The Blazing Summer in Paris: Meeting Unique People, Food, Drink, and Art.

I looked at the Mona Lisa for the second time in my life, and I had the same thought when I looked at it 22
years ago: What's so special about this painting? There were so many people crowded around her, all wanting to selfie with her. I wasn't that interested. To be honest, the Mona Lisa looked more like a man than a woman to me. And apparently, the Daily Mail also thinks so. Anyways, I think the most beautiful girl at the Louvre is the Mysterious Antea from Naples, featured below.

It was fun to be in the Louvre again. I bought the virtual guided tour, and they give you this Nintendo DS. It's like a Nintendo Game Boy, to use, to navigate through the place. 

I felt like a kid being in the Louvre again. It's so huge, and it feels like a labyrinth. I could only stay for four hours though. Otherwise, I feel too overwhelmed. You can't do the Louvre in one day, and I wasn't coming back on this trip. I was arted out.

I will have to say, I spent a good amount of time studying the golden symmetry and proportions of the art. What you notice about the masters is that they mastered the skill of proportion, which is the same as beauty. I try to design all of my aquariums with the same type of symmetry, but it takes work and time

Paris was hot and sweltering in September. The locals told me it was unusual. When you exited the shower, the sweat stuck to your skin. Passion and excitement were in the air in Paris.

* * * 

Over 20 years ago, I was in Paris. I told myself I would never come back. I was studying my physics, then, in the South of England, and we all took a trip to Paris for three days. I was too poor back then to take a plane ride to Paris; so, we took some ferry across the English channel. A number of us got seasick.

It was raining. The French were mean and told me to go back to my country, because I couldn't speak French. I told myself these were the nastiest people I ever met and was never coming back to France, let alone Paris.

And yet, I gave France another chance back in 2012, when I lectured at the law school in Aix-en-Provence. I'm glad I did. The people were amazing. And I certainly fell in love with the country and people when I was living in the Alps. I learned French then, because no one spoke English there.

I have to say that Hemingway is right that there's no place like Paris, even though they still have some of the most inhospitable people one can find. I think the one thing that Paris does, unlike any other city, is that it brings special people together. The other two things are the art and food.

I sat down at a cafe near the Notre Dame Cathedral, which was still being rebuilt. I spoke French to the waiter. On the left were English people. On my right were Germans. I spoke to the Germans in German. The gentleman was an older man with a mustache. Retired, maybe, or could be. Him and his group push biked from Cologne to Paris. People looked surprise that I could speak in German, French, and English. I was the strangest Asian guy they met. Like I said - Paris brings everyone together.

While I looking at the River Seine, I had a glass of Cote Du Rhone. The English guy on my right was actually a Member of Parliament. That's the equivalent of an American senator. He told me he wanted to become the Prime Minister. He broke his arm a lot for some reason.

We chatted about this and that. I wonder who the German was and what he did. He just told me liked the cheese and potatoes and his beer tasted good.

On another day, I sat at another cafe by a museum. There was an old obese American guy chatting up a 60 year old art expert. The American guy was trying to have a mistress in Paris. She was elegant and spoke English with the coolest French accent. She reminded me of the actress Helen Mirren.

And then on another day, I sat at another cafe and ordered a glass of champagne. The couple on the left were Dutch. So was the guy on my right. I greeted them in Dutch. I know a few words. I had a Dutch boss once. We got along really well.

The Dutch couple on the left, older, told me they took a carriage ride from Amsterdam to Paris with four horses. They dressed up in a proper morning coats and lady outfits. The woman said she waved to everyone coming down to Paris, and she felt like a queen for day.

The waitress was impressed I could order in French. She said my pronunciation was very good. Later a young guy and girl replaced the Dutch older couple. They were locals. And the guy was in love. And the girl was shy. And it was so nice to watch them on a hot summer's day.

***

I can't say everyone I met was pleasant. We had these two Vietnamese Americans who never traveled before at our hostel. The girl was probably 18-22. The father was 35-40. The girl said she was wild for sex and practiced lots of it. Safely - of course. Did I really want to know that?

They looked more like a couple then parent and child. In fact, they also acted that way. They were selfish and awful and unpleasant.

Well, they were civil enough in the beginning. But they liked to club and make a big raucous when they came back from clubbing, waking everyone up. They had no respect for other people's space, as their stuff was everywhere - like a messy teenager's room.

And they hogged up the fan too. Remember; I told you it was boiling hot. 

The day they left, I almost told them, "I"m so happy you're leaving. Good riddance to bad rubbish." But I controlled myself. But I didn't want to. I wanted to tell them. And badly too.

* * *

I stayed by the main train station, at a hostel called Saint Christopher. There was a young women receptionist by the name of Ruth. She was the sweetest soul. Her smile always brightened my day. She told me her father was Italian and fell in love with her Brazilian mother in the Amazon. She had a European passport and came to Paris to better her French. She always provided great instructions around the city.

Where we were at, the residents were mainly black Africans. They gambled outside, screaming and hooting at wins and losses. I ate at a chicken restaurant there. The food was amazing. The chicken was spicy with an African kick. Tasted like jerk. The Africans told me they were mainly from Cameroon or the Ivory Coast. Like in the United States, I noticed that they were mainly the manual labor in Paris. 

I invited a white guy at the hostel to eat with me there. His name was Patrick. He was scared at first of the different culture. I told him to relax and sit down and eat. He did. He agreed that the food was amazing.

* * *

One night at the hostel, there was a big rugby match against France and New Zealand. The streets were flooded with people. You couldn't find a seat at any nearby bar. 

Patrick replaced the annoying father and son duo. Patrick was from New Zealand. I could tell he didn't travel much. He asked me to go with him to meet Kiwis at the Rugby World Cup. I don't know why, but I wasn't in the mood.

Instead, I walked to a local bar. I sat down by myself with my book - A Moveable Feast. I ordered a glass wine. Cote du Rhone, again. A graceful woman came and introduced herself as Lucy. I don't think I was going to be reading my book. 

We talked. She was an art curator. She practiced her English with me, which was very good, and she knew it. She told me where to eat and what museums to see. Lucy said the best French restaurant was around the corner, but that I needed a reservation. It was always booked.

* * *

The next afternoon, I walked to this restaurant, which was booked. The owner said that there wasn't going to be a space open until next week. I told him I was leaving soon, though, and I had to eat here. I spoke to him in French and asked him to please give me a seat. He took pity on me. He said, "Now then. I'll sit you now."

