His heart was racing; he could hear the throbbing of his temples. With his eyes open he could see some of the details in the dark room. He noticed again the huge praying mantis that had been crawling slowly along the windowsill. It had been stalking something, but he hasn't noticed what, exactly. He tried closing his eyes again but the sheer heat emanating from his temple, his violent heart, was overwhelming, as if he were sitting in broad daylight inside bus station in some poor tropical country. He could even feel his hands shaking from the throbbing of the arteries running down those limbs. He swallowed a breath, but he could feel the warmth of the exhale.
It was probably nearly two in the morning. He was lying on this mattress of shame. He just noticed his teeth had been grinding from the cauldron of anger deep in his soul. His mind was still being battered by that blizzard of words, words he wished he could utter, unleash onto those imbeciles sleeping on nice beds, elevated from the cold hard stony floor where his mattress of shame laid under his still body that encased his increasing restlessness. He wanted to tell them, in their now despicable German language, all these things, but most of all, he wanted to tell them "I am not Korean!"
It was cold. The window was slightly ajar and that was probably how the insects had crawled in and onto the cold floor. He could hear the rustling of the branches outside, the occasional droplets of the subsiding rain. He had to walk through that rain carrying his huge backpack just an hour ago.
He was angry now but he was afraid earlier. Under the weight of his backpack he arrived in the Cologne train station later than he wanted. Then he had to search for the S-Bahn that, according to the guidebook he held with his life to, would take him to this exotic youth hostel inside an authentic German castle. He had imagined crystal chandeliers, hallways of red carpet and lined with knight's armors. He imagined something like the interior of castles in movies like Robin Hood. But before he could arrive in the fairyland he had to get there. It was late and he was nervous. He wasn't even sure if there was a bed. So he called in from the train station and made a reservation.
How did the trains work? It was his first time here in Germany, directly from Paris. Was there a token to buy? Were there machines so he didn't have to talk to anyone who might not understand his college-level German? He was scared. The station was not very populated; people were mostly at home already. After finding the entrance to the S-Bahn he had to take, he bought the ticket and got on the platform.
He figured out that he had to change trains at some point, and that "some point" was on a deserted platform. It was dark outside, completely dark. The sky had already been wiped out by rainclouds and he could hear, standing there with his backpack stacked on his shoulders, the increasing frequency of the droplets hitting the roof of the platform.
He became nervous. It was nearly 11PM. How did time disappear so quickly? He wanted to be somewhere safe. His heart was racing. He was in Germany. Weren't there skinheads in Germany? There were. He was an Asian standing on a platform somewhere away from civilization in Cologne. He noticed two people got on the platform. How torturing were the minutes that were passing. He was startled; one of the men had a bald head. Was he just balding or did he shave it? It was 1994, skinheads were supposedly everywhere in the eastern part of the unified country, angry, angry at many people, but especially people like him, a different race. He got even more nervous. They paid no attention to him, but he wasn't looking at them. Having grown up in the rougher times of New York City, he learned not to invite attention with any staring. While it was easy to be invisible if you are an East Asian, he had gotten the attention of trouble before, without ever looking for it.
The twin lights of the S-Bahn train were visible, giving him some reprieve from the nervousness.
