The Adventures of Hamish

Fabulous Five for South Korea

2011-02-02T13:53:00.002+11:00

(and just for fun, they all start with ‘t’)

Technology. I just posted an item back to Australia (an overdue library book, don’t tell the library), and got a text message to say that it departed from the post office at 4pm Tuesday. At 12noon on Thursday I received another message informing me that the package has been delivered (I assume they were still talking about the library book). Amazing. Now I just need to figure out how to get the TV to work on my phone so I can join the swathes of Korean watching free-to-air TV on their phones on the train.

Transport. Integration to the maximum. One card can get you on buses, trains and even let you pay in some taxis. And none of the above will be far away - there always seems to be a station, stop or cab whenever you need one. And all the subway stations have convenient little signs tracking the progress of the train towards your station so you know whether you have time to use that vending machine for a can of coffee. Magic. The best part? You can get by on less than $15 a week easily, including travel for work AND travel for leisure.

Tastebuds. A whole (but small) chicken, stuffed with rice and ginseng, boiled in a pot of goodness that lands direct on your table to be devoured soup and all? Samgyetang, yes please! How about some grilled beef or pork, cooked at the table? Side-dishes? Plenty of those! And the iconic kimchi really is quite delicious. And whatever it is that you fancy, chances are that you can find somewhere to serve it to you 24 hours a day. Which brings me to my next poiint...

Time. On the day I arrived I found out that ‘linen’ at my accommodation didn’t include a bathtowel. I had been travelling for about 20 hours, had to wait about 6 hours to check in, and all I wanted was a shower. It was 10pm on a Sunday night. But that’s not a problem - just head to the massive 24 hour supermarket and department store. Five minute cab ride ($2), grab a towel, shower up and Mr Kim’s your uncle. Hungry at 3am? Don’t feel like venturing out into the snow? Call McDonalds. They deliver. Or pull on the coat and boots and wonder down the road to the 24 hour hot pot place. Even better. Restless, can’t sleep? A trip to the night markets might be in order - spend some money, you’ll feel better. This place happens ALL the time.

Toothbrushes. Koreans seem to brush their teeth three times per day. Every time I go into the bathroom at work there seems to be a different man standing at the basin carefully brushing his teeth. They must carry a toothbrush everywhere with them! Very hygienic, and the perfect cure for kimchi’d cavaties.

Terrific, tremendous, tantalising, and all those other good ‘t’ words too. I'm lovin' it.

Anticipation of the road

2010-08-27T11:21:00.002+10:00

I'm heading to Canberra this afternoon. Nothing special, just a straight burn down the Hume Highway.

But jeez I'm looking forward to it.

I rode my motorbike yesterday after a 5-day break from riding (for no particular reason - it's cheaper to get a lift if I can), and even though it was just around the dull streets of traffic-choked Sydney, it was so liberating.

Packing the bike this morning, strapping on my new sheepskin seat cover, pulling on the boots... Its exciting. And even though the ride down promises to be a boring, long stretch of straight roads, I can't wait just to get out there.

It's a great feeling.

And I would walk 4500 miles...

2010-08-01T17:05:00.001+10:00

Riding home in the heinous Sydney traffic last week, I looked down at the odometer to see an even 47,000km staring back at me.

I'm not sure if it is just me, but I usually love those moments when I see the '000.0' tick over - it's almost like seeing a shooting star: you know it happens, but to actually be looking at the right place at the right time is rare, and strangely enticing.

But last week this milestone was not enticing at all. Admittedly, there was that moment of glee at seeing the actual event; and then I realised what this means.

When I took ownership of this particular motorcycle in January this year the odometer read something along the lines of 39,500km. The first 500km or so of riding were marred by mechanical monsters sabotaging the machine every week. It wasn't until that 40,000km mark that we really started working together as partners.

That means that this year I have travelled 7,000km almost completely trouble free.

Great, right?

Until I realised: I may have covered 7,000km aboard my bike, but I haven't actually been anywhere.

What a bloody waste.

In fact, of the 7,000km I would be lucky if i have spent 700km doing riding that I have enjoyed and actually wanted to be doing.

I guess this is the sickening joy of the suburban commuter. 6,300km of wasted mileage on a fine machine in a beautiful country. 6,300km of horrible city riding in horrendous traffic along the same worn-down roads with the same dangerous drivers.

I could have travelled to Perth and (almost) back. Or up and down the east coast of Australia, exploring the back roads.

I could have revisited my entire trip through the UK and France, with kilometres left to spare.

Instead I have spent 6,300km battling along Parramatta Road, the M4, James Ruse Drive, Epping Road, and a variety of other equally-ridiculous roads all within the boundaries of greater Sydney. What a magnificent tour. What a wonderful use of my time and money. Hoo-bloody-ray.

Please excuse my cynicism. Since my return I have been extremely disenchanted with certain aspects of Sydney, and find myself itching to let it out.

Living in a city like Edinburgh I came to value space and time as extremely desirable commodities. The short walk to and from work allowed me more time to do things that I like to do (sometimes constructive, sometimes indulgant, always enjoyable).

Travelling 60km+ each day in a two-hour (minimum) round-trip across Sydney is the opposite. I arrive at destinations stressed and already worn-down. The activites that follow are usually attacked with less vigour and are rarely as enjoyable.

Sydney offers some wonderful opportunities, and I have definitely benefitted from many of them this year. It is a great city, with a lot of positive aspects.

But it comes at a cost, and at the moment I am struggling with finding the means to pay that cost. I am struggling to find the desire to justify the expense.

Mostly, I'm just struggling. Is this what life was always like here?

Time well spent

2010-06-23T13:01:00.008+10:00

I wrote a ridiculously long email to a very good friend yesterday - nothing new for me - recounting just a tiny portion of my travels through France. I thought I was being quite sparse on the details, leaving out plenty, until I looked back over the email and realised it was probably in excess of 1500 words. Ok, I just copied and pasted the email into MS Word - 2,345 words.

Considering that it would take me a good day and a half to produce a decent 2,000 word academic essay, or perhaps a good couple of hours to produce a credible 1,000 word news article, this email sure didn't feel so huge. It only took me about an hour to write (and it felt like much less), and it wasn't terribly written.

Looking back, it is exactly the same with my motorcycle journey. It didn't take all that long, and it didn't feel as life-changingly epic at the time... But reading back over what was just a simple re-telling of a much-told, shortened story, I was inundated with waves of happiness, laughter, excitement and, most of all, nostalgia.

I may not have fully recognised it at the time, but riding through France on a half-broken, fully-loaded motorcycle has brought me some of the best memories of my life. And being the best memories means they were also some of the most valuable learning experiences, merely because I remember them!

I now know how to use broken French and comical miming to explain to a French mechanic a suspected fuel supply problem on a motorcycle; I know that dipping a fresh croissant in a cup of steaming hot coffee creates a warm, dripping, heavenly breakfast; I know that just a sleeping bag on the groundsheet of the tent is not going to keep you warm enough through French autumn nights; I know that hard work, compromise and an open mind can make any dream come true, no matter how seemingly naive; I know that I am lucky enough to be dating the best (most beautiful, intelligent, patient, and understanding) woman in the world, without exception.

The list could go on for well over 2,345 words.

These memories-turned-lessons, not just from France but from all of 2008 and 2009, are what have been driving my 2010. Thus far it hasn't been the best year, but it was never going to be after the highs of life in Europe. 2010 was always going to be about working, rebuilding, and learning how to act on these lessons learned; how to better embrace and appreciate the important things in life, whilst still acknowledging the hard work needed to have them.

Life isn't ideal now, but it will be soon. I know that, because I have had it before - and idealism can lead to the ideal, even if that ideal is different to what you had hoped. In the mean time, I still have the most amazing memories and lessons to call upon whenever I need...

Excerpt from the aforementioned email...

Now where was I up to with telling you about the UK and about the mad travels over there? Basically, after living in Edinburgh for just over a year, I decided to blow all my money (which was not much money) on a motorcycle and a decent tent and head to France. The aim was to see how far I could get before I ran out of money (which wasn't all that far in the end). But it was amazing.

The bike was pretty shit. I remember taking it on the first long-haul test run, taking it from Edinburgh to London (400mi) and back for the weekend, just to see how it would go. I left Edniburgh at about 6am in driving rain and high winds on a bike I had ridden less than 20mi on, only to discover that it didn't like water at all. Hahaha once I crossed the border into England and the rain stopped, the bike ran fine. I got it to London, and a mate helped me pull it apart and fix it up a bit, and it didn't miss too many beats until I got to France a couple of months later.

I crossed the channel into France sometime in September I think it was. And it was amazing. I was planning to ride south, avoiding the motorways as much as possible, camping wherever possible, and doing really whatever I felt like. I had two dates to keep to - I was meeting my parents in Dijon about 4 days after I got to France, and then I was meeting Monisha in Nice about 4 days after I met my parents.

My parents were going to Dijon to visit old friends who had bought an 11th century French abbey in this gorgeous little farming valley and converted it into a luxury hotel - http://www.abbaye-dela-bussiere.com/home.shtml - so I said I would meet them along the way. They, of course, were staying at their friend's hotel, while I was planning on just camping up the road at the community camp ground.

I met them on the evening they arrived (I'd turned up a little earlier in the day), and they were in a rush to go meet their friends for a birthday dinner for somebody. So they went off to eat an 8 course meal at the hotel (the chef has a michelin star or two apparently), while I made a cup of soup in my tent in the pouring rain, read a book, and went to sleep.

I got a call in the morning from my mother - she was quite embarrassed. Apparently her friends didn't know that I was camping out up the road until they asked after me towards the end of the night, and so mum got in a shitload of trouble. Hilarious. So they invited me to come stay at the hotel as well and oh my god, I have never stayed anywhere so nice in my life. It was amazing. I can't even tell you how amazing it was. When you are rich, go stay there for a week or two. I still entertain the thought of applying for a job there or something like that... its a little piece of heaven.

I left them after a couple of days to go and meet Mon - it was a day and a half trip to Nice, and I didn't want to be late. I camped out that night, and then when I went to start the bike in the morning (with 500mi still to go to get to Nice), the bike wouldn't start. Hahaha it took me almost two hours of jump starting and fiddling and pushing this bike around the caravan park (where people were hurling abuse at me for making such a noise so early in the morning) before I finally got it running and to a bike store to get a few new parts - a whole new experience in itself when dealing with a French mechanic in my very, very limited French.

To make up for the lost time, I jumped on the motorway and screamed down to Nice... I swear I did an average speed of about 95mph the whole way, which is moving fairly quick on a fully-loaded 600cc bike...

I got to the airport about 10 minutes after she came out of the gate, we packed even more stuff on the bike, squeezed Mon in, and set off for our campsite for the night. Brave girl that one. I took a wrong turn (didn't have maps, was only going by French street signs), and we ended up on a highway going in the wrong direction with no turnoffs and no space for u-turns. Thats fine, I had done that a few times before - you just wait till the next turn off, turn around, come back and start again.

But then the bike stopped. Monisha gave me a funny look, I shrugged my shoulders, started it again, and off we went. In another few miles it stopped again. Shit. Hahaha after a long discussion, we decided to stick wtih the original plan - get to the next turn-off, and either look for a hotel there or turn around and get back into Nice and find a hotel there and deal with it in the morning (it was dark by this stage).

