(!pinmapple 33.987045 lat -118.475510 long Sunset at Venice Skate Park in California d3scr)
In the mid nineties, Marlboro debuted a rewards program. Called Marlboro Miles, it allowed loyal cigarette smokers the opportunity to cash in on their bad habit, and turn their smokes into swag. The Marlboro catalog had something for everyone: Hats, blankets, lighters, t-shirts, jackets, multi-tools, sleeping bags, duffel bags, dart boards, pool cues, ash trays, watches, tents, etcetera. The overwhelming theme was adventure. The Marlboro man himself, being something of a rebel, was still prominent in advertising. Smokers of the day considered themselves outlaws, choosing to define their individuality with an eclectic variety of mass-produced, boldly branded prizes.
I, having the bizarre fortune being born to two smokers, was primely poised to benefit from this program. My parents would puff, then clip "Miles" from the mountains of empty packs, and mail them to Marlboro, alongside an order form with whatever they might want. It wasn't until years later that regulators saw the error in encouraging this kind of behavior, but for the time being, it was high living. At our house, it was always Christmas. Boxes of shrink wrapped gifts would arrive regularly, sent by the fine folks at Philip Morris.
It must have been the early aughts when a package arrived. Inside, a bright red and black backpack. A thank you for smoking, and an invitation to explore. It was to become my main means of packing. I had just joined the Boy Scouts, and I needed something to carry gear on our trips. Ours was a particularly active troop, and it was not unusual to be on an outing two or three weekends a month.
Inside was a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, swiss army knife, flashlight, raincoat, dry socks, tent stakes, waterproof matches, canned food, travel pillow, mess kit, eating utensils, and more. Whatever I wanted or needed was there. Once a year in the fall, I remember was Survival Weekend. An opportunity to go out in the woods, build a shelter from nothing, start a fire, eat, and hone your skills in wilderness survival, and cooking. My backpack would be packed to the gills. I had a hand saw, bags of raw ingredients, skillet, spatula, rope, a lantern, hatchet, compass, sleeping pad, cooking grate, water, and everything that I needed for the next few days.
Subsequent years got easier, as the lean-to I had created more or less remained intact, and I could use the freed time to focus on more important things: like cooking in coals of an open fire, waterproofing with fresh pine boughs, and visiting neighboring campsites to see what they'd made. One leader, someone even constructed a homemade oven, out of a cardboard, tin foil, and charcoal. Inside was a cake! I learned a lot of things on these outings, two being self-reliance and ingenuity.
That backpack followed me everywhere. From summer camp in the Adirondacks, to the wild caves of Kentucky, Gettysburg, and to our ski trip every winter. As I grew up, it instilled in me an appreciation for tools, and for keeping things around that still work. So when it came time many years later to once again head out and explore, I knew that this bag had to come with me.
Inside, I put everything that I thought I'd need for the coming months. I had spent the remaining weeks in my Brooklyn apartment paring down. I realized the practicality of minimalism, and so was determined to sell or store anything that wouldn't serve me on this trip. My friend Chuck, thankfully helped me. Three boxes of keepsakes and a bike, which was my daily rider and workhorse, went in his basement. I didn't know when I'd be back, but he assured me that my things were in safe hands.
I had a pretty open-ended itinerary, but I knew generally where I was going. It was winter in New York, and I would be arriving in South America to start the new year. I packed accordingly: cool clothes, my passport, a laptop, a collection of foreign money that had been left as gifts from previous Couchsurfers, a travel towel, toiletries, a hostel lock, a book my sister gave me, and a poster from my friend's album, which I brought with me and hung up wherever I stayed.
My mom was worried sick. She went so far as to get a passport, having never been outside the US, and not knowing a lick of Spanish. The first stop was Argentina, so I boned up on Duolingo, applied for an evisa, and bought some sun screen. It was summer there, and I wanted to take full advantage of favorable weather, so in addition to my bag, I also brought alone a rather peculiar item: A track bike. Disassembled, strapped together, and put in a modified shipping box, it would allow me to get around when I was in a particular city, and was made small enough to fit in the back of a taxi or the belly of a bus should I want to relax. For my precautions, I made copies of my passport, carried an emergency credit card, and I wrapped hundred dollar bills in cellophane and cleverly hid them under the liner in my shoes and inside the hollow handle of the bicycle pump which I'd also brought. Devised to mitigate potential damage from a mugging while abroad, it also conveniently offered me cash, which in Argentina was useful in a time that the official exchange rate was horrible, and the unofficial one, called dolar blue, allowed me to make my money go much farther. I rounded out my gear with two hefty locks. I didn't know what to expect, but I could secure my bike to a fence or a light post, and my front wheel to my bike frame with relative ease. For the cost of about 20 pounds, I knew that if I left my bike on the street for an extended period, it would be safe.
