In this morning’s rather pleasant pre-heat, and while fixin’ to get ready to prepare to await the pending pre-departure of this evening’s exodus, I took time out from my taxing itinerary to wander the Gorakhpur Junction train station; people watch; get my bearings; that sort of thing. My hope was to learn where and when within the station I needed to present my bicycle for packaging and loading.
After a 45 minute perambulatory bliss-out, several gesticulatorily-enhanced enquiries, and an aging civil servant who may or may not have been deaf but was certainly unpleasant and disinterested in my cause, I had obtained the pertinent info:
Bring the bike to the Parcel Station at 5pm (train arrives at 5:40, departs at 6pm). I may or may not have to pay a small handling fee.
Now, in yesterday’s gleeful gloating I may have failed to mention that Mr. Douche-Bonnet unintentionally won a small victory despite my best efforts. Having taken him at his word [here you may fairly interject: why???], I booked my train to Kathgodam. Turns out that Kathgodam is a good deal shy of where I could/should have traveled before switching to a bus. Fine. The average temps are nevertheless a bit cooler–more in line with Pokhara, to which I am already acclimatized–and it’s not like I’m in a hurry or anything. And it’s a big enough train station that I have options if I want to continue by rail.
I felt obliged to remove one gancho and a boleo from yesterday’s spontaneous Happy Dance.
Now imagine the level of my surprise’s pleasantness when–upon leaving the railway station this morning with ticket, cycle info, and general knowledge well in hand–I was greeted in the courtyard by none other than…Mr. Douche-Bonnet. This heaping, reeking sack of human excrement, with his dark-red, betel seed-stained teeth and pit viper’s smile, approached me hopefully–assuming I had failed to obtain a ticket or was otherwise still having problems. When I informed him that I had, indeed, successfully booked everything, and at a mere one-tenth of his ass-raping price gougery, his smile disappeared; he glowered, quickly flicked his forked tongue, spit a venomous laserbeam of betel-juiced saliva onto the pavement, grumbled something unintelligible, and skulked away.
Maybe I didn’t get to spit on his storefront window, but I got a bit of satisfaction nonetheless.
Now for a few hours wandering aimlessly and ingesting curry-based deliciousness in advance of this evening’s exodus.
Be well, peepuls,
—jumpsalot, aka The Transglobalist