Homeless Americans in the Bowels of the European Union

For two transtastic weeks Samantha and I, backpacks on, wandered from Western Europe to the brink of Eastern Europe, stared over the precipice of western civilization, and declared it good.

After precious little sleep and a pre dawn ride to Dulles airport on the skirts of America's Capital we emerged, stinking of jet fuel and tomato juice, into the labyrinthine corridors of Paris' Charles De Gaul airport.

Groggy, disoriented, and lost we stumbled our unstylish American asses into a slightly foreign land. We waited in line for customs, we waited in line for Euro's, we waited in line for change, then we waited in line for a ticket on the train.

We rumbled past Parisian slums and graffiti. If Charles De' Gaul airport was the Louvre than the colorfully tagged concrete of train tracks and overgrown tunnels was the Musee D' Orsay.

Gare du Nord is a classic European train station. In the lower floors underground tunnels feed trains from outlying suburbs and above, under arched steel beams and glass, modern, high speed trains enter and exit to most everywhere in Europe. These trains would be our transportation, our bed, our living room and our local pub for the next two weeks as we aimlessly tracked our way through the history and architecture of some of the worlds oldest and most spectacular cities.

We climbed from the tunnels onto streets that had no signs, no organization and no street laws that anyone cared to obey or enforce. The peril of an old city is that hundreds of years of random building result in complicated maps but also the complex tapestry of old and new that defines a European city.

We were too exhausted and hungry to appreciate Paris. We ordered food from a menu we couldn't read, sat in a sidewalk cafe sipping surprisingly bad cappuccinos and decided to simply get on a train out of there. But not without buying a liter of Russian Vodka and witnessing a butcher literally and firmly spank a duck to recommend it to us. These will be our memories of Paris.

On the train we discover ourselves seated next to three Americans. Lawyers and doctors traveling for fun. We crack the vodka, their wine and speed out of the station on a high speed train across the late summer fields of France. We think we are headed for Belgium but by some twist of fate or fortune end up in Amsterdam . Our toughest night and greatest days lie ahead.