I knelt down today and, pop, the latest rip, this time in my only pair of jeans. Damn. I was warned not to bring jeans. “They are too heavy”, “They don’t dry fast enough”, etc, etc. Whatever. Nothing feels quite like a pair of broken-in jeans and I wasn’t willing to go a year without that feeling. Actually, a lot of my clothes are self-destructing at this point. The cuffs on my cargo pants are both shredded and there’s a rip in the knee from where I took a nasty spill off a bike in Amsterdam. I have a pair of shorts with a front right pocket that I can’t use because the seam has let go. I tried to sew it up and it just ripped somewhere else. And I have another pair with a front pocket that was melted by a iron that ran a bit hot in Thailand and was then stitched up like Frankenstein’s face. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Ten months of continuous wear and often brutal washing and drying is a lot to ask from your clothes. I’m not sure they are going to go the distance. I’m not even sure they are going to go the week. I imagine walking off the plane in Seattle two months from now, nearly naked, with an empty backpack and the last frayed remnants of my clothes fashioned into a crude loincloth. But I don’t recommend you imagining that.