Tilene, the cat, wears a sooty coat and perches daintily on the chair pushed under the table. She occupies two square feet of this apartment, if you include her litter box, and shares it with one other non-human – a dismembered mannequin – and three humans. Six if you count the Chinese family living in the other half of the apartment. We never see them but smell the unmistakable odor of dirty dogs (live, not cooked) and of cigarette smoke that’s already stale by the time it reaches us.

I finally arrived at Arnaud’s after a long and brutal (though cheap) journey from London – a cab ride to the station, a fast train to Victoria, a walk to the bus station, an eight hour Megabus ride during which I was positively gassed by the stench of a hippie with infuriatingly kind eyes, and a sweltering Metro ride across Paris during rush hour.

Once I got settled at Arnaud’s, I joined the roommates for dinner at a little place near Montmartre. After a steady march of subpar sandwiches, I absolutely swooned over my meal. I’ve never been one to describe food because those people are generally insufferable, but those succulent morsels of duck served upon a bed of roquette tossed in a spicy peanut vinaigrette! That red vegetable curry and wild rice! And the wine! I was seeing God.

And then I was seeing a young, able-bodied Middle-Eastern man who was perfectly capable of working an honest job slip through the open doorway and snatch a man’s briefcase from right behind him. A move so brazen as to be reckless – three different people, myself included, yelled some form of “catch that thief” and he was swiftly apprehended by a gang that included representatives of each table. Fraternité! When the man was chased down, he threw down the briefcase and said “oh look I don’t have it anymore, it wasn’t me,” an excuse that was just so pathetically childlike as to eek out a tiny sliver of pity for the degenerate scum, even though he makes a job of ruining entire weeks of other peoples’ lives with desperate acts of selfishness.

After recovering from a very mild hangover the next day, I went to a museum of medical oddities that Arnaud had told me about that was located on the campus of a medical school. The museum housed two dozen glass cases brimming with pickled people parts from the 18th and 19th century. It was completely grotesque; not exactly informative and thus pornographic in that it elicited a purely visceral response and not much else.

Like any good American, I found a Starbucks and took advantage of the free WiFi. I listened to a couple of completely obnoxious South Africans bark their order in English at the barista before critiquing the Pumpkin Spice Latté rather unpoetically, and remembering loudly their exploits in Mykonos, and finally wondering how on earth the girl would spend the remaining 800 euros that her mummy had given her. I felt the kind of vicarious shame that you feel for people who steamroll their way through life without a single fleeting moment of self-awareness.

I’d heard enough, so I walked around the Jardin du Luxembourg, then walked 3 miles back to Arnaud’s apartment. I didn’t really want to contend with the Métro at 5:30 and I was in no rush at all, so I walked and walked that day. As Arnaud had to begin a 24 hour shift at the hospital the next day, his roommate Matteo showed me some nice bars in Belleville when I got back.

Fortunately it’s too expensive to spend a lot of time at Paris bars so I didn’t suffer too terribly, financially or otherwise. I’ve been nickel-and-diming since I’ve gotten here – with the exception of the first meal (which was worth spending an entire shift’s tips on), I’ve been living scrupulously. London has been bleeding me every step of the way though.

I spent the next afternoon at a gorgeous park on the edge of Paris, Bois de Vincennes. It was perfectly idyllic – wooden rowboats gliding on a placid lake, peacocks sashaying through fallen leaves, and the frustrated bellsongs of cyclists trying to part the seas of joggers and strollers. I felt like I was in that painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. It was just like that, minus the hoop skirts.

That night I went to a party hosted by one of Matteo’s friends from architecture school. The place was in Chateau Rouge, a neighborhood inhabited mainly by African immigrants and prostitutes. The party was decidedly more diverse and I felt the full crisis of my linguistic shortcomings – conversation was conducted in French, Italian, Spanish, and English, and it wasn’t until the alcohol began flowing that English was settled upon as the language in which we would conduct all official business. This was after a hilarious Polish guy showed up with a bottle of vodka. We sang Happy Birthday and played Circle of Death, during which I contributed significantly to the general intoxication level by making it a drinkable offense to speak Italian.

