London / Berlin / Paris

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Shoreditch, London

It had been three years since I was last in Europe on my extended backpacking trip. I missed it… the effortless sophistication of the cities and the people. Everything is just different enough to always be capturing your senses. And Europeans are exotic- they often speak multiple languages, have been to more places and know more about global political and social issues than us Americans (which is admittedly a low bar). They look different, dress different, and seem to carry themselves more confidently. If you’re not sure what I am talking about, check out the women in southern Spain.

And the cities and towns themselves look completely different, of course. The architecture and history that surrounds you is an explosion of culture; a time machine to a world which has existed since long, long before the United States was even a gleam in eyes of the founding fathers.

But what I missed even more than that tingle on my dingle which Europe gives me were my European friends. Backpacking across Europe and Asia allowed me to meet many great people, several of which I continue to stay in touch with and hope to continue to stay in touch with for years to come. So in order to maintain these friendships, grease the chains if you will, I wanted to visit them in Europe.

Finally the timing was right for me and (most) of the friends I hoped to see. I decided that London > Berlin > Paris would be the best route to see the most people. I purchased my flights, giving myself three days in NYC on the way to visit a girl I was dating long distance there, and my buddy Mike who lived there also. Well, a couple of weeks after I bought the tickets, my relationship ended and Mike moved to St. Louis. I had a flight to NYC, but didn’t want to go anymore. It was the first time I didn’t want to spend three days in New York.

I was talking through this dilemma with one of my best friends, Johna and her boyfriend Grant who suggested I take the money I would spend in NYC and pay to change my flights so that she could come along. So I did, and suddenly my solo trip to Europe was no longer a solo trip.

Sky Garden, London

I spent the preceding weeks coordinating with my friends and doing tons of research. Although I had visited London and Paris before, I felt that my experiences in both cities could have been better had I known some people there and had more time to plan ahead. This go-around I had both.

Neither Johna nor I were very concerned with checking off many of the touristic boxes. Rather, we were acutely focused on food, wine, friends, and exploration. I found that in London, Shoreditch was the neighborhood to be in. Perhaps the closest thing London has to a Williamsburg, Shoreditch seemed to be alive with art, trendy restaurants and bars, and young and diverse people. We took a direct flight from our home in Austin to London and arrived at 10:00 AM. Props to London for having their public transportation figured out- it took a little over an hour and one line change to get to our stop in Shoreditch, but it could not have gone any smoother (this would not be the same experience we would have throughout the rest of the trip). We navigated fairly easily on foot to our AirBnB a block or two away from the main thoroughfares of Shoreditch, relaxed for a bit, and set out to tackle London on foot.

The streets of Central London are narrow and windy, and to the uninitiated they are hella intimidating. Traffic moves fast and does not yield to pedestrians, and even the crosswalks feel like you’re taking your life in your hands. Don’t forget to look both ways!

St. Pancras Station, London

The weather was perfect, and Johna and I got a kick out of how different and very “London” all of the buildings looked on our walk to The Water Poet- a traditional pub I had found in my research. It was hidden down a side street as if you could only find it with intention. Inside the creaking wooden floors and dated decor was exactly what you’d want to see in an English pub. There was a bit of a crowd so we worked our way deeper inside to discover a large outdoor patio in the back. We found a table and I ordered the fish & chips with smashed peas (as you do) and Johna had the Shepard’s Pie. Both were excellent, but Johna’s pie blew us both away.

Afterwards, we continued walking towards the river, taking little detours when we felt like it. We checked out the London Bridge and stopped in a pub or three. I had made a reservation for drinks at Sky Garden- an indoor garden on the 35th floor of a skyscraper with several bars and restaurants inside of it. When we arrived, the sun had just set and we had a 360 degree view of downtown London and beyond as it lit itself up for the Friday night happenings.

Later we made our way to Brigadiers- a trendy Indian restaurant downtown that I was anxious to try. We had a few drinks at the bar while waiting for a table which was well worth it because we had one of the best (if not the best) meals of our lives. We started with the butter chicken wings and then shared the roasted goat shoulder. Unreal. The wings were rich and spicy without being too much of either. Their secret: cashew butter. The goat shoulder was the best goat meat I’ve ever had. If you’re in London and you don’t eat here, did you even go to London??

We headed back to Shoreditch and stopped in a couple of bars on Curtain Road which seemed to be very popular and eventually headed back to our flat, only to stumble on a subdued looking pub with no lights or sound coming out of it. It was called The Lion & Lamb and it looked closed except for the people standing outside it’s front wooden gate. We approached the quirky bouncer who was wearing a pink beret and rolling a cigarette and I asked him what this place was. He didn’t really answer directly, sort of talking around it. We were confused but intrigued enough, although his coyness was walking a thin line between amusing and annoying. Eventually he said it was a 5 pound cover to get in. “For what?!” we joked, “This place looks dead!” Eventually we conceded and inside was a full-on club with a DJ and packed dance floor. Apparently the building was sound-proofed to prevent disturbing the neighborhood. It was the last thing we expected to find inside this place. We stayed for a bit but felt too tired to give this party the attention it deserved, so we went to the apartment and to sleep.

Nottingham, England

The next day was chilly and rainy… the only day of the entire trip that wasn’t sunny and 65 F. We took an Uber to The Hemingway- another traditional pub nearby in Hackney I was excited to visit for two reasons: first, because I’m a big Hemingway fan and like visiting the bars of the world with his namesake. Second, I had seen pictures online of their Beef Wellington and decided this place was a must.

It was a sleepy Saturday afternoon and the pub was empty when we walked inside. We asked the bartender if they were even open yet and she told us that they were, and to please sit anywhere. We ordered a goat cheese appetizer and then the Beef Wellington. Our waiter warned us it could take 45 minutes to prepare but I assured him we had no where else to be for the next few hours. The pub was decorated with mounted animals skulls, old photos, leather couches, and tropical green plants. The walls were painted white with mahogany chair rails. The windows were large and the shutters open, although not much light came through thanks to the overcast sky outside. Antique lamps and candles helped to light up the pub so that it felt like a haven from the gloom. It certainly deserved to be called “The Hemingway”. We noticed a stack of board games and I asked Johna if she knew how to play Backgammon and she told me she played with her father when she was young. I hadn’t played in three years since Istanbul where I spent several evenings with a Turkish girl who taught me how to play at street cafes. Neither Johna nor I completely remembered the rules, but after consulting the directions and a couple of YouTube videos, we got the hang of it.

Then the Beef Wellington came which demanded our full attention. Thick steak wrapped in a pastry and then baked, served with chips (fries). It was everything I hoped it would be. After eating my half (and the rest of Johna’s) we continued our game. Originally we planned to visit the popular Broadway Market nearby after lunch but between the rain, meat coma, and how incredibly comfortable we were, we chose to stay put for a while longer. Yet I had made plans to meet up with my buddy Ben that day, so finally we left to meet him at another pub called The Dove. By now it was late afternoon and with no one wanting to be outside in the cold drizzle, the pubs were full. After a couple of pints we moved down the street to The Cat & Mutton to continue our Sunday Funday.

Three years earlier I met Ben in Zadar, Croatia on the Adriatic coast. It was October and the tourism season was ending but luckily I found a hostel nearby that was half-full with other travelers willing to explore Croatia without the massive summer tourist crowds. Ben and I were in the same dorm. We got along easily and figured out we were both planning similar routes down Croatia and might as well tackle it together. We then flew to Athens, totaling 2-3 weeks together, and became good 'mates’. He lives in London (even though he’s a Kiwi) and so I was looking forward to reuniting with him on this trip.

There’s no risk of running out of things to talk about with Ben, so it didn’t take long for him and Johna to get along and for Ben and I to reminisce our adventures in Croatia and Greece. After a few pints the three of us went back to Shoreditch to eat dinner at a trendy food hall called Dinerama. We each went to a different food stall and came back with dishes to share between the three of us: I went for tacos, Johna got wings, and Ben came back with bao buns. The hall was too full with London’s yuppie Saturday evening crowd for us to sit at a table, so we found a small high counter we could stand around to eat our food and people-watch (not sure which was better).

