Deep breath in; exhale. For the first time ever, I could feel my lungs expand with every breath I took in. The crispiness of Icelandic air could make a pack-a-day smoker feel like they have a brand new set of lungs.
Patience is a virtue, but so is waiting for a pint of Guinness. With a creamy head resting atop a deep ruby red colored stout, the aesthetic was the alcohol version of a well executed cappuccino.
A group of sweat beads rest along the surface of my nose. The sun beats down on the cobble stoned streets of Barcelona while couples spoon-feed each other paella.
“Aren’t all the cafes very romantic? They always look like so in the movies.” asks my mother… “I’m sure they are, if I had a lover to fawn over, mom.”
It’s this surreal feeling you get when walking down the side streets in Paris. With Sixpence None the Richer tunes flowing through the earbuds, it’s reminiscent to being in a Mary Kate and Ashley film, sans teenage boy-lovers and bags of new clothes.
In the words of Daniel Danielewski, you get spurts of uncomfortable smells of human history – “a composite of sweat, urine, shit, blood, flesh and semen, as well as joy, sorrow, jealousy, rage, vengeance, fear, love, hope and a whole lot more,” – as you walk down the streets of Brussels.
All the synonyms for “wet” may be applied to my first two days in Amsterdam. In retrospect, I should’ve bought a raincoat with a hood, but at the time, my woman logic picked fashion over practicality.
Do you know why there aren’t many good-looking English people? It’s because the Vikings went over and took all of their best looking ladies and brought them over here to Denmark; so goes the rumor.
Miscommunication. Am I suppose to see your sign, or am I suppose to call a taxi? It’s 23:30, and public transportation are barely running. So a taxi it is. I buzz in, and a large, darkened figure starts to walk toward me. Come on light, shine on the person’s face. The dark blob slowly begins to separate to what I figure out to be an arm. Oh hello host, why so secretive?
Tightly packed people, all weighed down by luggage, quickly transitioning from one subway to the next to catch the last ride for the night. Ah the Greeks; they talk with the swing of the Italians, and the pace of the Spanish.
“Where are you from?”
“America.”
“No, where are you from?”
“No really, Philadelphia in America.”
“You sure you’re not from Japan?”
Beside their brilliant personality and curiosity, most Turks have taken me by surprise – look wise – dark complexions with sea-blue colored eyes.
decadent mess 