tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60136679791385980022024-03-13T13:54:23.849-07:00Fanny Trekking The WorldPip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-86931979148720984402011-06-12T10:17:00.000-07:002011-06-16T15:50:45.497-07:00It's all about who?"I know how to make a burger 50 different ways." His eyebrows raise, a smile starts at its corners. If this Dutchman thinks that America makes the best burgers, and if it’s true I am an American, then my statement is an agreeing…<br />
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It is quite possible to make a burger in over 50 incarnations. Think of how many ways you've had one. Barbequin’ is an American right of passage. The two most life changing burgers I've been introduced to are the Squirrel Burger and the Burns Burger. The Squirrel Burger is from a bar in Corvallis Oregon. Consisting of a beef party, and a slice of ham cooked on the griddle with a fried egg on top. I ate three of them one night, maybe four, let’s go with four for the sake of a good story. The other breakthrough in burger making for me was the Burns Burger; consisting of ground beef mixed by hand with spices, mostly garlic. In my younger years, we just slapped a Costco death disk on the grill – propane generally. The evolution of a man's keen ability is gradual, and learning the flavor benefit of fire over propane is pivotal in that evolution; Burns was pivotal to mine. How about donuts for buns? Or two grilled bacon and cheese sandwiches for buns? Blend some ground bacon with the beef, put cubes of cheese in the beef, or In-N-Out's animal style – possibilities! Though as the great Ron Johnson put it, "You can put ketchup or lettuce and tomato on it if you want, I don't really care what you do." The beef is all that matters; that, consistency, and flame. <br />
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The Dutchman's skepticism from my earlier statements regarding California's superior beer, wine, and weed had been forgotten after all the burger talk. He had a right to skepticism considering his origins where French wine, Amsterdam weed, and Belgium beer are rooted in time. California has agricultural superiority, its viniculture and brew-master embezzlement from the old world and its unquenchable desire for cannabis has driven its own right to arrogance. I told him he'll have to come taste it to believe. Plus, I'll make him a burger. <br />
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Our Greek friend had other interests to discuss, mostly linguistics. Apparently English is plastic; a statement to be condescending toward a language lacking original roots, being fabricated from other ancient languages such as Latin, Greek, and Germanic tongues. She apologized to me after saying it, fearing the weight of such a heavy defamation would be more than I would stand for; her words having cut me like a knife. The insult was completely lost on me though. Having no pride at all in my birth or origins, language is a tool to me not an identification. Plus I have the superiority of bearing mastery of the world language -- plastic origins or not. She spoke seven languages, was a journalist, and was drunk. Her middle age and "worldliness” gave her a certain attractiveness. Her drunkenness and desire to interrupt everyone and change the subject according to her will...well, that made her the hottest woman imaginable. The Dutchman was attempting to fly up her dress, with my exhaustion from hiking ancient ruins and talking through the night at the protest gave me a break from flirting. Thus leading me to be a bystander to his attempts and her rejections. Though the focus was on me, as rightly it should.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-80517702672591158892011-06-08T01:37:00.000-07:002011-06-08T08:48:07.576-07:00Champagne<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some days you need champagne. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fucker would only serve me the little bottle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked him twice for the big one, thinking he just didn't understand; he cut-me-off before I sat down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Innocently enough, I had come to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Munich</place></city> for beer houses; I found one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found it distasteful, essentially after the daytime crowds, they're just nightclubs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My search turned on a dime and I was asking some Metalheads in front of RAM, a Metal bar, where to find a corner store. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted tobacco, snuff in particular; snuff is not chew, in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Germany</country-region></place> snuff is blown up the nose like cocaine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It enters the blood through the nasal passage and burns like a motherfucker. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My search took longer than I wanted due to bad directions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got back to the Metal bar – because these were my kind of people – I found out the directions were useless because they thought I said Porn store. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a good laugh and a round of snuff – both nostrils, you have to stay balanced. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go into the bar an order a whiskey, cheap. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don't have "well" drinks in <place w:st="on">Europe</place>, if you want the cheap stuff you have to specify, American bar culture is more evolved. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pours me a double, no ice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I order another he suggests Schnapps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell him I hate Schnapps' peppermint flavor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently that's an American thing, this is straight Schnapps, and it’s pure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, he pours another type that was spicy.<br />
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I notice the couple sitting at the corner of the bar gesturing at their hot blonde friend to talk to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're sitting next to each other and had been casually bumping one another. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I initiate; she reciprocates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a while she says her English is poor and she wishes she could express herself fully to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She desires a deeper conversation than small talk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask her for examples; art, history, culture, politics, Metal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell her to just speak to me in German. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She does, passionately. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally her voice rises, speaking in a rush, she leans in, and I’m beaming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterward, I feel like smoking a cigarette. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is fixed on me and no one else in the room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask if in anything she said; if it may have involved kissing me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says no, coyly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another round of Schnapps; the bartender is encouraging me, appreciating the fanny pack traveler. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pours tall drinks, many free. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn't one of those measure-your-shots-out establishments. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Metal has been blaring over the noise of the bar room the entire time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love Metal; so does she. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gets to the point between us when she talks about my impermanence, my transience, my leaving. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell her plainly (sadly it likely came off like a rehearsed line) that I'm searching for something, perhaps something to make me stay, perhaps someone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She blushes but still sees it as a line, my hook, yet it wasn't. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm in love with this Metal goddess.<br />
