One afternoon in Tasmania, I remember stopping and thinking to myself,
“This is what it used to be like, back home. The trees are cacophonous with birdsong. The ground is electric with bugs. The rivers are jostling with life. You can’t take three straight steps without blundering into the path of some new animal. Back home, the ground has been paved silent, the rivers have been fished empty, the trees echo, and you could walk all day without seeing a creature that isn’t wearing clothes or blundering around in a domesticated fog.”
I sat by the side of the road, drinking water and listening to that almost overwhelming wave of insect sounds, and thought back.
When I was a kid, I used to catch crayfish down in the forest near my house, pulling them out of the little stream, inspecting them as they waved their claws around energetically, and then dropping them back in with a “plop”. I returned to that stream a few years ago and looked at it, and found no crayfish, and the rainbow sheen of industrial pollution instead. I felt sad at the time, for the loss of something that I’d assumed would always be there.
But by the side of the road in Tasmania, I felt even worse about that memory. I was suddenly, overwhelmingly clear to me that the departed signs of life that I enjoyed as a child and mourned as an adult were themselves a meager shadow of a diversity and fertility that I never even knew about, driven out and poisoned by people I never met, who either didn’t care – or more likely didn’t even suspect – that their environment could become so quiet, and empty, and would eventually be haunted by near-invisible chemical ghosts that would drive even their own children away.
I had made the same mistake they did.
That trip, that day on the trip, was a rude awakening. One can’t be immersed in an environment like that and not be overwhelmed by the contrast between there and home. You think you know what to expect, because you read “The Lorax” when you were a kid, or maybe “Walden”, and you can relate to what he was saying in an abstract way, but then it hits you in the face – and the ears, and the nose, and the lungs, all at once – and you realize that it’s not just a philosophy or a political stance or an ideology, it’s a physical process, and you are directly involved in it, regardless of what you think. It is happening to you.
Today, Celia gave me a ride up to Woodend, since she was headed that way anyway to help her friends Brad and Jane work on their new house. My first stop was at a local bakery, where I bought a "lemon slice" and a sandwich. Further up the street I found a fish and chips shop, and decided to sample their food.
It was pretty bad. All the items were pre-fried, and lacked that crisp quality only found in fresh frying. I think it’s true what Celia’s friends say: The farther you get from the coast, the lower the quality of the fish and chips.
Today, Celia gave me a ride up to Woodend, since she was headed that way anyway to help her friends Brad and Jane work on their new house. My first stop was at a local bakery, where I bought a "lemon slice" and a sandwich. Further up the street I found a fish and chips shop, and decided to sample their food.
It was pretty bad. All the items were pre-fried, and lacked that crisp quality only found in fresh frying. I think it’s true what Celia’s friends say: The farther you get from the coast, the lower the quality of the fish and chips.
Today, Celia gave me a ride up to Woodend, since she was headed that way anyway to help her friends Brad and Jane work on their new house. My first stop was at a local bakery, where I bought a “lemon slice” and a sandwich. Further up the street I found a fish and chips shop, and decided to sample their food.
It was pretty bad. All the items were pre-fried, and lacked that crisp quality only found in fresh frying. I think it’s true what Celia’s friends say: The farther you get from the coast, the lower the quality of the fish and chips.
Part way up, a couple of kids shouted, “Hey! Take our picture!!” I didn’t catch their names. Now their photo is online but they will never find it. Hah!
From the top of Hanging Rock, having a look ’round. I drank some water, took this photograph, then just rested, with my hands on my knees in front of me. I put on my bicycling gloves to keep the sunlight from roasting the backs of my hands. Sun protection, also, is SRS BSNS here in Australia. I’ve heard it said that the government has issued such stern warnings to citizens, against going out into the sun, that there has been a sharp rise in vitamin-D deficiency as a result. They’ve had to step up fortifying their foods.
From the top of Hanging Rock, having a look ’round. I drank some water, took this photograph, then just rested, with my hands on my knees in front of me. I put on my bicycling gloves to keep the sunlight from roasting the backs of my hands. Sun protection, also, is SRS BSNS here in Australia. I’ve heard it said that the government has issued such stern warnings to citizens, against going out into the sun, that there has been a sharp rise in vitamin-D deficiency as a result. They’ve had to step up fortifying their foods.
