Sitting on a park bench

Children 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.

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.

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.

You got a fag?

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.

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.