INTO TROUBLE tells the true story of shy nineteen-year-old Paul Gorman's 1969 backpacking trip to Europe. As a harbinger of things to come, while hitchhiking to Chicago, he experiences 120 mph car chases between ex-convicts and cops, becoming a fugitive. Several weeks after landing in Luxembourg, Gorman heads south in search of sunshine, beaches full of beautiful Scandinavian girls, and cheap prices. After a near death experience, he winds up in the Canary Islands, Spain. While there, he is arrested. Facing up to six years in notorious PrisiĂłn de Barranco Seco, for a petty crime, he becomes a pawn in the world of political intrigue as he struggles to survive.
Gorman's adventure is the dramatic and sometimes humorous story of a young man searching for his place in the world, coming to terms with his relationship with his abusive father, chasing after romance, avoiding the draft, and lessons he learned from his travels. Along the lines of Into The Wild by Jon Krakauer, Midnight Express by Billy Hayes, and Catch Me If You Can by Frank Abagnale, this riveting tale will entertain and intrigue you. "It's honest and authentic and, simply, an amazing story."
Edited by Barbara Noe Kennedy, editor of the National Best Seller, Bad Karma: The True Story of a Mexico Trip From Hell. Barbara spent 23 years as a senior editor of travel books at National Geographic.
INTO TROUBLE tells the true story of shy nineteen-year-old Paul Gorman's 1969 backpacking trip to Europe. As a harbinger of things to come, while hitchhiking to Chicago, he experiences 120 mph car chases between ex-convicts and cops, becoming a fugitive. Several weeks after landing in Luxembourg, Gorman heads south in search of sunshine, beaches full of beautiful Scandinavian girls, and cheap prices. After a near death experience, he winds up in the Canary Islands, Spain. While there, he is arrested. Facing up to six years in notorious PrisiĂłn de Barranco Seco, for a petty crime, he becomes a pawn in the world of political intrigue as he struggles to survive.
Gorman's adventure is the dramatic and sometimes humorous story of a young man searching for his place in the world, coming to terms with his relationship with his abusive father, chasing after romance, avoiding the draft, and lessons he learned from his travels. Along the lines of Into The Wild by Jon Krakauer, Midnight Express by Billy Hayes, and Catch Me If You Can by Frank Abagnale, this riveting tale will entertain and intrigue you. "It's honest and authentic and, simply, an amazing story."
Edited by Barbara Noe Kennedy, editor of the National Best Seller, Bad Karma: The True Story of a Mexico Trip From Hell. Barbara spent 23 years as a senior editor of travel books at National Geographic.
May 2, 1969 â Las Palmas, de Gran Canarias, Spain
Three armed policemen led me into an office where CapitĂĄn GonzĂĄlez sat at a heavy wooden desk beneath a framed picture of Generalissimo Francisco Franco.
A graying Indian man named Mr. Bhatt entered last, standing slightly behind and off to the side of us.
Open-faced fluorescent bulbs, several hanging light fixtures, and a barred window dimly illuminated the room. Several army-green file cabinets lined the wall to the left of the window. I was in Las Palmas Municipal Jail. I knew the officerâs name was GonzĂĄlez by the black engraved name tag pinned to the breast pocket flap of his short-sleeve khaki shirt, exposing his hairy arms.
âSit down,â he ordered in English with a heavy Spanish accent. An officer wearing glasses motioned for me to sit in one of two wooden chairs in front of the desk. Seated now, one of the other guards settled beside me.
âWhat is your name?â GonzĂĄlez asked, lighting a Ducados cigarette before exhaling a blue, foul-smelling plume that sinuously wrapped its entrails around the overhead lampshade.
Man, I hate the smell of Spanish cigarettes, I grumbled silently. They smell like burning garbage. Waving away the smoke, I told GonzĂĄlez my name was Scott Charles.
âAge?â GonzĂĄlez queried, writing his report.
âNineteen.â
GonzĂĄlez blew out another blast of pollution into the air, stinging my eyes. âNationality?â He scribbled away without looking up.
âAmerican, Iâm an American, you know, and I have my rights, you know. I demand to know what this is all about, you know.â
GonzĂĄlez set down his pen then hammered a meaty fist on the desktop. âThis is not America!â he shouted. âIn U.S.A., people who think they big shots do this.â Lifting his legs, he thrust his black jackboots on his desk and reclined in his chair, puffing a vast cloud of smoke skyward. âYou are in España, not America,â he yelled, his eyes raging and jugular bulging.
Taken aback by his ferocity, I tried to remain indignant. I would talk my way out of the situation. Of course my name wasnât Scott Charles. Nevertheless, the name on the two American Express checks Iâd forged and cashed at Mr. Bhattâs camera shop in the port area was. GonzĂĄlez plucked the two checks off his desk. Squinting, he examined the signatures. Leaning left, he conferenced in hushed Spanish with a gangly mustached officer. The CapitĂĄn opened his desk. With a grunt, he turned to me, holding out a blank sheet of paper. âSign this,â he said, sliding the paper toward me.
Panic-stricken, my gut clenched as I rose from my chair, reaching for the pen GonzĂĄlez pointed at me. âWhat am I supposed to sign?â I asked, knowing he wanted to compare my Scott Charles signature with the name I penned on the checks.
âSign your name, Señor Charles.â
GonzĂĄlez turned the checks over so I couldnât see the signatures on the face side of them. Droplets of perspiration formed on my forehead as I tried to visualize the signatures on the checks. Conveniently, when I had signed them, I could look at the original Scott Charles signatures on the checks. Never having forged anything before, for some peculiar reason forging his signature was easy. Now it was going to be difficult. I drew in a deep breath to relax, closed my eyes, and signed the name, concentrating on the mechanicsâthe feel of the signature, not the image.
