(First sent: 7th September 2009)
Top o' the mornin' to ye!
Sometimes while travelling, the idea of travelling itself becomes sickening, tedious and fills you with the same enthusiasm as one might have for attending an all night rave with Victoria Beckham and a side of rotting ham (although trying to tell the difference might be worth a few chuckles).
Yes, the spectre of 'travel fatigue' has been hanging over me, filling my socks with lead and making the mere suggestion of a visit to the 10,000th bloody museum make me want to hack somebody's eyes out with a piece of abandoned railway track. The fatigue of being on the road makes the idea of packing up and moving on a again feel less entertaining than trying to count trees in a wood while listening to Michael Bolton's greatest hits being tapped out in morse code on your head by a passing woodpecker. I.e. not exactly thrill a minute.
There are many ways to attempt to rekindle the love you once had for the nomadic lifestyle. Some try to supplement their wardrobe (which by this time has been reduced to 4 over washed and colourless items) by hitting the shops, but I never much had the taste for plus sizes and the American ass can fill a giant pair of trousers. Actually, American clothes more closely resemble poorly arranged bed sheets stapled together by a madman who lives inside a tornado. So that's out for me.
Some people turn to drink. Too late.
Therefore, it was left that the third option was all that was remaining. An option so bleak and evil that only a few hearty souls have the brass to even attempt it. I'm not talking about drinking the worm from the tequila... Far worse. I have got myself a job.
Now I know that for most of you, the idea of me scrubbing a few toilets and mopping the floor is all you ever saw in me anyway, but, a hostel doesn't get to be a grimy, flea infested hell hole all on it's own - you need a crack squad of layabouts, dropouts and clowns to ensure their continuing mediocrity.
Actually, working in the hostel opens up your eyes. It's some sight to behold when you see a first class honours student, currently working towards an MA in political science, a published author of poetry and a 27 year old English Literature graduate, squabbling over the last of the tin of Vim like weeping children throwing tantrums over the unmelted ice-cream at a fun fair. It would be poetic if it wasn't so bloody filthy in that shower, and the goddam Vim is mine, biatch.
For me though, a dose of reality and organisation is a breath of fresh air that is going to allow me to stretch my legs, chill out and hopefully, over the coming weeks, dissipate the greyhound sponsored thrombosis that pulsate through my legs like hot plums in a sausage machine. I get to live for free (save 4 hours plucking pubes from the shower cubicles), access the secret, Narnia like staff quarters that are replete with aircon, fridges and a monkey butler and I also get to attend a couple free excursions a week. I might even get paid for a couple of them. All in all, a sweeter gig than when Mr Peanut last suggested visiting the Snickers Factory.
But there is a seedy underbelly to all of this. Yes, the world of hostelling has a river of dirty money running through it, infecting everyone. Well, it might be a bit more downbeat than that, but is is interesting some of the practices that go on. Like, for example, the Tijuana trip I discussed so lucidly last week cost me $12 to go on. Now, $2.50 went on the train ride, sure, but the rest? Where oh where could it be? In case your slower at catching on than supporters at a John McCain rally, I'll tell you - the pocket of the person running the tour.
No wonder they spend so much time enticing us like pied pipers to part with our tokens to follow them like rats onto the giddy bandwagon. I love it - American free enterprise working like George Bush had written the book on it (so long as the book was written in crayon, of course).
Other than all that jazz though, there have been a few things catching my satirical eye this week. Wont you come on a little journey with me, while I lay bare my winnings and poop up my life for you all to peck at? Or alternatively, just read this stuff that I'm about to write.
Not yet...
NOW.
1. Visited the USS Midway, a big, grey ship. I love a good ship but I'd like it to be more colourful. Perhaps a 'Misty sunrise' or a 'Blackbeards delight' should be suggested to the navy.
2. Saw a pair of trousers on the street, abandoned. Must have been an interesting conversation when the owner got home to his family: "Ohhhhh, not again dad"
3. Visited Coronado Island which is a very pretty little island off the shore. You access it by ferry and can browse the shops and highways to find wonderful little nooks and.... oh, who the hell am I kidding. It was dull as nuts and I got a red nose from the sun. Nice butties from the man in the van though.
4. Rode the bus to Ocean beach. Lovely beach, no bums, lots of waves. Wicked.
5. My last roommate before I venture into the staff quarters is a man from deepest Florida called 'Grizzly'. I'll say that again: 'Grizzly'. He's 52, and to sum him up I will revert to his words: "I'm broke, so if they don't give me a job here, I'll camp." So, to clarify, his big life plan is to live outside rather than cough up the $120 bucks he's already spent securing his room in the hostel. It's not a good character trait to be willing to swap 'inside' for 'outside' when discussing sleeping arrangements. Is my locker secure? Hell yes. Is everything I own that I hold dear (including my Luche Libre mask purchased in Mexico) in said locker? Yarp!
6. Watched Gangs of New York in subtitles, which included the fine subtitle "(Both grunting)" I like a good and varied selection of grunting in all my motion pictures. See the film '300' for some textbook grunts.
7. Had a game of soccerball in the park with some fellow hostel employees. I won. The end.
8. Unpacked and repacked my pack to look for something that was in my pocket. Done that twice now, and it gets funnier every time.
9. Stayed classy.
So that's me for this week. Nothing changes but everything's different. I believe that is 'philosophy', so I hope you're taking notes. If not, I can come round to your house every week at random times of the day or night to repeat each of my mails uninterrupted into your quivering lobes until your eardrums pop. That is what they would call 'enlightenment' so feel the burn.
Keep me up to date with what's happening in sunny England (ha!) and I'll ignore your emails whenever and however I can.
Byeloveyoubye. xx
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