In Jan. 1982 I flew from JFK to London with one bag and an Olivetti typewriter. I visited with friends and then continued over to Paris to start my job at the Rex Club as doorman. Train to Dover-Ferry to Calais. A short walk to the train station in the cold night.
My typewriter weighed a ton and I contemplated ditching it while crossing a bridge before the train station. The world didn't need another writer nor another doorman at a nightclub, then again this world doesn't need much, so I trudged into the terminal and bought a ticket to Paris.
Gare Du Nord.
For me and my typewriter.
I have no idea where it is now, but me I'm in New York. My typing as bad as ever.
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