On my way to Paris. I travel to one of the biggest (and most expensive) cities in Europe, with a bus fare, some clothes, a few sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and 6 packets of Camel in my backpack, and 10€ in my pocket. The coach-stop is crowded, the temperature is about 40 degrees high in the shades; the whole place looks and smells like an abandoned border station in Albania. My seat-neighbor, a restless gipsy girl (heading to Amsterdam to start her lapdancing career) brestfeeds her child: the little boy's head tips on my shoulder and some milk drips on my shirt.
I go to Paris, because someone, seemed to be nothing but the dream of my long grown-up adolescent self (and some nice memories) for years, got back into my life, and wanted to see me before she flies to N.Y. An authentic Hollywood story. (…)
General D.I. had a tiring day. He had to go to The City in incognito, and though – as the leader of the dreaded Goatdogs Squad – could afford a more comfortable way of transportation, he, in agreement with his counselors, has decided to travel by bus, disguised as a ‘regular backpacker’. His seat was uncomfortable, his neck ached, his feet numbed; general D.I. was thinking about soft, patterned blankets, neat flight-attendants, little packets of mixed nuts and a big glass of scotch: the 1st class service aboard a 747. But he knew his duty: "Y’ got really spineless this past years, old man” – he muttered, and decided to drop some pounds when he’s back from this mission. “If I make it back at all” – he corrected himself.
The general was heading to The City, because he had to meet ‘Miss La Rome’, the head of a mysterious paramilitary organization. They are going to have serious negotiations; and D.I. knew, if he failed, he'd risk much more than his personal career: he'd risk the future of the whole human civilization. (…)
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