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My retirement plan

I’ve been back from Europe for two weeks and slowly getting into the rut of things again. My summer of unemployment is moving along smoothly and my weeks blur into my weekends; neither are so very different. I wake up, roll over to the living room and continue my foray into self-employment. I’ve recruited a friend to join me in my quest for emancipation. He’ll likely help out with business development.

We often have video conferences using Skype, sometimes daily. Its encouraging to talk to people when you’re self-employed and work from home, seeing as the most conversation I have is with my tequila bottle. I like to reach out to those who are in the same situation as me, and we form an ad hoc league of self-employed deadbeats.

He commented once, when we were Skyping, that the scenary never changes in the webcam. Sometimes I am topless, but the background is generally a scattering of papers, dying plants and biodegradable coffee cups. Perhaps I might surprise him one day and answer the video chat from my bathtub.

You might think of me as a Man of Leisure, but that is the whole point to being your own boss. You work at your own pace. I work during the mornings the best and rest during the afternoon, reading books on related materials. Sometimes I work late into the night, other times I work Sundays skipping meals. That is all part of the new world order for me.

I think back to my vacation in Europe, and when people ask me about it, I catch myself sounding like a tired old cliché. Is Europe a cliché? I have always thought so, doing my best to avoid Western Europe mostly, but wondering why do people have the same general experiences when going to Europe? “A revelatory experience!” or “I’m a changed man!” are the catch-phrases of European dilettantes upon their return. Though I cannot articulate why, I feel remorseful for feeling the same way.

I came home to an apartment strewn with cobwebs, a few knocked over potted plants and dishes I somehow missed cleaning before I left. The spiders did not miss me at all and I had to throw out a cup that became home to a colony of pathogens, nestled in a puff of orange, furry moss. And somehow, there are ants roaming freely in my apartment. At least, rent-freely.

Only two weeks ago, I was sharing a park bench with a bearded homeless man* as we silently watched the scene that revealed itself before us: the sun going down over Lake Zürich, young Italian travelers laughing by the port, a Swiss couple hand-in-hand walking along the dock and scooters zipping and buzzing by behind us. I had a small tupperware of mini-pepperettes which I would quietly pass over to him and we ate without saying a word. If that’s not romance, I wouldn’t know what is.

It’s scenes like those that I remember about my trip. That, or sitting in a big park in the middle of Stockholm with Liam, eating a torn off leg of a Tandoori chicken in one hand, and gripping the neck of a bottle of red wine with the other. Or jumping on a train to Vienna instead of a plane back home, looking to spend one more week, maybe seeing something I wasn’t expecting. Searching for moments, taking chances and never looking back.

I’ve been looking to gain clarity and see through the fog without the necessity of infrared glasses (although that might be pretty cool). The future remains uncertain, with only a shell of a plan for myself, so any guidance I can ascertain from reading these books will hopefully make me more sure-footed if not somewhat emboldened.

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*I met another homeless man at the train station (Zürich HB) later on that evening. I sat in the SBB lounge waiting for my train while he sat beside me. I offered him some of my aforementioned pepperettes. He began to speak to me about Che Guevara in German. None of which I understood. He was a large man, of about 50. Stood 6 feet tall, perhaps taller. He proceeded to pull up his pants (while explaining to me in German) and showed me his swollen ankles. Due to malnutrition I suppose, or possible walking a lot. He refused my pepperettes and walked away, but not before shaking my hand in gratitude.

Mesmerized by the ugliest monument ever

It’s been a week since I’ve arrived in Stockholm. I’ve mostly walked and taken the local transit around town to see the city. The city is surprisingly smaller than I thought it would be. Mostly centered around the royal palace and shopping districts.

The people here are as rumours foretold: glamourous, stylish and beautiful. A few centuries of war, famine and disease have done well to clean out the gene pool. Most days, I meet Liam for lunch. We typically grab some take-out and sit in the park with his co-workers. The park is always full of people and there’s even a bar in one of the parks near Stureplan. I spent one lazy afternoon sitting at a floating bar by the water and even took a nap on the bench.

