this bordeaux is for you

On a train to find where I came from. Dad suggested I come here, who knew it would be like this. Plans change, anger burns, unutterable words uttered, with no reservation I jump on a train to anywhere but that station.

As I think to get off,

the train starts moving and I,

I will see where it is I come from,

and from what I am made of.

Arrive in what looks like a red light district; I am a green light for mugging. Wander around, ask a few people if they speak English; finally find two guys from Denmark sitting on a corner.

Across the street to ask for hotel rates, get hostel directions instead.

Bingo. $21 Euro for a night, including sheets. Praise God I’m not on the streets; he said the birds and flowers will make it okay--he was right.

“Do you care if we smoke?” the Denmark guys ask, (which is supposedly the “happiest country” in the world), to which I reply, “I don’t care; do what you want,” and that’s what they did.

The nightcap; talking to these smokers (not cigarettes), who win the award for the first people I’ve met who managed to get arrested in Europe (trying to purchase drugs in Paris). We talk about America, which smells sweeter as each day passes.

The Denmarkians stumble home at 5 a.m., waking this sleeping giant, discover this morning they nearly got jumped in these streets, but the guy dodged the bottle thrown at his head. And they ran. As fast as two intoxicated hash smokers can run.

Wandered to the train; stuck in Bordeaux for the afternoon. Found grace from two Californians who spoke English, felt refreshed and still alive, caught a subway and a museum.

Tonight’s dusk train leads to San Sebastian, the overnight ride to Barcelona; the city never sleeps.

Time ticks,

almost done,

reality beckons,

fairytale almost

wrapped up.

After ordering a Bic Mac meal at McDonalds somewhere in France, blogging about Bourdequx on my laptop with wi-fi; I know I’m American.