1.
During the final morning of our first trip to Amsterdam I fully admit I lost it. It is not often that I get so angry as to shout at anyone, let alone friends, but the pressure of getting to the airport on time, and almost certainly of the heavy dope we had been smoking the night before really took its toll.
Travel can do strange things to people. It does to me. It makes me even more punctual and alert than I usually am. This manifests itself in turning up to the train station at 1:30 knowing I’m catching the 2:05. Why? Because I don’t want to miss the train. In the ticket office I’m checking the departures board and figuring out which platform I’m after before even buying a ticket. I’m always ahead of myself, at least ahead of where I feel I need be.
We had to catch a train from Amsterdam Central Station to Schipol Airport, but no-one knew which platform it was on. I was literally thirty feet ahead of the other three with bags hanging off my shoulder and looking fully unkempt. I wasn’t stoned – but the other three were, very. They’d tried to smoke the rest of our batch before we left, and before 10am. Nick shouted me and they quickly turned off down a staircase. I followed in hot pursuit and bounded down this flight of stairs faster than I’d ever moved before. They hopped onto a stationary train, I followed.
We all took our bags off and dumped them on the floor. I tried to catch some breath and sat back in the chair. When the train started moving it dawned on me that no-one knew where the train was actually going. I quizzed the other guys hurriedly and they all presumed. Great. A plane to catch in one hour and no-one knows if we’re on the airport train or not. I lost my temper and hastily used the words ‘fuck’, ‘you’ and ‘guys’. I flew off down the aisle with my bag trailing behind me to find out where the hell we were going. I found the train manager in the next carriage, and then went crawling back to the others.
At the Airport we checked in and went in search of the plane. We noticed a board which listed our flight leaving from 17b in ten minutes. I rushed along, turning round every ten seconds to hurry everyone up. As I opened the door to 17b and ran down the flight of stairs I came face-to-face with an old couple looking lost. “Are you here for the Coventry flight?” they asked, looked totally perplexed and lost. I looked out at the airport runway and didn’t see a plane waiting. Just then Nick pulled open the door at the top of the stairs and called us up. “Quick, quick” he said. The old couple walked but I ran up the stairs and over the corridor. On the opposite side we went through the door and down the stairs and this time were faced with a room full of people and a plane waiting. My heart pumped twice as fast for the whole flight home.
2.
Two years later, with two of the same people who were both stoned again, we’re in Vancouver. It’s 10am too and not one of us can figure out the fucking bus timetables. We are totally and utterly lost and running out of time, only able to rely on another tourist’s ability to methodically de-code the timetable. We took a chance with this Hungarian who decided he was definitely right. I sat on my backpack with the sun bouncing off the concrete and felt the patience get drawn out of me slowly. It felt like the inevitable deadline was crushing me.
A bus came soon enough, but we still had our plane to catch yet.
3.
The last time I was in Dublin I spent the final night alone – well, mostly alone. I walked around the city all fucking day then stumbled upon a decent gig in Temple Bar late in the evening. I screamed and shouted as another generic US punk band screamed and shouted up onstage. The atmosphere was great – the locals were all friendly and held out their hands so I could crowd surf and then shared their massive slices of pizza with me outside whilst we talked music and what-not. After the gig I was in a great mood but stumbled off to find a decent place to sleep instead of staying up all night. This tiny groggy hostel provided a stiff but ample bed for the night.
In the morning I went out for breakfast and vividly remember sitting on the North Quay by the River eating an apple when a lorry drove by with this crazy sculpture tied on the back. I probably smoked a few cigarettes too quickly. I worried about missing my ferry and so I set off early to the ferry port. I didn’t really have a clue how far the port was – I just knew the direction it was in, and once I started picking up signs I just kept following them. I had my walkman playing fast-paced punk stuff and I tried to walk in time with the beat.
To begin with I passed all the old port buildings and distribution warehouses – big, old red-brick buildings with the names of the original businesses carved into the stone above the doors. The path was cobbled and I just trundled along and along. Occasionally there were these glass circles set in between the stone which contained little colourful plastic fish. It looked like these fish were swimming away from the city, not towards it, just like me. I walked and walked and eventually came to the industrial docklands area. More and more lorries came speeding past me, kicking up all this dust. Alongside the pavement ran these huge old pipes which seemed to dart off in every direction at some points. This one road – Alexandra Road – led all the way to the ferry port, but was a couple of miles long and totally straight. To keep occupied I looked at all the workyards, and silos, and warehouses, and shipping containers which lined either side of the road. I saw no-one else on foot with whom I could check the time so I just kept going at as fast a pace as I could manage. A thick layer of dust and grime covered everything – as is always the way with industrial districts. No-one in their right mind would walk down that road if they could help it.
At the very end I took a right, a left, a right and followed even more signs meant for cars not pedestrians. The ferry port terminal came into view on the other side of a dozen fences and a vast expanse of concrete. Needless to say readers, despite all the rushing, and fretting, and worrying and nail biting I had arrived on time.
