Rok's night out

Kicking off the work year the hard way: it's three in the morning and Rok and I are trying to make it through the night cheerful, waiting for the first train home, and minutes drag like molasses. This should totally be a summer sport, alas, not only it's very cold outside, but I am also having the mother of all snuffles. Two days ago I caught a cold so unpleasant, I spewed, sneezed, drooled, burped and snored snot and phlegm, unable to sleep properly as the stomach acid kept spilling into my mouth. The General could sleep even less, since I either snored like a seal humping a fog horn, or I was too hot and restless to find a position. The morning came and I was underslept and sicker than the night before. But I made a promise to shoot a concert and this was supposed to be Rok's first hardcore gig in the capital experience and I didn't feel like on top of everything letting people down.

        I hitched a ride with one of the bandsmen, while the kid took a train. Though the concert itself was great, the evening beforehand draaaaaged and the venue was an alternative scene, meaning everybody was smoking pot or dancing with the beer in their hands all over the place. Once it was done, around midnight, we have* (T-minus and counting) six hours to burn somewhere, somehow, in a cold city away from home. We found one nice place, though it closed at two. G suggested it as that was where he spent his once-a-year-party. We decided to look if the train is already on the track, which was a long walk and Rok got blisters; ultimately settling in a not too posh, but the only open 24/7 establishment we could find. At least here there aren't any rich drunk dickheads spewing profanities at the waitress, so far. Rok is asleep on the sofa with the hood over his head and I'm hoping the keeper doesn't throw us out, for whatever reason. I look miserable enough, coughing, face bloated and blushed, bags under my eyes sagging nigh to my hankie-scrubbed moustache, stinking of smoke and looking either as a refugee or a pro bono concert photographer :D Truth is I wanted Rok to go out, suffer logistics before and after the gig to see there is nothing to partying if your heart is in it, and he hung around with the band in the backstage, watched roadies do the sound check, even danced a little. He hasn't had that sort of a story to tell and a kid needs one like it by that age. The next bright idea on my part will be a lot smoother, promise. Sometime soon the sun will come up and we'll be on a train and we'll be heading home. 

        I really miss G. He is too far away, even if he can’t sleep and keeps texting us. :D He waters discomfort way down. Most of what I can think of is sleeping with him, safe, clean, snoring, while he either chases the kicked off duvet around the bed or studies close by for his second-to-last exam. The radio is playing mostly sad, sentimental songs. Two have made me cry already, but nobody would know the difference, as I am tearing and sobbing and wiping my very red snout all the time either way. It actually feels proper to cry, to wash the smoke and dust out of my eyes.

         That is not to say that I'm not cheerful, quite, still. It's been a fun, exciting day, a good story, we had some good talks and I think I made good pickies. Although the lighting was horrific, the room was full of fog and another photographed asked me if I need help, because I am using all the wrong settings... I have no idea if he was right or not. I haven't looked at the pickies yet, as I do not wish to flaunt the camera around a dark, forlorn train-station occasionally crossed by a pair of Albanian youngsters or a perky junkie.