St. Pancras Station, London

After eating, we went to a nearby bar I heard about called Ballie Ballerson. It was one of the most unique bars I’ve seen. In one of the front windows was a ball pit with people in it, and inside most of the bar was painted in ultraviolet and felt like The Joker’s lair. The rest of the walls were covered in hanging plants and flowers- an ideal back drop for girls to get their picture taken, perhaps even a Boomerang if they were feeling especially cute and excited. We snaked through to the back room where there was a large ball pit with one million glowing balls and a couple dozen half-drunk people reliving their childhood ball pit glory days, some more successfully than others. We joined them. Let’s face it… a ball pit is irresistible. It’s the nostalgia they evoke and the rarity with which they are found. How often do you come across a ball pit to play in where you won’t face criminal charges and a residency on the sex offenders list? I myself have only come across one other such adult ball pit and it was at a bar in Medellin, Colombia. Oh, this gives me a business idea…

It was time for Ben to head back to his neighborhood on the edge of the city for a friend’s birthday he promised to attend. He invited us to come along, but Johna and I chose to stay in Shoreditch rather than taking the train out and back to crash his friend’s birthday. We crossed Curtain Road and paid the cover to get in The Blues Kitchen which was the biggest and most popular bar on the street. Inside was a large wrap-around bar full of 20-somethings; guys in their favorite going out shirt and trendy haircuts, and girls in their sexy Saturday night outfits, fake eyelashes, and heels that defied everything I thought I knew about the limits of the human foot.

To the right across a sea of people was a live brass band. They were high-energy and a lot of fun to watch, especially after a few cocktails. After about 45 minutes, Johna was fading fast so I walked her to our flat about 10 minutes away and then headed back out, excited to see where the night might take me now that I was on my own. It took me back to Blues Kitchen where I tried talking to some Italian girls who were less than flattered and quickly bolted for safer territory, and then on to two more bars on the walk back home that drew me in with the sound of more live music. Finally I gave up and headed back to the flat.

The next day we got off to a slow start, but the sun had resurfaced and it was a beautiful day. We got breakfast next to the flat at the quaint Curious Yellow Kafe and then took the tube to St. Pancras station where we were to take a two hour train to Nottingham for the day to visit my friend Libby. We must have missed the 12:30 train by about thirty seconds because the train was still sitting there, we just weren’t allowed to pass through the ticket gate since it would be departing in less than two minutes. I was frustrated because our day in Nottingham was already going to be fairly short and now we had to wait another hour for the next train.

However this did give us some time to explore the train station who’s south side is actually a quite beautiful luxury hotel that is 150 years old and very photogenic. Across the street from the hotel we found a pub which seemed the only civilized way to pass the time. Luckily we made the 1:30 PM train.

I met Libby in Valencia, Spain in late July 2015 at a cheap hostel where we were both staying. I was sitting in the lounge on the top floor and a table of travelers asked if I wanted to join them, so I did. Later, Libby walked in and we were introduced as she already knew the people I was sitting with. She stood out with her white-blonde hair, blue eyes, Yorkshire accent and energetic personality. We became friends in Valencia, reunited a few days later in Tarragona, and then again a couple of months later when I passed through Leeds, England and made her be my tour guide. I was excited to be seeing her again in Nottingham, and just as excited for Johna to meet her because I knew how much fun we would have together.

After exiting the train station in Nottingham, Johna and I spotted a pub down the street that was also a large antique store and I texted Libby to meet us there. Libby showed up with a big smile and I wrapped her in a bear hug. The three of us had a pint while Libby and I recited our old travel stories and she told us about her upcoming move to Australia on a one year work visa. Libby didn’t live in Nottingham but her sister did, so she knew her way around at least more than us. She led us to Nottingham Contemporary art gallery for a bit of local culture. It was a fairly small exhibit with only two or three rooms, the largest full of what I can best describe as impractical furniture, and an ambiance that reminded me of the bizarre dream sequences from the show Twin Peaks. Libby called her sister, Emma, for some suggestions on where to take us next and we walked to The Hockley Arts Club. The hidden entrance was an unmarked door leading down a musty passage and up a fire escape staircase. Inside was an opulent bar that offered up extravagant cocktails. After my (literally) smoking bourbon cocktail, I went to the bar to order a beer. Our lazy waiter was sitting in the booth next to ours. He didn’t bother to get up, but asked me where I was from. I told him Austin and he said he had a good friend that lives there who loves it. I told him he should go visit, and he replied he’s been wanting to and even has a family connection to get free standby flights on British Airways. I said “Well then, there’s no excuse! You should go!”

We were hungry and the kitchen at The Club was closed, so we headed out to meet Emma at an Italian tapas restaurant called Sexy Mamma. Yes, Italian tapas. The hostess sat us upstairs and we ordered one of everything. The four of us where getting along well, and after dinner we continued on to Emma’s local pub called Bodega and had a few more rounds, which included Libby drinking a spilt tequila shot from the serving tray. We were having a great time and I wasn’t ready to leave, but Johna and I had a train to catch. The sisters walked us back to the train station and we said goodbye. It was only a few hours in Nottingham, but well worth it to see Libby after three years. As she put it to me weeks earlier when we were deciding when/where we might meet up, “for no reason you and I have stayed friends for three years, so if you’re in England I’ll make sure to come see you.” Same same, Libby. Same same.

We made the return trip to Shoreditch. It was late; Johna was desperate for food and not subtle about it. It was a Sunday night and the streets which were full of lights and people the night before were now deserted. I saw a neon glow in the distance and swore to Johna there would be food there. Well God bless the Turks because the sign belonged to a kebab shop and was still open. We ordered our chicken, took the styrophome containers full of hot, chopped meat and saucey goodness and returned to the flat. Drunk food is the best food because it satisfies like no other meal. When you go out to a nice restaurant on a date or for dinner with your family, sure the food is excellent. Maybe you even skipped lunch that day to prepare for a nice filet mignon and whipped potatoes. But that meal still won’t be as satisfying as a five dollar shwarma and rice dowsed in three different sauces at midnight when you’re beer-drunk.

Brandenburg Gate, Berlin

We woke up on Monday and took our time getting ready and packing for our flight to Berlin. The day before on the train to Nottingham, the first stop 20 minutes into the ride was for Luton Airport which we would be flying out of, so we figured all we needed to do was retrace our steps and we’d get there easy breezy. That’s not what happened. In the St. Pancras train station, the signs to Luton Airport were very clearly marked, so we followed them even though they took us a different direction than our Nottingham train. Surely though, we should follow the signs. As we went down the escalator to the platform, the train was about to take off so I told Johna to make a run for it. We made it onto the train, but this meant I didn’t have time to verify it was indeed going to the Ludlow Airport stop. Come to find out, it wasn’t. Instead we were on a local train that went so slow and stopped so many times, I wondered if this was a prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to bust out of the conductor booth wearing a trucker hat. We were heading towards Luton... it was on the same line… but this train’s last stop was going to be two shy of where we needed to be so we had to get off, walk to another platform and wait for another train. But that didn’t actually get us to the airport. We had to take a shuttle bus next. Now, you may logically reason that if you bought a metro ticket to “Luton Airport” which required a shuttle bus to supplement the last mile or two, then your metro ticket would include this necessary shuttle bus transfer. Well, you would be wrong, you stupid fool. Instead they had four metro employees in front of the bus to make sure that we had a separate bus ticket. We could not buy this ticket from them (their only job is to stand there and see if you have one) or buy the ticket on the shuttle bus; we had to go back inside the station, wait in line, and buy a 2.50 pound bus ticket. Several cuss words were said by me there that day. Luckily we left early that afternoon because the commute we thought would take 20 minutes ended up taking over an hour.

A funny thing about flying a European budget airline like EasyJet is their method for boarding at the gate. Ours was at the very far end of the Ludlow Airport and then we had to walk down a staircase into a holding- i mean waiting- room with low ceilings. This room actually served two gates, with two groups of people waiting to board two different planes to two different cities. The small room was overflowing with 400 people shoulder to shoulder. If this wasn’t odd enough, they began scanning tickets for our flight and piling people in to a small corner of the room like cattle headed to the slaughter. The plane wasn’t ready, the time until boarding wasn’t clear, yet they insisted on cramming people into one side, as if this system made any sense to anybody. Europe may get props for their metros, bike lanes, and bus systems, but the way they board planes on this continent is fucking ridiculous.