So off we go, stopping occassionally, restarting, going, stopping, restarting, making very slow progress. We searched around at the next town but couldn't find a hotel anywhere. So, by now cold and very frustrated, we decide to try to get back into Nice. Back on the highway. We made it about 4mi back towards Nice (it was about 25mi away) before the bike just wouldn't start again. Hahahaha now we were stuck on the side of a highway, in the middle of nowhere with no towns or turnoffs or anything. And I have the best girlfriend in the world. She calmly decided that she would use one of those roadside phones to get a towtruck driver. He came, and spoke not a word of English, and struggled to understand our French. We finally got him to take us and the bike to the nearest hotel - which we had just missed out on getting to ourselves.

It cost us 300 euros for the tow truck, another 100 euros for the hotel, and I still had to get the bike fixed in the morning. Hahaha I think I cried a little that night...

The next morning was a comedy of errors. The local mechanic spoke no English, no one spoke any English, and my French does not included mechanical terminology. So after hilariously acting out the problem with the bike, and what I thought might be wrong with it, the mechanic makes out to me that he can't fix it now, and it would take 5 days to get the part (this involved about 4 people helping to translate) and it would cost over 200 euros. The next nearest mechanic who might be able to do it sooner was in Nice.

I was pretty much out of money already, so I called my uncle in Australia (a bike mechanic) and described the problem to him. He offered a few ideas over the phone, and I thought they were worth a try. So in the hotel carpark, with Monisha handing me spanners and holding bits and pieces as I pulled the bike apart, I finally isolated the problem and put together a temporary fix.

We made it in to Nice that afternoon (holding our breath the whole way) and set about finding the next mechanic. He was also out of parts, but would have one in within 2 days, and, combined with my dodgy fixing and a few extra bits and pieces, I could get the bike fixed up for about 50 euros total - and I could keep riding it in the meantime. Hahaha so we did that, and from then on had at least two problem-free weeks of riding up and down the Cote d'Azur. And I still have a girlfriend. Unbelievable.

Hahahaha I had the time of my life. The most beautiful countryside, gorgeous towns, history everywhere, friendly people, and amazing food. I can't wait to go back to France. And it was so perfect on the motorcycle... You'd ride into a tiny little village early in the mornings, and all you could smell would be the bakery. And the French people love motorbikers, so everyone would be extra friendly. And you could almost just reach out and touch vineyards while riding through gorgeous back lanes in the middle of nowhere. Absolute paradise.

We had to cut the trip much shorter because of all the money spent fixing the bike, which was unfortunate, but probably for the best - it was October, and it was starting to get much too cold for camping already, and it was only going to get a whole heap worse in Europe over winter.

So we slowly worked our way back up north, stopping everywhere, still camping (although we were having to wear almost all our clothes at night to stay warm), until we got to Lyon where we met Monisha's Edinburgh flatmate, Sam, and stayed with his family for a couple of days.

We made it back to London in once piece, just. By the time we left Lyon the bike was starting to limp quite badly, and it was a bit of a push to get it home - I didn't have the tools to fix the current problem, and even though some nice French mechanics fixed it for free at one stage, it quickly returned. I found out why as soon as we got back into England - the chain was completely stuffed. Hahaha we're lucky we made it back. There are so many more stories to tell... But I'll leave it at that for now...

I shouldn't whinge and wax lyrical all the time

2010-05-20T12:05:00.004+10:00

So below this post you will find two of the more fun assignments I've had to do this semester. These are some of the terrible tasks that have been monopolising a significant portion of my Time - and before you start jealously lamenting the life of a student, please give some consideration to the 7,000 words of essay writing, hundreds of hours of reading and research, and two exams that will occupy the next month or so of my life.

After you have considered that, go ahead and poke some fun at the Arts degree - I laugh at it all the time.

In case you are noticing a slight shift in the perspective of this blog, these are actually the current Adventures of Hamish. I, too, hope they will become more exciting very soon.

Another paper I have written this semester (yes, the joys of being a student)

2010-05-20T11:56:00.003+10:00

(I hope you have a laugh at some of the hyperbole, the embellishment of usually insignificant experiences, and the rather terrible attempt at combining pseudo-romantic narrative with vaguely historical scholastica. The subject in question is named 'Pilgrim to Backpacker: Travel histories')

Wisemans Ferry: Winding and Wandering on a Pilgrim Trail

“You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment... through that car window everything you see is just more TV...
On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.” (Pirsig)

Being a motorcycle tourist is unique experience. As a motorcyclist every second and every centimetre of the journey is absorbed with exaggerated significance. Unlike in a car, stretching your legs means actually touching the road; every breath is of the air around you; every bump is felt, every change of environment is noticed. The road is as important as the destination, and it seems as though only fellow motorcyclists can appreciate this sentimentality.

As with any tourist experience, the trip begins with the preparation. For a biker this is steeped in ritual: check the weather, maps, fuel, tyre pressure, chain, strap bag to your back seat, climb into your riding gear (jacket, pants, gloves, helmet), press the starter and wait as the bike warms up. The anticipation builds, not just at the prospect of the ultimate destination, but also for the feeling of absolute freedom that the road brings.

Thankfully the weather was fine, and the maps looked promising: I was planning to visit Wisemans Ferry, a place not only of historical value and natural beauty, but also a Mecca for motorcyclists – and this would be my first time making this pilgrimage as a biker.

It wasn’t until after Windsor, when I was forced to turn to my well-beaten guide book that I began to truly feel like a motorcycle tourist. The roads slowly emptied as I followed the path of so many before me, heading north through Ebenezer, and down to the first ferry crossing at Sackville.

The ferries of this trip (I would take three in total) had an intrinsic value of their own – they offered the chance to stop and reflect on the roads just travelled and the roads yet to be ridden. It was on this first ferry crossing that I met a fellow pilgrim – another biker, eager to share tips on roads in the area that were worth exploring. As I made a mental note of road names and directions, I found myself reassured to know that I wasn’t alone.

This sense of community is something that would continue as I powered along Wisemans Ferry Road, pulling in to Hawkins Lookout on a ridge above the Hawkesbury River. A well-known bikers’ haunt, this is almost a compulsory stop for any bikers approaching Wisemans Ferry from this direction. Sure enough, I struck up conversation with a fellow pilgrim almost immediately – crouched first next to my bike, then his (inspecting engines, brakes, tyres, suspension), we talked about the different bikes we’d owned, and the journeys we had taken in the past. A few more riders pulled up and joined the conversation, including two on their way from Canberra to Newcastle via the back roads (seeking “adventure before dementia” in their own words), and the rider that I had met aboard the first ferry.

I had never met any of these men before, yet we were all able to share our stories freely, liberally – we were all united by our shared passion, embodied in our “journey of devotion.” This is exactly what I had hoped to find on this trip.

Down into Wisemans Ferry, I indulged in some genuine history; the reason that non-bikers might come to visit this historic town. Founded by Solomon Wiseman in the early 1800’s, the town gained its name when Wiseman established a ferry crossing here in 1827. Having run continuously in its current location since 1829, this ferry is the longest-running in New South Wales and possibly Australia.5 And then there is the famous Wisemans Ferry Inn. Originally built as Wiseman’s own home, the pub is now the traditional stop off for all bikers on the Wisemans Ferry run, and was where I stopped to catch an afternoon bite to eat.

But ultimately I was here to ride. Across the punt, left onto Settlers Road, sliding along the dirt road to St Albans, then back again along the tarmac to the last of my ferry trips for the day. Chatting with the ferry operators (a privilege that those in cars don’t have, as they are ordered to remain within their vehicles) I was urged to try River Road (ignoring the ‘Road Closed’ signs) before I left the area. A beautiful road that hugs the southern banks of the Hawkesbury, it is quiet, shaded by trees on either side. Add to this the twists, turns and the changes from tarmac to dirt; this idyllic setting becomes an exciting, fulfilling journey.

I was a pleasure seeker, indulging in both the ride and in the pleasure of being a member of a community of riders who had all passed before me. Just like a pilgrim or a grand tourist, it was this community that truly defined my day of riding: riding the established biker paths, engaging passionately with those that I met along the way, and truly earning my place within the motorcycling society.

The sort of papers I occasionally get to write this semester...

2010-05-20T09:40:00.002+10:00

(For a history subject called 'Food, Environment and Culture in Europe' - and yes, it is a real subject.)

Foodie Fantasies, Decadent Dreams: An exploration of Sydney’s more luxurious side

Degustation menus, once solely the domain of the most expensive restaurants, exploded onto the Sydney scene around 2004, for no apparent reason other than to allow chefs to demonstrate their expertise. Naturally expecting the best from my restaurant experiences, I decided to optimistically investigate some of Sydney’s more luxurious options.

Restaurateur Guillaume Brahimi puts on a menu to match the fine location of his Opera House restaurant Guillaume’s at Bennelong – he combines his French style with local flavours to present such wonders as the deboned rib eye of Mayura wagyu beef with a tombé of field mushrooms, baby spinach, confit of shallot, and merlot sauce. At $250 with a complement of French wines to match this eight course menu, one would expect such extravagance.

Tetsuya’s is often flouted as one of Sydney’s best, and Tetsuya Wakuda only offers a degustation menu to his diners. I have it on good authority that, amongst the nine courses on offer, it is his tataki of veal with roasted eggplant & caviar that best demonstrates his ability to marry his Japanese background with French styling. To be treated to a meal at Tetsuya’s one would need a spare $290, accompanying wines included.

And how could one go past restaurant of the year for 2009, Quay. Chef Peter Gilmore oversees an eight course tasting menu that can cost up to $400 with the inclusion of his finest wines. He makes a point of showing off his ability to source only the best ingredients with dishes such as the Butter poached quail breasts, pink turnips and onions, white lentils, morels, truffle custard, bitter chocolate black pudding, jamon de bellota, and milk skin.

The purpose of these menus is twofold – they allow chefs to demonstrate their creative culinary credibility, whilst indulging diners with luxuries of nearly unaffordable decadence. For those enjoying such meals there is grandeur comparable to the banqueting of the French courts in the time of Louis XIV: settings and service are impeccable, and meals are presented in such a way that creates harmony between the beauty of the ingredients and the skill of the chef. For those creating the meals, there is an obvious need to put all of their skills on display: dishes are created and plated with flamboyance, flair, and finesse, appealing to the fine tastes of consumers of luxury. But (if the profiles of these chefs is to be believed) there is also an emphasis on creating a harmony with natural ingredients, recalling the Enlightenment philosophies of finding reason in the kitchen, and having an intimate knowledge of the properties of food.

Dishes are supposed to present the extravagance of the Old Regime in their presentation, their showmanship and in the number of courses on offer; but they also pay tribute to the nouvelle cuisine of the Enlightenment in their (apparently) simplistic appeal to natural flavours, and the experience of the chef. Whether or not the degustation menus of Sydney’s finest restaurants are successful in treading the fine line between decadence and natural simplicity, they are all proud of their French inspirations. Ultimately, it is French cooking methodology that still rules supreme in the kitchens of Sydney. I wonder how many of these chefs have a copy of François Massialot’s Le Cuisinier roïal et bourgeois sitting on a dusty shelf in their kitchens…

Adjusting, re-adjusting. Considering, reconsidering.

2010-05-13T12:14:00.002+10:00

Time is.

