How did I get into the back of an ambulance?

"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."

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 Bergen. 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 California, deterrent, but not as good. Some Russian women who literally came to Norway 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 Bergen, 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 Bergen 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 Barcelona and Manchester United. It's essentially the “Super bowl”. One of them leads me to a pub when we reach Bergen and it’s like a theatre inside the bar, with the game projected onto a wall and the room packed with fans. Barcelona 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 Barcelona 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.

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 America. 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?

Scandinavian Forestry

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. 

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.

Afternoon and Evening

"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 – 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 ♪la da da dee da♪.  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.

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.

I fucking hope not.

“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.


There is nothing wrong with sobriety in moderation.
John Ciardi


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 California Gurls or Everyday I'm Hustling 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.

You got a Bed?

"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; forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.  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.

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 NO Parking, No Hiking 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.

In Bray, I find a Pub with karaoke and sing Fly Me to the Moon.  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.  

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.

Traveling Light

Staying at a Hostel in Westport Ireland, I met a man 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.

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.  

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 hell 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...

Bowie to Bowie

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.

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.

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.

Walking the Streets of Dublin on the Nakba (The Catastrophe)

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

I wanted you right when I saw your Bum Bag.

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...  

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).

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. 

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.

Some thoughts from my first day in Europe

Well 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.

It is however very humid here, and while the temperature gets low, the sun is shinning – which is a rarity for England – and the humidity makes everything feel a little intense.

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.

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 so embarrassing to watch.  I think the only way I made it through that period of life myself was through binge drinking. 

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.

Preparing for Europe

Preparations 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.

The main essentials include a phone/camera/WIFI device (plus charger), a tooth brush, and some books – 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?

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.