I broke the story but Dave gets the glory. If I could only sing as good as I write!

O.K. I guess it was not earth-shattering news when I reported, in my typically hilariously humor-laden writing style, that airline baggage handlers don’t always handle our bags as if our luggage contained unprotected Faberge eggs.

 

My story went as far as suggesting that the Baggage Toss may even be under consideration as a future Official Olympic Sport.

 

I still think the most amazing part of the story is that the airline employees fling our suitcases within just a few feet of where we are sitting. Either they are unbelievably oblivious to that fact or just assume the chance is slim of us climbing out through those little double-pane windows to ask them,

“WHAT THE F#@K DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!?”

So, I would like to report here as to all the notoriety I received from my crack reporting, which, in my case is something like talking out of my arse?

 

I did NOT get a YouTube video out of my story.

I did NOT get invited on the morning news show circuit.

I did NOT get a call from the airline begging me to take some compensation for my injuries—or those to my Samsonite traveling companion.

 

But when Dave Carroll went through the same experience and made musical mention, his story has gone, as you kids call it, viral.

 

While Dave’s story went out over numerous news outlets, it was the YouTube posting that has made him famous and, I assume, the bane of the United Airlines P.R. folks.

 

So, I have to ask, why him and not me.

 

Other than the fact that he is incredibly good looking—not that I noticed—and has a great singing voice and his song is fantastic, my story went out on a blog read by at least ten people (and that is counting my eight views of my own story).

 

Bitter?  Me?

 

But he really is cute…not that I noticed.

 

Fishing by kayak on Caples Lake: Go Big or Go Home.

As you know, we spent an intimate Fourth of July weekend up at Lake Tahoe with a few million of our best friends.

 

We started off the big day by participating in the age-old American tradition of eating greasy breakfast meat products rolled into convenient serving sizes that accompany bleached white flour pancakes the size of car hubcaps that were fried on grills the size of a small aircraft carrier.

 

                  

 

Of course, the volunteer fire department employed only the cutest of servers to entice us to consume these healthy food items, in full knowledge that within a short time they would be called to practice their fire department medical aid drills on us as we seize up with constricted arteries.

 

              

 

Everyone knows Lake Tahoe is rife with Bears Gone Wild and with the smell of breakfast sausages wafting through the forest, we should have been warned that the local Ursus residents might come a visiting to give us a little friendly mauling.

It was all I could do to defend myself.  Where was my damned pepper spray when I needed it?

 

                       

 

 

After breakfast, we drove south of Lake Tahoe, out to Caples Lake, along Highway 88—which very well may be the most spectacular scenery in California. 

Caples Lake is a popular fishery but was reported to be under attack, last summer.

 

But, to paraphrase the old Mark Twain line, the rumors of the lake’s death were greatly exaggerated.

 

Apparently, the evildoers were repelled by minions of fishermen wielding their fiberglass rods and Rapala lures and the lake has recovered in good spirits, or so go the reports.

 

As the recent fishing rumors go—and we all know that there are few facts as told by the ilk (whether due to subterfuge or just plain old exaggeration)—there are some real lunkers plying the lake’s depths.

 

A comment left on my previous post questioned why no fishing paraphernalia was visible in the photos of our paddling the previous day.

Today’s pictures should leave no doubt as to what our intention was on Caples Lake. We were out for bear.

 

No wait, that was at breakfast. We were out for the Big Ones.

And anyone who has seen the movie Jaws knows that when you go out for big fish you need big tackle.

 

       

 

You think the bobber is large; you should see the size of the line attached, to say nothing of the hook that was being trolled behind.

 

You would think that large fishing tackle would be readily available from a number of suppliers, but we could only find one company selling that size of bobber we needed to support the 200 pound test line and anchor-sized fishing hook.

 

While certainly fishing was our main interest, the fact that the product was advertised that it could also hold a 12 pack of cold brewskis did not escape our attention. It gave added incentive to tow the massive weighted bobber all over the lake.

 

    

 

But, as in many products on today’s market, you can’t always believe the advertising.

 

Our athletic and able fisherwoman started noticing that she was beginning to slow down considerably.

 

While at first, she attributed the increase in paddling pressure to just thirst and anticipation of cracking open one of the microbrews being chilled on ice within just a few feet behind her. But something told her that either she, in fact, did have a Fish On, one of huge mackinaws reported to be in the lake, OR she might be experiencing some form of equipment malfunction.

