Evening all. I trust you are well. I simply realized that it has been age groups since I had written My Story 4 which tells the story of a mystical guy described only as ‘Mr X’. Today’s post includes an incredible fragment of my entire life. It’s an endearing glimpse into my early twenties when life place coiled upwards in front of me like a much spiral staircase. An encounter is involved because of it with a guy called Manuel, a Portuguese pickup truck driver. My way of thinking pulsated with the decision of adventure and no destination was off limitations.
In truth, I didn’t care where I traveled to so long as I was on the move and never too much from a bottle of booze and someone to talk about it with. 12 months was 2004 and I used to be fresh out of college or university The. Looking back I lacked the maturity necessary for full-time employment and instead saw myself as a kind of beatnik/hippie/punk rebel, roaming the streets looking for whatever action I could find. A paperback copy of Albert Camus’ The Stranger or Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums pooped from the back pocket of my denim jeans. Please, be aware by 12 I had developed never opened up an investment publication.
- The description of the purchase
- Deutsche Bank or investment company (DB FX)
- 8 years back from North Carolina
- Sharing of costs and dangers with companions
It was like I needed placed some kind of unconscious restraining order on literature connected to money. In bookshops I relocated quickly for the classics and politics areas, bypassing self-improvement and trading as though they were leprous. My hair long was, curly, unkempt and a Drum Halfzware Shag cigarette hung from the medial side of my mouth area perpetually. In short, I was young, carefree, impulsive, and prepared to have fun wherever and whenever.
The big bad world of stocks, bonds, saving, valuable metals, and ETFs were as alien if you ask me as dark variety act would be a far right demo. Inspired by Kerouac’s novel On the highway, two friends and I went on a trip to find to Poland. The program was to meet in Amsterdam and then hitch our way east to Krakow.
None folks knew a great deal about Poland or the surrounding area, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was we would be on the highway together, slumming it, living it. It would be a memory to take with us into the future, a snapshot with time. In some distant future, we might meet in a sleepy bar perched on the rock overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
What did transpire on that epic journey would take 100,000 words to remember, and I for one know that the average attention span of the blogger is less than this. Thus, in the soul of conciseness, I’ll boil it down relatively. 1. I journeyed to Amsterdam, only, and remained for one week on the sofa in a club. 2. My two friends showed up and we partied liked crazed warlocks for a couple of days.
All matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration. That people are one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. As I said earlier, our concentrate was left-field at this time relatively. Talk had taken a philosophical switch. 4. We hitched a lift with a Transit vehicle filled with Moroccan contractors to the edge of the Amsterdam. 5. We got found by an extravagant sportscar. While driving, it transpired the driver was the editor of the Dutch Mixmag music mag.
He dumped us out in the middle of nowhere and we slept in a forest. 6. A pickup truck was found by us stop and searched for a Polish vehicle. 7. We found what we should though be a Polish truck (it has a ‘P’ sticker on the trunk), but it transpired ‘PL’ is actually for Poland and ‘P’ is Portugal. 8. We made a decision to scrap Poland and go to Portugal instead. 9. The drivers of the pickup truck, Manuel, got us on-board his eighteen wheeler.
We spent another 2 months on the highway with Manuel, cooking at the comparative aspect of the road, getting together with cool truckers at truck stops, sleeping in the truck with concrete piles and drinking heroic levels of cheap red plonk. Now, here’s the offer. While we motored down the winding streets of the French countryside delivering concrete blocks to building sites, Manuel talked incessantly about the necessity to save and make investments. Of course, we hadn’t a clue what he was discussing and was more thinking about drinking and talking nonsense.