Victory Column

It was just before sunset when we landed in Berlin. The temperature was perfect and people were hanging out in the field in front of the airport like it was a park. Who goes to the airport 15 miles out of town to chill in the grass? It was weird, but strangely refreshing and pleasant after the shit show we experienced to get there. This time the train station was actually adjacent to the airport so there was no need for a shuttle bus (go figure). We took the S-bahn into the city and transferred to a metro line. It was an above ground train, old, but charming with it’s faux wood panel walls. We were meant to take this train several stops to Kreuzberg, the bohemian neighborhood where our AirBnB was located. The train went down one stop and Johna and I didn’t notice that everyone got off except for us. Others boarded, the doors closed and the train started doubling back from where we came from. Johna and I looked at each other confused. A young girl in a hijab with a sweet face was sitting across from us smiling. We smiled back and shrugged our shoulders in an admission of tourist ignorance. She said “bus” and mimed a steering wheel with her hands. From this I gathered that the train line was closed after the first stop and that we would need to take a bus. So we once again stayed on the train while everyone else got off, rode it back to the first stop and saw a crowded bus stop across the street. We squeezed ourselves and our bags on and rode west to Kreuzberg. We then walked to a deli where the AirBnB host had left the keys for us, bought some snacks, and went to the apartment. By now it was turning dark and the neighborhood was quieting down. The prewar apartment buildings along the cobblestone streets were somewhat uniform but well-accented and beautiful and I thought about what life must have been like in Berlin when these apartments were younger.

We found the apartment building easily and I used the key to open the building door. The inside was dimly lit and and the walls were beige and brown. At this point I realized I didn’t know what apartment number to look for, and that there was only one key on the chain. If this was the key for the building door, where was the key for the apartment?! Even more, the apartment doors weren’t numbered. As Johna and I stood in the foyer confused, an old Middle Eastern women appeared and I asked her in English if she knew which apartment belonged to Yeliz, the first name of the AirBnB host. She didn’t understand but opened the first apartment which happened to be hers and shouted into it. A middle aged man came out into the hall and I asked him the same question. He didn’t know who I was talking about, but pointed out a tiny card holder next to each door where the name of the tenet was. I thanked him and we ascended the stairs, checking each door until finally on the 4th floor I saw the name I hoped was the correct one. Still confused about being given only one key, I searched under the door mat and around the frame for a second key but couldn’t find one. Finally I tried the single key and it worked! But if this same key worked on the building door, you would assume everyone who lived there had that key… so could they all open her apartment? Or could they all open each other’s apartment? It remains a mystery to me.

The apartment inside was very large, with windows on opposite ends so it was clear it stretched the entire width of the building. Yeliz must have been some kind of fashion designer because there was a robust sewing station with a manikin and shelves full of raw fabrics. The décor of her apartment highlighted her artistic nature- there were diverse pieces of eclectic art on the walls (including a single leaf pinned to one wall), a large bookshelf packed with used books, and mason jars full of different grains in the kitchen. There was no television or pictures with friends; no junk food or snacks in the cupboards; no piles of mail or magazines or laundry left out. It felt more like a bohemian coffee shop or bookstore rather than a young person’s apartment.

Tiergarten, Berlin

We changed clothes and headed out to meet my friend Valerie for dinner.  I first met Valerie in Lisbon, Portugal on the second or third day of my backing packing trip that would end up lasting almost 11 months. She’s from Brussels and was in Lisbon with her roommate on vacation. I met them in Home Lisbon Hostel (one of the best I’ve ever stayed in) and we spent a whole day together along with a New Yorker who’s family was Portuguese and who had a good grasp on the language. He was a nice kid and helpful translator.

A few months later I passed through Brussels a couple of times on my travels and would hang out with Valerie, and also crashed at her apartment. As often happens with travel friends, we skipped a lot of the proverbial bullshit that you usually go through when meeting new people. No matter where you come from or your background, you have some core facet in common with the people you meet who are in the same foreign place as you at the same time and for the same reason. Also, we’re simply more congenial and excited to meet people when we are traveling. Given all of this, Valerie became a close friend and confidant. We discussed a lot of things you don’t normally share with someone you’ve barely spent time with.

Valerie swore by this restaurant she had chosen on the other side of Berlin- a vegan Thai restaurant call 1990 Vegan Living. Johna and I were game for Thai food, but why did it need to be vegan? I teased Valerie about this, but she assured me it would be incredible. We were joined by her ex-pat friends of: Helen (English) and Adele (American). We ordered several dishes to share. Valerie was the only one who spoke any German since it was so similar to her native Flemish, but it didn’t matter too much because our waitress was the first of many servers we came across in Berlin who was just as comfortable speaking English as German, and perhaps even a couple of other languages to boot. Gotta say, our vegan skepticism was well founded. The food was good, but would have been much more satisfying had there been some meet dishes thrown in the mix. After dinner the four girls and I walked down the street to a divey lounge bar called Cafe Dachkammer that was probably once a large apartment judging by the layout of the gutted rooms, and sat on the second floor in antique-chic furniture surrounded by wood-paneled walls and illuminated with dim yellow bulbs. Valerie and I got in a conversation about life and work, relationships and kids, happiness and risk. She’s on hiatus from the workforce and back in school pursuing a video production program. She’s not quite sure what she will end up doing, but she’s enjoying it, excited for the future, and much happier than any office job she’s had even if she did have a larger income before. I hope to find something for myself that is as exciting and fulfilling, and I hope to have the balls to pursue it when/if I do.

Neukölln, Berlin

I don’t understand why someone with less than two weeks in Europe would choose to stay in bed until 1 PM every day, but Johna is one of those people. I mean, I get that it’s vacation but there are only so many hours in the day to experience the largest and most diverse cities on the continent before returning to your 9-5 office job and daily routine. It’s not like you need to work your way through a Lonely Planet book to make the trip count, but go for a walk in a different direction each day, find a cafe, watch the people, read, explore, make some fucking memories, just get the fuck outta bed! But it’s also possible I’m just jealous because I can’t sleep that much. Many times I’ll wake up early, eyes heavy, exhausted, hoping against hope I will fall back asleep while knowing full-well it won’t happen. It’s a mental block I haven’t figured out how to get around yet.

So on our first full day in Berlin I woke up around 8 AM and knew that I would have the morning to myself. Nearby was Victoriapark which was supposed to be a nice city park with a waterfall that I was hoping to see before it stopped running for the winter. I jogged down to the park which went up a steep hillside. It was cool outside and the morning clouds hadn’t burnt away yet. The park provided seclusion from the noise and traffic and I felt like I had it to myself. I found the waterfall still running down from the top of the hill and felt a little bit of accomplishment. On the far side of the park was a playground with a bunch of kids having recess. Adjacent to the playground was a beer garden. It was too early to be open, but I thought it was funny that Germans saw this as normal. I guess it actually does makes sense to have an adult playground next to a kids playground. Daddy catches a little buzz while Junior tires himself out on the monkey bars; that way both have worked up an appetite for dinner.

I stopped in different spots around the park to exercise. At one point while walking I patted my pants pockets out of habit but I didn’t feel the apartment key. I shoved my hand in my pants pockets in a panic and couldn’t find it. A million thoughts ran through my head- What if I couldn’t find the key? How would I tell Johna, asleep on the 4th floor where I had also left my phone? The apartment was locked from the outside… she would have no way out and I would have no way in. Our host was out of the country… would she have a spare somewhere? How long would it take her to see my message? Would I have to call a locksmith? How much would that cost? Even if I got the door open, how would we be able to get in and out of the building for the next four days?

I sprinted back the area where I had just been doing sit ups. My eyes darted around the dark green grass and autumn leaves… why did there have to be so many leaves?! Damn you, autumn! Just to my left I caught a flash of silver. It was the key! I snatched it up threw my head back in a sigh of relief. Just then a woman was walking by with her dog looking at me strangely. I dangled the key and she nodded understandingly, saying something in German. I have no idea what she said but I suddenly remembered part of a quote pinned to the hallway of the apartment. “Mein glück” I said to her. “My luck”. Not an eloquent reply, but appropriate nonetheless.