 

Sure enough, unfortunately it was NOT a 50-pound mackinaw slowing down the boat.

 

   

 

 

So, we did the only thing we could to alleviate the problem that had become a real drag to our outing.

 

We drank the beer and loaded up the Big Bobber in something that would float.

 

               

 

Once emptied of its weighty content, the non-functional fishing device could be transported back to the truck.

 

Anyone fishing up there that happens to drag up a very large hook off the bottom, please drop me a line.

 

Oh, you’ll know it’s my hook…it has a bunch of breakfast sausages strung on it for bait.

 

And, of course, what would Fourth of July be without fireworks?

 

Stay away from Lake Tahoe on the Fourth of July weekend…we’re all full up.

Yeah, leave it to me, a visitor myself, to tell everyone to just stay away from Lake Tahoe on the Fourth of July weekend.

            

They call it the Drawbridge Dogma. I’m here—you, just stay away. 

The alternate axiom is, I got mine: too bad for you.

 

 

     

 

The problem is that I’m about two million people too late.

They’re already here.

 

Having inside knowledge does help to figure out which back roads are mostly undiscovered by the non-natives.

And which beach has more awe-inspiring Ospreys than people.

 

Once you paddle past the portly, beach-dwelling, sunblock-greased masses, you get to appreciate the native scenery with spectacular granite mountains and shades of green vegetation.

 

      

 

Areas with private property are a little less au naturel with evidence of the accoutrements of both old money and nouveau riche with scatterings of both understated, simple cabins along side four story, multi-thousand square-foot “lodges” : calling them homes would be non-descriptive of both their use and enormity—these are often second (third, fourth, fifth???) houses that are under-utilized and overly wasteful of space and resources.

Not only do these people have speed boats more expensive than my car, they get to park them right on their private docks. (Note, I said “on” the docks…not next to them.)

 

Or maybe I’m just jealous that my dad’s last name wasn’t Hilton or Harrah.

 

   

     

 

Yes, the roads can turn into worse gridlock than a Los Angeles commute nightmare (remember, most of the roads are only one lane going each way and the passing lanes make convenient speed traps), but the beauty of Lake Tahoe is pretty much as I remember it from my visits with my parents, some 50+ years ago.

(Yes, we came up in cars back then, not in horse-drawn stage coaches.)

 

The clarity is still pretty amazing to experience, especially when you are sitting right on the crystal clear, ice-cold water.

 

 

     

 

So, feel free to express your independence of this July 4th weekend by staying home.

 

Just tell the kids that there is too much pollen everywhere (as seen in the puddle, below).

 

It’s almost difficult to even breathe…hack, hack, cough, cough…

 

 

     

 

 

Now, if I could just convince a few tens-of-thousands to head home early…

Don’t Cry For Me Vancouver. No worries, I’m not blaming you.

Sure, that title evokes a song by a slightly different title that has certainly been bantered about, as of late.

 

This post will wrap up our recent quickie to Vancouver to supposedly celebrate the occasion of our 2nd Annual 30th Wedding Anniversary Trip. 

 

I have taken to call our 31st wedding anniversary by an alternate description in homage of an absolutely amazing adventure we took a year previous for the monumental 30th anniversary—as in; I can’t believe she put up with me all these, oh, so many years.

I have previously promised to give full detail to that wonderful long weekend that included a chartered floatplane to a private, dockside, cute little cabin, which was just a romantic rowboat paddle away from a world famous garden paradise.

It was a trip, when chronicled brings longing sighs from women and glaring glances from the men with them.

We thought we could duplicate the experience by returning to the spectacular region of the Pacific Northwest.

It was not to be so.

 

The trip started with an unfortunate and certainly untimely medical condition—at least for me; and things got worse from there.

 

Have you ever gotten a rash from poison oak?

Until last year, I always thought scratching oneself spread the extremely annoying, constantly itching rash; probably from my mom telling me to quit touching it.

Since then, I learned that the stuff spreads around, inside your body and “surfaces” wherever it damn feels like it.

The day before our trip I removed a small poison oak vine near our house employing the utmost care, to the point of wearing surgical gloves.

The next day as we awoke to leave for the north woods, I discovered I not only had the rash on my arms, but also in a place that would make it impossible to consummate our wedding anniversary. Damn.

“No ma, I didn’t touch it there…honest.”

 

So, if that wasn’t enough to immediately cloud my memory of such a great trip the previous year, we both had this little stomach situation, which I won’t repeat here.

