Travel Gods And Travel Packets

1496411999018-698068931Paring down to the last of the crap to toss. The Himalayan pack is sold as a bag of boulders (and as heavy) and the small backpacks not to leave my sight is similarly rotund.

Head out to strap everything on…and Florida rainy season begins. The Gods of travel mock me.

Actually, it isn’t the first time. I’ve had an ongoing comedic relationship with the travel Gods, and a brief examination reveals my patron saint must be Loki.

On the trip down, just as soon as I hit the AT, a storm just short of a hurricane decided to squat directly over my head.

Years back, driving the old Chevy chevette in DC rush hour traffic (5 mph on the beltway) the stickshift suddenly had a case of nonlinear catastrophic structural reorganization, separating itself from the vehicle entirely. Here I was, stuck in second gear holding the stick up in the air while an asshole behind me in a candy apple red Corvette screamed at me to “get that piece of shit off the road!”

Saw the license plate a minute later when he passed me. “H2OGATE”

Yeah, it was G.Gordon Liddy. Fuck that prick.

Then there was the plane from Canada that lost about 6000 feet of altitude in about four seconds. Change of underwear flight.

Cleaning out the fridge before leaving, I was mocked by the horror. Even though I was traveling, I had to toss out a three year collection of travel packets.

Mayo. Onions. Relish, both sweet and regular. A collection of jellies and jams that any foodie would adore. Ketchup, both regular and fancy. Horseradish sauce.

The horror. I even had to toss the hot sauce.

Looks like the weather is clearing. In Florida, that means you have a momentary lapse in East coast rain showers before the sun becomes hot enough to boil the lizards on the sidewalk.

Better get to it. This is the final check-in from Pompano. Look for me on the road.

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