In this chronicle about life on the hippie trail, W. M. Raebeck provides a funky flashback to what now seems an easier era. Through her marginal feats and misadventures, you'll always be siding with the bad guy. Questionable conduct here takes a back seat to innocence, naiveté, rites of passage, and even desperation. The author's exploits reveal, too, that perennial determination of the young—every generation's instinct to define itself and its time.
In a kaleidoscope of back roads, airplanes, boats, and trains, this is a sometimes funny, sometimes edgy story of a saucy young woman finding her way. Packed with punchy dialogue, outlandish schemes, and eclectic love affairs, this could only be that one breathless moment of history—now fading into our past—that is great fun to revisit.
Boomers will grok these free-wheelin' recollections of long-haired days when hitch-hikers had to wait their turn for space on the on-ramp. And readers of every age will be reminded that the youthful spirit is timeless, and harrowing ordeals are just bends in the road.
Hippie Freaks, where are you now?
Genre: TRAVEL / Road TravelThe book was released in November 2015.
A lively travelogue with romance and upheaval. Excerpts:
"It was pitch dark inside and dead still. A waist-high platform centered the black-painted room, and tables and chairs spilled in all directions. A fat slob appeared from the shadows, acknowledging us by raising his chin an eighth of an inch. Then he tipped his head half an inch to one side, indicating a small door marked “office” that we sheepishly followed him into.
'You can call me Jock,' said Jock, foisting two satin, tasseled skirts at us in a manner that compelled us to grab them before they fell on the floor. “When can you start work?”
. . . .
"Sleeping under a truck is unsettling—with black, greasy machinery closing in around your cheeks and hipbones, added to the concern that the vehicle might change gears and flatten you in the night. Despite the negatives, we may have still nodded off had the mosquitoes not chosen that very stowage for their regional convention. Seconds after we four kissed goodnight, they buzzed around in zillions, vying all night for exposed flesh."
. . . .
"Then another very bad thing happened. Three stewardesses unfolded some heretofore invisible seats directly behind us. I’d have to ignore the styrofoam box till after take-off.
It wasn’t ignoring me. For an inanimate object it was pretty lively. Seemed to be upset, not at peace with itself. And soon it was actually jumping around in its seat. Finally we were airborne, the box now mewing in low distress. When the crew got busy again, I yanked off the lid."
. . . .
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French
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Ruth-Ellen Alcendor
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