Europia: Take One.

Apologies for the scandalous delay on the visual.
In sincere hopes of making up, here is a plethora for all eyes interested...

The first supper, London.




Riding the bus, London.


Petite cafe, London.


Wandering through back alleys, London.


Big Ben et al., London.




Graffiti, London.


For Luke, London.


Bird bath, London.


Night on the street, Brussels.


To ease ourselves through said night, Brussels. Wine and cribbage with faux-Drewber and fakey-Creme (two Californian boys).


Hostel snapshot, Amsterdam.


Feet, Amsterdam.


For Les, Amsterdam.



Maxing outside in the sunlight, Amsterdam.


Bicycles by the fazillion, Amsterdam.


Waterside wine sipping, Amsterdam.





A stolen cigarette, Amsterdam.


City by night, Amsterdam.


Red Light District, Amsterdam.


First Dior sighting, Amsterdam. Starry eyes.


Channeling elegance, Amsterdam.


Anne Frank's house, Amsterdam.


Keeping ourselves amused a la train, Amsterdam to Berlin.





Debaucherous night out with the Australians, Berlin.






Cafe whores, Berlin.




Mirror antics, Prague.




Waiting for the bus, Prague.





Solo time, Vienna.


Being idiots, Vienna.


Madge loves her wurst, Vienna.


Hofburg Palace, Vienna. Wee Meg being flanked by one hell of a lion.


Hofburg Palace, Vienna.


Cafe perching, Vienna.


No words can quite explain what was going on during these hours. Insert imagination here. Vienna.






Beautifying, Vienna.


Playing dress-up before embarking on the longest night train in all the universe.


Meg had an admirer...


Kit loves dogs. More than maybe life itself.


Cafe, Brussels.


Cheaper-than-water wine. We are classy girls, oui?! Brussels.





PARIS, JE T'AIME!!!


My arch-enemies, Paris.


Tipping the Eiffel Tower, Paris.





Louis Vuitton sighting, Paris. We were literally losing our minds with glee.

I got robbed. Sob.

Some low-life Spaniard lifted precious articles from my purse on the metro last night.
What a snake.
Last night, I dreamed of punching and kicking and shredding and maiming this faceless, nameless culprit with all my bodily strength.
After a night of pulverizing via dreams, and a tearful conversation avec my maman, I feel far better.
x.

La plage dans mon coeur:

Dear Barcelona is treating us, thus far, like queens afresh. This is a city that embraces you like an old, old friend or perhaps an eager child...I do believe it likes us. Warmth prevails...and my intention is to savour every second of flowered light, as there are a mere few days remaining before I am back in the presence of snow and wind and ice. Current blessings: COUNTED and cherished.
Yesterday afternoon, we followed our pulsating hearts towards water...and found ourselves in a heaven of sorts. The lanky expanse of beach became our own personal Eden for a blissfully contented few hours. Upon lighting feet on sand, we ripped boots and socks from our feet (mine, at this point, looking like emaciated bird claws--backpacking is murder on les pieds), hiked our jeans sky-high, and ran with ash-pale legs over the cool stretch of beach. There was, admittedly, a fair share of shrieking involved. The Mediterranean Sea is striking--green blue gray black clear, as the light happens to strike, and we took in its liquid loveliness with hungry eyes. We waded and splashed like feverish five-year-olds until our skin was drained of all discernable sensation (it IS December, after all). I cannot remember the last time I played as freely as that, though it was probably when I was fourteen (or sixteen...) years of age and still catching frogs and scaling trees with my brothers. Scandalously late bloomer alert, oui?!
Either way. Laying in the sand, basking like cats, we remained still and exhilerated for a senseless amount of time. It felt right and pure and far too euphoric to be real...yet it was; it was. I was almost afraid to move, to breathe, for fear of it all slipping from my fingers, whisper-thin as a ghost or some all-too-lustrous illusion. Those hours were richer than many and most.
Last night spun itself out as a dreamy finish to the jewel of all days. Kit and I donned our prettiest selves, and set out on foot in hopes of finding Club Bikini. The night air like the softest fingers on our skin, we wandered like waifs until we found ourselves at the threshold of this elusive bar...incidentally, it was an underground cavern; nothing more on the eyes than a grimy parkade from the surface. We glided in, uninhibited by the seeming trifeness, and found ourselves immersed within moments in a lower-level den of goodness. Firstly, the boy manning the door opted to let us in without shedding a single euro each, which was mental. God knows why he decided to throw us such a bone, but Dange and I pounced like starving wolves on the opportunity. And so we moved inwards and downards...weaving down steps, through sleek stone tunnels, and into a scene ablaze. Sensual sound moved through the darkened room like unseen energy, smoke hung like a gauze in the heat-streaked air, throngs of appetizing young Spaniards swayed wildly in dance, and Mos Def flooded the room (which was crammed to the edges, and beyond) with his melting voice and jaw-dropping beauty. Astounding. Us two sipped stiffened cocktails (the Spanish, evidently, fail to mess around when it comes to hard alcohol--one drink=the force of at least three), and feasted our eyes and ears on all that was around us. We left, hours later, as the night dwindled to a close, walking on air; walking ourselves home to bed through the sleeping city streets.
Shall I count the ways this meshed to form my sweetest of days? Au contraire, think I will leave it lingering simply at that.
In my hands, an array of crushed stars.
I'll see you soon...
R.

