Apr. 7th, 2002
This is like Club Tam, only in Germany.
My hostess, Myla, has a three-story flat in an attached house; she rents the bottom floor to this cool Finnish student whom I have not yet met. She has a twelve-year-old daughter who knows only a little English.
Myla has taken very good care of me with my cough. Last night, well, it was just horrible. I felt like I had tennis balls in my lungs. But Myla has this great tea that soothes the throat, and plenty of medicine. I think I might get better tomorrow, but I don't know... I've been sick since early Monday, and I wonder if I might need antibiotics or something.
I'm still debating with myself over whether to skip Prague. I kind of half-hoped
azazelle might meet me there and protect me from the scary people and the fake police and the people who gas you on the train. I was only going to take two nights there anyway. The street musicians said I'd be better off in Pilsner, which is just like Prague except everyone is happy, instead of miserable. They also suggested I go to Krakow, Poland, but I definitely don't have time to go that far this trip. But maybe next time.
Skipping Prague, going with my video game analogy, means I don't make it to Level 6. My initials totally won't make kit to the high score list. But I knew that ever since I met the street musicians. They've been living hand-to-mouth for years, each of them, with Europe as their playground. They have such good stories, I suggested they could make money doing talking tours like Henry Rollins. I knew I could never live the way they did; for one, I am not a musician in the pure identity sense of the word, and for two, I've lived a bit too sheltered to accept the reality of jumping a train without a ticket, with 30 euros, a backpack, and a saxophone to your name.
It's enough of an accomplishment to make it as far as Germany, and to spend my last two weeks seeing whatever there is to see. If my throat heals up, my German might even improve. The best part is, Myla will also be in Frankfurt the same time as me, and that there is a fair in town that week.
My hostess, Myla, has a three-story flat in an attached house; she rents the bottom floor to this cool Finnish student whom I have not yet met. She has a twelve-year-old daughter who knows only a little English.
Myla has taken very good care of me with my cough. Last night, well, it was just horrible. I felt like I had tennis balls in my lungs. But Myla has this great tea that soothes the throat, and plenty of medicine. I think I might get better tomorrow, but I don't know... I've been sick since early Monday, and I wonder if I might need antibiotics or something.
I'm still debating with myself over whether to skip Prague. I kind of half-hoped
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Skipping Prague, going with my video game analogy, means I don't make it to Level 6. My initials totally won't make kit to the high score list. But I knew that ever since I met the street musicians. They've been living hand-to-mouth for years, each of them, with Europe as their playground. They have such good stories, I suggested they could make money doing talking tours like Henry Rollins. I knew I could never live the way they did; for one, I am not a musician in the pure identity sense of the word, and for two, I've lived a bit too sheltered to accept the reality of jumping a train without a ticket, with 30 euros, a backpack, and a saxophone to your name.
It's enough of an accomplishment to make it as far as Germany, and to spend my last two weeks seeing whatever there is to see. If my throat heals up, my German might even improve. The best part is, Myla will also be in Frankfurt the same time as me, and that there is a fair in town that week.