morning. Did so, and did my observations and interviews over the next two days, and then checked out of my hotel and cabbed back to JFK where I caught an afternoon flight to Miami for the next stop of my American tour.
Landed in Miami later that afternoon and took a taxi to the Miami org area — I asked the driver to take me within a block or so of the org address. He gave me an odd glance in the rear-view mirror, but said, sure.
My plan was to, just like in New York, arrive at the church first thing the next morning, so now: my make-it-go-right task was to find an inexpensive hotel around here.
Slim pickings.
Okay, two things: I had never been to the United States before, much less Florida, much less Miami, much less Miami’s seedier quarters. Nor had I the cultural background to spot or even suspect seedy when it came to Miami quarters.
Yes, slim pickings. No Holiday Inns, nor other brand-name motels. But wait, here’s a small, blue, two-story building with a dilapidated (but not broken) bluish sign saying “Hotel” on it in large white letters. Probably not too expensive, is how it looked to me; and frugal is always a good thing to remember and to be when on mission, for it is very much applauded by the accounting guys upon return.
So, in I walk to a lobby so run down I almost turned around, but what the hell, it was a hotel, the sign said so, and as such, legally, mustn’t it be safe and clean and all that stuff? Even in America? Even in Miami? Even in this area?
A small covey of old, dark-skinned guys (about as dilapidated as the hotel was my impression) look up from their papers and cards when I enter, at first sort of jaw-droppingly incredulous then interested then very interested: what is a young, white guy doing in this part of town for one and in this hotel for two?
Another dark-skinned, probably South-American something (Cuban?) man looks up from behind his (front?) desk, equally incredulous to start with but soon a little more professional. Something in Spanish.
I shake my head.
English then, “What can I do for you?” he wonders.
“I’d like a room for the night,” I say.
He looks me over. Incredulity swells. “Are you sure?” he wants to know.
“Well, yes.”
“Okay,” he says, back to professional, tinged by lingering disbelief.
“How much?” I wonder.
“Twenty dollars.”
I pay him in cash. He hands me a key. He points to the stairway at the end of the lobby, “Second floor,” he says. “Room 202.”
“I need a receipt,” I said.
He writes me one on a slip of paper that does not look very hotel-official if you ask me.
“Thanks.”
I survey things as I approach the stairway. Things are not necessarily as clean as one should have a right to expect from a hotel, but they’re not outrageously filthy, either. Someone’s doing some cleaning. Still, I’m having hints of buyer’s remorse at this point. But, oh, what the hell. It’s only for a night. How bad can it be?
201, 202, there: my room. The key works and I open the door and step in. Looks clean enough at first glance, and at second glance as well. The bed looks well made. Maybe not so bad then, after all. Only thing was that I had the really strange feeling that something or somethings had dashed for cover the moment I set foot in the room.
I put my luggage down, and went to check out the bathroom; you can usually tell how clean the rest of the room and the sheets and such are from how clean the bathroom. Not sure who taught me that, but it makes sense.
I swung the bathroom door open, and this time, much more pronounced: an immediate and incredibly fast dash for cover by more than just one something; by, say, hundreds.
This was actually a little scary. But brave Swedish boy stiffens upper lip and slowly backs out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut, or half shut, then, after ten or so seconds I push the door open at speed to catch red-handed whatever it was took cover with such alacrity.
Caught them. Yes, hundreds. Roaches. I knew roaches. We had them on the ship, occasionally. Here and there, at times. Not so here: everywhere and now.
Oh, man. Buyer’s remorse in full bloom. This is crazy. I have to get out of this place. But, then again, said buyer’s-remorse police, I had already paid, and the price was right. I could tough it out, couldn’t I? For one night.
It wasn’t like they were going to kill me or anything, not on paper, anyway. Never heard of such a thing.
