I’m sitting in a cafe in a little town just outside Swansea, Wales. The sky is grey, The Temptations are playing and I’ve got a mozzarella, tomato and pesto panini on the way. I’m here visiting some Welsh friends. I met these guys in Thailand, ran into them in a cafe in Laos a couple of months later, partied with them in Melbourne, lent a car to them in Byron and lived close to them on the northern beaches in Sydney. I’d heard enough about Wales over the years, so naturally it was on the list for this Euro trip.
The beginning of the third month was spent in San Marino, the world’s oldest republic, situated on the top of a mountain overlooking Italy. I spent the evenings settling around a fireplace, reading books, drinking milk and tea, beside two European friends and their dog.
We spent our days hiking mountains and eating from tables overflowing with carbs and red wine, on beaches playing cards and eating burgers.
I picked up Polish and Nigerian hitchhikers, hiked in Switzerland and built a fire beside hidden army shacks in the mountains, making bread and cooking sausages and melting chocolate in the middle of bananas over hot coals.
I drove up to Berlin, staying in Airbnbs and having long baths along the way. I dropped the car off and bussed to Rotterdam and ate Thai food in bed with an old friend. We rode bicycles and watched movies and sat in the park near the university I studied at.
I bussed to London and hitched a ride with friends to Wales. We played cards on cliffs and cards in lounge rooms. We watched New Zealand films and ate Tony’s Chocalonely. We swam in the ocean and threw a ball on the sand. We ate Joe’s Icecream.
I booked a flight home, because the sky started turning grey and I had a time sensitive project to execute in Australia. I scheduled in catch ups with friends I’d met on the internet and friends from home and I packed my bags for my final week in London.
This short-lived trip went by in a flash, but what a time it was.