I had a wonderul time with my family at Prague in June this year. Between sips of coffee at the storied Café Louvre, these musings spilled onto the page:
The serendipity of travel releases you from the perpetual existential crisis, a vicious by-product of running on the hedonic treadmill. The joy of experiencing different cultures should be cherished and protected by anyone who is privileged enough to travel to foreign lands. I’m fortunate to travel, to experience humanity across borders. I’m here without a shred of worry, free from the desires of meaning less corporate ladder, released from the social contract. Here, my identity is neither my job nor my wealth. I exists in this moment to absorb the wonders of humanity. Descartes might turn in his grave to read this but I can say that “I travel, therefore I exist”.
The next day, Cafe Louvre beckoned once more.With Kafka’s spectral presence looming from my “Franz Kafka museum” visit, I scribbled these musings, teetering between inspiration and impostor syndrome:
Sitting at Café Louvre, knowing that Kafka himself frequented this place about a hundred years ago, I feel a rush of inspiration. Yet, this feeling seems like the act of a poseur, an impostor seeking validation as an intellectual or an unproven writer hoping for recognition by crafting words in Kafka’s old haunt. What brilliant pretentiousness! I imagine myself as a hysterical character from a Saki satire, suddenly awakened to literary genius while sipping coffee in this historic café. Perhaps the fool within me is already celebrating a Pulitzer-winning book written here.
Sorry, you’re hurt. The pride of pretentiousness falls, much like a stumble from another café high in the Untersberg mountains. Maybe, in this tumble, the impostor’s mask will slip away, revealing the truth: that genuine writing and expression do not require a cappuccino shared with Kafka’s ghost.