I said, "Yes." I ordered fried breaded lamb sweetbreads. That's lamb pancreas. I ordered it with red wine and had their creme brûlée. It was excellent. Crispy on the outside and meaty and soft on the inside. It washed down well with the silky wine.

I told the owner that the food was excellent, and I needed to come back. He said he had no space for dinner, but he would make room, just for me. I thanked him again.

Later, towards the evening, I went back to my hostel room and saw Patrick in bed. He said he didn't feel well from the Rugby event yesterday. I felt bad he wasn't seeing much of Paris. I asked if he'd like to walk with me to Montmartre, which is a large hill in Paris, which has a cathedral on top. He agreed. 

So, we took a 40 minute walk through the back streets of Paris. Patrick told me about his life. He was on his overseas experience. He broke up with his partner. They were saving for a house. Now he had money for a trip. He was a surveyor. And living in the United Kingdom.

When we went to Montmartre, it was full of people. People everywhere sitting on the hill, overlooking the City underneath the expansive pink and red and orange sunset sky. Patrick and I went to the cathedral inside, which was exquisite and ornate. I actually liked the cathedral there better than when I visited the Notre Dame.

After spending time there, I asked Patrick if he wanted to eat at the French restaurant I made a reservation at earlier. He said yes, and we walked hurriedly back to the train station area.

The host was fine I had another person there, even though he was booked. We ordered cockles and wine. I had cuttlefish in mustard champagne sauce. It was amazing. Patrick ordered a red meat dish. And Patrick agreed the food was amazing.

I thanked the host again. The waiter was so happy and thrilled and gave me the warmest hug. I hope I could see the two of them again.

After eating, we returned to our room and there was a new guest. He was from Tibet. He told us some a harrowing story. This guy put up a poster of freeing Tibet. The Chinese government found out. They started hunting him down. He hired a coyote and escaped to Nepal. And from there, they forged him a passport to seek asylum in Paris.

He was a very kind person, and I welcomed him to the Western World. He spoke good English. I told him his courage was very impressive and thanked him for telling his story, which I'm retelling to a limited version here.

* * *

And that was it. The next day, I took the train from the central train station to the airport. I just made it to my flight back to Los Angeles. The flight attendant was excellent in finding a lost phone, I dropped between the seats on Air Tahiti Nui.

On the plane, I was processing my entire summer trip of 2023. There were definitely some big themes to it. I think they were, hospitality; North and South (I kept going up and down on this trip); and new people and what they represent.

A friend picked me up at the bus stop near home. I brought him some fried chicken from the African restaurant. And I shared that food with him. And after he ate it and enjoyed it, I realized that the Moveable Feast was over. It'll come again.

* * *

Merry Christmas everyone! And Happy New Year!

Communion in Dusseldorf: Receiving the Blessing of the Movable Feast

I prayed that the Spirit of the Lord Jesus join us to eat and drink with us, as he did with his disciples before his death, over 2000 years ago. I held the cup of Greek red wine and asked the Lord to transform it into Jesus' blood. I asked Henrik to join me. We touched the bread. We asked the Lord to transform it into Jesus' body, which was broken for us.

We confessed our sins to one another. I asked if Henrik needed to forgive anyone. I certainly did. It's good to let go and not be bitter.

We then gave thanks for what we were grateful for in our lives. I drank the wine. I tore the bread with my teeth. I handed the wine to Henrik, "The blood of Christ, spilt for you." I handed the bread to Henrik and said, "The body of Christ, broken for you."

After praying and drinking and eating, the Lord's spirit joined us to celebrate, after all Jesus was and is the King of rest and feasting. The room glowed brighter with a heavenly light. A sense of supernatural peace filled the room and kissed my soul. Time froze and flowed into eternity. An understanding of God's truth and love lingered in our hearts. I didn't know it then, but I received the blessing of the Movable Feast.

* * *

From Crete, I found a $74 flight to Dusseldorf, Germany, which took a threeand-a-half-hour, which included the luggage fee. Luckily, my friend Henrik was in town. I haven't seen him since 2016. We celebrated Christmas then.

Henrik was very hospitable and met me at the airport, where he took me to his home. The first thing about coming into Dusseldorf I noticed was that it was much more of a modern and industrious country than Greece. For instance, Henrik was talking about his job with the German stock market and how he was challenging share prices of the corporation. Only in the First World, do people discuss such things.

He treated me to dinner at a biergarten (beer garden) the first night. I had a schnitzel in a cream and mushroom sauce. We chatted about his life, his wife, his child, and his problems with church. I told him I had problems with church. I actually met him through a friend at a church I used to attend in Los Angeles. 

Henrik was really good about helping me sort out the rest of the trip and finding me a train ticket to Paris from Dusseldorf. I was going to take the speed train out of Dusseldorf to Paris. Henrik was excited for him, because he said the Thalys Train was an exciting ride.

During the day in Dusseldorf, I went to the bookstore to have coffee and write and read. I was still processing my incredible time in Greece.

The next night, Dusseldorf was warm. And Henrik showed me around downtown and taught me the history of the city. Dusseldorf has this huge modern clock tower, which displays the time like a digital watch. It's located near the ancient part of town. It really sends a message about the future and past coming together.

After eating döner kebabs (Turkish meat sandwich) and seeing the city, we partook in communion together, the ancient Christian ritual that we're commanded to do. It was amazing that me as a Korean-American and a German, who are separated by 5,482 miles, can practice the same ritual and experience God's goodness, as it was done over 2,000 years ago.

* * *

I was running late to get the 6-o'clock train to Paris. We went to the nearest supermarket, but there was only one cashier and a long line. I needed some food for my four hour journey. Some young Arab teenagers saw I was in a rush. I let them know I had a train to Paris. They insisted I cut in front of them. They had the warmest smiles and most welcoming attitude. They knew they were helping me on my journey forth. A bitter German lady behind them didn't seem too happy though.

Outside, it was 5pm. The sky was bright blue and the sun was full and it was hot. Henrik took me all the way to the train station. The Thalys Train was a bright ruby red.

I found my seat. We put my luggage in. Henrik stayed with me until the train departed. He started running with the train. It was very kind of him. I watched Henrik, until he disappeared from my window. At first he was at the right side of the window, and as the train outpaced him, he slid more left and left, until he disappeared.

* * *

I was thinking about the blessing of the movable feast on my train ride. What's a movable feast? The most important Jewish and Christian holidays, Passover and Easter, are movable feasts. They are celebrated on a different day each year. 

Most people probably think of blessing as wealth, health, and success. But I realized I was receiving a different blessing, one that celebrated life, hospitality, and eating and drinking. Life became one celebration, because there are times to celebrate. People who say religion is a set of rules don't understand that the Christian God is one of festivals, partying, and passion.

