When I think about the anatomy of a journey, I usually wonder, when does it end? When do you know that it’s over? How do you know that it’s not anymore? From my experience, I know that it’s almost impossible to answer this. There were times when I though the journey was over, even though it was only just starting. Likewise, I found myself not realising the end of a journey by weeks, when it was, in fact, already long gone and forgotten. Sometimes the journey is a mere minutes long experience, other times it’s eternal, and ends only when you end. Although, I don’t think it’s the case for everyone.
Another question that comes to my mind is: how do you know when the journey started? This may look more straightforward, but don’t be fooled. A journey can start way sooner than you set sail, or hit the road.
I think this one started when I was reading On the road, by Jack Kerouac. This book caught me unprepared as I was turning eighteen, and clutched at me with all it’s strength. I had to act quickly. One morning, I was skipping school, drinking coffee and rolling a cigarette, and I booked a cheap flight to Brussels. Fast-forward two months, I was rushing through the Zaventem airport.
I didn’t have much money, so I had a couchsurfing stay arranged in the city, and the host was eagerly waiting for my arrival. It wasn’t anything special about me, but it was late Monday afternoon, nearing the midnight actually, and she had to work the next day. Since I wasn’t particularly well funded for the trip, I found a cheaper way to board the train. After the shuttle left the airport, it went through the adjacent small town, and boarding there meant almost a 20 Euro discount on the ticket. It was only a half an hour walk anyway. When you’re eighteen, it’s way easier to streth your legs than your budget.
As I navigated through the conrete barriers, which the army hastily built after the recent terrorist attacks, around the highway, then through the late-night empty streets, between the dimly lit Flemish houses, it dawned on me. I was in Belgium. Alone. Free. On the road. There was nothing to stop me. Except for, maybe, getting lost. Of the few strangers I met, each gave me different directions.
My host called me multiple times, and I told her that I was on the way already, that I’d be at her place in no time, I just had to catch the train… The truth was, I wasn’t sure. In the end, I finally saw the railway station nearby. It was one of those with tracks elevated above the level of the road, and to enter the platform, you need to go through a tunnel down below. Just as I came in front of the station, a train flew by right before my eyes. Being there just a minute earlier, I would’ve been sitting inside. Of course, this was the last train of the day. It was getting chilly, and the barely noticable drizzle transformed into rainfall. I called the host and explained the situation. She was quite frustrated that she was waiting all the time for nothing, and told me she won’t be waiting anymore, that she had to go to work in the morning.
I was on my own now, and I had to figure out what to do. Where to spend the night. It was too late to look for any hotel, not that I would have the money anyway. I stumbled across the streets aimlessly, my legs leading me to the only opened bar around. I got myself a pint of the cheapest beer (fucking expensive at that!), and the bartender looked at me, puzzled:
“But it’s non-alcoholic!” he gasped, almost outraged.
Well, whatever. I didn’t care anymore. I listened in on the conversations, and tried to catch something I could understand, first time encountering French in the wild. I wasn’t lucky though. My French sucked. When I hastily drank my beer, I paid, and left. I still had nowhere to go, but an idea was brewing in my mind. I was going to try my luck on the airport. I wasn’t sure if that would be possible, as I didn’t have any business there, now that I landed two hours ago, but I gave it a try anyway.
The soldiers guarding the entrance looked intimidating, and I almost turned around, but I quickly realised it would be suspicious. I gathered myself, and explained my situation. They were not interested at all. They only asked for a valid boarding pass. The one which brought me there was apparently enough, and I was finally inside, warm, and shielded from the rain. Other than that, the airport didn’t even try to be accomodating for the overnighters. All the lights were on, to the point it almost hurt. The music was louder than it ever is during the day. As I think about it, is there even music on airports during the day? Soldiers were patroling frequently, which had the opposite effect from creating feelings of safety.
This was my first night on the road, and my first night on an airport. Resting wasn’t possible, so I resolved to look at the people around me. I played a little game with myself, trying to figure out where everyone was going, whether something happy or sad brought them to the midnight airport. Why were we all there together? I noticed a young girl, around my age, who was going outside to smoke a cigarette. I had nothing better to do anyway, and I wanted some company, so I followed her. I think she noticed, and immediately saw through my intentions, so she asked me for a lighter when we met outside. A pretty strong and cold wind was blowing, and although we shivered with each inhale, we smoked the cigarettes slowly, and talked.
She was from Portugal, going back home after a roadtrip around Belgium, where she visited some friends. She was a bit tipsy, as she went to the airport straight from a bar. She told me that a boyfriend was going to pick her up after the flight, and with that, she became a no go zone. She was quite pleasant to talk to though, so I joined her and another dude from South America that she met on the airport.
We spent the rest of the night talking. The guy from South America left first. His flight was at four in the morning, and as he was packing his belongings, he winked at me.
“Good luck Paul,” he said.
The girl was on her way soon after. We hugged, and said farewell, like old friends. My head was full of her, until I saw the first rays of the sun. This was a reminder that I had to get going as well.
My plan was to reach the Flemish countryside, a small town called Scherpenheuvel-Zichem to be precise, where I found another host who was nice enough to let me stay for a few nights. I don’t even know why I was going there, as my ultimate goal was the Netherlands, with it’s coffeeshops and decadence. Belgian villages were nowhere near that. In the end, we became friends with the hosts, and we kept in touch for few years after, but I’m getting ahead of myself here.
My first steps headed towards the same train station, where my night took a different course just a few hours ago. I was determined to catch the train now. I found a good hitchhiking spot on the internet, and in order to get there, I first had to go to Brussels-North. Afterwards a bus would take me to a nearby town, and a short walk to finally get to the spot.
Brussels-North is a joke. It very much reminded me of the main railway station in Bratislava, with all the junkies, homeless and scum. I wanted to get away as soon as possible. I found the stop from which my bus departed, and I waited, and waited, and waited.
After an hour I found out that the bus actually stopped a few meters away from me, but because of the lack of sleep, I didn’t notice. Lucky day, I guess. When I finally boarded, it took me exactly where I just came from – the little town next to the airport. My hitchhiking spot was a walking distance from the train station, some 20 minutes at most. I’ve just spent three hours getting there by public transport instead. Running in circles right from the beginning.
This was my first time hitchhiking. It’s not a pleasant experience when you’re exhausted to the point of falling on the ground. I had to endure though, since there was no other way… Well, yeah, a few years later, as I visited my to-be-hosts again, I took a train in the same direction, and it was pretty cheap, but whatever… I was lucky, and stopped my first car quickly. With three or four cars in total, I finally reached Scherpenheuvel-Zichem.
More waiting for me now. I was there too early, as it was still few hours until my hosts finished in work. Wandering around, I found a big church at the top of the hill, with a huge park next to it. I sat down on the first bench I found, and it didn’t take long before I was fast asleep. I didn’t worry about anything or anyone. After all, it was a park next to a church, right?
When you’re 18, and you read Kerouac’s On The Road, many ideas and reveries can cross your mind. You are young; considerably dumb; free of any major obligation (if you’re lucky); and Kerouac reads as a new bible, as a prophet of a new way of life. Hitting the road and not caring too much seems like the secret. Usually this leaves you daydreaming for a few weeks, and then you move on, to a, subjectively, better literature. But if you’re brave enough, and stupid enough (which is often the same thing), you pack up, and embark on an adventure.
I am, as you may’ve guessed, of the latter kind. I’ve hit the road. And I can’t stop getting back there ever since.