Rented a bike the other day, rode it from the city to the North Sea. Took a left when I hit Zebrugge and headed along the coast until I found an empty beach. More specifically, until I found vast emptiness where past armies landed, scattered feet through sand with dreams of home and victory, hope and love...fears of battle and death, which day would be their last.
The beach was endless. I stood on the boardwalk, far from the sea and decided it would be a decision of poor standing and ill fate to not walk out, soak my content and dry feet. 600 long paces from the boardwalk, I reached the water, accomplished my symbolic gesture...stood and admired...and went on my way.
Rolled back into Brugge after riding through the Belgian country all day...anywhere from 40-60 miles, I imagine. I stepped off, noticed for the first time that the pedals were tilted down at an angle...very not straight. Following the next logical step in preserving the anatomical balance of the rider, I checked out my problematic left knee. It was perfectly fine...all save the mysterious bone to the left of my kneecap that was gallantly trying to push its way through skin. Ill protrusion, it's the only way I could describe it. I thought back to my childhood, there was only one way to fix this...and it would have to come under the tutelage of Suzanne Sommers. I hobbled back to my room, salty over my subconscious insistence to ignore any and all pain as a form of warning sign. I sat on the ground, lined my ankles up with the posts of the iron bunks and squeezed that motherfucker until the muscles on the insides of my legs began to cramp. The next day, I ran painlessly (Automatic for the People) along the parks surrounding the city, thinking the entire time...how can one man be so instinctively perfect?
...
Brugge is a not so secret gem tucked in the Northwest region of Belgium. The beer is good enough to make you shudder, the chocolate is good enough to...well, dirty, messy things.
Every corner I turn, I wait to find Gene Wilder or the original, moppy haired Charlie Bucket. I don't know where Wonka's factory is, but I've been asking geese the ENTIRE time I've been here. That much I assure.
Sometimes, I try to judge a city's hold by asking if I'll ever come back. My reply last night was that I would return in my golden-er years. The kind of place I'll come to sit back, think of the man I used to be...dream of a life beginning with the woman who accepted my ring some 30 years prior.
September 29, 2006
September 26, 2006
Amsterdam...
Slept off another sleepless night upon arrival, eventually staggering out of my room around 5. I walked the streets, smoke, smoke pouring from every window, from every car, off every passing bike. And though I paint it as such, the one thing that initially swooned me about this city is that although everyone gets high...and almost all the time, not EVERYONE does.
Uninspired and groggy, I stopped the first day at a skate park on Marnixstraat. It was about 10 blocks from the room I was staying. Around 5 when I first sat down, the scene was fairly unimpressive. Each skater took their unspoken turn dropping into the hollow pool. Some would take screeching dives, others would emerge unscathed. A bike would pass, stop. Tourists would stop, take pictures...watch a few rounds and move on. The initial skater who stole my stare was a youngin...probably in the vicinity of 11 or 12. It's not that he stood out or had any especially blinding talents. Actually, he did the same fucking thing every time he dropped in. Not to mention, he was the only one there toting a full suit of armor. It was probably part of the deal his parents gave in on...to hang out with the "burn-outs" and "drifters," a compromise would have to be met. So, he skated with the big boys on Saturday afternoons...and fearlessly. Or, ignorantly. Though his actions likely fall to the latter side of the fence, you could certainly argue that each is bliss. Since I watched him for a good while, I am. You should.
I sat on the steps for a little over an hour, looked up, noticed that the sun was beginning to grow weak. That beautiful painting, catching my stare for an uncertain amount of time. When I looked back down to the pool, the dynamics had spun face. As a glow set over the city, this city of vampires came to life...and the big boys rolled onto the scene. With them, hundreds lined the pool, filled its emptiness with their adrenaline. They had speed, skills and style that buried earlier comrades. The grinds slid farther, the jumps soared higher, the crowd cracked louder.
I put "Moonlight Sonata" on repeat in my head, got up...stood beside the pool. It was right about the time a miniature Shawn White arrived. When I say miniature, I'm speaking for all 5'1 of him. He was the cream. And as skaters dropped into the pool, as some flew off the perches from which this stage was set, he would shadow their moves...this beautiful and poetic dance. They would flash around the base of the pool, like watching a bull fighter with minority hope he'll get mauled. And as they emerged, to the roar of the crowd, I cut my music and path...walked away.
