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A GARBO'S GUIDE TO BITS OF EUROPEGary FrancesThis diary of my European trip is as I wrote it down, in the streets, hotels,hostels and restuarants. Whole sentences in Italics are afterthoughts on returningto Australia, usually to clarify sketchy, brief or drunken notes.There are many thoughts that probably should not be here. They're sometimes sillyand off-the-wall comments but to not include them would be dishonest. (I have,though, excluded a few that even I don't understand!). On my return a few peopleasked me what drugs I was on to write the emails I did. I didn't do any. I washigh on the change of air and surrounded by the blood of twenty-year-olds, awayfrom the dried-up, old cynics who are my normal social cohorts.The bombing in Bali has just occurred as I write this and my experience in Europewith the Young Ones have made me feel quite empathetic. I normally regard deathtolls as so many numbers that just fill newspaper columns. You have to keep yoursanity sometimes.Here I am.I am 52 years old and for the last 15 years I have worked as a Garbo in Sydney,Australia.I am divorced with two children - Michael, 15, and Jessica, 19.I have never been overseas before.Here I go.SYDNEY TO PARIS 7.7.02 SUN to 8.7.02 MONThe twenty-three or four hour journey was uneventful. A good way to start anoverseas trip, really. When we landed at Singapore there was light applause.Presumably a joke in that Singapore is the only place where Qantas has come closeto ruining its safety record.I like a drink but was advised against it. And good advice it was. I recommend the

same.My first close look at Europe was as our plane descended and I saw the patchwork-quiltland below very reminiscent with the yellows, browns and oranges of a Van Gogh.Going down the stairs at the Charles de Gaulle airport I see the train to the citycentre and it's totally covered in graffiti. I turn to the person next to me andsay that I thought our trains back home were bad. She looks at me as though I amspeaking a foreign language. And then, of course, realized I had been. She choseanother carriage to me and, presumably, some people she could understand.When I got into Paris proper I got off at St.Michel (ND) where I discovered the NDstood for Notre Dame, an old film set for Charles Laughton that had the smelliestpublic toilet I NEVER WENT INTO. With my supreme sense of direction I immediatelygot lost and discovered parts of Paris I’ve never seen since. (Apparently, it isHARD to get your sense of direction when you emerge from a foreign metro, I laterlearned).When I finally got UNLOST and found my hotel I also found my first European objectof lust – a young receptionist, on her first day. She was goddam beautiful. DarkLatin looks. Perhaps she was more beautiful because she was a little lost. Adamsel in distress always has THAT something extra! I tried to console her withthe fact that it was my first day too. It was about 7am and I wasn’t booked intill about 11. They let me leave my backpack in a storage room there and I went a-walking.That first day in Paris seemed like two (almost like the 10cc song). Did a lot ofwalking, in new shoes. (Had not even THOUGHT about how much walking I would bedoing. Did the Place de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower, the Arch de Triomphe, aroast beef croissant with chutney and partly-conquered the Paris Metro. At onepoint I stuffed up the day ticket I was using but a kindly, dark Parisian Metroemployee let me through the turnstiles and, seeing that I was stressed, said to me" Welcome to Paris!" with a laugh.And got blisters. More to come. Unfortunately.9.7.02. TUESGot up early to get over to the other side of town. Had a bad time on the Metroyesterday afternoon and thought that if I fucked up again I could always get ataxi. I successfully though got over to the Busabout pick-up point in Montmatre inthe crowded peak time. I had been staying on the Left Bank off the Boulevard St.Michel. As you do.Walking to the station that morning over the Pont de Neuf I discovered so muchcrap (bottles, take-away food packages) on it that it resembled the morning aftera big night of celebrations in Sydney. Have to say I enjoyed Paris in the earlymorn much more than later in the day - the traffic is normally nothing short ofDouble Hectic.At the pick-up point for Busabout I met Brandy, from Texas, and an Australiangirl. I suppose I spoke to the Australian girl for less than hour before the bustook me and Brandy north to Amsterdam while hers took her to the south of France.Just about one of my shortest relationships on record.EUROEM #1The sun came up blood redbehind the Carpathiansbringing back memories

of some darker nightsThe fields of Franceare below and brightand, when we land,I am calm.For a change.Lille, France 9.7.02 We broke our journey to Amsterdam with a stop at Vimy Ridge, a Canadian warmemorial and a preserved battlefield. The grass, however, has since grown over thebomb craters, some 6 to 10 metres deep. No one is allowed beyond the barriersexcept for some sheep to keep the grass down. We are told that, every once-in-a-while, they have a barbecue.Brandy, a Texan high school teacher, learned of OTHERS participating in WW1 otherthan Gary Cooper and Charlie Chaplin. I astonished her further by letting her knowthat WE and others were there first. I further added to her knowledge of OTHERpeople by letting her know that Aussies were also involved in WW2 (with JohnWayne), Korea (with Alan Alda), Vietnam (with John Wayne again) and Afghanistan(with George Clooney). Makes you wonder. Or is it obvious? Am I justoptimistically obtuse, by choice?When we get off the bus at Brugge for a quick stop I discover than I am NOTautomatically booked for the rest of the sector to Ams. Pissed off with Busaboutwho did not tell me I needed to confirm destination point, only departure.EUROEM #2If it's Tuesdayit must be Belgium.Anita Eckberg and Bob Hope.Any old movie buffcould tell you that.But not being a fanit's on to Amsterdam.I've put down my book. The leastI can do is look out the window.Brugge, Belgium 9.7.02