On the channel ferry crossing and our driver has given me the golden ticket; a voucher which provides entrance to the exclusive drivers cafe and lounge. “Cheap breakfast, free tea...” he sells it to me. An opportunity to go deep undercover so naturally I'm skeptical; however will I pass for a truck driver? I'm slim and I've got mud on my jeans. They are all wearing shorts with a podge about them. I'm quite clearly a roadie, not a driver.
Up at the lounge I nervously stroll in and find no resistance, which eases my worry. 'Adopt the long-drive vibe,' I'm telling myself and hand over the ticket for a meal. Magic words stream from the counter guys mouth: “how many hash browns?” Don't mind if I do! The meal is less than half the price than that in the public cafe downstairs.
Upon taking a seat at one of the many formica tables and settling into a couple of bites of an early warm breakfast, I find the scene to be sullen and silent. All the drivers are practically asleep with their faces hung low towards their plates and both their elbows resting on the tables. They sit on their own, or in the occasional pair, and they do not converse. It's a strange world, being on the road; a world of long, late nights and long, late drives; endless stops at awful service stations with a collection of smelly socks burning a hole in the backpack. These guys understand that pain. We're all desperately trying to hold onto humanity, but are moving too much and too quickly to keep a tight enough grip. Our main concerns; where is the next laundrette and how many hours of sleep can I manage today?
In fact, the drivers lounge is less exciting than I'd thought it would be. What about it had enraptured me so anyway? I meet no-one and am offered no road stories by other creepy loners, much to my dissappointment. Here we all are, living out our private lives in public, and waiting for the next stint to take us that little bit closer (or further away?) from where we are headed. Destination is everything, and destination changes constantly, almost daily. How are we to cope with life on the road? I worry that I'll become to aquainted with this life and then staying home will become impossible; that the bug will develop into an itch and home-life will never be quite the same again. A first world problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless.
Up at the lounge I nervously stroll in and find no resistance, which eases my worry. 'Adopt the long-drive vibe,' I'm telling myself and hand over the ticket for a meal. Magic words stream from the counter guys mouth: “how many hash browns?” Don't mind if I do! The meal is less than half the price than that in the public cafe downstairs.
Upon taking a seat at one of the many formica tables and settling into a couple of bites of an early warm breakfast, I find the scene to be sullen and silent. All the drivers are practically asleep with their faces hung low towards their plates and both their elbows resting on the tables. They sit on their own, or in the occasional pair, and they do not converse. It's a strange world, being on the road; a world of long, late nights and long, late drives; endless stops at awful service stations with a collection of smelly socks burning a hole in the backpack. These guys understand that pain. We're all desperately trying to hold onto humanity, but are moving too much and too quickly to keep a tight enough grip. Our main concerns; where is the next laundrette and how many hours of sleep can I manage today?
In fact, the drivers lounge is less exciting than I'd thought it would be. What about it had enraptured me so anyway? I meet no-one and am offered no road stories by other creepy loners, much to my dissappointment. Here we all are, living out our private lives in public, and waiting for the next stint to take us that little bit closer (or further away?) from where we are headed. Destination is everything, and destination changes constantly, almost daily. How are we to cope with life on the road? I worry that I'll become to aquainted with this life and then staying home will become impossible; that the bug will develop into an itch and home-life will never be quite the same again. A first world problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless.