...
The place I found to lay my head was a last resort. Because again, it was impossible coming in on a Saturday...finding a room. But this mistake, "My Home Hotel" will undoubtedly go down as the most memorable. The lobby was outstretched on the second floor with a window and balcony looking down on the streets below. There was a TV that usually ran Dutch gameshows or K1 fights...but one night, a Rolling Stones concert...
How is it possible they are in their prime, now?
The stereo played through a constant attack of classic American rock pulled from a towering stack of CD's. How retro? Every morning, Mark, the owner would cook breakfast and announce my entrance, "Ryan, savior of the free world."
I corrected him on neither...
Uninspired and groggy, I stopped the first day at a skate park on Marnixstraat. It was about 10 blocks from the room I was staying. Around 5 when I first sat down, the scene was fairly unimpressive. Each skater took their unspoken turn dropping into the hollow pool. Some would take screeching dives, others would emerge unscathed. A bike would pass, stop. Tourists would stop, take pictures...watch a few rounds and move on. The initial skater who stole my stare was a youngin...probably in the vicinity of 11 or 12. It's not that he stood out or had any especially blinding talents. Actually, he did the same fucking thing every time he dropped in. Not to mention, he was the only one there toting a full suit of armor. It was probably part of the deal his parents gave in on...to hang out with the "burn-outs" and "drifters," a compromise would have to be met. So, he skated with the big boys on Saturday afternoons...and fearlessly. Or, ignorantly. Though his actions likely fall to the latter side of the fence, you could certainly argue that each is bliss. Since I watched him for a good while, I am. You should.
I sat on the steps for a little over an hour, looked up, noticed that the sun was beginning to grow weak. That beautiful painting, catching my stare for an uncertain amount of time. When I looked back down to the pool, the dynamics had spun face. As a glow set over the city, this city of vampires came to life...and the big boys rolled onto the scene. With them, hundreds lined the pool, filled its emptiness with their adrenaline. They had speed, skills and style that buried earlier comrades. The grinds slid farther, the jumps soared higher, the crowd cracked louder.
I put "Moonlight Sonata" on repeat in my head, got up...stood beside the pool. It was right about the time a miniature Shawn White arrived. When I say miniature, I'm speaking for all 5'1 of him. He was the cream. And as skaters dropped into the pool, as some flew off the perches from which this stage was set, he would shadow their moves...this beautiful and poetic dance. They would flash around the base of the pool, like watching a bull fighter with minority hope he'll get mauled. And as they emerged, to the roar of the crowd, I cut my music and path...walked away.
...
The place I found to lay my head was a last resort. Because again, it was impossible coming in on a Saturday...finding a room. But this mistake, "My Home Hotel" will undoubtedly go down as the most memorable. The lobby was outstretched on the second floor with a window and balcony looking down on the streets below. There was a TV that usually ran Dutch gameshows or K1 fights...but one night, a Rolling Stones concert...
How is it possible they are in their prime, now?
The stereo played through a constant attack of classic American rock pulled from a towering stack of CD's. How retro? Every morning, Mark, the owner would cook breakfast and announce my entrance, "Ryan, savior of the free world."
I corrected him on neither...
September 22, 2006
Prague 2...
Standing at the base of the astounding architectural wonder that marks the entrance to my section of town, Prague 3, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd had 3-7 drinks too many. It was a monster of a tower, stretching high into the air...lit blue and red along an off-chute that looked to be a pricey dining establishment. I'm guessing it was the final phase of construction, the cherry on top, that spun my mind. Giant babies...at least a half dozen of them, all with vagina faces, scaling the tower with what I could only presume to be a fearless tenacity?
And where were their mothers?
...
I began running this morning in considerable pain. My left knee...the one I spun off 10 to 20 thousand times too many in a previous life, wasn't having any of this marathon training "bull shit." Every lift felt as if inseparable joints were coming apart. I tried side stepping, back peddling, high knee-ing, ass kicking...no avail. The music was all I had to lean on. A delicate batch made for and named after a girl called Lindsey who I burned the CD for back in the real world. 16 songs of perfection to smuggle into the afterlife...else find doom at the hands of an eternal purgatory of let down.
