Matt In The Hat

I've given in. I've started a blog and my first post explains the rationale. For comments on my blog you may contact me directly by email at maskari03@yahoo.com. Cheers, Matt.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

don't stop can't stop won't stop


Don’t stop can’t stop won’t stop. An adrenaline junkie, adventure, swapping continents with regularity, on the move, ex-pat. I take the scrunched up napkin out of my pocket and unfold it. Its one of those recycled napkins, there’s stuff in it, bits of things, specks of their former lives spliced and minced and combined and now this grayish thing holds the cursive scribble that I’ve read over and over tonight:

Sofie Sørensen
-leaving for
Marokko the 20th of July
from Rådhuspladsen CPH :)


A few things stand out to me, how Sofie spelled Morocco the Danish way, Marokko, CPH, the acronym for Copenhagen, this glorious city of no frills I’ve called home for much of the past year, the smiley face- what does it mean? What do smileys mean these days anyways?

It was a few months ago- call it two, a rainy Danish spring night, I was sitting on the upper level of a café I frequent here, a not for profit one, currently supporting an ashram in India. That’s all good but I like the ambience of the place. Sofie was closing up the café. I was on the typer, probably feigning writing but likely checking facebook messages while downing my third cup of coffee. She wiped my table and smiled. I made some mindless comment, maybe about the rain or saying something like “its that time” indicating closing time or whatever. She takes a moment, she gives me this, a smile, some exclusive attention. She asks me something what I don’t remember. But we get around to something she’s very excited about. A plan. She gives me a vague notion of some great adventure about to unfold, when she’s on her summer holiday which seems ages away. I tell her it sounds crazy, but exciting nonetheless. Fact is, I live for things like what she’s proposing. Come, she says. I smile, there’s an electric moment where I see the possibility, even so it’s ages away and I say who knows.