From the top of Hanging Rock, having a look ’round. I drank some water, took this photograph, then just rested, with my hands on my knees in front of me. I put on my bicycling gloves to keep the sunlight from roasting the backs of my hands. Sun protection, also, is SRS BSNS here in Australia. I’ve heard it said that the government has issued such stern warnings to citizens, against going out into the sun, that there has been a sharp rise in vitamin-D deficiency as a result. They’ve had to step up fortifying their foods.
House construction, temporarily suspended by the inclement weather.
This photo was taken on a bike path at the edge of a small park, and the wind picked up just then, and I had a terrible sneezing fit. Something in the air makes my sinuses go completely crazy for a short while. Don’t know what.
House construction, temporarily suspended by the inclement weather.
This photo was taken on a bike path at the edge of a small park, and the wind picked up just then, and I had a terrible sneezing fit. Something in the air makes my sinuses go completely crazy for a short while. Don’t know what.
House construction, temporarily suspended by the inclement weather.
This photo was taken on a bike path at the edge of a small park, and the wind picked up just then, and I had a terrible sneezing fit. Something in the air makes my sinuses go completely crazy for a short while. Don’t know what.
Brad and Jane, taking a break from house restoration.
Brad and Jane, taking a break from house restoration.
Brad and Jane, taking a break from house restoration.
I helped out for a little whole, scraping old paint from the walls. After an hour or so, Brad went out and fetched dinner for all of us. I ate happily, thinking it was his way of thanking us for the work. Later on Celia pointed out that the food had been expensive and it would have been polite of me to at least offer to pay for my share.
In retrospect I was a bit surprised at my own behavior. After thinking about it I realized that two things were going on:
First, my attitude towards food was very Californian. The total cost of living is very high in California, but the high price of property throws the cost of other things out of proportion. In effect, food is a small portion of the budget, so we think less about spending money on it. In Australia, food is not just relatively expensive, but expensive in absolute terms. My biggest lesson about that came when I went to a shop called Brunetti, intent on buying a treat for my hosts, and ended up spending 75 bucks on what seemed like barely enough macaroons to fill a plate.
Second, I was going through a very inward-focused, and somewhat selfish, time in my life. My usual sense of gratitude was off-kilter, and I didn’t even notice. I was too busy trying to rediscover and redefine myself.
This trip has certainly given me plenty of food for thought.
I had loads of time at the checkin. A visa to travel in Australia cost 25 bucks at the counter. There was no need to stamp my passport – the records were stored electronically. All these fresh, blank pages would have to remain blank, for now.
I stood in line for almost an hour, and I swear, the music played over the loudspeakers was deliberately selected to turn human brains into soggy mush. Overwrought love ballads and face-punching anthems about partying. First time, that Lady Gaga song is catchy. Second time, it’s a chore. Third time, it makes me grit my teeth and look for the speakers so I can cut them. I wore my headphones and listened to my own music, and felt better. In fact, since I had all day, and was officially on vacation time, I was in quite a good mood, despite my surroundings. I bopped along to my music and shoved my bicycle box ahead of myself on the carpet until I got to the front desk, where I checked the bike with no extra fees. The box was oversize but it qualified as “sporting equipment”. Hah!
The checkin line was long, but the security scan was easy. I grabbed four plastic trays, for my backpack, laptop, ipad, and shoes, and was through in a few minutes. I had no suitcase to be rummaged through, and I drank the rest of my water and pitched it into the trash just as I got to the checkpoint.
While walking around the LA airport I noticed something strange. I was surrounded by all kinds of people, but I noticed a “type” of person – a sequence of people so similar that they made a repeating pattern. The best name I could think of for the the type was “poodle women”. They had many of the following traits:
Soft sweatpants
A “clever” tattoo half concealed
An almost suspiciously even dark tan
Eye makeup
Long hair – blond or bleached blond, or with bleached highlights
A shape conveying a slight aversion to exercise and a slight excess of drink (or, if you’re on a college campus, she’s in shape.)
