Travel writing

And so my journey begins. I never planned to leave particularly
early, but 5.30 in the afternoon was pushing my laziness to the
extreme. That's why this trip, journey, voyage, adventure is necessary
for me. Laziness is a drug which is hard to get over, had I not gone
into town this afternoon and bought a rucksack, and then packed it with
a few CDs, books, a camera, a toothbrush and a single ticket to
Cologne, I would have spent the whole week in my room. In my room I
would have had nothing to distract me from the thoughts in my head.
This week would have been like my weekend, only a few days longer,
which sounds logical but at the same time tortorous. For the last few
days I have just had two things on my mind - the uni work I screwed up
and the German girl that screwed me up. On Pulp's 'This is Hardcore'
album, Jarvis Cocker sings 'her beauty is her only crime' on a song
called Sylvia. The Sylvia in my case has two crimes, her beauty and her
unavailability. The song is about a girl called Sylvia who slipped
through his fingers, he missed his chance and she was gone forever.
It's that reason that This is Hardcore didn't come with me to Cologne,
I replaced it with The Buzzcocks Singles Collection so I could listen
repeatedly to track 4, simply called Oh Shit. One of many purposes of
this trip is to sort my head out and get away from the daily routine
which I swore I would not get into. I thought a few days having boat
rides on The Rhine, evenings in pubs and night times walking unfamiliar
streets was what I needed. I'm going to stay in youth hostels and
B&;Bs, in the hope of meeting interesting, exciting and beautiful
people who want to have fun and adventures with me. In reality I'll
probably just meet overweight smelly old people, and I could have
stayed where I was to get them. My first attempt at being a travel
writer has failed, my pen is running out. I bet Bill Bryson never has
this problem. Well, he probably has the sense to bring a spare. The man
I am sat next to on the train has fallen asleep and there's a pen in
his top pocket which I am tempted to steal. But I settle for his wallet
instead. I don't take his pen because he may may wake up, and before he
fell asleep he fidgeted around more than the two toddlers I live with,
disturbing every single person on the carriage and quite a lot of
people going about their lives in the towns we've passed through. Now
he's asleep though, and there is something strangely intriguing about a
businessman snoring. It may sound a bit 'travel writing by numbers' but
I want to describe the man on the other side of the aisle, he is
American, I know that because he's just been on his mobile talking to
somebody in a delightfully camp voice. He falls under every single
stereotype, using words like fabulous, darling and ?delightfully. But
what makes him stand out from your common or garden camp man is that he
has a laugh that makes Barry White sound feminine. He is Frank Spencer
with a laugh like Frank Bruno. I don't like his shoes though.

German trains are exceptional, quiet, quick, clean, with chairs you'd
happily have in your living room and stewardesses you'd happily have in
any room. Train tickets cost quite a lot but there is no alternative
for this kind of journey, other than hitchhiking, but I did not fancy
that. When I was learning to drive my instructor told me the story of
how he ended up getting engaged to a girl he picked up while
hitchhiking. But there are a lot of people who don't have stories to
tell because their throats have been slit and their bodies lie
undiscovered on disused railway lines. I quite like trains anyway, not
in a 'there's a number I haven't got in my notebook' way, not that
there's anything wrong with that. Although there is. I kind of like the
momentum, the rhythm, the sandwiches. That's something you don't get
hitchiking.

I am just passing through Dortmund Station, wondering whether I should
stop off their on my way back home to Hannover. Whenever that may be,
if I do decide to return. Obviously I will return, that is where I like
work and where my friends and CD collection reside. But that's the kind
of upbeat uncertain tempo I'm trying to create. I don't have a clue
what's going to happen next, will I survive, where will I end up, who
will I meet, will I meet a girl and settle down forever? Well, that's
not going to happen. But then I said that about Hannover?

I don't want to sound soppy but it is exciting not knowing where the
next meal is going to come from and where I'm going to be on a day to
day basis. Not knowing what I'm going to do in all my free time,
knowing my entertainment is limited to two books and twelve CDs. The
snoring businessman has woken up, eaten a Twix, climbed over me and got
off at Essen Station. I bet he isn't going to have as fun a week as
me.