I really did want to go in and hear the church service in the local tongue this evening, but they'd already started when I got by. I got rather tired of churches while touring last year, but haven't reached that stage yet. After awhile, they all seem quite a bit the same. I did go in one today that was exquisite as all get out, and I went to my first synagogue last week, but I'm pacing myself. It's easy to get churched out and, as I said, eventually, like cities, they're all the same.
Any rate, I'll not tell you where I am just yet, as that will upset the chronological flow I hope to preserve. Be satisfied that I'm OK and having a blast.
I don't have time for a large section of ye olde travel log today, so I'll just pepper the usual format with a bit of light humour. I figure that way my short spurts of profundity will be all the more rattling upon arrival.
Got in from the pub where I'd been playing duets for 2 hours with a Jewish Aussie (Adi, who's an amazing jazz pianist) at about midnight last night and realised that I'd left my soap in the previous town. So, according to one of my travel mantras, I collected an empty Coke bottle (I've been carrying 3, full of water, daily) and went to the bathroom to fill it up. Unfortunately, there was no liquid soap dispenser. So, I reached a dramatic crossroads. I'd played frisbee all afternoon with a Spaniard named Alex and a Polish dude named Jacob (Yakub in his tongue), so I was in dire need of a shower. Either I could rub down with toothpaste (I mean, it's got baking soda and flouride, right?) and then rinse off, or rinse off only and then simply rub deodorant in all the places that usually need the most cleaning after a day of strenuous activity. I won't disgust you further with any details as to the final decision, but as today was Sunday, there were no shops open, and I was unable to purchase any soap or shampoo or anything of that nature, so my problem has only waxed despairingly. Knowing that my hostel would still have none to offer, I was a bit concerned.
Trekkers are easy folks to spot. We're the ones with the massive packs on both front and back, arms outstretched with a map, turning it in multiple directions, looking at street signs, and alternately consulting brightly coloured hostel leaflets that, without fail, have poor directions. On the way back to the hostel this evening, I happened across an obvious pair, and asked if they spoke English. They did, and were from California. I asked the name of the hostel and discovered that they were looking for a place a street over from me. There are about 6 where I'm at, so the odds were good. I said I was heading that direction and would see them there. That duly accomplished, I went inside with them, as I was helping with a bag or two, and nonchalantly slid into the bathroom to discover that there was no soap there either, so I poked around till I found the kitchen and nicked some dish soap from a hostel I'm not even staying at.
You know you're an accomplished backpacker when your options are a toothpasting, extra located deodorant, or antibacterial thievery.
Any rate, I am now headed to take a nice hot, pine-scented shower. Fortunately, that axe body spray is some strong stuff.
Y'all be good.
No comments:
Post a Comment