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The liquor and beer make everything else obscure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I time travel to 5:00 AM; I'm asleep on the street again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hoof-it to my Hostel and sleep until 3 o’clock; luckily they didn't kick me out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paid for the bed; at least I used some of it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This brings me to the champagne. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think that we had kissed passionately, spoke of our future together, and laid on a blanket on a grassy hill. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More likely, I just threw up on myself and she left; it’s impossible to say. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something happened, but time travelling is a bitch, especially when you want to know what happened to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the one</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My head is pounding; my body is covered in weight that makes everything an effort. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sweat in the Bavarian heat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drink champagne.</span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-55601600677952105532011-06-03T03:14:00.000-07:002011-06-04T12:35:24.081-07:00I'm in Berlin, but that's not what this post is about.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Working abroad from California, while traveling in Europe, is a pain in the ass. Not because of the obvious working while on holiday issue; quite the contrary. The inclusion of a few hours of work every few days is a welcomed grounding for any Fanny Trekker, giving one's life a brief, albeit fleeting feeling of importance. The problem is timing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The 9-5 grind on the American west coast occurs in most of Europe between 5-1 at night. Getting started at 5 PM doesn't pose many troubles, except libraries and internet cafés tend to be closing. The issue lies in California, where no one gets started with any real work until 11 AM. One is hard pressed to find anyone working first thing in the morning. The first few hours are spent bullshitting with coworkers, going for some coffee, online banking, watching bids on eBay, returning emails, going to meetings, making plans for the rest of the day, and even doing personal errands or doctor appointments. No one actually works before 11 AM, and then they start just in time for lunch. Now, lunch is rarely 30 minutes, it can last an hour or more. So basically, one is left with 2 PM on, for any work to get done. But before 5 PM hits, people are ducking out early, be it for the kid’s soccer game, cheerleader practice, running to the bank or post office, or picking up an anniversary gift; anything to not spend the full 8 hours every day in the office. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well what are we left with? Two hours. Two hours to rapidly cram a respectful amount of work into our jobs. But my two hours are near midnight when I'm drunk and high. Try sounding professional after cruising the beer houses of Germany all day or after just getting out of a coffee shop in Amsterdam, all while having to talk on a static riddled overseas telephone line, nearly yelling to be heard. I received a technical email one night filled with jargon that normally would be simple for me to understand. The stakes go up when it’s a pressing issue and I’m 4 hours into the night. I’m forced to put it off while knowing I won't have another chance until the following evening. Then there’s the inevitability of just blocking out the time. Well, at least if I want to keep some semblance of professionalism intact. I've also got that skeptical old man and his son in Norway to prove wrong.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-52300940529665445642011-06-01T10:48:00.000-07:002011-06-01T11:43:28.105-07:00Underneath a bridge...<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Do you see that guy under the bridge?" "Where?" "Under the bridge, he's drinking and eating a sandwich." "Oh yeah...I saw him in the store, I didn't think he was a bum." I'm under a bridge like a troll drinking beer and making salami and cheese sandwiches. The passengers on the cruise ship are 100 yards away and we can make each other out clear enough. They're on the deck drinking from the adjacent bar. They're wearing collared shits. I drink my cheap Tuborg pilsner and make sandwiches as cars pass overhead; a nice umbrella for a traveler who won't pay the 500 kroner to have a meal indoors ($50). I savor the beer, exchanging glances with the men 50 feet up the boat decks. Not quite making eye contact, but there ain't much to look at in this fjord. The beautiful scenery is enough to drive a man under a bridge. It’s legal to drink outside but the rain pushes you to shelter. I likely make as much money as any of them, but a Fanny Trekker travels light, and lives meagerly. Not that it would matter to them. I'm under a bridge, they're on a cruise ship. The mistake of coming here is huge, another tourist trap town, so much so that they barely have a bar. I had felt good about avoiding <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Stavanger</city>, <country-region w:st="on">Norway</country-region></place>'s 4th largest city, and a tourist town in its own right. At least they may have had something real. My second beer goes down well, a nice dressing for the carton of wine finished on the train. Totally at a loss for why anyone would visit <place w:st="on">Northern California</place> -- the fools. I find reality at the bottom of a bottle, but not all the time, normally I only find a hangover. Weeks into a drunk, it’s normally just a dull sense of touch though. Like someone took a knife and ground it against the curb until it looks the part, but can’t cut it. Cracking another beer, thinking about time; it isn't linear, or circular, or directionless, or polar. What then? I think time is nothing. We sit under a bridge alone, around a Christmas tree with family, in a lecture hall with fellow students, in a court room being judged. Always the same mistreatment of reality, disregard for freedom, ignorance of slavery. Not loneliness from being alone, more from insignificance in a world of war, wealth, fighting, fucking. Simply taking pleasure in being alive and enjoying nothing, being nothing, having nothing, doing whatever it takes to do nothing. It isn’t easy. Men have died working toward it; persecuted to the end of their days for rejecting the 2.5 kids and the home on the hill. Why not just drink, have ample sexual partners available – even if not used. We never adjust fully to the slavery within this Brave New World. We can medicate with our drugs, checking out with the prescribed pop-culture. The rain will still come down, the snow will block the roads, and beer will light the way into fellowship. Believing in nothing, and taking advantage of the beauty of nothing, we push on. As I devour my sandwich like a ferocious lion, I consider the impacts of nothing, thinking of the deliciousness of not caring about anything but good and honest awesome. I pound a beer. My hand goes "ting".</span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-60397148127779495322011-05-30T09:13:00.000-07:002011-06-01T11:50:22.696-07:00How did I get into the back of an ambulance?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Why am I in an ambulance?" "You were passed out in the street unconscious." "Oh, I'm just drunk." "We're taking you to the hospital." "Why? I'm fine really." "Because you're drunk and we couldn't get you to regain consciousness." "But, why the hospital? I'm alright now." "Look, it’s free; you can sleep it off there." "Awesome." "Yeah, we call it socialism."<br />
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Well, this is a first. I awake from a night in a free bed at a local hospital. Why did I drink so much? I couldn't really tell you. Some days my luck is good with the first few people I meet, other times I wander the streets consuming alcohol. It was the wine. I drank a box on the train, then a six pack under a bridge. I felt the urge to flee Flam as soon as I arrived. I hitchhiked to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bergen</place></city>. Another tourist town but at least it might have some bars. It did. I came to see the mountainous Fjords. Driven by the delusion they might impress me. They weren't as great as <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">California</place></state>, deterrent, but not as good. Some Russian women who literally came to <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Norway</place></country-region> for Husbands gave me a ride. They asked if I was drunk. I told them I was sleepy, an obvious lie, and had missed my ferry to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bergen</place></city>, also a lie. I choose not to pay for the trip, opting to hitchhike. I've picked up many hitchhikers. There's an expectation that they're likely intoxicated. They wake me near <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Bergen</place></city> and tell me to get out. I'm out of it alright. I'm not sure what they were telling me, step out of the car, and realize I have no idea where I am. I stick out my thumb. I get picked up immediately by a parcel driver who takes me to the train station around the corner. My cool buzz drifts me into the station and I make friends with a group discussing the current football match being played between <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Barcelona</place></city> and Manchester United. It's essentially the “Super bowl”. One of them leads me to a pub when we reach <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Bergen</city></place> and it’s like a theatre inside the bar, with the game projected onto a wall and the room packed with fans. