The Night Train

Falcone, my childhood friend from Florence, and his family must have thought that I would come back. They had been through this whole routine before; when I left for Cinque Terre we said our goodbyes but the next day I was at their door once more. But when I walked down the rock stairs of the apartment building and out the door I knew this time would be different. My taxi pulled into the square just as I left the building as if the driver wanted to make an entrance that said "tip me". The train station in Florence is just like all the rest in Europe. People are smoking where its forbidden, police nap against ATM's, and gypsies do their rounds through the swarms of tourists shaking their cups of 5 cent pieces. The Piazza I called home in Florence was gypsy center. I watched them create their "poor child" signs, toy with an iPod they most definitely stole, and wash clothes in the fountain. I knew them. In fact an old bearded Russian, Gustavo, and I got as close as you could get to a gypsy. That being the daily "Ciao Regazzo, Como sti?" But thats neither here or there. The train was delayed 20 minutes so I flipped over my bright orange backpack, sat, and read. Jack Kerouac's unabridged On the Road is symbolic to me. Because my trip like the book has no chapters or paragraphs. Its a constant, moment-to-moment adventure. Continuous and unstoppable. The train screeched to a stop and the great group of people waiting at the Departure board for our platform to be listed disappeared. I followed. Ambling along the dirt covered cement to the absolute farthest cabin 84. The room I was supposed to occupy had 6 french high school students in it. And they wanted nothing to do with me. I changed rooms and found myself in the bottom bunk. One roommate was from Rome the other from Egypt. The roman was typing silently on his computer with his headphones emitting some sort of Euro-Punk and the egyptian didn't speak a word of english. So, I read uninterrupted by anything except our cabin light turning off, and the constant smoke stops Shawan Alhakim needed. Even though my night light was feeble it still reflected off the many metal pins and buttons on Shawans jeans. It was some sort of style I just didn't comprehend. A style that was sweeping through Europe and the Middle East. I rested up against the blue and green argyle seats switching my entertainment between Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Kerouac. At first I put my feet on my big bag so I would sense if anyone touched it. But soon enough my elevated legs lost blood and fell asleep forcing me to adjust. I fixed it right under my bed and drooped one foot on it. I didn't trust the luggage rack. It was out of my sight and out of my reach. At 2am another Egyptian came in and claimed the empty bed. I didn't care. I was so captivated by my book that I wasn't even tired. The only time I felt like leaving was when a group of americans walked by my room. Sometimes when I get lonely from traveling all by myself I feel like opening the door. Going to the snack cart behind them. And picking up conversation in line. Even if its just conversation it better than nothing. Traveling alone has more benefits than going with a group. But its a big sacrifice. Its a big burden to carry. Maybe thats why I always said hi to that homeless guy Gustavo. Because I know what its like to be alone in a foreign country. Im in Paris now. I arrived two hours ago to a taxi driver waiting for me. And a hotel room to eat and watch TV in. I cant wait to have a glass of wine with my uncle. And Im overly ecstatic to see my family in London Friday.


-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Passerelle Simone-de-Beauvoir,Paris,France