And the feast was movable. It was going with me to Paris. And I was going to invite others to join and celebrate and enjoy. I had a movable feast experience once in Stockholm, Sweden.

I realized now that the Movable Feast goes where the Spirit of the Lord is. And the time and place and people will change. But the spirit of celebration and joy is always the same, if you can catch and experience it.

* * *

While riding the train, I passed through Cologne and saw the Gothic cathedral out of the window. I spoke to the conductor in German. When they changed conductors, I spoke to him in French. I spoke on my cell phone in English, catching up with people back home. The train was going at 186 miles per hour. The people around me must have thought I was the strangest Asian guy.

There was fast WiFi onboard. I could see why Henrik said it was an enjoyable experience. It was faster than airplane, because you would have to check in and out. You have fast WiFi. You have a lot of space and a comfortable seat. And you get dropped off directly in the center of the city, instead of having to find transportation from the airport back into the city.

In the train, I switched out my reading books. I put in my luggage the book on a confederate war general. I pulled out of my luggage Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast.

My train arrived at the (in)famous Gare Du Nord station in central Paris. When I exited the station, the streets smelled like urine. Everyone outside was from Africa, and there was no white people at Garde Du Nord at night, outside the train station. If you didn't know it was Paris, you would have thought you were in a capital city in Africa. I walked my way to my hostel with my luggage. 

I made it to Paris. The last time I was here was over 22 years ago.

Sailing to Santorini and Visiting the Hotel Remezzo

When our ship approached the Greek island of Santorini, it was like looking at the spiky fins of a huge black dragon's tail sticking out of the bluest sapphire waters. The top of the cliffs were covered with white, which looked like snow on ashy, black mountains. I stood at the back of the catamaran. I watched as the engines gulped and spat out huge floods of seawater, creating torrents of white sea foam. And as I looked at the white wake, I felt like I was sailing on a huge and flat sapphire gem. The white wake behind me reminded me of my past and all the unwanted memories and stress that I didn't need. They were all the things I wanted to forget about. The wake, my past, my memories, this trip, would leave a brief scar in the Aegean Sea, but eventually, the Sea would eat it all up and nothing would be remembered, and there would be no traces of the wake or white or the past or memories. 

These islands were created by a volcano, which is still active. It's actually the largest volcano in the Aegean Sea. There used to be more connected landmass, but it sank. Santorini is certainly the place where sea, sky, sun, and fire all converged.

Some people say that the lost city of Atlantis is below the waters of Santorini. I imagined that the Leviathan, the ancient sea dragon, lived beneath the waters of Santorini. The Bible asks: "Who can strip off its outer coat? Who can penetrate [the Leviathan's] double coat of armor^:? Who dares open the doors of its mouth, ringed about with fearsome teeth?" 

And when the Leviathan is enraged, it blows fire from the Aegean Sea. Some times land is created. Other times, land is destroyed. The Leviathan murders and creates. The earth sinks. It's eaten. It's gone. Forgotten by the wind and sea.

* * *

I was waiting for my host. I was thinking that I was not a normal person. I met a stranger on the streets at 2am, who invited me to his home and asked me to come to Santorini. And I said yes. Him and his friend were at a funeral in Athens. I was wondering if he was even coming.

How about if you were me? You didn't hear anything for a few hours. But you know, I knew I could trust  Yiannis. His great hospitality was proof enough. No interview needed.

I waited in Fira, which was full of tourists and was very expensive. Once again, too many Americans. That means prices are going to be high. And they were. 

I ate lunch in Fira. And the food was bad and overpriced.

Yiannis sent me a text around 3pm to change my ferry ticket home for tomorrow. I was staying the night in Santorini.

He told me to walk to meet him in Imerovigli, the next village over. I walked some old farmer's path from Fira to Imerovigli. It was ancient and beautiful and by the sea. I walked it during sunset. There were so many photographers everywhere, probably every 100 feet. This was definitely the Instagram paradise.

* * *

My host found me on the ancient path and invited me to the Hotel Remezzo. He grabbed me and led me to the hotel. The owner's name is Vasillas. He's thoughtful and kind and hospitable. I meet his sister, Electra and his nephew. They're all very lovely family.

When I enter the hotel lobby, Vasillas makes me a beautiful ice tea. It's hot from the sun but cooler with the winds; so, it's good to have a tea and savoring the moment. The tea is bright and yellow and sunny. 

At the lobby, I meet two Californians, who are happy to meet new people. They're names are Jake and Ranithri. They're from the Bay area. 

I sit and we do small talk. It's fun. I see a couple sitting away from us, and they want to join. But they don't.

Vasillas and Yiannis tell us a little bit about their funeral. Their friend, in his 40s, died from a drug overdose. He suffered depression. 

Jake talks about some of those issues within his own family. These topics are a real issue in our world now.

* * *

Vasillas tells me the history of the hotel. It used to be a winery. His father fell in love with Santorini, bought the winery, and transformed it in a hotel.

Did you know there's no fresh water on Santorini? The grapes all grow from the humidity of the air. Also, the dome shapes of the house are round to collect water from the humidity, which drips into a tank. It made me wonder how the first people of Santorini had enough water to survive. It's not like there are wells around.

Also, all the buildings are white, because the ancient people crushed limestone and made it into paint. They did so, to reflect the heat away from the sun and also because it prevents mold from growing.

* * *

Jake was kind and offered me some of his leftover burger. But Yiannis tells me not to eat, because they're taking me out for dinner. I tell Jake, "Everyone thinks they're my boss." I chuckle. But this is true. They do.

Yiannis and Vasillas are kind and invite the other Americans too. And we all eat at their friend's restaurant. The food is so good.

We have what the Greeks call Mezze, which is their word for appetizers or tapas. We have cream and mushroom, feta and cooked cherry tomatoes, pork belly and grilled onions. They order Santorini wine. The food is amazing. It's some of the best food I had in Europe. And there were so much fun and laughter and the telling of stories. Both Vasillas and Electra are thoughtful and reflective and observant people. There was something special about the dinner.

* * *

Vasillas gave me a room for the night. Being in there, I knew I was stepping into ancient Santorini history. I wondered so much about what this room was used for when it was winery. I imagined what it would be like for wine to be aged in this room.

I was told later the room was once used to make wine. So, I was right.

* * *

The next morning Vasillas and Yiannis take me to a breakfast spot high on the hill with beautiful food again. They had whole bread with cheese and honey and nuts, while we drank rich and dark and strong coffee.