Yes, that good.
But my knee ceases to become forgetful and all I can tell myself is that this is the moment the rest of the world breaks down, turns back.
Ahead, just before the first tear fell, my road veered left. And to the right...a nothing road straight into the forest. I ran through the dense bushes, stumbled on a thick tree root before re-gaining balance. From this point, I had a 9 inch wide dirt path with which to operate my footing. Between careful steps, I remember thinking that it was in these very woods that Hansel was sodomized by the wolf...or that just beyond the clearing, I'll certainly find the house where Little Red Riding Hood had her first taste of girl on girl action with the snub nosed witch.
I pushed through the pain - as the thick forest buried me...as the sun fought trees to reach spots of my desperate face...as the darkening leaves fell around my suddenly gliding footsteps...as the drop on Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" kicked in...
The pain escaped. And in that moment, I left a different breed of tear behind.
...
In 11 hours, I leave town...aware again, my propensity for self destruction.
But I was sitting in the lobby today, reading in a serene corner - American Psycho. Patrick Bateman had just cut open a Sharpei and proceeded to "randomly stab" the owner in "the face and head" before "running down Broadway, then up Broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee, coat open, flying out like some sort of cape."
I looked up and laughed, found eyes with the only other girl in the room as if, "Did you just read that?"
No. Her literary choice, the King James Bible, made me certain that one of us was potentially seriously being misled...
And I'll certainly pray for her. If I can remember, that is.
And where were their mothers?
...
I began running this morning in considerable pain. My left knee...the one I spun off 10 to 20 thousand times too many in a previous life, wasn't having any of this marathon training "bull shit." Every lift felt as if inseparable joints were coming apart. I tried side stepping, back peddling, high knee-ing, ass kicking...no avail. The music was all I had to lean on. A delicate batch made for and named after a girl called Lindsey who I burned the CD for back in the real world. 16 songs of perfection to smuggle into the afterlife...else find doom at the hands of an eternal purgatory of let down.
Yes, that good.
But my knee ceases to become forgetful and all I can tell myself is that this is the moment the rest of the world breaks down, turns back.
Ahead, just before the first tear fell, my road veered left. And to the right...a nothing road straight into the forest. I ran through the dense bushes, stumbled on a thick tree root before re-gaining balance. From this point, I had a 9 inch wide dirt path with which to operate my footing. Between careful steps, I remember thinking that it was in these very woods that Hansel was sodomized by the wolf...or that just beyond the clearing, I'll certainly find the house where Little Red Riding Hood had her first taste of girl on girl action with the snub nosed witch.
I pushed through the pain - as the thick forest buried me...as the sun fought trees to reach spots of my desperate face...as the darkening leaves fell around my suddenly gliding footsteps...as the drop on Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" kicked in...
The pain escaped. And in that moment, I left a different breed of tear behind.
...
In 11 hours, I leave town...aware again, my propensity for self destruction.
But I was sitting in the lobby today, reading in a serene corner - American Psycho. Patrick Bateman had just cut open a Sharpei and proceeded to "randomly stab" the owner in "the face and head" before "running down Broadway, then up Broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee, coat open, flying out like some sort of cape."
I looked up and laughed, found eyes with the only other girl in the room as if, "Did you just read that?"
No. Her literary choice, the King James Bible, made me certain that one of us was potentially seriously being misled...
And I'll certainly pray for her. If I can remember, that is.
September 20, 2006
Prague...
Hopped the wrong train due for the Czech Rep early two mornings passed. I had spent the night in the Munich Train station sleeping against the concrete, hiding under my sleeping bag and murdering time with discreet mercy before the 6:45 train came. It was cold and miserable, stirred exponentially every 3 minutes by a drunken wanderer hailing from Oktoberfest.
At 5:20, I walked to the far platform, 24. It was leaving for Prague at 6:45 and would certainly be an ample and warm place to shut eyes. And it was until 5:45...right up until the moment it undoubtedly departed for destination code name: Secret American Death Camp. I ran to a Corky looking fellow responsible for punching tickets. He told me the name of a station I couldn't understand along with a vague time. Then, he punched my ticket with a suspicious "Good Luck."