Yesterday was painful, but I managed to scrape together enough brain cells to put together a trip to Barcelona. I’m flying out of Beauvais-Tillé tomorrow morning at 8:55, which presents a logistical nightmare as it’s an hour north of Paris and the bus leaves from the other side of the city and the Métro doesn’t open until 6am. Cécile, Arnaud’s other roommate, put me in touch with her friend who lives near the bus station in Porte Maillot, so I will stay there tonight and leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow. This is a completely brutal itinerary, but I’ll be in Barcelona by noon tomorrow.


I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like an Artisan Series KitchenAid Stand Mixer in Pistachio. My pedicure will peep out of kitten heels and I will be lightly strangled by a small scarf tied at my throat. My bangs will hover over my forehead light like a cirrus cloud and they wouldn’t hide the beginnings of a permanent furrow even if there was one. I will be so slender as to render my curves pert. I will be punctuated on either side by a pair of pearls that would be called understated if they weren’t a foil to the cluster of diamonds scattering light from my finger around the stem of my wine glass.

I will talk at length about my children named Cooper and Ella and Braden and Avery and we will compare notes about spacing and cosleeping and breastfeeding. We will talk about our breeding habits like gardeners discussing fertilizer. I will mention offhandedly that my husband is an actuary since I know you were wondering but too polite to ask, and I will bookend this piece of information with lamentations about the long hours he works, how he doesn’t get home until after the kids are in bed most nights, and you will notice my wedding band tap-tap-tapping the stem of my empty wine glass.


I’m going to show up to my high school reunion dressed like a big fake nail. I will have shimmering cheeks like the iridescent sheen on a piece of deli meat and my eyeballs will have false lashes like roman helmets. I will be perched on stilettos and I will be the color of terracotta. I will have a boyfriend, a babydaddy, and a 4 year old, and you will know them intimately by the time I’ve finished my fourth sour apple martini. I will bum a cigarette from a girl I hated in high school even though I quit when I got pregnant but this is a special occasion.

We’ll smoke by the dumpster and I’ll forgive her for that time she made out with my boyfriend on Spring Break in Panama City when I was passed out on the balcony. I think I still have the airbrushed trucker hat from that trip. All seven of us are depicted as rudimentary stick figures in bikinis. I think I have a precancerous mole on my back from that trip as well but I haven’t seen the doctor because the tanning salon doesn’t offer medical insurance. God, we were so drunk.


I’m going to show up to my high school reunion dressed like a gluten-free carrot cake. I’m going to wear this great little wrap dress I found on Etsy, and the cool thing is it’s made by former child prostitutes in Bangladesh but you’d never know looking at it, such intricate beadwork! It’s amazing what children are capable of when they have the opportunity to self-actualize.

No thank you, I’m not drinking right now – I’m doing a cleanse to lose some of this baby wei- oh, you’re too sweet, chasing around two toddlers while swaddling a newborn is a hell of a good- yeah number three, he’ll be seven weeks tomorrow! We were trying for a girl but I just knew right away it would be another little man, you just feel these things, don’t you? There’s still plenty of time – God gives you hundreds of thousands of eggs for a reason, right?!


I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like a stock portfolio. I will wear a look of exhaustion and a Birkin bag. My ring finger will be conspicuously naked and some girl I never liked will ask anyway. I thought of asking my assistant as my plus-one to avoid this but that was before we went to Oslo on business, and he and I agreed the next morning that what happened certainly constituted “hierarchical misconduct,” a term so vague and politically correct that it could only have been dreamed up by a silver-haired Republican who only shows up at stockholder meetings.

I will make a snide remark about the organic cotton cloth diapers you won’t shut up about, and I will immediately regret it. You will fake laugh but regret approaching me at all. The first time you got alcohol poisoning was in my parents’ house and you left a trail of vomit from the suede couch to the potted plant to the hot tub. I was a complete bitch about it, which I still feel bad about because two weeks later I threw up all over our mutual friend’s guest room only moments after losing my virginity.


I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like a bathroom stall covered in inspirational graffiti. I will wear winged eyeliner and a severe haircut and I will reconnect with girls I was friends with in middle school and stopped talking to when I stopped talking to God. I will gulp down three PBRs while the class president starts talking about success from behind a podium and this will cure the hangover from last night’s bender.

I will meet the wife of the guy I waited on a last month at the restaurant that he’s only patronized with his mistress and I will singlehandedly unravel his marriage. I will coach her through a breakdown by holding her hair back and repeating a useless mantra about positivity. At some point I will find a way to compare their marriage, about which I know nothing, to a can of sardines in my grandmother’s pantry that expired in 2002, and she will look at me, with red-rimmed eyes, in total disbelief.