And that is all that we can really say about it. There is nothing else in this world that is comparable, and descriptions (in words) rely on comparison, imagery, tangibility to at least one of the five senses. But Time is different.

Even air you can feel. Time just passes. It just is.

I'm really struggling with concepts of Time this year. Since returning from my grande adventure I haven't been able to grasp how Time works in Australia. I haven't been able to grasp Time at all. It is, to me, some ethereal concept that is as foreign here as the sun was in Edinburgh.

This has been a real problem for me. Where I reach out and grasp at this thing named Time, my hands return full of Discontent instead. And Discontent, contrary to popular belief, is a tangible commodity.

The thing in between Time and Discontent, in Sydney, seems to be another concept that we call Life - have I lost you yet? I, myself, am reasonably confused at all of this. And that is the essence of the problem.

I went travelling to find, above all, Perspective. Thankfully, this is exactly what I brought back with me. Mission successful, right?

Not quite. Perspective on Life is glorious. But Perspective without Time is useless. Perspective combined with Discontent is frustrating.

And that is exactly what I am with Life in Sydney - frustrated. I have no concept of Time here, and my newfound Perspective is fuelling the Discontent.

In more tangible terms, I am enjoying being back at University. The learning and thinking and growing have all reminded me how satisfying personal progress can be. Not having a steady job is difficult, because I miss applying my personal progress to activities that have value outside Academia. I am in an amazing relationship, have fantastic friends, and a wonderful (if absurdly dysfunctional) family.

But I just don't have the Time to use my new Perspective. It is itching to get out, pushing at the flood gates that hold it back, and driving the feelings of frustration and Discontent that exist in between all the other moments. It's like that new toy sitting in the wardrobe that is begging you to play with it, but you know that you have to do your homework first.

But maybe I am looking at it all wrong - maybe I don't need Time to use Perspective. Maybe I need Perspective to understand Time.

I'll get there eventually... I just need a bit more Time.

Lazy slacker

2009-12-27T12:51:00.002+11:00

I would try to convince you that I have been too busy to write lately - indeed, I try to convince myself frequently. But the truth is that I have been lazy and hesitant.

Laziness could easily be equated with a complete lack of motivation. Hesitation refers more to a fear that the trip is over. All is done, and should I choose to write about it I will quickly run out of travel stories and be left with nothing. Can you hear the violins playing between my sobs of despair?

I am now back in Sydney, and have been for about a month. I haven't told many people about this. In fact, there are very few people who know that I am back in Sydney, and this is mainly because I haven't had time to catch up with anyone. Lame, I know.

I flew in about a month ago, had a day of rest, and have since been working full time in various jobs (a few days in a warehouse, a few days for a kitchen and bathroom company doing marketing, a few days doing some research for a private school - all for family and friends). On top of that have been endless family engagements, from birthdays to farewells to many many Christmases. I haven't had the time of day, let alone the time to do anything that I would have liked to do.

But the biggest saving grace of the holiday season is, hopefully, some additional time. The warehouse work is quiet, the kitchen and bathroom company is closed. And now that the Christmas weekend is drawing to an end (there has been 2 parties per day Christmas, Boxing day, and today), I may actually have a few hours here and there to relax and catch up with life.

I am in the middle of attempting to buy a motorcycle, and have my eye on a half-decent ZZR600 which currently resides in Campbelltown. I need to see it again, but am quite confident that this will be the bike that I buy.

I am also house-sitting a bit for some friends and family - this isn't so much a favour to them, but more a reprieve for me and a chance to have some time and space for myself which I can mould in whichever way I choose.

So now I will be able to chase down and catch up with many things from which I have fallen behind. Friends, definitely. This blog, hopefully. Some riding, beaching, bushwalking, reading, relaxing, swimming - I guess we'll see.

I have a new mobile number which, for obvious reasons, I won't publish here. But if you'd like it, please get in touch by email or message on this blog and I will happily pass it on. I'll be online here and there, but at the moment there are too many things needing to be done that don't involve a computer.

All that being said, I do hope to catch up with everyone and everything soon.

Starting now.

Time is of the essence!

2009-10-19T04:27:00.002+11:00

No time left on the campground wifi, so I will keep this short.

Am on the south coast of France, just south of Nice near a town called Antibes, camping with my lady.

There have been some bike problems which have given my confidence and my wallet a double hit, so plans are up in the air - this isn't such a bad thing. Might end up somewhere around St Tropez tomorrow.

I hope it doesn't storm tonight like last night... Thunder is extra loud in a tent.

Will try to write again properly sometime soon, but if not will catch up on the adventures when back in London town.

A bientot!

Preparation, Anticipation

2009-10-10T08:57:00.002+11:00

I've been quite busy lately.

Within the past 3 weeks I have finished up at my two workplaces in Edinburgh, packed up my house, taken my parents on a tour of Scotland, loaded my house into their car, ridden my motorcycle down to London, and am now about to leave London early tomorrow morning.

Destination: France.

The preparation has tired me, but even more exhausting has been the anticipation. Nerves, anxiety, excitement, objectivity, subjectivity, stress, eagerness - all are thoroughly tiresome activities, never mind the additional practicalities of packing, prepping KC, budgeting, mapping, etc.

I take the 10am ferry from Dover to Calais tomorrow morning, and from then on am in a completely foreign world. Exciting and nerve-wrecking all at once.

I will be camping my way down the eastern border of France, meeting my parents in Dijon for final fun and farewells, before picking up Ms M from Nice Cote d'Azur Airport. From there it is on to Corsica, and then to infinity and beyond...

Or so the loosely-constructed plan goes.

Connection with the outside world may well be minimal. I hope to take the time to write some posts, but will have scarce access to the world wide web, and will rarely be in reach of a powerpoint for my wee writing companion.

I know I am due to write a fair few emails to people awaiting replies from me. For now, unfortunately, my sincerest apologies will have to suffice. I will write to you as soon as I have a chance.

And I will try to publish here as regularly as is possible.

Until then, I bid you all a fond adieu, au revoir, bonne journee!

Merci beaucoup!

The importance of the senses

2009-08-29T07:33:00.002+10:00

I crave tangibility. More than anything, I crave something tangible.

I have known this all of my life, but at certain times it becomes much more apparent. Tonight I am thinking about planning a motorcycle trip - there is so much fun to be had in planning. And for me, that fun begins with a map.

A map is a representation of all the places I want to see and go to, and all the places in between. More than that, a map is a representation of all that will happen along the way. The distances represented on a map can be equated to time spent covering those distances. And time can be equated again to experiences, Experience. A map is important, it is the first mental step before the physical steps can begin.

And when I can touch that map, draw on it, pick it up in my hands, feel it against my fingertips - it is then that I can truly feel and know the significance that it implies. I can plan as much as I like using web applications like google maps, and they are great. But for me the route does not exist without tangibility, and I can't touch a google map. Or smell it or taste it or hear it or see it in the full three visual dimensions that exist in this world.

If the map isn't palpable, then how can the roads and routes and plans that it represents be any more real to my senses?

I am reminded tonight of something that I learnt in an English class when we were studying Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos.

Our teacher posed:
Why is the format of this book so important? Why does it matter that it is letters? What does this signifiy?

Stumped, we responded with predictable answers - it allows him to write in the first person, helps develop characters, add some sort of credibility to a fictional narrative - none of them incorrect.

But, she asked, how do we feel when we receive a letter in the post? Is it not somehow infinitely more special than getting an email, or even a phone call from the same friend? It is the tangibility that is important.

With a letter in our hand we can connect more intimately to the words that it contains. We can screw it up in disgust, cry tears all over it, hold it to our hearts and sigh. We can smell the paper and imagine the person who wrote it, and know that they also held this paper at one point, know that they too had a chance to feel, smell, taste, hear and see what we are seeing as we experience this letter in the real world.

Complete experience - experience that is emotional, physical and psychological - begins with tangibility.

I need a map.

Level Up!

2009-08-27T19:31:00.002+10:00

Sunday, 23rd August
5.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Alarm. Breakfast. Pack up. Gear up.

6.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Gear on, bike started, pulling away.

7.00am
ODO 17,255mi
Fuel stop 1, chat with the attendant who is at the end of her shift and hoping to catch some sleep before watching the F1 later in the day.

7.10am
ODO 17,260mi
Heavy rain. Visibility very low. Bike is lurching, power delivery extremely uneven - misfiring? Starving for fuel? Electrical problem? Unknown. Still running? Yes. Continue. Soldier on. Distance remaining to Ruislip, London 390 miles.

7.30am
ODO 17,275mi
First drops of cold water seep in to clothing, body begins to shiver slightly.

7.45am
ODO 17,290mi
Motorway, 70-80mph. Heavy rain continues. Power delivery problems persist. Begin talking to motorcycle, urging, encouraging, romancing.

8.35am
ODO 17,340mi
Cross into England, A74(M) becomes M6. Rain continues.

8.45am
ODO 17,355mi
Fuel stop 2, Southwaite Services (between Carlisle and Penrith). Petrol for the Suzuki, jam donut, coffee and a stretch of the legs for the rider.

9.50am
ODO 17,400mi
Rain stops. Suzi and I are discussing names for her. Nothing concrete yet, but we're getting there. 250 miles to London.

11.00am
ODO 17,475mi
Fuel stop 3, Knutsford Services (yes, really). Early lunch, chain lube and fuel for my steed. Beginning to thaw out, still slightly damp.

12.00pm
ODO 17,520mi
Sunshine. Smiles.

1.30pm
ODO 17,610mi
Fuel stop 4. Call London to check directions. Completely dry, sunshine is warming. Tear wet weather pants climbing back on, but it doesn't matter now.

2.15pm
ODO 17,650mi
Arrive Ruislip, London. Slide off, stretch legs, greeted by plenty of sunshine and a very kind offer of help from friends. Watch closely as Suzi is carefully pulled apart, greased, lubed, re-sparked, and fixed up. She sounds great, and I feel grateful.

A ride across London to meet more friends, with bike and rider both sounding happy, although rider is now due for a tune up (terrible singing inside helmet).

Mission accomplished. Safely, reasonably comfortably, and with confidence regained.

Thanks for reading. And for all your support after my previous post of hesitation and doubt. A moment of weakness that has since been rectified thanks to help in various forms from friends and family, as well as an 850mile bonding session with KC. We decided on the name on the way back up north, twisting through a gorgeous hilly backroad across the Scottish border, sun shining down, engine humming away, miles passing easily.

Next mission: purchase a camera to document the fun.

Rethinking the next level

2009-08-20T07:11:00.002+10:00

I think, re-reading that last post, that I might have an idea of what is missing at the moment.

People.

At the moment I am completely on my own in Scotland. With my marvellous Ms M on holidays with her father, I am left with no one within a 500 mile radius who knows me, regularly engages with me, or cares mildly about what I want, need, desire, plan to do.

If someone was here perhaps there would be another mind to bounce off. I could build my excitement either by seeing it mirrored in another's face, or by vehemently opposing another's doubts. I would have some genuine measuring stick of what this might mean.

Instead I am completely on my own in this right now. Which is perhaps the reason that I chose London for my first big trip, rather than a more scenic Scottish route - I know people in London, people who know me. People who might have a genuine interest not in the nature of the trip, but in what this trip is for me.

So now I find myself questioning this need for a mirror. Can I actually do something like this on my own, or do I need that measuring stick of others, that nod of approval (or even frown of disapproval) from those around me? Do I need this trip to mean something to the people in my life, or will I be able to find meaning for myself within myself completely independently of anyone else?