 

Obviously, this was enough suffering for anyone at anytime, let alone in the middle of an ostensibly special trip.

 

              

 

But wait, there was more.

 

We have nothing but good things to say about the Barclay House Bed and Breakfast, including the plush, large bed in the nicely appointed room. Well, maybe except for the solid, hardwood (emphasis on the word HARD) end board on that bed.

 

Probably on one of my many countless trips to the bathroom taken at an urgent speed, I ran directly into the part of that solid, hardwood bed end board that stuck out, oh, about thigh level.  Did I mention the solid, hardwood construction?

 

And that is why I spent the rest of that night hobbling to the bathroom, which gave my wife a clear advantage to get there first in the footrace competition of our Stomach Ordeal Olympics.

 

After a week and a half the bruise is now bright green (is it supposed to be that color?!?), still very sore, and I have a definite hitch in my get-a-long.

 

So, as you can see, our trip to British Columbia was just like our trip the previous year, except it was nothing like the trip the previous year.

 

            

 

I doubt very much I will choose to call a future trip an “anything annual” of some other, previous trip.

 

I think as a variant of the old adage that “you can’t go home again,” I think the same can be said about thinking you can repeat the “perfect” vacation or adventure.

 

Assuming you can do so almost seems a recipe to guarantee failure as was proved by our going from a celebration of three decades of marital bliss to walking wounded.

 

They say that shit happens.

Yes, it did.

 

“Where to, next year, dear?”

 

               

I lunched with Anthony Bourdain in Vancouver, but dammit, I had to buy.

There is no lack of television travel shows for the armchair vagabond.

Pick your passion, whether you be a pampered five-star hotel traveler or minimalist outbacker who carries little in the way of amenities.

Think high thread-count sheets and in-house spas as compared to the latest in freeze-dried foods and high tech water filters.

 

Add to the mix whatever particular playtime avocation you hope to pique and you might be packing a lightweight $800 Orvis fly rod or $3000 Nikon camera.

And then, there are those of us who find fascination in foods we have the opportunity to savor along our adventure’s path.

Apparently I am not alone with an ardor towards exotic travels and exotic foods or some combination of the two.

 

That is probably why I thoroughly enjoy watching Antony Bourdain while he transects the globe with No Reservations as to where he travels or what he puts in his mouth.

While not all of his shows are equally entertaining, some are more “memorable” than others.  I am sure many of you have seen the debacle in Romania that was “mentioned” by my buddy over at Killing Batteries and later “defended” by A.B., himself.

But, love it or hate it, you will have to admit it, a T.V. show spotlighting crazy people, weird foods, drinking to excess, and far-off locales, all make for pretty good television.

 

As you may know from my previous post, my wife and I just got back from a quick trip up to Vancouver, B.C.

On our drive from the airport into the West End of town we noticed one particular street corner with a food cart of some type that had an unusually large crowd gathered around.

      

Upon arrival at the Barclay House Bed and Breakfast, we got our briefing for local food and entertainment recommendations from our perennially smiling host, Dennis.

When we mentioned the apparently popular downtown food cart, Dennis knew immediately we had witnessed the food phenomena that is Japadog.

They have a self-professed lack of perfection with the English language (I know the feeling);

“Our English is very poor. The followings may make mistakes. We are sorry.”

But, they have nothing to apologize for, when it comes to their dining fare.

 

You can clearly see from the list of ingredients in the dog I selected, there is nothing in there that looks bad, at least to me.

 

                

 

And it tasted exquisite, indeed.

 

But as fantastic as the food tasted, the biggest surprise of the day was that I got to eat with nobody less than Mr. Bourdain, himself.

 

While he didn’t say much, nor did he offer to pay, it was a pleasure to have covered the same ground as someone who knows his way around a non-English menu.

 

                     

 

 

                                           

 

While some of you may question if this stop to sample street food lead to our later antics, I believe the timeline does not support that supposition. 

Translation: it was almost 24 hours later before the s#!t hit the fan, so to speak. (Might as well have hit the fan—we hit just about everything else within range!)

 

Besides, if it was good enough for Anthony Bourdain, it should damn well be good enough for me.

Although…..look at that picture of him in the lower left; is it my imagination or he does display at least a slight look of anguish?

We interrupt our Vancouver travel show to bring you this disturbing story.

I have previously posited posts on the unfortunate occasion of becoming ill or injured while traveling.

This story is one I would have more imagined to have occurred while visiting some far off, so-called third world country with substandard health conditions.

