resale value unless it came with its case.
Once onto my hands and knees, I slowly hauled myself to my feet, using the cinder-blocked doorway for support. I wanted to get moving, find a hotel and get warm; I could still get that train in the morning. But then, it could already be morning, I didn't have a clue.
I had a shivering spasm. Slivers of ice had formed on my jeans as the piss on them had frozen. Feeling in my jacket pockets for my gloves was a stupid idea: they'd taken those too. I needed to get moving and generate some heat.
Freezing air blasted my face as I walked out. The wind was blowing big time, straight off the Baltic. Jumping up and down on the spot, my hands in my pockets, I tried to wake myself up in the darkness but lost my balance. As I breathed in sharply the subzero air clawed at the back of my throat and nose. I resumed my aerobics, but it was more of a shuffle than a jump.
The loss of my hat and gloves made me bury my head into the collar of my jacket and my hands firmly in the pockets. I started to pick my way through small piles of snow, which I soon found had gathered round lumps of concrete and twisted steel. I took my time; the last thing I wanted now was to twist an ankle, and the way my luck was going that was quite likely.
Eventually my hands got warm enough to manipulate the zip, and with my jacket done up completely I began to feel the benefit. A car slowly trundled along the road about sixty to seventy yards to my left. Ahead of me, maybe 300 yards away, was the cloudy blue-and white glow of a gas station. I bent down, taking my time so as not to lose my balance again, and undid my boot to extract a $20 bill.
After checking that the rest of the money was secure, I staggered and slid toward the blue glow beyond the trees. My condition was improving a little, but I knew I must still look loaded; it was certainly how I felt like the guy who believes he's in control when in fact he's slurring his words and failing to notice that matchstick he just tripped up on. Not that I really gave a shit what the people in the gas station would think of me; all I hoped was that they served hot drinks and food, and that somebody could give me directions to a hotel.
I stumbled on, slipping and sliding on the ice, all the time keeping an eye open for my new friends, or others who might be following the fucked-up foreigner for a few more dollars.
Putting my hand out to rest against a tree for a while, it dawned on me that it was going to be very difficult, maybe impossible, to check into a hotel. In a country like this they'd insist on passport details and possibly even visas. The Russians might have gone, but their bureaucracy would have stayed behind. I could hardly say I'd left my passport in the car. What car? There was also something else; I wouldn't know until it was too late whether the police made spot checks or the hotels had to report anything suspicious, such as a man covered in piss, with no passport, trying to pay in U.S. dollars. It depressed me, but I couldn't take that chance.
Lurching off again toward the gas station, I was getting nearer to the road. There was virtually no traffic or noise from anywhere, just the odd set of headlights and the rumble of tires over what sounded like cobblestones and slush in the distance. Intermittent street lights illuminated snow swirling from the ground, making it look as if it was just hanging there.
There were about thirty yards of snow and ice left to cover before I hit the road beside the gas station; I didn't know what to expect when I got inside, but it looked very much the same as a run of-the-mill Western European one. In fact, it looked almost too new and shiny to be in the middle of such a rundown area.
I stumbled across to the road; it was indeed made of cobblestones, but not like the ones in Finland. These were old, crumbling or missing, with potholes filled with ice every few yards.
Standing under the bright blue-lit canopy, I banged my boots to clear the snow and tried to make myself look respectable, miming as if I'd lost my glasses when I checked that it was in fact a $20 bill. I wasn't going to risk a $50 or $100; I could get fucked over again if seen with that amount of money round here.
The wind hit the pumps with a high-pitched wail as I went through the door. I entered a new world, warm and clean, with plenty of goods laid out in exactly the way they would be in a convenience store anywhere else in Europe. I wondered if I was hallucinating. They seemed to be selling everything from motor oil to cookies and bread, but especially rows and rows of beer and a pile of crates with more liter bottles of the stuff next to the spirits. The only thing missing and which I'd been hoping for, was the smell of coffee. There was no sign of hot drinks at all.
Two guys in their late teens looked up from behind the counter, then went back to studying their magazines, probably feeling ridiculous in their red-and-white striped vests and caps. They didn't look too bright this morning as they smoked and picked their noses, but then, I wasn't exactly looking like Tom Cruise.
I wobbled around the shelves, picking up a handful of chocolate bars, then some shrink-wrapped cold cuts from the chilled compartment. I might not have been at my most alert, but I still knew it was important to get some food in me.
They both stared at me as I dumped my goods on the counter, and it took me a while to realize that I was swaying on my feet. Resting two fingers on the counter to steady myself, I gave them a big smile.
'Speak English?'
The one with the zits saw my $20. 'American?'
'No, no. Australian.' I always said I was from Australia, New Zealand, or Ireland; they're neutral, easygoing and well known as travelers. Tell people you're a Brit or an American and somebody somewhere is bound to be pissed with you about whatever country you've bombed recently.
He looked at me, trying to work that one out.
' Crocodik Dundee f I mimed strangling a croc. 'G'day mate!'
He smiled and nodded.
Handing him the bill, I pointed at my stuff. 'Can I pay you with this?'
He studied a folder probably the exchange rates. Behind him, Camel cigarette cartons were neatly arranged around a special-offer Camel clock. I tried to focus my eyes on the hands and managed to make out that it was just after three thirty. No wonder I was freezing; I must have spent hours in that doorway. At least my nose was starting to warm up a bit in here; I could feel it starting to tingle, a good sign that the Autojet's effects were wearing off.
He exchanged the bill without a second thought. Everybody likes hard currency. My cold fingers fumbled with the large amount of paper and coins he gave me as change; in the end, I just cupped one hand and scooped the money into it with the other. As he handed me my shopping bag I asked, 'Where is the train station?'
'Huh?'
It was time to play Thomas the Tank Engine. I pulled the steam whistle. 'Oooo! I Chug chug chug!'
They liked that and started running at the mouth in what I guessed was Estonian. My friend with zits pointed to the right, where the road bent to the left before disappearing.
I put my hand up in a big Australian thank-you gesture, walked out and turned right as they had directed. Right away the cold wind hit me; my nose and lungs felt as if I was inhaling tiny fragments of broken glass.
The pavement taking me toward the bend was covered with ice the color of mud. This was so different from Finland, where sidewalks were kept scrupulously clear. Here the stuff had just been trodden down, turned to slush, then frozen. Empty cans and other lumps of litter sticking out at crazy angles made me lift my feet high to make sure I didn't trip.
As I followed the road, looking for signs to the station, I threw chunks of very hard chocolate down my throat. I must have looked like someone walking home with take-out after a good night.
After fifteen minutes of swaying down a dark deserted street, I came across railway tracks and followed them. Just a quarter of an hour later I was going through heavy glass doors into the dimly lit station.
It smelled of fried food and vomit, and like any other railway station in the world it offered a full range of drunks, addicts, and homeless people.
The interior was concrete with stone slab floors. It must have looked great on the drawing board in the seventies, which was when it was probably built, but now it was badly lit, neglected and falling apart, complete with fading posters and peeling paint.
At least the place was warm. I made my way along the main concourse, looking for a place to curl up and hide. I felt as if that was all I'd been trying to do since getting on the ferry. All the good sites were already booked, but I eventually found an alcove and dropped down onto my ass.
The smell of urine and decaying cabbage was overpowering. No wonder the space was vacant; somebody obviously ran a stall there specializing in rancid vegetables, then had a piss against the wall every evening before he
