Oldcastle’s Journal, March 9th

11PM.  Can hear the street calling.  Feeling a little nauseous and try to get in some more sleep.  Should watch the crap I eat.

2:38AM.  Eventually get out of bed and heed the call.

See some of the regulars, but for whatever reason don’t engage much.  The line is the same even if I don’t know some of the languages.  Maybe Chinese?

3:32AM.  Street corner waiting for light to change.  Guy stumbles up to ask where I am from.  Says he’s Brazilian, or American, or Canadian, then Brazilian again.  Barely coherent.  Blasted out of his mind.  I can get pieces.  Sounds like he came back from a gay bar.  Has no friends here.  Was sight-seeing for the week.  Supposed to fly back in the morning at nine.  Problem though.  Depending on price, airport is two and a half to four hours by bullet train.  Train station is fifteen minutes away by cab, but doesn’t open until six or so.  Don’t know the timetable.  There are other, quicker ways, but I didn’t bring my pocket wi-fi with me.  Nor would he follow the transfers.

Brain hurts.  Numbers not my forte.  Flashbacks to math class.  Must fight to focus, return to reality.  Try to explain the time problem, but he’s headstrong.  I’d let him sleep at my place, but the landlady would throw a conniption fit.  There’s a 24-hr coffee shop I know or a media café where he could spend the night indoors, but he insists on a cab to the station.  And then what?

He doesn’t speak the language, so I interpret for the driver.  Suppose the Good Samaritan or a Boy Scout would have seen him to the station and then waited for the morning train.  Hurm.  All muddled up.  Don’t know what to do.  Give him my contact card.  Don’t see how to help him much more.  Also, have work in the morning.  He has enough cash on him.  I wish him Godspeed and see the cab off.

On way back home, it hits me.  Wonder what hotel was he staying at last week.  And where his luggage was.  Hurm.