The crisp, late autumn wind off the North Sea in early November was a sure sign to keep moving. Winter was approaching quickly. I had recently arrived back in Amsterdam after the first phase of what would be a extended tour of the back streets of Europe. Armed with a three-month rail pass, I had left the USA that September after graduating from college with no particular direction in mind.
Forty-seven years ago this July, a week short of my 16th birthday Apollo 11 landed on the moon.
While Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin prepared to make history my older brother Oscar and I were still reeling from the effects of a self-inflicted nutmeg overdose self administered the day before. The 60's could be brutal when it came to seeking new levels of consciousness.
The sky had already turned an unhappy gray as we jumped into the ford wagon and headed up the street of our old colonial town still fast asleep in the early morning light, downtown to the Greyhound Bus Station up river in Springfield, Massachusetts. The long...