Abby had dreamed of living in Europe all her life. She pictured it so well in her mind. Sitting in a café with a notebook and cappuccino, watching all the well-dressed Parisians or Londoners or Berliners duck in and out of cute shops with cheese and baguettes. She’d make friends with cultured iconoclasts who’d invite her to parties with champagne and hor d’oeuvres, and read and watch all the latest books and movies and discuss what it meant for society.
So far staying in a youth hostel in the Greek hinterlands was not matching up to her expectations.
She’d thought the youth hostel stay was so clever. Who’d expect someone who just inherited 5 million dollars would stay in a shambly converted dorm, with breakfasts that consisted of baguettes, butter and burnt coffee? She’d felt so please when she found out there were single rooms available on a weekly basis, that there was a strict curfew of midnight and quiet time.
But she wasn’t sure what she was doing. The plan had been to lay low for a month or two while she waited for her travelling trail to go cold. Once she landed in Cyprus she’d felt like a criminal on the lam, afraid to use her credit cards but afraid to use cash at fancy hotels, since that seemed sketchy and suspicious in itself. Abby stopped looking over her shoulder only after taking a ferry and then driving up the coast of Greece. She’d managed to buy a car from a Cyprus dealer, who hadn’t even asked to see her driver’s license. She’d dyed her red hair a drab brown, and bought an assortment of baggy, touristy dresses.
At the youth hostel she avoided talking to the other mangy, 10 years younger backpackers trading trips on Eurail sleeper cars and museums. She spent her days lying on the beach reading trashy books from the hostel giveaway shelf, eating fresh seafood from the local cafes, even letting herself order some wine every other night, when she no longer felt like she needed her wits about her.
Then came the night when she’d finally let herself get chatted up by one of the hostel residents, an Australian guy named Greg in his late twenties, who’d been having a ‘OE’ eg overseas experience for the past thirteen months, taking up odd jobs and drifting from hotel to hostel. Abby ignored his flirtatious invitations to try out the hostel hot tub, and focused on his stories of how much he was enjoying his aimless existence.
“I’m having a lot of trouble not having anything I’m supposed to do,” Abby admitted as she eyed the wine Greg had ordered for them --without asking. “I’ve never had this much freedom in my life, no job, no family or friends to worry about or manage. But it just feels empty. Like what is the point of hanging out by the beach and reading if it’s not a special time that you’ve earned?”
“Earned? Wow, you do sound like an American. Why do you have to earn anything? Why not be happy in the moment and not get wrapped up in what you’re supposed to do. Life isn’t about accomplishing goals, that’s a lot of capitalist indoctrination. You should read Kierkegaard, he—”
— Von
So far staying in a youth hostel in the Greek hinterlands was not matching up to her expectations.
She’d thought the youth hostel stay was so clever. Who’d expect someone who just inherited 5 million dollars would stay in a shambly converted dorm, with breakfasts that consisted of baguettes, butter and burnt coffee? She’d felt so please when she found out there were single rooms available on a weekly basis, that there was a strict curfew of midnight and quiet time.
But she wasn’t sure what she was doing. The plan had been to lay low for a month or two while she waited for her travelling trail to go cold. Once she landed in Cyprus she’d felt like a criminal on the lam, afraid to use her credit cards but afraid to use cash at fancy hotels, since that seemed sketchy and suspicious in itself. Abby stopped looking over her shoulder only after taking a ferry and then driving up the coast of Greece. She’d managed to buy a car from a Cyprus dealer, who hadn’t even asked to see her driver’s license. She’d dyed her red hair a drab brown, and bought an assortment of baggy, touristy dresses.
At the youth hostel she avoided talking to the other mangy, 10 years younger backpackers trading trips on Eurail sleeper cars and museums. She spent her days lying on the beach reading trashy books from the hostel giveaway shelf, eating fresh seafood from the local cafes, even letting herself order some wine every other night, when she no longer felt like she needed her wits about her.
Then came the night when she’d finally let herself get chatted up by one of the hostel residents, an Australian guy named Greg in his late twenties, who’d been having a ‘OE’ eg overseas experience for the past thirteen months, taking up odd jobs and drifting from hotel to hostel. Abby ignored his flirtatious invitations to try out the hostel hot tub, and focused on his stories of how much he was enjoying his aimless existence.
“I’m having a lot of trouble not having anything I’m supposed to do,” Abby admitted as she eyed the wine Greg had ordered for them --without asking. “I’ve never had this much freedom in my life, no job, no family or friends to worry about or manage. But it just feels empty. Like what is the point of hanging out by the beach and reading if it’s not a special time that you’ve earned?”
“Earned? Wow, you do sound like an American. Why do you have to earn anything? Why not be happy in the moment and not get wrapped up in what you’re supposed to do. Life isn’t about accomplishing goals, that’s a lot of capitalist indoctrination. You should read Kierkegaard, he—”
— Von
Finally, the "cultured iconoclast" shows up! Yay! (I assume she was incognito to avoid friends and relatives asking for a small percentage of her five mil.) ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteHolding my breath at the end. Greg's going to feel he can help himself to some of that 5 mil. He doesnt have to earn anything but her trust.
ReplyDelete