Recreation and Procreation

recreation and procreation

As my bus pulled into Nuremburg, excitement slowly crept down my spine. I was in Germany at last. Sure I still had a few hours to go until I reached Munich, but I was in the land of my favorite futbol team, great beer, and arguably the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Sure, there are plenty of pretty girls in the world – I’ve fallen in love with thousands of them, so has most men. There is probably a correlated effect that makes German girls more attractive to me – they live where I want to live.

I boarded my train and headed to the dining car. I knew eating was probably the smartest thing to do, despite the cost, as I’d be pulling into Munich near midnight. So I ordered the only thing that looked palatable; stuffed chicken with a side of steamed zucchini – stuffed with what is a question I may never know. Thankfully I was able to secure a ten year repayment plan with only a five-percent annual interest rate to cover dinner, no interest that first year of course.

As our train pulled into Munich I had remembered to turn my phone. I knew I’d have no signal in Austria and Prague, but I have T-Mobile – and they’re a German telecommunications company. Checking my phone’s settings to hopefully prevent myself from acquiring another mortgage-ladened bill, I held my breath and disabled airplane mode.

Three seconds went by, and then, signal. Only a moment had passed from me seeing signal in the display and my brain registering that it connected to something that I got a system-message from T-Mobile. Welcoming me to Germany, T-Mobile wanted to inform me that with my plan I would be allowed unlimited text-messages, .20-cent a minute phone calls back to the States, and unlimited low-speed data. Low-speed indeed, everything took noticeably long to load, but it was good enough. Hello civilization, hello connectivity my old friend.

Walking out of Munich Central, I crossed the street and headed to my hotel. It was nearby thankfully as I didn’t want to be crossing the city, either on foot or in taxi, in the middle of the night. Deep in conversation, or standing around in-between coming and going, people of all types were still out and about – and most importantly a Kabap shop was still open. So it goes, though my digestive track was probably thankful it wasn’t about to receive more of that delicious, meaty, sandwich-thing.

I had been walking for possibly five minutes before realizing I should have reached the hotel by now. Stopping in an almost empty street with questionable lighting, I pulled out my phone. The overly eager navigator didn’t get his bearings right before leaving the station and had headed almost three blocks in the wrong direction.

Careful, Mehdi. Subconsciously you may want to get yourself stuck here, but that would be a very unwise – and illegal – thing to do. The wiser part of my conscious was chirping up, wanting to voice what I already knew – thank you very much.

Ten minutes and a course correction later, I stepped into the lobby of my hotel. I was able to still check in, and I found myself up three floors up in a room no bigger than my parent’s bathroom. Still, there was a bed. An actual bed with pillows and blankets. I opened the bathroom and was grateful to see a clean and oversized shower. I half-hoped to see a bathtub, as I’ve been dying to sit in a tub for a week now, but after the long hot day and distance travelled, any hot running water poured over me would be gratefully received.

After quickly unpacking the essentials, I headed to the bathroom, but stopped short to turn on the television.

Three things about what made this a very odd choice:

  1. I really don’t watch television in the States, I find it a monumental waste of time.
  2. I was in Germany, this was a German hotel room, the programming was almost guaranteed to be in German.
  3. It was now past midnight. What could I hope to expect to be on? The German version of QVC? Or was I about to get German reruns of Friends? The latter wouldn’t be a bad thing, though I really don’t know enough of Friends to be able to reminisce past the language barrier. Don’t get angry, see point 1.

So I was a bit shocked that the first thing that came on was the last thing I’d expect to see. The woman’s World Cup was playing – and more oddly coincidental – the United States was just about to start to face off against Germany. The men’s national team had just won the last World Cup in a historically crushing domination over Brazil, one of the world’s greatest futbol teams, so having this to watch the night before my big day in Germany was just icing on the cake.

A quick shower later I was in bed watching the match. While I watched a lot of it, sleep ended up being the unexpected victor of that match. Only a short time later I perked back up to use the restroom and saw that the USA women’s team clinched the win 2-0, and would be moving on. As an American I was happy to see one of our teams keep going, as a German at heart – next time.

The Munich morning came quickly, not because of any alarm, but because of my eastern facing room and the lack of any airflow to keep it cool. As soon as that sun broke over the horizon my room slowly rose in temperature until it was unbearable to remain unconscious. So I packed up and headed down for some breakfast, then finally to the lobby to check out.