Know...I would have left marks on Fuckbag's face had the same tonal choices been made in the red white and blue.
I jumped trains at station Bieksblargistenburg, 20 minutes ahead of the train due for Prague...the one I should have been on. It happened to be stopping one track from where I stood. Oh, R Smith...
...
Woke up today around 11, feeling no ill affects from a night of Urquell and Absinthe...which a waiter free-based for us at dinner. I realized the only remaining scar tissue came in the form of Czechs trying to karaoke Sinatra...but I powered through it with help from a bowl of Czech Cocoa Puffs, compliments of the Maribou Hostel.
After dinner, I went for a 2 album run...Muse's Black Holes and Revelations and Sigur Ros' Takk. It took me through the city...across its castles, parks, cathedrals, bridges. About 7 miles in, I was backpedaling away from the great Prague Castle wondering if it would be appropriate to stop and take a closer look. And though it probably was...I didn't, opting instead to press on.
The run cleared me. It cleared all the shit that came pouring in...standing on a bridge in Munich, my body taking the rain, waiting to leave town. The sweetness of constantly finding a pearl of comfort before abandoning it...and then the vicious cycle of doing it all over again for the next 6 weeks.
Europe has been cold, dark and heavy in the eternity that has been the last three days. As I stepped out of the hostel and began to walk into town, the fixing glow that had been hiding...the beauty of a fading day resided high above this city of stolen wind. I picked up a pack of Haribo Kinder Schnuller and walked...and walked...and walked. And inside, somewhere...I knew that smile and laugh had returned...settled again in a new and distant city, with that evading pearl residing somewhere on my being for no less than three days.
At 5:20, I walked to the far platform, 24. It was leaving for Prague at 6:45 and would certainly be an ample and warm place to shut eyes. And it was until 5:45...right up until the moment it undoubtedly departed for destination code name: Secret American Death Camp. I ran to a Corky looking fellow responsible for punching tickets. He told me the name of a station I couldn't understand along with a vague time. Then, he punched my ticket with a suspicious "Good Luck."
Know...I would have left marks on Fuckbag's face had the same tonal choices been made in the red white and blue.
I jumped trains at station Bieksblargistenburg, 20 minutes ahead of the train due for Prague...the one I should have been on. It happened to be stopping one track from where I stood. Oh, R Smith...
...
Woke up today around 11, feeling no ill affects from a night of Urquell and Absinthe...which a waiter free-based for us at dinner. I realized the only remaining scar tissue came in the form of Czechs trying to karaoke Sinatra...but I powered through it with help from a bowl of Czech Cocoa Puffs, compliments of the Maribou Hostel.
After dinner, I went for a 2 album run...Muse's Black Holes and Revelations and Sigur Ros' Takk. It took me through the city...across its castles, parks, cathedrals, bridges. About 7 miles in, I was backpedaling away from the great Prague Castle wondering if it would be appropriate to stop and take a closer look. And though it probably was...I didn't, opting instead to press on.
The run cleared me. It cleared all the shit that came pouring in...standing on a bridge in Munich, my body taking the rain, waiting to leave town. The sweetness of constantly finding a pearl of comfort before abandoning it...and then the vicious cycle of doing it all over again for the next 6 weeks.
Europe has been cold, dark and heavy in the eternity that has been the last three days. As I stepped out of the hostel and began to walk into town, the fixing glow that had been hiding...the beauty of a fading day resided high above this city of stolen wind. I picked up a pack of Haribo Kinder Schnuller and walked...and walked...and walked. And inside, somewhere...I knew that smile and laugh had returned...settled again in a new and distant city, with that evading pearl residing somewhere on my being for no less than three days.
September 16, 2006
Munich...
I stepped off the overnight train from Paris like a shot and ailing bandit, sharing steps with my new friend, Spanish Kitchen. Since pronunciation here is hopeless for Americans...and I mean hopeless, lean on alternatives. Her name was Cocina, which was the origin for Spanish Kitchen, but when she wrote it out, Kristina. Don't ask. She was a German living in Paris, coming home for the one weekend (or month) that returns all of Munich's sons and daughters.
We shared a cabin and she happened to be wonderfully talkative in the only language I understand. Most Germans seem to be...at least those schooled post crumble of the Third Reich. And it was comforting, going into a new city with something of a foot up. Compared to Paris, Munich is a walk in the park...
