On Being a Bum

For the fortunately restless

For my entire life, I have suffered from the sort of restlessness for which there is
no cure, and only one prescribed form of management. Last spring, this
condition would begin to claw at my mind’s tender corpus. New York I love you,
but you were bringing me down.
There was only one balm to my prickled soul, and that was movement. So, I got
myself a visa and screwed off for a while.
Suddenly, I was tucked away somewhere in Prague between the spectral grave
of Franz Kafka, and David Černy’s unimaginative sculpture of his head. Outside
of Kafka’s museum, Černy also did a sculpture of two statues pissing into a pool
shaped like the Czech Republic. It has something to do with nationalism and
pissing contests, and I like it a lot better.
My weekends were spent living out of a reeking messenger bag as I harassed
ATMS to the point of refusal all over europe. I often snuck packs of sardinesthrough airport security. This way, I wouldn’t have to buy anything but beer upon arrival.
I went broke a lot. I got stranded in cities, and in train stations far outside of
them. I drank and smoked too much and didn’t eat, or sleep, or think enough. I
did everything perfectly.
Planning is for the traveler who would rather be deluded by a sense of control
than act on dominant impulse. I don’t plan. I just walk.
As per the words of Herzog, “The world reveals itself to those who travel on
foot”. Everywhere, from the golden indolence of Thessaloniki, to the raving
majesty of Istanbul, walking was my harbinger of discovery, knowledge, and
appreciation for the profoundly unfamiliar.
Find the high ground, the low ground, coast, or nearest body of water. Find a
cafe. Try the espresso, the beer, the wine. Find out what cigarettes people are
smoking. Buy a pack. If you’re a true, honest to god bum, you’re down to about
twenty bucks by now. Go to a store. Spend half of it on bread, meat, and
cheese. That’s food for the weekend.
I was once in Venice for three days with fifteen bucks to my name. I still ate
twice a day, and got rambling, giddy drunk sharing two liter bottles of three
euro wine amongst friends, new and old.
Alcoholically, most European cities have two things in common. The first is
cheap wine. The second thing is an Irish Pub.
These places are the crossroads for every walk of life in any given place, at any
given time.
As a monolingual, red blooded, shrieking American patriot, there were nights I
couldn’t find the party. In these cases, the Irish Pub was always there.
As open as I am to guiness and oasis, that wasn’t the true benefit of these
places. For me, Irish Pubs were a beacon of familiarity. As I clawed by way
across Europe, shit sometimes hit the fan. Perhaps getting a train from budapest
to Slovakia was a new playing field, but I’d always known how to split a G. No
matter where I was, the environment of an Irish Pub never changed. At the worst
of times, it reminded me that I was still in the same world, no matter how far I
was from where I knew it. Some things are always the same.
There are things we can all agree on, like Irish pubs and pizza by the slice, and
taking a break from the city. Being lonely. Being desperate. Letting those things
force you together. Letting something make you whole.