She without

She without
a short story by Jakob Szymanski

A reapplication of lipstick returns her vanity that drives her next move. She puts down her gin and tonic to give herself room to brows her most resent atmosphere. With an ease comparable to the consumption of her previous two drinks she turns her head to begin the inquiry of past and future affairs that ceremonially pursue her gin and tonics. Just like her drink she gives form to the refined sophistication of the citrus and juniper berries but with the equal attitude of the bitter tonic. This combination of the sweet and sour gives her men a desireless love in the form of pure sexuality and release of their natural animal expression. Her demeanor, attitude, and addiction are comparable to the mentality of her men but with an extended desire to receive and to give nothing. “Love in a different form” she tells herself.

The sheer redness of her hair resounds against the dim burlesque atmosphere giving its way to the attention of surrounding walking, breathing décor. Through this advantage to arouse curiosity she ignites her own self love giving little room for another. Suspended from her ears presents a set of earrings that give just enough length and shine as not to disturb the accent of her hair. Her advanced but dangerous taste in accessories provides her with the sense of intellect, class, and femininity with power. The draping of her sable satin dress forms the modest but enticingly erotic formation of her breasts and continues down to reach just above her knees. Pressed neatly against her dress, her pale but toned skin offers the balance between the cavernous color of the dress and brilliance of her hair. Her platform shoes give her an extended addition to her height but with just enough as to not intrude on her taste for the taller more profound men. She gives this small profile to replace what she feels she lacks. The simplicity of men in their eager attitude to give her what only she wants.

The dimness of the lights, the subtle color of the low set lounge chairs, and fusion of a diverse combination of cocktail dresses combined with the blandness of the suit allows for the week competition amid her originality. Her attendance of one similar environment amongst many of the same. An institution under the surface that provides the temporary elimination of an explanation. A replacement of reality but a substitution of justification. A sexy standard to which she has evolved. This is she.

An untailored tick tack of her shoes hitting the floor make for a reminder of an existence among the personalities. For moments a disappearing act is performed on the ill inspiring suits, the buoyant flow of cocktail dresses and all the characters inside them. None other than a drone is heard through the slow pulsation of music and the blend of the off beat conversation. Just enough sound to remind her of were she is but also who she is not. She allows herself to do this at times. To release herself from the custom to which she has been accustomed and verify what has already been verified. This is she but she without love.

Curiosity Killed the Cat
a short story by jakob michael

On the corner sits a brick building with just enough dimension to establish a presence amidst the darkness created by the surrounding high-rise buildings. With its abnormality and questionable reason for being the peculiar little structure gives a dose of curiosity to each passer-by that a pause for investigation is only natural and called for. As a second glace is casually initiated any agenda becomes minute and surplus. The innocence of the first glance drawn from the curiosity of simplicity in the building is now stripped and swiftly replaced with the inescapable intensity of a stare. Like a strange awkwardness that fills thought and feeling or a dense and almost black contemplation with little reason for it; this is the impression that fills the head with a force that then seeps its way into numbness of the fingers and a stiff chill of the skin. This dump of sensation hasn’t hindered liberty to continue with any original obligations, plans or aimless wandering; only they have chosen to look and stand subject to the curiosity. By now, however, this curiosity has developed in multiplication equal to the time spent standing in the intensity of the new found spectacle.

Time has given eyes an adjustment to darkness and body a position of necessity within the scene. Like that of a stitch sewn to make the cloth only the eyes create this spectacle just as the cloth is made by the stitch. Now, able to see with a deepness and perception, the details of the simplicity stand in minimalist fashion giving shapes, lines, and stature a reason for being. The flat broadness of the roof takes eyes down into the front faced where noticeably absent windows lay waiting to be found or imagined. The path leading from where the viewer stands to the edge of the building carries eyes for moments instead of an assumed second and when the end is reached the awaited assembly of the door is instead a dismay of disappointment as there is none. Only distinct lines created by the gaps between bricks can be questionably stated as character, all else is left there for the viewer to bath within their yawning pool of curiosity.

