European Expectations
I’ll leave the office on a Friday night and take a car to the airport. I’ll have packed the week prior, and everything will be in place — notebook, headphones, camera, backpack, bandanas. I’ll go with a lover if I have one, or I’ll find someone along my way.
The flight from L.A. to Paris will be long. I’ll sleep most of the way, because God lets me sleep real easy on planes. I’ll wake up as I fly over the ocean and decide to write about how eyes are waves. I’ll be glad that I waited to take this trip.
When l land, I’ll have forgotten the French that I learned when I was 20. I’ll carry a pocket translator and read it every morning over coffee. I’ll see lights, take a nap on the grass, and eat a snail. I’ll go to the Eiffel Tower and pose for my lover as he takes a picture of me in a purple shirt — one that I’ll purposely buy for my trip. I’ll squint and try not to think about how I’ll look like my old lover who wore a purple shirt and posed for me.
“How would you like to kiss me here?”
I’ll then take a train from Paris to Amsterdam. Through the window, I’ll take pictures of whatever is out there. I’ll see my reflection and love the blur. I’ll probably sleep for an hour, but I’ll hate myself for it.
In Amsterdam, everything will glow green. I’ll smoke and do my life’s best work. There will be naked girls, loud noises, and plenty of kisses. I won’t sleep at all, and when it’s over, I’ll be delirious, wonky, and human enough to write the following below that picture of me in my purple shirt:
“I finally made it — sorry I missed you.”