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Barcelona</place></city> wins and we all go cheering into the streets. It’s a riot. The fans are on the stage and tables in the bar, then on the fountains in the street. Apparently in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Barcelona</place></city> it was a legit riot with heavy property damage. They're serious over here. I ask some young 18 year old girls where old men drink; one of them points me toward a bar that her dad goes to regularly. I'm thrilled. The bar is everything it should be. I introduce myself around. Within an hour I break a glass and take my leave. I had met a man and his son who shouldn't have been there because it was a 23 and up bar, but his Father is a regular. I tell them about myself and my traveling. He tells his son not to listen to a word I say, that I'm a drunk and filled with tall tales. He's right, and I love it. However my tales are too real to be faked. I regale them about my career, my education, my professional salary. He scoffs at me. His son apologizes and says it is a very unbelievable story. They should have smelled me four days earlier. The next pub I find a heavy set woman with her friends. I accompany them to a late night karaoke bar. I dance with her, feeling deep into the gills on her back as I twirl her around the dance floor. I find myself again in the street, standing on a corner smoking a cigarette, surrounded by prostitutes. They blow me kisses. I ignore them. Some people are useless to engage with because they only want one thing, your money. I search for more cigarettes and end up talking with a woman near 50 who is pulling off a full bottle of wine. I drink most of it. This second bottle is what did me in. It was nearly 4 in the morning. I vaguely remember trying to get her to take me home. I needed to sleep somewhere. And upon denial, I finished her bottle and journeyed away, toward the end of the night.<br />
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I left the hospital in the morning, first being yelled at to get out, then once more for getting lost in the hospital. I'm barely conscious. I am in a sense of disbelief at finding myself alive. How did this happen? Ugh. I leave the front doors, into the dull fog. Directed to the train station, my attempt to get on the first train fails. It’s Sunday, and its full. My 5 hour wait is spent first in the train station on a bench. Within an hour, security pushes me on. The language of "Get the fuck out" is universal. I find a cemetery and consider sleeping with the dead, too serendipitous. I wander the cemetery and see a phone booth for a call box on the highway. I curl into a tight ball in the greenhouse warmth of this shelter for those...for me, but what am I? Did I really get picked up in the street? At least it was an ambulance and not a squad car. I've had that experience in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">America</place></country-region>. I wake from a ray of sunshine on my face, look at the time, and run to barley catch my train. I try to sleep in my first class leather seat (sold of out second class again). My detox-shakes cause me to convulse and jerk in my sleep. I stare out the window, watching my hand tremble. I hold down the bile. I think back to the old woman and the 4 am bottle of wine. Did it really happen?</span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-21858040504956261642011-05-26T11:42:00.000-07:002011-05-27T06:01:10.660-07:00Scandinavian Forestry<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Pine trees mixed with oaks, maples, and other production confers and hardwoods. They grow on wood lots, true wood lots, no more than a hundred acres at a time. Between them are cows and barns in fields, homes with rural parks and football fields for the youth and intramural leagues. Finally, I see a pick-up truck, a Toyota, but a truck none the less. Silvicultures vary in Sweden and Norway, anything from seed-tree seed step, shelter wood prep steps, commercial and pre-commercial thinning, and single tree selection. All scattered in view sheds designated for the railroad. This is forestry on a pure farming basis, removed from our feel good forestry in California. Give these men and women a dangle-head single grip harvester to chop, limb, and buck. Or give them an International harvester for the wheat and grains growing in the adjacent fields of their wood lots.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
<br />
Not all site is created equal. Flat rocky expanses of scrubby pine lay below the dense stands of confers on the rich foothill slopes. A stand of manicured 15 year old Douglas-fir sticks out like a sore thumb in the endless pine. They have been planted within a 50+ acre clear-cut. A small 300 foot buffer extends between the plantation and the railroad tracks could've fooled a less discerning eye. Then homes, steep pitched roofs, more welcoming pick-ups, and a broadcast over the train intercom welcoming us into Norway. I attempt not to scoff at the low productivity of their timber land. I have not been away from the Pacific Northwest long enough to ignore the differences. They have beautiful trees and great management difficulties that a Californian forester never needs to ponder. From my view in the train, I can imagine everything covered in snow and ice, a world outside the reach of a Fanny Trekkers arsenal. High school students gossip can be heard a few seats in front of me, their words are indistinguishable, but familiar. I highly doubt they are discussing the forested view we are passing. But, that is the whole idea, to make it unnoticeable; at least to the untrained eye. It is my curse as a forester to not see beyond the forest at the beauty of an individual tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-48573960268533256062011-05-25T03:45:00.000-07:002011-05-26T12:34:33.949-07:00Afternoon and Evening<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">"How's your wife?" she asks. "Doin’ poorly, we have some more tests next week." They bow their heads. A man orders a glass of wine. I order a beer, she indicates a glass, and I nod. They begin discussing football matches and the windy weather, why the bartender is working on her day-off<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> – </span>she explains she's covering for someone. A man nudges me, gestures to my adjacent stool, his long gray beard brushes against me as he sits. There are other seats in the bar, but he wants to be where the conversations are to be had. The conversation shifts to politics. An old woman three stools down sets down her drink and chimes in aggressively. They go back and forth. A man slams his fist, punctuating his point. The bartender sets out peanuts, things subside. She orders another pilsner. I attempt ordering a wheat beer, it comes with a lemon and a strange plastic stick with a star shaped base. The man next to me says it’s for pressing the lemon on the bottom of the glass. "If you wish. It is your choice." He attempts to discuss the weather with me – proof of our likeness as people. The bar boy walks in, whistling. Everyone looks down into their drinks. The heavier man on the other side of the gray beard orders another wine, his lips smack together between sips. Two men come in and play billiards (not pool). This is proper billiards with three balls and no pockets. The cook sings loudly in an Italian melody of ♪<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la da da dee da</i>♪. I try ordering a darker beer. She asks; "You want cold, or not so cold?" I request not so cold. She pulls a bottle from a wine rack type shelf. I pour my Westmalle Trappits Dubbel into a goblet of a glass. "When it’s too cold you can't taste it." she says. I can taste it. Two English couples walk-in. I can understand what they're saying. It displeases the imagination. I order a glass of Three Roses Bourbon, my way of finding an old friend in a far off land. I depart from my Dutch friends. I leer at the English.<br />
