Oct 22, 2024 7 min read Wanders

Head Empty, No Thoughts

All images from Paris. October 19-22.

In Offenburg, Germany, waiting for a night train to Prague.

Typing in a charmless bar, surrounded by old men silently watching soccer news out of one eye, and the bar maid out the other. Chris Isaak's Wicked Game is on the sound system. A guy with his belly hanging out just ordered a plate of sausage. Now he's got cheese dangling from the side of his mouth. Now he's asleep.

Head Empty, no thoughts.

Heard a young woman say this on the train into Berlin from the airport on the first day of this trip. She said it in English with a heavy German accent. It's become a bit of an anthem.

I've been proper wandering. No time to think. Just drinking it in.

On and off trains. In and out of cities, towns, and transit terminals, arriving in places without a plan or a forward ticket, just walking the streets taking pictures and stopping to stare, smile, and occasionally mutter to myself. Like they do when they come to New York. (Accept I don't stop in the middle of the sidewalk.)

Racked up more than 35 miles walking in my 3 nights in Paris. This morning I woke up in my shitty hotel room, dead mouse in the trap outside the door, and walked hard to Gare du Est, just missing my train to Sarrebourg by 30 seconds. When I walked up, a tall, elegant Black woman was berating the petty train bureaucrats for obstructing us from boarding, but they were unmoved.

After some finagling, I got the next train to Sarrebourg, which I cannot recommend. Had high hopes for the Mithraeum that was discovered there in 1895... and the Mephisto shoe factory and outlet store... and some alleged sandwich that was recommended to me in Bruxelles, but all was a complete bust. Humped 6 miles for nothing. Eagle River, Ak has more charm.

But that's the beauty of the dérive. You can't fuck it up. Every place has something to show you, especially if you've never been there before.

Head empty, no thoughts.

I arrive at each stop filled with wonder and excitement. But sooner or later, I grow exhausted and frustrated with the people.

Part of it is the language barrier... but there's also just limited life in people. Everywhere you see friends having a quick laugh or a salutation, but mostly people ignore each other, in a much deeper way than they do in The United States. In New York, energy appreciates energy. Where I been at in Europe, nobody really seems to have any. Like the wattage is turned waay down and all the hot parts of the humans are turned off. It's frustrating.

No one is curious. No one is trying to connect. No one wants to know anything beyond what they already know.

I don't catch eyes like I used to, but I still draw tons of attention. And while I get the occasional adoring look from men and women, but more than ever in my millions of miles of wander, I feel like they are mad at me for interrupting their tiny little reality tunnels.

Head empty, no thoughts.

Look I'm from the land of strip malls and mud boots, where (almost) nothing built is beautiful. But growing up around artists who craved cuter environments, it was axiomatic to me that wendy little alleyways and wonky old buildings would enhance and embolden the human spirit. But the past few days don't feel that way at all.

People feel stuck under the invisible heaviness of class. They walk around these ancient cities with all the same curiosity and clamor that Americans walk around Disneyland. Just looking for the next thing to consume. Just looking to fit in, with their garish clothes and priggish faces.

House cats. Afraid of what's over the fence.

I find myself missing Americans. Especially those hard-up men hanging out around Port Authority, or in front of the Plaid Pantry in Bremerton, or on 6th Avenue in Tucson.

They know the secret. Maybe they fuel it with whiskey or meth, like I do with weed and the wander, but they keep the fire in their heart, and if they catch the twinkle in your eye, they'll take a little bit of their fire, and hand it to you, so you can put it in your heart too.

Nobody seems to want that around here, and I don't get it. They're still too afraid of the dragon.

These beautiful old places should make everyone feel alive, but it doesn't seem to be so. Take my ass back to New York.

Head empty, No thoughts.

Here's a bunch of inelegantly curated photos from Paris. There'll be more down the line.

Hercules was half-man half-god. He was worthy, but still had to prove himself. This double-bind makes him a perfect plaything for the aristocracy. You'll see him in London, Paris, NYC, and anywhere you got higher degree Freemasons doddering about in their stupid little aprons. It's hip to be square.