Chapter 16: Epilogue

Epilogue

By the time we arrived at the Victoria Bus Terminal, we had exchanged phone numbers and addresses and made promises to 'keep in touch'.  I broached  the idea of a party in my West London flat in June, to exchange photos and the trip memories they evoked. Then we had enjoyed poignant individual hugs before going our separate ways - most of us tearfully.  

It was difficult to leave the adventure behind.  But real life awaited us!

My job
I returned to work the very next day, fully aware that my job might no longer exist as I might already have been fired. Thankfully, my boss looked more relieved than angry to see me.  Against all odds, she had received my postcard from Fes, and her Bohemian spirit had understood my very human need to escape the cold, dark and passionless English winter.  

She knew that I was grieving the sudden departure of my Canadian boyfriend and that a Moroccan trip had been an excellent tonic for what ailed me.  So she had already forgiven me, which was quite remarkable, under the circumstances!  But then, Miss M was a truly remarkable educator.

In return, she expected my full cooperation, and then some, in future workaday matters.  And, in my sincere gratitude, I was more than willing to oblige.

Each afternoon, Ms M invited me to make us both a cup of tea, and while she sipped, I recounted a different chapter of my bus trek to Morocco and back. My travel tales entertained us both for the several weeks it took the British climate to come close to matching the warmth we had experienced during our trip.

My Canadian boyfriend

Also waiting for me, when I arrived home, were several long and loving letters from my erstwhile Canadian boyfriend.  He had simply refused to accept that our time together was well and truly over, and was not about to let me dismiss him in a letter.

He wasn't interested in our being "just friends".  He said that being separated from me, even  for only a few weeks, had helped him to realize that leaving England had been a colossal mistake. Thus, he was working for his return to England that Autumn, when he would discuss our future with me, in person.

Strangely, I was ambivalent both about his declaration and his plans to return, even though I had bid him goodbye, emotionally, only a few weeks before. So much had happened to and for me since we had parted. Ah, but Autumn was many months away yet and I had time to think in depth about our romantic connection before his return.

My Moroccan trip had shown me the joy of independence. And I now knew that I had to define my own life, and not be pressured into a role prescribed by someone else - no matter how well-meaning that person, nor how promising that role, may appear to be.

2 months later

My party

Two months later, I contacted everyone from the bus trip and arranged for those attending to bring their photos to my party, at my Olympia flat.   As fate would have it, my Mother was still out of the country.  But her boyfriend, John, happened to be in London on the Saturday of my party, and had dropped by my apartment with news from my travelling Mater. 

Having prepared masses of food for that afternoon's gathering, I invited him to chow down.  Then he continued to wait with me, for the crowd to arrive and the party to begin. 

We waited.........

And we waited......

But only one fellow traveller ever arrived.  And that one was a rather drunken Len.

John had not thought it safe to leave me alone with Len, having been told of his attitude towards me during the trip. He did, rather callously, suggest dropping Len off under the nearest road-bridge to sleep it off.  But I protested that while Len might sometimes behave like a reprehensible human being, he was not a sewer rat! John then capitulated and chauffeured all of us to his parents' home near Gerrard's Cross, in Buckinghamshire.

Len promptly passed out in the car, and took to the guest bedroom as soon as we entered the home of the "Aged Parents" - as we called them.  John's parents were also away travelling, so we three spent the evening and night alone in their abode.  John was none too happy about that situation.  It wasn't HIS home, and Len was, after all, a total stranger. 

As it happened, John's instincts about Len's being 'weird' were to prove 100% correct.  In the middle of the night, Len had visited the home's only bathroom, opened the top drawer of the vanity. Then, for reasons known only to Len, vomited into the drawer and then closed it again.

what the #!@&?

John's parents kept their personal bathroom items in those drawers, so neither John nor I would have dreamed of opening it.  Our good manners thus prevented us from deciphering the cause of the acid stench that assailed our nostrils the next morning, putting it down to 'plumbing' problems that will often unaccountably assail older abodes.  

It wasn't till a week later that Lens 'contribution' was discovered, by John's Mother, when his parents returned to their home again. What a disgusting "welcome home" gift!

