This Is This

33. Somewhere

We woke up in plenty of time for their midday train, so with still plenty of grass left, I boiled up the kettle and made us some strong tea. We smoked the rest of the grass, which stoned me so much I could hardly stand up, which I had never known weed to do. The stash was diminishing, but slowly.

While we packed up, and as time grew shorter, Caroline suggested we ate the rest of the hash. John tossed me a chunk and I popped it in, swallowing it whole. He turned around from his rucksack towards me.

“Well?” he said.

“Delicious.”

“You fucking what?”

The block of hash had been intended for both of us, possibly all three
of us. We had more left, that wasn’t the problem. He was worried for my sake.

“Oops.” I said, a little worried. I probably would have been more concerned if I hadn’t already been stoned off my box.

“Happy trails.”

We put our rucksacks on and I kept checking where I had set up camp. I was sure I forgot to pack something, because I couldn’t feel how heavy my pack was. In a similar manner, they finished the rest of the drugs.

We sauntered to the station, exchanged addresses and said our goodbyes.

I walked around the station for a bit until I wandered to a platform where a train was about to leave. I hopped on, with no idea where I was headed, and drifted off to sleep.

Four hours later the train stopped somewhere, but I had no idea where on the continent I was. I got out of the train at an insignificant station and found a map written in a language I couldn’t understand.

I looked around for flags to tell me where the hell I was, but couldn’t find any. My growing curiosity to find out what county I was in turned into a quest, then a desperate urge. I looked at road signs, shop fronts, newspapers. Nothing was in French. Maybe I was still in Holland? Could be Germany. The language looked more Saxon than Latin, but I had no real clue.

It took me most of the next hour to discover I was in Belgium. Well, you don’t see Flemish every day, so I didn’t have much of a point of reference. Road signs din’t help me. Seriously, name four famous Belgian towns. See?

It’s not like I could have gone up to someone and said “What country is this?” especially as I didn’t know what language in which to ask it.

It was getting dark and I laughed annoyingly at myself for getting a day train that finished its trip in a city at night, leaving me nowhere to stay.

Belgium.

Shit.

I stood there for a time, deciding what to do next. The incident had sobered me up slightly because I didn’t want to make the same mistake again and end up somewhere worse than Belgium.

I had less than a week to go on my monthly ticket and my money had nearly run out. I needed a place to sleep but would not have been able to afford a hotel and I was too stoned and it was too late to find a campsite and pitch up.

The next night train anywhere was to Bordeaux, so I took it. It was practically empty and I had a carriage to myself the whole night. I slept beautifully.

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