Much to my luck the office was willing to hang onto my bag until my train would depart so I didn’t have to lug it around the entire day. This ended up being a godsent as the temperature in Europe had continually gotten warmer since I left Vienna, and I was expecting Munich to be a little hotter than Prague. So I took a map, set my watch up, and headed to the center of Munich. For anyone wondering, Munich has a lot to see. It was the host of the winter Olympics a few decades ago. There are some excellent museums, including some very important historical collections of German culture.

I didn’t have a set plan. I didn’t have a list of to-do items. After Prague I figured I would just find where my feet would go, and follow them to the end of the line. The first stop was a church, which isn’t something I would see of my own choosing, but my mom would have appreciated it, and so I thought I’d be her eyes this trip and hopefully take enough pictures to convince her she’ll have to make the trip sometime.

The interior was similar to Vienna’s Saint Stephens Church, but not as opulent as Melk, and certainly different than anything I saw in Prague. As I left the church I decided I would listen to some music for some part of the day. I had some playlists and saved albums ready to go in offline mode, Clearance Clearwater Revival, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones. Though I wanted something else. Something different. Something I didn’t expect. I turned to my private playlist.

I have a playlist of tracks unlike the plethora of playlists I’ve assembled over the years, it contains songs that I think are important to my life. One of the main purposes of it’s existence is to be able to use as triggers to revisit a memory or a moment. To relive lost love. To reignite joy. To taste the days past and sip on delight and disappointment mixed into one. I believe there are over 900 tracks on that playlist so far, and that isn’t even my biggest playlist, it should just say something about the collection I’ve cultivated in that playlist.

As I put in my earbuds the background of Munich faded away. I pressed shuffle, and let the universe take care of the rest. When it comes to music, especially music I’ve heard before, I can usually identify an artist, band, or track, within the first few seconds of the track. What came on first was unrecognizable, and then the lyrics kicked in.

All the pretty girls like Samuel,
oh he really doesn’t share.
Though it’s more than he can handle,
life is anything but fair…
life is anything but fair.

I stopped just before leaving the church. A feeling like cold water spread from my shoulders to my fingers, my knees to my toes. I closed my eyes as the first chorus ended and stepped out into the sunlight.

All alone, alone again.
No one lends a helping hand.
I have waited, I have waited.

The blur of the people and colors of Munich sped by me as I walked closer and closer to the city center. Time and again a face of a pretty girl would stand out of the crowd. Most with hair that fell down to, or past, their shoulders. some wearing a summer dress and others wearing shorts. All just passing me by. By this point I had set the song to repeat. Something more than the lyrics and more than the melody had me wanting it to keep playing. Something in me wanted more from this song that the last measure wasn’t giving me. Something in me wanted to believe going over it time and again would somehow change the ending. Funny how we do that.

Takes a toll, one’s foolish pride,
how long before I see the light?
I have waited, I have waited,
for you to lay me down.

I made it to the Rotthouse, which I believe is the city office, or government building. I was able to go inside and take pictures, though I couldn’t give you any particular reason why. I headed back into the city center, and a few turns later found myself going the general direction of a group of people, young and old, into what I soon discovered was the Bolivian Palace. I decided to tour the whole thing – I had time to kill and thoughts to walk alone with.

Sail on by, sail on by for now.
They play naked in the water.
You know it’s hard, heaven knows I’ve tried.
But it keeps getting harder.

The first was the treasury, a collection of important artifacts from Austria and Germany. Several of which supposedly housed fragments of the actual Cross of Jesus Christ. How this was confirmed or authenticated is probably more bothersome to worry about than the thought was worth. Rooms of crosses made of gold and precious jewels were all around. Historically I knew that these items were assembled and forged for good reason, to be used as part of the ceremonies of worship. Though I always thought it was a bit odd to celebrate and worship a God who made man and all things with items made of materials deemed only valuable to men. By this point the song had been repeating over a dozen times.

So won’t you lay me, won’t you lay me down.
Won’t you lay me, won’t you lay me down.

I started touring the residence part of the palace. I underestimated the size of this place. Room after room opened to magnificently high ceilings embroidered in gold and stitched designs, many were scarlet or deep hues of blue. While the audio narration never explicitly said it, subtle hints of rooms having to be reconstructed, or being lost, had me realize that the place was a target by allied forces during World War II. Shame. Shame that we so often have to resort to violence, shame that we use violence as our primary means to combat evil.

I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll wait for you.
I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll wait for you.

