The ##

Last time we left our hero Jack Waffles, he was wandering lust-stricken into some unknown desert. In his own style, he now recants what he recalls as the second part of this saga…

He lurched forward, nearly toppling over onto the cobbled street. He caught himself in time, but not before he tore the sleeve of his suit on the door of a nearby building. A lit cigarette had burned through the lapel of his jacket, and there was what felt like a full glass of whiskey soaking through his sock. There was some matter of what city he was in, but he was totally uncon…

….he woke up. His eyes blinked, and – presently - opened. Light crept over his face, stinging the eyes and forcing consciousness. There was a hazy spire visible in the distance. The Hague? London? He decided that he could really give a fuck. Rolling to the left, his arm tapped a warm, sleeping, 20 something. He struggled upright, slipping a bit before realizing there were silk sheets on the bed. Classy broad he guessed. On the second attempt he made it upright, and began to make a slow trek around the room. It seemed to be the top floor of whatever building he was in, and the well decorated.

Mercifully, some Eastern European hotelier had installed a fully stocked bar in the suite. Pouring himself a fresh Makers neat, he called down to the tailor for a fresh suit. With time to burn, he glanced over at the bed. She was still asleep, blonde. He vaguely remembered meeting her earlier the day before at some charity auction, but she hadn’t proved memorable in any other way. The standard fare of his usual jaunts, she was of no particular interest to him anymore. She wasn’t the one he had come to find.

A light knock on the door signaled the arrival of the concierge with his suit. Closing the door, a smile crept across his face. It was definitely Prague, as he knew the tailor’s card form a particularly nasty debacle in ’03. Immaculate once again, he poured a second fresh glass. Rustling from the other room. He had missed his chance to slip out. “Jack aren’t you going to say goodbye?” His countenance lightened with this unconscious demand of self-worth. “I’m afraid not, I have business to complete here.” He pivoted hard on the ball of his left foot, grabbed his drink, and hit the street.

Having been on a bender or two, he knew how to go about forgetting a woman. When one goes on a bender, he must go abroad. In the Americas, a drunken haze reflects poorly on an individual. Ah, but on the Continent, it is a different story! It is romantic! A gentle ode to the self-destructive nature so deeply entrenched in the heart of the poet. Things here are old and credible, regardless of function or form. Every brick and stone comprising the mighty works of some archaic civilization weighs heavily of suffering, the products of boundless Sisyphean labor extracted from the peasantry. To the South, in the depths of a sweltering jungle, one can feel the damned explorers of time past. For God and Country and self, they set off to find riches and life and spread civilization and culture and God. At sea, the spray and burn of the sun, to travel and see and go and never look backwards or forwards but to seek and feel!

But this is a digression. The street was still damp and foggy with the weight of morning dew. He cut a noble figure in the street, a strange juxtaposition of pleasure mingled with…. something not quite expected. He didn’t know what her name was, but she had clearly done a number on him. He stopped in a café for a cigarette and a newspaper, returning the glares from patrons for his apparent residual inebriation. He took out his wallet to pay, but stayed his hand immediately. Across the outermost Euro was a dark lettered “TRIESTE” scrawled in a heavy ink. It was undoubtedly his own handwriting, albeit somewhat misaligned. Maybe he had found something? He settled his tab, and then made way towards the train station.

He never flew if he could take the rail, much better restaurant cars and absolutely top shelf sauce. He had sworn never to go back to Trieste, not since his jaunt there in ’97. But still, if there was a chance at finding her there, he needed to try it. He made his way to the first class car, and proceeded to get drunk amongst the assembled gentry that one always finds on a train to Trieste….