An aloof, unfriendly manner, belying a nervous fear underneath.
“UGG” boots
She will not smile at you, she will not look directly at you except to check whether you are looking at her or to stare you down, and if she is in conversation, it will be with someone who looks just like her, about something banal. I counted half a dozen young women like this as I walked around the airport, so similar they may have been from the same family. What gives?
As the plane moved into position I saw an incredible sequence of blinking lights, strips, colored bars, and wavy lines on the tarmac. Each signal has a meaning that pilots or other airport staff need to know, and I imagine it takes a lifetime to learn all the details. And that is possible, since the system has been around for a lifetime at least. It certainly couldn’t have started this complex – it must have ratcheted up as the years went by.
I was flying V Australia, and the first thing I noticed were the instantly adorable accents of all the staff. I always listen to Pete Namlook’s “Autumn” on my iPod as a plane takes off, since it’s the perfect looong instrumental buildup, airy and profound, but I had to pause it for a while just to listen to the flight attendants talking. I’m sure in a few days of immersion this will not sound as unique, but for now, it tickles my ears.
Another thing that tickled me was the introductory video they broadcast on the displays embedded in the seats. “These long flights can knock you about a bit,” says the announcer. “So be sure to keep limber, by getting up and walking around the cabin when you can, and drink plenty of water.”
About 20 minutes into the flight, the girl sitting next to me pressed a few buttons on her display and began playing a 3-D driving game, using the control pad mounted just below. A driving game, in a seat-back display, on a plane. Worlds within worlds, maaaaan. While she played I noticed she had a scarf tied around one of her wrists. A motion-sickness pressure point, or just a fashion accessory?
V Australia also has adorable corporate banter on their dining utensils. This is the first time I have ever seen copy from an international airline that contains the phrase “No, you know what, screw it.”
It was cramped but livable. I listened to “The Wee Free Men”, then a big chunk of “Hat Full of Sky”. I didn’t want to bust into the new Pratchett book until I had reacquainted myself with the main character, Tiffany Aching.
The enormity of what I’m doing still hasn’t set in. I’m traveling 8000 miles in 14 hours of flight, to a country on the other side of the Earth. And I’m doing it because I feel like it.
I’m napping in a small clearing near my tent, in an unmaintained campground about a mile off the main road outside of Stanley. I’ve got my sweater beneath my head, on top of a warm rock, and am listening to some spacey Biosphere tracks. I’m having a decent enough time, but I am also feeling strangely restless. I haven’t biked more than ten miles in the last three days.
The forest around me is pleasant, and I’ve gone walking around in it a few times. A small snowmelt creek is rushing briskly along about 30 feet away, and I’ve dipped my feet in it and washed some vegetables in it. I ate the last vegetable – a big red bell pepper – earlier today. I have no responsibilities, and nothing to do with the time except lay back and rest. But for some reason I’m not really enjoying myself.
After a few hours of drifting around half asleep, I realize what’s wrong: Now that I’ve decided my destination is Stanley, I’m already feeling as though my journey is over. My mind has changed gears. Now instead of traveling, what I really want to do is work on something; build or create something, or talk about my trip with someone. But there is no one here, and there is nothing to work on.
Maybe it’s good that this trip is ending.
Or on the other hand, maybe I have only shifted mental gears because I anticipate the ending — because I know I won’t be traveling any farther. Maybe if I still had another thousand miles ahead of me, I’d still be pedaling happily along? Guess I’ll have to wait for the next trip to find out.
It is evening, and I have arrived in the town of Stanley and negotiated a motel room. The room is not the best I’ve had, but it’s far from the worst. I’ve entered my cycling route from the last three days into the computer, and have asked it to generate some statistics, to show me just how tough a ride it was. The first thing I get is a map of the route, starting from Ontario:
I sit back in my chair and whistle. “No wonder I feel so beat up,” I mutter. “And no wonder that big hill two days ago was so brutal – it was a thousand feet in less than two miles. Maybe it’s time for a break. I think I’ll just stay here in Stanley for a few days.”
