“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.” ― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
So, I’ve been on a trip of Europe, and kept a diary all the while. If travelling is anything at all, it is unpredictable, and the trip I expected to have was, as is usually the case, radically different to the reality. Modern life is a series of spinning plates, and the more you age, the better you become at keeping them spinning. I am young, and youth is wonderful, but the trade off of so much freedom is that fairly regularly, largely due to my own gross incompetence at being alive, my plates come crashing down around me all at once, and I am left lying bruised and stupid beneath a heap of porcelain.
Basically, I got fired and I broke up with my girlfriend, one of which wasn’t really my fault at all, and one of which was quite definitely my fault. If there’s one thing I can assure you of, it’s that here, on this website, nobody is going to lie to you. So here’s the truth: I can be a real twat.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way and you already dislike me, which is good because it means I don’t have to worry about pleasing you, we can discuss the trip. If you would like any further context for my jetting off alone, check out this article. Heartbreak makes people do weird shit. I’d not intended to travel several countries; I’d originally booked a single flight. However, I was reeled in by the lure of low cost airfare, and soon found flights stacking up, until I was left with a wince-inducing itinerary and a bible of check-in documents. Here’s the flight schedule:
Berlin – Paris, 9th March
Paris – Barcelona, 12th March
Barcelona – Venice, 14th March
Venice – Berlin, 16th March
Berlin – Riga, 17th March
Riga – Berlin, 19th March
Eleven days, five countries, six flights. And so, with 200 euros, three pairs of boxers, three t shirts, one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes, one hand towel, a tub of hair gel and a gnarled tooth brush, I flounced off into the world with a broken heart, seeking answers and reparations and, ugh, I don’t know. Didn’t really think much at all, to be honest. Just ran away. I’m good at that.
Thus begins my European travel diary, which I’ll be publishing day by day over the next couple of weeks, slightly edited to save you the worst of my inane ramblings, but left intact enough so you get a true and honest feel for what it’s like to fuck your life up so badly that you end up fired and single and drunk alone beneath the Eiffel Tower on a Thursday evening. Think less ‘Eat Pray Love’ and more ‘Drink Play Loathe’. In fact, that’s quite good. I might name the series that. Drink Play Loathe. Nice.
Edit: Just Googled it and there’s already a book called ‘Drink Play Fuck’, which not only beat me to it but is also a better title. Arse. Well, I’m keeping the name anyway.