Paris

Every year, 650 people in Paris are hospitalized after slipping on dog shit.

 

That may or may not be the most interesting revelation I can share about Europe. I'm still unsure because I lost my little of notebook of revelations -- things I write down during my days, like "Day 4, Paris, why are there so many Goddamned McDonalds around here" and "Day 19, Hasselt, asked restaurant to serve me a 'regional specialty' for dessert; got two scoops of vanilla ice cream."

 

Without my little notebook, how can I shed some light for you on this mysterious little country they call Europe, the dark, mysterious place most of the world has never heard of? I'll have to resort to using my own memory, I suppose.

 

I'd love to tell you what you want to hear: The food is spectacular. The air is filled with romance. Paris makes baguettes to die for. Every church is at least 7,000 years old. And everyone who isn't zipping around on a Vespa drives a 1975 Citroen D Super. Well other than the baguette part, it's all bullshit.

 

 If anything could actually come close to confirming the pretty little Europe cliches in the world´s collective conscious, it would be my first night in Paris. After hauling my backpack to my friend's apartment in Maraichers, we sat in the small living room -- gloriously devoid of a TV set -- and spent hours, not minutes, eating dinner: baguettes with cheese. We drank red wine. We talked about all sorts of things, although -- I kid you not -- the dominant sound in the room was that of a neighbor outside the window playing Klezmer music on an accordion. And as that faded away and we went to sleep, the only remaining sound was that of pigeons outside fucking. Ah, the city of romance.

 

A delightful way to start my trip it was indeed, though it was followed by bitter mood swings. Matterhorn-like highs and Dead Sea-like lows, the lows making more of a lasting impression. What the fuck am I doing wandering around the planet's most expensive continent like a lost dog? Am I right in noticing that every city is exactly the same, an old church anchoring an old-town square lined with cafes and snooty, big-sunglass-wearing clientele sipping cappuchinos? Am I the only person no longer impressed by cobblestone streets? I've noticed that everyone you go, coffees and cafe lattes and such always come with a little cookie for free. Big fucking deal. And if I see another H&M store today, I just might slit my own throat.

 

Time for a change of pace, maybe? Step one, stop going to big cities. Step two, get over the fact that Amsterdam seemed like Heaven for my first 24 hours there, followed by being oppressively hellatious and miserable thereafter. Step two, hop into a Volvo with three Swedish guys on an 8-day road trip through Europe.

 

The Swedes: Rich the planner, Sebastian the stoner, and Jasper, who amazingly lives on a steady diet of cigarettes, cola, candy bars and the occasional slice of pizza.

 

The car: An '80s-era Volvo station wagon, hand- (er, haphazardly-) painted with psychedelic flames, and aptly nicknamed "Strictly Business."

 

The adventure: I could write a novel about the madness that ensued during our 8-day, 7-country spree, but I won't.

 

Briefly, we started in Mesnil sous les Cotes, a little French town with a population of 100 -- the perfect antithesis of Amsterdam. We stayed with Benjamin, possibly the most perfectly stereotypical crazy French man, oozing so much charisma he could bottle and sell it.

 

We continued onward. France, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Sweden. The highlight

 for me would have to be bathing in Lake Geneva rather than showering. Either that or realizing that someone had siphoned all the gas out of the car's tank one night.

 

I am in Sweden, right this second typing what will be the final paragraph of the email you are reading. One thing  about Swedish people I can confirm: Yes, they are HOT.