Travel days

In Kiwi, travelling on April 18, 2010 at 7:51 pm

You get into a place, you know you’re not there for a long time, you’re there for a good time, so you hit it hard. Wheels touchdown, bags hit the floor, shower, shave and shit and your hustling for the living breathing heart of this space you’ve just arrived in, willing to suck the marrow out of it.

Conversely the day you leave, or more precisely the day before you leave is a drag of packing, thinking, last minute panic attacks about what’s been left and where, but then panics over it was where you put it after all. A slow treacle of a day, not allowing yourself to do anything because you can’t miss that travel connection, it’s an early start and if you don’t make it,  it blows to hell everything else and you’d be more than unhappy if this plan didn’t come together.

So i pussyfoot around, at once listless but wanting to do more, to see more, I wander aimless. Looking for, I don’t even know what! Looking for something that will cement the experience I’ve had here, the cherry on top, the missing piece of this travelogue, slotting right in and making sense of it all. Watch the natives at play, at ease, living another day of their lives as I slide through making no impression on them even as I record and memorise the impression they leave on me. The way they walk, talk, eat, spit, sit, laugh, dance, shout, pout.

I take one last walk around town, because i’ve packed everything up, and only have the clothes i’ve got on and my toiletries available. Say a silent farewell to the occupants of the common room, computers on laps eyes lifting to look at the big screen tv showing movies all day. Lights are on in the room, set alarm lay down, cover eyes wait for sleep to come. And it does or I think it does, and I’m not sure how much rest I get because I’m awake as a gaggle of girls speak into the night, the light is still on and the dorm is full. Two or three other guys and five or six girls. They are European, the sing song nature of their accents, their propensity to slip into their native tongue and then back to English is confusing and then endearing. They are from scandanavia. Holland, Belgium. They have little in jokes. I lie there in between wakefulness and sleep. Waiting for true sleep to claim me, wondering when they will head out into welingtons night. The giggly coversations, the constant one upmanship feels like the prelude to going out. But they don’t this is just the interraction before bed. There is flirting with the two Spanish guys, in a giggling breathless way, and admonishment from a couple of the girls. What is the female term for cock blocking, cunt blocking? There seems to be some of that going on. But the women are generating more of a boisterous ball of energy, too much to say in too short a space of time. Have they come back from drinking then? Will they ever slow down, shut up and let me get some sleep? Will the one who keeps singing let’s talk about sex stop doing so?

I vow when I awake at six o’clock to prepare for my departure as loudly as possible as payback, switch on all the liths and bang my bags around and see how they like it.

Then I sleep, properly, as they pretend, comedy snores forced out to their muffled amusement…

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