I set down the pen, opened my eyes, and to my astonishment saw my re-creation. It was perfect, exactly as I remembered. GonzĂĄlez scooped up the paper, comparing the new forgery with those on the checks. He conferred with the lanky mustached officer. Relaxing, GonzĂĄlez turned to me. âSeñor Charles, sorry for the confusion, you are free to go.â
Relieved, I emptied my lungs as I rose. âGracias, CapitĂĄn GonzĂĄlez.â
Mr. Bhatt stepped forward. âCapitĂĄn GonzĂĄlez,â he said with a British/Indian accent. âThe bank will not accept the checks without his passport number. They claim American Express reported the checks as missing. We need his passport number or our money returned.â
GonzĂĄlezâs eyes shifted to me. âWhere is your passport, Señor Charles?â
âUh, itâs on the ship.â
Actually, the ship from Barcelona docked two months earlier. My passport was in my rucksack at my friend Terryâs flat.
For a moment, GonzĂĄlez pondered, scratching one of his hairy arms. âThereâs nothing I can do, Mr. Bhatt,â he said, gazing in his direction. âThis is a federal matter. If you want his passport, you must see the Guardia Civil.â
Mr. Bhattâs eyes caught mine. I cast mine away, avoiding eye contact with him. He then spun to GonzĂĄlez. âCapitĂĄn GonzĂĄlez, with due respect, we checked with the port and there are no passenger ships here at the moment.â
I recoiled, wishing I could vanish as GonzĂĄlezâs eyes bore into me. âSeñor Charles, is that correct?â
âUh, uhm, I donât know,â I said, biding time to come up with an explanation. âI did come here on a ship and, uh, lost my passport, you know.â
GonzĂĄlez studied me briefly and then scrutinized the names closely. Opening a smaller drawer, he pulled out a magnifying glass, comparing the signatures with an eye resembling a fishâs. I began sweating again. Setting the magnifying glass down, his eyes tilted up at me. âWhere are you staying, Señor Charles?â
âUh, on the beach, you know,â I said, forcing a smile.
âWhich beach?â
âUh, I donât know. The one with the fishing boats. You know, the one by the port.â
Stroking the five oâclock shadow on his chin, GonzĂĄlez mused, and then glanced around the room at the other officers and Mr. Bhatt. Finally, his gaze settled on me. âWhy are you sleeping on the beach when you have money? One hundred dollars is much money. You can afford a pension. SĂ?â
âUh, because I like it, you know,â I said, feigning a smile as to how stupid my story sounded.
Laughing along with his officers, GonzĂĄlez directed his attention at me. âYou like sand fleas, rotting fish, and being awakened at dawn by fishermen?â
âHippie,â I smirked.
Again, GonzĂĄlez and his men laughed. As the laughter subsided, he became deadly serious. âWhere are your bags, Señor Charles?â
âBags?â
âYes, your bags, Señor Charles,â GonzĂĄlez pressed. âSurely you have bags. Even hippies have bags.â
Cornered, with no way out other than being honestâat least momentarily, until I could come up with an innovative way to bluff my way out, I responded honestly. âUh, theyâre at a friendâs, you know.â
âAnd what is the location of your friendâs place?â
âIn town, you know, the tourist section. Iâll go get them.â Rising, I did an about-face to leave, walking no farther than one step before GonzĂĄlez interrupted me.
âStop,â he commanded. A thin-lipped officer stepped in front of me, blocking my exit. âSeñor Charles, my men will escort you and Mr. Bhatt there.â
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a conflicted look on Mr. Bhattâs face. On one hand, he just wanted his money back. On the other, he seemed concerned about my well-being. Despite my act, I was a teenager and think I came across as a polite and likableâalbeit vulnerableâkid. Perhaps I reminded him of one of his seven children Iâd met earlier in the day, after his two oldest sons accosted me and brought me to clear up the matter at his shop.
I glanced around GonzĂĄlezâs office. With dark hair, bangs, and olive colored skin, one of his men resembled my brother, Bobâonly older. As we drove to Terryâs place to get my âbagsâ, I reflected on the day I left home and how my brother dropped me off at a freeway onramp. That was nearly four months ago, a life-time ago, and so much had happened since then. There was no way I could foretell the future that day, and even if I could, I probably wouldnât have stayed home, because I was on a one way trajectory into trouble. And now by the looks of it, I had arrived.
Author Paul Gorman has been through more than most. In his late teens, he set off from his home in the Pacific Northwest and headed out across the United States on his way to visiting Europe and exploring what life had to offer before settling down. Not only did he endure freezing temperatures waiting at gas stations for someone to hitchhike with, he underwent car chases across a state border, unwanted advances, and strange conversations with someone who planned to get married in the middle of nowhere. All of this paled in comparison to being held against his will for attempting to cash travelers checks in someone else's name.
 While Gorman's story does include fun times and beautiful descriptions, it is the descriptions of being trapped in the Canary Islands that are so powerful. At the time of his travels, Francisco Franco's reach included not only Spain, but also included the Canary Islands. The dictator was extremely dangerous, and many readers in the United States and United Kingdom may not picture this when looking at the Canary Islands in 1969, as today it is a popular tourist destination. We tend to think of Franco as something restricted to the age of World War II and just after, but it was a very real threat, whether you were an American tourist or not.
Gorman does his best to include light moments in the book, such as when a pretty rash young woman takes one look at him and asks if he'd like to get a hotel room and tries to invite herself inside, despite his frequent denials and requests for her to bug off. The book is definitely a coming of age story, and along the lines of books like On the Road, and much less depressing than Into the Wild. Gorman's writing is clear and honest. He doesn't try to shy away from cases where he was in the wrong, or confronting his difficult home life.