In Jan. 1982 a french magazine ACTUEL hired me to work the work at their Paris nightclub, Le Rex. I bid good-bye to New York and flew from JFK to Heathrow with one bag of my best clothing and an Olivetti typewriter.
After a brief visit with friends in London, I boarded a train at Waterloo Station for Dover and caught a night ferry to Calais. The immigration officials stamped my passport with a six-month visa and I passed through customs without any of the smoking officials casting an eye in my direction. It was cold outside and I walked to the Calais train station.
My Olivetti Lettera 22 typewriter weighed a little over four kilograms. Nine pounds isn't much, but as I walked to the the Calais train station on a June evening, the weight grew heavier in my hand and crossing a bridge over the Calais canal I contemplated ditching it. The tide was out and the river bottom was thick with mud. The world didn't need another writer or another doorman at a nightclub, then again this world doesn't need much, so I trudged into the terminal with the Olivetti and bought a one-way 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 and my typing is as bad as ever.
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