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I love my housemates. I really do.
But lately I’m feeling suffocated and a little left out. Moving to the arts district was the perfect transition out of the group home. Splitting the rent three ways is working well enough for now. But everyone here has their thing. Jakob has his art. Suz has her poems. Me? I just live here and work at a pub.
I don’t know what my thing is, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have a thing.
But I know I have a big wad of cash that will afford me some time alone, away from the city.
Yes, this trip to the lake will be so good for me. One week, totally alone, in silence. I feel like the answers are out there, just waiting for me.
The train from Arenhammer city center takes me down the coast to a remote, nondescript hub surrounded by beige, newly-built stores.
It’s neither a city nor rural, but it reminds me of one of those manufactured town centers with outlet shops and the like. It’s a place with no identity at all. It’s a place that simply serves as a crossroads to other more exciting or tranquil spots. I feel unsettled as the comparison sinks in because I am unsure who I am or where I’m going.
Fortunately, this no-man’s land of beige is not my destination. From the transportation hub here, I’m on a bus for two hours until I arrive in the charming village of Mirror Lake.
The cobblestone streets are lined with colorful shops, cafes, and outdoor stalls.
Finally, I can breathe.
As I stroll along the street, I snap photos of colorful boxes of early summer fruits and vegetables.
My fanny pack is still heavy with cash from that excellent tip that led me here. Since it was handed to me, I’ve counted it repeatedly, hardly able to believe it.
The night Prince Sigurd gave it to me is burned into my brain. I was waiting tables at the pub while a loud party grew and grew out on the sidewalk section. Prince Etienne was at the center of it. Then, that burly Prince Sigurd crashed the party to round up the wayward prince, and handed me a wad of cash for my troubles.
That wad of cash paid for two weeks at the lake and about seven discount bikinis.
There’s a chance I won’t be sunning myself — this is still an island in the North Sea, after all. But you never know. I’m feeling lucky.
I’m excited to get to the lake house, but my ride isn’t set to pick me up for another twenty minutes, which gives me some time to hit the market.
I feel rather spoiled, knowing that I will have a car to fill with groceries, so I load up my cart more than I need, just to be on the safe side. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I love to play around in the kitchen. Now is as good a time as any to splurge, so I pick up some meat for grilling as well as all the fancy crackers, biscuits, and cheeses.
I’m weighed down with eight sacks by the time I’m finished, feeling very rich indeed—I’ve never spent this much in one go on groceries before in my life. Thanks, Your Highness.
I should consider writing him a thank you note.
To my dismay, my rideshare doesn’t show up. “And here I am with a hundred euros worth of groceries. Brilliant move, Stasi.”
When thirty minutes pass and my ice cream starts to melt, I examine the rental bikes on the street corner.
I wonder if I can use one of them to get all the way to the lake house. I have the directions on my phone, and it’s only two miles.
“Excuse me,” I ask an older woman walking a Great Dane who passes by on the sidewalk. “Do you know if I can take one of these bikes to the lake?”
The woman smiles and says something in the old language that I don’t understand. Kids in the foster system land where they land, and I never landed in the kind of school that teaches the old language. I’m lucky I can read and write, to be honest.
I try to explain that I don’t speak it, but she babbles something else, pats me on the cheek, then walks on.
I have the same issue with two or three others. Looks like I’m on my own.
Examining the last remaining forms of transportation available, I have to make a decision.
The electric scooters would be faster, but they have no storage compartments for groceries. I could theoretically load the sacks on the handlebars, but where would I put my suitcase? I could shove everything I need into my backpack and ditch the suitcase. And do what, swim naked?
No, a bicycle will have to do. And I’ll pray to the gods that there are no hills to conquer on my way to the lake house.
“Alright, Bluebell,” I say, naming the bike. “It’s you and me. I’ve got eighteen kilos of shit in a twelve-kilo bag, but between you and me, we can handle this.”