Time has given no gratification and with each consistent pulse of thought the eagerness for indulgence grows deeper. With the irrational approach of an addict and the naive innocence of a child the decision to nourish the desperate desire is met with a crave to draw nearer. Question of departure is pushed aside and thought of embracing curiosity isn’t even questioned. With a purpose the pathway begins where all began. Nothing has changed yet all stands in amplification. Each brick is seen with perception and just as they are stacked to create structure they also give the support of the imagination. Every detail seems like an invitation, as if it’s the will of the building and not the conscious decision of the mind to walk closer.

The bodies still stance takes a different shape as it begins to walk. The building begins to reach closer and a light is briefly noticed from a crack within the front wall but within the next step it lost. With a motion back it reappears and remains still but now with some kind of dimension and color. With a pause to understand this new addition to character, the color is brought forth as a profound and full bodied red, a red so original in depth and density giving the light a resemblance of scarlet silk textile or of a deep seepage of blood between cracks and with this announcement of color and resolution, the realization of shape is noticed with little question of its formation, a door.

With the knowledge of this door adding to curiosity a search for other shapes presents texture and contour. The brick has rough violent consistency and the outlined silhouette of length gives a heightened charisma to the buildings size and easy shape. None of this however takes away from the profound red that still continues its buoyant flow like a draped dress following the curvature of its woman. The life it exudes from beneath the door is erotic and filled with sensation.

With a pulsating heat of the face and a disobedient urge to finish for peak the hand reaches for the door knob and replaces the absence of grip with the feeling of cold antique steal against the palm. The coming of outside in has evolved from the ache for the inside out.

The brightness of the suspended chandelier and the opaque intensity of color and elaborate designs from the surrounding wallpaper create a new situation within a small foyer. Against the wall lays a claret satin embroidered bench that looks out onto the darkness through the open door. The red-wine setting gives radiance in contrast with the previous darkness. The deepness of dissimilarity has become the drive to replace curiosity with apathy. It has become a burden in the form of an addiction. It’s a force as deep as the red that surrounds. Much like the force that at this moment thrusts crimson blood through the body’s vein.

Leaving the foyer behind a quick turn around the corner announces only a hallway but with a subtly that could easily go un-discovered. With a slow pause an analysis begins of a discrete crackle between what seems to be the inconsistency of an old record. The impurity of the noise amid the untainted silence gives an easy escape from thought. Focus is blurred as the noise becomes closer. A symphony like sound but with frequent scratches in the flow keeps attention and motion in the direction of the room on the left.

A manual crank phonograph with an apparent responsibility to play for this occasion gives question to the whereabouts of its man power. But casually atop an ornately designed side table it plays with a purpose so obvious and natural to the situation that its explanation isn’t sought but instead accepted. It bring a purpose and rational to a previous situation that gave no intent. It submerses the situation to a depth so deep that the curiosity once pursued has become a danger to mind and conscious. Everything has become a risk. The clutter of sporadically placed paintings on the wall give opportunity to an enhanced memorization. Low set light combined with the small proportion of the room give an ample feeling of oneness with the building that previously brought such distress. But above all the flow from the redness of the walls feed the sensation of curiosity to a size so commanding and influential.

Just beyond the phonograph a modest cedar bar top gives the support to a neatly organized display of crystal and a selection of liquors. The invitation from the adjacent stool calls for an excuse to give memorization a momentary pause but also a chance to commence a deeper analysis of the surroundings. The dimness of the light mixed with the pungent color of the room gives a density to the brandy as it’s poured into the crystal glass. The smooth slosh created by the pour becomes the hearable sense encouraging the connection between the glass and lips. The delicate smell of spices brought forth by the spill brings fantasy to its taste.

With a glance across the room an understood sentiment of selfness is stripped with the new awareness of another body. Casually beside the edge of the wall lays a cat. Beside the cat lays the reason for the cat’s presence, a bowl with a vacant absence of substance. The warmth of the milk lies inside the immobile body of the curious cat.