Ages later- I walk into the café. I see Bea, a good friend who volunteers at the place a couple times a month. I met her at a bar job I had in the city, we clicked, I love her openness and willful charge to find the hip and happening, the irregular and alternative, and she’s a genuine sweetheart. We greet, she’s in conversation with a girl next to her, there are a few others sprawled on chairs and couches around, people sipping beers or tea, I greet I acknowledge, I take a seat next to Claude, who at present is rolling a cigarette. Claude is French. Claude also works in the café. Claude is almost mock-stereotypically wearing a beret, this is true, a black and white checkered scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and a red tee with “CCCP” emblazoned on it, the Russian Acronym for “USSR”. We give each other a hug- “take a fucking seat man” he says in a heavy French accent. We catch up, he takes swigs of his beer, we relate stories. Claude has stories. He claims to have been an exhibitionist at age 5. He claims to have left the communist party at 17, though a poster of Lenin (among others) still hangs in his room. I share conversation with Bea and Claude and the others, people come and go around me, switch places on the couch, go outside for cigarettes and come back, etc. Then she comes in. I see Sofie. We both smile. I know little of the girl, conversations here and there, there was a night we all went out, Me, Bea, Claude, Sofie and some others to see some jazz. Horns wailing, thick blue smoke, a nice ale, some whisky some coke over ice. We talked some that night and some in bits after. But there is something to her. She’s from the Danish countryside, and maybe that’s it and maybe that has nothing to do with it. There’s something in her eyes, they’re warm and calm, they sparkle, they say much when Sofie doesn’t. Claude gets up to get another beer, I get up to give Sofie a little kiss on the cheek. She sits.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.
“I’m on holiday,” she says smiling. “Few days now.” I nod. “How was America?” she asks me, referring to a trip I just made back home, three weeks, New York, L.A., Pittsburgh.
“Amazing,” I say. “Really nice to see family, friends.” She smiles. “And it’s the little things you miss, the things you’re used to, grew up with,” I add. “Like this diner I went to, they automatically bring you tap water when you sit down, and they have ten kinds of hot sauce, and when I asked for barbecue sauce they brought me a bowl of the stuff and they don’t charge you for it,” I say rather excitedly. Sofie laughs and nods in understanding.
“Its funny what you appreciate.”
“Yeah!” I say. We sit for a moment and I ask, “so what are you going to do on your holiday?”
“I’m going to Morocco,” she says. Suddenly I remember everything. She had told of wanting to go there. I had been before, a marvel that trip was. I was a student studying in the south of Spain. A far cry from anything I had expected. Morocco to me was black and white, Humphrey Bogart telling Sam to play it again, Morocco was unoccupied France, Morocco was Casablanca. Morocco, was not Casablanca, but a very special place the same. It was exotic and had its charms. I looked back to Sofie.
“Yeah! Yeah that’s right, you told me about it, a while ago I remember.” There’s a momentary blank expression on her face, then thankfully her face lights up. Funny how we worry about things like that, it legitmates them, makes them real for us, two people can confirm, it happened, it was mutual, reassurance, comfort. “There was a thing to it, right? Something about it.” That big smile nods back.
“We’re hitchhiking the whole way to Morocco,” she says.
“That’s right! That’s it,” I say. I think about it, the logical course, Denmark, Germany, France, Spain, ferry to Tangiers.
“We leave the 20th of July and have a return ticket home the 5th of August from Marrakesh,” she says. Just over two weeks, a hell of an itinerary. Five countries, varied weather, much travel, erratic sleeping arrangements, random occurrences, countryside, food on the go, I picture standing in the rain trying to hail down a truck or car or anything on wheels, maybe for hours, maybe something comes but what if nothing? All those rides there’s bound to be a night if not three sleeping out in the middle of nowhere. The packing would have to be light but precise. Only what you need, basics. I see the thing unfolding.
‘There’s four of us Danish girls,” she says. “Well me and my friend, and two others, we’re teams, competing”
“A race?”
“Exactly,” she says.
“You should bet something, or the winner should get something.”
“Yeah we’re deciding that, maybe a treat once we’re in Morocco, we’re not sure.”
“Well it sounds incredible.”
“You are welcome, we’d love another.”
“Might be tough,” I explain, “I’m maybe starting a job tomorrow, I mean I have a meeting anyways to see, and I’m pretty broke.” I get nods of understanding.
“We’re going to try to do it cheap as possible.” I nod. I tell Sofie I’ll have to get her Facebook name, that there’s little chance but… I talk the next couple hours away with Bea and Claude, it’s near 2a.m., I’ve got to get up early for this meeting, a sort of interview and tryout for this restaurant, the manager called me on the phone and the details were vague but I was told to wear nice clothing. I look over to Sofie, I tell her I’m leaving, make a little scribble motion with my hand, she smiles and jumps up, walks past, comes back a couple moments later, I’m in conversation with a guy about a new film out, she hands me a napkin with something scribbled on it, I glance at it, see her name at the top, nod to her, fold the thing, smush it into my pocket. I say goodbye, I walk out, earlier there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just that late Danish sun setting, now I find myself in a downpour. I go back in momentarily, ask for a trash bag, the rain doesn’t seem to let any, I put on the bag, puncture a hole for my face, plod through already formed puddles, head for the main square, the night buses are running, as I get there I see I just miss my bus, I stand in the rain, the pattering of the rain magnified in that bag, I wait, I wait, the rain softens enough for me to take the bag off. Screw it, I’ll walk. I want to think anyways.

Don’t stop. I’ve been on an extraordinary journey, a wondrous collage of images come to me, five continents, faces, emotions, I’m young, I’m able. I’ll only be twenty-seven once I say. A couple months before my twenty-fifth, my bags were packed for Buenos Aires. You can only be twenty-four and go to Argentina once, I said. A year and a half later it was a similar situation, London with a vague notion of spending time in Spain. Now here, Copenhagen.

Can’t stop. It comes to me that everything I’ve embarked on was a reaction to the way I saw my life going. Steady job, decent pay, an even life, the long steady climb, settling for things, comfort, a great prospect for most. But I’ve a terribly restless soul, a needy greedy want. It claws at me regularly, at night, just a scratch. I can never see that claw, can’t face it, fight it. I just see the scratches that let me know its there, its within me.

Halfway through my walk the rain almost stops completely. Just the faintest drizzle remains. I take the bag off, it’s quite wet, I give it a good shake, crunch it up in my hand and carry it with me should the sky have some more surprises in store. I cross a bridge and look out at Islands Brygge, at the water glimmering in the moonlight. I’m thousands of miles away from home(or am I home?), I’m happy, I’m living a life on my own terms, doing what feels right. I continue walking and before I know it I’m in front of my flat in Amager. I wrestle my hand into my pocket and fetch out the keys, fiddle with the front door lock, open it, walk up a small flight of stairs to my shared flat, wipe my feet, open the door, come into my room, place my things down, sit on my bed, I take off my shoes, and fall back on my bed. My mind races. Won’t stop.


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