 Vasillas tells me stories about growing up with his father on Santorini. Not a bad childhood.

At breakfast, at the taking of the toast and coffee, I told them stories from my life. I told them about getting out of debt and freeing myself to do what I needed to. I also told them stories about my cases. I hope it helped them. I hope I told the right stories. 

There's a story about the Apostle Paul, who God blocked from traveling to Asia. The Apostle had a vision of a man in Macedonia, which was part of Greece, then. Paul knew that he was meant to go there. I wonder if I was meant to meet Yiannis and Vasillas and Jake and Ranithri. I think I was. 

Remember when I landed into Germany, I had no plans. I didn't even know I'd end up in Santorini a few weeks ago.

When I tried to pay for the bill, Yiannis already paid for it.

* * *

Eventually, it was time to say good bye. After saying good bye to Vasillas and Jake and Ranithri. Yiannis and I, however, sailed back to Crete. We talked about his wine making and his future.

Upon landing on Crete, I ate and drank with Yiannis and Marina. 

From there, I went back to my village. I bought two shot glasses from Santorini. One for Nikitas and one for Yiannis. I also bought a magnet for my host of my studio. They were all happy I remembered them.

I felt like Yiannis and Nikitas were my family away from home. I wanted to show them that they were on my mind, and appreciated, even though I only left Crete for two days. And I had this need to tell Yiannis, Nikitias, and Yiannis' family what happened in Santorini. So, I retold my Santorini stories. They listened. Something understood.

My Days in Crete: More Greek Kindness.

I walked into a seafood restaurant, and a tall, athletic and skinny host named Nikitas invited me and asked if I wanted to make a reservation; I didn't know it then, but he was in the Greek military special forces and was half Cyprian. (Did you know Cyprus is the only other country in the world that speaks Greek? I think a territory in Macedonia also speaks Greek.) He was kind, and he really wanted me to feel at home. Nikitas had such a unique name, it took me awhile to remember it. The invitation set the tone of extending the great Greek Hospitality that Ianis and Marina showed me earlier.

There was another restaurant I went to often for coffee called Taverna Dimitra. The first thing I noticed was that there were two notebook computers, and they looked plugged in and like they were used a lot. I found out that the family had a daughter named Dimitra, and she graduated in computer science. Her fiance is Yiannis. Yiannis was also very hospitable and kind, and I built a relationship with that family. Yiannis is also a computer scientist.

I noticed that they were a happy family and that there was a peace and kindness in their house. And you could see that the children really benefited from a loving and good home. The son was a police officer. There was much to learn here. This is in stark contrast to the stress levels of Los Angeles.

What I love about the people of Crete is that they have time for you. And they want to know more about you. And they want to talk to you. And they want to develop a relationship with you. In Los Angeles, I feel so pressed for time all the time that I don't feel like I have time for others. Here, they make time for you.

I finally made it to a small village by the sea. Crete itself was an ancient kingdom by the sea. I was fascinated to know that I was on the island where the Minotaur once lived. And the people love to come and go, talking about Alexander the Great.

I can't say that there was any eye catching event I experienced at this village. It was quiet. Maybe that's what I needed. And the food was good.

I read a lot, which was one of the aim of my trips. I wanted to get through as many books as possible. I had 6 books, two of which I was half way through. I read on a feminist memoir on a woman who was sexually abused by her father. She gave birth to a dead baby. She was a good writer. I also read on bone healing. Then there was a book interviewing ultra liberal people, like a Black lesbian woman, who was trying to convince the American public it needed to change and admit it was racist. And guess what? The next book was on a civil war general, who fought for slavery. Now, I was reading on the dirty, bribery world of FIFA soccer. I don't think you're going to meet someone who reads this diversely.

People ask me why I spend my time reading on holidays, because I can do that at home. But that's not true. I have so many responsibilities; I really have to get away to make time for reading. I stress that again. You have to make time for reading; otherwise, it won't get done.

I was five minutes by the beach. One thing I didn't like about this village was that there were so many older people and no young single people. These older people were generally British. And I felt like I was stuck in a really large convalescent home.

The lady at the souvenir shop says she loves the British, because they're well mannered. She disliked Israelis and Russians the most. 

True. They were well mannered. But I didn't like the culture of these older British people. They were extremely self-absorbed and had lost their purpose for living a long time ago. They were there to get a few more years of excitement out of life, even though they couldn't do much, because their bodies were failing them. And then they were going to die. How sad to witness all this.

The only reason that they could travel was that their British Sterling Pound was strong, and once again, they had lost their purpose in life. Had they been earning Hungarian Forint, they couldn't travel. So, it wasn't anything special that they individually did to have more money. They were just benefitting off the British currency.

They reminded me of the trashy old Americans you see in Loreto, Mexico and throughout Cabo. It's not a good thing to lose your purpose to live and then try to extract your senior years in some beach town only to then die.

Russians are no longer allowed to the European Union. But I noticed a party illegally got through through Turkey. That was interesting. And they were typically Russian, wanting to show off their wealth.

* * *

Later in the week, I texted Ianis and Marina, remember the Greek couple who showed me incredible hospitality and told him where I was. Ianis picked me up. He came from the South and finished his business. The drive was three and a half hours. 

Ianis looked tired. Marina was tired. They had worked all day. They picked me up and we went to sit at a cafe on the coastal rocks, overlooking the Mediterranean sea during a red sunset. It was nice we were continuing the relationship.

They ordered ice cream. I ordered a glass of red wine. We talked. We caught up. There was small talk and bigger talk and everything in between.

After Ianis ate the ice cream, he looked so happy. He woke up and became more alert. He also adds: "I really needed that."

Ianis then tells me to meet him on the island of Santorini tomorrow. I have to wake up at 6 in the morning to do it. (Everyone who knows me, knows I'm not a morning person.) I agree. I'll do it. He says I only have to pay for the ferry ride, which is actually dear.

I wasn't planning on going to Santorini. I heard it was expensive. I remember it was an Instagram paradise. Why not?

Ianis paid for my wine. I say I'll see him soon. We say goodbye.

He texts me later not to come, because Marina will not come. I told him, I'll still come. I sleep early. 

I ask Nikitas if he ever went to Santorini. He says he has not.

I ask Yiannis, the computer scientist, if he ever went to Santorini. He says, "No. Never. I heard it's expensive."

I slept earlier. Well, I was going to Santorini tomorrow. I didn't know it then, but the Lord was with me wherever I went in Greece.