Four Men

"The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader."

Four Men
a short story by
Jakob Michael (my new writer name)

Eyes are peeled in a skeptical curiosity as four men enter the subway car. It’s late on a weeknight with the car nearly empty. Just moments ago you could here the subtle snore of an elderly Chinese man in the corner and the taping of a teenagers fingers as he listens to his generously pulsated house music herd from his head phones. Now with the interruption of these subtleties the cars main focus is these four men. There casual entrance gives spectators an odd feeling of translucence. A snore or any unsolicited sound from a leaking set of head phones is disregarded. The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader. After several minutes of casual conversation and perfectly timed jokes the older one speaks in a more serious but sympathetic voice, “Who has bread to go with the soup tonight? I have the soup but who has the substance.” He waits for a reply but the silence is only followed by the low hum of the subway tracks just beneath. Disappointment hits the air hard. After a quick pause, two seats down another voice speaks. Eyes now take on this other interest. His words are slurred and his head sways in a most original almost detached way. Not a beautiful man. Although noticeably middle-aged, his face is ridden with acne and patches of unshaven hair. He cracks a sarcastic joke, probably about the night’s lack of bread. But with his unclear speech his Spanish is awfully hard for me to understand. Almost certainly however, the response of laughter from his party is herd three subway cars behind. Now set in place of the earlier disappointment is the previously established feeling of friendship. They just needed that reminder. They are a family or maybe a band of brothers. No real definition could be given but this is what it is, some kind of undefined relationship that could never be replaced or broken. Not in this group does there exist a father and son, uncle and nephew, brother or cousin. In this group they have one major thing in common. Each of there original lives are in the past. The future is vague but most obvious is the ever burdening fact that they are all homeless. They are as the world sees them, bums.

It’s mid January with much of the cities natural life having died with the warmth of the sun. Just three weeks ago did Madrid see the rare and almost surreal appearance of three inches of snow. This uninvited presence is now, for most, entirely forgotten but for this group of men the memory only makes fear ride even closer to there brink of hope.

Having moved on from the disappointment of the soup being the night’s only source nutrition the leader speaks again. He mentions the dreaded question that is given its life each night and with each progressive night the answer is often times left unanswered. At times it’s almost figurative because of its silent response. However, even when unanswered the answer lies on each individual face. It’s a synonym to the horror of the question and an equal to an actual response. With a deep stare through the window that only looks through to the darkness of the tunnel he asks it. “We have a few options boys. La Latina can offer us some privacy and maybe even the company of a fire. Pirimedes has the river with an array of bridges to make our choice from.” He gives a polite pause before he announces what everyone knows he will say but not what they want to hear. A moment later he says it. “Where shall we get our beauty sleep?” His attempt at humor is slaughtered with the tone of his voice. His voice cracks midway between the word beauty because of his lack of air. This air needed so badly to salvage the groups positivity sits in the vacant hole in his stomach. He has not eaten in three days.

Just then a familiar voice comes in to play. Some middle aged woman that each Madrileño has come to know. Her recorded voice with a touch of sensuality is herd over the intercom, “next stop, La Latina”. It’s a nice break from the tense air given of by the four men’s deep thought. Again I catch a momentary snore from the neighboring Chinese man. He is still sleeping. Not lasting long, silence is again interrupted but this time in a nonverbal approach. The words just uttered “next stop, La Latina” bring a new expression to each of the four men’s faces. They give each other a quick glance and stand in the same synchronized moment. They leave, silently with little expression on there faces.

Tap-tap-tap, the teenager is hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of his music. The Chinese man has changed his sleeping position but is still in a state of hibernation. Then with the newly vacant seats in front of me I see myself in the window. I try and reminisce the resent account of the four men. “Next stop, Urgel”. I leave the Chinese man in the corner and the teenager to his music. I leave being the sol witness of four men.

