How to Get Rid of Itchy Feet

By Ross Anthony Cleofe

We learn three things whenever we travel. First, we learn something about other places. Second, we learn something about other people. Third, we learn something about ourselves. This is what Armand Moncaide discovered when he embarked on a trip around Europe. From the sun-drenched plains of Spain to the snow-capped Alps towering over Switzerland; from the grandeur of London and Paris to the romance of Rome and Venice, Armand learns the meaning of the phrase, "Only by getting lost can we begin to find ourselves." Because the truth is, there really is no place like home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Sep 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479710232

Ross Anthony Cleofe

Ross Anthony Cleofe's uncontrollable urge to travel, combined with his natural passion for writing, are the two powerful forces that led to the creation of this book. He is now busy writing his next book, "How to Satisfy the Hungry Senses". This next book shall take him on adventures to Marrakech (Morocco), Barcelona (Spain), Grasse (France), Madeira (Portugal), and Manila (the Philippines). He is currently based in Windsor, United Kingdom.

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Copyright © 2012 by Ross Anthony Cleofe. 304868-CLEO

ISBN: E-book 978-1-4797-1023-2

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

The Long Road to Paris

Suddenly Bruges

The Many Colours of Britain

City of Saints and Sinners

Plus Ultra: Is There Always More… Beyond?

Paris is Sweeter the Second Time Around

The Tale of Two Democracies

A Series of Italian One-Night Stands

A White Rose for Germany, a Yellow Rose for the Philippines

Amsterdamned

Home…Where is Home?

For Jacob and Lucas, Jammie and Kalel

All the characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real events, locations, and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters in the book are totally imaginary.

I consider them wild fables,

said the King,

"such as travellers are predisposed to tell

when they have visited remote countries."

Discredit not, O King, the tales of travellers,

replied the astrologer gravely,

"for they contain precious rarities of knowledge

brought from the ends of the Earth."

—excerpt from Washington Irving’s

Tales of the Alhambra

Often, Lying is more interesting than the Truth.

—ancient Roman proverb

Chapter 1 Picture.jpg

Night View of Paris. Photographed by the author from the top of Montparnasse Tower, France

Chapter One

The Long Road to Paris

I found myself in Paris, confides a dreamy-eyed Sabrina Fairchild. She is the heroine in one of my favourite Hollywood movies, a classic and classy romantic comedy. I watched this movie exactly fifteen years ago. A lady friend of mine dragged me to the cinema, where she forced me to watch the updated version of a timeless Hollywood classic. At first I was hesitant to watch this movie, worried about a chick flick’s unintended side effects on my already-unstable sense of masculinity. After several hours of my friend’s relentless simpering, I finally gave in, and went to the cinema with her.

Several minutes into the movie, I was surprised to discover myself engrossed…hypnotised by the glassy, dreamy glaze which covered Sabrina Fairchild’s eyes everytime she described her enchanted experiences in Paris. From that moment when I gazed upon Sabrina’s eyes, I too became spellbound by Hollywood’s version of the Parisian Daydream. It is a daydream composed of beautiful streets upon which fashionable women glided elegantly, while jewel-coloured lights twinkled everywhere. It is a daydream of days spent fluttering from one gorgeous building to another, feasting on the fabulous art, culture, and beauty on offer. Of afternoons spent sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, and conversing intellectually with the Eiffel Tower at the background. Of lovely evenings strolling through the Avenue des Champs Elysees. Ah…the powers of Hollywood. Is it possible that the real Paris would be unable to compare to the Paris of our fantasies?

Hollywood has a long-standing love affair with the enchantments of Paris. It is a love affair that has helped turn the gorgeous French capital into one of the most visited cities in the world. Year in and year out, millions of tourists descend upon Paris. Each visitor eager to be dazzled by Parisian glitter, tantalised by Parisian cuisine, astonished by exquisite Parisian fashions, seduced by the even more exquisite Parisian men and women. Six days from now, I shall become another one of these tourists, and like them, I shall allow myself to be joyfully pulled in by the irresistible charms of Paris.

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Different people have different dream destinations. For example, those who appreciate the great outdoors might want to discover the mysteries of Machu Picchu, or conquer the heights of Mt. Everest. Lovers of sand and surf would probably enjoy riding the waves of Australia or Hawaii, while sun worshippers might relish the prospect of frittering themselves on the solar-drenched beaches of Ibiza, Bali, Boracay, Mustique, or the Maldives. Soul-searchers might embark on spiritual treks to India, or go on pilgrimages to the Vatican and the Holy Land.

Meanwhile, for creative souls who revel in profusions of art, culture, and history, there could be no better place to dream about other than Paris. The movie Sabrina proved to be an inspiration, at least in my case. Ever since that moment, when a lady friend forced me to watch the movie, I made a promise to myself that someday, somehow, I too will find myself in Paris.

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I am thirty now. In order to turn my Parisian Daydream into a reality, it took me another fifteen years, a bittersweet farewell to the life I once had in my homeland, and a plane flight halfway around the globe.

