Overview
Journey To Woodstock is a cinematic diary of discovery—from the bistros of sunny Rome through the snowy climes of Eastern Europe, the far-flung deserts of Saudi Arabia and beyond. Back in New York City in the aftermath of her foreign adventures, Ticiaś memoir of working on the Festival is as colorful and fraught with challenge and excitement as the world-traveler's path that led her to it.
Table of Contents
- 2000 Years on a Roman Street
- The Old Bulgarian woman
- Georgia and the Gypsy Wagon
- A Dollar a Day
- Sleeping Among Black Stones in the Desert
- Lunch in a Harem in Kuwait
- Saudi Arabia, Sunset Prayers
- In the Guest Palace of Darwish Abdullah Darwish
- The House with the Pool and the Poet
- The Red Sea Crabs of Egypt
- Sleeping Under the Pyramids
- Zapped by 220 volts in Algeria
- The Grey Light of Tangiers
- Rome
- Dates in a Sandstorm in Iraq
- Afghanistan, 1966—Dead Men on the Road
- The Buddhas
- The Kibur Pass and the City of Kandahar
- In the Eye of the Storm with Michael Lang
- And the People Just Kept Coming…
- Freedom
- The Spiritual Numerics of Woodstock
Sample Chapters
How is it that we bond so deeply with certain people, becoming friends for life—while others fall away with the passage of time? I was thinking of Francie. I stood on a street in Rome, surveying two thousand years of history. On one side, Corinthian columns grew from an ancient façade like giant marble trees, incorporated by a 1600’s Renaissance building with a 1960’s-style greenhouse perched on top. One often sees the wide spread of history on the streets of Rome. People add on to their homes, using whatever is available at the time. Here on Via dei Lupi, I waited on the cobblestones for Francie. As disparate eras melted into a moment, I stood lost in history. Something about the spot was inexplicably familiar. Snippets of memory clung like seaweed to my shore. I lost all sense of time and place, standing there on the cobblestones. Screeching car tires and honks and shouts jarred me out of my reverie. I heard the familiar voice of my friend as she approached: “So sorry, I was delayed by a phone call from my father in the States.” We hadn’t seen each other since school let out.
She pointed ahead, “Let’s eat in that little trattoria by the square!” Giving me a kiss on both cheeks, Euro-style, her hand motioned toward the end of the street where color cascaded out of flower boxes, marking the restaurant’s entrance.
I was getting ready to leave Rome the next morning for a trip to the Middle East with new-found friends, Sebastian and Lars. This would be my last encounter with Francie for some time. I was eager to tell her about my upcoming adventure, but decided to wait until after we were seated. Our table was in a shaded area, overhung with grapes. Hungry, without looking at the menu, we ordered pasta Bolognese, a salad and the house red wine. A nearby fountain made a tinkling sound, cooling the midday heat.
Francie and I had met in Florence at the Villa Mercede, an elegant scuolo that taught Italian and Renaissance Art History to visiting American and English students. They served one glass of wine with lunch and dinner, so we felt very grown up. The school was in the hills above the Piazza Bella Sguardo, overlooking Florence with a magnificent view of the Duomo.
I had spent my weekends off, wandering through the empty museums. Or I went to the cinema, sometimes watching the show twice over. In this mode of enjoyment—going to the movies and walking around town with my friends—I learned to speak Italian by osmosis.
Francie was in Rome to see her uncle, her father’s older brother [who had always been a great benefactor to their family]. I remember sitting across from her, as we dug into our steaming plates of pasta. With her dark Mediterranean looks, she fit in easily with the Italian patrons in the courtyard. By comparison, I never seemed to fit in. In most countries I visited, my long red hair drew attention or remarks and pegged me as an obvious foreigner. As much as I was able to erase my American accent, my looks gave me away! Our contrasting looks notwithstanding, from the moment we met in Anastasia’s room that first day at the Villa Mercede, Francie and I became “lifer friends.” I can still see Anastasia-sitting on her bed, holding court. She pulled on a strand of her long dark hair, twirling it glamorously as she told us of her new boyfriend, Massimo. “He adores me, sends me roses and love notes!”
Neither Francie nor I could boast of such conquests.
