Movement

In the spirit of blogworld, I feel it is only fair to let everyone know that this entry will not be about my bowels.

Sorry.

Rather, I'd like to talk about how absolutely annoyed I get when I have to stop the car to do something. Like get gas. Or get the dogs out to pee. Or get myself out to pee. Actually, with some finangling all of the above can be accomplished at once, and usually without too much police involvement, so that's not really the issue.

Ok, you know that saying about "the journey being half the destination" or the "journey being the destination" or the "destination is actually the journey" or "fuck the destination, all I want IS the journey"?* That saying is so my life philosophy.

I don't like to stop and smell the roses. The first reason is because a lot of other people have probably been jamming their noses into said flowers with nasal drip and I don't want to share. The second is that there are plenty more roses where those came from. Seriously, when have you ever encountered a "rose shortage"? I'm sure should I ever decide to follow your sage advice there will be plenty for me to smell. I'll probably buy my own though, just in case.

When I'd make the semi-annual journey from France into Prague (and vice-versa) I'd take this 14 hour long overnight journey on a bus. It was actually a lot cheaper, faster and nicer than a train - I recommend it. It was always the same bus, with the same slightly mafiaesque looking drivers. And it made the same stops.

Halfway through our journey, we'd stop at some exit off of the German highway, and everyone would get off the bus. This was always at about 2:30 in the morning, and at that point (depending on the direction) I would suddenly awake and question (Paris to Prague) "Why am I still dating this guy?" or (Prague to Paris) "Why do I like this guy so damned much?"**

So, I'd wake up with this jolt of panic and self-doubt and existentialism, which I usually attribute to a seizure without all the weird burning smells and the bus would be stopped. I mean, it wouldn't be moving at all. There we would be, at some rest stop in Germany in the middle of the night and no one seems like they want to get back on the bus and get going. And you think "God! It's only Germany for fuck's sake! Nothing to see here people. Move along." And you start willing them to be magnetically attracted to the bus until their wills give in and they start clambering in.

It's at this point you start remembering that there are in fact some very nice things about Germany, like lots of streetcleaning, beer, and easy access to concentration camps to make you feel bad about being so whiny. And you also realize that you kind of have to go now that you've woken up. But that's the point where the bus driver puts out his fiftieth cigarette and cranks her up. And your soul settles back into complacency as the bus moves on.

I have suffered great disappointment ending almost in tears when I thought my train was finally moving out of the station only to realize it was an optical illusion and only those lucky bastards in the next train were escaping to their next destination (a journey). I have banged my head hard enough to bring bruises when I am stuck in traffic. I do not like to stop when I am in things designed to move.

And one of those things is me.

*Sorry to paraphrase, but I really only got that from a school poster that some friends and I stole when we smoked too many clove cigarettes, and then we drew some testicles on it or maybe it was a butt, because they kind of look the same when you are wielding the Sharpie that SOME of you (present company excluded) might have been huffing and then stuffed into a dumpster.

**The Paris to Prague was my last bus journey and probably why we are no longer still together.