I find it flattering that a good number of Westerners want to visit my country: a nation of vivid sunsets, crystal-clear blue seas, mysterious islands endowed with lush greenery and soft sand beaches. Having enjoyed these gifts all my life, I now want to go towards the opposite direction. You see, I am from the East, yet all I wanted to do was to discover the lands of the West. While plenty of Westerners dream of exploring the Orient’s hidden temples, forbidden cities, and exotic delights, I dream about visiting the mighty castles, luxurious palaces, charming medieval towns, and fashionable cities of Europe. I suppose, like me, these people are also afflicted by itchy feet.

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I now baptise you, in the name of the Father…and of the Son…and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Mama blames Mary as the cause of my itchy feet. By Mary, she meant the Mother of God, Queen of Angels and Saints, immaculate Queen of Heaven. In Mama’s superstitious yet unassailable opinion, Mother Mary is to blame for my feet’s uncontrollable itch to travel. You see, I was baptised under the watchful eyes of Our Lady of La Naval de Manila. Back home in the Philippines, Our Lady of La Naval de Manila is considered the patroness of sailors and travellers. Mama believes that Our Lady of La Naval de Manila’s holy water contained a mystical quality that infused my soul with an irrepressible urge to explore, the very moment it was poured onto my squirming, squealing, uncooperative baby head.

Now I am not quite sure if Mother Mary is also to blame for my personal lack of focus, for my paralysing fear of commitment, for my tendency to daydream…for my uncontrollable urge to jump from one career, one relationship, one goal, straight towards another. All I know is that this hyperactive energy is now pushing me to conquer Europe through travelling, a conquest that in six days shall begin in Paris, that glorious capital of France.

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I am not quite sure if you are going to agree with what I am about to say (it would be nice though, if you did). But I believe that becoming thirty is an important milestone in every person’s life. We should obviously be thankful for every moment that we are alive. Nevertheless, I really believe that there is something different and special with the Big 3-0. It is a truly extraordinary moment in our lives. A new decade, a new beginning!

Our teenage years and twenties are spent finding out who we are and what we really want in life…all done with a bit of experimentation here and there, plus a lot of trial and error. Meanwhile, our thirties are an age when everything just comes together, when our youthful energies are balanced by our life experiences. We are still young enough to nurture a dream, yet old enough to turn that dream into a reality.

During our thirties, almost anything is possible because we already have a good perception of our identities, our strengths and weaknesses, as well as our life goals. This is probably why many people choose to spend their thirties settling down. They are ready to commit themselves to a career, to a partner, to starting their own families, not to mention committing themselves to a mortgage.

There are also some people who are destined to achieve greatness during their thirties. Take, for example, Alexander the Great, who reached the summit of supreme power during his thirties. There was also Napoleon Bonaparte, who was crowned Emperor of the French during his thirties. Catcher in the Rye was published when J.D. Salinger was in his thirties. J.K. Rowling finished writing the first Harry Potter book when she was thirty. Romeo and Juliet was printed when William Shakespeare was in his thirties. There was Gianni Versace, who opened his very first boutique—in Milan’s prestigious Via della Spiga—during his thirties. Vincent Van Gogh finished his masterpiece The Starry Night when he was in his thirties. Microsoft launched the first retail version of Windows three weeks after Bill Gates turned thirty. The blockbuster movie Jaws was nominated for an Academy Award in the same year that its director (some guy named Steven Spielberg) turned thirty. The first Star Wars movie was released when George Lucas was in his thirties. Prince Siddhartha Gautama attained Enlightenment and became The Buddha during his thirties. Jesus Christ started preaching and changing the world when he was thirty.

Nothing but coincidence? Or a manifestation of Destiny? Probably a little bit of both.

I turned thirty in March of this year. Seven months later, here I am, waiting for the Eurostar train that will take me to Paris. As I sit here in London’s St. Pancras International Train Station, I take this chance to look back at my life. To contemplate on what I have accomplished so far. I arrive at two realisations:

Realisation Number 1: I do not see myself settling down anytime soon. And…

Realisation Number 2: As I stare at my reflection on a sleek glass panel, it becomes clear to me that I am not destined for any form of greatness either. Not much of an astounding realisation, come to think of it.

Other men my age are getting married, and fathering children. By comparison, I have become intensely commitment-phobic. To say that I am determined to maintain my blissful bachelorhood can only be a gross understatement. While other men are settling down, I am just starting to move around.

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Travelling to Paris is really one of my most cherished dreams. The good thing about having a cherished dream is that you are giving yourself a goal to strive for, a goal that could inspire you during good times, and sustain you during bad times. The bad thing about having a cherished dream is it feels rather sad when you never get the opportunity to make it come true. The absolute worst thing about having a cherished dream is that you actually achieve it, and then realize that your fantasies are better than the disappointing reality.

I am writing this on a gloomy winter morning, as dark and dreary as only a winter morning in Britain can get. Paris is only a stone’s throw away from London, and these two cities share more or less the same weather patterns. Therefore, I am quite anxious that the glum weather hanging over London right now could be the same glum weather that will greet me upon arrival in Paris. I have worked so hard, dreamed and waited so long for this moment. Now that I am nearly there, I am worried that my first time in Paris might be ruined by this gloomy weather. Talk about traveller’s coitus interruptus.

