A reason to write and to roam.

The first time I went to Europe I did so with my friend buddy Kevin. Kevin was a pudgy, dim-witted but altruistic person who had chosen to accompany me more out of boredom than out of adventurous spirit.

We first arrived in London, U.K. after a eight hour flight. The morning brought the bureaucratic mess of Stansted Airport, before dropping us, sleep deprived, in downtown London. We were too tired to understand the Englishmen`s accent and too wired to sleep.

Our European journey thrust us through a never ending series of trains, buses, and ferries. Despite our better efforts, we were somehow continually drawn back to Paris. We arrived in Paris on five separate occasions, only one of which was planned.

The first time we went to the "City of Lights" we did so after jumping the gun while staying in an illegal hostel owned by a eastern European ex-pat. We decided that Paris was the best option for two twenty year old Anglo-Canadians. We assured each other that France would hold beautiful women, incredible wine and food beyond our North American palette's comprehension.

Paris lived up to it's hype - it was one of the most amazing cities I have had the pleasure of tasting. Paris was the original New York City; the blueprint upon which the entire idea of the grand, urban metropolis that is N.Y.C. was based on. It's winding streets and haphazard avenues stole my heart. We left Paris fed, watered and happy, but it wouldn't be long before we found ourselves back there.

We were on a train, Kevin and I, from Spain to Holland. It was a long ride and somewhere near the border of Spain and France a man boarded. He was tall, built like a young man who enjoys his steak and his ale. His shaved head made me think of the football hooligans my parents had warned me about before I left.

The man sat down in front of us, opened a can of obscure, cheap, English beer and proceeded to sip it while nodding off.

Kevin and I thought nothing of him, after all it was a long trip, that was until the stewards came along to check tickets. When they arrived at the sleeping man, they asked for his ticket. No response. They asked again. No response. Eventually they called paramedics, who failed to rouse the man despite slapping him across the face. He was dead. Our train halted, at three a.m. Stopped, indefinitely.

We walked out of the car into the cool, autumn air, the City of Lights laying before us, greeting us like an old girlfriend who had seduced us into one last tryst.