This title is printed to order. This book may have been self-published. If so, we cannot guarantee the quality of the content. In the main most books will have gone through the editing process however some may not. We therefore suggest that you be aware of this before ordering this book. If in doubt check either the author or publisher’s details as we are unable to accept any returns unless they are faulty. Please contact us if you have any questions.
In the fall of 1993, Author Michael N. Sever embarked on a 2-month mission to honor his late father. During that time, he experienced the whole gamut of Europe, from artistic to atrocious. However, most of his experiences were light-hearted as he relates them through self-deprecating humor and sometimes obscure cultural references. Mr. Sever’s story demonstrates the self-reliance and resourcefulness that innately define many aging Gen-Xers. This humor and those traits enabled the author to see his goal to the end.
Some examples of his travails in France:
I was stuck.
Lost forever in France.
I would buy a beret and a loaf of long bread. I would wear black clothes and smoke clove cigarettes. Existentialism would become my mistress. The Selecty Home Pension would fade from my memory.
In Austria:
It was a horrible walk with a heavy-almost painfully heavy pack-yoked to my bent and near broken back. At a few points I caught myself talking to myself, alternating from encouragement to scolding.
I felt my face contorting into scowls.
I had gone mad in Vienna. I would be placed in the sanitorium that housed Dr. Caligari. I would befriend a somnambulist who lived in a cabinet. My world would consist of odd-angled doors and hallways.
Just as I was about to give up and wait for the men in white suits, I saw civilization. I saw a woman walking and grunted, Hotels?
She told me, in broken English, that I could find them in the ring, and she pointed me the way.
In my near-animal devolution, I offered her no thanks; I just snorted and knuckle-walked down the strasse.
But never forgetting the beauty:
I did that all the way to Piazza San Marcos. From there, I walked and walked and walked. I walked down large tourist filled avenues, down small desolate side paths-I took in the city. I saw laundry hanging out of medieval windows, and I saw flood-scarred buildings. I walked over odd canals and tiny bridges. I saw red and white poles measuring the depth of the water, and gondolas and scows racing about the lagoon.
I finally got it. This was what it meant to be lost in Venice. Not when you had to use the bathroom, but when you wanted to feel the city-to experience every last nook and dead end.
It was beautiful to not be in a rush.