But life is not always as expected.

The moral of this story, told up front as you may not wish to venture further, is to always travel with ample supplies of Tums, Pepto Bismol, and Imodium.

 

 

                                    

 

I was poised with pen in hand—or more correctly, keyboard at fingertips—to present yet another of my typically well-written, laugh-out-loud travel stories.

(You have likely seen my previous Pulitzer Prize pieces. Hint: they were written under my pen name, Dave Berry.)

 

But then it hit us.

 

My wife and I are in Vancouver, B.C.—a most wonderful place—to celebrate our 31st wedding anniversary, or as I have taken to call it, our 2nd Annual 30th Wedding Anniversary Trip. (There is a story to that, but it will have to wait.)

 

We are—or were—enjoying this cosmopolitan melting pot of cultures and cuisines.

And, apparently, something happened having to do with the latter term that resulted in what I can only call “Tag Team Intestinal Evacuation.”

It was during a relaxing horse drawn carriage tour of the famed Stanley Park and it started.

What caused it we can only speculate. During the previous 24 hours we had cheerfully consumed street vendor food (from a reportedly trusted source), an expensive dinner in a well-known restaurant and a marvelous multi-coursed breakfast meal at our bed and breakfast.

Without a comprehensive CSI analysis of samples flown to the O.J.Simpson Crime Lab, we will likely never know.

About half way through the carriage ride I felt this slight discomfort in my lower stomach region. It was not until the tour was completed that my wife made mention of some significant cramps, which was relayed directly to my arm in her vise-like grip upon every spasm, not unlike her reaction to her labor contractions many years ago.

We quickly decided it would be a good idea to head back to the barn (in the vernacular of our horse-powered park tour) and to do so in all due haste.

 

As we approached our local accommodations—and with the knowledge that our room had only one water closet—I  was determined to maintain the inside position towards my goal of the big multi-purpose ivory bowl.

But as I slowed, every so slightly, to remove superfluous items of clothing, my wife accelerated in the outside lane and quickly “assumed the position.”

I will, for the sake of any readers who have stayed this far with this sorted tale of intestinal woes, to summarize the next three to four hours by suggesting you imagine the sound of liquid being forcibly expelled through a nozzle. 

A lot of liquid.

 

Finally, it was my turn in the formerly pristine white tiled room, and by then I was in the position that things were happening at both business ends of my medical malady.

Thank goodness for plastic bagged-lined garage cans close at hand.

Thus begun our tag team approach to sharing the facilities.

 

Our choreographed movements were as seamless as a performance of the Bolshoi Ballet.

And, more reminiscent of the closing crescendo of the Overture of 1812, we concluded, what we thought was, our final act.

 

But after an intermission of about an hour we discovered there would be an Act II to this sickly saga.

I hesitated to characterize this as an Encore performance as I would not know for some time that there would not be an Act III. (There was.)

 

In time, I was elected to venture out on to the local streets in search of bland crackers and warm sports drinks.

 

In fear of accidental fertilizations of neighbor lawns I packed a plastic bag, as do conscientious dog walkers, the difference being, anything requiring clean up could not be accomplished by a “pooper scooper,” but would necessitate a hazmat-rated wet vac.

After 24 hours of not much food but lots of sleep, we are back in the saddle.

 

We are determined to complete this visit to Vancouver with a better taste in our mouth.

 

Cheers!

You weren’t good enough for the Best. Are you good enough for the Goode?

It used to be we wished we had a better job…maybe even a dream job.

Nowadays many of us just hope we can just keep the job we’ve got (or wish we still had one).

It was no surprise when someone announced a job opening for The Best Job In The World that the competition was stiff.

You may remember it had something to do with getting to live on a beautiful island and spend your days snorkeling and the such and your evenings blogging, Twittering, and Facebooking.

I did not want anyone to get their hopes up, as it was obvious–at least to me (but apparently not to anyone else) that I was the perfect candidate. I tried my best to dissuade you from wasting your time in applying.

As the application period drew towards the deadline, I again suggested you need not apply.

And finally, I let you know when it was too late to apply.

Well, I tried to tell you that you would not get the job and I was right (unless you are a Brit by the name of Ben Southall).

Well, the Best job may be taken, but you still have two days to apply for a Really Good Job (technically a Really Goode Job).

      

While this one is not on a beautiful island, it is in the scenic wine country of Northern California.

If you can live getting paid to drink wine instead of snorkeling, you might be a candidate.