I wasn’t going to use that shower though, I decided, or the bathroom at all unless I really had to; but soon undecided this for the room was, I now notice, incredibly warm, if not hot. I looked around for the air conditioner and spotted one, or what was supposed to be one. I turned it on and soon confirmed my suspicion: this was the little engine that couldn’t, even at full blast — the room remained up there in the sauna range. Should I demand my money back?
No, I decided to tough it out. It wasn’t as if the roaches were going to attack me and eat me up or anything. Never heard of such a thing (I kept telling myself), and they were obviously more afraid of me than I of them, even if not by much.
I could do this. Swedish brawn and all that.
Well, it appeared that the roaches, by now, had gotten used to the new guest and saw no need to stay in hiding. They scurried about by the window and floor boards quite unconcerned — again, hundreds I’d venture.
I did not check the bathroom again.
I sat down on the bed and took out a book to read. This was going to be a tough riding it out, a long night, but I could, I would.
Make things go right.
The next few hours crawled by before I decided to turn in for the night, to try to get some sleep before hitting the org at opening bell in the morning.
Despite the quote air-conditioner unquote, it was too hot to use the blanket; it was too hot to use the sheet, so I stripped the bed of all but the quite brilliantly white mattress sheet, stripped myself down next to naked, plumped up the (not too bad) pillow, and turned out the light.
Well, a turned-out light to you is a green light to roaches. The scurryness picked up not just a notch or two, but a handful of them.
Alarmed, I turned the light back on to discover a small army of them now upon my bed, upon the white, white sheet, apparently en route to check me out. However, and luckily, they didn’t like the light so much, and scurried away and off the bed, leaving the sheet unpopulated again.
To confirm, I turned the light back off again. Small scurry storm. Light back on, and they all darted off the bed again.
There was nothing for it, I would sleep, centered on the big white sheet as far from the edges and potential roach bravery as possible directly under the bright overhead light to make sure that my white raft riding this roach ocean would not be boarded by it.
And that is how I spent the not entirely peaceful night. The long, bright, roach-accompanied, warm night somewhere in Miami — God knows where.
I did survive. I did take a shower the following morning, just had to; much to the amusement, I sure, of hundreds of the little guys. I could hear their little applauds and whistles.
I checked out, handed the key to a still incredulous front desk man, who did not ask me if I had slept well.
I never saw any other guests.
I stepped out into an already hot early morning sun and made it over to the org, where the air conditioning actually made a difference.
I did not share my experience with the staff, realizing by now that I had been very little short of an absolute idiot.
The org was rather small, so I finished my observations and interviews that same day and taxied back to the airport later that afternoon. I made my Los Angeles flight with a good hour to spare.
Just like in Miami, I taxied from LAX to the Los Angeles org neighborhood, where the cab dropped me off. No strange looks from him. Not as bad as Miami. Still, I skipped two motels (that looked a little seedy and possibly hosts to happy roach colonies — I had learned my Hotel lesson by now) before settling on the third — Holiday Inn, reputable, English speaking, and very good all things told.
My obs and interviews went very well in Los Angeles, and I could have left after two busy days, but I had a second mission during this mission which made me stay one more day in Los Angeles: I had to find a good record store and pick up some current music cassettes (we’re talking early seventies, of course, no CDs yet). I even had a shopping list: Grateful Dead, CSN&Y, Neil Young, Elton John, Youngbloods, and some others.
So, I asked this girl at reception where were the best record stores in town. Well, there was a great one by Sunset and Vine (I forget the name, and it’s definitely no longer there, it had already closed its doors by the time I moved to Los Angeles in the early ‘80s), and then there’s Tower Records, of course, up on the strip.
“How do I get to Sunset and Vine?” I wondered.
“Take the bus,” she suggested.
“Which bus, and from where?”
She told me, and I headed out on my cassette buying mission.
No problem catching the bus. No problem getting off at the right place. No problem finding the record store. No problem with their selection either. Only problem was their pricing. I found the cassettes were very expensive, not what I had been told by my Apollo friends to expect, and decided to try my luck at Tower Records instead. So, I had the nerve to ask the cashier at this place how I could get to Tower Records from there.