Former City Attorney, Robert Tafoya, Suspected of Orchestrating Bribe Payment Scheme to City Public Officials

Former City Attorney of Baldwin Park, Robert Tafoya, is suspected of orchestrating bribe payments of at least $70,000 to former city council member, Ricardo Pacheco. Yesterday, the FBI arrested former Compton City Council Member, Isaac Galvan, who was also being held in prison for charges of election fraud. Allegedly, Galvin was the middle man to bribe Pacheco with $70,000 of Yichang Bai's money. Bai bribed Pacheco so that Pacheco could vote for him and his company to receive a license to sell marijuana in the City. Bai was also arrested by the FBI. You can read the details of the arrest from the Department of Justice here.

According to Roger Hernandez, former California Assemblyman, around December of 2018, Galvan learned how to conceal the bribe payments from Tafoya. Galvan would sit in Tafoya's office, and Tafoya would mastermind the scheme in order to conceal the bribe payments to Pacheco. Tafoya then directed Glavan on what to do.

The DOJ reports that one way this would be done is as follows. "Bai collected checks from third parties who owed him money and then – at Galvan’s direction – gave Galvan the checks with blank payee lines. Galvan then gave the checks to Pacheco, who then arranged for them to be cashed, either by him or third parties."

Hernandez said that Galvan and Tafoya would also wine and dine clients, like Bai, at luxury steak restaurants like Morton's. On average, the cost of dinner for one person at Morton's is a $120. 

Pacheco, who has already pled guilty to bribery, has had his sentencing date continued by 9 months. The continuance suggests that the FBI has increased their list of suspects. The previous Department of Justice press release accused Council Member Monica Garcia and former Mayor Manuel Lozano of also being involved in the bribery scheme. It appears that more arrests will be coming soon.

Radical Greek Hospitality: A Mirror to My Own Flaws

1:45 in the morning. Heraklion, Crete, Greece. The owner of the hotel slams the door in my face and tells me that if I don't leave soon, she's calling the police. They don't have 24-hour-reception. I woke her up. She tells me I don't have a booking. I tell her I do and that their must be some mistake. If she would only give me the WiFi code, we could sort it out. She repeats herself, if I don't leave, she'll call the police. I tell her, do whatever you want. It wouldn't be the first time people needlessly call the police on me. I didn't know it then, but the Lord was with me.

I think to myself, Why the Hell did I chose to come to Greece? What a mistake.

I have luggage to drag around and no place to stay. I better look for a hotel and try to figure out what happened. 

I'm tired. It's a three and an half an hour flight from Amsterdam to Crete. Think about the time to get to the airport and check in. I think checking into the airport takes a lot more energy than I realized. 

I also flew on some budget airline. They crammed us into the small seats like sardines in a can. I sat next to a fat Aryan guy, perhaps Dutch, perhaps German. His body fat spilled over into my space. He was eating a lot of potato chips and licking his fingers after eating enough of them.

Anyways, trying to figure things out, around the corner, I see a couple, who seem to be enjoying themselves. One guy is in his 40s and in his underwear and hairy and cheery. The woman is dressed in a sleeveless bright blue dress. She's blonde with brown eyes. She looks like she's wearing an ancient Greek dress. Both of them radiate happiness and cheer.

I knock on their door and say, "Excuse me. Do you speak English?"

The guy says, "Yes."

"Can I get your WiFi code? My hotel says I don't have a booking. I need the WiFi to see if this is correct."

"I'll get you the code. Come on in." 

Remember; it's 2 AM. They found me on the street.

The woman studies me. She can see I'm agitated and anxious. She hears about me not having a hotel and how the owner threatened to call the police on me. She says, "Don't worry about it. We'll find you a hotel for the night."

They offer me a drink of strong and fine alcohol in a shot glass. I down it. The host tells me, "Don't do that. Too fast. You have to enjoy it."

"I'm sorry. It's stressful."

"Don't worry. We're here now. Everything will be ok."

They call around to find me a hotel. They can't find anything.

They say, "It's ok. We'll bring you some bed sheets. You can stay on our couch tonight." 

Wow - I think. You barely met me. It's 2AM. You found me on the streets.

The guy says, "Have a drink. Relax. Everything is ok now."

We talk until 3 AM. His name is Yiannis (John in English) and her name is Marina. Yiannis makes wine and is a jack of all trades, which include driving buses, cars, fixing brakes, and producing olive oil. Marina owns a hotel. I give them Korean noodles, the one that's popular with Korean actors and K-pop stars. I tell them it's not regular instant ramen. I would've given them my Californian wine, but it's missing from my bag.

We wake up the next morning. Everyone is tired. I apologize to Marina and say, "I'm so sorry to inconvenience you." I feel so bad, when I see how tired they are.

She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek and says, "Don't you worry about it. We all need help some times."

I feel shame. I feel humiliated. I know I wouldn't be happy if someone made me lose my sleep. And here I was, a stranger, knocking on the door of people, at 2AM in the morning, on the streets. Her response confronts me with this thought: You need to rethink your values on being inconvenienced. Anyone can be hospitable when it's on their terms. Real hospitality can be real inconvenience.

* * *

The Jewish and Christian people tell this story. Around 3,400 years ago, Hebrew spies visited a Gentile prostitute named Rahab, who lived in the city walls. Could the spies imagine someone less clean? A prostitute. A Gentile. An outsider.

Rahab was clearly an outcast by her own people. She couldn't even live in the city. That's why she lived in the border of it, in a wall. But like so many outcasts, she was an observer and understood how people thought.

When the Hebrew spies arrived, God has already told her to protect them. She tricked the soldiers looking for them by hiding them on the roof, under bundles of flax. The spies promise her, "we will treat you kindly and faithfully when the Lord gives us the land.” (Joshua 2:14, NIV).

After the Israelites capture Jericho, Rahab and her family were saved. She converts to Judaism and receives God's blessing. She ultimately ends up as ancestor of Jesus. So, an outcast gets a new family.

The writer of the Book of Hebrews exalts her as a saint, because of her faith. Goes to show you, we're all only one step away from living a life of faith, if a prostitute can convert to a saint through her faith and hospitality and through an act that saves the lives of the spies. Ultimately, she brings salvation to the City of Jericho.

* * *

The next morning, the three of us have coffee. I really need a coffee. They really need a coffee. We sit at a cafe on a small cliff, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The refreshing and salty sea breeze was blowing through the City, through our hair, through the cafe.

I pay for coffee.

Later on, Yiannis calls me in the late afternoon and tells me to meet him at a restaurant. He buys me a glass of sweet Greek wine. We chat. He tells me he's having a problem. He can't exchange his Norwegian money for Euros. 

