A dark countryside offers little satisfaction, but the cars are long and although our's isn't packed, not even close, it gives some solace, I suppose. Those solemn eyes of mine, flitting about in their sockets, weary and restless follow all the lines in the place, the smooth window frames with rounded corners. Those creases running the length of the car on the steel (maybe not steel, but certainly some train metal) ceiling. The half-ellipses under Max and Grant and Mike's eyes. All their headphone wires. The handholds on the seats and hanging down from above. The rubber-bordered aisle. Down the aisle there's another traveler. A lone vagabond with a heavy-looking pack like mine. I think quick to talk to him, to hear his stories and tell him mine. But he's too far down and my legs like sitting. And LCD's Soundsystem is playing a slow song in my ear, like "Someone's Calling Me". His pack speaks to me though, yelling from the seat next to his, covered in patches. And thank God I've got good vision because, hell, I may never even have seen them. There was a different one from each city, and the thing was covered. A memorial. A testament to his travels that everyone who gave him a thought could read. So I read. And maybe I not a good reader (I don't particularly like to) but it read like a poor man's tourist trip. A boast of sewn appendages, like so many pictures smiling in front of things saying, "Hey, I've been here!" And he'd been every which way and all across Europe. For a second I wish I'd gotten some patches to remember it all by, but then I scoff to myself with a tired tut of a laugh. What the hell am I going to do with patches? Sew them to things? To my bag? Well first, I think patches are stupid (I liked them when I saw a kid and my parents took me to National Parks, but I was also a dorky nerd-face back then, and put stock into stupid things like patches and what people thought about me). And second, I don't like sewing. It's a thought worth a smile and close my eyes and try to find some sleep on this cradle-rocking ride to London. I'm not searching long. Sleep comes easy when you're smiling.
And then London is a late-night's dream. It's a Burger King dinner at grand Liverpool station, nearly deserted at this hour. It's a fare-thee-well to Mike as Max and Grant and I hop on the last train to Gatwick airport (Mike's flying home out of Heathrow). Our flight's not until 9:15 in the morning so we sleep in a manner we're somewhat used to by now, in a corner, on the hard, cold floor of tile or linoleum or whatever it is they spread out over second-hand international airports. Nothing but bag-pillows, traveler's delirium, and some of that old familiar Cat Power and her jazzy, blue accompaniment crooning me away in my ears. Dreams like these don't shatter until there's that feel of the old familiar about. Homecoming. Waiting by the curb as the sea of cars streaming through the LAX loop flood by. There's no accents anymore, everything sounds normal, like it always has again. A little glaze is still left in the eyes, but it's quickly fading as we acclimate to reality. The sands of dreamland sieve through my fingers as Mom's van pulls up and we all pile in. I just try to pool as many grains as I can into the palm of my hand for safe-keeping. The one's that are too important to forget.
Mom's full of excitement as we're just coming down. Beat. Worn to the bone. "Hey, guys! How was your trip? Tell me all about it!"
"It was good," I say softly, and I think she sees the tired in our faces and under our eyes.
"Do you guys want some In-N-Out, hmm?" she asks, baiting.
"Yes, please."