I returned to the apartment and Johna and I headed out for any early lunch on our way to the Glass Dome at the Reichstag. We ate at a small, empty Arab cafe which was cheap and delicious. The Reichstag was the perfect bike-riding distance away so we opted for using one of the bike share options scattered throughout the city. Without data plans on our phones to scan to be able to scan the QR codes on the bikes, it was quickly becoming a pain in the ass and I was getting worried about making our ticketed time to visit the Glass Dome. I was frustrated but we finally piggybacked some WiFi and got it to work.

We didn’t spend terribly long at the Reichstag building. It was an impressive thousand-year-reich-esque building and gave an elevated view of the city, but wasn’t worth sticking around. I was much more looking forward to visiting Brandenburg Gate and Tiergarten which were very close by.

Brandenburg Gate is one of the most iconic places in Berlin. I knew it would be a tourist trap but I wanted to see it anyway and despite all of the selfie sticks, it was impressive. What wasn’t as impressive was the wacky guy standing on a cart with a banner above him wearing only sunglasses and a g-string with a elephant face on the front of it. He began shouting in German some sort of manifesto based on his inflection and obvious stupidity. The crowd was mostly giggling and taking pictures until he shouted a word mid-sentence that even I understood. Let’s just say the N-word is the same in German as it is in English. The crowd’s giggles changed to boos. I had even less desire to stick around than before this idiot started shouting, so we moved on. Adjacent to the Gate was the Jewish Memorial- some 2,000 coffin-size concrete blocks built on top of an old Nazi bunker serving as a reminder to every German and non-German passing through the center of the capital city what it’s history and responsibility was.

Across the street from the Memorial was the east end of Tiergarten, Berlin’s equivalent to Central Park, except for one big difference- there was no one there. Johna and I walked through a huge chunk of Tiergarten and passed maybe a dozen people total. Europeans love chilling in parks, and in a city of 3.5 million of them, you would expect to see their largest park with some fucking people in it!

Our (my) goal was to reach the Victory Column near the far side of the park where I anticipated a great photo op. The Victory Column was built sometime around 1870 to commemorate the Prussian victories across Europe and their general badass-ery, in an era where it was common to build large, lasting tributes to one-time dominance as if anyone would actually care what it stood for a hundred years later. I climbed to the top of the tower while Johna took a break down below. The climb was quick and well-worth it because it offered a mile long view in every direction. East towards Brandenburg Gate a sea of green trees was dissected by a large avenue. A perfect row of autumn-yellow trees lined the street as far as I could see; an incredible image that could only be appreciated from the top of this column.

I descended the tower and Johna and I continued walking through Tiergarten until we reached a nice restaurant on the edge of a pond with a deck where we rested our feet for a while and had a beer. Johna doesn’t ask for much, just to sleep late and get her picture taken in front of walls she thinks are pretty. When we left the restaurant, there was a mural wall outside she was particularly excited about, so I took her picture. In moments like these I feel like the “Instagram boyfriend” which is so uncomfortable. There I am holding Johna’s purse, taking photos of her against a random wall from different angles. Can I have my testicles back, please? Luckily at least Johna looks at the camera and smiles instead of pretending this is a candid photo I stole of her laughing and looking off in the distance twirling her hair.

We continued on to another place I discovered in my research, Monkey Bar, apparently so-named because of its view of the monkey exhibit at the Berlin Zoo. Monkey Bar is a trendy cocktail bar on the 10th floor of a hotel offering a beautiful view back over Tiergarten. It was about 5 PM and the bar was full of young people. We ordered some drinks and the Labane (sourdough and olives), found a place to sit, and stayed to watch the sunset as the bar grew even more crowded. Once the sun was down we headed across Budapester Street to the subway station, taking it back to Kreuzberg.

We were both tired, hungry and motivated to have a relaxing night that did not involve walking all over the city. I asked Johna what she wanted to eat and she said, “German food”.  Should be easy enough to come by in Berlin. I looked on Google Maps and sure enough I found a cozy neighborhood German restaurant called Peter Schlemihl just one block down the street from our apartment. We walked over and sat at the small bar in the front of the restaurant since all of the tables were full of people who probably lived on this street or the next, and came here when they wanted to go out for a good meal with their friends. The girl behind the bar was very nice and even translated the whole menu for us line by line. Johna ordered an appetizer of German bread and cheeses which I counseled against, but she ignored me. Do you know who likes German bread? Germans and no one else. Every German you meet will swear to you that German bread is the best in the world, and every one of them is wrong. The bread is brown, dry, and doesn’t taste good. And have you ever heard of German cheese? I doubt it. Why? Because it’s not good either. There are a lot of other countries in Europe deservedly known for their accomplishments in the arts of delicious cheese and bread, and Germany should really just bow out. Now having said all of that, it’s not like its inedible, and Johna was determined to try it, so we did. Let’s just say she didn’t order German bread and cheese the rest of the trip after that.

But none of this surprised me and so I was still very excited to try the main dishes we ordered. Johna had the spätzle allgäu, a rich macaroni-type dish, and I had the special that night, a German goulash. Over dinner Johna slyly brought up how frustrated I had been earlier that day on the way to the Reichstag when we were having trouble with the bikes and running late. The truth was, it stressed me out and I wasn’t thrilled with myself for letting it get to me as much as it did. But that can happen when you are a punctual person and feel like you’re constantly having to wait on someone else. This escalated to an argument at dinner, but ultimately we both knew we owed the other an apology and once we took care of that, the issue was resolved. Johna and I have been close friends for a long time and we know each other’s buttons. It’s cliche to say that our dynamic is brother/sister or an old spiteful married couple, but take your pick. Therefore it was expected at some point during two weeks abroad that we would argue about something, but I’m happy to say that this was the only argument we had the entire trip.

Berlin Wall - East Side Gallery

I had a good feeling about a bar called Mister Hu’s I had come across in my research. Their website was understated and I didn’t find many pictures online, but for some reason I got good vibes. It seemed like a place you had to know was there rather than one you may stumble across on a night out, and so it could be one of those places where everyone there feels like they have something in common… this secluded bar.  And maybe I’m right, maybe it is a special place but this was late on a Monday night and when Johna and I went there after dinner, we were the only people there. The street was dark and quiet, and so was the inside of Mister Hu’s. We sat at the bar and ordered white wine. The bartender was polite, probably a bit relieved to have something to do. He served us complimentary popcorn. This is dangerous because it doesn’t matter if I just ate a bowl of German goulash, put bottomless popcorn in front of me and I ain’t stopping. We FaceTimed a couple of friends to break the silence of the bar and have someone to talk to besides each other for a few minutes. Later, a large rowdy group walked in and most were smoking cigarettes which never bothers me as I’ve been enough places where this is standard, but Johna was overwhelmed by the smoke. We had probably had enough to drink anyway (and more than enough popcorn for me) so we called it a night and went back to the apartment.

Tuesday morning we prepared mentally, physically and spiritually for a touristic afternoon visiting Berlin’s Museum Island. We fueled up first at Distrikt Coffee where I was eager to try the toasted brioche with berry preserves I had seen in pictures online. I don’t usually go for the uber-sweet breakfast dishes, but it looked incredible. Johna ordered the poached egg on avocado toast. The café was modern but felt stuffy. Europeans just don’t seem to need ceiling fans or air conditioning. Several times throughout our trip I pointed out to Johna a phenomena I noticed in my previous travels: Europeans don’t get hot. It can be 80 F in the afternoon, I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt with back sweat stains, and I will see men in pants, a long sleeve shirt, sweater, jacket and scarf like they are on their way to build a snowman. It’s absolutely bizzare. Ask anyone about it and the best explanation you’ll get is a shrug.

Anyway, Museum Island has five museums on the north end of an island in the Spree River in the center of the city. It was a nice day and very scenic, but Johna and I had no intention of visiting all five… we were too physically and mentally drained to take that much in, not to mention deal with crowds of people for that long. We first went to the Alte Nationalgalerie which was constructed in the vein of an ancient Greek temple and was quite beautiful inside and out. Next was the Neues Museum where we saw early history exhibits culminating in the iconic bust of the Egyptian queen Nefertiti, which was much more captivating than either of us were expecting. I’m a fan of Islamic and Middle Eastern art so we stopped in the Pergamon Museum to see some exhibits, however the museum’s ongoing construction made it feel much smaller and crowded, so we didn’t stay long.