Though, since I'll be rarely sober and likely spitting drunk most of the time, let's preemptively dub it...too close to Call.
...
Before even making it out of the train station, I wandered into a Nationalistic Drunken Halloween. Remember the over the top scenes from Lampoon's European Vacation...Clark Griswold and company? Yeah...not over the top. Not one penny, drop or feather. Dead on.
I maneuvered my way through the frenzied streets to a hostel I had heard about and felt obligated to grace with my being. The two women behind the counter were already at least a liter or two deep, so when I stepped up to ask for a room without a reservation, only 50% of them could manage to keep a straight face. Ms. Composure made some phone calls while I waited. Denied...denied...denied...
As I grew unsettled, they bantered back and fourth with German words of problem solving before the heckler-ish one turned to me, stopping on a dime to pull out perfect English...
"You have some pretty big balls, showing up on the first day of Oktoberfest without a reservation."
She said it with a glow in her eye, as if waiting for me to show her. I didn't. Her glow faded just as the constructive of the two, my phone baron, hung up...and with partial success.
"One bed left. Probably the last in Munich. They said they would hold it for a half hour. 12 blocks, can you do that?"
"For the last bed in this town, and on these fleet fucking feet? Circle it and with love, I'm gone."
She did, I was. 4 blocks in, my head was down as flirting perfection rolled through my ears...OK Computer. Around me, the crowd stiffened. I looked up and they were stopped dead...cut off by the Oktoberfest parade. There was nowhere to move. No. Where. I backtracked from the dierection I came, began to head East, checking every street, every sidestreet I passed. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. Apparently, nobody...and I mean nobody fucks with the flow of Munich's Oktoberfest parade. I stomped 3 blocks, 5 blocks, 7 blocks and finally found a break in one of the two directions. 20 minutes burned and I had doubled the distance while yet finding a way to cut over. 3 blocks down, 5 blocks. It was in this moment that I simultaneously realized:
1)There was daylight up ahead...an opening.
2)I could have initially waited it out, enjoyed the drunken festivities and would have already been sitting in my room.
I cut over and began to triple time it, worried that for the first time in my life, everything might not work out.
20 minutes late, I showed up to the hostel. "401. I hope you know we only gave you the room because they said you were cute...and foolish."
Last bed in Munich.
...
One of these days, Life is going to speak down and offer me her kind wisdom. "Only dipshits and assholes live with that kind of irresponsibility. One of these days, mark my words, it's going to catch up with you."
But not today...and not now. I have to foot it to the Hofbrauhaus...they're serving shenanigans in the form of liter size beers.
Welcome to Germany.
We shared a cabin and she happened to be wonderfully talkative in the only language I understand. Most Germans seem to be...at least those schooled post crumble of the Third Reich. And it was comforting, going into a new city with something of a foot up. Compared to Paris, Munich is a walk in the park...
Though, since I'll be rarely sober and likely spitting drunk most of the time, let's preemptively dub it...too close to Call.
...
Before even making it out of the train station, I wandered into a Nationalistic Drunken Halloween. Remember the over the top scenes from Lampoon's European Vacation...Clark Griswold and company? Yeah...not over the top. Not one penny, drop or feather. Dead on.
I maneuvered my way through the frenzied streets to a hostel I had heard about and felt obligated to grace with my being. The two women behind the counter were already at least a liter or two deep, so when I stepped up to ask for a room without a reservation, only 50% of them could manage to keep a straight face. Ms. Composure made some phone calls while I waited. Denied...denied...denied...
As I grew unsettled, they bantered back and fourth with German words of problem solving before the heckler-ish one turned to me, stopping on a dime to pull out perfect English...
"You have some pretty big balls, showing up on the first day of Oktoberfest without a reservation."
She said it with a glow in her eye, as if waiting for me to show her. I didn't. Her glow faded just as the constructive of the two, my phone baron, hung up...and with partial success.
"One bed left. Probably the last in Munich. They said they would hold it for a half hour. 12 blocks, can you do that?"
"For the last bed in this town, and on these fleet fucking feet? Circle it and with love, I'm gone."
