Last Train To Paris

There were two girls I simply called “bella’s” traveling in our group.
One of them, a tall bronze skinned “bella” kissed me, but did not like the taste of my smoking. She pops a mint in her mouth and kisses me deeply. Swapping slowly the mentha spicata taste of her tongue into my mouth.

There are a group of Armenian girls working at a bar in Milan who sell knock off American novelty gifts and cheesy European tourist travel items. The Mickey Mouse ashtrays and New York City water globes intermingle with a Leaning tower of Pisa salt shaker and an Eiffel Tower cigarette lighter.

I several times have to ask what country I am in. I think it has to do with a constant open bar and the high speed trains. The nausea between one country and another blur, like moonlit ocean waves crossing dark International boundaries.

Travel discussions on where to go on the next Train happen over long chess sessions and beers I cannot pronounce. They are thick, smooth, and rich in alcoholic levels. Haven’t been on a train dream like this in ten years.

I guess it is true if you sit long enough in one spot you will recognize someone you know. I happily, with a smile on my face catch up at a depot coffee shop with a friend from long ago. We once knew each other well, and now are going opposite directions. We laugh at old jokes and mindless fun. Our coffee turns to Kentucky Bourbon and the trains come and go with each round of drinks. We say our “until we meet again’s” and off we go. My old friend to the south of Spain, and me a sleeper train to Paris.

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