European Interlude III
Fleeing the rain and coked-out models of Milan, LT Demolition and I venture north, intent on conquering the Alps en route to Zurich to join the soccer madness of Euro 2008. What Hannibal crossed with war-elephants, and Napoleon trekked through on a white steed, we stake our historical claim in a …
Grey Opel?
Oh irony, with your bitter face-spit. Did the rent-a-car place really have to give us the most popular vehicle of Iraqis, the nigh-daily VB-IED threat as reported by the intel geeks of Fortuna?
Fine. Pop in Queen’s Greatest Hits and let’s roll.
A postcard’s rugged beauty. Everywhere. Mountains crashing up out of the valleys like god-towers, rivers falling off the hills like feral waterslides. Where am I? A Green Party political ad? Switzerland is like Lake Tahoe on steroids, without the testicle shrinkage. And sans baseball career.
Hit the summit, and try not to be killed by all the speeding Formula 1 Darios on the winding spiral down.
Civilization. Stick with the SOP. Lodging. Food. Booze. Not necessarily in that order.
What time is it? Who cares? We’ve shed our watches, embracing the time-free existence. The only thing scheduled is nothing. We’ll meet that timehack.
Join the Italian rioters in the streets. Jubilation. A continent too tired for war and too haughty for idealism, instead bonging soccer jingoism in levels that would make Rupert Murdoch blush.
Party on. Sing sing sing, sway sway sway. And sure, why the hell not? Let’s do another round.
Why yes, even the Polizia are joining in the madness. They may not have guns, but they’re sporting some awesome reflective vests. Very authorityish. And no, I did not notice that Swiss girl with doe-eyes. Why do you ask, are you in need of a utility knife? I’m engaged, and in love! But I’m still the world’s greatest wingman – lead the way Maverick, Goose follows. Viva Italia!
Bright lights, white noise and puzzle-piece memories.
Wake up, overhung, unsure what country we’re in now. Gah. Damn it. I forgot to take my shoes off again.
Sniff the shirt. Ehh. It’ll do for another day. Laundry can wait.
Coffee. NOW.
How many days now until … ?
Uhh. Don’t think about it. Spare yourself the depression, and bask in the break. Everyone says you need it.
It lingers though. Like the feel of spider-legs creeping against skin, long after the insect has been smashed.
Back to the Opel.
When we stop for snackage, let’s try and not speak Arabic this time. The overly-friendly Euros start to freak out. Arabic to the Italians, Italian to the French, German to the Swiss… wait … what do the Swiss speak again?
Everything. If everything sounded like Hoefulingburginghamdensteg. Onto Germania!
Lazy days in a University town, reading books, sipping on beers on a river that is too smart to flow. Reminds you of more innocent times, times you know now you’ll never be able to reclaim. Can’t keep up with the kids anymore, be it intellectually, obsequiously, or spontaneously.
I need naps.
My back throbs under the pressure of invisible weights.
And somehow I lost all the answers to a world I swore would never break me.
God I miss her.
Here though, in a coincidence that rivals the return of the faux-hawk hairstyle in terms of happenstance, is an American Studies course that reads blogs, one of which being mine, to help foreign students learn English.
Blanket apology to anyone who reads this thing in an attempt to study a language. I’m beyond certain that I’ve had a negative impact on your language development. I. Hate. Grammar. Rules (so(I WILL Br8ke dem for no goode reezen!!!!!!!!!!!!(*)&^!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Too much e.e. cummings as a child, not enough Miss Manners.
LOLerSKATES!!!!!!!!!
Ahem. So being a minor internet celebrity is kind of cool.
One Euro beers in a college dormitory basement is cooler. I still got that foosball touch, you dig? Fratstars don’t die, we just go into hibernation.
More scattered puzzle-pieces swallowed by the metaphorical howling dog of randomness. More late nights. Even later mornings. Turn in the Opel, train rides across Germany, finding old friends and new adventures, wandering castles and biergartens alike. Not necessarily in that order. And then one sun, it was over. Just like The Hollow Men predicted, not with a bang but a whimper.
Maybe it was a throat-clearing cough. Anyways.
Ready or not, back to the Suck.
This is a brilliant piece of writing. I’m going to miss it.
Take care LT G. Long live you and City Girl.
Comment by membrain — June 27, 2008 @ 5:55 am
Queen!!!????? Voluntarily???? Man, it must true, what they say about this younger generation gone to seed. The old days were, indeed, prolly better. Our hats were heavy, but at least we had Hendrix.
Just A Grunt.
U.S. Army 1969-72
Comment by Anonymous — June 27, 2008 @ 7:13 am
“And somehow I lost all the answers to a world I swore would never break me.”
GAWD! I hate when that happens.
Comment by Anonymous — June 28, 2008 @ 6:01 am
Your days as a “minor internet celebrity” ended on a high note. I have not yet read the comments to your last post (113 and counting, it appears), and do not want to read them. Better to stay back here with the next to last, like the boy and girl on the Grecian Urn. Now you’ll always be the joyous boy at the foosball table, engaged to the Perfect Girl.
Times are bad, LT G. But so many people are still good. I smile because of your gifts. All things shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
Comment by dice d — June 29, 2008 @ 9:51 am