He's in a hurry. He has to take a trip three and a half hours South of Crete. (By the way, Crete is a large island; the 22nd largest island in the world.) 

We part ways. Yiannis and Marina had to go South. I had to find a place to stay.

* * *

When I retell this story to the Greek people, their response is that they didn't think such hospitality was shown anymore. Perhaps, 20 years ago. They're proud to know that such hospitality is still practiced. I wonder, when they hear this story, could they see the Lord was with me? I didn't even know at the time.

Meeting Van Gogh and the Next Generation in Amsterdam

Van Gogh allegedly shot himself in the chest after he painted some tree roots. He died two days later. The doctors couldn’t save him. What I immediately notice about the root painting, which I posted for you, is that it’s a lot more abstract and different than his other works. 

The Van Gogh Museum was booked out for 10 days. I was so sad to learn this. I came all the way to Amsterdam, only to find out I couldn’t get in. But somehow I talked my way into it. (That’s what lawyers do, right? Talk. Talk. And talk some more.)

I spent 4 hours in the Museum. Any longer, and I would feel fatigue and frustration. That’s all the processing power I have in me. I felt like looking at each of his paintings, that I knew something of the man and what he was going through. 

It reminded me too about how much mental health issues are also correlated with geniuses. I read once that geniuses suffer from a disproportionate amount of mental health issues, namely depression. 

I felt so sad that Van Gogh ended his life in the same year he was starting to become well known. I believe he would’ve made it big in his lifetime, if he kept going. It was tragic to see that even though he created all these beautiful paintings, he thought of himself as a failure. Horrible. 

 * * * 

Back at the hostel, young people are smoking weed in the smoking room. I meet Danish, French, German, American, and Israeli people. I stayed at the Flying Pig Hostel in Uptown. Very great location and atmosphere.

I only kept in touch with one guy, a German named Max. He's only 18 and really tall and skinny and likes to do climbing and biking. He seems quiet but is nice and outgoing and enjoys photography. He tells me he's going to be an engineer.

 

Out of everyone in the group, he's the only one who wants to take a group picture. That gets my attention.

I don’t like the French guy. Well, at first, I kind of did. He was charming enough. But there’s this blonde American girl. Maybe 22. She would look prettier, but she keeps drinking vodka all the time from the bottle. Night after night. I feel so bad for her. She tells me, in her strong American accent, she has a problem but can’t stop.  

I tell her it usually has to do with trauma. She tells me that she has a lot to work on her past. She alludes to being abused.

She sits by me and tells me that she hasn’t had sex in so long. At that point, I thank her for her time and excuse myself. 

The French guy, a nerd, 22, engineer, scrawny and puny gets all excited by the opportunity. He takes her to the local park. 

When he comes back, he tells me that he’s a mighty Don Juan, because he had sex with the girl in the park. He also says he’s a knight in shiny armor, because he protected her from some black guy, who wanted to touch her. 

I was thinking, The only person she needs protection from is you. I was disgusted. Poor girl. 

A lot of the young people there just wanted to numb out. I didn’t get it. They all seemed to come from upper class families. I don’t get why they wanted to numb out. Another spoiled Western World problem and issues with the next generation.  

* * *

I ate seafood at a local Dutch, posh restaurant. I ate at the table on the sidewalk. Some Italian waiter gets me to order choice shrimp and crab and oysters. The oysters are fantastic. I really love the smaller Dutch prawns from the North Sea. They’re sweet and salty and smell fresh, like the ocean is still in them. 

The waiter is sly. He says that I need champagne to wash down my oysters and crab and shrimp . I tell him I’m on a budget. He says, “You’re on holiday. Don’t worry about it.” I ordered Italian bubbles instead. Isn’t life just one big negotiation? No champagne. But ok to bubbles.  

At some point, me sitting outside, and cracking crab legs and crab carapaces and peeling shrimp shells and sucking the brains out of the crayfish heads, while washing down my meal with bubbles, is bringing in a lot of clients. Some girl sees it. Likes it. Wants it. Sees the ritual of it all. And then convinces her man to buy it. Soon, I bring in 4 to 5 sets of clients.

The bill was a lot. I felt like I lost my arm. I ask them for a discount since I brought in a lot of clients. They laugh and smile. No discount, though.   

I tell myself it’s ok. I was eating nothing but pork and beef in Germany. So maybe, it’s ok.

 

 * * * 

The French guy asked what I did. I told him I ate a seafood restaurant. I asked him what he ate. He said just supermarket bread and jam. He looked angry and envious. I don’t know where he’s spending his money. But it’s not so hard to save up for a nice meal. So, I don’t feel sorry for him. I think this guy’s life runs on being angry and envious.

 

The next day, I eat at the seafood restaurant again. And they compliment me with 12 French oysters. They make a mistake on the bill. They accidentally gave me a free champagne they want me to pay for. I ordered bubbles, not expensive champagne. Apparently, it was from a fine French bottle. 

The shift supervisor didn’t seem too happy. And he told the waiter to not make that kind of mistake again in front of me. This is the Dutch for you. They’re super direct and sometimes it is cold and cruel, especially when all this is happening in front of me. See; there’s a dual personality about them.

I leave feeling guilty about the whole event. I didn’t want to leave it like this. They were a nice restaurant. They’re staff were wonderful. I didn’t spend much there that day. So, I made a decision. Not only did I make the decision. I made a decision not to rethink that decision. 

I walk back there during the sunset from my hostel. I give the staff all a big tip. They’re all smiling and celebrating now. 

I could have left and left it like that. I wasn't coming back soon. But that would be wrong.

I wondered if they picked up on the fact that it was a redistribution of wealth from the store to employees. Eh – who cares? Everyone is happy. I’m sure, even the house. 

* * * 

 

I got into a pissing match with a tall and young and know-it-all-German guy. He had this attitude he could push around some small, nice-looking Asian guy and reminded me of some Frat boy. (And in case you're wondering, I never had a problem with frat people in university. But he did have attitude.) Well, meekness is not weakness. Needless to say, he lost to me in the match. Hope he learned his lesson. He didn't know what he was getting himself into.

 

* * *

One shock I had was that Amsterdam was super expensive. It was twice the price of Germany. And I realize, wherever you hear a lot of Americans, the prices are going to be high. It’s because they’ll pay it. Americans create tourist traps, wherever they go;. I heard American everywhere. 

Oh, also, I met an Israeli guy. I helped him book his flight back home to Tel Aviv. He was so sad. He looked brokenhearted. I asked, “What’s wrong?” 

