Amsterdam to Paris
Years ago I caught a bus from Amsterdam to Paris. I don't remember why I felt the need to go to Paris or, more importantly, why I felt the need to leave Amsterdam. I've been to over 30 countries and hundreds of cities and I can tell you without hesitation that Amsterdam is the greatest city on Earth, and if you have a problem with that statement you can go stick your face in a box of kitty litter and tell your story to the turds, flapjack.
Now, why would I open with such a hostile paragraph? Cannabis withdrawal, probably. Been sober for over nine months. Don't miss the booze at all, but I'd give a loud, sloppy rimjob to a homeless guy with dysentery in Macy's window on Christmas Eve for a thumb-sized chunk of Moroccan hash right now.
OK, I think I may need to retract that last statement...as soon as I'm finished hurling.
Anyway, for some reason, I left Amsterdam. Maybe I was bored with the wide selection of reasonably priced marijuana. Maybe I had porked my way through every hooker on Oudezijds Voorburghwal and couldn't wait for the day shift to arrive. Maybe I have a hole in my head the size of Jennifer Tilly's snatch and never know when to leave well enough alone. But, for what ever reason, I caught a bus to Paris.
No matter where I go on this planet, I find that people who ride busses all share the same qualities - they all have a chronic aversion to the basic principles of personal hygiene, they've all fallen victim to the ravages of gum disease, and they all want to tell their horrifying life stories to me. The time I spent on that bus to Paris felt like a prison sentence, and after eight and a half hours of Youseff's creepy, hide-the-sausage-in-the-rectory alter boy tales, I was ready to dig out my eardrums with an ice pick. Somehow the smell of his ass, pits and rotting teeth were not as nauseating as his narrative.
I jumped off the bus at the first stop that had the word Paris in it. Unfortunately, the sign said North Paris and as I watched the bus drive away I realized that I was still very far from anything that a foreigner like myself would consider to be "Paris" and I had a long walk ahead of me. I also realized that I was starving, it was 5am, nothing was open, and I had forgotten to change some of my Dutch guilders into French francs.
So, I sat down on the curb and pouted, realizing that for at least the next three hours I was going to be cold and hungry and completely fucked. Then I heard a small, female voice with a thick, Australian accent say, "What're ya doin' just sittin' there?"
She was probably 4'10", had scraggly blonde hair, wore kind of hippyish clothes, and carried a backpack that appeared to be twice her size and body weight. She looked both delicate and fierce.
I started to explain my situation but before I could get to Youseff's revolting Smell-o-Vision yarns, she was walking away, motioning for me to follow her. Where the hell is she going? Why should I follow her? How can she walk so fast with that humongous backpack strapped to her tiny carcass?
Just as I was about to tell her to go screw, she turned into a narrow alley that had, to my great surprise, a coffee shop that was open. I quickly told her that I didn't have any francs and she told me to shut up and sit down, which I did. Then she bought me some orange juice and a croissant and a cup of coffee.
Her name was Chloe and she had taken the summer off from her office job in Australia to walk from Lisbon to Rome.
"By way of Paris?" I asked.
"Well, I wanted to see Paris too."
I urge you to google a map of Europe and take a look at how far this woman was planning to walk that summer. So, she and I sat at an outdoor table in that tiny alley that was wedged between the winding, spider's web of streets in North Paris and we drank coffee and talked about travel and music and God for...I don't know how long.
Then she got up and left, and that was it.
It was her innate thoughtfulness and love of freedom that I will never forget.
I watched her walk away with that ridiculous backpack, watched her continue her walk to Rome, and I remember thinking that she was the kind of person I wanted to be.
Life is short. Go for a walk.
Copyright 2008 John Bizarre
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