Our bodies like glass

We have been feeling a little fragile these last couple of days. This lifestyle of movement, of carrying the weight of our lives on our backs, is beginning to take its inevitable toll. I should be falling on my knees in thankfulness that it has eluded us in its fierce entirity until now. For me, it cascaded over my body like bullets or a phantom wind two days ago in the train station Milan. All of a sudden, I felt as if my feet could not take me another step, and every shard of my bodily self seemed as if it might shatter to the dirt-streaked ground. My already large eyes widened with the sheen of tears, and with all that was in me, I wanted to give up. For twenty seconds, I considered it; toyed with the idea like a piece of forbidden fruit; tasted it and tried it on for size. A dingy corner of the station, offering cold cement and a snaking rancid smell, seemed like a logical place to curl up agaist my loathed, now-haggard belongings, and pretend I was a little girl again, in my flower-petaled bedroom, or at least a fox in its den or a hobbit in its hovel. I wavered at the edges of decision...do I break in half, or even into quarters or miniscule tatters here and now, in this dank station, and by doing so, in part break the two extraordinary women at my side...or do I breathe deeply, clutch my heart back into its cavity and press onwards, upwards, forwards. In the end, it was not even a choice. I collected my seeping emotions up off the ground and willed my feet to tread again. In the span of those suspended minutes, I learned at least five. hundred. thousand. intricacies and volumes about myself, and about resiliance in the face of apparent hopelessness. Coming out of a following 12+ hours of precious, dreamless sleep, clarity was somewhat restored, and morale pieced back together. All carries a veiled freshness now...at the very least, I am fresher in myself, and better able to take on the push and pull/come and go of what continues to blossom into our path.
Last night, to name a singular experience...last night was 1000% comprised of tossing and turning. Milan to Barcelona, a la night train, was an ominous challenge. In the disarray that is now my tote bag, I could only extract a solitary earplug in the darkness, so sleep was fitfull and laced with the grating sounds of shudder-worthy snoring. BLEGH. The 14, etc. hr. stretch of (seeming) death was livened further by a French police raid of our train somewhere between the gaping distance of Milan and Barce. A man sleeping a mere few seats away from us was plucked from his slumber, and dragged off the train for reasons my shoddy Italian barred me from understanding. It was un peu mental, and in the throes of my Gravol-induced state of dreaminess, felt like a sliver out of a film or a cutting-ege fairy tale. Strange, oui?
Barcelona's streets have, so far, embraced us with eager arms. Ladybirds and I are feeling relaxed already here. We spent our post-train afternoon slash evening revelling in steaming showers, wandering beneath palm trees, curling up to feast our screen-hungry eyes on mindless movies, and sipping tea and budget red wine. As food has been scarce today, I apologize if my words are senseless...bear in mind, they are empty-stomached and wine-induced.
It is a wonder to think that I will be back in my own sweet apartment in one week less a day...I intend to hug all the clothing in my closet for at least three hours, my roommate for a minimum of four, and fall into sleep for three-five days straight.
I am dying to see you all. Traveling has been a God-send, but at the end of the end of the end of the day, there is, after all, no place like home. And I cannot quite believe that I just quoted 'The Wizard of Oz' in black-and-white, but I am sticking by my words. Snow-laden prairies, I am coming. Palm trees and gleaming sunlight are all very lovely in and of themselves, but I am aching for the naked trees and grayed skies of home right now.
Wednesday, December 5th, 8:34 pm...Northwest Airlines, Minneapolis to Winnipeg--if anybody is interested in an airport reunion. I, for one, shall be there with one fazillion bells on.
Adios pour le moment.
Be happy.
Love life.
See you in a flash.
R.B.

