What they don’t tell you about Europe is how completely lame it is.
I should have guessed, though. It was my parents’ idea. They’re not exactly renowned for their coolness. They sent me on this tour of Europe, supposedly for my education but really to get me out of their hair for a month, while simultaneously being able to brag to their friends that “Jack is on tour in Europe, getting something interesting to write about on college essays.”
Painful admission here: I didn’t totally mind because my girlfriend, Amber, dumped me like last year’s cat litter when some college guy asked her out. At least being here keeps me from seeing her with the new guy, and also forces me to appear like I have some pride and not call her. And who knows? Maybe I’ll meet someone.
I was picturing clubs with Eurotrash nobility, riding on Vespas, lounging in French cafés and Greek tavernas, and, of course, the occasional topless beach (although it is a well-known fact that European women aren’t big on shaving their, um, pitular area—I planned to look elsewhere). I thought at least there’d be some cool gardens, something outdoors. I never imagined the suckitude I was about to experience—one big bus tour to every museum that offers a group rate. In Miami, where I’m from, we have maybe five museums, if you count the zoo. Here in Europe, every podunk town has ten or twenty. The bus pulls up in front of a museum and lets us out. Our tour guide, Mindy, has this little blue-and-white flag with a picture of a bird on it, which makes walking behind her the ultimate in humiliation. She walks backward to whichever great work of art the museum’s famous for. The assembled peasants gawk for a full two minutes. Then it’s off to the gift shop to spend our Euros on stuff we wouldn’t pay two cents for if it was in the Walgreens back home.
It’s not doing a thing to get my mind off Amber.
At least my friend Travis is here. Guess his parents wanted to get rid of him, too. I don’t even know what country we’re in now. One of those lame ones you don’t learn much about in geography, like Belgium, or maybe one of the “L” ones. I don’t pay much attention to Mindy, but yesterday I heard her say the magic word: coast. We’re near the beach. That’s when I started formulating my plan.
I shake Travis awake.
“What the…what time is it?”
“Five thirty, man.”
“In the morning?”
“No, at night. It’s almost time for dinner.”
That gets him up. But when he sees how dark it is, he slumps back on the bed.
“It’s still dark.”
Can’t put anything over on Travis, at least not where food or sleep are concerned.
“Okay, I lied. But I need to get out of this Tour of the Damned and have some fun. That’s not going to happen unless we can beat the seven o’clock meet-up time.”
“Know what would be fun?”
“What, Trav?” I’m hoping maybe he has some ideas, since I know his parents roped him into this tour, same as mine.
“Sleeping.”
“It’s not like they’re going to let you sleep in, anyway. Soon they’ll be banging on the door, telling us to get ready. This way, you can sleep when we hit the beach.”
“Beach?”
Back home in Miami, Travis is a serious sun god. Now he’s the color of marshmallows.
“Sure, the beach. Think of it, Travis. Topless French chicks.”
“We’re not in France.”
“Okay, topless German chicks. Does it make a difference?”
“Will there be food?”
“Sure. There’s a café across the street. We’ll get breakfast and some sandwiches, but first we have to get out of here.”
Finally, I manage to get him out of bed. I’d actually sort of wanted to go look at this National Botanic Garden of Belgium (Belgium! That’s where we are!) we passed yesterday on the way to Museum Number Three. I could see this huge giant sequoia from the road. Of course, we didn’t have time to look at it. But I knew that Travis was way more likely to go along with me to the beach. At least it’s not another dusty art museum, and maybe we can hit the garden on the way back.
I drag Travis to the concierge desk to ask for directions.
“You couldn’t have done that while I was getting ready?” Travis asks.
“You’d have gone back to sleep.”
“You know, sometimes it’s like you work at being a slacker.”
“I prefer to spend my summer not working at anything.”
We have to stand there for a while, while the concierge guy makes time with the desk clerk. If he doesn’t get over here soon, Mindy might catch us.
“Hey, little help here…” I look at his nameplate. “Jacks?”
He ignores us.
“Hey! Don’t want to take time from your busy schedule.”
When he finally figures out that we’re not leaving, he comes over.
“Which way to the beach, Jacks?” I ask.
“It is Jacques.” He gives me that special glare hotel concierges always give you when they figure out you’re American or that you don’t speak the language, like he ate a bad niçoise salad. Like I’m supposed to speak every language in Europe. I took Spanish in school. Of course, we haven’t been to Spain yet. At least, I don’t think we have.
“The beach?” I repeat. “La playa?”
“Le plage,” Travis tries.
“Ah, oui. La plage.” We’ve pushed a magic button, and suddenly the concierge is our best friend and now speaks perfect English. “The autobus leaves at nine thirty.”
“We can’t wait until nine thirty, Jacks.”
Jacques shrugs. “That is when it goes.”
If we have to wait until nine thirty, we’re going to get caught, and I’m going to get stuck in another museum. My girlfriend dumped me, my summer vacation is ruined, and this guy can’t even help me have one decent day? Isn’t it, like, his job to be helpful? “Is there another bus, maybe? Is this, like, the completely lamest country in Europe?”
Travis nudges me. “Jack, you’re gonna get him mad.”
“Who cares? He doesn’t understand me, anyway. Everyone in this country is—”
“Ah, you are correct, monsieur,” Jacques interrupts, “and I am wrong. I have just remembered there is another autobus, a different route. A different beach.”
I give Trav a look like, see?
“Would you write it down for us?” Travis asks. “Please?”
“But of course.”
The concierge hands us a bus schedule with the routes and times circled. “You want to get off here and then walk to the east.” He sketches a map. It looks pretty complicated, but at least the bus leaves in twenty minutes.
“Thanks,” Travis says. “Listen, is there a place to get sandwiches?”
My cell phone rings. I check the caller ID: Mindy, looking for us. I grab Travis’s arm. “We’ve got to go.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Later.” I drag him away.
“Thanks,” he yells to Jacques. “See you later.”
Jacques waves, and he’s actually smiling. He says something that sounds like “I doubt it” but is probably just some weird French phrase. I pull Travis out the door just as I spot Mindy stepping out of the elevator.
Luckily, she’s already walking backward and doesn’t see us.