Once upon a time there were hordes of blue collar workers toiling in Detroit. This was long before jobs were outsourced to the third world, before the Big 3 lost an undeclared war to Japanese imports and at a time when factory floors never saw adequate ventilation, air conditioning or robots. The boys of these men got an education in smoke and steel, many got jobs making parts supplied to the auto companies.
We discovered that men up from the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee had missing teeth by the time they were 23, that they chewed tobacco and spit the juice on factory floors. We saw that some women strutted, cursed and fought just like us, and lusted after the same girls. We came to know that swallowing salt packets kept us from dizzy spells while we sweated off ten pounds a shift. And, we discovered the value of steel toed work boots after our first broken toe.
We learned to move carefully, step quickly and avoid areas beneath moving cranes. We had to steer clear of clanging steel and scalding molten metal. We found out that rickety walkways, slippery ramps and oily puddles caused broken bones. We saw hands crushed, fingers lopped off and quick as a flash third degree burns. Is it any wonder that some of us finally decided to go to college?
Maybe our dads had the right idea in wanting us to be white collar workers. Some of us had visited a university campus, ogled the cute coeds and had half filled out applications lying around somewhere. Student loans were easy to get. Book learning had to be better than getting patched up, splinted and sewn together at a weekly trip to the emergency clinic.
College life was much easier than factory work; more fun too. It opened up whole new vistas. Not only as to learning; we found out that education could be more intriguing than memorizing dates. But also for the exposure; particularly for us guys who had never traveled more than 20 miles from home (besides the annual visit to Aunt Dot out in the sticks) or ate at restaurants at times other than prom night. Thus, we developed goals.
The first goal was to visit Europe. Yes, indeed, skip Chicago, Cincinnati and Cleveland. Bypass hotels, motels, and fancy restaurants; fly right over the Atlantic to party with long legged French girls. Travel books said it could be done on $5 a day, and a week of factory overtime would take care of plane fare. Even better, every campus had brochures and flyers that touted, “Work in Paris, Rome, Athens… college students desperately needed. No experience required; work permits and visas no problem. Offices at all the major gateways to the European experience. Placement guaranteed!”
I was on a plane to Brussels the day after freshman year ended. It wasn’t as exotic as Istanbul, but who wanted to see turbans and scimitars? It was also closer to those French girls than the symphonies and museums of Vienna, the other “gateway” choice. There were scads of other gullible college kids standing, sitting and laying about in and near the Brussels office. They were faithfully waiting, some as long as three or four weeks, for placement in a job at a tantalizing location,. It apparently took time for an opening to develop in Paris, Rome or anywhere else a teenager might actually want to visit. The immediate openings were all located within a days train ride of such hotspots as Budapest, Helsinki, and Damascus. Hmmm… the $30 hidden in my shoe might not be a big enough emergency fund.
Beer, bread and cheese was rumored to be freely available in Amsterdam. Amsterdam was on the way to an English speaking country; I got on the road and stuck out my thumb. The rumor was true, and the Heineken factory was paradise, but sleeping in the railroad station got old, I still had enough money in my shoe for a one way ticket across the English Channel and over to London. By this time I had heard that major hotels in big cities, like the factories in the Midwest, were always hiring. And similar to the factories, there weren’t a lot of questions – it was just best to show up shaven and not falling down drunk.
I thought speaking the same language might be helpful in getting a job; off I went to London. I could wait a few more weeks to dance with the long legged French girls. The first hotel I walked into was located in Grosvenor Square, which was also home to the U.S. Embassy. The head housekeeper was the first person of authority that I bumped into; she avoided inquiring about a work permit. I could start earning shillings the very next day, and was directed to a rooming house on the other side of the Thames River. Many of the hotel’s dishwashers, porters and other menial workers were sheltered there, three or four to a room. Most were Spanish or Portuguesse. Some could even speak a few halting words in English. But, like workers everywhere, we had no problem communicating the essentials.
Feeding myself on the cheap was the first concern. The other employees quickly pointed out (quite literally, with hand gestures and poses) that if a place served food, one could eat well. It was an unauthorized perk. Dropped plates and trays of steak and codfish became a dietary staple. Plus, hotels provided room service. Hence, everything on the menu became available – if you weren’t fussy about someone else having taken the first bite or two.
A job in a fancy English hotel had other plus factors. There were brass rails and plate glass doors that required daily polishing, not the slightest smudge was allowed. Few things are funnier than watching a tourist smack into a door. The other main benefit was a break room with steaming pots of tea and a huge vat of pudding. The pudding had skin a half inch thick; it was delicious, a meal in itself. The secret of making skins like that remains the most closely guarded British secret.
After a few paydays I inquired about the cost of getting to Paris, I learned that shillings weren’t worth much to anybody outside of England. More than pence, but a lot less than pounds; it would take a bunch of months to turn them into enough dollars for a flight back to the States. I wanted to get back home at some point, and I heard that jobs in France were scarce if you didn’t speak the language.
So, nope – I never did get to dance with those long legged French girls. And darned if that wasn’t the first - and only - question that any dude has ever asked me about my European experience.
Jack D. Arlan©2011
(As part of a week of revamping and editing, this is a reworked piece from the one originally posted in September of 2010)
