wo rum geht es in dem Text ?

Kann mir jemand sagen worum es dort geht ? :-)

I had brought with me a yellow backpack so enormous that when I wen throught customs I half expected to be asked, ` Anything to declare ` ? Cigarette ? Alcahol ? Dead horse ? and spent the day exploring Luxembourg City in a strange mixture of excitement and exhaustion.
Everything seemd sharp and new. I felt like someone stepping outside for the first time. it was all so different: the language, the money, the cars, the number plates on the cars the bread, the food, the people. I had never seen a zebracrossing before, never seen a tram, never seen an unsliced loaf of bread, never seen anyone wearing a beret who expected to be taken seriously never seen people fo to a different shop for each item of dinner or provide theier own shopping bags, never seen unskinned rabbits hanging in a butcher`s window or a pig`s head smiling on a plate. never seen a packet of Gitanes or the Michelin man. And the people- hey, they were Luxembourgers. I don`t know why this amazed me so, but it did. I kept thinking, ` Tha man over there. he`s a Luxembourger. And so is that girl. They don`t know anything about the NEW YORK Yankees, they don`t know the theme tune to the Michey Mouse Club, they are from another world. ` It was just wonderful. One of the small marvels of my first trip to Europe was the discovery that the world could be so full of variety, that there were so many different ways do doing essentially identical things, like eating and drinking and buying cinema tickets.
It fascinated me that Europeans could on the one hand be so alike - that they could be so intellectual, and drive small cars, and live in little houses in ancient towns, and love scooer, and be relativelyunmaterialistic and law-abiding, and have chilly hotel rooms and cosy and inveting places to eat and drink - and yet be so different from each other as well. I loved the idea that you could never be sure of anything in Europe. I sill enjoy the sense of never knowing what`s going on. In my hotel in Oslo each morning the chambermaid left me a packet of something called Bio Tex Bla, a ` minipakke for ferie ` hybel og weekend ` , according to the instructions. I spent many happy hours sniffing it and experimenting with it, uncertain whether it was for washing out clothes or cleaning the toilet bowl. In the end I decided it was for washing out clothes - they came out beautifully - but for all I know for the rest of the week everywhere I went in Oslo people were saying to each other, ` You know, that man smelled like toilet-bowl cleaner.` When I told friends that I was goning to travel around Europe and write a book about it, they said, ` Oh, you must speak a lot of languages.`
`Why no, ` I would reply with a certain pride, ` only English, ` and they would look at me as if I were crazy. But that`s the woderful thing about foreign travel, suddenly you are five years old again. You can`t read anything, you have only the most basic sence of how things work, you can`t even reliably cross the street without endandering yout life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.