Where has all my confidence gone?

I need to go searching for it, because rumours abound that there is a great reward for the one that finds it.

Next level

2009-08-20T07:00:00.002+10:00

Now I have the motorbike.

And now I need to go back and reconsider why.

For some strange reason I find myself petrified. I have taken to comparing it in my head to actually buying my tickets to travel in the first place - it is a significant amount of money, which signifies an even more significant starting point.

I'm not sure which risk scares me more - what I have to lose (financially, emotionally, physically), or what I might have to do in order to gain as much as I hope to from this experience.

Enough babble.

I bought a motorbike. That's right, I finally bit the bullet and just bought one. Which could be a problem in itself - my impatience has led me to buy a fairly second-rate machine, with obvious patches of rust, and plenty of problems of its own.

Character, some might say.

In any case, I do not, as yet, feel any great connection with the bike.

It is exactly what I was after - a cheap, 10 year old Suzuki Bandit 600 with low mileage, which I can afford to insure and which should be comfortable enough to ride reasonable distances.

It has been down the road at least once in its life, and looks to have been mildly neglected by previous owners. It would take a fair amount of work to get this bike riding as good as it probably should.

But nae buther laddies and lassies.

She is currently having her brakes worked on by a mechanic (yes, I am paying a mechanic to work on it in the absence of friends and tools to do the work myself).

Then I take her for a quick jab down South, to London, just to see how she handles over a reasonable distance.

Test run pending, I will plan a route shortly thereafter, pull together some gear, and hopefully indulge in some selfish sojourning down unknown sidetracks in distant Europe.

You see, even as I type that I seem to have doubts that I will make it here. It feels as though something is going to go wrong, something will intervene and stop me. Or is that just my natural hesitationn speaking, my cold wet soggy Scottish feet? How much do I want this?

I will let you know once I get a chance to escape from this place of hesitation, this place of necessary comfort, this place of indecision. I will let you know how I feel once I get out and ride the bloody thing!

Wish me luck please. I think I might need it.

Priorities...?

2009-07-15T07:25:00.002+10:00

How strange.

My desperation for a motorbike has taken over, so much so that I am not allowing any time at all for blogging. I have been working every waking (and often sleeping) hour of every day (and night) possible to make this happen. And I am getting closer.

Ironically, this has meant that I have begun to neglect this space. Ironic, because a part of me wants the motorbike so that I will have more to write about here.

I still do have things to write about, and I will try to wring them out when I next have a moment and a portion of energy to spare. It has been 3 months!

I have since been to Dublin, fallen in love with Croatia, and made an hilarious cousin into an amazing friend on another jaunt into the Scottish countryside.

In the mean time, check out someone like Carla King for a preview of what I hope my next adventure might be like. She's a pretty cool solo biker chick, who writes as well as she appears to ride.

Upcoming...

2009-04-27T23:46:00.001+10:00

Dublin, May 2-4.
Croatia (Zadar + possibly an island?), May 13-20.

Then no holiday days left from work. Or money to spare. But I think its worth it!

Ich bin ein Berliner!

2009-04-23T07:45:00.007+10:00

Speaking English first is a very handy skill to have. It is rare that you will visit a place where English is not understood by at least one person in the immediate vicinity (admittedly I haven't ventured far off the beaten track).

But it does come with an inherent set-back. Most of the people whom I have met that speak English first speak nothing second. I fall quite painfully and from a great height into this category, and I hate it.

I don't speak any other languages. If an Italian, an Indian, an Arab or an African approached me in the street for help, I would be relying on their English skills in order to provide some assistance, because lord knows they haven't a hope in hell with me.

It is something that I have almost come to resent about myself and the majority of English-speakers that I meet along the way. Especially those who espouse the view 'Why should I learn another language when everyone can understand me?'

The classic example is an American traveller whom I met in Berlin, describing an encounter that he had with a beggar in Rome. Pleading with him in Italian, this poor woman received the reply (in the harshest of Chicagoian accents) 'Woman, if you can't even beg in English then you ain't worth my time. Learn English if you want my money.'

I had to hide my frustration with this huge-sunglass-small-tshirt-tight-jeans-wearing boy by taking a large bite of bratwurst and chewing ferociously so that he wouldn't see my teeth grinding.

Until I asked myself - am I no better than he is? I can't speak Italian. Even when I tried, most of the time Italians don't understand me. And let's not even begin with my French, Spanish or German. Yet most Italians (and French and Spaniards and Germans) that I met could understand my English. I wonder how much of his English that beggar-woman understood?

There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I found myself staring wide-eyed at a colleague of mine recently when she switched from English to fluent French when she realised that the person with whom she was speaking hailed from Paris. I found out later that she spent a year in Paris, and could also speak Spanish from time spent in Spain, and some broken German from a few months as a correspondent at a German newspaper.

Whilst now that the novelty has warn off her skill is less a topic of admiration and more a ground for practical joking (There's a call for you, and its someone German. No really. I swear. Yes, they only speak German. I would never lie to you!), I still find myself in awe of anyone with an English-speaking background who can speak a second language. Not even fluently - even just an understanding and a few broken spoken sentences are enough to earn my surprise and respect.

When JFK proudly proclaimed 'Ich bin ein Berliner!' to a cheering crowd in West Berlin, 1963 he earned (perhaps belatedly) a small amount of ridicule from the English-speaking world. In a rather abstract way, this phrase can be taken literally to mean 'I am a jelly donut' (although apparently it did not sound this way at all to the adoring crowd assembled on the day, and Kennedy's message rang loud and clear). And I admit that I used to have a giggle now and then when I saw it in history.

But really this is the sort of effort that we should all be making. Language is culture, and so often we travel not just to see places but to experience different cultures. You cannot experience a culture without at least attempting to speak some of the language. You cannot connect with people unless you show a willingness to understand the basis of their country.

Whilst us English-speakers might be at a disadvantage in that it is not really necessary for us to learn another language to get by, we need to be reminded every now and then that it is necessary for us if we want to travel completely and genuinely.

My girlfriend's fantastic French flatmate loves speaking English and has moved here (to Scotland) so he can practice everyday. Now he can not only travel to, but also connect with the English-speaking world as well as the French-speaking world. He can (metaphorically speaking) not only pronounce 'Je suis une personne française' (or something like that), but also 'I am an Englishman, I am a Scot, I am an Australian, I am an American, etc.' These are the broad horizons that I crave, and I hope to have them within my view one day in the near future.

Learning languages should not be feared, or seen as an unnecessary hobby. It is something that I aspire to, and hope to make the time to embrace so that perhaps one day I can also proudly stand in a room of jelly donuts and announce that I, too, am one of them.

Poor, but sexy

2009-04-13T08:10:00.003+10:00

Or so the recent advertising campaign goes...

I have been struggling with writing this post from the moment we flew back in to Edinburgh. And not for lack of inspiration.

Berlin is amazing. There really is something incredibly sexy about a city that has been rebuilding and renewing itself for over 60 years... Something dynamic, something very vibrant and alive. Berlin is the embodiment of a city with a truly genuine lifeforce that exists and breathes at the core of every building, every park, every citizen of this magnificent town.

So no, inspiration is definitely not a problem.

We spent an entire day on a cycle tour of the city, stopping to take in pieces of history (from Babelplatz, where Hitler held book burnings, to Checkpoint Charlie, where Russian and American tanks faced off through a small gap in the Berlin wall, all the way back to the Brandenburg Gate, which Napoleon's armies marched through in 1806), enjoy a beer and a bratwurst in a beer garden, and soak in some of the glorious weather that graced most of our trip.

There was a day of sunburn out in Potsdam, ambling between a series of beautiful palaces set in a sprawling manicured park which was just beginning to burst with the life of Springtime.

The Jewish Memorial for victims of the Holocaust moved many to tears, and left us silent for an age. Stories of misery and daring escapes sparkled in my mind as I walked through The House at Checkpoint Charlie, a museum dedicated to the people's struggles against (and through and over and under) the Berlin Wall.

My stomach enjoyed every moment of the fine international cuisine, as did my wallet enjoy the reasonable prices offered for great food and friendly service to match.

And the sunshine... Oh the sunshine! I spent 4 of our 6 days in just a t-shirt, with a very light jumper for the mornings and evenings. In fact, we spent almost 2 hours of our first day in Berlin just dozing on the grass in front of some of Berlin's finest old buildings, watching students stretch out with books, basking in the sun's warmth, and listening to the loud singing of some young Italian tourists.

You see, there is just so much to write about! And then there is the city itself, regardless of our travels.

A city that is almost 800 years old, which has served as the capital city of some of the world's most influential nations - from the proud Kingdom of Prussia, to the powerful German Empire, to modern-day Germany - Berlin is a city with a unique history and an enrapturing story. The Brandenburg Gate hosted Napoleon, saw the return of successful Prussian armies, farewelled troops of the German Empire into World War I and II. The Reichstag survived through the tumultuous times of the Weimar Republic, only to be gutted by a fire during Hitler's rise to power at the head of the National Socialists, and then stood dormant, powerless, watching the rapid rebuilding and then the devastating destruction of the city around it as history took her course. Potsdamer Platz was once Europe's busiest traffic intersection before it was practically cleft in two by opposing ideologies occupying opposite halves of one city.

And still the people of Berlin survived. Berlin's wounds are fresh, and her scars are deep, and the pain of the past is visible everywhere you turn. But the scars are beautiful, the wounds are closing over, and the pain is healing, leaving behind a trail of character, learning and progression. And today the people of Berlin continue, shaped by an incredible past, and moving forwards in an equally unique direction.

Anyone visiting Berlin would find themselves filled with inspiration. You could walk the streets of Berlin blindfolded and still come home with stories to tell. You could block out all the sounds of the city and still return singing the praises of one of Europe's most special places.

But how do you even begin to do it in such a way that does justice to this strangely encompassing experience?

That is the thing about Berlin. It is an experience. And there is no way that words or pictures, alone or combined, could do it justice. I cannot think of a single medium which can convey the soul-touching energy of Berlin.

All I can do is beg of you, each and every one of you, please, please visit Berlin. Actually no, don't visit it. Berlin isn't a place to be visited. It is a place to be challenged, to be given a chance, to be congratulated, to be breathed in, to be seen, to be experienced. I can guarantee that you will walk away with something in return.

Berlin may be financially poor. But she really is oh so sexy, in all the best and worst ways.

Get outta town!

2009-03-23T10:07:00.005+11:00

Since our return to Scotland in January, we have essentially been living in the same three or four streets for almost 3 full months. Life involves scampering from home to work to home, with an occasional stop at a cinema, cafe or pub. I didn't realise how depressing it was until about 6 weeks of the same old search for safety, coveting the comfort of the inviting indoors (how's that for alliteration!).

In the past few weeks I have come to fully appreciate the validity of the age-old cliche of a city 'coming back to life'. I have witnessed this phenomenon with my own eyes. The nicest part about the transition from winter to spring so far hasn't necessarily been the weather itself (although the lingering warmth of proper sunshine fills my heart with proper joy), but more the change in people.

Winter is a time when we feel as though there is no option but to hunker down, wrap up and try to outlast the extremes of nature. It is rather like a battle forced upon us - be it a fight against the wind and ice on your unfortunately-necessary walk to work, or a tussle with the creeping cold clutching at your toes as you huddle under the (seemingly thin) blanket at night.