And the blogging, Twittering, and Facebooking are still a major component of the job description.

Sorry I did not get the word out sooner but I just picked up on this story in our local newspaper.

I got a kick out of one quote,

“The new hire will earn $10,000 a month, plus lodging in a private home. The short-term assignment: explore the Sonoma County wine country, sample hundreds of wines and use social media like Twitter and Facebook to tweet, blog and otherwise create buzz about the winery.”

My thought is that after sampling “hundreds of wines” it won’t just be the stories you write that will be “buzzed.”

     

I’m leaving for Canada with my lovely wife at “dark-thirty” tomorrow morning for our 2nd Annual 30th Wedding Anniversary Trip so unfortunately I won’t have time to do another 60 second video application. (Truth be known, I never got to doing one for the Best Job In The World.)

I guess I will just have to wait for the next job opportunity that involves getting paid to recreate and drink alcohol.

If you hear a call for applicants for A Mediocre, So-so Job please let me know.

Just what I need…more ticks. I HATE ticks.

Staycations, close to home trips, short jaunts, quick getaways; whatever you call them, they seem to be all the rage nowadays.

Maybe it has something to do with gas prices over three bucks a gallon (what, again?!?), income realignments (layoffs, pay cuts, furlough days), evisceration of our investment funds, or just being tired of the road rage hitting the highways or playing the airport strip search routine.

Newspaper, magazine and web stories abound about these cheaper alternatives of how we might spend our precious time off.

So, not to buck a populist movement, here’s another one.

                          

If you happen to be in somewhere in the midriff of California, you might consider getting stoned outdoors instead of sitting at home watching re-runs of mindless TV programs (or, if you forgot to switch to digital TV reception, better than watching the blank screen and wondering if Kim John-il just nuked your local television broadcasting station).

We heard about a new (to us) kayak venue, just south of Sacramento.

I really was excited when I thought it was called Stoned Lake.

No, no, no…not for THAT reason. Really.

I have just never seen a stoned lake.

A lake with stones, of course.

A lake with stoners, yes, on occasion.

But, alas, the wonderful wildlife-laden water body is part of the Stone Lakes National Wildlife Refuge.

                

They have initiated a scenic, very relaxing, slow-paced, guided canoe and kayak program that is just minutes from busy suburban areas, yet provides a sense of wilderness and solitude. During our three hour paddle we saw no people, other than our stalwart group of five kayakers, along with our laid-back, yet knowledgeable guides, Josh and Guy.

       

You need to call to set up a guided tour of this federally protected wildlife area, and make sure to get clear directions to the meeting spot. We used their headquarters address and drove back and fourth near the Delta town of Hood. I think after making the third pass the town’s folk were starting to get suspicious of some nefarious invasion underway of their bustling downtown area.

And then we got suspicious when we noticed a truck following us, until we noticed the kayaks on their roof and realized they were possibly looking for the same place we were. Sure enough, Brenda and Dan were part of our group.

Once on the water–in the kayaks that we brought–it did not take long to start seeing an amazing amount of wildlife, just minutes off a major interstate highway (I-5).

Birds were abundant; we saw herons (including a Black-crowned Night-heron), a number of hawks, including the Swainson’s Hawk, beautiful, snow-white egrets, and a good example of a tern, to which I chimed in (to the  sound of moans and groans) that “one good tern deserved another.”

While birds were the predominant form of fauna we witnessed, we did see the biggest beaver abode I have ever seen, to the point that I wondered if they have figured out how to use mechanized logging equipment.

We also saw a number of very timid turtles. Usually they would rather do a belly flop into the water, rather than continue sunning themselves on a log, as soon as you got within 50 feet of them.

                

Some of the wildlife species spent most of its time underwater. I don’t know if they were bass, carp or catfish, but they were big and there were many of them. At least one of our group was spooked when one of the larger specimens actually got them wet. But when they started talking about get their kayak bumped, I suspected a fish story in the making.

The water in some parts was fairly clear to the point you could witness these aquatic behemoths ply the waterways. And I say the fish spend “most” of their time underwater because there was a whole lot of jumping completely out of the water, as if Jaws, himself, was chasing them.

We were cautioned to the abundance of poison oak along the banks of the water, so should you get the urge to get amorous or feel the need to do as nature requires, take caution and be careful where you put your hands and any other body parts.

There was another species of flora that was as unwelcome, that being the beautiful, yet invasive water hyacinth. This plant is often used as an ornamental in home ponds but completely chokes waterways once introduced to the outdoors.

