So I’m sitting there, thinking about my underwear. A few steps away is a giant chess board and a hot tub. In the evening I will be served large quantities chocolate cake, along with ice cream, for free. But it is about my underwear that I am thinking, when I finally ask myself: What’s the point? What’s the point of wearing a pair of underpants that are as much air as fabric? Underpants crowned with an elastic band that hangs off the fabric as limp as any one of you passed out on the toilet? HOW DO THEY EVEN STAY ON?
Static electricity, I assume, and in this sense, my underpants were a tiny daily miracle. Perfect static cling aside, the garment (recently washed (!)) was not dry when I was ready to leave, and so into the trash they went. One less pair of underwear to stick to my bum. It’s a cold train, to be sure. Everything must be worth its volume and weight. That’s why all those glass stones got abandoned in Spain.
At some point in your life, if you’re anything like me, you are sure to come to the realization that everything in Existence falls into one of two categories: things that you can punch in the face, and things that you cannot punch in the face. You can punch a squirrel, or a politician, or a banana tree; but you can’t punch the economy, an annoying sound, or a system of government. It is with this in mind that we must choose the nature of our battles, and you can be sure that it is from this dichotomy that I judge pathways of conflict resolution in virtually all situations.
You can dry your socks more quickly by wearing them and sitting on your feet. This utilizes the body heat of both foot and ass, working together, to dry your socks. You probably won’t find yourself using this method until you are completely out of dry socks. As is so often the case with this little Sherpa.
I was in Le Kef, Tunisia; I’d packed light for the short trip, and it was much colder and wetter than I’d planned for. It was cold enough that I was simply wearing everything I’d brought, and the little raincloud1 that’s been following me for the majority of the year made sure that my feet were wet for almost three days.
It was not a short trip back to Tunis, and I was still quite wet when I intercepted my friend, who needed some help bringing materials to her office.
Somehow, within an hour, I found myself sitting next to her in the back seat of a taxi on my way to the police station. The cabbie was in handcuffs in the passenger’s seat, and a man with a gun claiming to be a cop was at the wheel. My friend, a little confused. Myself, more than a little frustrated.
I was tired and hungry and had a bloody nose. I was still damp from my previous trip, and I was still wearing really wet socks.
On Saturday I ate half a pound of peanuts. On Sunday I did the same. This food was supplemented by the complimentary breakfast that came with my hostel1; along with a Lindor Chocolate2 on Saturday and two apples on Sunday. On Sunday evening I walked back to my bed in the cold and rain, as I have done so very many times in this humble little lifetime. I decided the situation warranted additional calories, and so purchased a hunk of nice rye bread. I was prepared to eat it plain, but previous travellers had left butter and chocolate spread in the fridge. That, along with free herbal tea at the hostel allowed me to eat like a king without squandering resources like one.
My pants and sandals are falling apart. You may or may not be aware that I take great satisfaction in repairing things, and while I don’t claim to be good at it, I am usually good enough. And ‘good enough is perfect’ as they say, so by this philosophy you could argue that I am a perfect repairman, despite sucking.