There was nothing to do but to fight it and survive.

But Spring is the returning of choice.

People here can now decide for themselves whether they want to rush to work in a lighter jacket, or mingle a little longer and try to lap up the sunshine; we can now choose whether we would rather wear socks to bed and kick them off in the night, or have cool toes until the bed warms as we doze off in comfort.

It is the choice alone that seems to be making people so much happier. I know for a fact that some are still choosing to spend their time indoors, close to a radiator or a warm oven, or in their favourite coffee shops, waiting for the full-fledged fun of summer - and they are happy just knowing that they could still step outside and it wouldn't be so bad. But others are choosing to linger a little longer in the streets, still wrapped in jacket and scarf, but smiling as the sun touches their face or watching mesmerised as the light dances off windows and puddles and the glasses and jewellery of people walking by. And they are happy that they can now linger, that they can now look up and smile, and can still go home to the comfort of a cosy chair and a cup of tea. You see, in winter we don't even have the choice of looking up - to risk your chin rising from your chest is to risk a blast of freezing air running unabated down the front of your jacket.

Now that it is Spring we can look each other in the eye again. Or not, as is our choice.

Yesterday Spring presented us with a choice - we could remain sheltered in our three streets of Edinburgh, knowing that we were never far from the safety of a warm drink or the calm of a cafe. Or we could grab at the sunshine, step out of the beloved comfort zone, and make something more of the day.

Needless to say, we chose the latter. Our Saturday trip south to Roslin (including the Rosslyn Chapel, Castle and Glen) was wonderfully refreshing, and is hopefully a good indicator of times to come, times which include better weather, more travel and much more choice.

Navigating the doldrums

2009-03-12T09:52:00.004+11:00

It has been cold in Edinburgh for as long as I can remember. The last time I wore just some short sleeves to protect me from the elements was in Barcelona, two and a half months ago.

Without any form of private transportation, it makes it difficult to escape in any way. Sometimes it feels like the city and the weather are holding us all captive - those of us lucky enough might get out and chase some sunshine on the weekends, but the rest of us stay put, lying a bit dormant, navigating the doldrums.

Soon winter will be over, and we'll get out and about once more. Until then, I must make myself content merely dreaming of warmer times past, and even warmer times to come.

Photos from Malaysia were of a great help to me in maintaining the dreams...

Yes, I am riding a scooter. Please don't tell anyone!

Upcoming

2009-03-09T00:32:00.001+11:00

Berlin, early April
Dublin, early May

Motorcycle tour in early autumn? A dream or a possibility?

What we leave behind

2009-02-23T09:01:00.002+11:00

My mother always used to emphasise how much more enjoyable travelling becomes when you have an understanding of history. I think this played an important role in nurturing my fascination for information on times long (and not so long) past.

Whilst the UK has been an excellent historical experience, Rome was the first true eye-opener for me. Never before had I been confronted in such a way with relics of another age. Even living almost in the shadow of an 800 year old castle in Edinburgh could do nothing to prepare me for the deeper, longer and more thoroughly impressive shadows cast by 2000 year old cities lying in ruins before me.

'It is true that the Romans stole a lot from the Greeks - especially in philosophy and culture. But this is not to say that they produced cheap imitations of Greek social institutions; the Romans often took Greek ideas and built on them until the result was Roman perfection. This is never more evident than in Roman architecture.'

This is a paraphrased (and Anglicised) version of the opening blurb given by our Italian tour guide whilst we sheltered under one of the many archways of the Colosseum. It was pouring rain, and tourists were busy dodging shady-looking Bengali men chasing them with 'Cheap umbrellas! I give you good deal!'

All that I could think about was the history that lay literally beneath my feet. How many people had sheltered themselves beneath this colossus in the middle of an ancient city? If I could have travelled back in time over 1800 years, who would I have found standing in exactly the same position as I was then? What would they have looked like, what would they have been thinking? Would they have been as awe-struck by this amazing feat of human ingenuity? Would they have known that I would be standing in their place in 1800 years time? Would they have known to be proud of this structural feat?

'Romans tended to appreciate the Greek architecture, but did not appreciate the limitations that it presented. As the Greek structures were limited to square shapes, their height was also severely limited - there is only so much weight that the top of a square can bear. So the Romans invented the arch. The archway distributes the weight far more evenly, and allows for structures as tall and magnificent as this one - still standing proudly in the middle of a city that has changed endlessly around it; still striking awe and wonder in the eyes and minds of each and every person who sees it for the first time.'

After spending five days completely immersed in the enduring beauty left by a civilisation that perished over a thousand years ago, I was left with two thoughts predominating:
After so much time with my mouth gaping, would I still remember how to keep my bottom jaw from dragging along the ground?
After a thousand years, what would be left for our civilisation to be proud of? What have we produced that would last ages beyond us and give future generations as much as what previous civilisations have left for us?

Back in London for Christmas, I began searching for some sort of a sign that our epoch in history would provide an equally enduring mark as the Roman era did. Circling the Gherkin whilst looking for Spitalfield Markets on the East side of the city was as about as inspiring as staring across Circular Quay at the Toaster in Sydney. I was gradually resigning myself to the fact that there won't be much left behind when our time here ends and the next great period in the history of the world begins.

And the more that I thought about it, the less I liked this. I wanted to be a part of an era that I could be proud of. I wanted someone to be standing in my footsteps in 2000 years and wondering who I was, what I was thinking, what I looked like. (Me, me, ME!)

Somehow I doubted that a building like the Montparnasse Tower (which I wish I hadn't seen whilst) in Paris would last a few measly centuries, let alone making it through multiple millennia.

As all hope was about to disolve into complete despondency, I made my first visit to the city of Barcelona and saw my first Gaudi.

Antoni Gaudi's architecture is beyond words.

Only Gaudi managed to assuage my growing fears that my peers would leave nothing behind.

Gaudi was an architect who would push all engineering boundaries in order to live out the inspirations that he saw in nature. His designs not only paid tribute to the natural world in their style, but also attempted to incorporate a philosophy of natural living in their functionality.

For example, sitting under the branching pillars of the Sagrada Familia (Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece - an enormous Gothic cathedral which is still under construction), you get the same feeling of peace and tranquility as you would from sitting under the protective canopy of an ancient forest. I was sitting, effectively, in the middle of a construction site, yet I still found myself wanting to open my eyes wider, sink deeper into the floor, speak in whispers and ingest the very essence of the room. It was truly inspirational.

It is an intense experience.

Not even pictures can do it justice. The only way anyone could possibly come to appreciate one of his designs is to go and stand right in the middle of it and try not to forget to breathe.

Without dwelling too much more on the experience which is (apparently) beyond description (so why do I keep trying to describe it?), I just wanted to briefly return to my mother. The same mother that told me to learn history so that I may better appreciate the nature of the world around me.

For that lesson, I am eternally grateful Mother Dearest. It is because of you that I undertook a quest not just to enjoy the world, but to see it in a light that improved my understanding of it, in a light that showed me not just the ways to enjoy, but also why it is something to be enjoyed.

What I couldn't quite figure out is why it was so important to me that we leave behind buildings or constructions for the history books - why were the places important? Aren't the stories about who we are enough?

By chance I picked up a book along my travels from an amazing bookstore in downtown Seattle. Originally a gift for another, I found it in my suitcase on my return to Edinburgh and, having nothing else to read, decided that I would flick through the first few pages: The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. In it, I found my answer...

"Belief in the significance of architecture is premised on the notion that we are, for better or for worse, different people in different places - and on the conviction that it is architecture's task to render vivid to us who we might ideally be."

We will be defined in history not just by the stories that we leave behind, but rather by the physical context in which those narratives can be found.

I hope that my story is found in a thousand years buried deep inside a building designed by a genius like Antoni Gaudi.

Re-visions

2009-02-21T02:54:00.002+11:00

I've been thinking lately - yes, this may come as a surprise to some of you. And there are some instances whereby I would really like to be able to convert these thoughts into written words, and, more importantly, into some sort of discussion on occasion.

The first obvious place to turn would be to my blog. Oh Internet, with your endless space for mindless musings! At first look your Shores seem clogged with lost souls selling their thoughts for cheap thrills, but then again isn't your coastline of the infinite kind?

It is a bit scary that an infinite coastline can appear to be crowded.

Which made me return to my initial posts, and to my original intentions when beginning this blog. Really, the title says it all: The Adventures of Ham.

This is supposed to be a blog about adventures. The adventures of Ham, to be precise (Ham being a shortened version of Hamish, me). I think this blog needs to see a return not to more adventurous writing, but to more writing about adventures. About travels, about the world, about interesting happenings, places I have been and people that I have seen.

I haven't forgotten that my very reason for travelling was to 'gain some world perspective' - and this blog should still reflect that perspective that I am supposed to be gaining from the above-mentioned adventures. But 'adventures', 'adventure' and 'adventuring' shall remain the focus.

Therefore I am proposing two motions (proposed by me, seconded by myself and passed by I):
1. That I have more adventures, and spend a little more time sharing, in this blog, the adventures that I have already had, and;
2. That I may begin a second blog, which will focus more on the nurturing of perspective. I say 'may', because this motion only makes it a possibility, not a definite.

In line with Motion 1, I hope to begin writing about my initial forays into Europe in a little more detail in the very near future, and share my potential plans for future adventures.

Regarding Motion 2, I will begin experimenting with the idea of taking up more space on the proverbial beaches of the internet. Being an idealist, I need to give careful consideration to whether or not I can muster the effort required to fully utilise this second space. If I can justify it, begin it, and maintain it, then I will include a link to it in a future post on this blog.

So please, stay posted. And please, don't be afraid to leave some feedback!

More adventures to come...

And a spoonful of sugar.

2009-02-10T10:08:00.003+11:00

+Pragmatism (thank you John).

+Courage (thank you Eremita and Fatima).

+Perseverance (thank you, BHHS).

+Realism (thank you again, John).

+Reality (thank you Monisha).

+Hope (thank you Mum, family and friends).

Take a step to the left...

2009-02-09T22:50:00.000+11:00

There is one particular, consistent phenomenon that always, without fail, will inspire road rage in me. Even pedestrian rage in these car-less/bike-less times.

Inconsistency.

I can't stand inconsistent drivers. Or walkers for that matter.

I came to this realisation on a long stretch of road somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney, just after I got my P-plates and was riding on the back of a screaming 250CC sportsbike going just a little bit quicker than I should have been (given that the speed limit for a P-plater is 90km/h).

Not much quicker - I was probably averaging about 95km/h. But I was wanting to get home. I had just spent a wonderful weekend with my darling friend from Queensland in a muddy, soaked tent in Byron Bay at the East Coast Blues Festival. I had a dinner to be at that night, but was still a good few hundred kilometres from the warm shower and the change of clean clothes that I needed before I could take my place at a dinner table in a nice restaurant with my cousins from New York.

I have told this epic many times before, so will spare most details.

I wanted to be going 110km/h. I was going 95km/h because 110km/h would have placed me somewhere in the back seat of the Holden Commodore in front. Anyone who has driven the Pacific Highway north would know that there aren't often overtaking opportunities, especially when you are on a small-engined bike which you're already pushing hard. There just wasn't the power beneath my bum to zip around the car without getting hit by that oncoming semi.