Note:
That’s my first short story! Criticism is appreciated, thanks
-jAKE

The Eurail Dairies: That Bottle in That Bar

"The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets..."

The Eurail Dairies
That Bottle in That Bar

England is like a clean and quick shot from that bottle in that bar that stands just under the rest where there’s question of its contents. Now that your order is in you begin to query ones trip to this particular bar. The ceiling is plastered with smoke and low set with pictures of Jenna Jameson in the 80’s. The men on the other side of the bar top look like an image directly out of Quintan Tarantinos head and your hand is resting on something moist and still warm. As you take that preliminary shot and you feel the harsh burn of that bottles contents you begin to embrace your surroundings just as you embraced your skepticism of that last shot. By the end of the night, not only have you fully embraced the rest of the bottle but you seem to have given your surroundings a second chance as now they look so much more attractive. England has this same sharp candid bight but with a smooth surface layer candor that only is presented after time, a second chance…and maybe a drink.

The originality of a working woman’s movements as she walks her London streets, the odd peripheral vision sightings of all the uniquely experimental and bizarrely unconventional people surrounding Camden City, Trafalgar Square at night, or simply me as the American still not willing to admit that the rest of the world uses the metric system and there are particular countries that find a sense of sanity in driving on the wrong side of the road. This is the beauty of England’s capital city.

The day is people watching, sightseeing and self amusing, the night is a Soho bar and then the Broadway, and everything in between is just the cruel realization that the pound towers above my delicate dollar. Starbucks has even discontinued its purpose of giving me that American corporate comfort and instead it’s been replaced by the reminder that my corporate America sits on the brink of the domino effect. So, now when I sip my coffee with that modest green mermaid staring back at me I star back with pity and sadness because I know its dying just beneath those golden arches lying next to Ronald MacDonald.

This next addition to my collection of journals is brought to you in a very English fashion. As I speak to you from a corner street English pub I am surrounded by a series of distressed leather oversized armchairs, the BBC is presenting the years best snapshots, I’m sipping a pint of lager, and I’m over hearing conversations of last weeks fox hunting expedition. All quite English and very much out of my comfort zone but still intriguing causing me to stay and tell you some of what’s happened since my last chapter in The Eurail Dairies.

It’s been six months since I’ve left my eight foot by ten foot room just left of the basement bathroom in my parent’s house. I have reached the two decade mark forcing me to really pretend like I’m an adult. I have traveled through England, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy and I have a big boy job teaching English in the capital of Spain, Madrid.

I began my time in Spain on September 22nd. I came in by Eurail after one blameless bus detour in Rome caused a string of events that ultimately caused me to miss my flight. After reaching Madrid I immediately began a one month high intensity course that certified me to teach English as a foreign language. During the first three weeks as I searched for the perfect apartment I spent some quality time in a five foot by five foot hostel room with the most flattering green curtains and white lighting. I swear to you the bed was bought from the local nursing home. It had a side crank that would give you your desired level of elevation. It totally worked wonders because for me to see the late presidential election on the TV behind the door I would have to put it on its highest possible level. Although highly amusing it was quite unnecessary and made me feel like I was predestined to possess arthritis or some disease causing total immobility.

My big boy title to accompany my big boy job is, brace your self, “Jacob Michael, Professor of English”. Jacob, it sets a good tone for, Hi, I’m Jacob and I like to work”. The name leaves little room for Club Pacha on Friday, lunch and then the bar marathon in La Latina on Saturday. So, Jake seems to come out just as frequently as Jacob. The difference is that when Jake is introduced, Jacob is ready for the weekend.

Anyway when Jacob has his obligation to work for his living he teaches a range of students from a class with two four year old girls to a 45 year old Lawyer to Corporate business classes. I enjoy my job for now. I have the opportunity to meet and understand the Spanish. It’s an opportunity that eight months ago I am so glad I had made

Said to be the Paris of southern Europe Madrid gives more to her residence that anyone would think to receive. It’s hard to get any understanding of all the advantages until you become a work-in, live-out style resident. My schedule by day is booked with classes but the Spanish night brings out the most timid of people and hurls them into the 12 hour city wide social assembly lasting till eight the next morning. Sitting a little behind the times Madrid gives that perfect balance of old European culture with the hype of the in fashion and class. The people themselves have migrated with the times and kept a sense of in the mode existence but tradition has continued as the people continue to practice and value it.