I love a good doomsday scenario,
But I prefer mine served
On a bed of cooled lava
And drizzled in sulphuric rain.

I want to see a meteor crash
Violently into the horizon.
I want weeds to take over.

Highways of kudzu,
Parking lots of new forest,
Radioactive cesspools of oceans.

Boiling rivers,
Buckling pavement,
Brimstone faucets.

I have considered Christians
Shooting through ceiling tiles
And doe-eyed virgins ascending to
Islamic bedrooms.

I’ve envisioned angels directing traffic,
Lines of grown men waiting in line
To sit on God’s lap on a cumulus cloud.
It doesn’t appeal to me.

I’d much prefer to drop dead in good company.
Bash my head on the bathroom wall
When the shockwave hits.
Go when everybody else does.

Our cabbie barked the tongue of the ancients on his cell phone as we left the airport. Something felt off as soon as we landed – it wasn’t Europe anymore. It wasn’t Western.

The landscape looked Californian (“looks and feels like California, but with more debt,” I’d jokedand the air had the same golden quality about it. Our hostel was up an ancient cobbled corridor with crumbling hovels and stray dogs. The dogs and cats had learned to use crosswalks to avoid getting hit by cars. Darwinian. They still smelled like shit.

Much of it was built during the brief communist regime back in the 1970’s. It was clinical brutalism piled high over ancient walls and crumbling ruins. The paint on the buildings had been vibrant once, but by the time we got there eons later the walls blended into the cobblestones. You could see the Mediterranean in the distance.

The moment we got to our hostel (littlebighouse.gr) we were greeted with frappés and escorted up to a gorgeous Ikea catalogue room. There was a 1,700 year-old wall in the backyard and you could see (past the tangles of alarmingly improvised power lines) down the hill to the Mediterranean sea.

We went to a cafe down the road and had a Greek feast under grapevines for a hilariously manageable 8€.

I tried my damnedest to ignore the fact that my body was rebelling with a severe head cold and I ventured into the city anyway with a group of travelers we’d met at the hostel. We found a hookah bar, and the staff lavished us with more than we’d asked and more than we were expected to pay for – tapas with everything, free hookahs, cheap drinks, and barbed corrections when we were overheard speaking of Istanbul rather than Constantinople.

I wanted so badly to join the rest of the party on the booze cruise around the bay, on which my good friend John would, by the end of the night, sacrifice his nipple on a bathroom fixture. But my body needed to lay supine, and while the rest of the Mediterranean was sipping in the first of the night’s libations, I found myself staring at the pine slats of the upper bunk, my phone snuggled between them and broadcasting the absurd Red Bull leap from the stratosphere.

I practically waterboarded myself with free tea and my health seemed to be on the upswing the next day. John was considerably worse off, having only just begun the arduous trek to relative sobriety at around noon, by which time we were amidst 4th century ruins – the Arch of Galerius and the Rotunda. The ruins demarcated the beginning of organized religion. Commissioned by the Roman Emperor Galerius to celebrate some bloody victory, it was used first as a polytheist temple, then converted to a Christian church by order of Constantine the Great himself, seized by the Ottomans in 1590 and turned into a mosque, then finally restored to a Christian church in 1912.

In spite of these crises of faith, and withstanding the tremors of the Earth, the fossils of ancient empires lived in stark contrast alongside the pathetic constructs of modern Greece. The communist-era buildings looked like they’d been conceived in a cubist fever dream and constructed out of recycled milk cartons. These architectural abortions sat just steps away from the masonry and marble that housed our embryonic civilization.

And there was the haze of the financial crisis hovering over everything. The emblems of the Golden Dawn Party (a fascist fringe group that was growing at an alarming rate) littered the city and the hammer and sickle were everpresent. Every block was half vacant with shuttered storefronts stippled with graffiti, much of it political, and all of it left in aimless posterity by disgruntled millennials – a demographic of which almost half suffer unemployment.

The whole place was built up over the ruins of an almost mythical antiquity and was just nipping at the heels of modernity. It was as though everything had been stuck fifteen years in the past – dated color schemes, advertising done entirely in WordArt, gaudy printed tile. Sometimes I would walk into a store and feel like I was in a Florida tourist trap in the late 90s.