Len had vanished by the time John woke up the next morning.  I'd slept in, exhausted after my cooking spree and the disappointment of my failed party the previous day. So John did some gardening for his parents before waking me with a cup of tea and the news that Len had disappeared. And that was, thankfully, the last time I would have to endure Len's weirdness.

Still, I was sad that my party plans had failed.  I had been looking forward to seeing the others again, as well as the pictures they were to have brought with them. I was also annoyed that not one of them had had the grace to phone and let me know they were cancelling on me. 

Ah well, it was my fault for expecting everyday civility from people who were only "vacation" friends!   

But that was not even close 

to being the end of this matter.

Anton's party

Later that same week I was surprised to receive a phone call from Anton, telling me that his 'live in girlfriend'  would be hosting a Morocco theme party in their North London home, later that same month.  And I was invited.  

At least I now knew why the only one attending MY party had been Len!  No wonder he'd had to get so drunk.  The alternative would have meant telling me about Anton's party, which, to his credit, he had refused to attend!  Poor loyal, yet highly disturbed, Len!

Anton told me that 'their' party was to be held on a weekday night, and would include some of their personal friends. Knowing it would take me longer to travel there and back, than I'd actually spend at their home, he would definitely understand if I chose not to attend.

Shocked both by Anton's collusion in the sabotage of my party as well as by the cold, business-like tone of his voice, I had simply asked for time and date of HIS party, thanked him politely for the invitation, and then hung up. 

My impression of Anton began to falter from the moment he issued that heartless invitation.  I thought I had begun to know him pretty well on our trip. But, apparently, I didn't know him well enough.  If I had, I would have realized that he was being coerced into phoning me, and that his coldness was his attempt at warning me to stay away.   

He needn't have bothered. 

I had no intention of attending Anton's party.   

And that should have been an end to it.  But during those few intervening days, curiosity got the better of me. Having lost my camera and the exposed film in it, I desperately wanted to see the photos Anton had taken for me.  And, of course, I wanted to see him again too, and was curious to meet his lady-friend.

On the day of the party, the nurses were all working various shifts in their northern hospitals, but had mailed Anton their photos along with their apologies.   Our two Aussie drivers were leading another trek through Europe, and so were also absent. And the New Zealand brothers had moved onto greener pastures across the Atlantic. Thus, apart from myself, only George and the other business man from our tour actually attended Anton's party.

I arrived late, parked and locked my moped outside their home, and then rang the doorbell.  The party sounded as if it were in full swing when Anton greeted me at the door, wearing an apologetic smile.  He then led me, somewhat reluctantly, directly into his den by the kitchen at the back of the house.

She was tall, blonde and willowy and pounced on me before I even had time to say hello.

"So YOU are the predatory bitch who slept her way thru Europe with MY husband!" 

GASP!! 

Momentarily flabberghasted, I began by agreeing with her. Yes, we'd slept together - in the same tent - the same bed even - but not in the way she'd meant it, and..... 

HUSBAND?!!

what the #!@&?

You're her HUSBAND?!?!?! I accused, spinning around, glaring at Anton for a few seconds, too stunned and mortified to look at his wife at all.

Anton, at least, had the grace to look guilty. He'd lied to me, of course, and played me like a fiddle all through Europe. He was so good at it, that I hadn't realized I'd been just a pawn in a game to him. 

Standing before him, in his own home, I finally saw Anton in his true colours for the first time.  And I did not like the person I saw!  I had believed him when Anton told me he was single.  And I had believed him again, when he told me he was just 'living with' a woman.  It was the 70s, a lot of couples hooked up for a while and then moved on, myself included.

Was I really so naive that it had taken sharp words from Anton's wife to slap me back to reality?!  Apparently so.  But I'd also WANTED to believe Anton was telling the truth.  And WANTING to believe him had been my biggest mistake.

Mistake or not, a part of me very much wanted to scratch HIS eyes out, apologize to his wife, then run out of the house and never look back. 

But I still had to accomplish what I had travelled all that way  to do!! So I literally collared Anton and, almost hissing at him, said

"You promised you'd take pictures FOR me, after my camera was stolen in Fes.  So just let me have MY pictures, and I will leave you to enjoy THIS gathering without me."

Then I turned to see his wife, still glaring at me, moving towards a bunch of photos that sat on the tabletop. She looked about ready to combust as she stared down at them.  My eyes followed hers to several 8x10 glossies that showed me, dancing practically naked in the wind atop that Tangier sand dune, at sunrise of our first full day in Morocco.