Francie’s father, a Dean of foreign students at NYU, was about to retire to their chateau in the Loire valley. It stood, with its elegant limestone turrets, near the largest cedar tree I had ever seen, facing the village of St. Jean in the valley below.
The farms of the region grew sunflowers, entire fields ablaze with riotous yellow every summer. Francie’s French mother had died when she was only 13. As the oldest daughter, she had taken over kitchen duties for the family: her grieving father, 3 brothers and a younger sister. “Not only did I cook and clean for six people at 14 years of age, but my older brothers refused to drive me to the grocery store! I had to walk there alone, a full mile and a half, lugging heavy bags of food…even in winter! Needless to say, my homework suffered, while I became the family martyr!”
As we sat in the garden, Francie gave me the update from her conversation: “My father wants me to go to Paris and take classes at the Sorbonne…but I’m really not interested,” she declared, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into her mouth.
I leaned in, lowering my voice: “I met a couple of guys who are headed to Saudi Arabia to sell mutual funds to the American Aramco employees.” Looking at her intently, I continued. “I asked them if I could tag along. I’m heading out with them in the morning.”
“Are they cute?” she asked, smiling with intrigue. I nodded in the affirmative, with a conspiratorial grin.
“I wish I could explore the world like you!” she exclaimed.
“Come with me!” I said. “These guys were happy to let me tag along and share expenses. I’m sure they would love to have you come as well!” Trying to entice her, I continued my pitch: “Lars is rather handsome, a bit stiff and not very interesting to listen to, but Sebastian is well-read, and has a good sense of the world. All you need is a sleeping bag and a few sets of clothes. I’ve got $600 saved up, which I’m bringing.”
Her face showed a trail of thoughts as she looked at me, considering the adventure. “I don’t know if I can…I would love to…do you have to leave in the morning?” she asked. Then, visibly counting on her fingers, she said “I’ll meet you in Yugoslavia, at the Trieste train station, in two days…if I can make it.” She looked at me, excitement lighting up her face. She lowered her voice, “I have to get permission, you know. If I get off the train from Rome, then I’ve made it, okay?”
Two days later, I stood with hopeful anticipation, watching passengers disembark from the train in Trieste. People struggled off with their suitcases and bundles, eyes scanning the crowd for their loved ones. Some moved through the bustling station with determination. I scanned among them, my heart beating hopefully. Finally, I thought I saw her! Yes! She was getting off the train, a bit battered from the hasty departure. Dressed in an A-line skirt and a T-shirt, she carried a small satchel and a sleeping bag. When she caught sight of me, she flashed a triumphant grin. I jumped and whooped for joy. “You made it!” I shouted, as I ran up and gave her a smashing hug.
“I had the whole compartment to myself from Rome to Milan,” she said. “Then a peasant family piled in. They ate garlic sandwiches and drank wine all night! Consequently, I didn’t sleep a wink! It really stank…” she giggled. “I had to join them to survive. You’ll probably tie me to the roof, once you get a whiff of me!”
“Don’t worry—we’ll keep the windows open!” I countered, taking her sleeping bag with one hand and throwing my arm around her shoulder. “Sebastian and Lars have gone to the market for fruit and supplies. We’re supposed to meet them in front of the station in an hour.”
I had met them weeks earlier on my father’s sail boat. They stood on the dock next to where we were moored, and struck up a conversation. When they mentioned their upcoming trip to the Middle East, I asked “Can I tag along?” It was a dream of mine, to see the world. Here was my chance at adventure. I had always flown by my instincts, on a moment’s notice, so this was normal for me.
Bringing Francie up to speed, I told her “Sebastian is a bit racist, a southern boy. He likes to boast about his year at Oxford—I think he feels it justifies his superior attitude. Lars is Swedish—tall, blond, handsome—and very clean! Both have charming accents (although I think Sebastian exaggerates his to sound more aristocratic)!” We walked to the front of the station to wait for them.
Back on the Spanish pier, they had said “Sure, come with us.” I was thrilled and promptly bought a sleeping bag and a small canvas rucksack, into which I packed two pairs of jeans, three longed sleeve T-shirts, one short sleeve T-shirt and a sweater. I was able to stuff a hair brush, tooth brush, toothpaste, small towel and some underwear in as well. I was packed and ready to go in minutes—albeit without parental permission! But when Francie said she might be coming, I felt fortified with a chaperone and told my parents “Francie and I are planning a trip.” Permission was granted like magic, as my parents replied “How nice, that will be fun—where are you planning to go?”