Having checked off our culture box for the day, it was time to get back to eating and drinking. We crossed through Alexanderplatz Station (which looked nothing like what I remembered from the Bourne Supremacy movie) and continued up Karl-Liebknecht Street to Hofbräu Wirtshaus, a Bavarian-style food and beer hall. The large hall felt a bit cheesy like from a theme park or something, but the beer was good and Johna was excited to order curry wurst. We were a week or two late for Oktoberfest but this hall was massive and I’m sure a good party if we had been here sooner. But the best part was the restroom located upstairs- down the right wall was more urinals than I have ever seen in before, even more than any arena or stadium. There had to at least 20! What a brilliant consideration when building a hall who’s sole purpose is to run as much beer as possible through hundreds of thirsty Germans at a time.

Paris

Our plan for later that evening was to meet my friends Luzie and Lea for dinner. Johna and I walked down to an Italian café where they were waiting for us outside and we greeted each other with huge smiles and hugs. Luzie and Lea have been best friends for a long time, and you might think they were attached at the hip, except Lea lives in Berlin working for an online fashion company while Luzie is in Hamburg working on her Master’s degree to become a teacher. Lea is the quieter of the two, with blonde hair and chic beauty. Luzie is the fiery brunette and the wildest yet gentle person I have ever met. Together they are the most open and care free people I came across in my travels. I first met the pair on the streets of Chiang Mai, Thailand and we went out to the bars together a couple of nights in a row, staying out late and drinking like fish. After Chiang Mai I met up with them again in Laos, and then we traveled to Cambodia. All in all we spent almost three weeks together and it’s easy to say they shaped a huge chunk of what my travels mean to me. They became my travel companions and best friends at a time when a feeling of loneliness was creeping in. They initiated me so that it felt like “the three of us” rather than “Luzie & Lea… and this other guy”.

After dinner we went to a nearby bar full of German hipsters sitting around old wooden tables, with musty yellow walls stained by cigarette smoke. We relived our time in Southeast Asia and told Johna stories about the characters we met along the way. We left the bar and walked the streets for a while, ending up a nightclub called Watergate. Johna and I both wanted to have a big crazy Berlin club night like you hear stories about, but deep down we knew we didn’t have the stamina and we didn’t feel like taking the “enhancers” that would solve that issue, so this night at Watergate was the closest we got. The nightclub was pretty full considering it was the middle of the week, and they had a floating patio outside on the river. We were having a good time, but Johna and I eventually had to wave the white flag and head for home around 3 AM, leaving Luzie and Lea there to keep the party going.

Luzie texted me that next day and we met for lunch at a delicious Turkish café called Knofi on Bergmannstraße street near our apartment. This street was one of the major thoroughfares of the area and lined with interesting shops and many excellent yet casual restaurants, and it was another reason we enjoyed staying in this neighborhood so much. Luzie hadn’t gotten much sleep but wanted to hang out anyway; Lea on the other hand was in worse shape and stayed home. Valerie had the afternoon free came and joined us too. I wasn’t nervous for Luzie and Valerie to meet, but in my mind they are such different people I wasn’t sure if they would click. But I’m talking about two of the coolest women I know, and so of course I had just over-analyzed the situation and we all had an awesome afternoon together. Valerie had arrived on her bike, so Luzie, Johna and I rented city bikes and with Valerie as our guide, we rode to Tempelhof - a decommissioned airport near the center of Berlin that is now a huge park with picnic areas, communal gardens, and preserved runways perfect for the many cyclers and kite boarders we saw. The weather was perfect for relaxing outside, and so we joined many other friend groups there with their beers and portable speakers and sat in the grass and hung out. It was the golden hour just before sunset and everything radiated orange and as we chatted in the grass I thought about how lucky I was to be with these pretty girls; my friends from three different countries that were here at this park together and I got to be the common element.

The four of us were feeling good and ready for some drinks, so we got on the bikes and rode to a funky bar called Klunkerkranich on top of a parking garage above a mall. You’d never know passing on the street that such a cool (and now popular) bar was on top of this sad looking mall, but once we got up there it made sense because Klunkerkranich has the best view in Berlin. The bar was already quite full when we arrived, but not as full as it would be an hour later. They had a weird system wherein you over-paid for the drinks and then got money back when you returned all of the glasses you used. I guess it saves then on busing tables when it’s so crowded. We stayed for the sunset which was pretty epic from that rooftop- streaks of pink, yellow and blue layered above the city.

Valerie had to meet her team to work on a school project and Luzie promised to meet up with her brother and sister who both lived in Berlin also. We went our separate ways after making a plan to meet up again later at a karaoke bar with Luzie’s siblings and other friends. Johna and I returned to our apartment and rested, then left to have dinner at a Greek restaurant nearby that we had been anxious to try called Taverna Dimokritos. The food was very good and the waiters very friendly. Valerie met up with us there and we took a car to Green Mango karaoke bar which was, coincidentally, also inside of a parking garage. We walked in and were stunned- the place was huge, intentionally cheesy decor, and virtually empty except for Luzie and her crew sitting on couches around a table at the foot of the stage, laughing and carrying on like it was the best night of their lives. Clearly Johna, Valerie and I were several drinks behind this bunch, and I intended to catch up ASAP so I could think less about how odd this bar was. Anxious to sing, Valerie signed us up for a duet. She convinced me to sing “Save Tonight” by Eagle Eye Cherry with her even though we both only knew the chorus. The performance went how you might expect: muttering through the verses and busting out the chorus every time it came around, but we were cheered on enthusiastically and unconditionally by our group in the front row.  We stayed late, sang songs, and people got very drunk. It was a fun night after a really great day.

The Louvre

The next afternoon Johna stayed in bed while I went to have lunch with Luzie and some of her friends from the night before at another café on Bergmannstraße Street and nursed our hangovers. Afterwards I went back to collect Johna we went to see the East Side Gallery at the Berlin Wall. There were plenty of tourists, street vendors, and hustlers packed on the sidewalk between the Wall and the busy street of cars, so it was a lot for the senses to take in, especially with a hangover. We walked along the Wall snapped a couple of photos, then crossed back over the Spree River wandering the streets, stopping in shops (so Johna could search desperately for a German themed gift for her boyfriend), and stopping in cozy bars along the way for a beer and to rest our feet. The last bar was down a stairway from the street to the basement level where it was very dark inside but cool and comfortable. The bartender was the only other person in the place, perhaps having just opened for the evening. She greeted us, I probably said something sarcastic and the three of us immediately started joking around. She was wearing overalls, had short blue hair, and a Manchester accent I wasn’t expecting to hear a quiet bar in the center of Berlin. I told her how much I had enjoyed my time in Manchester and the amazing music I saw there. She was very nice and the three of us chatted for a while until it was dark outside. Johna and I left and took a car back to Bergmannstraße Street where we had dinner at a popular Vietnamese restaurant called Umami.

I walked Johna home and then headed back out to say my goodbyes to Luzie and Valerie since we would be leaving for Paris the next day. I arranged to meet Luzie outside her friend’s apartment that happened to be close by on Bergmannstraße. As I approached the apartment building Luzie waiting for me outside. As soon as she saw me, she started crying. She did this when we said our final goodbye in Cambodia three years earlier too. She really hates goodbyes! I hated to see her upset, I even felt guilty, but I appreciated how much seeing me meant to her. I took this trip to Europe to see these people I missed and to maintain these relationships, and it felt good- validating even- that it was the same for them. Yes, we can continue to text or call and comment on each other’s Instagram photos, but it might be another three years or more before we see one another again, and so these moments were valuable.

So there we were: a large bearded guy standing on the street with a beautiful girl, making her cry. If I hadn’t been focused on consoling her, I’m sure I would have noticed some judgmental looks from passersby. Since she was on her way to a party, Luzie had a bottle of mint Schnapps in her bag. She said we needed a shot and I agreed, so she took the bottle out and we took our last drink together. She invited me to go with her to the party, but I was on my way to go see Valerie, and so we said goodbye.

