while we went through the rigmarole of getting a ship. He was living with a girl called Diane; he said she was a marvelous cook and everything would jump. Henri was an old prep school friend, a Frenchman brought up in Paris and France and a really mad guy---I never knew how mad and so mad at this time. So he expected me to arrive in 10 days. I wrote and confirmed this…in innocence of how much I’d get involved on the road. My mother was all in accord with my trip to the West; she said it would do me good. I’d been working so hard all winter and staying in too much; she even didn’t say too much when I told her I’d have to hitch hike some; ordinarily it frightened her; she thought this would do me good. All she wanted was for me to come back in one piece. So leaving my big half-manuscript sitting on top of my desk, and folding back my comfortable home sheets for the last time one morning, I left with my canvas bag in which a few fundamental things were packed, left a note to my mother, who was at work, and took off for the Pacific Ocean like a veritable Ishmael with fifty dollars in my pocket. What a hang up I got into at once! As I look back on it it’s incredible that I could have been so damned dumb. I’d been poring over maps of the U.S. in Ozone Park for months, even reading books about the pioneers and savoring names like Platte and Cimarron and so on, and on the roadmap was one long red line called Route Six that led from the tip of Cape Cod clear to Ely Nevada and there dipped down to Los Angeles. “I’ll just stay on six all the way to Ely,” I said to myself and confidently started. To get to six I had to go up to Bear Mountain, New York. Filled with dreams of what I’d do in Chicago, in Denver, and then finally in San Fran, I took the 7th Avenue subway to the end of the line at 242nd Street, right near Horace Mann, the prep school where I had actually met Henri Cru who I was going to see, and there took a trolley into Yonkers; downtown Yonkers I transferred on an outgoing trolley and went to the city limits on the east bank of the Hudson river. If you drop a rose in the Hudson river at its mysterious mouth up near Saratoga think of all the places it journeys by as it goes out to sea forever…think of that wonderful Hudson valley. I started hitching up the thing. Five scattered shot