The Mind's I

By Meor Yu

The Mind's I is the odyssey of an anonymous college student who starts a semester abroad expecting a life changing experience. It is. He naively and optimistically travels across Europe, fails with girls, experiments with drugs, and even becomes drunk enough to lose all of his belongings and wake up in another city...among other diversions.

Eventually, he survives foreign countries and cultures, and returns to his hometown in the U.S. Life once again becomes boring, normal, and routine. That is, until, a bizarre experience with a squirrel and a mysterious guitar player sets off a string of events that leads to the ultimate discovery: his true identity, and even the meaning of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483567389

Book preview

ISBN: 978-1-4835673-8-9

Contents

Genesis

Exodus

I Awoke in a Fog (Not an Unusual Atmospheric Condition in England)

Hobbits, Reefers, and Pints

The Strangest Thing

Sin City of Europe

Herbs & Insects

If Pigs Could Fly

Fear & Loathing in Van Gogh

What ’s This, a Rabbit Hole?

Hobos & Hookers

Turn On, Tune In, and Pass Out

Uncle Stoner

Poor, Poor Annie

The Vibe

Just a Citizen, Not a Believer

Heading Home

Prague

First Night Out

Tipsy-Turvy

Croatian Cutie

Not a P.I.M.P (a Parody)

Pilgrimage to Mecca

Diction Size Matters

A Night In

The Macabre

Socializing & Spontaneity

Munich

Oktoberfest

Mulligan Bitte (Please)

Catch-22

Escape from Berlin

I Love ze Germans

Looking for a Light

Family Arrival

Not Laughing with Me, Laughing at Me

Not Great Expectations

Insane in the Ukraine

A Stranger in a Strange Land

What are the Odds?

P-ing at Karlovy Lazne

Friday in Krakow

Snap-Judgments

Check-Late

Buddha-test

Saturday in Budapest

Sunday: My Day of Rest

A Class in the Day

Goodbye Prague

Rhyming Riddle

French Fries…Not Freedom Fries

Parisdox: Hardest to Write About, Yet It Was My Favorite City (Well, Behind Prague)

Spain: The Prequel

Santiago de Compestela

Que es Normal?

Madrid: A Bad Taste in My Mouth

London: Let There Be Light (and Sound)!

Bye Europe

Color-Coded

Tezzy

Coming to...America

Bad is Good?

The Furthest a Wise Man Can See is to the Beginning of His Blindness

Offense isn ’t Harmful

An Alien Gesture

My Creed

Crescendo

Solo

Tutti Con Brio

Sustain

Genesis

In the beginning...actually, let’s just skip over all that, and jump right in somewhere before The End. I am studying abroad this semester in Prague, Czech Republic!

Exodus

Having flown from America, we arrived in London at 5:30 in the morning. I say we because I left with one of my friends, K-C. He’s tall, pale, blond, and resembles a stick figure, with limbs comprising most of his overall frame, his torso itself being smaller relatively. He’s going to school in Granada, Spain for the semester to practice Spanish, which is one of his studies. We came to Europe two weeks early to travel around before we had to tend to the responsibility of school.

We arrived at our temporal destination in Oxford, England where K-C’s brother lets an apartment, while he attends one of the colleges for his Rhodes scholarship. We got settled in, and emailed our respective homes to let our families know we had traveled safely.

By now, it was time for lunch, so we walked down the street for some bites to eat. I wasn’t allowed to wear my ballcap inside, which I thought was weird for a casual pub, but I’m thinking I still have tons of cultural idiosyncrasies to learn during my time over here.

Anyway, the point of telling my story about lunch, is that I ordered my first beer legally (as the legal drinking age in Europe is 18, instead of 21), but I was so jetlagged that I could hardly enjoy it. K-C and I were so exhausted, our lunch-time conversation consisted only of different ways to say I’m tired to each other. To an observer, we probably looked like the most boring and blank people on Earth. While K-C finished eating his fries and brown sauce, I almost fell asleep at the table. I zombied back to the apartment, then took a nap.

I Awoke in a Fog (Not an Unusual Atmospheric Condition in England)

I woke in the evening still uncertain if this was really going to be my first night of many so far away from where I came. And when I realized it was, I clapped like a little school girl. I like my friends and family and all, but this was going to be the most phenomenal four months of my existence! So far, anyway, I’m optimistic.

B-C, the brunette glasses-wearing older brother of K-C, hadn’t actually made it back to England yet for the semester, so Sven, his roommate, took it upon himself to show us around town. Sven is quite the character; he is compact and light blonde, and he seems too smart for his own good. Not that he flaunts it, he was entirely humble, it just looked like his brain worked too fast. He is from Sweden, and is both fluent in Swedish and English. He talks like a stereotyped quiet Japanese person, all fast and with head-nods, but in perfect English. He was an excellent tour guide of Oxford.