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Dissonant resonates throughout the end of their third song. A small room, with a handful of Tuesday evening music lovers, we applaud their performance in the lonely room. His afro-Cuban beats, on a box drum called a Cajon, pulse the life blood through musical arteries. The trio is disappointed to learn they will not be paid. Having set up already, they play a set. We congregate in the narrow room and drink rich Belgium ale. The bartender speaks of having been to the village where the beer is brewed. I commiserate with the drummer on the poor state of financial support for musicians in Amsterdam. We had met two days before when his bike was upside down, the back wheel seized by a bungie-cord spun tight around the tire and fender. I stopped and offer him my pocket knife. Once freed, he mentions the need to get to rehearsal. He invites me to his next show. Sometimes it’s good being the go-to-guy. He plays a Latin beat on a cow bell that is attached to a base-drum like kick pedal. Sitting on his Cajon, his beats drive his self-composed music for the trio. They jam, similar to a shitty Humboldt jam band, but in a way that isn't repulsive. They are each professionally trained musicians, weaving expertly through complicated chord progressions and time signature changes. I hearken back to years of education in music theory and chord structure. They pour salt into my wounded heart, broken from my loss of muscle memory needed to play with such virtuosity; I could not stand on stage with these gentlemen. I order a glass of Irish whiskey and drink it down. They continue with their syncopate rhythms. It’s erotic. The night is maturing like a fine wine, subtlety changing in its complexities, adding flavor through the additional bodies filling the small space. I order another Belgian ale. The cow bell rings out from his foot pedal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-57145360287039527922011-05-24T06:47:00.000-07:002011-05-28T14:54:31.935-07:00Sitting on a park benchChildren climb on a fence in a playground, I get my camera out of my fanny pack, a condom falls to the ground; embarrassing. I drink from a Dutch beer, rich, distinctive, hoppy – finally some hops – the equivalent of twenty dollars a 6 pack; only sold in singles. They drink less here than in Ireland, and less good beer, which is saying a lot since most Irish drink cider beer in a glass on ice, and Guinness isn't all that great anyway. A couple kisses noisily on the grass; it’s passionate and oddly audible, literal smooches. A child’s scream rings through the air. A beautiful six-foot woman with dark hair and dark clothes walks by; she's carrying a carton of strawberries, the red is more intoxicating than the beer – which says a lot. These were my first good beers in weeks. We exchange glances. She looks away toward my cowboy boots. I start another beer. I have to use my belt buckle to open it. It’s less awkward than using my toothbrush to open a bottle of wine. I've conveniently located my bench next to a trash can; I don't have to stand for any reason, it’s good to rest my legs. The sun is shining; it warms the back of my neck. I kick a child's ball back to him. A pigeon approaches and eyes me for a handout. We have a staring contest. He wins. My next beer is organic unfiltered Trappist; I understood the first two parts. A woman lies down in the grass. Her Yorkie walks around her on a retractable leash. She has lizard skin; too many days in the tanning salon. Another pigeon approaches, more determined than the last, and flutters away from the approaching Vespa scooter. I showered today. I smell the fragrant soap on my skin, it’s odd. The couple is back at it; more audible this time. They seem comfortable with my drinking. Perhaps it’s my disguise as a writer than calms them. A witch’s cauldron of smoke arises from my next beer. This thing was truly brewed, it’s a stout, a little too warm. You can only buy singles and they're on the shelf like wine. Another couple rides by on bikes. A mother pushes her child in a stroller. I finish a beer and hear it ring out from the bottom of the trash can, singing with his comrades. I leave the park with one beer left in a paper bag. I stand. I stumble. The sun isn't down yet. It’s a good day, still warm. The quality beer brings the park into focus.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-27840278838841049382011-05-23T14:45:00.000-07:002011-05-26T10:20:28.582-07:00Wanna buy a bike?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Drinking a goblet of beer. The band is loud, screaming, and sincere. I had just smoked a cigarette and purchased a bike off a junkie in front of the show. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn't come with a lock because he had obviously stolen it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For 10 euro, it’s a good deal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now I've got an unlocked bike in front of the bar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it gets stolen, I’ll be fine with it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They scream their lyrics and I think of how I wish my life was always like this. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only worry about smelling bad the next day from all the smoke in this dive bar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can only imagine how bad my clothes smell already. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I consider them stale. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bands are hardcore-metal and are on tour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the bands is stoked to be playing their home town. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My less than honorable method of acquiring a bike has left me with little recourse or animosity over possible theft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They SCREAM their lyrics, saying thank you after each song. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one is speaking English but they can if prompted, unlike the French, whom I've been told will not speak English with you out of principle. Well if you’re going to get butt-hurt over having an "equal" language, then simmer down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look at the colonies that each Nation put in their Easter basket. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think the UK had better planning. Better than all your eggs being in Africa.<br />
<br />
My bike was stolen the next day while I was buying train tickets and looking for a bike lock. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike was gone and luckily I went and checked before going in and buying a lock. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had shoved it between two bikes while inside and it was picked up within an hour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a piece of shit though. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've ridden worse, but it was pretty bed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had nearly hurt myself multiple times – it had weird peddle brakes, hard to get used to using. I had essentially paid for a shit bike and the knowledge of a junkie enjoying the removal of feeling and thought while slamming heroin through his burnt up veins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-76093761700442206582011-05-23T14:18:00.000-07:002011-05-26T10:13:31.161-07:00I fucking hope not.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So it’s a journal?” “I fucking hope not. I view it more as a guide to a minimalist way of living.” The three of us had been discussing what we do; he'd just finished his studies in Germany, she works as a language teacher. How do I express the desire to write down the debauchery that my life has succumbed to? I tell them of forestry, of making over 50 dollars an hour, of walking around with my dogs and being paid. Then I tell them of reading literature and the desiring to read, drink, and occasionally write. The subject tending to be myself and fucked encounters. I have a good living as a forester; I have no intention of being a writer – I will fail – you will fail – everyone will fail. Never attempt to succeed, only try to survive. I bought a bottle of wine, remembered my lack of a corkscrew, and pushed the cork in with my toothbrush. I opened it in a dead-end ally in Dublin on my last night in town. The ally was littered with needles and clothes were strewn about. I picked up a hoodie and used it to obscure the bottle as I walked down the road. When I reached the park and took a pull off the wine, I smelled the sweater was coated in piss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is nothing wrong with sobriety in moderation.<br />
John Ciardi</span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Drinking through a hangover I find myself with a pint of porter in the men's room stall taking a worthy beer shit (attempting to write about the event between squeezes). The hardest part of traveling in cities is finding quality dive bars. If I hear <i>California Gurls</i> or <i>Everyday I'm Hustling</i> one more time, I’ll puke on the dance floor. I stand after my shit, turn to shake the dribble off my dick, and watch a drop land in my pint on the floor. I laugh.</span>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-59885640946118837222011-05-21T03:06:00.000-07:002011-05-26T12:51:40.017-07:00You got a Bed?<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">"Nope, were all booked up. Not a chance in hell." I had walked 7 kilometers through the country side assuming there would be a bed at the Hostel. She suggests a B & B down the road. I tell her I'm going to keep walking. "There's no camping in the valley, they'll run-you-off around here." I gesture to my fanny pack and lack of camping supplies. She nevertheless glares at me. I find my way to a forest hiking trail managed by a non-profit sustainable forestry outfit. It takes me to a streamside trail. There's a fence on the other side of the creek, and a reforesting clear-cut beyond. My map indicates another country road on the other side of the valley. I hope the fence. The clear cut is filled with young rows of Douglas-fir. The fence is seven-feet high to keep out the deer. I move my way upslope aware of my trespass and begin hearing; <i>forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.