Much like the other bars I had been to in Berlin, the wine bar where I met Valerie seemed old, dark, musty, and charming… a kind of comfortable place to spend time sitting and drinking with people late at night. We ordered a glass of wine, sat at a table outside and talked for a while. Valerie is easy to talk to… she’s smart and I feel like in many ways her and I think alike, only she’s better at articulating it and so often times I’m replying “Yes, exactly! Me too!” I respect her a lot for taking control of her life by moving away from her home in Belgium, and for taking up film school. While she was walking me back to the metro station she read some lyrics she had written in preparation for a jam session with a guitarist from her film school and told me while writing them she considered how Jim Morrison’s lyrics were often based on philosophical ideas and classic literature. Damn, she’s cool.

11th Arrondissement, Paris

We enjoyed our time in Berlin, but we were looking forward to Paris. I had spent several days there on my long backpacking trip and I wasn’t overly impressed, but I felt like it was my own fault. Being in one the oldest and romanticized cities in the world alone and on a backpackers budget meant I didn’t get the Parisian experience many people imagine. When we decided to make Paris part of this trip I felt indifferent; but the closer it came the more excited I was to do Paris the right way this time. I wouldn’t be alone, I wouldn’t have the same financial restriction, and I even had a French friend there, Anna, who I had met in Morocco three years earlier. So when Johna and I left our apartment in Berlin that morning for the airport, we figured why not stop at an authentic French café nearby called Le Canapé Rouge for breakfast to get the jus-jus flowing. Inside the café there was a young French woman manning the tiny kitchen and I could tell it was the kind of place where the food was made from scratch and with some soul baked in. Johna ordered the quiche and I had the French ham and cheese sandwich… you know, the kind you dream about.

We got to the airport where a ridiculously long line to check bags was waiting for us. We had packed bags small enough to carry on the long international flights, but these intermediate budget airlines charge you for practically everything larger than a fanny pack. When we finally got to the counter, the attendant told us that we had not paid for one of the bags and so we would have to pay another 60 Euros! For one bag! Well not only did I know for a fact she was wrong, but she had picked the two worst red blooded Americans to try this stunt on. And just our luck, she was the first person in Germany we had come across who didn’t speak English. Finally I got her to call over an attendant who did speak English and he took one look at our tickets, then her computer screen and pointed out her mistake. I thanked him and we headed for our gate, but I made sure to point out to Johna, “see how easy that was once we got a man involved?” because I know she loves it when I make sexist jokes. Or not.

When we landed at Orly Airport in Paris I explained to Johna the metro route we would have to take to get to our AirBnB in the 11th Arrondissement. Johna, who was sick of navigating trains at this point, waved the white flag and offered to cover an Uber to the apartment rather than deal with the hassle. We got to the apartment but I needed WiFi to message the host we had arrived, so we went to an appealing café on the corner called La Belle Équipe where we sat at a small table outside facing the street (as you do in Paris) and ordered our first cheese plate, which was quite good.

There was a gay American couple next to us: an older white guy and an overweight black guy. Somebody overheard somebody complain about Trump, and the large guy and Johna briefly commiserated. I agreed, but had no desire whatsoever to talk about that while on vacation in Paris. Next thing you know, a young American woman walked up and sarcastically said to him “Don’t I know you?!” which implied they did in fact know each other. He loudly bit back “Excuse me! No you do not know me! You are staying next to me but we do not know each other! Now you go have your vacation and I’ll have mine!”  Johna and I laughed, thinking they must have been friends and he was joking with her, but the girl ran off inside the café and he informed us emphatically that he did not know this girl and she was merely his neighbor at their AirBnB. They apparently had a run-in earlier where the girl asked him how much he paid for his AirBnB which he found highly offensive and had no problem making his feelings known. He was kind of an asshole.

We went to our apartment which was large and comfortable, although I would have a hell of a time over the next three days getting the keys to cooperate on both the apartment door and hallway door. It’s like it was cursed. If you want to see me get pissed off, give me a cursed door key.

My friend back home, Roxy, had recommended a small family restaurant in the 1st Arrondissement next to Palais Royal called Juveniles and so a couple of weeks earlier I made a reservation for Johna and I for dinner our first night in Paris. We took the metro to the Opéra station (note: the metro is much slower in Paris than in London and Berlin… there seem to me more stops closer together, and less stations to change lines) and as we walked up the steps to exit the station, I told Johna to wait until she got to the very top before turning around. Being back in Paris, so many things immediately felt familiar to me, more so than in London, and I remembered that once we reached the top of those steps, the Opera House would be directly behind us spectacularly lit up against the black night sky. We walked to the restaurant and in passing I caught a glimpse of Harry’s New York Bar – a famous Hemingway haunt that I wanted to see but we didn’t have time to go in for a drink, and anyway I was worried it would be more of a tourist trap than anything else these days, so I was content to leave it to the imagination. We found Juveniles and were squeezed through to our table. The dining room was the about half the size of my one bedroom apartment and packed full with about 20 people. The walls were lined with wine racks and the heat from the kitchen floated through the restaurant. The food on the other tables was mouth-watering. If I see duck breast on a menu at a nice restaurant I have to order it, and they did indeed have duck breast on the menu. Johna ordered a cauliflower soup which sounded odd to me but was delicious, and chicken terrine. We weren’t exactly sure what terrine was, but decided to go for it. When it was served, we both made a disappointed face because it didn’t look very appetizing- somewhere between a foie gras and a pâté-  but it tasted excellent and I’d definitely order it again.

The Louvre wasn’t far from where we were, so after dinner we walked down Rue de Richelieu, passed underneath the Richelieu wing and into the plaza. The Louvre Pyramid glowed with white light from within the glass walls and the surrounding museum wings were displayed with spotlights all around. We took our time walking around the Pyramid and gazing up at the museum’s architecture. Like so many of the grand museums of Europe, the Louvre began as a fortress many centuries ago, then evolved into a palace growing and changing all the time based on who was in power, and finally into a museum once palaces became obsolete. In short, the museum is stunning and something I could never grow tired of looking at- especially lit up at night without the crowds and noise. Some might even say it’s romantic.

My Québécoise friend, Stéphanie, whom I met on the coast of Portugal on my 28th birthday, had spent a lot of time in Paris over the last couple of years and gave me some recommendations on places to go, one of which was a fun cocktail bar called Bluebird near our apartment, so we headed there. The decor reminded me of a cool take on a 1950s lounge and the bartenders were all enthusiastic, bald Italian men. We sat at the bar and I ordered interesting-sounding whiskey cocktails and Johna drank champagne. The lively Saturday night crowd ebbed freely in and out; it was a social atmosphere, like everyone was friends inside this bar whether you actually knew each other or not.

Au petit Panisse, Paris

The next morning I woke up and my body was speaking to me, and what it was saying was “Ow.” I practiced some yoga for a while and felt like a new person afterwards… twenty minutes of yoga first thing in the morning can give you a completely new outlook on the day when you are worn and weary from traveling. Write that down. First item on the agenda that day was to go just around the corner to a place I was dying to visit, Le Pure Cafe. A scene from one of my favorite and most influential films- Before Sunset - was filmed there and I was anxious to cross another location from the “Before” trilogy off of my list (check out my movie post). Le Pure is like a time machine to an early 1900s Parisian brasserie and certainly feels like one the more historical and authentic places in the city. It’s red facade juts out into the street, serving as the prominent face to a fork in the road and looked like it was on an island. We went inside and sat at a table near the back where the film scene was shot. We ordered a coffee but were told by the apathetic waiter that to sit there, we must order the Sunday brunch special which was quite expensive and not altogether enticing. The weird part was, there was almost no one else inside, so telling up to move seemed rather pointless. Anyway, we moved over to the bar to order a coffee, drank it, and then left in search of a more attractive menu.

It was a pleasant day to walk the streets of Paris- about 75 degrees and sunny- but we were starving. We drifted deeper into the neighborhood and saw Au Petit Panisse (Le PP, for short) on the corner of rue de Montreuil and rue Titon with open walls guarded by two-person tables down both sides so that guests could enjoy (or be annoyed by) the sun while eating. It looked like a very nice spot and we were definitely through walking, so we pounced on the only empty table available.