Hobbits, Reefers, and Pints

We commenced a pub crawl, and came upon the Turf Tavern, where you can get an education in intoxication, as the sign claimed. We walked in the front door, and I thought I passed through a phantasmal portal connected to the Shire, the bar looking like it could be right at home in a medieval fantasy world. I looked around for Frodo Baggins so I could congratulate him on saving Middle Earth; I intended to buy him a pint for his troubles. This was the first time I had ever felt tall. My head almost hit the ceiling, and I’m pretty much average height. K-C looked funny ducking around because he’s like 6 ½ feet tall.

We each got a pint, meandered out to the back patio, and sat down at a picnic-style table. As we were sitting there, sipping on our beers, it dawned on me how dinky and trivial my life has been. This didn’t produce a feeling of inadequacy or impotence, however. (Haha, I said impotence. I’m immature sometimes.) Instead, I was awe-inspired being surrounded by so much history, practically every nearby building having such rich and elaborate chronicles surrounding them. I have 20 years of memories, and these buildings have centuries, or millennia. To my left, was the wall that used to surround the city of Oxford, imposing a solid 25 feet of rocks. To my right, was K-C, who is not quite as old as the wall, but almost as tall. And, in the center, was me. History and the Present were co-mingling on the back patio of this bar. It is alleged, that during a former President’s tenure at Oxford, that it was at the Turf Tavern that he so famously didn’t inhale. I regaled myself with the thought that, in fact, it was the very same spot I was currently occupying, being separated only by time. We finished our beers, and continued onward.

We retreated out the same alleyway from whence we came. It couldn’t be more than four feet in width. Also, it takes a 90 degree turn around a corner. It would be an improbability for anyone to find this place by chance…but more amazing things have happened.

Vagabonds of the night, we settled temporarily in another cramped pub called the Lamb and Flag. I’m not sure if it had any significant historical interest, but it was a stop on Sven’s tour, nonetheless. K-C and Sven began conversing about politics, and the Big Brother Act. I regressed into myself, still wondering if I really crossed that sea that they call the Atlantic.

The final pub we hit was the Eagle and Child, which had been host to C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Supposedly, these two writers would meet here at least once a week to discuss everything, including books, and life. From the three pubs we popped in that night, I recognized a few trends. The bars were not spacious, being more like corridors containing tables, stools, and fools, all trapped in old, entirely wooden buildings. Additionally, the English don’t place much importance on their beer being cold. Each one I drew was slightly above room temperature.

We finished up, and began our brief trek home. I still couldn’t get over the historical pedigree of all the buildings, churches, and colleges we were engulfed by, all of them so old. I was so used to the purely functional architecture in America, all being recently built. We ended our night somewhat early, since we had a long day behind us, and another day of traveling ahead. Destination next: Amsterdam.

The Strangest Thing

As I was finishing writing up the previous sentence, sitting here in the living room of B-C and Sven’s in Oxford, the handle to the front door started to jiggle. I thought it was Sven returning from his day of research, so I went to open the door, so he didn’t have to unlock it himself. I opened it, and there was an old man standing there, confused. He said he was lost, and didn’t know which flat was his. He didn’t appear drunk, maybe just amnesiac. I tried to extract information out of him, to see if I could help him find his place, but to no avail. I apologized for not being able to help, and he said it was okay, because he would be able to manage and find it eventually. I wonder if some day I will be similar to him: trying to figure out where I came from, where I am now, and which direction I need to go. Anyway,…

Sin City of Europe

Exiting the train station in central Amsterdam, I was astonished. I don’t think I have ever seen such a high density of people. I’ve never been to New York City, but this is what I imagine it’s like on a busy day. I definitely couldn’t chew gum and walk in this place. This was probably the third hardest time I’ve ever had walking in my life. (The first would be when I was learning, and second probably being when I drank too much cough syrup.) Some of the smaller streets get overtaken by people, and cars can’t even go on them. I think if someone could run 100 meters in less than 20 seconds here, they would probably be eligible for the American football trophy. Long story short, there were a lot of people.

It was one of the busiest tourist times of the year, so our first mission was to secure shelter for the night. We searched for a hostel. I had never stayed in one before, but from what I understood of it, is that they’re like hotels, but cheaper because the rooms often contain multiple bunk beds, and shared bathrooms, as opposed to the generally more private hotel rooms that I had been used to visiting during family vacations in America.

The first hostel K-C and I arrived at had vacancy, so we took it. We figured out why when we got to our room. I’ve never been to a crack-house before, but this hostel was what I envision the interior to look like. Our room had an acrid smelling and stained couch, and the toilet and shower left something to be desired. The paint was cracked and peeling from the walls, and dust and grime seemed to be a permanent fixture. It did have clean sheets on the beds (I think), which was good. We secured our belongings (hid them behind the couch), and ventured out to absorb the city.