Until July when I return to the States I will continue to recreate my European adventures and stick them in Cyberspace. Also I will be very mentally busy trying to figure out what life will bring me after my glorious stay in Madrid. As of now the most attractive option is either business or journalism school in the city that never sleeps. But my ideas change just as fast as my appetite for a change of scenery.


A big boy but not yet an adult,
Jacob Michael, Professor of English (it’s a weekday)

An Extraordinaire

An Extraordinaire

Today is a birthday. This day of celebration is extraordinary in a style that only those in participation understand. People partaking in this worldly festivity are caught by an unutterable sense of absence. Is this the extraordinary element that makes this day so…extra ordinary? It’s an emotion that sits deep at the bottom of each participant’s stomach, a replicated notion lingering in the back of each unassuming conscience. Any conceivable explanation might be because this special birthday lacks a setting. Or it could be that a cake with 14 colorful candles sits only in imagination. Maybe it’s the wonder of absent streamers, missing balloons with hallmark quotations, silence replacing the forced party small talk, a veto of carelessly wrapped gifts, and that compulsory presence of that extraordinary celebrated individual that lays under a birch tree. This must be it! So simple and so…extraordinary, a birthday with all essential ingredients resting only in the minds of those who ache to prepare them. How interesting, to anyone else this birthday wouldn’t seem like a birthday at all. Its extraordinary how on this day a celebration occurs yet is not physical and has no feeling of happiness. Except for those who understand this extraordinary extraordinaire.

The Eurail Diaries: Simplicity

Venice

The Eurail Diaries: Simplicity

Once upon a time, in a land not to far away, there was a curiously peculiar child that most of you all know. That same slightly atypical child hasn’t changed much if any change at all. He’s proud of his past and eager for the future. His mother would drill one particular command into his head at the end of every breakfast meal. To this day that for ever imposing voice gives him the same inevitable command that as a child he could never escape. Even now, as a young man, far from the control of his parents he doesn’t know what it is to finish a bowl of rice crispies with out the sweet whispers of Snap Crackle, and Pop muffled by a shrill “drink your milk! You pour it! You drink it!”. Its time she knows that her piercing matriarchal voice sticks within my head as I travel some 5 thousand miles from listening range.

There is a point to this however. Only two days ago was this point made clear to me. This clearing of the mind happened just as I finished perfecting the art and science of slicing my three dollar block of cheese in a way that it would evenly accommodate a whopping four sandwiches. Mind you, this was no easy process but now, it stands as a true expertise.

After this modest experiment I asked myself why in the hell would I take the slightest effort into making flawlessly flush cheese slices fit in between pieces of bread. I couldn’t answerer that question. All I know is six months ago I was paying 150 dollars for jeans, and tipping the coffee girl three dollars for drip. Who tips for coffee! Now I refuse to pay extra for pre-sliced cheese. I’m crazy, no? But is drinking the remains of Snap, Crackle, and Pop any different?

In between my common attempts to save a little money, I travel. At this point I have just enough money to see Italy, travel to Madrid, pay for my first months rent, and all the frequent beers in between. As crazy as this may be to hear, coming from one American to another, simplicity is a lifestyle and just for this year I plan to embrace it. Not until you taste the full sense of this routine do you totally understand how refreshing it can be. My head seems to no longer be traveling along with the happy meal, super target, want now and get it generation. Instead it’s clear to explore the other options. Even if that means no instantaneously appearing Big Mac at the drive thru and then a pit stop at the 24hr Wall-Mart at 3am. Everything closes by 9 in Europe, just to fill you in.

