(no subject)
11pm sunday night. i careen across germany with one of the more capricious truckers (aren't they a fascinating breed? i'm totally bemused by their devotion to commercial radio - for fucks sake, if you were spending that much time by yourself behind a wheel, wouldn't you be investing in some books on tape or something? this guy was out on a limb by owning a single scratched ACDC cd, that he blasted almost the entire way across germany) to ever give me a ride. despite his repeated assurances in collaged espanol/deutsch that he's not a maniac (always conducive to a relaxed state) i'd pretty much managed to convince myself that letting my guard down long enough to catch some sleep was not that stupid or dangerous - that is, until he was pulling the semi-trailer in to the emergency stopping lane.
"problem?" i ask, glancing in the rear vision mirror for flashing lights, announcing the arrival of the polizei.
"ne, ne! du fahren?" he grins, pointing at the wheel.
maybe i'm getting old, but a penchant for tag-teaming driving responsibilities with one's autostop passengers (or just offering up late-night joyrides to folks who can't even hold on to their regular license) is not what i'm looking for in a trucker. my contingency plan efforts of relaying the license number via gas station payphone to sebastian, so he & the cops have somewhere to start should he not hear from me by noon tomorrow - though far more substantial than usual - are starting to feel vaguely inadequate. i fall asleep clutching the mace i'm secretly glad i started carrying. (to be fair, my nerves are shot mostly off the back of sleazy italian truck, prior who, about an hour along the road, looked at me casually & asked "sex?" i thought he was saying "six" in german, & when we'd finally established what he was asking i was too surprised to make a convincing act of being totally outraged. though it did serve to remind me just how varied the dynamics are when hitching alone)
i wake at daybreak the following morning to the truck lurching through rush-hour congestion. stoked to find myself alive & intact to greet another autobahn gridlock, i bid the serb good morning & offer him half my navel orange, feeling a bit bad for casting him arbitrarily as a psychopath. later that day the hitching gods even the score (clockwork, invariably), treating me to a slew of sublime & speedy rides - a guy with the sisters of mercy back catalogue on mp3, a violinist that foists german tea cake on me & drives almost to the belgian border to ensure i'm on the right track, & a woman who spent time in palestine working on an EU water project.
i've just stuck out my thumb to a trucker at the tankstelle outside bruxellez, more to ask him for a light than out of expectation of lift potential, but as it goes, it turns out he's bound for leeds & i got my free ride on the ferry to dover.
two hours at the mercy of the brits' island fortress border guards (it didn't take this long to get in to israel). ryan was denied entry so i travel to brighton alone. i'm okay with this, feels like forever since i was out on my own, hey?
back in vienna with him, & two weeks of activism headfuck courtesy of brighton & calais to process. more to come.
"problem?" i ask, glancing in the rear vision mirror for flashing lights, announcing the arrival of the polizei.
"ne, ne! du fahren?" he grins, pointing at the wheel.
maybe i'm getting old, but a penchant for tag-teaming driving responsibilities with one's autostop passengers (or just offering up late-night joyrides to folks who can't even hold on to their regular license) is not what i'm looking for in a trucker. my contingency plan efforts of relaying the license number via gas station payphone to sebastian, so he & the cops have somewhere to start should he not hear from me by noon tomorrow - though far more substantial than usual - are starting to feel vaguely inadequate. i fall asleep clutching the mace i'm secretly glad i started carrying. (to be fair, my nerves are shot mostly off the back of sleazy italian truck, prior who, about an hour along the road, looked at me casually & asked "sex?" i thought he was saying "six" in german, & when we'd finally established what he was asking i was too surprised to make a convincing act of being totally outraged. though it did serve to remind me just how varied the dynamics are when hitching alone)
i wake at daybreak the following morning to the truck lurching through rush-hour congestion. stoked to find myself alive & intact to greet another autobahn gridlock, i bid the serb good morning & offer him half my navel orange, feeling a bit bad for casting him arbitrarily as a psychopath. later that day the hitching gods even the score (clockwork, invariably), treating me to a slew of sublime & speedy rides - a guy with the sisters of mercy back catalogue on mp3, a violinist that foists german tea cake on me & drives almost to the belgian border to ensure i'm on the right track, & a woman who spent time in palestine working on an EU water project.
i've just stuck out my thumb to a trucker at the tankstelle outside bruxellez, more to ask him for a light than out of expectation of lift potential, but as it goes, it turns out he's bound for leeds & i got my free ride on the ferry to dover.
two hours at the mercy of the brits' island fortress border guards (it didn't take this long to get in to israel). ryan was denied entry so i travel to brighton alone. i'm okay with this, feels like forever since i was out on my own, hey?
back in vienna with him, & two weeks of activism headfuck courtesy of brighton & calais to process. more to come.