She did, I was. 4 blocks in, my head was down as flirting perfection rolled through my ears...OK Computer. Around me, the crowd stiffened. I looked up and they were stopped dead...cut off by the Oktoberfest parade. There was nowhere to move. No. Where. I backtracked from the dierection I came, began to head East, checking every street, every sidestreet I passed. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. Apparently, nobody...and I mean nobody fucks with the flow of Munich's Oktoberfest parade. I stomped 3 blocks, 5 blocks, 7 blocks and finally found a break in one of the two directions. 20 minutes burned and I had doubled the distance while yet finding a way to cut over. 3 blocks down, 5 blocks. It was in this moment that I simultaneously realized:
1)There was daylight up ahead...an opening.
2)I could have initially waited it out, enjoyed the drunken festivities and would have already been sitting in my room.
I cut over and began to triple time it, worried that for the first time in my life, everything might not work out.
20 minutes late, I showed up to the hostel. "401. I hope you know we only gave you the room because they said you were cute...and foolish."
Last bed in Munich.
...
One of these days, Life is going to speak down and offer me her kind wisdom. "Only dipshits and assholes live with that kind of irresponsibility. One of these days, mark my words, it's going to catch up with you."
But not today...and not now. I have to foot it to the Hofbrauhaus...they're serving shenanigans in the form of liter size beers.
Welcome to Germany.
September 13, 2006
Paris 2...
Few words could effectively explain the genius I'm becoming...
I say this, of course...before being distracted by a tantruming Asian man two blocks North of Republique. He's jumping and screaming, pumping madness as if auditioning for the next Hunter S. Thompson novel. I wont tell him if you don't...our friend ate a lovely shotgun blast to the face and wont be joining us for the rest of eternity. Seriously though, how else could he have gone out?
But this guy is totally going to get wiped off the street by an angry Parisian on a moped...if that can even happen. Fucking French...
Let us, for the sake of time get back to my genius and the decision to train for the original 26.2 mile route from Marathon to Athens. Today, I put in 6 that inevitably brought me to the part of town responsible for housing the city's most talented pickpockets and cab drivers. No further evidence was needed after I passed a welcoming "RAPE" sign in front of a hotel. Certainly, this was not an avenue dedicated to venturing Americans.
So, he's kicking leaves in the gutter, screaming obscenities in what could perhaps be...Malaysian? Yeah, I'd say he's crazy if it weren't for the day pack and a bottle of Evian. Someone must have slipped him something. Shit...I hope this isn't one of my roomates...
I visited the orgy of grandeur also known as the Louvre today. Too much. Far too much...so I made a personal deal to breeze through before the 26 songs on the Zepplin Remasters dried out on my I-Pod. I made it out by "No Quarter" which if I may mention, was impressive. How? Why? Well, I'm over it. I'm over the hordes taught to revere the past. Over the digital cameras and the mindless happies being happily directed by arrows to what should be considered beautiful...as if it were a label. In this respect, parts of Paris have certainly been troubling. I wish they weren't...but we are what we are, I suppose.
Turning the corner on the second wing at the Louve, I came face to face with that squinty tramp, Mona Lisa...and couldn't help but wonder. Who the fuck are you to look at me like that? Understand...I would have been the best you ever had. Ever...ever...ever...
Bitch didn't say a word.
I say this, of course...before being distracted by a tantruming Asian man two blocks North of Republique. He's jumping and screaming, pumping madness as if auditioning for the next Hunter S. Thompson novel. I wont tell him if you don't...our friend ate a lovely shotgun blast to the face and wont be joining us for the rest of eternity. Seriously though, how else could he have gone out?
But this guy is totally going to get wiped off the street by an angry Parisian on a moped...if that can even happen. Fucking French...
Let us, for the sake of time get back to my genius and the decision to train for the original 26.2 mile route from Marathon to Athens. Today, I put in 6 that inevitably brought me to the part of town responsible for housing the city's most talented pickpockets and cab drivers. No further evidence was needed after I passed a welcoming "RAPE" sign in front of a hotel. Certainly, this was not an avenue dedicated to venturing Americans.
So, he's kicking leaves in the gutter, screaming obscenities in what could perhaps be...Malaysian? Yeah, I'd say he's crazy if it weren't for the day pack and a bottle of Evian. Someone must have slipped him something. Shit...I hope this isn't one of my roomates...