</i> I hope the landowners are Catholic. I reach another creek and climb the fence into a stand of 30 year old Sitka spruce. I find a deer skull. The forest of Ireland was once mostly oaks, it has been reforested with conifers, but large majestic lonely oaks remain in some fields that are now littered with sheep. I hear real voices this time. There's a house and farm implements beyond the trees. I crouch and move as stealthily as possible back to the creek and the skull. I follow it downstream, hoping to skirt the home. I fear their dogs catching whiff of me. I begin sizing up which species of trees would be easiest to climb. Just in case. There are occasional maples in the stand that have the best limb structure. When I begin ascending the valley again, I become wearier. I consider what would happen to me if I were in the Appalachians. I don't think my trespass would be much forgiven there. Finally, I find the road I was hoping for. I shake my clothes free of twigs and sticks that I had gathered. I've muddied the bottom of my pant legs and boots. My clothes have reached a very wore-in appearance.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span">As I move back down the valley toward another small town, thirsty for a beer, I find that the trail I had started-out on came-out a kilometer south of where I had trespassed. I laugh at myself. Passing some Swiss or German backpackers who are hiking the Wicklow trail, I can only imagine what they think of my appearance. They are dressed in high performance gear and have trekking poles. I walk another couple of kilometers on the country road and find an old stone bridge. Adjacent to the bridge are large, 100+ year-old conifers; Douglas-fir, giant Sequoia, western red cedar. They are on a private ranch with a large <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NO Parking, No Hiking</i> sign posted on its gate. I break-off some cedar bows and bed down on the sandy riverbed under the bridge. I awaken at dusk, cold and stiff. My efforts to camp have failed. It doesn't get dark until past 9:00PM, but I dare not start a fire. I also don't have a warm blanket of whiskey to rap myself in. I continue my walk towards the next small town at the bottom of the glacially carved valley. I pass some deer in a horse pasture that had been grazing when I spooked them. A mother and fawn trot up the hill’s slope away from me. When I reach town, I had walked over 18 kilometers. I catch a bus back to Bray for the last 4 kilometers.</span><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span">In Bray, I find a Pub with karaoke and sing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fly Me to the Moon</i>. My father used to drive his Cadillac out to Vegas on the weekends to gamble and drink; he would see Franky at the Sands. Drinks are cheaper in Bray than elsewhere in Ireland and I consume many. Later, at a nightclub, it’s a slow night so I spend time talking with a bartender about my travels. He pours another, and another. He hasn't a clue how to make a proper cocktail or martini. </span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span">I wake up outside in someone’s yard. I walk toward the commuter rail station to catch a morning train back to Dublin. It’s 6:00 AM. I realize I’m missing the extra bag I'd been using as expandable storage. I walk back toward where I slept, but blurrily and disoriented, can't find where I had been. I continue on to the train, having parted with my bag containing two books I'd finished and had intended to mail home, and I'm only wearing one knit glove. I slept warm, in the best blanket possible. On the train, I fall back asleep and when I come to, the train is traveling in the wrong direction. I had slept through my stop in Dublin and the train was now on its way back to Bray in Wicklow County. I considered getting-off there again but feared being reunited with my bag. It had decided for me that a Fanny Trekker needs no expandable storage.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-28121130487845634662011-05-20T05:48:00.000-07:002011-05-21T09:43:50.484-07:00Traveling Light<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Staying at a Hostel in Westport Ireland, I met a man<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>from Calgary. He commented that I was traveling light. I did my normal spiel on Fanny Trekking and he said he'd never heard of it. I told him I researched extensively before starting out and found nothing on the subject. So I’m, in fact, the first Fanny Trekker on earth. And having made it through a week and a half Fanny Trek before, I hold myself as the foremost authority on the matter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My position is still very strong. I’m on my third pair of socks and second pair of insoles for my boots. I find that thin socks keep my feet from sweating (or stinking). I ditched my underwear a few days ago – I’ll try to grab a new pair soon – for now I’m commando. I haven’t managed a Laundromat yet, but have ironically been showering regularly. Ironic because I detest showering; I’ve been showering far more often than I do in normal life. One of the women I stayed with in an apartment in Liverpool, insisted on washing my shit. I obliged. My legs remain strong, but I’m developing runner’s knee – a pain behind the knee from extensive use. I thought of seeking treatment, but opted to take the best advice a coach can give his players...walk it off. I walked approximately 15 kilometers yesterday, through the countryside of Wicklow County. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Another critically important aspect of Fanny Trekking is eliminating weight. When I was in New York last year, I got off the bus and immediately started viewing the city. It was all around me, huge. Skyscrapers ripping through the air, tickling heights reserved for mountains alone, their towers of babel protruding from a sea of languages. I had no intention in those moments to have my eyes shut-out within the confines of a walled-off room while doing the requisite baggage storage of a traveller. I lived that moment, then and there. On that trip I was traveling with a backpack, unfortunately. I needed to carry extra clothes for a wedding. I made it well enough, bumping into people, bouncing off walls, awkwardly slamming about while standing atop the empire state building. What <i>hell</i> a backpack is. Inevitably my travelling partner had enough herself and I was amiable to trek-off to the isolation of a room. We went out later but didn’t manage to cover much ground due to exhaustion of our morning with pack. If only we had brought fanny packs...</span>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-57797957511882427842011-05-20T03:54:00.000-07:002011-05-21T11:34:48.609-07:00Bowie to Bowie<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">A man gets thrown against a wall and onto the sidewalk by two unarmed policemen. Police in much of Europe do not carry guns or Tasers, they just knock the shit out of you old school. I cross the street and snap a photo while moving down to the next bar with some college students that just finished their exams. It’s an unfortunately slow night throughout Dublin. The bar we go to is named Coppers, and most of the patrons are either nurses or cops. The cops are all working overtime for the Queen’s visit. I leave the fellas at the next bar and try to find my way back to the Pub where I left my hoodie; I'm not quite resigned to giving it up yet. I find a wool blanket on the street and pick it up; fate. Why not just sleep in the street? The city is on lockdown anyway and most Hostels are filled-up. I find my hoodie then stop for a beer on the sidewalk with a group of homeless men. We discuss homelessness, sleeping outside and fear of the police. One gets a phone call. There's a huge protest across town where the Queen had laid a wreath earlier. I hoof-it at lightning speed; the thrill of a righteous protest is exhilarating. I approach the park. Distant sirens are heard. I see a few uniformed officers, but my search for youth on the streets is in vain. The phone call is likely a prank, or misinformed, no one is there. The days of protests occurred before I reached Dublin by train. Others are likely to occur, but no one can ever get within a mile of the Queen. I take my blanket and find a bush; my luck is good, it doesn't rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">They're spending millions on the cost of the Queen’s visit. Bombs have been found on busses. There are constantly helicopters hovering over the city. It’s all a show of intimidation. The police are everywhere, blocking alleyways and standing on street corners. I've seen female officers in pants 4-sizes too large. Perhaps they're cadets! Every manhole cover and utility hatch in the sidewalk has been welded shut to prevent the placement of bombs. At least the cost of the Queens visit is less than the royal wedding.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I've found a few very Portlandia bars in Dublin. They serve their own house lager and have an extensive organic menu during the day, with many vegetarian options. At night they have live music on three floors. One of the bands is a two piece group, one on guitar, the other on drums. The drummer has braces. They play all original songs in a Bowie fashion. Their music is loud. Actually, many of their songs are about David Bowie. They dress like the clash and together can't weigh more than 220 lbs. At the end of their set, the singer strikes the symbols with his guitar, distorts his amplifier, and drops his instrument onto the stage floor.