Recycled Memoirs

Appendix A Cont.
29/03/2012
Pg. 9 – 11. Pt. 1

(The following is an excerpt from the journal that I kept for two weeks while I traveled around Western Europe. I specifically wanted two journals while I was studied abroad; in the end I had three. A handicapped schoolmate gave me the first about ten days before I departed, his name was Caleb and we remained close friends during my undergraduate despite my irrational fear of disabilities and prosthetic limbs. The journal Caleb gifted me was Star Wars moleskin that could fit into my pocket. It was my favorite as soon as I laid eyes on it and I declared that it would collect my misgivings and adventures while I studied in Cambridge. Its contents still haven’t seen the light of day. The second was more of a “myth” or rather what I considered to be, controlled entries. The entries themselves were “homework” assignments that I would email to my professor periodically; ninety percent of the time I wrote them the night prior and still cannot recall what was written inside them. I received high marks. As for the third, well the day I purchased I told myself that it would only consist of my tales from Europe.

 

I often felt irritated whenever I left a journal empty, but as for this one – it’s remaining pages shall stay blank. The journal itself is made from recycled materials, not chosen on purpose so don’t believe for a second that I was or still am considerate of Mother Nature’s feelings. The cover is made of a light brown cardboard and as for the pages themselves, well they feel like silky leaflets that one would tear from miniature bibles for rolling papers – how fitting. Most of the time these entries were made on board a train, so if I were to make Xerox copy of the actual pages the term ‘legible’ would be most hazardous. The following entry below was made on a train somewhere between the quaint city of Bruges and what I would later consider a complete blackout in memory, “the-blank-page”, Amsterdam. For kids my age, or of my generation Bruges has been famously made known for it’s dreamy atmosphere and the cult-classic action/drama “In Bruges” with actor Colin Farrel. Bruges is tucked close to the English Channel, northwest of the capital of Belgium, Brussels. It is about a three-hour railroad tour from Brussels with a nice stop in between at Ghent. If you do decided to go, don’t be afraid to linger at the train stations, they have great coffee.) 

And so the sun rises.

It was remarkably foggy in Bruges as I walked to the rail station this morning. I remembered as I walked past the river, the low-lying clouds covered the riverbank -- a puffed grey pastry, it was a crust that cushioned the water. The shallow murk had some sense of warmth beneath its cool nature, perhaps like those molten “lava” desserts; with a scoop of vanilla on top of brooding delicious goo. As I walked I felt it’s crisp breeze beneath my sweater. Clouds exited my lungs without any inhalation. It was a good cold; one that awakened the body and spirit.

Bruges was quiet and kept remarkably clean. The city workers were out in the bracing cool breeze collecting waste, whisking the cobble streets with thick bristled stalks and polishing glass storefronts. I had not had the pleasure of seeing this yesterday when I first arrived in the city, but now I’d almost wake up every morning just to see this; the refrigeration of this remarkable city. I hardly remember yesterday morning; it seems like an eternity ago... but just like yesterday I’m on this rattling carpet again.

If all morning were like this then call me a convert and sign me up for next one. I’m surprisingly in a good mood as well. Let’s see if I can remember the important details: I drank to much (again), flirted with the house management, might have gotten a resident at the hostel arrested and was violently woken up to what sounded like my “roommate” butchering a wooden box with a baseball bat.

Scenery, it changes a man.

I am truly on my own as I write this. I’m on the train to Antwerp, destination Amsterdam and not a damn person knows where I am right now . . . The childlike thrill of making up a name to go by is no longer in the deck. For I remember when I'd travel in the states, each airplane ride I was a new name, new job and depending on the level hotness’ I sat next to... a new crisis that I was “managing all on my own”. In fact, now there is even a thrill in saying my own name. No one has heard Brady Matthew Effler, or has seen this smug face. I do not have a partner, no proverbial cock-block, nor do I have a professor guiding me like toddlers rudder. I am moving by my own inhibitions and it’s terrifying. I might as well be a dream, passing by each city as a friendly wisp.

I liked Bruges.
And before I forget I should probably write this down.
But God this morning...
That riverbank ...


When I first arrived yesterday in Bruges I stepped off the platform still in a daze. I had not eaten with in hours and I was still hungover from night prior. It had took me longer than I had hoped to find my hostel, the Snuffel Backpacker Hostel, located in the old part of town. All the streets felt the same as they spider-webbed throughout the town. I must have passed at least eight canals. But then I found her, the Snuffel Backpacker House. It looked like a small tenant building in San Francisco, nuzzled in-between two businesses. It felt like home instantly.

I walked into the hostel through it's open door, which provided about 70 percent of it's lighting. A rosey "Hiya" ponytailed around my ears as my eyes adjusted to what appeared to be an oak tiled room. It was the first english greeting I've heard in two days, but it really has felt like it's been a week. Turning to the counter on my left I saw a mid-sized red head beaming at me from behind her computer. I later learned that her name was Elizabeth; she was a natural ginger, had a French accent and her laughter was like a pot of boiling water – European hotness’, it’s like I never saw it coming. Upon my checking in I made several friendly passes at this cutey. I don't believe any word of what I said to her sounded sensual or proactive. I felt keenly aware of my bankrupt lingo when Elizabeth told me to relax and have a beer at the bar while she finished checking me in. 

“It’s a good place to start,” she said nodding towards bar, “unless you're dying to get with that movie tour like everybody else.” She nodded to the poster behind her, “If ya are, it just left...” 

Elizabeth might as well have been wiping the counter down as if I was in some speakeasy, dishing out juicy info for the hung over white tourist. She was referring the movie In Bruges with Colin Farrel but as I lament in retrospect I was too exhausted to keep up and snidely replied, “A movie about this city?” She pointed at the large poster once more; it had Colin’s eyes cutting me deep. She pecked at her computer and muttered, “Yeah, you’re ... In Bruges.” I’m convinced that if she were a bank teller she would've slide the glass right down in front of me just then.

“Right... I’ve seen it...” I mumbled the last part to which demanded a “What?” on her behalf. Elizabeth’s “what?” sounded much more like “wet” so I just pointed at the bar, took her advice and sat down. I was too tired to do anything else; I also didn't feel like taking the metallic spiral staircase to my room, it looked like death felt like instant defeat. The bar was in the same room as the dining area, lounge and check-in. It had large wooden signs and a few beers taps protruding like stray thorns. The bar was the largest piece of furniture, it was wooden and stoat. You could tell it’s seen years of colorful patrons. I grabbed a stool next to a larger fellow, balding and layered in khaki colors. For the story we'll just call him Toffee...

(to be cont...)