You were imagining the journey already, yes? The train thundering through the countryside but since the music was playing – and it was the kind of music that bathed you in a wall of sound – you weren’t paying attention to the scenery. Sure, you were looking out, but they’d notice if they paid attention that your mind was flitting between what he’d said and how the words of every song were somehow related. Your heart was floating in the air, surfing on waves of joy. They call it love. But you didn’t care for labels. It’s just a nice, warm uplifting feeling, that you don’t even notice how the greyness outside had been translated from walls of rain that seem to keep just ahead of the speeding train into a field of sunshine. Every song magical, every beat just right. Every song was an anthem for your state of being.
On Saturday, you wouldn’t need to be anywhere else. In the train, ploughing through the brilliant landscape, no other light shining anywhere could match the glow in your heart. Everything would seem possible. Leaving home. Changing religion. Becoming vegetarian. Not having to face the monsters at school anymore. Dealing with the loss of a parent. All driven continuously by the next song on your playlist. And the song after that. You are through a door and everything suddenly opens up. Finding the perfect someone at such a young age. For better or for worse, he’d said. And he’ll be waiting. Saturday, at dawn, at the station.
Where would you go, together? To Europe? Was it possible to dream of escaping to Europe? There were ways. He knew people who could arrange everything. You knew some people who’d made it across. Made it into Spain, then Germany and beyond. They’d updated everyone via social media. She was called a refugee, but it was her life – as documented on Instagram – that all the girls you knew wanted.
He’d asked you to bring your passport, clothes and whatever money you could find. You’d told him that you didn’t have much, but he said, not to worry about it. But you felt bad. If he was willing to go over, to cross the Straits, and was willing to make the arrangements and take care of the costs, you wanted to contribute. The days of the week were spent trying to figure out what you could sell to obtain cash. Your savings account – which your late mother had set up for you – only had a couple of hundred Moroccan dollars and these you’d already secured. There was the antique vase, the piece of pottery that had belonged to your grandma and that only your mother had seen the value of. You snuck it out of the house on Friday afternoon – while your father was at work – and traded it for a handful of dollars at the local pawn shop. You never spoke much with your father since your mother had passed away and that Friday, you did nothing different. You were home for dinner on time and sat through it patiently. You both exchanged token pleasantries. He went out for drinks with his friends. That was that.
Saturday, at dawn, you were at the station with your bag of clothes, money and passport. For better or for worse.
Photo from Unsplash.com by 30daysreplay (PR & Marketing)