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-5324690862414842352011-05-18T02:44:00.000-07:002011-05-21T01:39:27.896-07:00You got a fag?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">They yelled from across the intersection. It was one of the last discernible phrases I heard them say. A thick drunk accent from a Russian dialect was pouring out of their mouths like globs of syrup. I had just bought some staples of beer and Paddy's Irish whiskey (Jameson's bastard step-brother) for the night. I walked with these crane operators from Latvia. "Say bleeeed, say big bleed bitch." They could hardly stand. "You want fish?" They had a grocery bag full of small trout-like fish that they likely caught in the canal. They didn't have any poles. I didn't care to guess the method of these former soviet anglers. I offered them my staples; they offered me a place to stay. Ivorg began hurling after a long pull on the whiskey. Edgar fared better. They warned me of Ivorg's wife. He said he was afraid of her. We nearly made it back to Ivorg's apartment before they began tackling each other. "I break your neck bleed." Their laughter was contagious. I had to carry Ivorg the last few hundred feet. His rail thin wife was not pleased. She began slapping him as I put him on the couch; what was supposed to be mine. She was cursing him in fast Russian. She offered me coffee. I explained how we met, and the offer of a place to stay. She glared at me. I left.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">The bars were luckier for me in Mullingar, a midland city of a few thousand. For a Sunday night, their clubs were still brimming. I danced and cohorted with what must have been 19 year olds, between Secondary School and College or work. Everyone wanted to show the Californian their weed. I wasn't impressed. I was out of cash, but drinks were plentifully left around the dance floor. A girl stole my hat. I managed somehow to get it back. Later a group of guys tried to get it from me, but when asked, had nothing to trade. I still have my hat. Everyone goes to the closest Take-Away after closing. I made my move and managed to make my way home with some middle aged women. One of them had picked-up a gentleman. While walking to the taxis, she face-plants into the asphalt. Her nose is gushing. I help clean her up and make sure her nose isn't broken. She isn't very oriented, but she wasn't before the fall either. Later at her home, I could hear the injury didn't deter anything between her and her gent. I woke and followed the steady Monday morning traffic out of the suburb and into town. Like ants parading in one direction, burbs are often easy to navigate an escape.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-69053545023317324872011-05-15T13:32:00.000-07:002011-05-21T01:16:02.965-07:00Walking the Streets of Dublin on the Nakba (The Catastrophe)<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Leaving my Hostel this morning it is important to note that not all Hostels are created equal. I was rather impressed by this Hostel, as any Fanny Trekker should be. It had rooms that fit up to 16 people and was cheap as could be expected. Plus the Internet and coffee were free. Although, you have to wake up in time for the free breakfast to get some and I didn't make it back until nearly 4:00 AM. I slept until a nice woman awoke me to ask if I was staying on. I said no, and she said; “Then get out.” The Hostel was connected to a coffee shop called The Bald Batista. I ordered an Americano was asked; “Large or Bigger.” I responded; “Small.” With a smile he explained that on Sundays everyone is generally nursing a hangover and wants a large coffee. I told him that when I'm nursing a hangover, all I want is more beer. We then discussed trains and the countryside of Ireland and he gave me some advice. It wasn't until leaving that I realized the name of the Cafe and saw the sign for The Bald Batista with a drawing of his bald head and a cup of steaming Joe. Although I doubt anyone in Europe calls it Joe. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">The Queen will be in Dublin on Wednesday, but I wanted to spend the week in the countryside before returning to see the havoc that her presence will cause. No Monarch has visited Ireland since the 1916 revolution. She's coming to make amends for some massacre that happened at a football stadium in 1911. A bunch of Black and Tan English Mercenaries opened fire on a football practice at the biggest stadium in Dublin. Everyone here is really pissed that she's coming, and I've actually been told with a wink and a nod to avoid Dublin on Wednesday because of possible bombs. All the more reason to be there I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I was walking away from the cafe looking for a train station to head out of town when I came across a lovely park. Trees and ponds, birds and statues, the park was alive with families on a Sunday stroll. At the entrance to the park was a huge archway. I generally read arches and statues of any kind. This one was distracting though because of the Palestinian protest for the anniversary of the Nakba. The day Israel attacked the Palestinian's people and drove them from their land. I stood with them, a group of 30 men, women, and children. Mostly Irish, they had a scattering of people from Arab and Palestinian descent. Soon after I arrived and began standing in solidarity, we began to march. While marching I met a Palestinian man in his late 20's. He had immigrated to Dublin from Gaza a year before. He told me of living in Gaza and of living through Operation Cast Led on New Year's Eve in 2008/2009. We talked about world impressions, and those of Americans regarding the Middle East, of drugs and opiates that keep people from caring or learning more of atrocities, and the media that provides ready distractions, of AIPAC, and other corruption in political systems. Suddenly the crowd started chanting. FREE, FREE PALESTINE, FREE, FREE PALESTINE... FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE... Then head scarves were being placed over faces by many of the Palestinian men and women, and I realized we had been marching to the Israeli embassy in Dublin. I had been handed a flag, and started taking photos (I'll share later). When we reached the embassy there were another 20 people already standing there, mostly Palestinian, and they held a large 20 foot Palestinian flag. The chanting continued and increased in volume. We were well supervised at this point by around 20 officers circling us on the street. Horns of passing cars were honking constantly, and many stopped to join us. The protest was allowed to make its statement on this anniversary of The Catastrophe. I stayed with them in solidarity for some-time before continuing on to find my train. I also had to piss and refill myself with more Guinness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I prefer countryside towns to cities generally. I enjoy being greeted openly and feeling comfortable asking about people’s lives. But when in a capital like Dublin, the chance of finding these amazingly powerful events randomly is awe inspiring, to be able to join a group in a walk through town for a just cause, and to thank them afterward for their promotion of awareness. I drink to them today, and all the people of Palestine, on the day of the Nakba.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-38852909726131952102011-05-15T03:57:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:53:09.857-07:00Walk to the beach in Holyhead<div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">With time to kill before my ferry, and a decision not to just go into the first Pub I came across, I walked to the edge of town. I could hear a rugby match off in the distance, almost as a mirage on the edge of town. I crested a hill past some working class houses, still searching for a pickup truck in every driveway; I moved down the hill toward some horses and could finally see the match across a field of sheep. A horse walked up to a short old rock wall along its field, a white mare with its tail and mane touching the ground. She was calm. I cracked a beer. I continued into the country side away from the town, giving up on the rugby match and thoughts of crossing the field of sheep. Laughter came from above the road along a trail though an old field, a public wild land, likely donated by a retired farmer. I meandered through the underbrush as I had on many coastal trails in California. The laughter was from picnicking high school kids, who instruct me that I can reach a beach along another road across the field. I summit the hill and can see Holyhead Mountain in the sunset. I think of the dead battery in my camera, and decide some pictures are better not taken, better remembered. The road is long and has the occasional driver pass-by. It’s flanked by stone walls, some with tall maintained hedges growing above them. The fields are littered with sheep, cattle or horses. The homes all appear to be Bed and Breakfast potentials. Some are already. Country living dying as they do. The ocean comes into view and an intersection with a coastal road. I reach the old stone wall built above the cove supporting the road. After observing the close resemblance to so many coves in Northern California, I walk down a ramp to the sandy beach and come across the following written on the wall:</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">PORTHDAFARCH</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Softly the swish</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Between the earth and the sky</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Fulfilling my wish,</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Of a homestead close by</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Where I in this place</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Know the warm sense of grace</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Its sounds and its air</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Speak a mirth so aware</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">That the earth in its song</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Filled my heart for so long.