So come the overtaking lane (a welcome sight if ever there was one), I twisted the throttle and watched the needle slowly creep up towards that magic 115km/h mark which would put me past this Commodore and let me cruise at the wonderfully tempting 110.

Deeming that I had enough speed to move out into the lane beside and make my dash for freedom, I checked my mirrors, my blind spot, indicated and went for it.

I was gaining slowly on the Commodore. The needle was at 105. Drew up level at 110km/h. Just a little bit more and I would be far enough in front to claim this road ahead as mine to command!

At 112km/h I noticed something curious. The Commodore was pulling away from me. At 115km/h (at which point my engine was verbally protesting with the vigour of a young child being smacked by an angry parent) the Commodore was clearly in front again. Try as I might, I could not make up those few more metres needed to squeeze in front.

At 118km/h (with not enough riding experience behind me to maintain those speeds on a rattly little ZZR250), I resigned. But don't mistake my resignation for disappointment. I pulled in behind the Commodore, tucked down below my fairing, and congratulated myself on reminding the driver that this was a good road with a speed limit of 110km/h and absolutely no reason not to be doing it. Home was feeling closer already.

As the overtaking lane ended and I made myself comfortable cruising along at the wonderous 11o, my thoughts drifted ahead to the warmth and comfort of home and friends and family. As much as I love being on the back of a motorbike, highway riding is not very inspiring. And the ZZR is not known for its comfort on long, solo journeys with stops only to refuel.

What's this? In my comfort has my hand twisted a little more? Have I edged above 110? Why am I needing to suddenly pull on my brakes and drop back from the boot of the Holden in front?

I checked my speed. 95km/h.

Why?!!?!

Sign post on the side of the road: Next overtaking lane 3km.
I read: Next chance for revenge and a quick trip home 3km.

In 3km time I tried again to zoom past this annoyance. In fact I even took a run up at it, beginning my run a good 300m before the overtaking lane - you need a bit of a headstart when competing with an engine literally 20 times the size of your own.

To no avail. The Commodore sped up to about 125km/h, successfully staying ahead of me, before dropping back to 95km/h once we were back to a one-lane road.

We danced like this another 3 times before the Commodore's empty fuel tank or the driver's need for fast food proved to be my saviour.

In all my attempts I did get close enough on one occasion to see the driver. I don't even think he had registered my existence. He definitely wasn't trying to speed up and cut me off on purpose (you know if someone is driving with ill-intent towards you when you are on a motorcycle). This just furthered my frustration.

He wasn't doing this on purpose. He was just an inconsistent driver. And at the end of our tango, I found myself fuming at being stuck behind this tonne of inconsistency for a 60km stretch of my ride home.

In a similar way I can't stand to be stuck behind people who stagger all over a footpath, following no clear direction, offering inconsistent speeds and then absolutely no warning when they decide to stop in the middle of a crowd.

This is becoming an even more apparent problem in these colder times. Footpaths in Edinburgh can be as slippery as a snake's smooth stomach, especially after a dump of snow overnight. Maneuvering around obstacles is difficult, negotiating the quickest route to work when you are already running 10 minutes late is tricky enough without having to calculate for the errant and erratic movements of aimless wanderers.

To add to it all, I have inherited the Northern tendency to walk with my head down, minimising weather exposure to my all-too-vulnerable neck and chest. And to keep snow out of my eyes. More than once I have looked up to find that the person in front of me has stopped to pull a phone from their pocket, or greet a friend in the middle of a packed, narrow, icy city footpath.

This problem could be easily solved with a set of simple pedestrian rules which encouraged consistent, predictable movement in high-traffic areas at peak times. For example maintaining a constant speed, or checking one's blind spots before stepping suddenly at right angles across three lanes of pedestrian traffic to look in a shopfront window.

I am learning, however, that the world is an extremely inconsistent place.

And that sometimes unpredictability is as intriguing, exciting and thrilling as consistency can be comforting.

That doesn't make it any less frustrating!

Genuine all-rounder

2009-02-03T09:08:00.005+11:00

"What a start for the young racer Hamish on this cloudy Edinburgh evening! He's been looking strong all season so far, this fresh face to the world of pedestrian racing shows great promise for the future"

"That he does Barry, that he does. Look at his form, weaving a path straight from the start line... I look at him and I think to myself 'There's a man with a mission, there's a man with a mission'"

"I think you could be right there Mick, he's the type of racer that has nothing but the finish line in mind right from the word 'Go!' That being said, conditions are a little tricky this evening..."

"That they are Barry, that they are. Its a cold one tonight in Edinburgh, road surface is a little slippery, yet young Hamish has still opted for the slicks"

"Yes, I'm not sure if that is a move showing youthful recklessness or is it mere naivety...?"

"Well Barry, you know as well as anyone how hard the adjustment can be for a Southerner..."

"Mick, if you're referring to my horrendous first season of snow racing, I suggest you change the-"

"Jeez, look at that bold overtaking manouvre! He's really striding out now, no concerns for the icy conditions! He's got a fine weave on him this boy, a fine weave"

"Let's just watch that back again... The rear foot sliding through on those smooth slicks underfoot as he deftly cuts across with a big leading left. That's bold with a capital B, Mick"

"Bold is right, Barry, but what's this... What's this?! Could it be-?"

"Snow!"

"Oh and its really coming down, Barry, pouring down. Cats and dogs me ol' mum'd say, cats and dogs. I wonder if this is going to force this young racer to have a change of race plan?"

"Ooooh! Well, with the way he's sliding about now heading down this slight rise in the track, I think he might need to review his game strategy. He's still showing some resilience in his face, but Mick if you check the clock, his pace has definitely been affected"

"Understandably so, its really coming down Barry-"

"Yes Mick, you said that, we get it, its snowing"

"Oh! Oh! Big slide! Oh he was lucky to retain his balance on that one, skill had nothing to do with it."

"You're right Mick, this is just recklessness. I know he is inexperienced in the snow, but he is not showing anywhere near enough regard for the conditions out there today. And still persisting with those slicks, surely its time for a change?!"

"Well Barry he's nearing the pits he is, we'll see soon enough if this kid has more brains than balls..."

"I certainly hope he does, for his safety's sake, Mick. This could turn ugly."
"There we go Barry, sure enough, the youngster's pulled himself into the pits for a quick restock of supplies for the rest of the evening."
"Straight into the kitchen for some food supplies for his dinner over at the finish line. Oh and some of his girlfriend's clean washing too. But let's see if he removes the slick leather shoes in favour of something with a little more grip..."
"The shoes are off, but what is that he is reaching for...? I don't believe my eyes... Are those-?"
"Dunlops?! But nobody races on Dunlops! I thought they weren't even available outside Australia?!"
"That is definitely a pair of imported Dunlops, black Dunlop Volleys to be precise. Well this is an unprecedented move from the inexperienced young antipodean, Barry."
"Surely they aren't made from the right materials for this type of race-conditions, Mick. I don't want to pre-empt disaster for this promising racer, but I can't see anyone pulling off a brazen move like this one."
"I don't know about that Barry, I don't know, this boy isn't any fool. You know I hear that Dunlops are quite versatile - shoe of choice for even roof tilers back in Australia."
"You're not trying to tell me that you think this is a smart choice are you, Mick?"
"All I'm saying is that I'm not saying anything just yet, Barry. Not saying anything at all. I'm going to wait this one out and see what happens."
"Well you won't be waiting for long. He's on his way out of the pit lane, down the stairs and back out into the weather to rejoin the race. Let's see how his Dunlops fair in this proper Northern weather."
"I can hear the pessimism in your voice, Barry. But his first few steps are looking ok so far. Look at that, even better than ok... He's upping the pace, Barry, getting quicker and quicker."
"Impossible! I... I-! In my 30 years in pedestrian racing I have never-!"
"Well seeing is believing Barry, seeing is believing. Look at that kid go! I believe I am going to have to go out and find a pair of Dunlop Volleys for myself, I am. Amazing stuff. Amazing shoe!"
"Quite extraordinary indeed Mick. Who would have thought..."

From K-rations to C-rations

2009-01-13T23:12:00.004+11:00

I think I might release a cereal called the Credit Crunch. The list of ingredients would read: dust. Hey, its free!

Some advice from comrades in arms battling a wavering UK economy and scrimping on every cent:

Credit Crunch Latte - "Pour some milk in a glass jar, heat in microwave. Take it out, put the lid on and shake till your arm goes numb. Add to a small amount of instant coffee paste (cheap German brand from Lidl/Aldi) and stir. Credit Crunch Latte."

Credit Crunch Munch - "Hamish, I'm so hungry! I end up eating all my wages!"
"Carrots. A chocolate bar costs 59p (AUD 1.50), a packet of crisps costs 45p (AUD 1.10). An apple costs about 20p (AUD 0.45). The solution is carrots. One carrot costs 10p. Eat as many as you like. By as many as you like I really mean one."

Poor man's pasta - "Place some cheap pasta in boiling water and boil until cooked. For protein, add can of drained chickpeas (39p) or grate small amount of cheap cheese and stir through. Pinch of dried herbs for cheap flavour."

C-ration fuel - "Open a box of cereal. Eat some. Walk."

Vegetable soup - Really, do I need to say any more?

Credit Crisis Saturday - "Instead of going to parties, work at them. You still get to dress up (as a penguin), you still get to drink (out of people's dirty glasses at the end of the night), you get fed (no really, they usually feed you!), and you get paid. What a night!"

Guess what I'm doing tomorrow...

And so it is Christmas...

2008-12-25T09:34:00.003+11:00

Well, almost.

My heart longs for that festive cheer - it is still on Australian time, and is back home in Sydney amongst family and friends, conjuring a smile with every reminder of how special such days are.

My mind, however, knows well that my body is here in England (still amongst friends and almost-family), and that Christmas day is still, officially, a little over an hour away.

Its strange the memories Christmas can beckon in. I remember so many Christmases (and yes, I'm going by the first google search result for 'plural of Christmas').

I remember Christmas long ago, before I knew much about anything, and could completely immerse myself in the simple pleasure of giving and receiving. I can recall later days when Christmas was marked by the grumpiness of a boy who just found the world and did not yet know how to look at it (or where his family [annoying at the time] might fit in); did not know how this new context might effect the dynamics of giving, receiving and knowing all that goes with these simple actions.

I can still feel the comfort of Christmases past when I knew more about who I was, or at least how I might become the person I longed to be. When family was no longer annoying, when I had figured their special place in my life for eternity. Christmases away from the world, Christmases hidden away in a self-contained paradise, complete with the joys of giving and receiving, the love of family and still the grounding reality of life and relationships.

Christmases when I missed friends, or perhaps a special someone who could not be with me.

A Christmas for mourning the passing of a loved grandparent.

Christmases with new people in new places; Christmases with old people (and older people!) in familiar homes.

Every year Christmas is different because I am different. Every year it means something new, and every year I have the pleasure of making a new memory of Christmas.

There is, however, one constant: Christmas breakfast!

Almost every year for almost as long as I can remember we have had a variety 8-pack of all those delicious, sugar-filled breakfast cereals in tiny individual boxes; the type that, as children, we were never allowed on a regular basis. A real treat, even if its now purely for the nostalgia it evokes.

In fact right now, as I sit miles from home, I can picture my family all reaching for their cereals of choice, perhaps fighting, sometimes resigning (the ultimate sign of family love). And that just might be what I miss most about Christmas this year.

