Counting the Hours
It's half past nine in the evening, and you find me sitting in my fifth floor hotel room with the window open to the night air. Richard Marx is singing about being 'right here' for somebody or other while traffic slowly makes it's way across a nearby bridge – reflections of headlights dancing on the water below.
Today was a tough day. Mentally exhausting.
After returning to the hotel this evening I changed into jeans and a warm jumper and walked into town. A part of me wanted to grab food from a nearby supermarket, but something inside me snapped. After a ten minute walk through the city I was shown to a 'table for one' at a fake American diner by a tall asian guy with shoulder length hair, and the most welcoming smile I have seen in a while.
A large glass of Belgian beer, a huge bacon cheeseburger, and a pile of fat fries covered in cheese and chilli re-balanced the world somewhat. My order was taken by a confident German girl with a ponytail and perfect winged eyeliner. I thought her rather lovely, even if she had only given me a few moments of her time. It's amazing how even the smallest of interactions have come to mean so much while here on my own.
While walking back to the hotel, I passed several busy bars, and had a sudden attack of the lonelies. It's rare that I ever feel lonely – I'm usually quite happy with my own company – but for a few moments while passing those windows full of noise and smiling faces, I wished I might have been anywhere but there. It's ridiculous really, because you only need to sit in a public space for a few minutes to realise that the guy walking his dog is probably weighed down by all sorts of problems – and the quiet girl using a phone as a defensive shield either wishes somebody would notice her, or that everybody would leave her alone. Everybody has a multitude of stories buried deep inside – some happy, some sad.
One day left. One day left until I get back on a plane and return home to my family. I'm counting the hours.