                                                                                         

Also, Guy and Josh warned us to watch for ticks that were anxious to hop a ride onto our bodies in their miniature rendition of an insect vampire. In other words, they “vant your blooood.”

You can paddle as little or as much as you wish. There is no current on this closed body of water, so it’s up to you how strenuous you make your time on the water. We opted to paddle almost the entire area, so we were pretty much famished when we bid adieu to our gracious guides.

After just a short drive over the highway, we Thai’ed one on for lunch. 

Hopefully I did not spoil anyone’s lunch as I picked and probed my hirsute anatomy in search of any creepy crawlies.

For some reason, no one else would do it for me. 

Oh oh, is that a spice on my plate or did I just see it move?

This road story really sucks but these people give you a place to expectorate .

They’re as mad as hell and they’re not going to take it anymore.

No, I’m not talking about Network T.V. Although, there will be plenty of couch rage when thousands (millions?) lose their television signal when broadcast television goes all digital in two days. (Can you imagine a day without American Idol?!?)

 

         

 

No matter how much they rant and rave, hearing someone in the office say that their commute sucks is about as unusual as someone saying they can’t stand their boss.

I mean, short of taking up with the unwashed masses on public transportation, what CAN they do?

 

Well, people are getting Wired into action.

This is all because someone has created a place to ostensibly make you feel better, albeit of questionable value, in my opinion.

The people over at My Commute Sucks gives you a place to register your serious unhappiness and great displeasure.

“Millions of Americans are frustrated just like me, and our rage is boiling over into something productive.”

But being frustrated doesn’t ameliorate the situation. No, these people provide just the solution that is guaranteed to, likely, improve nothing whatsoever.

“We’re telling Congress to make smart, bold transportation investments.”

Wow, that should just about solve it.

 

                          

 

There must be more than that, you say.

Oh, you silly person…of course there is.

There is a place to share your woes of road rage for all to see. A kind of Frustration Forum, if you will.

 

I’ll bet when congress gets a few dozen people complaining as to how their life generally sucks, that should just about do it.

 

 

              

 

Next, maybe we can get them to make air travel tolerable again.

Excuse me while I sit here and hold my breath until the skies are, once again, friendly.

Just after I watch American Idol.

Become a nomad before it’s too late. Oops, too late…it’s already a trend.

We would like to think that we don’t follow a particular path just because it is popular.

(The exception to this postulate are all those people–mostly female–who continue to get those tiny, little, yapping dogs the size of a mouse on steroids and carry them around like a purse under their arm (or IN their purse), apparently because a few Hollywood starlets do it. (I actually had another “S” word in mind that rhymes with “mutt.”)

Most of us would like to think we do what we do because it’s what we want to do; not because everyone else is doing it.

Or, in my case, because my wonderful wife suggested I do it.

As a matter of fact, many of us will avoid certain life choices just because everyone else is doing it.

It was not that long ago that I noticed, what I thought was, a few people walking away from the classic corporate 8-to-5 lifestyle with the associated accoutrements, such as a domestic domicile, a leased BMW, and American Express card, to become an independent, seemingly semi-permanent traveler.

 

          

I began to discover a network of these self-described nomads through a young man who has apparently chosen a life on the road (and sometimes off the road).

Nomadic Matt is somehow able to find a place to sleep, occasionally eat, and travel the world discovering a whole planet of things to see on a full time basis.

But apparently this is not just a small group of people who have chosen this way of life.

While the concept of a nomad has been around for thousands of years, some news sources seem to thing this is just now becoming a trend.

The San Francisco Chronicle story characterizes the current trend of either people with lots of money or people who have lost most of theirs. The paper claims that there are a million Americans who have undertaken this lifestyle.

And some accounts say that there are upwards of 30 to 40 million nomads world wide.

Wow, that must make finding a spare bed in the hostels pretty tough.

But the larger number includes the traditional nomads, the image being of the wandering tribes of hardscrabble people, riding camels, looking for the next water source, rather than the modern nomads with Nikon cameras, smart phones, netbook computers, ultra-lightweight backpack gear, and clothing made from recycled plastic bottles.

The similarities may be in name only.

Well, that, and how they smell after too many miles between taking a bath.

As some people see modern society disintegrating into a Mad Max scenario, maybe we will all be nomads some day.

But if that happens, where will I plug in my plethora of electronic devices for recharging?