Its a process that has evolved as we've all grown. But it is something that we have almost always had to navigate together. There has never been a hard and fast rule - our tastes seem to change yearly - so each year's negotiation has been different, new and approached with all the wisdom (or aggression or love or strength or courage or selflessness) that we have acquired over the year past. Those two minutes of decision making could be the defining moment for my family each and every year. And I miss it terribly.

I wonder which box I would have reached for if I was there right now.

I hope you take a guess and give mine to Sally. With paws instead of hands and an inability to grab quickly enough I'm afraid she's always missed out, poor puppy.

Merry Christmas and my love to all.

Paris: City of lights, shytes and motorbikes

2008-12-14T05:19:00.003+11:00

We arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The trip to the apartment was a near mission impossible, involving twisting turns through narrow Parisian backstreets, visits to buildings, rooms, safety deposit boxes, codes, keys and cash, all with luggage in tow. The apartment itself was (finally) a very chique, loft-style space hidden in a side street somewhere in the 3rd arrondisement.

Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.

What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...

Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.

(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)

The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.

More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.

But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.

But oh the motorcycles!

European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!

But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...

Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...

Scottish Sun

2008-11-21T05:24:00.002+11:00

About a month from the winter solstice here in Scotland, and once you get out of the city and away from the buildings it becomes truly evident how much the sun's path through the sky has changed.

The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.

Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.

Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?

I think the Sun could be on to something here...

Dusty (like Russia)

2008-10-25T02:19:00.004+11:00

Finally at liberty to write about one of my more miserable travel experiences, I'm going to take this blog back a month or two.

It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.

The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.

That was fine, we said.

Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.

No, we said. We've been given no notice.

Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.

No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.

Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.

At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.

No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.

This was when the real challenge began.

Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.

Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.

Legal advice, we said.

Action, we threatened.

Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.

But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.

Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.

We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.

In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.

It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.

Definitely a lesson learned.

Ironique (thanks Millie)

2008-10-21T02:36:00.003+11:00

I'm currently working in a fantastic new job for the University of Edinburgh in the Media Office.

This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.

My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.

'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'

Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.

In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.

My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.

"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."

Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked

"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"

I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!

I bought some gloves

2008-10-08T04:55:00.002+11:00

Apparently I served lunch to a Spanish Princess or some member of the Spanish royal family on Sunday. As well as some very rich (and I'm sure famous in their own fields) gentlemen and ladies from all over the world, all attending the Alfred Dunhill Links Championship. Notable attendees included Samuel L. Jackson, Hugh Grant and Michael Vaughn, amongst others.

On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.

On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.

My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.

My fingers are too cold for typing

2008-10-06T23:54:00.000+11:00

So more pictures

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Scotland/

A Highland Tribute

2008-09-30T22:27:00.003+10:00

We took a drive up through the highlands this weekend. Begining with a tour of the small-but-stunning town of Stirling on Friday evening and Saturday morning, and ending with an enjoyable sprint from Inverness to Edinburgh on Sunday evening.

In between I was witness to some of the most amazing scenery I have ever been so privileged to see. The Scottish Highlands are an absolute wonder. As the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to the bare hills of Rhannach Moor, Glencoe Valley, and Loch Leven, words were stolen and replaced merely by repeated gasps at the beauty that was before me. In much the same way, Loch Ness took my breath from me as I gently immersed my face in the cold, cloudy waters (keeping a promise to my mother that I would pass her greetings on to the fabled monster), not just with its icy temperatures, but with the sincerity and drama of the surrounding landscape.

It is a beautiful thing to see a cloud swallow entire hills just metres from where you're standing. Hills that, when visible, are incredibly steep, rocky, seemingly unconquerable, eternal, formidable; hills that defeated the Romans over 2000 years ago, that held at bay the English armies for almost as long; hills that have changed highland hands hundreds of times, but have never themselves changed or relented. Hills that must still succumb to the gentle rolling of low-lying rain clouds, rendered completely invisible by nothing more than wafts of air-filled water.

An old friend of mine passed away recently. He was a proud Scot, whose genuine excitement travelled halfway around the world when I called him from Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Pop was a man who lived life because that's exactly what the word 'life' means - living. He took opportunities in the same way that he took disappointments - with a smile, and an attitude that reassured you no matter the situation. His grey hair and thick grey beard could not hide the youth that still sparkled in his eyes, nor could his aging exterior contain the energy that he still exuded.

He wasn't a huge man, but he had an unconquerable sense of humour, an amazingly kind heart, and an incredible spirit. All who knew him will miss him dearly, without exception.

In passing his body may have completely disappeared from this world, but I know that he is here, somewhere, just behind the clouds.

A short black for a long while

2008-09-25T03:23:00.004+10:00

I treated myself to a macchiato this morning at a friendly little deli around the corner from where I used to live.

I sat, read the newspapers, sipped slowly at the tiny coffee, and completely immersed myself in matters of the world.

Financial crises, leadership challenges, stories of violence, stories of hope, cynicism beside optimism beside pessimism beside strange inquisition. The less liquid there was in my cup, the more I found my thoughts floating far from myself and to those people and issues that I truly care about.

After being completely involved in my own world for so long, it was a comforting relief to re-find some perspective beyond the borders of my life.

There is so much that I miss from home. People, problems, solutions, challenges, familiarity, family, friends... But the wonderful thing about this re-discovery was that I could also look back on my own self from without, and I could see exactly where I was.

I was walking along the Meadows, with Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over my left shoulder, a bag of bread and a carton of eggs under my right arm, and an old friend on the phone from Brisbane. I could see the distance between myself and my native land, but I could also see all the Australia that I carry with me, all the home that lives in my heart.

This morning I remembered what an incredibly lucky guy I am, and that is a really great way to start a day.

One door closes, another one opens

2008-09-25T01:00:00.002+10:00

Whether it be through cheesey pop music, or the wise adages of ancient soothsayers, life is often described as a rollercoaster. There are ups and downs, twists and turns, and sometimes even full loops and swirls.

Personally I think this might be a bit of a relaxed description in today's frantic society. I believe that life is far more like a yo-yo in the hands of a champion yo-yo master. Does that sound childish?

Have you ever seen a champion yo-yo master before?

Think of a rollercoaster tied on a piece of string travelling three times as fast and not limited by the direction of the track in front of it. Unlike with a rollercoaster there is no end of the road. There is no potential foresight of where you might be taken to next. There is only the hand of the master, who alone has the power to decide which direction the yo-yo will be flung in next, or when the perpetual motion will finally cease.

After hunting for a room to stay in for over 4 weeks, I thought I had finally found somewhere. A room in Bruntsfield, the area where I was hoping to live, with reasonable rent, fantastic flatmates and a beautiful room with all I could need. As I was greeted by two smiling faces at the open door, I knew that this was a place I could live.

Everything went well. And apparently I wasn't the only one who thought so - I was humbled by an acceptance the next day from the two current tennants. They would love to have me! We would meet again on Thursday night to discuss the finer points of my moving in and, I hoped, to find out a little more about each other.

But come Thursday afternoon I was surprised by an email - my blog had been found after a quick search of my name. I was initially flattered. Someone had been reading my blog, someone I didn't even know!

But then came the crushing news. My blog revealed an airiness in my plans, and caused some hesitation on behalf of my soon-to-be roommates. They needed committment. They were afraid that I couldn't offer that.

I won't pretend I wasn't surprised. Of all the things in my life, I never thought that this blog, this very blog that you are reading, would get me in any amount of strife. In fact, I hoped it would do the opposite (although they did mention that they enjoyed reading it, and for that I thank you).

But as the door closed on my vision of a beautiful Bruntsfield flat with fabulous flatmates, I completely understood their concerns. This was nothing personal, we were all just victims of unbelievable chance. Put in the same position myself, I would definitely need some convincing to take a different course of action.

The very next morning, feeling a little down at the bottom end of the yo-yo string, I opened the front door of my temporary accommodation to find a smiling neighbour.

"Hi, are you one of the new tennants in this flat?"

"Oh, um, not really. I'm just staying while I search for a room of my own. I'm just heading out to work."

"That's ok, I was just dropping by to say hi, welcome to the building... but you say you're looking for a room?"

"Yeah, hopefully somewhere closeby, I really like the area."

"I have a room."

"You have a room?"

"I have a room... Come, take a look. I'm looking for someone for about two or three months just to help cover a bit of the rental cost. Its a beautiful room."

As she pushed open the door to an enormous double room with a gorgeous bay window, elegant old furniture and a wonderful, positive vibe I knew that as quickly as one door had closed another one had opened literally just downstairs.

I move in this weekend.

I wonder... in which direction will I be thrown next?

When its time to party we always party hard

2008-09-19T01:36:00.004+10:00

I have rather fond memories of my 21st - definitely a highlight of 2007.

I will admit that I did my fair share of complaining in the time leading up to the party. I consented to a party, yes. But my idea of a party was vastly different from my parents. I envisaged a barbeque in the park with my closest friends and family, a football, an old portable stereo, and maybe a balloon or two and some children's party games.

What eventuated was (what most thought to be) a rather grandscale event. Set in a beautiful (permanent) marquee in a park, complete with crisp white table clothes and shining silver cutlery, my birthday turned into a wedding without a bride. Despite my protests, I was the fortunate recipient of (what I thought to be) a lavish celebration of my 21 years. In fact, it was so brilliant that I happily conceded to being spoiled, and revelled in all the attention.

This weekend past I learned the true meaning of extravagance.

Over 340 guests were ushered into a reception marquee to begin the evening. Served champagne and canapes, they were gently serenaded by a crooner's drifting voice set to a baby grand piano, a double bass, and the trickling of a multi-leveled fountain which had been constructed on the tent's carpeted floors. Everyone was dressed magnificently, conversing vibrantly and preparing for what was to be a spectacular evening.

Urged into the adjoining dining hall marquee, guests were seated at tables featuring elegant centrepieces of flowers and candles, table cloths to the floor and cutlery arranged perfectly. We served their three courses promptly from the temporary kitchen assembled in yet another marquee next door, and kept their wine glasses brimming with wonderful whites and rather rich reds.

Dessert was followed by a choreographed display of fireworks, set to a 16 minute soundtrack, all set up within the grounds of the estate which was playing host to this splendid soiree. Whilst guests enjoyed the show outside, preparations were underway inside - tea and coffee was served in the dining area, whilst the partitions between the dining and reception area were removed to reveal an amazing transformation. The reception tent was now a cocktail lounge.

An additional area was opened up with a tiled dancefloor, complete with LED fairy lights embedded in the floor, and a stage at the rear hosting a 15 piece big band. This nightclub-like scene extended into a more relaxed space with lounges, bar tables and stools, colourful lighting and mysterious dark corners. Set right at the rear of the room was a bar offering a menu of beer, wine, cocktails and spirits, where we were kept busy with guests waiting three people thick to be served drinks and keep the festivities alive.

The big band may have finished belting out their big tunes around midnight, but the DJ was more than adequate at keeping partygoers on the dancefloor or crowding the bar for refreshments.

Bacon rolls were served at 2am, fueling the fun and prompting renewed waves of energy from once-tiring guests. Drinks continued to flow until well after 4am, whilst the dining hall was quietly packed away unbeknownst to any revellers.

