Tattoo You (travel writing)

My stop was next, and I wasn’t about to play it nice and be Gandhi upon leaving the train. In fact, I was looking forward to pushing aside the group of chatting teenagers who were blocking the exit. I had rolled out of bed at the very crack of dawn, and now I was being forced to listen to absolutely pointless conversations, such as that one blonde brat who hadn’t done her household chores that Sunday afternoon and had to say it loud enough for the entire compartment to hear:
“I haven’t done the laundry.”
“What?”
“I promised I would. Fuck.”
“Hah, not good.”

I had left my previous motel that morning after having eaten the mandatory bowl of Kellogg’s. When you were on the road, a healthy breakfast was one of the things that you couldn’t neglect. Even if the logo was something as stupid as a rooster and not something cool like a damned eagle. Or a fairy-bluebird, if you will.

I had just stepped out onto the platform of the new town when I heard a voice calling out: “Hey, wait up, you dropped this.” It was the blonde from before who had picked up a pamphlet that read ‘Bloody Bones’ in the belief that it was mine. Why would it be mine? Did I look like I was into witchcraft or voodoo? Did I look like I slaughtered pigeons in my basement at night? I think not.

The hotel I had picked out for my stay in this town was called ‘The Uranus’. On the sign above the entrance the ‘Ur’ had been separated from ‘anus’ by some nice artwork, no doubt done by a group of teenagers believing themselves to be delinquents.

I signed in at the hotel under the name Winchester and went out to buy my Kraft macaroni and cheese. Upon my return, I placed my pair of boots by the door and noticed the tiny danger sign next to the doorframe. Apparently, the management wanted its guests to be careful with the semi-automatic doors. It was my plan to visit a renowned tattoo parlor the following day. Around midnight, I found the lock to the bathroom to be out of order and I didn’t feel like spending my night picking away at it with a needle. So, I grabbed the ‘please service this room’-sign and put it on my door. They could figure it out then. How long would that take? Probably so long that I would already be gone. I doubted anybody would turn up in the morning with a witty “Josh is here” and fix the lock.

I couldn’t fall asleep that night. Instead of counting sheep, I was so inspired by my trip to the grocery store that I decided to try and bore myself to unconsciousness with listing various types of onions and potatoes. I got as far as pearl onion, yellow onion and the pink eye potato until I finally dozed off.

(By Dorte J. & Amalie F.)