He answered, “I was supposed to have traveled 4 weeks. I spent all my money in Amsterdam in 4 days. I don’t know where it all went.” 

I nodded. Yes. Amsterdam was cruelly expensive, because it could be. I was happy to leave, because of the prices. I was sad to leave, because of all the kind and friendly Dutch people I met. I’ll remember all the Dutch people, who greeted me with their warm and welcoming smile.

 

Before I left, Aaron, an Irish guy, who works there, sits with me and chats and tells me about his life. It was very lovely and a nice way to leave Amsterdam and the hostel.

Time to decide where’s next. I found a cheaper flight from Amsterdam to Crete, Greece. I was going to Greece next. I told myself, stay on course. You made a decision. Stick to it.

Schizophrenic Amsterdam

A lady in a bikini, outside of a window, dances smiles and points and curls her index finger to tell me to come in. She smiles with her lips. But I can see, she's dead inside. They're from Africa, South America, Eastern Europe, but not from the Netherlands. The red light makes their skin glow. They're in the glass window. They wink. They smile. They ask you to come in. You can be Prince Hamlet tonight. She’ll make you believe you are. All for a price.

There’s a long line of people, who want to watch the live sex show. 60 euros for a full show. 5 euros for a quick show. The full show even gives you a drink while you’re watching. Did I tell you that there’s also a church right by the red light district?

Sin and repent. Repent and sin. Feel worthless. Feel worthy. Feel shame again. Then pretend that nothing happened. 

After about 30 minutes of walking around, we all find the whole thing sad and depressing. We leave to get a drink. Amsterdam has it all for you, drugs, prostitutes, arts, culture, and beauty.  

Every corner smells like marijuana smoke. There’s throngs of tourists. I hear Americans everywhere. For some reason, I find it annoying to hear that Yankee accent, so loud and clueless, all the time.

Amsterdam is the most Schizophrenic city I’ve been to and so clearly so. There’s pink and red flowers and canals and water. I can see why it’s called the Venice of the North. It’s beautiful and charming. But Amsterdam has such an ugly side to it. One wonders how these two personalities live side by side with each other.
 
* * * 

I came to Amsterdam, because I’ve never been to the Netherlands. My first proper boss in New Zealand was Dutch. I liked him a lot. He gave me a chance, even when I wasn’t confident I could get the job done. Because of him, I got my first full time job in New Zealand. Because of him, I became a resident of New Zealand. In fact, “Zealand” is a Dutch word. It means sea–land. My Dutch boss even gave me his family recipe for Dutch donuts.

I wanted to understand the Dutch better. So, it was time to go Amsterdam.

I took the 1 o’clock speed train out of Gottingen to Amsterdam. Across me was a young, 22 year old, shy German guy, who wanted to talk to me. He wore glasses and had cool gadgets. He was going with his girlfriend to Amsterdam, just for one night. The German guy’s name was Lucas and he was a mechanic, who liked Lacoste designer clothes.

He did everything indirectly to get my attention. No one was taking my phone call back home, while I was riding the speed train to Amsterdam from Germany. So, why not? I bought an overpriced coffee at the train kitchen, introduced myself, and started talking to him and his girlfriend.

We talked about what to do in Amsterdam. They told me that they were going to stay near Anne Frank’s house. Her diary was mandatory reading in junior high, and I think even high school.

I asked them about their favorite countries in Europe. She was from Poland. So, they told me Warsaw. I still had no plans as to where I was going.

You know when the train gets into the Netherlands. The buildings are softer and cuter and friendlier and more cubish. It was like Pablo Picasso was their architect. German roofs, in contrast, announce that their German. They’re a dark blue and made of metal and so austere and strong and tough. They tell you, they can weather any storm. I’d say the Dutch houses are much more inviting.

* * *
Five hours later, about 290 miles away, I arrive into Amsterdam Train Station.

A friendly and lovely Dutch lady tells me she makes her fried dough with love. She takes the time out to help me find my hostel. I check into my hostel. It’s in Uptown. I stayed at the Flying Pig Hostel in Uptown. Very great location and atmosphere.

 Uptown is lovely and charming and nothing like central Amsterdam with its red light district. I’m by the museums and the art galleries.

After, I sit down by a river at a bistro for dinner. The waiters are Dutch. That’s cool. I like meeting Dutch people. They’re all so tall. Did you know the Netherlands has the tallest people in the world?

They young waiters teach me Dutch words. I know a few. They’re so happy I’m trying to learn. They’re very warm. After eating an appetizer and amazing crunchy white bread, baked really crispy, they ask me to come back.

I’m in Amsterdam. Three more weeks of travel.

Germany's Mental Health Crisis

4 AM. Hanover Train Station. Trying to get some sleep in a hard, plastic, red chair. An African woman, maybe in her 50s, bad skin, bad hair, rotten teeth, cusses and screams at me in English, not German. She throws a McDonald’s cheeseburger against my left chest. I feel it hit my left pectoral. The red ketchup stains my cobalt blue shirt. I feel her rage. Searing. Intense.

A beautiful blonde German girl, with milk white skin, maybe 22, watches horrified. So does the German girl’s boyfriend. She comes to me. She hands me some tissue and some hand sanitizer to clean myself up. She says she’s sorry. I say, “Danke schoen.” (Thank you.)

Other Germans, all Aryans, all young, almost all blonde with blue eyes, are in shock this assault happened. They sympathize.

To be clear, I said nothing to this lady. I was just trying to sleep. I said nothing. I didn’t even make eye contact. I said nothing to her. She sat next to me for awhile, eating her McDonald's. I was trying to sleep. Some sleep. Any sleep. I’ve been traveling for over 20 to 30 hours without sleep.

Hanover Train Station doesn’t feel safe at this time. I see drug addicts, prostitutes, and Johns everywhere. It wasn’t the Germany I left 5 and a half years ago.

But maybe that was the problem. I refused to acknowledge her. Would I have, if I found her beautiful? Who knows? Someone who could validate us. But isn’t that what we do in our busy worlds, with time so precious. We just pretend that the stranger isn’t there. And maybe that’s now culturally acceptable, because strangers can find it weird when you try to strike up a conversation.

I think that’s why she threw food at me. First the French fries, which I dodged. Then the cheeseburger. Everyone found it clearly uncivil and rude.

I didn’t mean to ignore her. It wasn’t like I was doing it on purpose. I was just minding my own business. I was tired. I needed sleep and wanted sleep.

But I’m sure, being physically present but invisible, unrecognized, and unacknowledged, is and was painful. But some are mentally unwell. And this is what happens to them. So, she did what she had to, to get her acknowledgment. And she got it.