Cut to the bone; quick to the kill--a lot of sequins with an undercurrent of grunge.

Months ago, in the midst of summer, I had a vividly memorable conversation with a friend in the aisles of a grocery store. During that time and space the reality of this trip was still largely unborn, and my doubts and fears were growing with a weed-esque severity. I was shaky; I was unsure; I felt trepidation. The unknown is, perhaps, more daunting than anything we can touch or taste or feel.
And so. He began telling me of his time spent in Europe, and his gracefulness; his ease and energy-lit eyes calmed me. I was soothed and inspired. One concept he spoke fervently about has stuck with me like a second skin throughout my time abroad--and that was of embracing all the incredible, epic places I light eyes on as backdrops. He went on to explain that he felt that these landmarks and settings, glorious as they are in physical presence, are regarded far more richly when thought of as backdrops to the experiences you are having in the shadow of them.
I am explaining this poorly and crudely, but it has shaped the way I look at things and internalize my surroundings within these two months...and so I feel stirred to give it mention.
To paint somewhat of a visual, here is a glimmer of my encounter with the Eiffel Tower in light of this stream of thought. My initial glimpse of the Tower by night was sensual and stunning as expected, but beyond its gaudy radiance ripping through the darkness, I remember more, more, more. Meg and I were han solo that night, Katie opting to channel her inner Sleeping Beauty, and so us two remaining bodies were pulled like lightweight magnets to said beautiful structure. It quickened the beat of our hearts, and stilled our words. I have written of this already. But here is what was going on in the real, tangible flesh...here is what the Tour D'Eiffel served as such a breath-stopping backdrop to. We were layered in clothing; the air was laced with winter. We leaned up against a cool stone wall for ten or fifty minutes, I lost all conceivable track of time, and shared a bottle of rouge, sans glasses (as has become the pattern these last many weeks). Voices meshed all around us--teens getting rowdily drunk, lovers making out on the ground/on top of benches/in trees (this legendary French kissing obsession is not a cliche, it is dead accurate), vendors waving neon Tower keychains and sugared crepes in our faces...and so on. We eventually found ourselves tucked into the outdoor portion of a nearby cafe, our pale faces still littered with the myriad of light being emitted from the Eiffel. We sipped a single glass of wine each...we talked about life, about pain, about love...we observed the world of Paris weaving itself past with fascination and tirelessness. I slipped between sheets thankful that night.
It was something like that.
I have been fortunate. There have been others that stand out as wildly significant...backdrops embedded all across a continent. The city bus in London...a riverside bridge underneath the throes of traffic in Amsterdam...a concentration camp on the edges of Berlin...a grimy phone booth in the streets of Prague...a barren courtyard in Brussels...a lake underneath the Swiss Alps in Geveva...I could go on. There are vibrant, unforgettable memories attached to each of these settings, and they have become fragments of myself.
Our train leaving Rome for Venice is drawing ever nearer, so I am off to collect myself. I am amped for the city upon water.
Fare thees well,
R.B.