“We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.”
— Ray Bradbury
It’s around seven in the evening and the sun is beginning to set over the museum district of Amsterdam. I’m skating home on my dinky little penny board, stumbling every couple of yards on the cobblestone and I have the distinct feeling that someone is following me.
Barcelona. The last stop on my trip. I’m in the airport in Nice and I’m nervous. Barcelona. Finally.
On August 1st, on a mission to see if I could make a home in a city on a different ocean and perhaps convince my cousin to join me, we boarded a plane in Belize and seven hours later dipped our toes into the waters of a different coast.
This past spring break while my peers were downing jäger bombs and long island ice teas in view of crystal clear beaches, I instead joined my family for a vacation to San Miguel.
There was beauty in the underworld, in the dark, in the alleyway. There was charm in the chipped paint, and my childhood in the weird smells dripping from the backs of bars.
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.