Memories...
19 January 2008 21:52![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thirteenrocksInternet Cafes can be difficult to find, on foriegn soil. Sometimes, but not as a standard, hostels have an internet station, either really cheap, or really expensive-never in between.
At other times, a computer with access can be found in the most unlikely places: railroad terminals, bars, a car garage.
The car garage was nestled in an off street that twisted and turned, therefore getting lost was accepted. The signs helped-ALOT. I didn't know what I was getting myself into, walking down the street with my small backpack on my back. What I needed was access.
Two computers sat in a small room, that was almost an office. I paid the attendent a few euros, and had at it. It was here, in Nice, France that I ordered my copy of "The Alchamist", from Barnes and Noble, so that when I returned state-side, it would be awaiting for me. Because I knew-there was another piece of the puzzle, and the book was it.
I could have possibly been in a post-ectal stage, from the experience, because it was just one of several unique opportunities I had during the weeks prior to "our" meeting. I knew, it would be one of the big ones-something I could disect, examine, crucify.
For I also knew, I wouldn't ever see him again. Not only were we heading different directions: him to Nice, and I to italy, it was obviouse by his harsh departure in the morning, that this-was it. Goodbye. It was because of this, I made the decision to capture his face on film, because I knew my memory would want a jump start. I needed proof. I needed a damn souvineer that says: I WAS HERE. After he left, I took a photo of everything in the room, including the dust rhinos below the metalic framed bunk beds.
After he left, my plan was to sit on the beach, and write. Poor weather, prohibited that-therefore I wrote in odd locations: on stairs, on a bench, in a coffee shop, anywhere I could find, or when my memory was jogged-from trying to recall every single detail, of the past twenty four hours. Because this wasn't just a chance meeting, this was fate.
The night was lonley. I stayed in, and had the room to myself. THe house-keeper made the bed by the time I returned from exploring, erasing any trace, that there had been someone in the bed the night before.
In the morning I continued on my way, eventually returning home, to a bin of mail. One of the parcels was the "Alchamist", my own welcome home gift.....
At other times, a computer with access can be found in the most unlikely places: railroad terminals, bars, a car garage.
The car garage was nestled in an off street that twisted and turned, therefore getting lost was accepted. The signs helped-ALOT. I didn't know what I was getting myself into, walking down the street with my small backpack on my back. What I needed was access.
Two computers sat in a small room, that was almost an office. I paid the attendent a few euros, and had at it. It was here, in Nice, France that I ordered my copy of "The Alchamist", from Barnes and Noble, so that when I returned state-side, it would be awaiting for me. Because I knew-there was another piece of the puzzle, and the book was it.
I could have possibly been in a post-ectal stage, from the experience, because it was just one of several unique opportunities I had during the weeks prior to "our" meeting. I knew, it would be one of the big ones-something I could disect, examine, crucify.
For I also knew, I wouldn't ever see him again. Not only were we heading different directions: him to Nice, and I to italy, it was obviouse by his harsh departure in the morning, that this-was it. Goodbye. It was because of this, I made the decision to capture his face on film, because I knew my memory would want a jump start. I needed proof. I needed a damn souvineer that says: I WAS HERE. After he left, I took a photo of everything in the room, including the dust rhinos below the metalic framed bunk beds.
After he left, my plan was to sit on the beach, and write. Poor weather, prohibited that-therefore I wrote in odd locations: on stairs, on a bench, in a coffee shop, anywhere I could find, or when my memory was jogged-from trying to recall every single detail, of the past twenty four hours. Because this wasn't just a chance meeting, this was fate.
The night was lonley. I stayed in, and had the room to myself. THe house-keeper made the bed by the time I returned from exploring, erasing any trace, that there had been someone in the bed the night before.
In the morning I continued on my way, eventually returning home, to a bin of mail. One of the parcels was the "Alchamist", my own welcome home gift.....