“We just want to go wherever, maybe a camping trip…we’ll start with Yugoslavia.” I said, vaguely: “I hope we get as far as India. We’ll send post cards and news along the way.” By now, at age 20, I was considered “on my own,” since I had been away most of the time in boarding schools for the past six years. It didn’t seem as if my parents had much interest, or a desire to control my life-and that was relief.
As we waited for the guys in front of the station, I elaborated further, “So far, they’ve relegated me to second class: the back seat, smashed up against the sleeping bags and luggage. The two of them spend hours—recounting their exploits and adventures with women! By the time we passed Sienna, they were so full of themselves I was desperate for an ally. I was praying for you to be on that train, to join me and fortify the atmosphere with some girl power! I can’t believe they show their sexism so openly!”
“We are not all as evolved as you might like,” she declared, rolling her eyes with a knowing smirk. Both of us were sensitive on the subject of male hierarchy—as many emerging women were in the 1960s. “Men are always one up, one down and women are round and round, it’s just how we’re made,” she continued. “It’s our duty as women to carve out our own place of power. Mine is in the kitchen and my abilities to make home, wherever I am.” I knew I was lacking in that regard, having never cooked a meal! Being stuffed in the back of a Volkswagen Bug with Francie would be a great learning experience. She was so capable, she could take over and make anything work. Francie also had great experience dealing with older brothers and men. I had grown up with sisters and girls’ schools, cooks and house cleaners. I felt inept. Francie could cook a 3-course meal in a 1-burner camp pot, or find us anything we needed, like magic, in the middle of nowhere: She was a total asset to our team! Additionally, I soon discovered that she could pack the Beetle with all our gear and luggage onto the roof, thus giving us girls in back all the space we needed to stretch out in comfort. She made everything we did a total adventure, no matter how mundane the task.
“The man who was talking with us is called Darwish Abdullah Darwish. He invited us to stay in his guest palace,” said Lars, excitedly taking the wheel. “We are to follow the cavalcade to the palace where the Emir is staying. Then we’ll follow this Darwish fellow to his compound.” This was an exciting development: in short order, we would go from roughing it in sleeping bags to opulent comfort. Our Volkswagen looked like a little red caboose, rolling through the massive gates of the palace as if towed by a string behind the procession of elegant black Cadillacs, Citroens, Mercedes and Rolls Royces! It only took a little while for Darwish to deliver the Emir to his palace and take his leave.
We followed Darwish’s Rolls through the city gates and along the dirt roads of Dhahrain [home and headquarters to Aramco and the wealthy families of the Eastern Province of the Saudi kingdom]. There, in 1965, the money was rolling in from Saudi oil.
I had no clue about their labor practices at the time, but a few years later, I was seated next to an American businessman who brought slaves from India to Saudi Arabia to work the oil fields for Aramco. When he told me this-in the midst of a white-glove dinner in Rome-I was shocked.
“Didn’t we abolish slavery in the Civil War?” I asked him. “Don’t be so naïve,” he replied. “There are more slaves in the world today than ever before. Truth is, they starve in their own country. They are used until they get sick, or are too old to work, or die. The survivors get shipped back to India.” Disabused of my naïveté, I sat there in shock. The next course arrived and I was grateful to turn to speak with the man on my left (although I have no recollection of my conversation with him!)
Finally, we came to another gated compound. Darwish honked his horn and a servant opened the gates to a sea of carnations in the courtyard of his guest palace. Saudi Arabia was all sand, not a tree or shrub. A garden in a desert country, where most of the water was brought in from the Arabian Gulf and processed in a desalinating plant, represents extreme affluence. As we parked, the aroma from hundreds of carnations was intoxicating. I breathed deeply, as we walked to the front door. We were ushered into a very large room. The perimeter of the room was furnished with overstuffed chairs, one next to the other, with the chair-arms touching. At one end of the room, there hung a massive Saudi Arabian flag, composed of semi-precious stones. The floor was covered with a large Persian carpet, a gift to Darwish from the King. Servants came in with large bowls of scented water and linen towels, so we could wash our hands. We sat opposite the flag and talked for a while with Darwish, introducing ourselves and telling him who we were and what we were about. He was a very handsome man, a few years older than I was. He wore the usual white Saudi dress, with a black rope tying his head scarf. His dark complexion stood out in contrast to the white of his robes. Later in life he would gain weight and grow rounder, but for now his youth and his flashing white smile were charismatic. We found out that his grandfather had conquered the entire Eastern Province. Darwish had studied at Harvard and Oxford, something in common with Sebastian. Over the next few days, each time he visited us he arrived in a different fancy car!
