Congenial-speak #19

Two Days of Living

I shook hard, trying to revive my initial enthusiasm for the trip. Maybe France was far from the place to recoup my lost steam. Rome had claimed my momentum and the ensuing pack search n the train secured it to the ground. It was then, as I was wagering my spontaneity, feeling my envelopes' impediments as I pushed, that I knew the tripping was over. Sophisticated twists of French spoke to me. They told me that I'd be sorry, that if I ignored my gut I might encounter a fate like that Italian fellow. The train schedule still looked at me with optimism,and I reciprocated. It was numerous opportunities knocking, challenges, quests, adventures, dares. I noodled with the idea of boarding a train to Nice, take in the sights and sounds of the Riviera. I stepped on the grated steps at the back of the car, looked down and let the ties settle in to tell me what to do. Young firm women hustled by in mountain boots. Backpackers wore down vests and bandannas on their heads. They were slim and hungry, content and complacent in their momentary station in life. They were the poster hikers singing “freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.” I climbed down and listened to my own defeat.

The train sped toward Germany. I decided I should leave from where I began. 'Click clack'. . . the sounds of the track until sleep fell from me. Frankfurt was the next stop. From there I could fly direct to my safe bed in Richfield, MN, USA. Yes, I'd allowed a deluge to fall on my parade. A two-week forage through Western Europe, with grand plans of maxing the mileage of my rail pass, was minimized to 48 hours in which Zurich was the only positive experience.

“One way to Minneapolis please.”

Recouping the money laid out for my original return trip was far from my mind. The airport Frankfurters were in on my little game. Going home was not going to be easy. Using the return portion of my ticket early was not an option told to me. The woman at the counter was gruff, like an SS guard. My heart sank when she told me there were no flights to Minneapolis for less than 24 hours. They ran one a day and I had missed it. It was at 1500 and I had arrived at the terminal at 1524. The Germans are prompt. I should know that.

I sat down on a bank of seats vacated recently by Minneapolis-bound travelers. I assessed my predicament and considered my options. Going out, anywhere, even in a cab to a hotel, was daunting. Ever since Rome the drug thing haunted me. Ever since Scotland (“A Cheeky Lad” from Finding me-and Them: Stories of Assimilation) well, long before then, the false accusation of being intoxicated has blistered my mind, often becoming a limiting passport. Rome had just put the fear of god in me. I was empty, scared, bared, fearful and aware. The sun sank on Frankfurt and cast crimson orange colors over the few waiting passengers. Lights began to go out down the line, behind the counter, and I saw the gruff SS woman leave. Yay! I hoped the shifts changed until my flight tomorrow, for her replacement had a far more pleasant demeanor. Again I plead my case to a younger, softer, more sympathetic ear.

“There is one flight to Minneapolis at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. The is all I can offer you. I am sorry. Would you like me to recommend a hotel, restaurant, call a cab?

I looked at her like a desert man thrown some water. The other women had offered none of these and looked not nearly as sexy when she didn't. This women was a blonde hair blue eye German milkmaid, younger and likely more liberal in her thinking. The seats were adequate, and I settled down for the night, reluctant to leave for a growing number of reasons, they latest of which stood behind a counter 30 yards in front of me. I saw her. She saw me. I watched her and then smelled dinner. It was that precariously founded scent of food, the fake chicken pieces and frozen beef burritos gathering micro waves. I heard clamor, hard lived conversations in German, French and Dutch going on as I scanned faces of sparse passers-by. Those happy, confident, contentment bound disciples I had chosen not to be. Barking dogs upset my people-watching pulpit. Almost in synchronized time, when the caged fences were rolled down on airport restaurants the German ShephardsShepherds ran out of the corners. Their masters were full-geared polezi, tax paid, with green hats with black and white checkered bands. They brandished assault weapons, and I thought of the hub I was in from which a terrorist might leave. A safe feeling fell over me and I closed my eyes. I actually relaxed the voluntary muscles with a different vein of mind. It was eerie and two-pronged. On one hand I was intimidated and did not dare get up to walk now—well I was not inclined to—but knew I would have to before the night was through. I slept, I adjusted, Darwin-like, to the circumstances. In the wee hours—about 2 AM—I opened my eyes. A machine was going back and forth like a zamboni to make the filmy white tile floor shine. It never did. Nothing did. I guessed it was all the cigarette smoke. I found the restrooms. A janitor was half-asleep on his cart. My pack is fine, safe in the gun fields of the polezei and their canine compadres. In the absence of its weight my gait is not hindered. The men in green hats glance at me, although I think they conclude I am small potatoes.

A fresh day is waiting for opportunities. It sets in calendars like a steel trap for second guesses, roads to regrets, reasons for suppression. I was determined to catch that 3 PM flight but I did finally venture out of the airport. Almost immediately upon exit I regretted my decision. Lightning fast—blitz sprechen—German confounded my ears. The hint of drugs was there, I was warm. A grungy gang of youth—younger than me—sat cross-legged on a street corner. One had a guitar. Some had dread-locks, other sported cut-off jeans and thin skanky looking women bemused by them and their contents. They asked me to sit with them. I unburdened myself and sank down to the street level. They were the granola-head types, the “freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose” singers. However, something told me they injested things much stronger than granola and they risked losing more than their freedom. I sat with them, batted idiotically at their hack y-sac and fiddled in my hair now and then, sheepishly trying to dread it. We swapped stories. I really wanted their life-style at some level, just not what I feared could eventually be lethal. I did not want to go to jail either, and I don't think I was prepared to chuck it all and rely on the grace of god to avoid living on the streets. It wasn't a cult or even a commune, just a murder of hostile youths seeing Europe in a daze. I told them I had places to go and started walking towad the airport. I sensed them watching me walk, thinking “he needs us.” I needed them.