Tools of the trade

As we were loading up for our latest move I looked around me and double-checked my mental list.

Small denomination Euros, check, credit card tucked away in my special place (Let’s not get silly here people), check, sunglasses, check, Fred, check. Then I look up at Carol and she’s thrusting the money belt towards me. Nooooo… we’ll be fine, please no.

We’ve seen enough travel videos where pickpockets have swooped in as a team and absconded with a traveler’s important documents because they got a bit careless and stuffed them in a pocket or backpack. That’s like taking candy from a baby to those folks. Money belts are the best insurance to protect your passports, credit cards, and your main money stash.

The downside is that they are non-slimming and can really mess up your ‘look’. Yes, even I have a style that I want to project, albeit it’s a little on the geriatric side.

It wasn’t necessarily helped in Sevilla where the temperature and sun exposure was stratospheric leaving me with a chocolate & vanilla stripe tan. My hair was vanilla, face and neck chocolate, chest vanilla, arms chocolate, torso white, and legs chocolate. I just turn away from the mirror when I’m getting out of the shower.

But the money belt strapped at the waistline makes it look like I’ve swallowed a 2×4. It used to be solely Carol’s responsibility until the last couple of trips.

I had always argued successfully that she was looking a little anorexic and an extra inch added to her tummy was a good look for her. Plus my main task is schlepping the backpack everywhere which holds Carol’s gallon jug of water, Carol’s extra footwear, jackets, maps, sunglasses, tablet, and an anvil. Maybe if she took her turn with the backpack it would improve her posture and she could stop complaining about her back pain. Just sayin’.

Another negative of having a non-conforming solid obstruction strapped to your front is how it restricts your movement when bending over. Like when I see a nickle on the street and I want to pick it up while wearing the backpack. I have to rotate sideways, get into a kneeling position, and try to scoop it up while looking out of the corner of my eye. It usually takes me 3 or 4 tries. By then I’m starting to hear some harsh words from the commuters trying to exit the metro behind me. Hey if I had a nickel for every nickel that I let slip by… My father-in-law would appreciate that as he still has his first nickel.

So the door closes behind us and we each bump our wheelie bags down the stairs with Carol’s large bag and purse slung over her shoulder and the backpack scraping away at my vertebrae. Tools of the trade, gotta have ’em.