The Wanderer's Routine

The custom officers always appear polite with their small talk, but, truthfully, they scrutinize you and wait for you to trip up on their simple questions.

“What brings you to Ireland?” the officer inquired.

“Tourism,” I meekly replied.

“How long are you staying?”

I honestly didn’t know.  I make the schedule up as I go.  I book a few nights in a hostel.  If I like the place, I stay longer.  If I get bored, I leave.

“Four, maybe five days,” I answered.

He offers me a subtle, penetrating gaze searching for signs of violent compulsions and an anti-patriotic stance against his home country.  He found none, so he stamped my passport. 

The doors open to a new city.  Another quest begins.  There are many steps in this process, but first:  where are the buses?  My previous foibles in Edinburgh taught me not to be shy.  I must be assertive and speak up when necessary.  Then again, I prefer to be self-reliant.  But it was raining.  I needed faster results. 

“Where are the bus stops?” I asked a man in an orange vest who worked for a charter bus company.

He revealed the first clue.  I followed the scent and discovered a machine that dispenses bus tickets for €2.90.  Before landing in Ireland, I wasn’t sure what currency they used.  I thought they used to be part of the United Kingdom at one point, and I believed they used pounds.  I wasn’t well-versed in my Irish history, so when I overheard stewardesses on the Ryanair flight selling refreshments priced in both Euros and pounds, I deduced that Ireland was part of the European Union.  At the airport in Dublin, I exchanged my £15 for about €16.  I only used the airport currency exchange because I didn’t have much money on me and I thought it was necessary to buy my bus fare in cash. 

I checked my phone where I had stored a picture of the directions to the hostel.  The correct bus arrived.  On board, I felt inclined to sit on the second story of the double-decker, but I needed to focus on spotting my destination.  If I sat upstairs, my attention would waver.  I’d start looking all around, and I’d miss my stop.  Strategically, it was smarter to sit by the luggage rack and the door.  If I had to split quickly, my prompt exit would be more feasible. 

An automated voice announced the upcoming stops in English with an Irish accent, and then the voice repeated the stop name in Gaelic.  Both languages are liable to sound foreign to someone unaccustomed to the thick pronunciation.  At times, I thought I’d have better luck deciphering the Gaelic.  My ears were pricked for a specific cue:  O’Connell Street.  The robotic voice uttered something that sounded like my stop.  Nearly everyone got up out of their seats, so I figured this must be the place to get off. 

My feet hit the sidewalk.  The belt on my pack gripped my hips.  The chest strap pressed against my sternum.  Another traveler sidled up to me. 

“Are you American?” he asked me. 

“Yeah.  How’d you know?”  I said.

“Your accent.”

There they go again, thinking I’m the one who talks funny.  I thought my diction was neutral, but, here in Ireland, I’m the one with the unique pronunciation.  ‘Tis a privilege to be the pariah. 

The Irishman was returning from a holiday in Australia, where they are currently experiencing winter.  Apparently, it gets cold there, probably as cold as an Irish spring. 

My new friend seemed interested in me, this foreign specimen.  I patted my pockets and checked the status of my valuables.  Everything was as it should be.  My new friend was just that:  friendly.  He asked me where I was staying.  When I told him, he said, “Oh, that place is no good.  I read bad reviews.  You gotta go somewhere else.”

Immediately, I lowered my expectations.  The Spire Hostel was the cheapest in Dublin, and it fits with my protocol.  I usually choose a hostel next to an easily located landmark.  The spire reaches toward the sky.  As a result, the giant needle is rather hard to miss.  

Perhaps my philosophy failed me this time.  Oh well, I thought.  A dodgy hostel may make this trip more interesting.  I shall relish the challenge. 

I have a moderately clean bed, fresh sheets, a working shower, and a flushable toilet.  For $20 a night, I’d hardly say I’m roughing it.  Besides, this trip was not a romantic get-away.  All I need is a place to store my things during the day and a pillow to rest my head on at night.  

Once I find my new temporary home base, I’m in the clear.  I empty my bag and organize my sub-bags.  One compression pack holds my clothes.  One mesh bag holds my toiletries.  I stuff my necessities (Kindle, notebook, chargers) into my daypack.  This hostel doesn’t have lockers in the room, but I’ve realized by now you have to trust your nomadic roommates won’t walk out with your giant backpack.  There’s an unspoken code of trust.  Don’t steal my stuff; I won’t steal yours. 

There’s also the improbable and inconvenient nature of lugging around two massive backpacks around a foreign city.  That kind of theft would be so impressive that it would not anger me.  If someone resorts to carrying over sixty pounds of supplies with him, then I applaud that man’s efforts.  Nonetheless, I carry all my valuables with me and only leave my clothes in my large bag which I stash under the bed. 

I always account for the possibility that I will be robbed or burgled, which is why I carry two wallets.  I carry one in my front pocket.  Inside, I have some cash and my debit card.  I stash my second wallet in my backpack.  In my back-up wallet, I store the rest of my cash as all as my credit card.  This way, if I am pick-pocketed I won’t be strapped for cash. 

After I’ve settled into the hostel, I roam aimlessly throughout the town.  My footsteps are guided by my childish urge to see what’s around the corner.  I like to get a feel for the city without a set itinerary at first.  I find points of interest and then decide which sites to explore farther the next day. 

This is my third city in less than ten days.  By now, I nearly have a routine——a warm-up exercise to acquaint myself with a new place.  Oddly, when I am confronted with an unfamiliar land, I feel a tug in opposite directions.  My first inclination is to explore, but I also want to recoil.  During my first night in a new locale, I am usually struck with an intense bout of homesickness. 

As I strolled by Dublin’s Liffey River, I felt a strong desire to be home again in Pittsburgh, the city of three rivers.

I miss watching movies with my brother or playing silly games with my dog.  I miss how easy life can be.  The pantry is always in the same place, and I only have to restock once, maybe twice a month.  I never need directions in my home town because I know where everything is.  The water pressure in my shower is constant, and in most aspects of life I am relatively comfortable.  On the other hand, traveling is loads of fun, but it also requires a great deal of work at times.  The most crucial component of living a nomadic lifestyle is one’s ability to adapt quickly to new surroundings. 

Routines are to be cherished.  Each day at home, I would watch a BBC nature documentary while I had my breakfast.  I miss watching those shows each morning even though I can do that whenever I wish.  But it is not every day I find myself in Ireland.  I suppose I will reverse my psychology.  

When I return to the US, I will miss my routine of adapting to new cities.  I will be watching a movie like Philomena with my brother again, and I will think, “I wish I was out there in Ireland exploring,” even though currently I would be doing the very same thing I yearned to do earlier.

Habituation is a funny concept.  Many song-writers have reiterated the phrase, “We always want what we don’t have.”  Sometimes that’s true.  I could always go for a milk shake, but I never want tuberculosis.  When it comes to desire, I believe most humans want a steady routine in one form or another.  Working in auto-pilot conserves energy but reduces sensory detail.  But to break a routine, one may feel lost.  What should I do?  Where should I eat?  There is one simple solution that will solve all these issues.  To break one routine, you must form another.