You will remember my joining the St. Clair Shores Rotary Club. I don't recall how many Rotary Clubs there are in Michigan, but I think I visited every one of them. Rotarians enjoy visiting each other's clubs. When traveling in the USA or abroad, Rotarians try to visit the closest club to where they are staying. Each club has a small silk flag showing its name and all try to create logos and images to represent their town. The Marathon Rotary Club's flag, for instance, is blue with gold edging, giving their club's name and a picture of a sailfish, representing the great fishing in the area of Marathon, in the Florida Keys. All members who travel have a supply of flags and when visiting another club, they exchange flags. The visiting Rotarian is always recognized and introduced by the local president, who presents him the local flag and is given a flag from the visitor's club, in return. When Rotarians return home, they will present the newest flag to the Home Club members, who will then mount it on a large banner that is displayed at the weekly meetings. When visiting a club it is impressive to see all the flags from all over the world displayed. This is particularly noticeable in large cities like Miami, New York, Amsterdam, or London.
I had decided that I wanted to go to the Rotary International Convention in Nice, France. So on May 16, 1967 Helen and I, along with a fellow Rotarian Dr. Whitley and his wife, flew from Detroit to New York, Amsterdam and on to Paris, where we spent four days. Then, on the 20th, we flew from Paris to Nice. The convention was a great experience; we met Rotarians from all over the world. The International President gave a stirring report on Polio Plus, Rotary's project to eradicate polio from the world. There were a number of seminars about Rotary that you could attend, and many of the Rotary Clubs presented projects that they were undertaking. I remember one African club that was involved in drilling wells and providing hand pumps to obtain clean drinking water. Another club was providing medical care to infants in a South American country. We attended several special luncheons and dinners with outstanding Rotarian speakers talking about the goals of Rotary in the world. During these luncheons, clubs from around the world were recognized for their accomplishments.
Leaving Nice, France on May 23rd, the four of us flew to Casablanca, in Morocco. I had always wanted to see that part of the world after seeing the Bogart movie of the same name. Casablanca was very interesting, especially the colorfully dressed water sellers dispensing a cup of water from a goatskin bag. Walking down the narrow winding alleys of Kasbah, we saw interesting street merchants, selling just about everything.
After three days in Casablanca, we decided to rent a car and drive south to Marrakesh, gateway to the Western Sahara Desert. If Casablanca was colorful, Marrakesh was even more so. We stayed in the old historic Mamounia Hotel; rooms had beautiful balconies overlooking spectacular gardens and pools. Winston Churchill called the Mamounia Hotel his favorite hotel where he could get away from it all. He would spend hours in the gardens, with his easel, painting the beautiful flowers. Over the walls of the garden, you could see camel caravans heading for the Sahara. We always enjoyed having breakfast on our balcony and sharing it with the multi colored small birds that perched on the balcony awaiting your departure, so that they could pick up any stray crumbs.
The square in Marrakesh was like a circus: snake charmers handled poisonous Cobras and other nasty reptiles. I was brave enough to have a deadly snake placed around my neck. I have often wondered if the Arab had the poison removed, or did I risk my life? I am sure it was the former? Or was it? Anyhow, I'm still alive. The local dentist in his Arab robes sat upon a carpet; all around him were various teeth that he had extracted. Another Arab was the writer of letters. For a small fee you could dictate a letter to be mailed to some distant relative. Over on the other side of the square was a story teller, and dozens of white robed men and some veiled women listened intently to the story he was telling. There to the side was the fortune teller, who, for a coin or two, would tell your fortune in the sand. We stayed two days in Marrakesh. Our dinner on the last night was at the Mamounia; sitting cross-legged on a low stool and carpet, we ate chicken from a common bowl and drank mint tea. All this was very exotic, but somewhat uncomfortable, for four American tourists.
Returning to Casablanca, all of agreed that our short stay in Morocco would be long remembered as a truly interesting experience. Little did I know that, years later, I would make the same trip again? For now we were off to Las Palmas for a couple of days, then on to Lisbon for an overnight, then on to New York, and home. However, I had a rather unpleasant experience to go through. On arrival in Lisbon, Portugal, we checked into the famous Ritz Hotel. I had a history of kidney stones which are extremely painful and had been hospitalized several times for their removal. Just about the time we got to our room at the Ritz, I doubled over in pain. Helen called Dr. Whitley whose room was just down the hall, and he came running. Fortunately, he had some very strong pain pills which he administered and suggested that I take a very hot bath, with the hopes that it would pass through my system. The three of them went out to dinner and I headed to my hot bath. The next morning I seemed fine, and we went to the airport for our flight to New York, on Iberian Airlines. The flight had barely taken off when that excruciating pain returned. The stewardess was about to tell the Captain to turn back, when Helen asked her to page Dr. Whitley, who was sitting further back in the rear. He had thoughtfully put a few pain pills in his pocket that morning, which he quickly administered. He fed me the pills several times during the flight and I guess I was pretty well out of it until we arrived at the Detroit airport. I was so bad that I could hardly stand up. Dr. Whitley called an ambulance and I was taken to the St.Clair Shores hospital where they removed the stone the following day. Is there a moral to this story? The only one I could think of was, don't leave home without your Doctor. When I got out of the hospital I asked Dr. Whitley to write me a prescription for those pills, and I never travelled out of the country without them.
Well, 1967 is still not over and this blog is getting too long, I'll just have to tell you about the Detroit riots and another unexpected European trip, 1967 sure was full of surprises.
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