The clown

I show up in a coffee bar, expecting to meet a local girl. And a couple of other. The others turn out to be a 2 Turkish men. Both fluent in Farsi. And interested both well versed and interested in the culture. 4 is always a nice number. The coffee is bad. The company is good.

I’m wearing light green/camo trekking pants, a threadbare red t-shirt that I got from the salvation army. It advertises the university of Lund, Sweden, red with a yellow crest. “Orangered” is a more accurate term, but let’s just say I ain’t looking pretty. I have about 3 shirts, and I’ve been on the road 5 months. My beard is scruffy and long. My hair is disheveled, and slowly getting sparse. My modus operandi is “bum”. I’m the kind of person mothers around the world would take pity on.

I don’t remember how she’s dressed, but I’m certain she’s dressed well. Big curly hair. The exact amount of make-up. A bowler hat, with a silk scarf underneath. Moles in all the right places. I’d grab her, and kiss her on the forehead, if it would be a possibility. She has the specific intelligence that makes things seem effortless. And that’s an incredible skill that is hard to spot. I’ve just met her, but it’s obvious. She’s beautiful in more ways then one.

You’ll excuse me if I don’t remember too many details about the other participants to the conversation of the table. I hear a lot of intelligent, academic conversations. A lot of it about linguistics, politics, and a lot of things I’m not prepared for. Despite my thorough preparation of reading a single history book, reading up on Khayyam’s poetry, and attending a concert of mister Shajarian. I’m an amateur. I don’t understand this place. I can only play the clown. And due to some weird luck, I pull it off. She laughs. Her laugh is great. The evening is good.

When I go back home, the metro attendants let me get on for free. I like this place.

(9/365)