I visited the orgy of grandeur also known as the Louvre today. Too much. Far too much...so I made a personal deal to breeze through before the 26 songs on the Zepplin Remasters dried out on my I-Pod. I made it out by "No Quarter" which if I may mention, was impressive. How? Why? Well, I'm over it. I'm over the hordes taught to revere the past. Over the digital cameras and the mindless happies being happily directed by arrows to what should be considered beautiful...as if it were a label. In this respect, parts of Paris have certainly been troubling. I wish they weren't...but we are what we are, I suppose.
Turning the corner on the second wing at the Louve, I came face to face with that squinty tramp, Mona Lisa...and couldn't help but wonder. Who the fuck are you to look at me like that? Understand...I would have been the best you ever had. Ever...ever...ever...
Bitch didn't say a word.
September 11, 2006
Paris...
I was getting into the shower when Tom knocked on the door. He introduced himself as a postal worker from Pittsburgh and I let slide the fact that he was at the very least, 24 years past his prime to be making a second tour on the European backpacking circuit. He was candid and friendly, immediately peeing without closing the bathroom door, and I was pretty sure that I almost somewhat partially liked him.
He told me about his day and quickly offered his pipe in an obvious attempt to reach out to another weary traveler. 'Amsterdamian Belly Rolling Bud' was what he called it. One sniff spoke devil's trouble and I passed. Partly because I'm a daylight lightweight, but mostly...it would have been far too much closeness between me and my new sketch friend.
I spread out on the cot and it hit. Heaviness from the redeye out of Newark. Heaviness from being the only white boy...wedged in the middle of the middle section of an Air India flight. Heaviness of landing in a country where my greatest weapon...that of the tongue, rendered irrelevant. Heaviness of figuring out one of the greatest metropolitan centers of the world toting a 100 pound backpack and a sleepless mind.
He launched into a rant, vast and aimless...quickly covering the religious conspiracies swirling the world and I closed my eyes. In that moment, I realized my only potential defense...pretend to fall asleep.
Three minutes later, Tom stopped talking. And if there's one assurance I can offer, it's that Tom struggles with the principles of a clean conversational 'break.' He left the room to pick up his laundry and I feasted on 17 minutes of sleep.
He told me about his day and quickly offered his pipe in an obvious attempt to reach out to another weary traveler. 'Amsterdamian Belly Rolling Bud' was what he called it. One sniff spoke devil's trouble and I passed. Partly because I'm a daylight lightweight, but mostly...it would have been far too much closeness between me and my new sketch friend.
I spread out on the cot and it hit. Heaviness from the redeye out of Newark. Heaviness from being the only white boy...wedged in the middle of the middle section of an Air India flight. Heaviness of landing in a country where my greatest weapon...that of the tongue, rendered irrelevant. Heaviness of figuring out one of the greatest metropolitan centers of the world toting a 100 pound backpack and a sleepless mind.
He launched into a rant, vast and aimless...quickly covering the religious conspiracies swirling the world and I closed my eyes. In that moment, I realized my only potential defense...pretend to fall asleep.
Three minutes later, Tom stopped talking. And if there's one assurance I can offer, it's that Tom struggles with the principles of a clean conversational 'break.' He left the room to pick up his laundry and I feasted on 17 minutes of sleep.
September 06, 2006
Chicago and Crew Good Times...
I’m leaving for Paris on Sunday after a three day stop in New York. One last little stateside tour before leaving for either three months or eternity. Dramatic Stretch? If you knew what I know...well, you don’t.
I got a text message on Sunday. It came from one of the good timers. See, I have these friends that remained, for obvious reasons, in states far from the California that vanished me. When I roll through Chicago, we meet up. Their title implies what ensues...
I made the drive to the city of...I know Brotherly Love is Philly, we must be Big Shoulders...whatever the fuck that means. We slapped hands and faces, cracked a handle-less handle of Jack and were off with stories of the ball fields that left us behind and the women we’ll forever chase. And it was good. Steel wool couldn’t have ripped the smile from my face.
We showed up to the first bar around midnight...ordered five Jameson’s, five chaperones. Mine was a Guinness. We either saluted health or, most likely: douchebag, cocksucker, motherfucker.