You might think I’m reading into it too much. But I don’t think so. Did you know in Zula, a South African tribe I met, they’re hello is “Sawubona!” It means literally, “I see you!” They believe we both and only exist, because we both acknowledge each other.

Well; in Germany and the USA, this has been erased in our minds. It matters what others could do for us. Time is money. Money is time. And you don’t want certain people in your space. And we all mind our own business. What happens to you is your problem. What happens to me is my problem. Am I my brother’s keeper? Definitely a clash of cultures ensuing.

 Another thing. When I tell this story. People ask me if it was a German who assaulted me and quickly point out it: See; it was a refugee.

I can’t say I’m above this. Maybe it was good thing it happened to me. It’s made me think about this issue.

About 30 minutes later, the mentally unwell woman came back with a lighted cigarette and its red hot ember cherry. Everyone around her moved and ran away. The police came this time.

* * *

I ended up in this mess, because of a series of things that went wrong, which seems to happen, when I start my trips. It's almost like a form of destructive compound interest. Story of my life. One thing that went wrong was that the Lufthansa flight was late, making me miss my last train.

Since the bankruptcy of Air Berlin – Lufthansa has become a terrible airline, with terrible customer service. The problem is that it’s the major airline from the USA to Germany.

* * *

I went to six hotels in Hanover that night. All of them were booked. The sixth one, the last room was booked by someone who got there five minutes earlier than me. He was so gleeful with himself.

I was irritable to have lost out. He was old and fat and middle age and balding and German. I wondered if he was also in Hanover for the prostitutes, which I saw many of. And there were many men like him too. He definitely looked excited to be there. He was no Prince Hamlet, wasn’t meant to be, and never will be.

There was a certain cruelty and ugliness about the John–looking–guy and the hotel receptionist. They didn’t care I didn’t have a place to stay. I was homeless tonight.

* * *

Later in the trip, I stayed at a hotel in Goettingen. There was a mentally unwell woman in our hostel. She was again in her 50s. She talked to herself a lot. She banged on my wall, when I talked on the phone. She screamed a lot. She knew she wasn’t well, but she couldn’t control herself.

At first we thought she was from Lithuania. It turns out she was a Ukrainian refuge. The Germans tells me there’s a lot of these Ukrainian refugees now. Allegedly, these refugees all know someone who’s died. The hotel kicked her out the next morning.

I told you. No one wants them in their space.

* * *
Germany definitely has a mental health crisis. Germany’s suicide rate is at 12.3 per 100,000 persons. “Of the G7 countries, the USA had the highest" at 16.1. New Zealand is at 10.2. South Korea is even worse, at 32.5.

In 2009, Greece’s suicide rate was only 2.9. Now, it’s at around 5.1. Still low, but has gone up. How did it almost double in 14 years? Regardless, maybe it’s time to go to Greece.

* * *  
Issues regarding mental health appears to be a theme in this trip. Hospitality, or the lack of it, was also becoming a recurrent theme.

Göttingen, Germany Again and Again.

This time, my favorite memory in Goettingen, Germany was riding bicycles through the German stone Medieval streets and buildings, streets that lead and lead you to some never ending question. And to be honest - I don't even know what that question is or the answer I should search for. I don't ask what is it. Let us go and make our visit.

The stone road lead to dirt roads through the dark German forest. We pass through scattered shadows and light. We cross wooden bridges, where some of the path is muddy and wet. Around us were flowing creeks, birds chirping, and the announcement that summer was here.

In the summer, the fire and fury of the soul burns and shines. Life and love are at its prime. The hunter comes alive. The lions roar.

The afternoon is spread out with an expansive blue sky. Around us was my friend Volker and his family. He has two young girls now with his partner Julia. After thinking about it awhile, I thought we looked like a strange group.

Blonde and blue eyes.    
Blonde and blue eyes.
Blonde and blue eyes.    
Blonde and blue eyes.  

Black hair. Dark amber eyes.

Not a usual sight. Thinking about it, we're tremendously fortunate to know each other. How many Americans can ride bikes through the towns and forest with a German family? How many Germans have an American guest that comes?

If you don't know about Volker, I've known him now for 16 years. You can read him on previous blog posts here - Göttingen (January 2012); Göttingen (June 2014) and Göttingen (Again) (December 2016).

 * * *

Volker takes me to the public baths. They remodeled it since I last came. It's full of bodies. Volker is already trying to teach his two year old to swim. She loves ice cream and can eat lots and lots of it.

I go to the adult area. I have shorts on. Some guy tells me in German to take them off. So, I do. Germans love their nudity.

I roast in steam saunas. I roast in dry saunas. I chill in an ice bath. My heart races. I feel a rush. I like it.

When I'm done, I recline outside in the sunshine. The garden has the smell of flowers. The sunshine pours over me, searing my skin. It feels warm and nice.

* **

Later Volker has a barbecue at his newly built house. I catch up with his friends. It's after all been five and a half years. I see the different directions their lives have taken. They see the direction my life has taken.  

Volker lights the fire pit, where there’s wood inside. The fire starts and eats away at the wood. Colors of scarlet and orange and smoke appear. We roast marshmallows. Funny, I was just doing this just a few weeks ago in Santa Monica with other friends.

Here’s what I noted about Goettingen. All of Volker’s friends left to work elsewhere, only to return to raise their family and children. Can that be said about Los Angeles?

I like how they have a tight community. One thing is everyone lives close to each other. So they can see each other often. In Los Angeles – we’re all so spread out from each other. And that makes community harder and isolation more bleak.  

They’re an educated crowd. We have a mathematician and a statistician. We have a process engineer and a school teacher. I don’t know what Nico does. Leona is something akin to a small claims advisor. And then there’s me.

Volker and his friends talk about the important things and the trivial things. The women come and go whispering about kids, jobs, the important and the trivial. Volker updates me on the friends not there. Most have kids. What about me?

There will be a time. A time to be single. A time to be alone and a time to commune. A time to create and to bury and recreate.  

I told the group I have no plans. This is true. I really don’t. No one in their right mind travels like me. I should have been organized. I had an incident in Hanover, Germany. Tell you about it later.

But then again, I’ve been to over 50 countries now. I don’t feel like I need to be anywhere particular. I just want to be far far away.

It’s clear who travels in the group and who doesn’t. The places that come up to visit are Greece, Portugal, Croatia, and Iceland.

We end the night. Nico gives me a warm hug, meaning see each other again in a couple years. I’m jet lagged. I need sleep. Guten nacht.