Well, good for him (perhaps he also thought they charged too much for the cassettes), he told me, “Down to Sunset, turn right, and stay on Sunset until you get to the strip, and you’ll see it. Hard to miss.”
“Thanks a bunch,” I said.
Now, I realized much later that the guy assumed I was driving, because everybody in Los Angeles is driving. Even if the car is falling apart, they are driving. There is no walking in LA, Missing Persons to the contrary.
No one except me, that is. So, I walked down Vine Street to Sunset Boulevard, and turned right and started walking.
And kept walking. No Tower Records in sight.
And kept walking.
It’s almost noon by now, and warm, heading toward hot.
And I’m walking, and walking, and walking.
Should have found it by now, I figured.
Hungry, too. A Denny’s or something. Nice and cool inside. I had a burger and fries for lunch, and a very cold and wonderful Coke to go with it. Paying the cashier, I asked, “Tower Records. How do I get there?”
“Go west on Sunset, just stick with Sunset, it’s hard to miss.”
“And it’s that-a-way?” I wanted to confirm, pointing westish.
“Yup,” she said. “That’s right.”
So, out into the even-hotter-now sun and treading westward for Tower Records, which never seemed to arrive. After about what felt like another hour I figure I must have missed it, so I ask some guy where it might be, and he points in the direction I’m going, that-a-way, a bit.
“How much of a bit?”
“Are you driving?”
“No.”
“Then, quite a bit,” he said.
“Thanks.”
And off I trotted some more, and some more, and some more until finally, mid-afternoon by this time, there it was: incredibly hard to miss, TOWER RECORDS. Sign the size of a whale. Home at last.
This store blew me away.
The way I used to tell it (to my kids and such): The record store close to where I lived in Stockholm did not have the greatest selection, and the LPs were arranged on a few wall-mounted shelves, alphabetically, with inserts cum dividers marking each letter of the alphabet. So, “A” contained “The Animals,” “Amen Corner,” “Alma Cogan” and all the other “As” in and around the top ten at the time.
There was another record store in Stockholm, in the PUBs department store, that went a step further: a much large selection called for separate inserts cum dividers for each popular band, so both “The Animals” and “Amen Corner” had their own labeled compartments so to speak.
In contrast, Tower Records had albums stacked all over their huge floor, with each album, not just artist, each ALBUM in its own three-foot pile.
I especially remember Elton John’s “Madman Across the Water” (just out) — a hundred or two of them in its own pile, surrounded by equally tall piles of other current hit albums across a floor that felt the size of a soccer pitch (though it wasn’t, of course).
Yes, I was floored (pun intended).
And, the cassette prices were four some dollars less per album, well worth the walk, in other words.
I bought the albums I had come for — they had them all. Good store, this. No longer in business, though, these days.
Only one problem now: I had no idea how to get back to the Los Angeles org and my Holiday Inn. I didn’t want to spend the money on a taxi for how should I explain that to the accounting guys back on the Apollo, a fare from Tower Records to Holiday Inn? What was I doing at Tower Records? Would be embarrassing. So, I called the org, asked to speak to someone with a car, explained where I was and half an hour later she shows up in a Mustang convertible (roof down) and drives me back.
“I did a lot of walking,” I said. “From Vine Street.”
“You walked to Tower Records from Vine Street?” she asked.
“Yup.”
She found that funny.
I thanked her a lot and headed into my motel, and caught an early flight to San Francisco the following morning.
The San Francisco leg of my mission went well, too. All questions answered, all observations made. The mission objective in the bag.
Then I was on my way back to Casablanca by way of New York. While I was in America, the Apollo had sailed up from Agadir, and was now berthed at the Casablanca docks. I was glad to see her again, and my friends. Glad to be home.
An adventure, to be honest and my first taste of America.
I haven’t been back to Miami since, though, and have no plans to go there again. Ever.
© Wolfstuff
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