Time passed in an indefinable rate. Thankfully I didn’t get lost in the palace, though there were times I felt my fate was doomed to those endless halls of people with silly looking wigs. One thing was for certain, if those portraits were in any way accurate, then most of European royalty were extremely deficient in vitamin D. Maybe that was a contributing factor to the way they ruled, and how history remembered them.

I made it out of the residence and proceeded to grind through the opera house, but after three wrong turns I gave up. Two out of three isn’t bad, after all it gives me a reason to come back and finish the tour. My stomach was now hungrier than my eyes were for Munich. I wanted to eat somewhere memorable, so to do that I headed to Starbucks.

With a little extra boost from the quickness of wifi, I was able to find out that ten minutes down the road was a fairly popular and wellknown beerhouse. Not yet having an actual German beer in Germany, my pace quickened at the thought of being served a drink in a stein. How do I describe Hofbraeuhaus? The huge tables covered almost all the floor room making it hard to navigate. Locals and tourists was indistinguishable in overhearing their conversations due to the sheer number of conversations taking place. And the beer. Massive oversized mugs of frothy beer was being poured out and placed in front of everybody, at every table. The beer wasn’t the only thing frothing at this point.

I worked my way around the room trying to find an open table. Dishes of meat and potatoes were in states of devourment all around me. A lady in what was probably traditional German clothing was carrying around a basket full of freshly baked breads and oversized fresh pretzels. I panicked at the thought of not getting to get one of those pretzels and I’m pretty confident I never was a fan of pretzels.

Finally I found a table, but as I got settled I was told to leave as it was reserved. As if I could read German. Right. So I moved one table over to my right, just as another family was coming down the aisle, no doubt hoping to make the land grab before I claim jumped. As the table could easily fit ten Europeans, or four Americans, I told them they could stay as I had no one else joining me. Much to my surprise and delightment, they spoke english! Not half english, not mixed english, good old American english.

The family of three was from Eastern Washington! Pacific natives! Best of all, Mom could read and speak German fairly well, so I didn’t have to fight Google Translator to make sure I didn’t get gizzards and grease for dinner. The three of us started to talking about Germany and about life. They had just picked their daughter up from Florence, as she was studying abroad there for the last six weeks – her major was Accounting – go figure. Mom and Dad both met in Germany, where they were stationed for the military – Army, I believe. Furthermore, it was a celebration of sorts as Dad has just retired from the Army Corps of Engineers.

He showed me a picture of their bikes, both choppers, or Harley’s, I’m not one for names honestly. I then showed them a picture of mine, and then of course, I showed them my arm. Mom was a lot like my Mom, as she was sharp witted, intuitive, and didn’t sharp away from the fact that I am quite hazard prone. When it came to for food, Mom helped me place an order for half a roast chicken, one of those massive pretzels, and a liter of the house original beer.

Then the attention turned to me, and why I’m in Europe. I have no reason to lie to people. While I have my own set of ghosts that haunt me, I’m not afraid to share about what keeps me up at night. While I mainly addressed Mom, I shared it with the three of them.

“I’m having a quarter-life crisis, a lot has happened this past year and last minute I decided that I’d visit my family in Europe – but then take off to find out what Europe is like, maybe along the way I might find myself.”

I talked about work, and I talked about what might come next. I told them I wasn’t sure about the direction the ship is sailing and was thinking about changing course, head up to Oregon or Washington. Somewhere a little cooler, somewhere a little greener. We talked about Triathlon, I talked about how I got into racing, about Ironman, about the accident. I shared with them the cold hard truth, that I might not be able to race again – but most importantly, what once drove me is no longer there. Maybe it was the accident, I think it was more about enlightenment. Triathlon is fun, I love it, I love to see the extent my body can endure.

While I didn’t mention this, I certainly did think about it while carrying on a different conversation. Triathlon is very different than being a bodybuilder or weightlifter. Not to insult anyone specifically, but I consider those people to be the most superficial people alive. There is truly no reason to ‘hulk out’ like they do – and the fact there is competitions for these people is something I find even more deplorable. Triathlon is nothing like that. Triathlon is a race. It is to see how far you can go and how much you can endure, while mastering three disciplines, and competing against the clock and your peers. Where bodybuilding is about discipline and routine, protein eating and moving heavy things, triathlon is almost all mental.

Your body will want you to quit. Your body will tell you enough is enough, and that there is no possible way it can run another mile. That it can’t handle one more hill on the bike. You aren’t listening to your iPod and texting on your phone. You are sweating and pushing and trying to stay up right while eating and drinking on the go. You become a machine with the only purpose of pushing from the starting line to the finish line.