A young man rushed over and greeted us, then swung out a large black sheet metal board and rested it against the bicycles and cars opposite us. On the board was the day’s menu with a lot of French words I had not seen before. We essentially ordered blind but we were not disappointed- Johna’s plate was halved hardboiled eggs topped with fish eggs, mayonnaise and cauliflower shavings. Mine was a fish pie- white fish mixed into mashed potatoes and then baked. Between the amazing food, wine and sunshine Johna and I were in hog heaven. We ordered a cheese plate for dessert, then paid our waiter and thanked him. We continued on foot to a place called Le Baron Rouge near the street market, a popular informal weekend hangout spot thanks to its wide array of cheap wine from the barrel, delicious snacks, and sense of comradery. With the inside full, people casually flowed out the door onto the sidewalk where people chatted with each other and drank their wine. The primary demographic was a laid-back older crowd; locals from the neighborhood who had lived there since before hipsters began taking over the 11th Arrondissement. It would have been a smart place to set up for the afternoon, but we didn’t stay long and instead took the metro to see the Eiffel Tower.

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, so naturally the Eiffel Tower was swarmed with tourists. Unfortunately the park Champ de Mars park often filled with loungers in the grass was fenced off, so instead the foot paths on either side were full of people trying to get their picture taken with the Tower in the background. If you enjoy watching people take ridiculous posed photos in front of iconic places, this was the perfect place. An old Hispanic couple asked me in Spanish if I would take their picture which of course I did, and then I asked them if they would take our picture and they did. We continued on, stopping for another cheese plate and wine, and made our way back to the apartment.

That night we were both in the mood for a taste of home- something spicy and familiar. I knew from my research that there was a cool Mexican taqueria nearby called Candelaria, so we decided to go there for dinner. The restaurant was extremely tiny, able to accommodate eight or ten people at a time. We waited a few minutes and then ate at the counter. The food was fine… it accomplished the goal we had hoped, but more than the food I enjoyed hearing the staff toggle effortlessly between French, Spanish and English, and seeing how well I could keep up. The real draw to this taqueria was that behind the unmarked door in the back was a secret bar, so after we ate we passed through into a much larger space, dimly lit with music playing and a large crowd of people. We stayed for one drink but were too tired for a place with nowhere to sit, so we left.

We walked south towards Place de la Bastille. In the weeks before this trip I had searched desperately for a bar near Bastille that I really enjoyed my first time to Paris. I remembered the name was something like “Cassette” perhaps, but I couldn’t track it down no matter how much I dug around on Google Maps. At this point I knew we were close but I wasn’t sure I could sniff it out and I didn’t want to drag Johna around on a scavenger hunt knowing she was tired. But Johna was a trooper and said “No, you should try to find it! I mean, we’re here!” So with that I stuck my nose in the air and kept sniffing (not literally). One of the streets off the roundabout looked familiar and so I said, “Let’s go this way.” The further down the street we got, the more it was coming back to me and about a block and a half down Rue de la Roquette I saw a bar that looked eerily familiar but was a different color scheme and missing the name across the awning I remembered being there. I squinted my eyes in suspicion, looked around, and walked inside. I asked the bartender inside the name of the place and he replied sternly, “Baroom.” I immediately asked him how long it had been called Baroom and he said a year and a half, so I asked if he knew what the name had been before. “Tape Room,” he said. Not Cassette, but Tape Room! This was the place! He pointed over my shoulder on the wall behind me where there was a small tape logo left in tribute. We stayed a while, sitting outside and having a few beers, content I found this place which I often thought about when I reflected on my time in Paris more than three years before.

Eiffel Tower, Paris

While Johna was getting ready the next day I had lunch down on the corner at La Belle Equipe. I ordered a Swordfish tartare with fries and it was excellent. Johna and I then walked to Gare de Lyon to buy her a Chunnel train ticket back to London the next day so that she could catch her flight home. We were stunned to see the 185 Euro price tag, but there was really no other choice. I also needed to get back to London to fly home a couple of days later, but seeing the cost of that train ticket I figured I might as well wait and see if I could get a flight to London for less money, which I did.

From there we walked along the Seine River, passing Notre Dame a safe distance from the swarms of tourists and stopped in at a wine and cheese shop I had scouted out called 5ème Cru near the Latin Quarter. The place was cozy and warm, like going to your friend’s grandmother’s house if her walls were lined with wine racks. There was a table with a few classy older ladies and 5ème Cru seemed to be there regular meeting spot. Our waiter was a friendly young man and I enjoyed once again getting to practice my French as he did not speak English. We ordered a cheese plate and some rosé. Johna and I played cards and relaxed. The shop was apparently closing for the afternoon, but we were told we could stay as long as we liked. 

After leaving the shop we continued walking, not sure what to do next. My last time in Paris I remember having a similar issue one day when I was out exploring the city with a girl I had met there in my hostel, so I suggested to Johna what that girl had suggested to me- “Why don’t we buy a bottle of wine and go sit at the Luxembourg Garden?” Johna didn’t know what the Luxembourg Garden was but it sounded like a good enough plan to her, and I knew it would be more beautiful than she was expecting.

Situated behind the 17th century Palais du Luxembourg, the Garden is a large public park with a beautiful fountain and immaculate landscaping. All types of Parisians and tourists come here to relax in the sun, read, play games, and hang out with friends. It’s the perfect thing to do on a beautiful day when you have nothing to do. We drank and played cards until our feet were rested and the wine was gone.

We headed up Rue Vavin and Johna did some shopping, ultiamtely ending up at Le Select for a drink which was another popular Hemingway haunt that I wanted to see since it was featured in ‘The Sun Also Rises’ and that happened to be the book I was reading at the time.

Johna told me she wanted a really French meal for her last dinner in Paris and I suggested we return to Le PP since we both enjoyed it so much for brunch the first time. She agreed, and so we made the trek back to the 11th Arrondissement. In the evening the outside tables were removed and so we sat inside, still with the walls open to the street. The interior had a very authentic rustic charm. Our waitress was a young, fun girl and we could tell we would enjoy having her around. It was a calm Monday evening with only a handful of other guests inside. We weren’t starving so we decided to share a French take on bangers and mash and a bottle of white wine. The food was phenomenal and every bite tasted like we were trying it for the first time. One could argue this had something to do with how much wine we had drank by that point, but I would say that perception is reality, so who cares? When we had cleaned the plate, I was very full and content. The waitress came over and Johna asked, “Can we have another one of those?” The waitress looked confused as did I.
”Johna, we don’t need another one! That was plenty!” I said.
”No, it was SO good. I want another one.” Well, when in Paris, I suppose. So the waitress, still a bit surprised, walked off to put in our order. And wouldn’t you know it, we finished the entire second plate just as we had done the first and it was just as delicious. All that was left was dessert which for some reason we decided was a good idea and we ordered a piece of cheesecake to share (we didn’t order seconds that time).

We left Le PP full, happy, and drunk and went home. And then Johna tried to check in for her flight….

It was an unbelievable ordeal. The website wouldn’t let her check in online, so she called British Airways. Essentially they had cancelled her flight and never notified her, but told her she would have to pay for a new ticket if she wanted to fly home. After about 30 minutes of listening to the back and forth on speakerphone I interjected, and now the British Airways call center person had both of us furious and tag-teaming demands for a resolution while drunk at midnight in our apartment. The whole call lasted two hours and required three British Airways employees to finally relent and give Johna a new flight with no charge. She actually got a flight out of Paris the next morning instead of having to travel to London first which was much simpler, although now she had a 185 Euro Chunnel ticket and no time to try to return it before her flight. That part stung a little.

Paris

Johna woke up early the next day and left for the airport at 9 AM to head back home to Austin. I was disappointed to see her go because we had shared and laughed a lot and I appreciated having a fun trip companion. But I was also excited to have an entire day to myself to do whatever little thing I felt like doing; any detour or direction I wanted to take I could do it and not have to consider anyone else. Not that it’s some huge burden or anything, but I still wanted to take advantage of the time alone. I packed my bags since I was going to stay at my friend Anna’s apartment that night instead of the AirBnB, and I went for a coffee at La Belle Equipe. Having a cafe or bar you genuinely enjoy on your street corner- whether at home or while on vacation- is truly one of the best things in life.