One afternoon we banded together with a group from the hostel in search of a family-owned restaurant that had been highly recommended in the tourist literature. We walked up the street on which it was alleged to have been and found nothing. Not a trace of this restaurant; no silhouette of signage, not even a ghostly storefront. No ruins. Just the unrecognizable skeleton of something great. Deflated promise.

Sometimes my aching legs would keep me up at night. I’d tiptoe into my parents’ room and wake up my mom and she would say that they were growing pains. My bones were stretching out, inching me by the nanometer towards the countertops, the cupboards, the top shelf of the pantry. One day the step stool was put away and retired into obsolescence. One summer I could wind the grandfather clock without my grandfather lifting me. I could watch PG-13 movies in which sex is merely alluded to by two beautiful people bathed in white light laying motionless on top of one another. I was trusted alone with an apple and paring knife.

All I wanted was to fall asleep but my shins were soaking up all the milk I’d had with dinner and it didn’t matter how much I kicked or stretched or shook them, they were going to propel me towards adolescence as fast as they damn well could.

When I reached teenhood, the growing pains came in the form of crippling angst punctuated by moments of paralyzing humiliation. The trick was to maintain an air of blasé resignation while silently reliving every excruciating vignette from the past five years on a loop in my memory. I learned to feign confidence and in time that feigned confidence became real.

The growing pains of my young adult life are investments. All the stresses I’ve dealt with for the past couple of months – scrimping and saving; paying off debts; moving out; purging myself of most of my things; packing and repacking; saying heart-wrenching goodbyes to my family, my boyfriend, my friends, my dog, my beloved city – it’s emptied a space in me that is waiting to flood with the marrow of the rest of my life.

When I was in college, I often had fleeting compulsions to take the train all the way to the airport instead of getting off downtown. I’d have only a pittance in my account and the things I’d walked out the door with, and I would buy a ticket to the farthest place that I could afford.

I would be squashed into cattle class, and my neighbor, smelling like a $9 Bud Light, would ask me the usual probing questions about the nature of my journey. And I would say “I don’t know, I just bought this ticket an hour ago.” And they might try to get me to confess that I was running away from something – shitty parents, an abusive boyfriend, the law. Maybe I was off my Lithium. I would insist that I just didn’t feel like going to class.

“So you’re going to Albequerque instead?”

“Why, what’s wrong with Albequerque?”

Sometimes I’d be driving. Sometimes I would get on the highway and I’d dream of sailing past my exit on cruise control for miles and miles. I would end up in Maine, or somewhere folksy enough that people would invite me back to their home for hot apple cider. Their home would have smoke perpetually slinking out of the chimney and panes frosted in perfect half moons. They would live in a Thomas Kinkade painting. They would ask me probing questions about the nature of my journey. And I would insist that no, I just didn’t feel like going to the grocery store.

“So you’re going to Quebec instead?”

“Why, what’s wrong with Quebec?”

And they would wonder what possessed me to leave that day, why I’d chosen the place I did. Because taking off and leaving, with only a haphazard plan, is terrifying. I’ve woken up every day for the past 23 years and had some semblance of a plan laid out for me. I would be in school, then university, then I would get a job. I did all of these things. I rode the ebbs and flows of classrooms and lecture halls and post-college purgatory. But now I have an end date. A date that I chose simply because it would creep up too soon and not-soon-enough.

For a year, I’ve been mulling over possible destinations. I was deadset on a jaunt around Southeast Asia for months. But I decided that going wasn’t enough. The great adventure is to start over.

I’d been delaying the purchase of my one-way ticket for months. One day I woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. Twenty-seven seconds after I picked up my laptop, I was in the process of buying the cheapest plane ticket there was, which also happened to be, by some miracle, the flight that I’ve taken dozens of times from Hartsfield to Heathrow, which was at such an alarmingly steep discount that I double and triple checked that I hadn’t just been scammed.

A few days later, I was in contact with a family in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a suburb of Paris, about being an au pair, and I’ve been absolutely recoiling at the thought of having to conjugate a phonebook of French verbs since. But if I’m going to be so fucking continental, I might as well learn French well enough that I can construct a self in that language. Rather than scrambling for the few words I can pick out on the fast-flickering tongue of a foreign language, I might finally respond with a complete thought instead of watching the other party sigh and bark his or her rudimentary English at me.

