Eurotrashcation: Part Three

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Click here Part One and Part Two.

We woke up when the sun hardly a flesh wound, only slightly bleeding over the horizon. If there was such a thing as a sun in the U.K., that is. We headed over to the nearest convenience shop and slightly bled our bank accounts for cash, as though they were inflamed (they were decidedly not).

We made our way to the train station, catching it minutes before it choo-chooed out of the station. Three changes later, noticing old women wearing old clothes and worn shoes, bejeweled wrinkled fingers entwined in a husband’s and we were at Newcastle.

One of our cards, the one that actually had money on it for things like food and transportation (you know, conveniences) and we were stuck making calls to people across the pond where they were fast asleep. After the fifth call, the card was unfrozen.

We got on the bus we needed, in time for it but almost late for the next transportation. I asked the driver when the bus would move, and he said “soon”, which immediately made me feel like an ass. An Idiot American, and that wouldn’t be the first time. It drove us to the harbor, and we boarded.

This was my first time on sea, that is, if you neglect the ancient, primordial sea that is the Eastern Plains of Colorado. Our room on the ferry reminded of a brig. I lay on the bed very still and remembered stories from Maryland about kids using scopolamine patches to trip out and wished I had but one. Then the boat actually started rocking, and my stomach joined. I felt it sloshing inside my abdomen. I laid there until I grew accustomed to it, like I was having a bad trip by myself, trying to help myself with a repeated mantra. We went to the on board restaurant for lunch, walking with bow-legged steps. I ate the salmon, because I figured it would be fresh. I don’t actually know anything about the life of a seaman, so I shouldn’t say anything.

We puffed on cigarettes on the deck and watched the smoke signals disintegrate behind us. Some heady motherfuckers walked by, laughing in the Dutch language. Despite my landlocked origin, it was actually Hoss that was got a little sea sick. We spent a good hour in our holding cell, with me rubbing his tummy, trying to coax him back to life.

We went up to the ferry’s bar, rolling our eyes as we passed a Tina Turner cover band. I ordered a margarita, the first I had in months, and he ordered a club soda. The bartender, seeing our age, was rude and curt. Or maybe that’s just how it was. We watched a Dutchman get really drunk, holding his phone up and banging it down. I ordered another and asked Hoss to tip the man really well.

We went back to the holding cell and told each other secrets, secrets too private to be written here.

For lack of better entertainment, we went to the movie theater, and watched that James Bond movie where he clearly has a tentacle fetish. We laughed, we rolled our eyes, we made Archer jokes, we slept. The ferry passed through the sea.

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