Right Direction

As the train pulls out of the station down the track, I hope nerviously that I picked the right direction. I can only speak a few select phases of german, and nothing of Dutch, so waiting at the Amersfoot station in Holland, with a computer printout timetable, a mental map of Europe, and a prayer, I picked a train that matches the number written and just give in to a fate where I could conceivably be lost in Europe forever. Not such a bad fate, really.
I settle into a foward facing seat in the smoking section, light up a ciggarette by a brand I cannot pronounce, and look at the European countryside blur by. The train parralells a highway for a stretch and I take in the traffic, street signs, and other vast differences from the interstate back home that I am used to. I am glad that my credit card was declined at the National Car Rental booth - I could not drive here. I cannot even figure out the trains.
I finish my ciggarette as I pass by my first windmill. I used to travel. When I was young, my father saved up frequent flier miles rappidly through all his buisness travel, and took my family on many vacations to all the places in the world he knew well. London, Milan, Rome, Paris, all but a distant memory from a time long gone by. I thought I was a world traveler, under the protective wing of my father, as he whisked us through tourist attraction after tourist attraction, battlefields and museams, Castles and posh hotels. This is my first trip on my own, and my first time away from my everyday life in countless years - I am drastically unprepaired. Work prevented me from studying up on enough language skills to be able to communicate (my German dictionary is still sitting next to my workstation, in the same spot I left it after I purchased it, collecting dust). My inability to look past my responcibilities and duties prevented me from packing the apropriate clothes for this time of year (my heavy button-down shirt's sleeves are hastilly rolled up and discheveled from the long flight and humidity I was not expecting). My newfound grown up lifestyle made me forget about the giddy joy I used to feel before embarking to a new great exotic destination. But none of that matters now, I just saw my first windmill. Old stone and canvas with a thatched roof, they look just like the printing on the Dutch gingerbread cookies I remember from my childhood, and I am filled with a sence of joy and a huge grin on my face.
That joy is soon replaced by terror as the first stop is announced, in Dutch, German, and finally English, and I frantically search for a schedule remembering I have no clue which way I am headed. I am reassured shortly thereafter when I see my stop and four stops later is my next transfer point.
I settle back into my seat and light another ciggarette. I watch with curiosity as people shuffle on and off the train. So many people, so many different reasons for taking my train, so many different lives. The students are the most easily identifiable: young, trendy clothes, backpacks, iPods hanging from their necks, a calm sence of purpose I remember from my college years only a short time back. It wasn't but more than a couple of years back I had the same sence of invinciblity, the same freedom of character, but a short time at the computer programming company has drained me of my thoughts of youth. I feel guilty suddenly, that at 26 I have abandoned myself so quickly and easily. That world seems so distant at the moment, though I am only 28 hours removed from my desk, and I take a moment to revell in the thought.
I have a week and a half with my girlfriend's family, who live an hour south of Hamburg, another train to catch, a whole other adventure in the terror of being lost, but I have four stops left on this train, and I plan on enjoying every minute of it.