X, Germany

"Excuse me, do you have 50 cents for the telephone?" he bent over and disingenuously asked the American male in black skinny jeans and black hipster glasses. X had entered the train seconds just before.

No one would help. His begged entreaty may have seen better luck if two other homeless people -- one unenthusiastically selling the homeless newspaper and one, obviously mentally disturbed, guided through his haze by yellow paper-cup torches in each hand -- hadn't gone through the wagon between the previous stop and where X boarded. X may also have improved his chances if it weren't so pungently clear he'd recently ingested a kebab, likely purchased for 2 euros from the Turkish place just below the stop. He fills the wagon with the strong smell of raw onion and a faint undertone of coconut oil. (Hair tonic perhaps? It is unlikely he has smeared his dark skin with Hawaiian Tropic.)

X sits down across the aisle from the hipster and his German companion, sighing resignedly.

Below his gritty tee-shirt collar, his chocolate back leaks through the cheap weave of the white fabric, giving it a bluish tinge. His perfectly-formed earlobes draw taut circles at slight angles to his large head. The train enters a tunnel, and X catches his reflection in the darkened window. Unabashedly, he examines his face. He frantically wipes at the corners of his mouth with both hands, then looks back into his own eyes calmly.

Starting, as if he's forgotten himself, he looks around the wagon nervously -- the hunted look of those riding black, without tickets. At the next stop, X follows the hipster off the train.

N-----, Spain

N-----'s place was far, far cleaner than that of most single men I've known, though that morning's tiny razor-mown facial hairs still clung to the edges of the bathroom sink and the better part of the kitchen was taken up with paint, concrete mixing buckets, tools, drapecloths, machinery.

"It's for my business," he explained on our hasty four-room tour.

Perhaps blinded by the crisp whiteness of the delicately embroidered linens on the large guest bed or the cool white interior of his immaculate, empty refrigerator as I slid my perishables inside, I didn't realize I had landed solidly in a mature bachelor pad until I went through the cupboards looking for cookware for that evening's meal. To the left of the range, I discovered three-deep rows of canned corn, canned beans, and jars of asparagus. To the right, a "spice cupboard" with oil, vinegar, salt and oregano. Behind door number three, I found two of the largest cans of tuna known to man and a half-used bag of flour. That was the full extent of N-----'s pantry.

I eventually uncovered an expensive set of matching pans, not sure N----- had ever christened them. The silverware drawer contained the single stirring utensil -- a beaten-up wooden spoon. His war on cooking extended to not owning an electric kettle or even a coffee maker. In fact, I only saw him turn on the gas burners to light the charcoal for his nightly water pipe.

After years on the can-opener diet, N----- had lost a taste for fresh food. Despite it already being the height of both strawberry and aspargus season (thanks to Spain's warm weather, I was going to experience the highlight of my European summer twice!), my host abstained from the dinners and desserts I prepared nightly. The exception to this no-perishables rule was pineapple; my second day he cleaned the fruit ripening on the counter and placed its yellow body naked on a plate in the fridge, keeping company with my groceries and N-----'s 12-pack of Coke.

This simplified lifestyle exuded both confidence and a charming masculinity, from the carefully-selected products in his toilet kit to each room's bold yet unitary color scheme. N-----'s two hobbies are the seemingly contradictory shisha smoking and mountain climbing, his living room walls lightly yellowing around photographic trophies from his exploits. Thoughtful and comfortable, N-----'s life nevertheless lacked a degree of nuance, not unlike his command of spoken English.