Just as I blew out Jamie’s pinch, I noticed across the bar another familiar group. The high school equivalent. Our reunion: Jager and Sam Adams...brewer, patriot.
From there, I bounced...to, fro. The rounds came hard and fast on two fronts until I slipped into a state of composure so far beyond drunk that the body gives up. Drink through drunk, come out clean on the other side. These are the things I tell myself late at night, between dripping charm and spitting gravity.
The lights came up around 2. My high school and college baseball coaches used to say that nothing good happens past midnight. And I get it, okay. Tommy, Itch...I knew what you were getting at. I always did, it’s just that...come on, boys. Let’s compromise and settle on 2, just as the lights at the first bar came up. I should have listened, but then again...
I wouldn’t have hopped to another bar, one that stayed open until 4.
-
I wouldn’t have had the bonding moments and laughs that no one will ever remember.
-
I wouldn’t have had my face smashed into the sidewalk by a member of our country’s elite armed forces.
-
I wouldn’t have bled all over Chad’s white? shirt.
-
I wouldn’t have spent a half hour combing the city with the rapid response South Side brawlers Flynn called in. They need a name...Cops and Maglites. I know at least 8 people who will get that.
-
I wouldn’t have been cut deep by threats of excommunication from the woman of my heart who despises(kick to the cock style) fighting.
-
Just before the sun came up, I found a spot on the floor to close my eyes...and remember, actually remember breaking into hysterical laughter. Wouldn’t have had that either.
...
So I’m off to wander...more than usual. It’s going to go a little something like...
Paris, Munich, Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, Barcelona, Nice, Monaco, Florence, Rome, Athens, Cape Town.
At least that’s the skeleton. Expect broken bones...but hopefully, only in metaphor.
I got a text message on Sunday. It came from one of the good timers. See, I have these friends that remained, for obvious reasons, in states far from the California that vanished me. When I roll through Chicago, we meet up. Their title implies what ensues...
I made the drive to the city of...I know Brotherly Love is Philly, we must be Big Shoulders...whatever the fuck that means. We slapped hands and faces, cracked a handle-less handle of Jack and were off with stories of the ball fields that left us behind and the women we’ll forever chase. And it was good. Steel wool couldn’t have ripped the smile from my face.
We showed up to the first bar around midnight...ordered five Jameson’s, five chaperones. Mine was a Guinness. We either saluted health or, most likely: douchebag, cocksucker, motherfucker.
Just as I blew out Jamie’s pinch, I noticed across the bar another familiar group. The high school equivalent. Our reunion: Jager and Sam Adams...brewer, patriot.
From there, I bounced...to, fro. The rounds came hard and fast on two fronts until I slipped into a state of composure so far beyond drunk that the body gives up. Drink through drunk, come out clean on the other side. These are the things I tell myself late at night, between dripping charm and spitting gravity.
The lights came up around 2. My high school and college baseball coaches used to say that nothing good happens past midnight. And I get it, okay. Tommy, Itch...I knew what you were getting at. I always did, it’s just that...come on, boys. Let’s compromise and settle on 2, just as the lights at the first bar came up. I should have listened, but then again...
I wouldn’t have hopped to another bar, one that stayed open until 4.
-
I wouldn’t have had the bonding moments and laughs that no one will ever remember.
-
I wouldn’t have had my face smashed into the sidewalk by a member of our country’s elite armed forces.
-
I wouldn’t have bled all over Chad’s white? shirt.
-
I wouldn’t have spent a half hour combing the city with the rapid response South Side brawlers Flynn called in. They need a name...Cops and Maglites. I know at least 8 people who will get that.
-
I wouldn’t have been cut deep by threats of excommunication from the woman of my heart who despises(kick to the cock style) fighting.
-
Just before the sun came up, I found a spot on the floor to close my eyes...and remember, actually remember breaking into hysterical laughter. Wouldn’t have had that either.
...
So I’m off to wander...more than usual. It’s going to go a little something like...
Paris, Munich, Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, Barcelona, Nice, Monaco, Florence, Rome, Athens, Cape Town.
At least that’s the skeleton. Expect broken bones...but hopefully, only in metaphor.
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