My inner monologue ended and I came back to reality. I explained to them that sometime before the accident it had occurred to me that while I loved Triathlon I was using it as a means to an end, I was using it as a supplement for purpose in my life. The enlightenment that came before my accident was simple: there has to be more to life, my life, than just recreation.

I told them I was at a crossroad not just in my life, but with who I am and what I will end up becoming. That I’m at the intersection between creativity and storytelling, working with people and empathizing with others, and turning everything over to become a programmer, or something to do with software development. I tried to explain how I’m both very logical and at the same time have strong desires to be expressive and creative. My imagination needs as much exercise time as does my cognitive thinking muscles need tough work to chew on.

I told them I was worried I wasn’t going to find that thing out, and I told them I wasn’t sure if I would ever find my life working out.

So I explained about how I’m writing about all of this and am taking notes during the day while staying up half the night writing – if I’m at all able to and depending on the location I end up at in the evenings.

I told them that someone once told me, whether out of scorn or seriousness, that I should write a book. And so I have been playing with the thought of being a writer, and seeing if I can write – let alone write things worth reading. To either make up or discover stories that entertain and draw wonder, or spur feelings of sorrow and joy. I was using this time to write, if not for the dream, than for myself, so my words would have a medium not in the obscure, but in reality – on something almost tangible, so one day I may be able to look back, if I ever do, and reread about that one time I stepped onto a plane and out onto an adventure.

I’m holding out on what I think about talking to strangers, or similarly, opening up to people in a way that allows them to see me for the humanity I have, and not just the person before them.

They wanted to follow me along my journey, so I typed my contact information and website address into Dad’s phone. I’m not quite sure it will be visited, but I’ll wonder anyways.

After we had finished eating a traditional German folk band had started to setup in the restaurant, so we ordered another round. Before anyone was able to say anything I had picked up the bill for the drinks. It was the least I could do for the company I was given – and the stories they shared. That second round of drinks led to a drink discovery that up until then I didn’t know existed. It’s a type of German drink that is one part German beer, two parts of what was basically Sprite. To say it was delicious and refreshing would be only too literal – not nearly verbose enough.

It was as if Dyonisis herself had decided to make a drink that wasn’t wine, but wasn’t completely beer. One part sunshine, the other part eternally cold glacial water and magic, this drink of drinks was dangerously delectable. I could drink this all day long – some probably already do.

That’s when they told me the sad truth of the current state of beer in the world. This particular beer – as well as others of similar German ancestry – aren’t allowed to be shipped to the United States. My heart broke a little, but all in all it was probably for good reason. Drinking is a huge turn off for me, which is weird because it’s so socially accepted. I didn’t get into this with them, nor would it have been recognizable that deep down the thought of drinking, or being around those who do, makes me very uncomfortable.

By the time I finished that beer I realized two things:

  1. I had just drank two liters of beer in the course of an hour.
  2. I had just drank two liters of beer, which is two liters of beer more than I’ve drank this entire year.

Remarkably I felt fine, albeit a little out of it. I was a little too loose, too unconnected. Maybe this is what it felt like to be a red balloon with one end tied down. Liberated but not too yet too far from the surface of normality. We finished up and then decided to head on out. At that moment I wasn’t quite sure if we were going separate ways, I had enjoyed myself with them and found their company easy and comforting. I had started to make the pass on leaving, but thankfully was asked if I wanted to stick it out with them for a while longer.

I saw enough of Munich, or Munchen – as I was now informed was the proper way to pronounce the city, for one trip. There was plenty more to see and do, but I decided that if I was ever able to come back I wanted a running list of things I’d like to finish seeing. Besides, it’s not just about the setting that makes the stories, but the characters in them.

The center of Munchen was a lot like Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles, or Fashion Island in the Costa Mesa area. It’s the best way for me to describe it. Shop after shop of high end fashion and designer goods. I would never have guessed Munchen was going to be like this. Somehow I imagined it to be like Prague, with architecture styles more like Vienna than Russia. Shop after shop passed by us until something caught the eyes of two of our party – I’ll let you guess which two. Insisting on not joining them, Dad and I set off to find a beer.

At the end of the strip was an outside dining area with several people seated at some of the tables enjoying drinks and food. Being a prime spot to look out for our estranged group members we sat down and waited to see about any service. I held my breath secretly hoping that there wasn’t going to be any more drinks. I was as good as I was going to get in terms of drinks, and anything additional right now was most certainly going to have a huge diminishing return to my overall alcoholic-induced happiness. While it may have been a bit of a disappointment for Dad, I secretly celebrated when the waiter told me they were done for the night.