Herbs & Insects

We found a restaurant and ate dinner, then walked across the street to The Grasshopper, one of many of Amsterdam’s fine coffee shops. We walked in, and the lady behind the bar asked if we wanted to see either one of their two menus. I hadn’t smoked something that causes me to be introspective and socially awkward, sometimes making things funny and/or difficult, causing respiratory problems if done too aggressively (This scientific term used above is annoyingly too long. I’ll just reefer to it as something shorter and simpler…how about Pot?) for awhile, but I was in Amsterdam! When in Amsterdam, do as the Dutch do.

There were about 15 kinds of indoor grown Pot that you could buy from this guy in a booth in the back of the coffee shop. After an inquiry, the guy recommended Shiva, so we bought that.

I laboriously tested my sub-par joint rolling skills, because that’s almost all they use in Amsterdam to smoke. Its pitiful construction didn’t inhibit its purpose. It’s a really weird feeling, sitting in a restaurant, casually smoking Pot, without anyone else caring. I felt like I was doing something illegal, and they didn’t want me there, but later I concluded that I was just really high and paranoid.

As I record and type this a week later, I can’t remember what we even did when we left The Grasshopper. Maybe someday we will integrate memory chips into our biology that could digitally prevent such a memory lapse as this…hmmmmm.

If Pigs Could Fly

We woke up the next morning at 7:45 to leave our crap-hole, to find a different hostel, before they filled up for the evening. We lucked out, and got into the Flying Pig in downtown. We liked it so much just after getting inside, we went ahead and reserved beds for both of us the next three nights.

This place was cool, it had: a bar, a pool table, a stage filled with pillows and coffee tables, computers hooked up to the Internet, vending machines with beer…and that’s just upstairs. Downstairs, it had fridges that we had access to while we stayed (all we had to do was put our food in a sack and put our name on it), a big screen TV and tables to eat around, and last, but not least, the happy room. The happy room was constantly hazy, being in Amsterdam, and all.

Fear & Loathing in Van Gogh

After we put our bags and valuables in the lockers provided beneath the bunks in our room, we undertook a full and eventful day around town. I had decided that, while I was in Amsterdam, I was going to eat some Schizo, and go to the Van Gogh museum. I picked out the Columbian strain from a local coffee shop, ate half of it, and hung onto the other half, if in case it didn’t kick in strong enough, I could take more later. I found out in a few hours I wouldn’t need it.

I don’t think I can clearly communicate what transpired in my head that day, but it was kind of like the volume was turned up on all my sensory input.

The Van Gogh Museum was one of the furthest sites we visited in Amsterdam, all of it being on foot. We didn’t go straight there either. We tried to make a stop at a point described in our guidebook as 15 Bridges which, not surprisingly, is a place where a person can see 15 bridges crossing the canals from one spot. We must not have found it because we only saw about eight.

We got lost and ended up in Vondel Park. By this time, I was starting to feel the Schizo. I couldn’t tell what I wanted to do next, as if my mind and body were having trouble coming to an agreeable solution. Part of me wanted to go to the museum and look at Van Gogh’s magnificent artwork, and the other part of me wanted to just lay in the grass at the park and be one with nature. And, I weirdly couldn’t tell if I had to use the restroom, or not. K-C wanted to go to the museum, so I thought it would be a good idea to go with him, so he could ‘baby-sit’ me, since he was in a more normal mind-state. I wonder what would have happened to me if I had stayed in the park by myself.

In queue (Europe’s version of standing in line) at the Van Gogh entrance, many strange things were happening to me, or at least appearing to. I thought the people behind me were standing uncommonly close to me, so I was really uncomfortable. In reality though, I think they were just standing behind the person in front of them, which is what happens in a line. It was hard for me to grasp this socially awkward proximity and shaped grouping of strangers. What happened next was probably the single most bizarre concept of my self-induced psychotropic episode. I was standing on the staircase leading up to the ticket counter, and I couldn’t figure what step I was actually standing on. I looked down, saw both my feet, and the steps, but I couldn’t figure out where they were in relation to each other, like I was standing in a 3-dimensional optical illusion.

Once inside, I was riding a sinuous and thin line between Heaven and Hell. Heaven being when I could transcend, understand, and synchronize with my environment, and Hell being beaten down by a deluge of mad, chaotic, and overwhelming paranoia. I was creating these environments myself.

One of my Heaven moments was in front of the largest painting in the entire exhibit. I don’t know if it actually contained the smoothest and most pure colors I have ever seen, or if the Schizo just intensified that. It was maybe both, which blew my mind even further. Either way, I was taken aback by the skill and patience that went into that splendiferous piece of art (I might add, ‘splendiferous’ is mighty fun to say while being psychotic. I found a certain appeal to gaudy words and clang association.); it razzle-dazzled my brain. The whole experience made me feel like dancing with divine inspiration, but fortunately I was just enough mentally and physically grounded to realize that dancing in the museum would not make sense to the other museum patrons, so I constrained myself to fairly normal movements.

One of my Hell moments was when I was in a small part of the exhibit, surrounded by too many people and paintings. My brain was going at warp speed. I had a delusional urge to grab my head and yell, Turn it down! so I could stop