Hell no! I soon discovered these worries were unwarranted. Judging from the enormous breakfasts offered each morning at the Hyatt (not to mention the vast slices of pizza and the towering hamburgers anywhere else), hunger and thirst were not the American way--as long as you were able to pay, that is. And if not, there's always the credit card--a useful device I had acquired especially for the trip.

This was my first--and certainly not my last! --trip to the land of dreams come true. I don't know if the West is indeed the best, Jim--I haven't seen the East yet--but I felt at ease very soon.

I was in LA because what I thought was Kerry’s joke was no joke at all. I had been in touch with him for some time since he is selling my book, The Tenth Life of Jim Morrison. And when he excitedly announced the signing deal he'd made with Ray for the Doors Fest in April he casually suggested that I should sign my books there as well. I thought he was kidding. Going all the way to LA just to sign your books? My friend, however, did not think it weird at all and soon we were of like minds.

Now, here I was in Jimtown, at the spot where it all happened, the Strip in LA no less! Jan Morris had arranged that I share my room with Mariska, also from Holland. And since we arrived on Tuesday, we had three whole days to play tourist. My travel guide had instructed that LA is no city for walkers but nevertheless we did a lot of it on foot. If Jim could do it (albeit in a rather narrow circle in his case), why not we sturdy Dutchies! And after all, he did a lot of walking around Paris in my book. So we saw it all, the Whisky, the Doors office, the Alta Cienega, UCLA (at least the sign), Barney's (this one admittedly from a car window); you name it, we walked there.

We walked much of Hollywood Boulevard as well despite Mariska’s rather high heels—all in a fruitless attempt to find a bus information depot. Fortunately we did not have to use feet or public transit to get to Venice. Jan Morris was kind enough to take us there along with Doors' fans Patti, Candice and, of course, Hans, another fellow countryman. He was staying with Jan for a few weeks. We three Dutchies formed a strong conclave among the English speaking Doors people.

In Venice we saw the house with the now famous rooftop, where it all began. Jan also promised us a huge wall painting of Jim. Even though it was large, it took some serious searching. Venice is similar to Holland in the 60s, and like parts of Amsterdam even now. I'm afraid I've never really outgrown those days, so I felt quite at home.

On Wednesday night a Doors’ fan gathering, with an anticipated crowd of 70, had been arranged at the Hyatt bar. Mariska and I, and about 20 others, sat drinking and wondering just where all those people might be. Hans was there, and Jan. Kerry was not expected till the day after. But despite the slim crowd we had a great time. I was telling Candice the story of how I ended up writing a book on Jim Morrison (it's on the cover, if you want to know it) and when I reached the part “so when I thought I knew what Jim was like, I figured I might as well put it all in a book,” Candice surprised me by saying, “I know what Jim was like, because I knew him personally!” Of course I was all ears but before I could ask her to explain she jumped up and mumbled something about parking her car. She never returned that night. When we met later, she told me that her brother had been a friend of Jim and he had visited their house a number of times. The picture of Jim as a steadily fuddled lunatic did not at all match with her impression of him. He was a very nice guy, she said.

Mariska and I ended the evening at the Rainbow, the hottest spot in town according to Todd (the conductor of the Doors tour on Sunday) who took us there. The bartender played two Doors songs for us, as loud as possible, much to the pleasure of a man standing next to me. He was hammering his fingers and wriggling his long (and not that young) body. When he found there were no less than four other Doors fans sharing his delight, he bought us all a drink. Originally from LA, he had been living in England for a number of years. With a certain bitterness he mused on the fact that in his day, doing a few lines on the counter was nothing out of the ordinary, while now he had to go outside for a plain and simple smoke! I agreed; if there is one place to satisfy your nicotine needs, it would be a bar!

Not just Wednesday, but every night at the Hyatt from 5 till (at least!) 7 p.m. was “Happy Doors Hour.” I saw Jim Cherry's account of his arrival there on Thursday night and it was fairly accurate. I never saw people radiating more insecurity about being in the right place, at the right time and, most important of all, with the right people, than Jim Cherry and his sister.

As Jim described, there was kind of a fuzz when Kerry arrived (as well as all his boxes!). He made a brief appearance in the bar, too tired to socialize, he said. This turned out to be characteristic for the rest of the week, in fact, I saw very little of Kerry. Never mind, Jan did all the socializing and she did a very good job at it too.

The next day more people arrived. I remember Darryl Read coming ashore on our little Dutch island (with its population of three) and taking over control of island affairs immediately. He knew Hans, because they had a mutual friend, Jochen Maassen from Moenchengladbach, Germany.

Jan had brought my books. I had sent most of them ahead, since I did not want to carry them through U.S. Customs. Their surly reputation is known far and wide, as far as Holland anyway! I did not fancy having to open my bag and maintain that all these books were presents. All of them? Yes sir, all of them….

The day of the Fest I carried my box of books upstairs to the place of action. It was smaller than I thought and there were not many booths. Jim Cherry was the only one ready to go though it was almost opening time. Kerry was busy unloading his boxes. So I arranged my books on the table and checked the other vendors. Jim's table looked quite professional. For one thing, he had a sign stating the price of his books and that he would be signing them. Good idea! I went looking for some tools and created a similar though rudimentary marketing device. I also noticed a queue of people waiting patiently for things to get started. At nine sharp the Doors were opened and they burst in.

I sold an encouraging number of books in the first few hours but after that business slowed down. However my neighbor to the left, Jessie, did very well with her paintings. And Kerry needed all his limbs all day long.

There was a Master of Ceremonies announcing exhibitors and doing the lottery. He asked me beforehand how to pronounce my name. “Ineke” seems to be difficult enough but “Verheul” must be close to impossible. I forgive you poor Americans; a language like, say, Chinese, would be difficult for me too!

I wondered at the patience of the visitors since there were not that many booths. At about eleven the reason became apparent. A queue had begun forming at the table where Ray was expected to make his mighty appearance. Mariska, admirer of celebrities, stood in line too. Since someone had to keep an eye on my books (even though there was hardly anyone left that was not in line) I stayed where I was. At regular intervals I saw Patti, clinging exhaustedly onto a pillar.

Ray came, saw, and conquered. As did Danny, a few hours later. At about five the music was finally over. I went to the terrace where I spotted Darryl and friends. I asked: “Do you mind if I join you for a smoke?” “Moroccan or Tunisian?” was Darryl's witty answer. “No, Camel,” was all I could contribute to the fun.

That night I witnessed Wild Child at the Whisky. It was the first time I had seen a tribute band and it was both good—in terms of atmosphere—and not so good. Only the singer looked his part (but just the upper half of his face). He did not sound like Jim either. No crooner. According to Jerry Prochnicky who also attended the Fest, Jim was a crooner in rock and roll disguise. If you want to read a fairly objective book on Jim (as opposed to sensation-hungry, like so many others), I would recommend Prochnicky's. (And if you want to read a thrilling story about what might have happened when Jim died, read mine!).