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Broad reach of the seas</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Soft cloud racing by</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Such winds as these</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Cause my spirit to fly</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">To where gulls take wing</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">With long plaintive cry</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">To haunt my quiet thought</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">With life's longing</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">A sign.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Poem written by:</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">John Arnold Fenton. 1937 - 2007</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I wept. Uncontrollably, I wept. My emotions and solitude of traveling within the context of this beautiful setting that reminded me greatly of Mendocino, those visions and the words of this recently parted poet brought me to tears. I copied them down, stripped off my clothes and ran into the sea. I ran quickly to keep my heart rate up and blood pumping. Feeling the cold water around my ankles, up my legs, around my crotch, I dive under the frigid waters of the Atlantic for the first time. As I walked out of the ocean and saw my footprints on the hard coarse sand of the freshly low tide, I was warm. For much of my travels here I have had a chill, and for a man who runs hot, it’s been odd. Now walking back in the twilight from the beach, I was again warm, a deep warmth radiating out of me. Not in some hippie shit way, but my body was just warm. I reached a Pub and drank late into the night, learning the Welsh language from locals. Celebrating their being<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>not-English</i>, they’re a distinctive, proud people. All of them spoke this strange Indo-European language with zest. Being taught it in school and appearing on all signs first, English second. Drinking ale, odd rums, and Vodka Jellies, locked in after hours, smoking and drinking, before returning to the port and boarding my ferry.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-21197198491000699882011-05-14T14:54:00.000-07:002011-05-21T00:49:29.097-07:00I wanted you right when I saw your Bum Bag.<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I had subtle plans to meet an Irish lass while traveling. I didn't think it would happen in Liverpool, but when they're on holiday too... <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">It was actually due to the charging situation with my Tablet. I was left stranded not being able to search for things, or find where I was going as easily as before. It also left me without a time piece for the first time in years. I've always wanted to go without a Babylometer, but with cell phones, they're always at hand. I found myself in Liverpool walking the streets looking for a Hostel, I bought some beer and drank it in some roadside bushes while changing my socks and putting new insoles in my boots. Carlsburg Strong Ale, 9% gravity, it's basically European malt liquor. I had finished a couple of cans and was heading back in the direction of where I thought I saw a Hostel on the map that morning when I came upon a karaoke bar. The rest, let's say, didn't involve me finding a Hostel for the night, and I learned that Bum Bags are attractive to some women (they call them Bum Bags because a Fanny is on the other side in England).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I awoke still drunk, in the city of the Beatles, searching for something. Normally, it's not known to me what I'm walking toward, and then I'm shown why. I found what is called English breakfast; basically, it's a fried egg, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans, potatoes, blood pudding, British banger sausages, a steamed tomato, thin sliced ham, heavily buttered toast, and black coffee. Later, I was told in the UK this is exactly what people eat when they're hung over; it's also what the English eat every day. I learned this from an individual in Holyhead who was Welsh. I traveled there by train that evening to catch a ferry to Dublin. It's a small town on the coast surrounded by farms. I had 6 hours to kill before the ferry left at 2:30 in the morning for a red eye. I just started walking and eventually found a beach that looked exactly like Caspar in Mendocino. I walked back to town in the dark and found a Pub. The drinking age here is 18, and I'm still not quite used to it. I ended up in a Pub where almost everyone was 18, and just getting out of Secondary School. In school in Wales you have to learn the Welsh language, and in Pubs in Wales, they all want to teach it to you. It sounds a lot like German, but less aggressive. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I'll try to keep posting as I go along. I actually resolved the credit card issues and charging situation on my Tablet today, so you should be seeing more from me. I've been writing volumes in a notebook, and what I've written here actually doesn't do it justice. You can pick up a copy of my other writings after they're published.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-37963151449483275302011-05-11T18:11:00.000-07:002011-05-21T00:50:15.189-07:00Everything is fine<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I had to get a new plug for my Galaxy Tablet this morning, and didn't have any trouble getting one. The trouble came when I went to charge it and it wouldn't charge. The connection was there, but the little battery emblem had a big X on the battery. I'll leave out the details of me walking the city for 5 hours going to different cell phone and electronics shops searching for a new connector; one that just happens to be exclusively used on the Samsung Galaxy Tab and nothing else. I found two that were car chargers, but they didn't work either. I had to return the first, and I tried the second in the store with no luck. I never found another one after that, and the only way I managed to charge the thing was by plugging it into the base unit </span>of the demo they had on display at a cell phone store. So now, I have to order one online and ship to a location I know I'll be at for a few days; probably Dublin, which is my next stop. </div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Also my credit cards got demagnetized. How did this happen? Fuck if I know. But, their numbers work; I just can't get cash. Luckily I still have 160 Pounds British Sterling (that's the full name of their currency). So, I'm back at the same Hostel in Piccadilly Circus for another night. By-the-way, everything here is called circuses instead of squares. Like Times Square would be Times Circus. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">An overall frustrating day, but I did manage to read in a park for a few hours. There are all of these private parks, and not just the Queens Mews; but a bunch of small ones as well. You need a key to get into them, and their landscaping is meticulous; as if some rich lord built his estate and then bought-up the land next door to build a private garden-park for all of his friends. And these things are big, generally at least an acre. It's all really striking to me considering the importance of parks within city spaces in America. Plus, these parks aren't electrified with metal spikes on the top of a 12-foot brick wall like the setup of the Queen’s park.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-90639702294233817692011-05-10T19:19:00.000-07:002011-05-21T00:50:58.135-07:00Some thoughts from my first day in EuropeWell obviously, everything about Fanny Trekking is panning out as I've described. I managed to carry exactly what I needed today, do it for a full day, and never be burdened. I finally checked into a Hostel for £22, (about $30) and didn't need to worry about locking anything up because I kept it on my person. I got hungry part way through the day so I bought a baguette and a 4-pack of tall cans of some shitty British lager beer. It wasn't good at all despite the can advertising "Probably The Best Lager In The World..." Well Carlsberg, you're not. Not even close. It's even worse warm, which I'm stomaching at the moment in the Hostel 24-hr Internet cafe. I normally love warm beer; be it Pabst, Hamms, Oly, or any cheap pilsner/lager. Not this time.<br />
