A Man out of Time

As I cruise along on the double-decker train towards Amsterdam for a well-deserved break and  a Kraftwerk concert (OK, I admit it, I lost a little enthusiasm when Florian Schneider left, leaving only Ralf from the classic line-up, but it's still my favourite night out) I feel like a man out of time with his surroundings.
Swigging on a black beer can - once it was tattoos, but now the black can is the true mark of the outsider - the Ace of Spades of beers, (tattoos are so ubiquitous now they are as synonymous with rebellion as 'Songs of Praise') my recently acquired crombie type coat hanging by my side, replete with its leather collar and various zips, and writing in a notepad with a biro, I practically belong in a museum.
The girl sitting alongside me has a laptop on the go, and a smartphone in her lap, and keeps alternating between the two. One must have better connection or signal.
I do have a rather intelligent phone in my pocket, recently bequeathed to me by my wife, but I'm  still a little shakey on how to access my stored contacts. I can ring out on it, but if it rings I don't know how to answer so I just call the person back.
Apparently this train has free wi-fi but the girl by my side is struggling to take advantage of it, so what chance do I have?
I feel like a simpleton, easily entertained by pen and paper, like a Victorian child spellbound by a hoop and stick, oblivious to the X-Box hanging out of the pocket of his tattered britches.
All around me, people are talking into little boxes, checking on restaurant reservations and tonight's plans. This steel mobile sausage presents no barrier to the bustling outside world. A few seats down some people are talking to each other; their batteries must need recharging.
Bowing to my own self-imposed social pressure, my second beer is a regular one, and with just over an hour to go before arrival, it's a question to ponder as to when to crack it.
The ticket guard suddenly appears, and to access my ticket I have to remove the smartphone thingy from my pocket, thus shattering the up to this point, well maintained illusion that I time travelled in from 1978.
Once he moves on I find that with a bit of poking around I suddenly have "trein wi-fi". Ya boo! Cyberspace girl, I'm hitchiking on the Information Superhighway! Suddenly I have Facebook access, yet I'm on a train! Does anyone have anything of any import to say or share? No. The novelty wears off and I'm strangely drawn back to the notebook and biro.
I crack the second can, regretting not buying another black beast, but enjoying the fact that I'm out of the soul-destroying Orwellian nightmare workplace for a few days, plus I'm meeting my wife and some old friends at the other end, so clattering out of the train like a sozzled tramp is not good form. I am not in the Poisoned Electrick Head anymore. The days of going through passport control on all-fours are behind me now.
We're going to "eat" - drinking's less interesting cousin. Evidently we grew up when I wasn't looking.