So what do two men do, drinks or no drinks, when left on their own? We talked about life and politics. We talked about the upcoming election, we talked about the recent victories for equality and civil rights in America. We also talked about the progression of legal pot in the United States. Dad was a conservative by choice and had some different views about pot legislation. Though it was those differences that made me consider a viewpoint that I had not yet seen or was exposed to: the growing tension between the US and Canada.

As Dad explained, some producers of weed in the US are now trafficking it to Canada in a manner similar to how the drug problems started in the US from Mexico. Further legalization will make weed more accessible by Canadians and would irritate one of our greatest allies. The next election will either end legal pot, or will harm Canadian-US relations. I don’t know about that slippery slope, but it was an opinion that I had not considered, and in a way was insightful as I probably wouldn’t have come to those conclusions on my own.

Before we could break into another topic our party was whole again and we started to make our way out of the city central and back towards the station. My train wasn’t for a couple more hours, but it seemed our day was coming to an end – they were tired and I needed to get ready for my next destination. We came to our crossroad, and much to my surprise I was hugged more than I had my hand shaked. It was a warm and safe feeling. I still firmly believe that Mom and my Mom would make great friends. I think that’s something you can pick up on between adults when you think about your own parents, or maybe I just know my mom and what kind of people she’d most like to associate with.

Either way, as I turned to leave and they changed direction and headed to their own hotel, part of me was going to miss the conversations we were having and the potential for many more. That’s the thing about being a writer, or wanting to be one. We spend a lot of time in our own heads, me especially, and this can be dangerous.

When you become so used to talking to yourself, rehearsing every line you might want to write, observing something you my want to journal, a part of yourself begins to atrophy. The part of yourself that only real people and real conversations can strengthen within you. You start to lose that thing that makes you personable and relatable because nothing people do, or say, will ever be as perfect as the words you’re trying to put on paper.

So having those brief moments of polite interruption to put a pause on my constant ruminations was nice, if not for the peace of mind that something new can bring, then the stories I can later transcribe to paper.

Looking to my watch I saw that we still had some time to go before leaving, and it so happened to also be beer-o-clock. Now, as I mentioned, I didn’t come here to get loaded and forget to do anything. The truth was that I planned to make one specific stop for beer – and that was at this beer garden that was less than 200 meters from my hotel, and across the street from the station.

What made this specific place so special was the fact that they still brewed beer in 250 liter casks, and served directly from them as well. This beer was regarded as one of the best in the city, and I couldn’t quite pass on such an awesome opportunity.

What I didn’t realize was how many other people thought this evening was a good idea for a drink. While I was familiar with the term ‘beer-garden’ I wasn’t quite sure I’ve ever actually seen one. That said, as I made my way into the beer-garden I was blown away to see people in masses seated at every table as far as the eye can see. Men and women were running around with trays of food and massive mugs full of beer.

My host walked me to a seat and had us pass right by where they had a cask tapped to pour from. Rivers of frothy cold golden delight flowed from the tap into several mugs below. I wasn’t even thirsty yet I managed to start salivating like a starved dog.

I was seated at a communal table – as I guessed most of these were – next to two couples and a third gentleman. The two couples were in deep conversation with each other, the third gentleman smiled at me and began to look over the menu. The host explained, at first in German, and then English, that someone would be by soon. He called me San Francisco, and said he’d see me later.

This drew the attention of the three parties, and I had to explain I was visiting from California. We chatted a bit about Germany and German beer. I was mocked a bit when our server came by and almost completely dismissed me and my questions. I didn’t get a drink at first, mainly do to neglect, which was amusing to one of the gentlemen of the two couples. He said that I was in luck, and that she actually provided me with one of those low calorie, low fat, speciality German beers.

I mimed myself holding up a big mug and drinking from it, and then I told everyone at the table that if Germany would just export beer like this to the US that I’d be sure we wouldn’t have such a large obese epidemic on our hands. That self-depreciating humor was just enough to show that I was gracious about my surroundings and my company. I had earned their respect.

For the most part the two couples conversed mainly with their partners, so I was left to speak with the gentleman on my right. He was tall, how tall I wasn’t sure, but had a face not too much older than mine, dark brown hair neatly cut and styled, and was clean shaven. We got to talking and I found out he was in town for work. He worked in the water pipe industry, I believe, and was overseeing the start of a project. He would have to go home tomorrow for a bit but would be back to Munchen with a coworker to continue the work that he had started.