Networking was fairly easy. I had been active on Instagram for years, back when I was a bike messenger in New York, and so I had contacts everywhere, whether I wanted to "mash" or relax. Argentina was no different. It was home to the Pampa Riders, whom I frequently hung out with, as we rode around Buenos Aires on our fixed gear bikes. I found it quite novel and nice to have my own bike in a new city. Even when we were doing something stupid like riding on a highway, it always got me home. The simplicity of the bike's design also allowed me to assemble it quickly upon arrival in a new place. My first night, I had already put it together before I even unpacked my bag!
Days in Buenos Aires were pretty simple. I'd pedal, I'd eat, I'd change money, I'd just relax. I couldn't believe how different life was in South America. I was learning Spanish, and also a new, slower way to live. Evenings were spent hanging out with other travelers, in what was a short-term stay home in the heart of the city. We'd eat, drink, laugh, play music, go out. People from Argentina, UK, Israel, Paraguay, and Chile were all together, having a good time. When I got done there, I re-packed my bike and bag, and headed for the bus terminal. After some negotiating and a quick bribe to a baggage handler, both my backpack and my bike were safely onboard, and we were off to Mendoza and then Santiago.
Chile came and went without issue. I spent my few weeks there exploring street art and food with my friend Gustavo from the hostel, taking the metro, biking to lookouts, and wandering markets. Gustavo and I spent a day in a nearby city called Valparaiso, and I would definitely say this was a highlight from my trip.
(!pinmapple -33.049991 lat -71.614224 long Wandering around, admiring street art, accompanied by a street dog. d3scr)
Once I got to Peru, I developed a problem. The weight of the locks that I'd brought for my bike had left the backpack bursting at the seams. Being neither interested in knockoffs, or flush with cash, I opted instead to pay a local tailor to fix my bag. Making quick work of what I considered an impossible feat, he created patches and sewed them into the bag, covering up broken stitches and doing his best to repair the nylon that had already torn.
After Peru, came California briefly, and then Taiwan. I had been looking forward to this for so long. Many of my friends on Instagram were there, and I was eager to explore not just the streets of this mysterious place, but also its famous night markets. A month in this country later, I had returned to Taipei, and made my way back to San Francisco, where I worked briefly and then later embarked on a road trip to Las Vegas. Before I left, I knew that I needed to save space, as traveling with three other people left little room in our tiny car. I again boxed up my bike, and shipped it back to New York. A week later, I was home, only briefly. I had returned for the only thing that I'd planned that year: My sister's wedding. Waiting for me there, besides family, was my boxed up bike. Or at least most of it.
Fedex had screwed me. Arriving at my doorstep was a giant cardboard box, with a gaping hole in the side. Out of it had fallen several key components, and the dream of traveling the world with my bike. After the wedding, I was due back on the road. I had planned to fly to Los Angeles, and then onward to Mexico. My backpack came with me. My bike did not.
I was getting comfortable in LA. I'd been twice now, and I had a great friend, Rocky, who had held a few of my belongings while in Taiwan. Two of them, I wish he would of kept: my heavy bike locks. I had felt stupid when I got there. While it definitely helped my street cred with new friends, it was overkill in a country where crime is so low. They didn't even sell this level of security in most places. In New York, bike thieves used bolt cutters and angle grinders to make lunch of your metal locks. Here, I saw thin cables, but it might have even been possible to lean your bike against a wall and not have it taken. In fact, one brazen day, I found a nice spot in the park and laid with my bike beside me for an afternoon nap. When I woke up, the bike was still there!
Anyway, back to LA. By this point, my poor backpack had endured so much abuse. Heavy locks sloshing around, aggressive baggage handlers, stuffed pockets. Work the tailor in Peru had done quickly unraveled. In a last-ditch-effort, I had even lined the inside with a garbage bag, hoping to keep things from falling out in transit! But when I got back in California, I knew it was done. I did like the Native Americans: Cutting the bag apart, salvaging as much as I could. I managed to save the "brain" and one side pocket. The rest was recycled or trashed. Nylon isn't built to last forever, but it had lasted a good 15 years by this point. I went to REI the next day and bought the 40L bag that I still use today. Smaller than the one it replaced, but closer to my vision of minimalist travel, and less prone to tears and abuse as had befallen my previous trusty companion. That's how it goes. Things don't last forever. You realize what you need and what's wasting space quickly when it's always on your back. Though I still had my bike in pieces back in New York, it was time for change. Rocky and I went on Craigslist and found a penny board. This would be my ride from now on.
-The Nudge
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