The day that I bought my ticket, I was driving past some godforsaken construction site which had a quote massively displayed on the fence surrounding it. The quote, by Pablo Picasso, and appropriated by this contracting firm, read “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.”

The word “destruction” has a sinister mouthfeel, but the quote resonated with me nonetheless. I had one of those selfish moments where it seemed like it was “a sign,” and I had to ask myself what it is I’m destroying.

I think it’s the tether. It’s the umbilical cord that keeps me close to home, close to what I know and feel cozy in. It is where I am surrounded by that which nourishes me without me even noticing, growing but being confined to the pod I am nestled in; now it feels as though there’s some other force that wants to leave me nascent and wailing on the doorstep of somewhere else.

The train had been stationary for twenty minutes when a burly uniformed German fought his way through the drunken crowds of costumed youth. An apparently claustrophobic young girl stood hyperventilating at the cracked window as her friend fanned her with one hand and took metronomic swigs of Franziskaner with the other.

The train was completely packed to the brim with jolly liederhosen’d men and braided women in dirndls. They had been pouring beer down their gullets since daybreak, and at this point in the early afternoon were raving drunk. The puny train bathrooms were unable to keep up with the demands that such debauchery places on the bladder, and the stench of beer, piss, and sweat began to permeate the sweltering train cabins.

Still, the collective attitude was rather jovial as most people found the situation to be one of cartoonish adventure rather than utter disaster. It wasn’t long before German pragmatism took the reins.

It was only a 3-foot jump to the tracks from the train doors, which had been forcibly opened despite the roars of the aforementioned uniformed official, and a pair of striking young German men offered their hands to the masses as they poured out of the doors onto the gravel.

As we waited to be shepherded by a chain of similarly chivalrous volunteers down the steep embankment, a commotion began down at the fence which stood between us and the beer festival. A chant spread among the throngs – “Reißen die Mauer! REIßEN! DIE! MAUER! Tear down the wall!” With the enthusiastic brawn that one would expect from a group of German men in traditional dress, the chain-link fence was destroyed, and the refugees poured into the waiting arms of freedom.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Don’t run in the hallways, don’t skip breakfast, don’t drag your feet, don’t forget to floss, don’t call your mother a bitch. 

And don’t draw all over your goddamn Converses in ballpoint pen. Don’t smoke pot out of tin foil. Please don’t take advice from grown men who need throat lozenges after screeching their ill-conceived wisdom at you from a plywood stage in Metairie. 

Don’t take advice from me either. I’m a shitty adult. I’ve crossed paths with a guy named Puppy on more than one occasion in the past month. He has face tattoos. These are functionally equivalent to a Kill Yourself t-shirt, but your mother can’t wash your face tattoos in laundry detergent that smells like a bitchy cocktail and fold them lovingly on the foot of your bed wondering if she’s failed as a parent.

I watched the landscape change as I flew over America. The rolling Appalachian foothills gave way to the quilted Central plains, which crumpled up into the Rockies. I passed over the martian deserts of southern Utah where I could see the way ancient rivers had carved out the land. Just past Yosemite was the San Francisco Bay,  interrupted by the hives of the City and glittering in the dying light. 

Grandiose though flying is, you’re reading only two pages of an infinite book. The inbetween is just as good. You’re cheating when you skip over it all. If you can take your time, you ought to.

There are 3,000 miles worth of life to live between Atlanta and San Francisco. You’ll pass by thousands upon thousands of people who are just as consumed by all the simple glories and trivialities of life as you are. It’s one of my favorite words in the English language – sonder. Every life is equally vivid and intricate. It’s never as apparent as it is on a plane, when each traveller is leaving something behind and pursuing something on the other side, but there’s something to be said for the understated poetry of passing by windows in the nighttime, each illuminated with the complex life of a stranger.

There’s an algorithm with which scientists can calculate the number of habitable planets in the universe. Planets that are not too close to nor far from their sun, that could have water, that could be capable of producing the kind of primordial soup from which life springs. You could apply this same logic to friends and lovers; everywhere you go, there is bound to be somebody with whom you can harvest a meaningful relationship, even if that lasts for five fleeting minutes. I have dozens of stories about five-minute friends and I’ve only seen a minuscule fraction of what the world has to offer.