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It is however very humid here, and while the temperature gets low, the sun is shinning <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">– </span>which is a rarity for England<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">–</span> and the humidity makes everything feel a little intense.<br />
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My bank account lets me withdraw $500 a day, but when converted to pounds, its less than $280. So, I'm going to be visiting the ATM on a near daily basis, and taking care of business on cards as much as possible. Fortunately, my first day I only spent about £100 of the £260 I withdrew. Much of which involved getting an underground pass, and quite a few drinks this evening.<br />
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I managed to meet a bunch of fellow travelers at the Hostel and had a night out with a large group of them. All I can say about the bars in Europe is that they are predominately Euro Trash Clubs with lots of "House Music" and plenty of 18 year olds kids. The drinking age is 18 in most of Europe, and it's a little strange at 28 to be drinking with the kiddies. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but they have a way of being <i>so</i> embarrassing to watch. I think the only way I made it through that period of life myself was through binge drinking. <br />
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Enough for now, there's really loud yelling going on in the street, and it's 3:18 AM. Either something awesome is happening, or I'm just not use to being in a city of 7 million people.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-7667355765276924772011-05-10T10:54:00.000-07:002011-05-20T15:42:05.625-07:00Shit Eatin' GrinThat's what I had on my face the moment I stepped off the plane. That, and a feeling of <i>about fucking time</i>. Not an <i>about time</i> like finally getting laid after more than a first date, or after the end of a bad movie. But like finally passing an RPF exam, or finally mailing off 8 months of work to a reviewing government agency. True relief from a long wait, and this was long coming.<br />
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Well, I thought that was all there was to it, then I discovered customs. Apparently being tired and vague to the Agent isn't a good idea. CHRIST! I was detained for an hour to be questioned, amongst other things, about my purpose in England, my profession, if I had work back in the States, how I could get multiple months off of work, why I didn't have my return tickets printed out, didn't have a hotel booked, and why I only had $37 on my person.<br />
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I did manage to get my passport stamps and I'm probably not on a terrorist watch list, all in the name of being a stubborn smart ass American. I honestly didn't think there was anything wrong with any of my answers, there just strange. But then to ice the cake, upon walking out of the baggage claim carousels on my way to the exit, I get approached by another customs guy. This round of questioning is about why I don't have any baggage. Now for some reason I claim to be a writer (obviously a lie) and that I have a blog about traveling with just a fanny pack; "I've got everything I need in here," I told him, while pointing to my fanny pack; "I write a blog called <i>Fanny Trekking The World</i>, I was going to call it <i>Fanny Packing</i>, but I thought that might be too homoerotic." That statement clearly showed how tired a red eye can make you the next day. He wished me safe travels with a confused look on his face, and reaffirmed in me the ground breaking uniqueness of Fanny Trekking.<br />
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The minor stress of figuring out a new transit system, when I reached the underground, came with delightful relief.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-21854510876482546792011-05-08T23:17:00.000-07:002011-05-20T14:52:38.398-07:00Apps anyone?I've got an interactive Star Chart on my Galaxy Tab that adjusts to the sky as I rotate the screen. Just one of the new Applications I downloaded onto a soon to be obsolete toy. There's also a couple of gun apps, a lighter, a magic eightball, and other time wasting opiates. Still working on getting some books and other media downloaded, although I still and perhaps always will prefer the paperback.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XZuFfU8JEiA/Tcd_FPU_9KI/AAAAAAAAACA/ZlHM8mvt56E/s1600/DSCF0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XZuFfU8JEiA/Tcd_FPU_9KI/AAAAAAAAACA/ZlHM8mvt56E/s320/DSCF0035.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> My packing list consists of the following items:<br />
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Levis jeans, belt and buckle, cowboy boots, DNR t-shirt, 3 books, Montana Logger ball cap, a drawstring bag, wallet, passport, socks, knit gloves, bandana, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss card, Burt's Bees chapstick, Samsung Galaxy Tab, charger, earphones, underwear, european sized swim trucks, Star Wars hoodie, and my fanny pack.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uzsal7GuFQg/TceCLflaYEI/AAAAAAAAACE/xZklUCDoXfQ/s1600/DSCF0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uzsal7GuFQg/TceCLflaYEI/AAAAAAAAACE/xZklUCDoXfQ/s320/DSCF0037.JPG" width="240" /></a></div> While I do wish my niece Katherine and dog Earl could come, they unfortunately need to stay with my sister; which I'm alright with due to the diaper changing. Everything else fit quite well on my person. I did decide on a small drawstring backpack bag to allow expandable storage. Helpful when striping off the hoodie, or holding things while looking for a Post Office for shipping stateside.<br />
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A change from my last Fanny Trekk is the addition of the tablet, which eliminates the need of cameras and cellphones (and respective chargers). I'll only be communicating by email, Facebook, and this blog, all readily accessible by some tasty little apps.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-81303390401717689652011-05-05T21:55:00.000-07:002011-05-20T14:41:27.996-07:00My 7th Grade Euro tripIn the course of going through everything I own and separating out the stuff I no longer need, I found the following paper written in 7th grade:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Euro Trip</i><br />
<i></i><i> My trip to Europe was a good learning experience. We saw the Eiffel Tower and then we went to Rome and saw the Colosseum and a lot of stone buildings. We then got to sail the Mediterranean and saw a mermaid. When we reached Greece, I hiked Mount Olympus and saw the Apollo Amphitheater. it would be hard to follow Greece, but then we went to Spain and saw a Bull Fight, we ate a bunch of Burritos and a lot of Tacos. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> My trip to Europe was one I'll never forget.</i></div><br />
Well, I feel really good about my premonition from 7th grade, especially relating to Mermaids, and the lack of mentioning backpacks.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013667979138598002.post-42651616174876257902011-05-04T18:37:00.000-07:002011-05-20T14:39:12.268-07:00Preparing for EuropePreparations have begun for my two month stint in Europe. I will be traveling with only the clothes on my back and a fanny pack. I'm coining this type of travel as Fanny Trekking. I've traveled like this before during a visit to the southern U.S. There wasn't a single problem that wasn't easily overcome, and the advantages outweighed the disadvantages 10 to 1. Why even bother with extra pants, extra shirts, extra socks. I rarely change my clothes; once a week or less anyway. When things get too funky you can easily purchase a new pair of cheap cotton socks, (I know many backpack travelers who do this). And unless your planning on attending a wedding, a banquet, an opera, or a royal wedding, you can get by without dress clothes.<br />
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The main essentials include a phone/camera/WIFI device (plus charger), a tooth brush, and some books<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– </span></span>although my new Galaxy Tab will act as my e-reader. You need space to store tickets, passport, and any postcards you might pick-up on your way to the Post Office. A pen is good, and a small pair of cotton gloves. Women often require some additional feminine products, but I'm going to ignore that for the sake of this blog. You need a place to store some cigarettes and a lighter, a flask, and while in Europe hopefully some snuff. What else does one need, and can't all these things fit in a fanny pack?<br />
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I'll be updating regularly while on the train, and my itinerary is extremely loose, consisting of a clockwise circle of Europe starting in London.Pip Thomsponhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420641773017695272noreply@blogger.com0