A servant came in, saying something in Arabic, and we were invited into the dining room. It had a long table with many chairs around it, and a refrigerator in the corner filled with bottles of Perrier, Coca Cola and Italian orange soda. Large platters of food were brought in, enough to serve 80 guests! We ate our fill. “And the rest goes where?” I asked.
“To my wives and children, then to the servants and finally to the beggars at the gates,” Darwish smiled. “Nothing gets wasted, and everybody gets fed-it’s a good system!” I nodded in agreement. “I must go back to the reception at the palace, please make yourselves at home. The servants have prepared your rooms, take your rest!”
Later that night, with a ceiling fan moving the air and the scent of carnations wafting through the windows, I fell asleep in a bed with Egyptian cotton sheets monogrammed with an elaborate “D” for Darwish.
“Hello,” said a man with a Welsh accent, “may I sit with you? My name is Michael Roberts, I teach English to the Saudi children here in Dhahrain. I also tutor the American kids of the Aramco families. That’s what I was doing here today.” We were seated in the American restaurant of the Aramco headquarters.
“Sure,” said Sebastian, “have a seat-we were just about to order lunch. Would you care to join us?”
“No, thanks—I just ate—but I would love some tea. It’s great to find new, English-speaking company!” he said, sitting down and ordering tea from a passing waiter. He turned to Francie: “So how did you two get to travel in Saudi Arabia, did you come with your husbands?”
“No,” she replied “we are only pretending to be married. In fact, we bought the rings we are wearing to fool the border guards.” He threw his head back and laughed, looking at me. The last person I would ever marry was Lars, and I felt equally disinterested in Sebastian!
“These guys were heading out on a journey,” I said, glancing at Sebastian and Lars. “I wanted to see the world and they invited me to come along. My name is Ticia.” He nodded at me, smiling. “And this is my dear friend, Francie,” I said, gesturing, by way of introduction.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” he said. I continued, “This is Sebastian and Lars.” Michael shook their hands. Looking at Francie and me, he commented quietly “They will throw you out if they discover you are not married-and if you drink or do anything against their social rules, you might get stoned. Be very careful. If you want a drink, you can come to my house. One of my students gifted me with some fine French wine.”
“Let’s have dinner together—Francie will cook you a French meal, Ticia will dance for you, and we’ll drink your wine!” said Sebastian, making a bigger effort with his English accent and his slight southern drawl, while offering us girls up as his servants! He loved being in the chauvinistic, Muslim world. “Or do you already have a cook?”
“No,” said Michael, “I’m a poet and an English teacher—I live alone. I live in a very special house, it has a hot spring right in the middle of it…I have an indoor pool!”
“We’d love to come!” I said, looking at Francie and the guys for approval to this plan. They nodded, and a time and date were set.
We arrived, with provisions in hand, at a cozy little house just outside of town. It seemed to be in a small oasis—surprising in this stark desert country. Spare and simple, the house was surrounded by a few date palms—an unexpected sight, unless you knew that it was built on top of an oasis! Michael took us in through the kitchen, and then directly to the pool room. The pool had steaming water bubbling in from one side and draining out the other through a pipe. It took up most of the room, with barely enough space to get out and grab a towel. This was his wash room, a hot spring in the middle of the desert fashioned into the bath of a private home!
“Do you brush your teeth and wash your hands and face in the kitchen sink?” Francie asked, seeing no other sink. “Yes,” said Michael. “I get up in the morning and brush my teeth in the sink-then I jump into the pool, for my bath. It flows so quickly, all the soap is out in a few minutes.”
“I love the tiles and mosaic around the pool!” I remarked. In fact, the designs looked like tile work I had seen on a Mosque.