I walked through a large street market full of fresh produce stalls with more brightly colored tomatoes, mushrooms, berries and flowers than probably any other market I have ever seen. The street was full of local people, yet it was still calm and enjoyable. I eyed a deli behind a flower stand being run by some older women, slid through the awnings and into the shop. I ordered some nice prosciutto and I-don’t-know-what-kind-of cheese from a beautiful caramel-skinned French girl, picked up a couple of mini beers and took my makeshift lunch to the Coulée verte René-Dumont- an abandoned elevated railway that had been transformed into a lush green park with a walking trail. I walked the length of the old line, passing by several Parisians enjoying their lunch away from the office, joggers, and older people taking a casual stroll. At the end below me was a small field that looked like an ideal spot to eat the lunch I had been carrying for the past 45 minutes. I went down and sat in the grass under the shade of the footbridge above me and unwrapped my meat and cheese. Scattered throughout the field there was an old man doing yoga, a young woman sun-bathing in her underwear, and a large group of people sitting in a circle eating lunch together. The weather was sunny and perfect and I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time.

I continued wandering through the city admiring the architecture and cafes and imagined what it would be like to live in such a different and beautiful city like this. I stopped at a modern pizzeria called Gemma to rest my feet and have a beer. I sat at the counter alone while the waiters and waitresses ebbed back and forth dropping off orders and picking up drinks. One of the owners and I chatted in between orders using a mix of French/Spanish/Italian/English in order to make it through the conversation. He was from Sicily and had lived in Paris for about 20 years. He gave me a bowl of olives to snack on while I drank my beer. I thanked him for his hospitality and left. It was really the perfect afternoon.

Now the only plan for the rest of the day was to continue this streak of enjoyment and relaxation. I eventually ended up back at La Belle Equipe where I had a few beers and read until it was time to collect my bag from the AirBnB. I rode the metro to the 2nd Arrondissement where Anna lived. There were many cafes and bars, all brightly lit up, loud, and crowded with young people in their late teen and early twenties. It was certainly a popular area, but I was thankful Johna and I chose to stay in the 11th where the trendy yet laid back neighborhood vibe suited us better.

I met Anna in Essaouira, Morocco in July 2015 when I was just a month or two into my long backpacking trip. Essaouira is a small city on the Atlantic coast and I was looking forward to its more chilled out atmosphere compared to the other places in Morocco I had visited. Anna was traveling with a friend and it turned out we were on the same bus from Marrakesh. When we got off the bus we started walking in the same direction… and continued taking the same turns which made me feel awkward because it might have seemed like I was a creep following these two young white women through the winding streets of the city. As it turned out, we had reservations at the same hostel. We both planned to stay in Essaouira for three days and spent most of our time there together. Anna was studying abroad in Marrakesh at the time and living in her father’s boyfriend’s house in the city center, so when we returned, she offered me a place to stay there, which I did (the house was so badass, by the way). We had kept in touch here and there over the next three years and I still have the postcards that she sent me from France and Uruguay.

Her apartment was inside the Vivienne Gallery, a network of indoor passageways built in the 19th century full of shops and restaurants. We entered from Rue Montmartre and she opened a large metal black door at the end of the hall, leading me up an old wooden spiral staircase three floors to a small hallway with low ceilings and windows overlooking the adjacent rooftops. We dropped off our bags in her apartment and then went out for dinner at a restaurant she liked about a 30 minute walk away. She told me about her work and how much she loved visiting Los Angeles; we talked about our families and how we’ve both managed to avoid serious relationships the past few years. We took our time walking back to the gallery where we met three of her friends at a wine bar. They were all artists of one form or another but very different personalities- the feminist, the hippie, and the Andy Warhol look alike- they were debating differences between men and women and if money is what really influences art. The goal seemed more about getting laugh or a reaction out of the others than anything else, which is the way it should be when you’re talking with good friends late at night with plenty of wine.

I woke up the next morning on the pullout sofa bed and packed my bag since I would be flying back to London later that afternoon. Anna had already left for work, so I wrote her a thank you note and left the apartment. I walked down to the Palais Royal Garden and at the north end was another place my friend Stéphanie had recommended, Café Kitsune. I ordered a coffee and a piece of lemon cake that must have been made by angels and sat in the garden- a peaceful, secret enclosure from the street traffic and tourist crowds on the other side of its walls.

With no plans that afternoon until my flight, I wandered around the neighborhood hoping I might stumble across something really interesting and unexpected that would fill my time. Maybe there was a restaurant just around the next corner with a lunch dish that would inspire me to move to Paris and go to culinary school. Maybe there was some exhibit that would expose me to a new kind of art, thereby expanding my conceptualization of the world. Or maybe there was a comfortable bar with cheap wine and a pretty bartender with long dark hair and big eyes who found me intriguing. Shockingly, none of these happened. Instead I meandered through the streets passing an unprecedented amount of restaurants and saw the staff inside each one hustling to prepare for the noon lunch rush. All at once the empty streets filled with people heading out to eat, and I joined some of them at a Sri Lankan restaurant called Kanna Tanna. It was quite full but I was able to grab the last empty table and ordered a Biryani dish that I presumed would keep me full for the rest of the day until I got to London.

I headed out to the train station that would take me to Charles de Gaulle Airport and got lucky this time: the train took just 30 minutes, and getting through the baggage check and security lines at the airport was almost a pleasant experience compared to the considerably annoying trials Johna and I dealt with before. I landed in London and took the tube to Victoria Station, arriving just in time for the 6 o’clock Central London rush which is something I recommend avoiding if you can. I made it through the massive funnel of people taking the stairs down to the platform and squeezed onto the Victoria Line train so full it was like one of those Japanese subway videos you see with people packed in like cattle at the slaughter house. I had arranged to stay at my friend Ben’s house on the outskirts of the city that night before flying home to Austin the following day, so I rode out to Walthamstow Station and waited for Ben across the street at Goose Pub. He showed up soon after, having just come from a playing a football (soccer) league game. We had a couple of pints then moved on to Queens Arms Pub where we could get some dinner along with a couple of more pints. We talked for two hours straight about everything we could think of going on in our lives, and it reminded me of our time in Croatia- how well we got on there and how I had really appreciated having a travel buddy I could depend on. Ben had a work phone call at 11 PM that night with his boss back in New Zealand and I had to get up early in the morning anyway so we headed to his house. Ben’s neighborhood was definitely the most residential area I had seen in London. The brown brick row houses reminded me some of Privet Drive where Harry Potter grew up with his room in the cupboard under the stairs. We went inside and said good night, Ben going to his room upstairs, and me going to the spare room downstairs.

I woke up at 7:45 AM the next day, got ready, went upstairs to Ben’s room to tell him thanks and goodbye, and then joined many locals walking to the train station on their way to work and school, but I was headed to Heathrow Airport.

Coulée Verte René-Dumont, Paris

On the journey home back to Austin I reflected on the trip. I had even more fun than I was expecting… amazing food, perfect weather, tons of walking, and I got to spend a great deal of real quality time with the people I took the trip to see.

In addition, Johna and I had a great time together. I had felt some (self-induced) pressure as the one left to plan everything and being the one with the relevant experience- like I’m always making decisions for both of us and therefore responsible for how much fun she would have, and if this experience which she will remember forever met her expectations. But Johna trusted me and my plan, and she adapted well along the way.

Two weeks of constantly being tied to the same person can create some moments of tension at the very least, but we knew that going in and we both handled those moments well. Having been such close friends for so long, we already knew each other well enough to know how to handle these moments. More importantly, we laughed so much together, had fun every single day, and I appreciated having her to share the many good and some difficult moments which inevitably come when traveling abroad. Perhaps it brought us even closer since we can always reminisce taking this trip together. I got such a kick out of introducing her to Ben, Libby, Valerie, Luzie & Lea… my travel friends, and getting to share with Johna this side of me and where I’ve been that- as close as we are- she could not have seen any other way.

Le Palais Royal, Paris

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