Mr. Write's Page

When we lived in Europe in the 1950s, my family took every opportunity to travel and sightsee. We were forever packing up to go somewhere.

We went to Brussels, Luxembourg, Amsterdam, Paris, and everywhere in between. We saw Barcelona and the Costa Brava in Spain. We explored most of Western Germany.

We drove through Switzerland and Austria and deep into Italy. For two weeks one summer, we camped our way around Norway, Denmark, and Sweden.

In 1958, we visited London. It was a short trip. Except for the drive north from Dover, we didn’t venture into the English countryside. I always regretted not seeing more.

But London was fascinating. Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, the Crown Jewels of England. We saw London Bridge before it was dismantled and shipped to Arizona.

Our home base in London was the Prince Albert Hotel, an old and stately place across the street from Hyde Park.

The Prince Albert is gone now, or renamed. I Googled it and came up empty. But my strongest memory of our London trip is from that hotel — in the elevator.

In 1958, I was 15, probably 5’ 7”, and looking quite young-teenish. I was the oldest child, and as such, I was given certain privileges befitting my station, e.g., not being constantly supervised like my younger brother.

That was how I came to be alone in the elevator of the Prince Albert. I had been sent back to the room on some errand, and I was on my way back down to the lobby to rejoin the family.

The elevator was old, rickety, and painfully slow. I was alone in the car until a middle-aged man stepped in.

He was slender, gray-haired, dressed in a suit and tie. He looked like Boris Karloff. He smiled at me. As the car descended, he attempted to make conversation. I don’t recall what he said, or how I responded, or whether I did, but I was very uncomfortable.

The man became steadily more friendly and chatty, and he stepped closer to me. I backed away.

He advanced again, talking in a soothing voice, endeavoring to be charming. I backed up until I was literally cornered.

Still cooing and smiling, the man put one hand on my left shoulder and the other on my right forearm.

Suddenly, unbidden and without warning, my knee shot up and nailed him squarely in the crotch.

I was as surprised as he was.

His eyes grew large. His mouth hung open. In slow motion, he closed his eyes, and his look of shock transformed into a grimace.

He slowly doubled over, exhaling in a long, slow, agonized wheeze. He stumbled backward to the far wall and slid to a sitting position, knees drawn up, moaning.

I was terrified, frozen to the spot. What had I done? Did I misinterpret his intentions? Was I going to jail?

For an eternity, the man sat groaning, and I stood frozen. Then the elevator door opened.

It wasn’t the lobby, but I promptly exited anyway.

No, I didn’t misinterpret the man’s intentions. I suppose I could have dodged around the car, or said, “No” — or even “No thanks.” What could he have done in so short a time and so public a place?

But the thing is, my knee came up on its own. I had little to do with it.

Naturally, the incident was unforgettable. Even now, I feel bad for the poor guy. But frankly, it never weighed that much on my conscience.

I’ve never told this story to anyone. You’re the first.