“Take a plunge?” Michael asked. “I’ll get some towels and the wine.” And off he went to the kitchen. Not wanting to disrobe in front of him, I quickly undressed and jumped into the pool. It was warm-not hot-and felt perfect. “This is wonderful!” I said, as Francie followed close behind me, with Sebastian and Lars.
Michael returned with a pile of towels, which he threw on the side of the pool. “Nice, eh?” he commented, smiling, as he went off to fetch the wine.
“This is the life!” Lars exclaimed. “Who could imagine this, all so private and not a palace…?”
Michael returned, wearing a terry robe, and poured the wine into tea glasses. He handed one to each of us, and toasted:
“To our health and happiness!” Taking a sip, he let his bathrobe fall to the floor and slipped into the pool. He was dark haired with blue eyes and light skin. A gentle man, he was rather thin with long, refined hands and a keen intellect. I was fascinated by his perceptive awareness of the people in his midst. He had empathy-the ability to enter another person’s world. “Wow,” I thought to myself. Whereas Lars and Sebastian practiced tunnel vision, reveling in their self-centeredness, Michael’s kind persona was the opposite.
“How did you get this house?” Lars inquired.
“It came with the job.” Michael said.
We each took a different side of the pool, Francie and I together on one side. We set our glasses on the edge so we could sip, chat and soak.
“I saw an advertisement in the English paper ‘House with warm spring pool, for an English teacher, tutor to Saudi children’” he said.
“What is it really like here for the women?” I asked.
“I don’t get to speak with them,” said Michael, “but the mother of one of my students is learning English (along with her son) by listening at the door. When I noticed her listening, I brought another book so she could follow along. I placed it on a table next to the room where I teach him.” Michael confided, taking another sip of wine.
“That day, as I was teaching her boy, I saw a hand come out from behind the door and take the book. When I saw that, I felt a rush of joy! From then on, whenever I came to teach her son, I would always make sure the door was open before starting the lesson—just enough for her to hear. I caught a glimpse of her every now and then. It was our secret, and it made me happy. One morning, I found an envelope on the table with my name on it. I snuck it into my pocket, anxious for the lesson to be over. After class, I opened it in my car and found a note, written in English: “THANK YOU.” Michael took another sip.
“That note has meant more to me than you can imagine.” He looked at me and Francie. “Every time I think of it, it makes me smile.” At that moment, Francie and I both fell in love with the English poet. Yet, I never saw him again. The next day, the authorities found out we were not married women and we were told to leave immediately!
Darwish came over as we were packing the car.
“Your friends could disappear in the desert and you could live in my harem,” he said to me—under his breath—as we were about to depart. Thinking as fast as I could I replied:
“That would be unfortunate for you! My father is great friends with Rockefeller, they ride horses on his private trails. If anything happened to me, it would start an international incident and your king would not be pleased!”
I kept looking out the back window of the Volkswagen, all the way across the desert! My words must have carried some weight, or perhaps his were only meant to tease. In any case, we crossed over the border without event and traveled on.
In April of ‘69, my friend Jimmy Rudolph of The Group Image, mentioned there was going to be a music festival. Stan Goldstein had told him they were looking for an assistant to the producer, Michael Lang. “I want the job!” I blurted out. As soon as he mentioned it, I knew it was mine. “You don’t know anything about the music business!” Jimmy replied. “I don’t care! Get me the interview, please!” I implored. A few days later, I asked him if he had made the call to Stan. “No, what for, you won’t get the job!”
“Please!” I pestered him over and over, until he phoned Stan.
Feeling a bit apprehensive, I went down to the Woodstock offices. Stan had a preliminary chat with me to check me out. I mentioned my travels, my years in school in Europe and the fact that when I first heard about the festival, I experienced a huge rush of energy and felt compelled to get an interview.
John Morris, Joyce Mitchell and Peter Goodrich came over to introduce themselves, asking me questions and sharing a fact or two about what they were doing. Peter said “We’re going to need a ton of hot-dogs, enough wieners that if you lined them up, they’d stretch all the way to California!” I pictured a string of hot-dogs, stretching over the miles-all the way across Route 66 to the West Coast! Peter also spoke about the number of Porto-Potties we would require to handle the needs of a large, concert crowd over the 3 days planned for the Festival.