I never thought anything of Germany except for maybe; sausages, Hitler, and yodeling little bow peeps. As it turned out, I never had a brat worst, there’s no mention of the dead Jews and sadly, I’m told Little Bow Peep only existed in my pre-adolescent nursery rhymes. I was housed by my cousin from my father’s side; he’s catholic and believe me when I tell you the Catholics know how to wine and dine a life out side of the cathedral. This city of Konstanz, with no more than eighty thousand seemed to have more diversity and high end energy that that of my metropolis of Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. It sat on a lake combining Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, thus making it a prime area to feed my eager need to explore. Most days were filled with nonchalant walking, touring the infinitely abundant collection of castles, and my enthusiastic effort to try and keep up with the German tradition of drinking beer.

From Germany and with a burn in my wallet I took the train to visit the land of fine chocolate, high security banks, steep watches that would put the average working man into a second mortgage, and of course, once again, insane sub-way clientele (another story, another day).

Switzerland has a diversity that stands far beyond most other countries I have traveled to. Small, ya, but some how condensed with French, Italian, German and Swiss German speaking citizens, then after all that throw in their huge African American population. It was crazy, id get to Zurich and struggle to get a German speaker to tell me where an ATM is (not a success) then after an hour train ride to Lausanne Id try and get a French Speaker to tell me where the bus station is (outcome again lingered at a negative).

The sub-way continues to amaze me. It has come to my attention that anyone with an unusual quality, whether mental or physical, seem to decide to sit next to me. I love it, I will admit to that. This time my adjacent seat was filled with someone half way sane. Okay…imagine…an adorable, cookie cutter old lady, dressed up in brightly colored cloths, probably coming home from that evenings church pot-luck, she’s a little insane but still quite functional. Alright, that same depiction of a woman sat next to me, for the whole of the sub-way ride she embarked on a seemingly never ending account of how she makes stuff. I didn’t know what “stuff” was because this conversation was in French. I speak no French. She didn’t seem to care. In between her gasps for air and the subtle caresses she gave my arm I really really tried to tell her that I spoke English. I left yet again, another sub-way feeling slightly abused but chuckling to myself.

It was only one second where the conveniences of modern day Western Europe disappeared. My grasp wasn’t until I got off the train 2 hour later in Milan. It was my cross over that made me recognize, once again, that toilets with a seat are foreign to most other cultures. Haha, if you’ve ever traveled you may no exactly what I am talking about. Not only is there no seat, but no bowl. Let me explain, you prepare your self just as you would with the usual method of “relief” (Ass bare, knees bent, and a willingness to sit back and enjoy). Although the difference is that the toilet…is a ceramic hole in the ground. Benefit? You walk out having had a major thigh and glute work-out. Disadvantage? Still, any appearance of a seat remains non-existent.

After getting to Milan my fascination left with the train I just got off. Hostels were sparse and roads dirty. The only allure I have is of coarse its label of being the fashion capital of the world, dry yes, but some how intriguing. From the sprawling dirt and the art of textile I journey to Venice. This quick pit stop was only for a day but a day that will leave me wanting to return, just next time with some capital, a boat, and some romantic company. All are hard to be with out in the idealistic “Bride of the Sea”. No more than thirty minutes after leaving my hotel I get lost. This shouldn’t be a surprise to most of you. It certainly wasn’t one for me. Just this once however I took great advantage of it. Meandering the streets of Venice is like a maze but the revelation around the corner will astonish you every time.

Roma gave me something that few other places did. This was native English speaking folk. Roma is understandably the biggest tourist destination in southern Europe. I took great advantage of this. Soon after arriving, a short conversation of travel small talk turned into a leisurely trip to Naples, and later a free place to stay in Rome. I can’t say my days involved any thing more than the customary Roman highlights. I won’t attempt to write a colorful digest of The Vatican City, The Pantheon, La Piazza di Navona, The Spanish Steps, or even the post card plastered Coliseum. No travel guide or double decker, super express, tour bus will ever give this city the justice it disserves. Think about it, how does one present justice to a city where justice was derived.