My first time in San Francisco I took the bus too far, and when I finally met with the people I’d intended at Golden Gate Park, all the buses going back were full and all the cabs were occupied. An old man in an SUV screeched to a stop at the bus stop and, like a fast-tongued auctioneer, offered us a ride “Anywhere you wanna go in the city, 20 bucks, take it or leave it, this train is leaving! I’ll take eight of you!” So eight of us, five of whom we’d just met at the bus stop, piled in. He tore maniacally through the streets and reminisced about his days as a stunt driver for the 1968 movie “Bullitt.” We ended up at a costume party on Haight street, me and a dozen strangers whose names and faces I do not remember. All because I took the bus too far.

Every choice and every mistake you make opens up a whole world of possibilities. It might be a dead battery in the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly in Mississippi or a harmonica song from a homeless man on the train car you decided to occupy. Actively pursuing the unexpected is invigorating for that reason – you’re forced to interact with people you’d otherwise never cross paths with and you’ll inevitably contend with situations that put you far outside of your comfort zone. Kurt Vonnegut says it best – “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.”

If I were a more responsible person, I would graduate college and find a job for which I’m overqualified and write half-assedly from the comfort of a familiar life. It would doubtless be the financially and logistically responsible decision, but marinating in concrete can’t lead to greener pastures. So I’ve chosen to be irresponsible and see the landscapes I marvelled at from 30,000 feet. And when I’m a frail ailing arthritic pile of bones waiting for death in a nursing home that smells like old leather and Windex, my regrets will begin at whichever point in life I decide that plush bank accounts are a more attractive prospect than Elsewhere.

“Who paid for this?” inquired a skeptical voice from the back of the group upon passing first the Rodin sculpture, and 20 paces ahead, the exquisite Miro that interrupted the hollow whitewashed museum of an entry hall.

“Well, most of it comes from the EU’s annual budget, and the rest from the settlements that we receive when a state loses a case.”

“And where,” I asked myself, “does that settlement money come from?”

Our guide delighted in pointing out that, while the statues themselves were donated, it costs more for them to be insured every year than he earns. This was clearly a point of contention for his colleagues, who had gathered inside the palatial lobby to protest about an apparently unsatisfactory salary.

This was at the European Court of Justice, but could have just as easily have been at any of the dozen institutions we’ve visited. Each was lavish, ultramodern, and – if I can inject the first of my criticisms here – entirely over-the-top and unnecessary.

Perhaps if it had been just one institution I might have shrugged it off. But there are so many of them: there’s the Council of Europe, the European Council, the Council of the European Union, the European Court of Justice, the European Parliament, the European Court of Human Rights, the European Commission, the European Court of Auditors, etc.

The list is astounding, and if I was so inclined, I could regale you for weeks on end with the various other offices and acronyms, the treaties that created them and the excessively long job titles of the people who run them. I’ll humor you with just one: The High Representative of Common Foreign and Security Policy and the European Commissioner for External Relations and European Neighbourhood Policy were effectively merged to form the High Representative for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy. This official, Catherine Ashton, since you asked, also acts as Vice President of the Commission, administrator of the European Defense Agency AND the External Action Service.

Most Europeans have no idea that half of these institutions even exist, and many of these “Eurocrats” aren’t directly elected. Even in the case that they are elected, the mere fact that a country is part of the EU means that the will of the people of one country – rather, the will of it’s leaders – is tied to the will of another. Given the enormous scope and diversity of the EU, there is just no feasible way to operate without undermining democracy.

I’m utterly bemused by the Europeans’ apparent love for bureaucracy. They just – they adore it. You will find no shortage of committees, councils, commissions, services, agencies, administrations, and programs dedicated to practically everything.

To be fair, the US boasts some equally overarching bureaucracy, but there are legions of Americans for whom the “B” word is a thing to be scorned. I don’t get a sense that that is a popular attitude here. People seem to have learned to love (or at the very least live with) the fact that you could maypole dance your way around the continent with all the red tape.

I suppose I wouldn’t find it so astounding if the Western world wasn’t hokey-pokeying around an economic sinkhole. If you consider that the 2012 EU budget is 147,200,000,000€ and there 503,500,000 citizens in the EU, that works out to be 292.35€ per person. Considering that I spent roughly 30€ each week at the supermarket, that works out to be about 10 weeks of groceries for me.

Of course it’s nice for every Eurocrat to have a corner office in some palatial building in Strasbourg or Brussels or Luxembourg (the fact that it’s a traveling circus adds another layer of absurdity to it), but Who Paid For It?


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