e spent the summer backpacking through Europe, trite but naïve. During the days he would explore churches and stand in sweating lines, while nights would find him testing the American-girls-are-easy cliché in drunken hostel bars and in squares of posturing tourists. He would never admit to epiphany, but on a hungover morning, as a French train jolted into a southern station, things changed.

It started simply. As he looked about the second class car, cramped with commuters and travelers, he spied a girl wearing the same brand of backpack as himself. Simultaneously, he heard the two rough Australians behind him having a familiar, self-congratulatory conversation about their resilience in their time of temporary faux-poverty. As he noticed a Frenchman sneering at an elderly American couple as they loudly proclaimed, “the thing about Europe is,” he could bear no more. The carriage became suddenly claustrophobic as he arose, forgetting his backpack, fighting through the aisle of French commuters. He needed not just respite, but escape. The closest doors, haunted by mid-morning washroom funk, shuttered open as he jumped to the platform. Running through the station, impeded at every turn by the slow walk of the reluctant worker, a faint aroma of espresso stroked his nose. He came to the exit, calming but still frantic. But as the slight, warm French wind finally reached him, all became serene. He knew what he must do: move to Calgary and open a café. He whispered softly, “Thank you, La Breeze.” - S.T.