Wanna buy a bike?

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.  It doesn't come with a lock because he had obviously stolen it.  For 10 euro, it’s a good deal.  But now I've got an unlocked bike in front of the bar.  If it gets stolen, I’ll be fine with it.  They scream their lyrics and I think of how I wish my life was always like this.  I only worry about smelling bad the next day from all the smoke in this dive bar.  I can only imagine how bad my clothes smell already.  I consider them stale.  The bands are hardcore-metal and are on tour.  One of the bands is stoked to be playing their home town.  My less than honorable method of acquiring a bike has left me with little recourse or animosity over possible theft.  They SCREAM their lyrics, saying thank you after each song.  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.  Look at the colonies that each Nation put in their Easter basket.  I think the UK had better planning. Better than all your eggs being in Africa.

My bike was stolen the next day while I was buying train tickets and looking for a bike lock.  The bike was gone and luckily I went and checked before going in and buying a lock.  I had shoved it between two bikes while inside and it was picked up within an hour.  It was a piece of shit though.  I've ridden worse, but it was pretty bed.  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.

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.

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.

Shit Eatin' Grin

That's what I had on my face the moment I stepped off the plane. That, and a feeling of about fucking time. Not an about time 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.

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.

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 Fanny Trekking The World, I was going to call it Fanny Packing, 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.

The minor stress of figuring out a new transit system, when I reached the underground, came with delightful relief.