i forgot all about prague as soon as i got off the train, and i forgot all about greece a few days later over a glass of wine. people would mention to me later the magnificence of the view from the acropolis and i would wonder whether i had stood on that hill with my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and looked out over athens or whether i had just kicked some rocks about. prague drowned itself almost straight away in cheap beer and talkative but in the end boring young men that left nothing of note behind. of istanbul there barely remain some images, some open windows, and one unforgettable night in a beautiful girl’s bedroom, where we talked for hours and i memorized every way the corners of her mouth twitched, aware that i’d never get to kiss it. the blue mosque, however, is in my memory in name only.
i’d backpacked through in a rush to change myself and pretend my way around the continent in hiking boots and band t-shirts, but mostly kept to books and headphones. and at the end there was paris, and all things before paris dissolved into its misty delights.