Grasping the photos in her fist, she waved them in my face, accusing me of deliberately planning to seduce her husband.  Then she promised to burn all Anton's photos rather than let me keep a single trophy.

Seeing those 'whirling dervish' photos made me feel as if I'd just been sucker punched!  

I had truly not noticed Anton hunkered down in those Tangier dunes, secretly taking one lurid photograph after another - of ME!  In black and white, they were very arty, but also quite explicit, since my thin djellaba perfectly silhouetted my dancing form against the rising sun. 

In a flash, I understood the reason for his wife's venomous attack.  

Those photos weren't MY trophies, 
they were HIS! 

Anton's photographic masterpiece was proof positive that this man she adored, her beloved husband, had actively lusted after another woman during his long trip away from her.

She loved Anton, of that I had no doubt.  Yet he had hurt her very deeply - much more than he had hurt me.  

Of course, in her eyes, it was all MY fault.  That's why she had insisted he invite me to her home. I was the unwitting mouse in her vicious game of cat and mouse.

The music tape had stopped, and everyone had become suddenly very still and silent.  The atmosphere in that room was thick enough to cut with a knife. And it was obvious no photos were going to be exchanged on that, or any other, night.   

Again, I felt sick to my stomach and needed to leave.  Right away!

So, with no further ado, I turned on my heel and left Anton, his wife and the others far behind.

Unlocking my moped, I somehow managed to drive myself home, and cry myself to sleep that night.  What a horrendously calculated and painful evening I had endured.

My time on the trip with Anton had been so sweet and tender by comparison. And I had certainly gained from our shared travels. But those gains had seemed all but eradicated in a single evening of deliberate cruelty.

Anton's party was the last time I was to see 
any member of our Moroccan tour group

It took many months to recover from the shock of Anton's betrayals - both of his wife, and of me. So it wasn't till the end of summer that I understood how necessary both the trip and its unsavoury finale had been - for my own growth and my future understanding of human nature.

I had filled the void left by my absent Canadian with Anton's company, and we'd enjoyed our trip together.  But as we were both wounded puppies in the love department (or so I had been led to believe), neither of us was hoping for, or expecting, more than just a shared fun time.

After the trip, I had returned home to the same world that I'd left - minus the electrical blackouts. Hooray!   So I found great solace in working hard to make up for worrying my boss half out of her mind during my absence. And, since she hadn't fired me, I was eager to show my gratitude by working overtime whenever asked.
  
Summer 72
During my walks home through London's parks in those long summer evenings, I was able to examine my emotional relationships with my Canadian and with Anton. And eventually I filtered out whatever rang false and internalized what felt real and true.

I became much stronger after my Morocco trip - physically, emotionally and mentally! And that strength had been due to Anton's unfailing good humour as well as his solicitous care and protection of me.  Because he had shielded, educated and honoured me on that trip, I had regained my lost confidence and was thus better able to face my problems at home upon my return.

Ironic, huh?  

Eventually I forgave Anton - and myself - for the pain we'd caused each other after the trip.  Nobody is perfect.  And yes, he had lied to me.  But I had chosen to believe him, no questions asked.  So I had allowed his lies.

I came to realize that nothing and nobody is perfect, and that we can only do our best.  And that when we know better, we do better.  (Thank you Oprah!)  And, as long as we are honest about our feelings and willing to learn from our mistakes, we're on the right track.  We just have to learn how to be truthfully gentle with ourselves and each other.

Silently I thanked Anton for being such a fun catalyst for me.  And I sent him and his wife my heartfelt good wishes for a long, happy and loving life together.  And then I set about expanding my diary memories of our fun times on the road so that I would never forget the valuable lessons they had brought me.

Forty years on.... 

Life has thrown me many, many 
challenges which I have faced with 

hopefulness, 

humour 

and courage,

aided and abetted by the many
experiences and often difficult lessons 
I learned during

"My Road to Morocco"

May your travels also create memories and lessons that last you an entire lifetime! 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Christobelle's next trip

GRAND  TOUR  of EUROPE 

 13 weeks  * 1976 *  14 Countries  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
begins March 22, 2013
mark your calendar!