We talked about Munchen and where he lived. He explained that Munchen was a very wonderful place admired both by tourists but Germans as well. That people here, life here, just feels a bit easier. People aren’t so serious, and that’s why you see people – even workers – having a beer break in the middle of the day. It was something we both admired about the city, for him maybe the drinking, but for me the pace of life. We had talked about the weather, as it was approaching 22:00 and the sky still had light in it. This was unusual to my standards as I don’t think we’ve ever had that much sun in California at any point of the year. He said that it was typical of most summers to have long days, but the winters were equally as long – and much colder. Interesting tradeoffs.

In the course of all of this I had finally got served my third beer of the day, and by my lack of understanding the language, it ended up being a dark brew. My initial reaction was disappointment, but after a few sips, I found it was unlike any dark brew I’ve had in the US. It was pleasant and mild, something I could actually drink. Best of all, a giant pretzel arrived not shortly thereafter. Sometime later our food came – we basically had what the other couples were having and weren’t displeased with our choices.

When my new friend had to excuse himself to use the restroom I took the opportunity to pick up the check for both of us. The conversation alone was worth the cost. Upon coming back he wanted to to do a Jagermeister chaser, and I told him that we had that in the States and I wasn’t a big fan. Anything that tastes like black licorice should be vilified. So instead he ordered us something called Williams, and as soon as he mentioned it aids the digestion I realized it was a digestif. I had explained that I’m familiar with them, and we had a very famous one back in San Francisco that everyone drank called Fernet Branca. He was familiar with this one and enjoyed it equally as much as I did. Shame they didn’t serve it, I actually could have gone for a small pour.

When we finished our drinks he indicated to the server to bring a check, which she did, but the items on the check were only for our two pours of Williams. A look of befuddlement crossed his face at the moment I could only guess was him asking the server why. When she explained his face softened to surprise. He told me he wanted to pay me back, and I politely refused. I explained that the company and the conversation was easily worth a meal to me, and if he wanted to he could pay it forward to the next person who was great company.

It was almost time to catch my train, I had maybe thirty minutes left before I had to be across the street with my bag. My new friend asked if I liked German girls, and I told him I would have to be blind to not – I loved German girls. He wanted to see if I could reschedule my train for tomorrow morning so I could go out with him tonight on the town. He wanted to help me find a German girl. His hotel wasn’t too far away and we could crash there tonight after going out. I loved this idea, I really loved this idea.

It just wasn’t for me. That life wasn’t for me. Or was it? Is there not more to my life than just recreation and procreation? Unknowingly he stepped up to my great dilemma and asked me to cross the threshold in ignorance and defiance. I am, for better or worse, quick on my feet and good at improvising. I had to explain that my train was an overnight sleeper and I had a tour already setup for Amsterdam in the morning as I was only there for a day before heading to Paris. Staying, as much fun as it sounded, would end up putting off my entire planned trip. Half-truths, of course.

There was a little bit of defeat in his voice as he realized he’d be flying solo, and maybe also the fact that he would remain indefinitely indebted to my small act of generosity. We said goodbye to the last remaining couple, I told them to have fun when they decide to eventually make their way to Los Vegas, and we headed to the street.

There was a strip of taxis at the foot of the pathway, and I knew this is where this journey ended. He asked me one more time if I could join him, and I once more had to politely decline – also because my train was going to leave in 15 minutes. It was then that we realized we had never been properly introduced. We shook hands to say hello and goodbye, and I waved him off as he got into his taxi to chase the ever so beautiful girls of Munchen. All the pretty girls that I could never have, all the pretty girls that I don’t actually want.

It’s not that I wouldn’t if I could, it’s that it would never satisfy what I really want. It could never replace what was lost, and it certainly could never fit itself in me as the missing piece I hope to one day find.

I went into autopilot, retrieved my pack, and boarded the train. My first class sleeper room was waiting, it was wonderful and lonely. Like the majority of this trip, there was so much to see and do, but this was a solo flight – and sometimes it’s hard to fly alone.

As the train pulled out of Munchen I looked out onto the city that I had so easily fallen in love with. Like all the pretty girls, I’ll leave this city to my new friend. After all, there has to be more to this life than recreation and procreation – isn’t there?

I hope so.

Song On My Mind:

Kaleo – All The Pretty Girls

and on Spotify:

2018-06-24T18:21:11+00:00

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