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In the Middle

A short story of growing up away from home

By Morgan LucasPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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I often look back on the busses and mountains in Switzerland. I was somewhere in between.

It started off with running in the dirt and on the grass, with a backpack two times the size of me hitting my tailbone to an annoying beat. I was late for my bus to Zurich. One of, I had heard, the most expensive places in the world. I had convinced myself that I’d never make it now, that the bus would leave, and, poor me, I’d have to stay in Amsterdam – forever stoned and full. The thoughts that go through your head during moments of intense panic are always interesting, to say the least.

Somehow, I did make it on that bus to Zurich (Actually, the bus got there about a half hour after I did – but, hey, at least all that running worked off a couple calories from the pounds of French Fries and mayonnaise I’d eaten in the past… hour.). I said goodbye to the friend I had been travelling with. I hadn’t travelled alone before. I’d definitely never stayed on a farm and taken care of a baby, in a small foreign town, completely alone, before. I hadn’t even told my parents. They thought I was still travelling around Europe with my friend, doing the normal, tourist things, and staying safely in Airbnbs. I still don’t know exactly why I didn’t tell them. Fear, probably. Or, maybe I wanted the choice to be mine and mine alone. At 23, it still seemed like so many choices weren’t my own, like I was drifting along some pre-paved path, handed to me by my parents and teachers and significant others and friends. I got on the bus.

I remember they pulled over before the border into Switzerland, and they made the guy sitting beside me, the one who smelled like weed and who was wearing socks with weed leaves on them, get off to get checked by the border police. He was about my age. I remember thinking that I was thankful I was smart enough not to wear socks with weed leaves on them while entering a foreign country for the first time. A little while later, they let him back on, and we were good to go. Something like relief flooded through me when he sat back down beside me. Even though we had never spoken, he had started to feel like my friend. When the bus started up again, I fell asleep. I woke up with a start, realizing I’d let my head drift to his shoulder. I wiped my mouth in embarrassment, and he smiled at me. I smiled back. I’ll always wonder where he was off to, what pre-paved path he was running from, alone and determined and scared like me.

I remember the first mountain I climbed by myself. I walked from the centre of a small town called Zug, to the base of a mountain called Zugersee. I hadn’t planned on making the two- to three-hour walk and then hike, but there was no other way up to the top. And the top was where I was staying. As I started to climb, I saw an old man with saggy, browned muscles. He was walking down the mountain with a walking stick. He didn’t look at me and I didn’t acknowledge him. We were happy to be alone, together.

What I remember most climbing that mountain was when I stopped and sat down on a ledge, about halfway up. Somewhere between the beginning and the end. I was tired and hungry. There was nobody around, no Wi-Fi, no static, human sounds. All I could see was green. I stared at the leaves as I bit into a thin piece of authentic, Swiss chocolate, something I had splurged on. I remember thinking I could feel the endorphins rush through my brain. Thinking that there was nothing that a bit of solitude, chocolate, green leaves and trees (and a little OSAP money used in ways that the government wouldn’t necessarily expect) couldn’t fix.

I also remember when I reached the top, after an arduous, but satisfying, journey, that I found out there was a 10-minute funicular you could take from the bottom of the mountain to the top, for maybe five Swiss francs. I thought about how, if I was with anyone else, I probably would have taken the funicular.

Oh well, worth it.

solo travel
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About the Creator

Morgan Lucas

Stories and poetry

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