How To: The Necessity of Sleep

So I gotta carry this backpack through a dozen countries, city streets, windy weather and busy bus hubs, huh? Wait, and I have to live on nothing but its contents for over a month? Hmm, backpacking through Europe in forty days on a shoestring requires a lengthy meditation on the meaning of the word, “necessity.”

There is something Waldenesque about packing your life into a matchbox. A bowl, a toothbrush, and one change of pants are the simple, austere possessions of the self-sufficient, nomadic life reminiscent of that picture of Gandhi's belongings on the day he died. (Sans my laptop and iPod, luxurious indulgences but necessary provisions nonetheless. I'm positive that a 21st century Thoreau would agree).

There is a method to economic backpacking, maybe even an art. First, devoid pockets of everything extraneous. Leave behind American silver, car keys, and Kroger discount cards. Everything on person and in the pack must be practical. Worthless grocery receipts clutter pockets making it harder to find more important papers. And even receipts add weight to a pack over time. Walking 7 miles a day carrying an ounce of unnecessary material adds up to carrying 17 pounds of extra baggage in 40 days. Step two, only pack plenty of the provisions that’ll get dirty. For example, pack at least 14 pairs of underwear, but pack only one or two of the garments that don’t get smelly. If you are constantly on the move, no one is going to notice that you have worn the same green jacket and blue jeans for a month straight. (This is not entirely true. Your fashion in your trip’s photo album will look as constant and silly as that traveling gnome from Amelie.)

My backpacking trip through Europe begins with a sojourn in the land of siesta, sangria and Cervantes. Disembarking in Barcelona, I make haste to beat nightfall to my lodging. Looking for a hostel along the old city streets of the Barri Gotic, I feel like an animal. Backpacking is zoomorphic. You become like the camel relying on the back for sustenance, sympathetic of the turtle, cognizant of his carried shelter. And upon my first night in a hostel, I learn that sleep habits adapt the traits of the nocturnal marsupial, attempting to sleep in a room with five other men all racing to the land of Nod. Last one asleep is forced into a consolatory listening of the polyrhythmic 'Symphony of Snore, ' composed specifically for the insomniac’s listening pleasure. The backbeat is provided by the deep, heavy, and wheezy breathing of the crippled immigrant worker, the only sound he makes save the residual echo of his ceased petition for early darkness. Vibrations and animalistic grunts from the top-bunk sleeper make for a passionate, improvised solo comped by the harmonizing baritone snore from the inconsiderate, unconscious guy two beds down.

After prescription sleeping pills, 3 a.m. marks a drift into slumber, but suddenly pillow-plugged ears become mindful of a fumbled key in the lock. Closed eyelids are yanked open proportionally to the opening door as if surgically tied to each other by a taut wire. Light pours in to the room preceded only by the stench of stale smoke and sangria. Ah, good, another roommate. And before his head can hit the pillow, a fully-clothed pass-out joins the chorus of unconscious melody-makers. But an early morning train departure gives opportunity for ample payback. I've found that rustling plastic bags works the best. When packing for your trip be sure to place plastic grocery bags in the category marked “necessity.”