On Laundry

So this rather hot Kiwi chap in his 30s hit on me in the hotel last night.

Obviously, I completely failed to register it until I dropped “my son” into conversation (he was in one corner, reading a book, I was in another, using my MacBook) and he went into the sort of shock that single, childless men one’s sort of age go into when one drops the parent stuff into conversation.

Like, DOH!

Because, with the exception of beach boys on Thai islands, travelling with a child 24/7 does (correctly, I think) signal unavailability. Incidentally, if anyone has a polite way of escaping from being spoonfed tidbits in a restaurant by a dreadlocked seducer, I would love to hear it, because, even without the tension coming off last night’s conquest, it felt really very icky indeed.

Anyhoo. I am now vaguely contemplating showing my face at ladies night in the bar round the corner (DMZ), largely to find out what the “interesting gifts in the ice bucket” are.

Z and the receptionist’s daughter here have been making friends, so it wouldn’t be impossible to achieve babysitting for the hour or so that the novelty value is likely to last.

Swish bars and bartenders were a big part of my life: I wrote about them, and I love great bars, bartenders and cocktails. But I have, at the moment, no desire to explore whatever elite bar scene undoubtedly exists in Hue, Vietnam’s third largest city, even though I’ve got a DvF frock lovingly stashed away (well, double-wrapped in plastic bags) should I feel the need.

Which is odd. Because I might have thought I’d be climbing the walls by now.

On which note, my dear friend Clappy Matty asked me what it felt like to be “the kind of person who washes their smalls in the sink every day”.

So, first up, I do the laundry in the shower, using feet and shampoo to start with, and it’s more like every couple of days than every day.

Doing the laundry in the shower using soap or shampoo feels a hell of a lot better than grappling with sinks, red dust, local washing powder, which is mainly bleach, and the resultant scum.

Hanging stuff out to dry just feels like part of the routine now, along with assessing how many more days Z’s clothes (and mine) will do. It feels, to be honest, wholesome, even liberating.

And, although I’ve got make-up with me, I’m not using it.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t get the odd flash of envy at people who have lovingly layered and accessorised in a fashion which speaks of a substantial, well-planned holiday wardrobe, rather than thrown on whatever happens to be clean, dry and climate-appropriate that morning.

So, this is our current wardrobe, which I am carrying, and which evolved over the last three days before we left through a process of eliminating what wouldn’t fit in the backpack.

Z:
5x pants (too many)
3x socks (I borrow his)
1 pair hiking boots
1 pair flip flops
1 pair jeans with belt
2x zip-off trousers/shorts (these are genius, and I’ll be getting a pair myself)
1 pair shorty pyjamas
2x T-shirts
1x hoodie
1x warm coat
2x long-sleeved cotton tops (for sun protection),
2x short-sleeved shirts
1x long-sleeved silk shirt
1x swimming trunks
1x long-sleeved swimming top (for sun protection)
1 pair sunglasses.
We have lost two hats, so far, so he’s going without right now.

Me:
2 pairs flip flops (couldn’t choose between colours)
1 pair hiking boots
1 pair socks
1 pair jeans with belt
1 pair trousers
1 pair shorts
2x t-shirts
2x vest tops
1x hoodie
1x ski jacket
5x pants
4x bras (not sure how that happened)
1x swimsuit
1x everyday dress
1x posh frock
1x pretty cardigan (a waste of space, but I am unwilling to chuck it out)
1x nightie-type thing
1x sunglasses

All the colours work together. They need to.

When things die, you chuck them out and swap them in. He has too many tops, so we won’t be replacing these. I have too many short-sleeved tops. We’ll need more cold weather gear when we reach Venezuela – a sweater or fleece each, plus thermals and decent socks for Bolivia, probably gloves and a hat – but that is a long way away right now.

So, how does it feel? Honestly, it is very liberating to live out of a backpack. You move from a process of incremental acquisition, interspersed with the odd clearout, to a process of elimination.

I love spangly, high-heeled shoes, and left behind at least ten pairs. I am not missing them. Z is not missing any of his clothes, either.

But it is nice to have painted toes again. I am acutely aware that I need to do some sit-ups. And, as I gradually discover the natural colour of my hair for the first time in twenty years, I’m thinking it could probably do with a tint. Though, given what they put in pools in these parts, I am not sure that is the best idea either.