Hamburg

11. German John

Paul trotted out of the club as fast as he could while still looking like he wasn't have a panic attack- which he probably was; he had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. His footsteps were irregular and there was no rhythm. He didn't know if what he was doing was the right thing to do. He didn't even know what he was doing.

These leather boots were the least convenient pair of shoes one could bring along to another country. He should've brought some trainers along for when he would be offstage. John, surprisingly, came fully prepared. He even brought a pair of flip-flops along for just in case they went to a beach or a swimming pool. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Paul, the organised one, and John, well... John. Everything was a mess. Could it be possible that English John was easier to get along with than German John? Had something changed? Paul, for the first time, couldn't stand being with John just because John seemed to be woven in some kind of suspense. Even when Paul had just met John, he didn't struggle this much to just talk to him.

He crossed the street and noticed little yellow lights, contrasting against the early winter evening sky, hanging over the marquee of a café/bistro. Under the lights, were several round tables with two-three steel chairs around them, nearly all of them occupied. One of them by someone that made Paul nearly get run over while trying to cross the road. John was scribbling in his little black notebook and insanely sipping coffee.