I am anxious that the real Paris may not live up to the idealised Paris I had in my fantasies. As I sit inside the Eurostar train taking me from the heart of London straight towards the heart of Paris, I whisper several prayers. Please be beautiful, Paris. Please be everything that they said you would be, Paris. Please do not be a disappointment, Paris. And as the train burst out of the Channel Tunnel and onto French soil, my heart skipped several beats. This anxiety was blended with excitement about the many delights that are waiting for me in Paris. It was also as a sense of relief that, finally, one of my most cherished dreams is about to come true.

Paris. City of Lights. Of love. Of beauty. Of joie de vivre. And now, Paris…you are mine.

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With its massive size contrasted with its lace-like metal latticework, isn’t it remarkable how the Eiffel Tower can appear powerful and delicate, all at the same time? It was already evening when I decided to see the iconic Eiffel Tower. Dressing up for the event as if I were about to have a much-anticipated date with a special woman, I wore a light blue pure cashmere sweater covering a cream polo shirt, nicely fitting denim jeans, shiny brown leather shoes, and a luxuriously smooth wool suit which I spent several overtime hours working for. If I want to show my pictures to family and friends, I might as well make sure that the Eiffel Tower would not be the only one worth staring at.

The Eiffel Tower is lovely at any angle. I do believe it is loveliest seen from the viewing platform beside the Palais du Chaillot, advised my French friend Remy. Keeping Remy’s tip in mind, I rode the Paris underground Metro towards the Trocadero station. It was only twenty minutes from my hotel, and my heart palpitated the entire time.

I will always remember that moment, the culmination of years of daydreaming. Cool wintry air blew onto my face as I emerged from the underground train station. From there, it was a short walk beside the Palais du Chaillot. Turn a corner…climb some steps…and finally, there it was. The Iron Lady of Paris.

She was breathtaking, incandescent with a golden orange light, glittering with blue-white sparkles. Her iconic presence and radiance pulled painfully at my heartstrings. My brain struggled to comprehend her splendour, my eyes struggled to take in all her beauty. Ultimately, it was my heart and my soul that proved capable of appreciating her grandeur spread out before me.

I glanced upwards at the clear night sky, gazing at the crescent moon’s white ceramic glow. The elegant moon looked like a sharp porcelain knife stabbing a limitless sheet of black silk. I look at the sparkling stars sprinkled throughout the clear night sky, shimmering like billions of diamond beads. I again fill my eyes with the Eiffel Tower’s glittering grandeur. I glanced at Paris, brilliant and golden, proving once and for all that it is, indeed, the City of Lights. I was so awestruck by this scene straight out a fairytale, I almost expected a monsieur Peter Pan and a mademoiselle Tinker Bell to suddenly fly out of nowhere.

Basking in the Eiffel Tower’s glory, I suddenly had an irresistible urge to touch, kiss, and hug someone…anyone. I looked around, lost and helpless, realising that I do not have anyone special with whom I can share this special moment. Springtime in Paris may be a great time to fall in love, but in my experience, wintertime in Paris is a great time to be lonely.

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It has been more than a year since I moved to London for work. Despite being single through all that time, I never felt lonely, never craved for any form of relationship whatsoever. Truth be told, being a London singleton was exactly how I wanted myself to be. London’s plentiful distractions and opportunities can only be fully tasted if I am single…I believe that a relationship will only weigh me down. That is why I thought it best to abstain from romantic commitment for awhile. It was very easy for me to maintain a blissful bachelorhood during my stay in London, so easy that I got a bit worried because I might enjoy being single too much. Even more worrying is the fact that despite being a city of more than 7 million people, there seems to be something unspoken about London that fosters personal independence, bordering on empty personal disconnection.

However, less than twelve hours upon stepping foot in Paris, the city made me feel human again, together with all of our desires and cravings for connection. The city really did have a certain romantic sensuality that cannot be put into words.

It is in the way a waitress flirtatiously smiles at you for your efforts at ordering food in French. It is in the sensation of Metro commuters packed again each other, their odours mixing, their skins rubbing, whilst the train pumped side to side. It is in the cheese melting in the middle of a warm baguette, the pungent cheese filling your mouth with warm, luscious creaminess. It is in the way the Avenue des Champs Elysees transforms into a twinkling fantasyland, dripping with strands of Christmas lights. It is in the bright smiles of couples having their pictures taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. It is in the Yuletide air, laced by the heartwarming fragrance of apple, cinnamon, brown sugar, and vin chaud. Paris is a city that seemed to emit its own sex-inducing endorphins.

Remy offered even more advise. People always want to visit Paris during spring or summer, not knowing that Paris right before Christmas is a romantically pleasant surprise. He raised a knowing eyebrow before smiling. Remy was absolutely right. I definitely felt the romance in Paris during my stay there, enjoying the city in an infinitely more relaxed way than I could have ever done during the spring-summer peak season.

During low season, the winter drives people away. Paris is less