We gathered at the old town square meeting point. Lenka, who guided us to that point from our hostel, was clad in black fishnets, loosely fitting black leather shorts, and a buttonless blazer with her company shirt underneath. Within just minutes of conversing with her, I noticed how she bounced around from her left to right foot and elaborately gestured with her hands as she spoke without a single hesitation. It was an unusual, engaging way to tell stories, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Although I already knew I wanted her as our tour guide of the five that had gathered at the meeting point, it felt more as if she had chosen us. She handed out numbered tickets in what she tried making appear as a random manner. But once she announced that everyone 0050 to 0075 was to go with her and I saw that my number was 0050, then saw all the other people gathering around her, I wondered on what basis we had been picked. Among the people in the group was a girl with three thinly separated bars tattooed on her wrist, four guys who looked and smelled like they just flew in from a Mykonos beach party, and an older man reminiscent of Richard Attenborough who was accompanied by a woman who I could not decide whether was his girlfriend or daughter.
I then noticed that Esteban had received the number 0049. Noting how strange it would be to go on separately guided tours, I came up to Lenka to ask if it would be okay if he joined her group. After only a three second hesitation during which I noticed her mouth just barely pout, she exclaimed, "Oh yes of course! No problem!"
Once we all had comfortably settled in around her, Lenka commented, "What a spectacular looking group of people! This should be a fun tour."
To start out, she introduced herself to us. She said she was originally from Minneapolis and came to Europe two and a half years ago to backpack through the Swiss Alps. By a turn of unfortunate events, by which I assume she meant she was robbed, although I still cannot be quite sure, she found herself without money or food by the time she descended. Not knowing what else to do, she planted herself on the side of the first road she found, stretched her arm out, and pointed her thumb up until someone pulled over.
Starved and exhausted, she fell asleep almost instantaneously when an older lady pulled over for her and let her in. When she awoke, she asked where she was, not recognizing the cobblestone streets that surrounded her.
"Guarpe," said the lady. "My son works at the hostel here and he will get you a job to earn your keep for a bit. I wish you the best, my dear. I think you will love it here."
"And I did! I fell in love with Guarpe the moment I arrived," Lenka said. "I returned to Minneapolis once I earned enough money for my ticket home. But, being back, I felt somewhat estranged. Everything in Minneapolis, the city I once called home, felt so void of color compared to Guarpe. So I began studying Czech in my spare time, finally graduated with my history major, and paid for my one-way ticket back here. And I haven't looked back since! I absolutely love it here!"
I believed her. Her face lit up like Christmas morning when she spoke about Guarpe. As the tour progressed, I began wondering if at some point of my trip I would fall in love with a city just as much as she had. Perhaps in Europe there's a city for everyone, I thought.
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