I spent yesterday afternoon wandering around Södermalms, one of the islands in Stockholm. There are so many islands in this archipelago I can imagine spending a few weeks just sailing around them all. I walked up and down the cobblestoned streets, for a few hours until resting at a small Indian food restaurant and sat outside for a mid-afternoon snack. Feeling my way around, I continued through the backstreets and wound up in a small city park that had a large fountain. The fountain had a sculpture of a viking beating down a dragon that spewed out water.

One of the great things about Sweden is all the public people spaces they have. Large squares, fountains, sculptures and various other centerpieces. In the round-about near the center of it all, there is a large (very ugly) monument in a fountain. Then there are benches lined up on the sidewalk for people to just sit and watch the fountain. It’s great for people watching too.

Today, I’m heading over to Djurgården island and maybe try to take in a couple museums or castles. Most of Europe can be described by a continent of museums and architecture. I’ve decided to extend my trip by a week to visit Vienna and Prague. I’ll be leaving for Zurich on Friday morning.

Je suis en France. C’est le printemps et les fleurs sont fleurissant. C’est le première fois que j’ai voyagé à Paris. Without the right keyboard, its difficult to continue typing in French.

I landed in Paris early Tuesday morning. I had about 6 hours to kill before my flight to Stockholm so I decided to venture into the city for lunch. In the travel guide I had, it said there was a Pho restaurant tucked away on a side street in the Quartier Latin on rue Galande. If there’s one thing I need to try in Paris, its a big bowl of beef noodle soup!

It’s about 45 minutes to get into the city. After wandering the expansive terminals, I found the ticket booth and managed to purchase a ticket for 8,40 Euros and hop on the train bound for St. Michel Blvd. There, after stumbling through the subway terminals with my large backpack on, I went up the 8 stories (so it seemed) of escalators and walked into the most awe-strickening scene I have yet to remember. C’etait merveilleux la scène!

The architecture of the buildings were amazing. Medieval in style, castle-like in structure, the buildings rose above the streets. Packed cafes were brimming with tourists, sipping espressos out of tiny little cups. Scooters blazed by, leaving behind that distinctive sound of their motors. The smaller side streets were all cobble-stoned and took on a spirit of its own, running in any direction it pleased. I walked by Sorbonne University which was sitting amid the other buildings, wonderfully decadent and perennial in architecture. I circled the building but avoided the streams of tourists, mostly because I was trying to avoid contracting H1N1.

I picked a cobbled street at random and let the street guide me, not knowing where I’d end up. The streets were narrow and the sidewalks even more so. I hugged the curb trying not to knock anyout out when I turned and swung my backpack. Every so often, I’d check my iPhone for WiFi coverage. Paris apparently has free WiFi in the city (though I’ve yet to be successful in connecting).

I took left turns when I felt like it, and right turns when I saw something interesting. The streets bended and circled but I never felt lost. Like the Earth’s magnetic pull, I felt a tug towards the scent of beef balls. I endured the weight of my backpack for a little while longer, pausing briefly to admire or snap a photo of an interesting alleyway. In Europe, corridors of alleys have existed for centuries all waiting for me to take a photo of them. I paused before crossing the next street and looked up at the street signs: ‘Rue Galande’ it read. I smiled in part relief for having found the right street.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the neighbourhood was quieter. Perhaps it gets busier on weekends, or maybe I’ve just stumbled into a less popular area. I walked up in the direction where I thought my Viet-Parisian cousins would be, and sure enough there it was: Pho 67. What a strange name, I thought. What is the importance of 67 in Paris? As it turns out, that was the year Ho Chi Minh led the Tet Offensive and laid siege to South Vietnam. Wait a minute, this restaurant was a communist haven! Goddam commie lovers. And a bowl of Pho cost 13,00 euros! Who in their right mind pays that much for Pho, let alone Communist Pho? So, I went across the street and ate at the Italian cafe.

I stopped by L’Institut du Monde Arab for a quick look, then came back around to the train station to get back to the airport. After taking a brief nap on the most uncomfortable chair in the world, I got on a plane and headed to my next stop: Stockholm, Sweden. Liam has promised me meatballs and blonde haired girls, two of the best combinations you could ask for.