Perpignan 1982

In June 1982 my college friend Nick Napoli came to Paris. Walter D was DJ for the Rex Club's final 24-hour marathon of new wave and ethnic bands featuring Toure Kunda and Virgin Prunes. We weren't straight for any of those hours. The club's manager Olivier had a family beach home on the Cote Vermillion i.e. Perpignan on the Spanish border. Nick rented a car. We greeted the next morning on the Autoroute Du Sud.

Here are fotos of my friends.

We are still good friends.

England was taking back the Falklands, Israeli was aiding massacres in Lebanon, and Roland Garros was featuring championship tennis. It was on the TV. Olivier told his father that I was the 17th ranked tennis player in the USA. He believed his son. Dodo proudly told the entire town about his guest. To this day I am # 17 in Perpignan.

Perpignan was an old city dating back to the 10th Century. Old people lived within its walls. The young fled to Paris, Montpelier, and Avignon. For fun Olivier suggested Collioure. The old port was down the coast. The Spanish and French had fought over the strategic city for centuries. It was more Catalan than either. Olivier offered to drive. Nick didn't trust Olivier behind the wheel.

"Me neither," I added. The French tended to drive like every trip was a qualification for Formula 1.

Collioure was a dream. Two beaches. A warm sea. Olivier knew everyone. Hlaf were his cousin. At a harborside pier Walter spun records. Nick and I danced with two girls. They were cute and in their 20s. I had just turned 30.

We brought two girls back to Carnet-Plage. They were good fun. But only in a non-Biblical sense.

For some reason William Buckley, Jr. was in town. He followed us around the city. I don't think he was after me.

Oliver agreed.

When he asked about wearing espadrilles, I said, "They look good on you."

It was the South of France.

I got a pair too. $10.

Espadrilles sucked for climbing around the Templar ruins of the Langue d'Oc. I was okay in the classic footwear.

Olivier was less amused. He slipped on the rocks.

But he didn't stay angry. The next day Olivier, Walter, Nick, and I returned to Collioure. The two girls were at a harborside cafe. The six of us drank pastis till sunset and switched to wine. I don't remember those girls names or the ride home to Carnet-Plage, but I woke in bed alone. A lucky man.

After a week Walter, Nick, and I bid 'au revoir' to the Brials. Olivier was staying home. Les Americains auto-routed north to Paris. We slept in the car till Avignon. Leaving the South of France.

Paris was a different France, especially for the 17th ranked tennis player in America.