It seems funny now, but they were anticipating an audience of 50,000 people at that point! After a while, Stan introduced me to Michael. Michael sat back in his chair, wearing cowboy boots and a leather vest over his T-shirt. He appeared relaxed and very self-assured. He mumbled when he spoke, so that one had to listen intently to hear what he was saying. Michael asked me what I had been doing and listened to a couple of my stories about Saudi Arabia, then he had me sit in on a meeting with a guy who wanted to be head of security.
“How will you deal if the crowd tries crashing the gates?” asked Michael.
“Water hoses and dogs,” he responded quickly.
We all squirmed in our chairs until Michael called an end to the interview. When the office cleared out, he turned to me and said “Wes Pomeroy, an advisor on the Safe Streets Act, is arriving at JFK tomorrow. If you can pick him up, you’ve got the job.”
The next morning, I picked up Wes Pomeroy at JFK. Wes became the Head of Security for the Festival. By now, it was early May of 1969. The next day, Michael and I took a helicopter north of the City, up to the Wallkill concert site. Mel Lawrence was giving a speech to the crew. “Now that we pulled out all the poison ivy, I want you to side-step any flowers growing and field strip your cigarettes. What we put into this land is what we will get out of it. When the kids arrive, I want them to see the beauty—not a bunch of garbage! We are creating a space for something magical to happen. So guard you negative thoughts and give it your best, your highest spiritual selves.” From that moment on, I loved Mel forever.
In the center of a hurricane is a quiet, silent space without movement. Turmoil does not exist in that calm place. The winds of change may blow all around this center furiously, yet it remains still. Michael Lang was, and remains to this day, a personality who commands the eye of the storm. When we went to the Wallkill town meeting, a woman sitting behind me at the meeting commented [loud enough for Michael and I to hear her] “If one of those hippies comes on my land, I’ll shoot them and I have the gun to do it!”
Within moments, the town took a vote and the injunction was passed. No large groups would be allowed to congregate. Our permits to hold the Festival had been revoked!
“We’re out of here!” said Michael. Feeling overcome with the weight of disappointment, I got into Michael’s white Porsche and began to complain about our predicament. “We’ve lost our site only 5 weeks before show time, we are lost!”
“Ticia, there is no scarcity in the Universe-we will find a new site.” Michael said with certainty.
“Maybe, but we won’t have time to build another stage and prepare the new site, we’ve run out of time,” I countered.
“Then we’ll have to go at it double time or shape shift or bend time.” He looked over at me and smiled. “Relax, it is together…it’s handled.” He told everybody that. I heard it over and over during the months I worked for Michael. He taught me about manifestation: Hold the space for it and it will happen. Proceed “as if” everything is in place-even if it isn’t.
When we got back to the city, he had me stay by the phone while he went to the lawyers. I found myself fielding a bunch of freaked-out calls from panicked people. My job was to reassure them all and convey Michael’s party line: We would deal with it, find a new site and move there, “No big deal.” By now, I knew not to panic in public and to simply keep “holding the space” that everything was handled [something Michael was a total master at]. They called Michael “The curly-headed Kid.” The Kid was twenty-four years old in that summer of 1969, same as me. Recently, I heard the actor Jon Hamm say that “At 25, you’re still bullet-proof.” To some extent, the fact of our youth—our energy and enthusiasm—was propelling us forward in spite of Wallkill’s last-minute shut-down.
The phone rang, the voice of a man on the other end said his name was Eliot Tiber. “I have permits! I have a site! My town wants you!” he exclaimed. He was so excited, he practically jumped through the telephone. “Wallkill may not want you, but White Lake does!” My heart leaped. I got his number and told him I’d get a hold of Michael and call him back. Michael picked me up in his Porsche and we sped up to White Lake as fast as we could. We met with Eliot, who took us to a swamp!
“You could drain it!” Eliot said.
“There isn’t enough time!”
We got back into the car to explore, while we waited for Mel Lawrence to join us from the Wallkill site. As we drove down the road, I noticed a sign: HAPPY AVENUE.
“Michael, turn right over there, onto Happy Avenue. We are leaving Wallkill, why anyone decided to get a site in a town of that name, I don’t know. Happy Avenue is the right road to travel!” As we rounded the bend onto Hurd Road, we were met by the vision of a beautiful valley in the form of a natural bowl. It was absolutely the most perfect site for the festival we could have created. We had arrived at Max Yasgur’s farm.