My time in Italy isn’t over and I’m not leaving until the Tuscan sun stops giving me such damn good rays. I’m getting tired but I need more culture, the Italian people are insanely mad but insanely intriguing, my tension span is too short for the beaches but I go anyway, pasta gives me cramps but I eat it. Many things Italian contradict fixations that any where else I would go with out. Screw it! When in Rome.

Not in collage and on the open European road,
Jake

Eurail Diaries: Cocaine

Eurail Diaries
Cocaine

First, right off the bat let me begin with a confession. I seem to be suffering from what some people call writers block. For me it entails sitting in front of the computer patiently awaiting some remnant of a creative spark and it not arriving. After several attempts on the train, one in an English pub, and one other in some god forsaken French town called Boulogne, igniting this spark as come to be quite a process. Thanks to the vibe of southern Germany I’ve got one paragraph written, so for your benefit and mine I can continue with this dialogue of an irrational young American caught up in the European allure.

This next ramble of words has been delayed longer than I had planed but my excuse is legitimate. Hey! If a guy can’t write, he can’t write! It was only two weeks ago, on August 5th that I arrived in Europe. My departure from the States could only be explained as a relief. With six months of planning, my last year of school coming to an end, and the thought of parental freedom right around the corner, containing my self was not an option that I thought within my mental capabilities. Even now the thought of investigating some other outlandish country is hard to keep under a realistic mindset. Of coarse you can understand how my mind wanders. It’s too easy to do when on a seven hour train ride from Paris to Zurich. Let me put it this way, travel is like cocaine, you try it, you love it, the high can get out of control and before it ends you look for that next white line whether it be in Venice or Tim Buck Two. (Disclaimer: Cocaine, it’s just an analogy.)

At this point I have lost all track of time. All I know is I am into the second week of my travels. The joy is that I don’t need to keep tabs on my time spent; I have no itinerary and no real plan. It’s a beautiful and satisfying thing. Time however has been busy and spent on things that I never thought would be possible at my young age. After arriving in London I wasted no time. I caught the next bus to Bristol and soon after met up with old friends that I thought had forever gone their own separate ways. (I have come to find out that the English are more than just tea, crumpets, and top hats) Attending clubs, pubs, and viewing the latest in English culture was a major period of reflection as we reminisced of memories and of life’s instances that most would assume to be ludicrous.

Two nights in Paris. To be absolutely frank, not much more time is needed. First impressions are the ones remembered and mine was the sincere greeting of a Parisian bum that insisted quite persistently that he needed money for is three children. After looking at his coarse design of burses and blisters on his for arms I took this story of his three children as a hallucination at best and continued to the sub way. The sub way only more deeply defined my thoughts of the Paris city scape. With the unavoidable aroma of piss and god knows what else, I made my trip across town with a junky on my left and a junky on my right.

With a few tweaks and a minor demotion in appeal Paris still stands to be the city of love, of architecture, egotistical men and of fine woman. A dismal sub way ride and the abundant array of colorful but still homeless public is no excuse for me or anyone else to
define the city of lights to be anything other what it is; superbly extraordinary with a hint of urine.

Tonight I stay in Munich. With a superb diversity and lousy underground system I made my way to America’s equivalent of Rodeo Drive. Although I have little reason to even enter this modern day coble stone street of synthetic and absurdly priced textile I figured glance won’t affect my stiff budget. It didn’t, I’m still stuck with my bread, cheese and an occasional beer.

Now imagine some picturesque scene from The Sound of Music. Few guys will admit they’ve watched Julie Andrews prance around in flowers singing a pocket full of sunshine. That’s beside the point though; this picturesque scene is my home for the next week. It’s just lacking all the nuns, singing school children and I don’t think Julie Andrews has even been here.

Time has a value, don’t spend it all in one place, chances are you’re life will ensue prosperity.

Looking for that next white line,
Jake