They say bad things come in threes. I am not quite sure why this is. Perhaps they are not so confident that they can make things bad as single spies. But, like many of us, they are confident (perhaps quietly confident, given that troubles do not seem to speak so much) that, travelling in battalions, they can make a significance difference in badness level.
Not that three makes a battallion. But still.
So yesterday I ran out of money. Actually I did not run out of money. I still had some. It was just in the wrong account, so I could not use it. The immediate symptom was that my credit card stopped working.
(While I think of it, and in case anyone from the bank is reading, my credit card doesn’t really go that well at the moment anyway. It does not scan at all well, but fortunately it still works in cash machines (except when there is no credit left, of course). And all the numbers to call to get it replaced are 0800 numbers in New Zealand that I just can not call. Very frustrating.)
Millions of calls later to try to find out what was wrong (tricky, because all the numbers were 0800 numbers and it was the middle of the night in New Zealand anyway), and a call to dad sorted everything out. But still. A message from God. Dad’s advice was short and simple ‘get a job’. He is very wise for a man his age.
It was quite funny to be wandering around Amsterdam in the very early morning (I am catching a train to Munich remember) with no money. Or almost no money. I had about 14 Euros (I can not find the symbol on this keyboard) in my pocket. The funniest thing were the beggars who, as beggars do, asked me for money. They found it difficult to understand that I just did not have any. I held myself back from asking where the best places were to beg generous Amsterdammers for a plane fare back to New Zealand.
As a result of biking around Amsterdam all day yesterday, my green pants finally gave way in the bum. Those of you who have been following my adventures for a while will recall a similar thing happened in the Russian Far East. There I was armed with a sewing kit and a skilled seamstress assistant. This time I had no sewing kit (left or lost somewhere). And no assistant. And therefore no hope of making repairs. I am still wearing the pants. Most of them is intact. I am sure they sell pants in Amsterdam. But not for less than 14 Euros.
And now I am racing across The Netherlands at 242kmph on my way to Munich, where I hope to pick up a ride down into Italy to play some Ultimate frisbee. Funny how far I go for that game. With my eyes skiined for trouble number 3.