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...

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.