As we crane our necks up before the timeboard, our immediate future looks bleak. The next train to Berlin leaves in the morning, at 8:45. That gives us roughly six hours to get to thoroughly know every nook and cranny of Copenhagen Central. The place is still surprisingly bustling with trains arriving from the countryside packed heavy with drunk Danes come to the big city for a proper night of raging. After a couple minutes' search we settle into the best nook (outlet and all) and set up camp for the night. A drunk Danish couple stumbles by, smiling, and sits down for a bit to talk with us. They procure three tall cans of Carlsberg from their persons and insist we drink with them. Our English is a joy to them, and we laugh and joke and share our life's stories in broken tongues. It's curious how you, mostly inadvertently, begin speaking with an accent when talking to those with one. Perhaps to be better understood. It's appreciated, I guess, because as they pull themselves up to go, they leave us with a little gift. A spidery-looking metal contraption. "You put it to your head, see?" He pushes it down and the legs slide down and around her scalp, and she closes her eyes to the drunken ecstasy of it. Then he tosses it to us, hej hej! And they're gone, off to the nightclubs in the warm summer's dark.
We settle in. Bags pushed up against the far wall away from the late night stream of traffic into the city, Grant fires up the ole' macBook and we finish off Grandma's Boy on the hard stone floor. It's not much of a place to rest one's head, but hell, the time was soon approaching that my eyes would refuse to stay open no matter what rock and hard place they found themselves between. I wait for it patiently, trying to ignore that stiff pain pestering my tailbone.
The movie comes to an end in Dante's basement and I'm still awake though. We all are. Please sit on my faace. Bew-beww. So Grant throws on another movie, but who knows which one. Maybe the Lord of the Rings. Maybe some hardcore porn, I haven't the faintest clue. I'm awake only because my body hurts too much to let these eyes close peacefully. It's a weary effort, marked with several jolts to consciousness each time covered with another blanket of delirium. When you sleep on the ground in a train station it's never a deep sleep. There aren't any dreams, and if there were I can't imagine what kinds of hellish nightmares they'd be. The agony come to life in the unconscious. Simply being pulled back to waking to readjust stiff limbs isn't so bad by comparison, I'm sure, even if it is every other half-hour. So I wasn't really waking, was I? And not quite sleeping. What a miserable way to pass the time.
About a hundred paces on the same wall slept a group of young-faced troupe of traveling dorkish fellows wrapped in sleeping bags and cradling pillows under their heads. Those mother-fuckers. Every time i re-awoke I would glance over and and feel my teeth grind with jealous envy. They look so peaceful, luxurious almost. But at the same time, if it weren't for this pesky predicament, I'd never have seen the street rats lurking. Those rabid shadows of the night making their slow calculatingly nonchalant paces past us, eyeing any weaknesses or fortunes to take advantage of. I stare them down as they pass. It's a cold, deliberate stare, with a bit of crazy mixed in from the lack of sleep. Grant and Max do the same, and they look away as soon as the eyes meet. I make one last conscious effort, and that's to put everything important in my pant pockets and pull my bag closer. We see them, and they know that. The starry-eyed camp of sleeping bags and sweet dreams doesn't though, and when I'm awaken yet again, this time by the police at 7:00 on their morning rounds (the sun was up at 4:45), there's trouble down the way. One of the younger ones runs over to us with a desperate look in on his face, "Hi." He's nervous. "Did you see anyone stop by our stuff last night?" He was American and his voice quivered with anxiety. They were hit by those train station hyenas and suffered the loss of a camera and one of those stupid traveler's packs that you put all your valuables (ie., wallet, cash, passport, etc.) into. We told him we'd seen some guys walking around earlier, but by now they were nowhere to be found. When he turned and half-jogged back to his distraught colleagues, we looked at one another and all to be said was, "That sucks." In my head, there's that tiny sigh of relief. Thank god that wasn't us. So what if we're verging on insomnia? I'll sleep on the train.
[sans marijuana, sad face]