Come 5am our bus arrived to take us home. Weaving our way through a still-jumping nightclub, past weary bodies sprawled over lush white lounges, we made it out into the fresh morning air, away from the thump of the drum 'n' bass that was relentlessly pounding away inside.

All this for a 21st.

Conservative estimates have priced this party somewhere between 200 and 250,000 pounds. Half a million Australian dollars.

For those of you still chuckling at the grandeur of my 21st, may I at least point out that I didn't have a fountain.

The race

2008-08-28T18:00:00.003+10:00

Around the corner from our hotel was a little holiday-hire place with a blue scooter and two oversized helmets. For a measely amount and a signature on some forms written in a language I don't understand, I was tossed the keys and warned that there was just enough gas in the tank to make it to the next petrol station.

And so we embarked.

With a full tank of fuel we set about taking wrong turns, flying through the jungle, struggling up hills, dodging roadkill and banana skins and revelling in the wind that lifted the helmets half off our heads, laughing all the way.

Come late afternoon we returned to the hotel and realised that there would be a grand race that evening. Not wanting to miss it, we donned some long sleeves and met by our tiny blue steed in the hotel carpark from where the race was to commence.

And without warning it began! Out of the hotel carpark, taking a short cut through the next parking lot, up and over the footpath, the wrong way down a one-way and we were ahead almost immediately. One red helmet and one white, flapping in the wind as we giggled at our initial daring success.

But our confidence overwhelmed our sense of urgency until we noticed that we were losing our illustrious lead. The hard thing about being in front is having no one to follow, instead having to rely on nothing more than some scratchings on a piece of paper, waving in the wind, with no more right to call itself a map than we had right to call our scooter a steed.

Is that the turn off? The sign says this way! Is this the long way?

I can't read this, it makes no sense - follow the signs! Oh, wait. This is taking us the long way! We can't go back now...

And with that there was a renewed vigour in my twisting wrist, riding the throttle in the fading light. We could see our racing partner ahead, chasing down the finish line with a steadiness that seemed unbeatable, inevitable. But there was power beneath our bottoms yet.

That was our prize. This was our race.

With a flick of the wrist and the mercy of a downhill run, we leaned into the corners, roaring with hysterical glee over the scream of the engine, blind through intersections, around slow traffic, darting through pedestrians,

there's the turn off!

sliding now with the sand and gravel into the final destination. Did we make it?

Did we make it?

We both turn, look our over the white sand, past the gentle lapping of the bright blue ocean and know that we had, indeed, won the race.

I grabbed her hand and we ran over the sand to claim our well-earned reward. The most beautiful sunset over a perfect beach, with tropical islands silhouetted across the horizon and the pinks and oranges of a quickly sinking sun sliding off the few pure white clouds, filling the sky with colours aplenty.

The sand was still warm from the last of the sun's rays. We sat, sank our toes in and breathed the perfection.

With the last of the light we returned to our trusty two-wheeled friend and leisurely trundled towards what would be an amazing seafood dinner, cooked in the local Langkawi style, enjoyed at a tiny table looking out over the beach.

We smiled.

The day had been ours.

August Rush

2008-08-27T22:34:00.004+10:00

An update from Edinburgh, which is where I am planning on living until the end of November.

I finally have a roof over my head, an agency that doesn't seem to have any problems placing me in jobs and just enough money in the bank account that I can still afford to eat.

Internet access has been limited in Edinburgh, and my web time has been dedicated to job and apartment hunting - not too much has changed in that department, except that my current job allows for some free time online. Hooray!

Life in Edinburgh is... a vibrant, lively grey. Like the clouds that perpetually exist just above the city skyline, Edinburgh is a city with a million different tones, shapes and shades all concealed within the same colour - grey.

There is a rather dramatic beauty in clouds. At a glance they may appear oppressive, overbearing and dull. Yet they are alive, moving, changing all the time. Sometimes they float, sometimes they roll, sometimes they're harbingers of a booming doom, other times they're merely the gateway to the paradisiacal blue above - there's a diversity in their consistency. They're always there, but if you look closely there is always something new to be found in the way they move, in the shapes they make, in the tiny gaps between.

The weather here might be rather dull, but that isn't Edinburgh's most prominent feature (although it might be my most prominent point of complaint). With the world's largest festival just coming to an end, Edinburgh is taking a new shape. As the crowds fade and the party-goers leave, the city is coming into its own and revealing the calm beauty that exists even after the excitement has left.

The drama of a castle perched atop the crags, the gentle, green roll of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's highest hill) and the concrete crassness of the eternally-busy Princes Street form just three sides of a city with many. The fact that Edinburgh is a town whose city boasts not one but two ground levels for many of its buildings is rather indicative of the vibe of this place - you can walk in on ground floor, and leave on ground floor, but end up in an entirely new place. Like the shifting shapes of the clouds overhead, Edinburgh is a city to be explored and enjoyed by those with an appreciation of their own imagination.

And for those with patience.

I wish those clouds would hurry up and disappear, I miss the sunshine.

Tripping over

2008-08-09T21:25:00.000+10:00

There are many fine lines in life: between love and hate, pleasure and pain, success and failure. Travelling puts this already-too-skinny line on a diet, starving the barrier that keeps us from the horror on the other side to the point of transparency.

Yes, you can have some of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer. Yes, your mind is expanded in a dozen different directions all at once. But a huge part of this enjoyment, this fulfilment, this satisfaction is the fact that we can tramp so close to the other side without even realising it.

Because each one of our senses is engaged in trying desperately to absorb the new world around us, we become so absorbed in the experience that we forget the pain that can exist side-by-side with pleasure. We forget the hate that balances love.

So when we slip, tripping over that now anorexic line, we can fall hard.

Ignorance is only bliss for as long as we can stay ignorant. If the hard times manage to creep up on us, we are caught by surprise. Who would think that standing in line to cross the border into Canada could so quickly lead to a violent, physical arrest (as happened to someone in the line ahead of me)? How was I to believe that the owner of the cafe wouldn’t actually give me a job, despite her frequent reassurances? When, how, why did that person so suddenly leave our world back home? It isn’t fair! Where did this pain suddenly erupt from, how did this tragedy sneak into my wonderful worldly adventure? How am I supposed to feel about it? How do we react?

When we are torn from our ideal world of travel and happiness it happens quickly and without warning. Being so far from the comforts of home makes the shock harder to bear and the disbelief can reverberate far louder than when we are in a familiar place.

All of a sudden the brilliance and the wonder of the new things which surround us lose their attractiveness. All of a sudden we are lost. The wide world becomes a scary, claustrophobic place which has us trapped far from the security of our known lives. All of a sudden the freedom of travelling becomes a fear of being so far away.

But the thing about love and hate and about pleasure and pain is that they are mutually reliant on each other – one cannot exist without the other. This is not always an easy truth to accept when you are on your own thousands of kilometres from home, but it is an essential part of travelling.

It is hard to remember, but this is one of the reasons I am here. I won’t always know what I am doing here. I won’t have my safety net to help me deal with those sneaky problems that come crashing into my new world. I will want to pack it all in and come home. But then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will be reminded. I am here because of this. I am here to live through this. I am here because I want to be.

It may be a thin line, made even finer by my distance from home... But every time I trip over, I will to try to remember that the other side of it isn’t far away.

Love at first bite

2008-07-06T01:55:00.003+10:00

Am I singing happily in the cyber-shower? Two posts about love and dating in a row - perhaps I am showing signs of love in my life.

In fact, it is probably time to confess: there is a new love in my life.

It is a very passionate love, tempered only by the distance that has since been thrust upon us. It is a love that has greatly expanded my view on the world, challenged my understanding of cultural experiences and that has taught me to appreciate the more exciting facets of life.

We met within hours of my arrival in Kuala Lumpur.

It was warm. The intimidating storm clouds that greeted me served only to heighten the drama of this strange new place. The pelting tropical rain returned life to my senses that had been lying dormant since my departure from the US over 20 hours earlier.

I knew from the moment that I walked into that little corner cafe that this would be the beginning of a beautiful life-long romance.

I began slowly, gently flirting without stepping outside my personal comfort zone: nasi ayam, a dish which is as simple as the literal translation of its name - chicken and rice. With a cheeky grin I also sampled my first barley ice: a sweet, refreshing drink that quickly became a staple part of my Malaysian diet.

Seeing my own enthusiasm at these initial contacts, I became bolder in my advances. My confidence was rewarded as each and every one of my tastebuds were passionately assaulted with new flavours: small, spicy snails which had to be sucked straight from the shell and adorable little shellfish known as lalahs, their cute name matched by their delicate flavour. I ate not with greed, but with a vigour that increased with every bite. Each taste seemed impossibly good, surpassed only by the next mouthful. And the next.

And the next again.

And the next again until the plates were finished and my stomach was not only full but satisfied in a way I had not known possible.

And thus a passion was ignited in me, one which cannot be extinguished. My first meal in Malaysia will always be memorable for the anticipation, the slow building of excitement, and the amazing crescendo to conclude. My last meal in Malaysia will undoubtedly be one of the saddest moments in my life, for I have never, ever been so in love with a country's food before.

Malaysian food (in all your glorious forms), I love you.

First impressions

2008-07-03T06:38:00.006+10:00

Humans, by nature it seems, are quick to judge and slow to change their minds.

Going on a first date we are usually eager to excite each of the senses of our potential partner: we want to look sharp, sexy; we want to smell fantastic, inviting; we want to feel clean, smooth (or stubbly, depending on the look you are going for); we want to sound intelligent, witty and; should it progress this far, we want to taste sweet, fresh for that first kiss. We aim not just to attract, but to give an overall impression of the person that we are. That is what we hope is attractive to this intriguing other.

(Author's note - I realise that this is an idealistic view of the dating world. Please humour my naivety for now, for I would hate for my idealism to be crushed at this stage in life)

My first date with America was in the run-down, expansive dungeon that is LAX. Possibly the most disgusting airport I have ever seen, it is characterised by open ceilings revealing a mess of filthy air-conditioning systems and a jumbled maze of wiring. Every visible surface seems to be dirty; people seem too disinterested to be approached for directions or help. If I didn't have the promise of a brighter future with friends and family on the other side, I doubt that this date would have gotten past immigration (except for the fact that I had invested so much in this first date that I would be obliged to continue).

Taiwan, in transit, greeted me with a beautiful complex that was clean and smart looking. Just from spending 40 minutes in the airport, I am already enticed, and hope to return. It appears to be a relationship worth pursuing.

Kuala Lumpur International Airport leaves a wonderful first impression. Staff were friendly (I was even greeted with an unprecedented smile by the immigrations official), helpful and accommodating. Well organised, tidy, sparkling like new, it invites you in to Malaysia with an air of prestige, implying an exciting country which takes pride in its hospitality. The only disappointment I have with my relationship with this gorgeous country was how short our time together was.

Judging by its airport, Bahrain is presented as a country of riches and luxury. There is an abundance of help at hand from smart-looking staff, the shopping is expansive and the announcements are friendly. This is definitely a date that I hope to call soon.

Heathrow airport is nothing spectacular. Old, shabby, with carpet that has literally worn through, it is an airport that sees too much use and not enough love. Heathrow seems tired. With immigration officials who appear to be looking for any excuse to end your fun and send you packing, it makes England appear an oppressive, intimidating place. Taking the next step feels like a leap of faith: I know there is a lot on offer behind this initially dubious exterior. Beauty must come from within (right?).

I am glad that I didn't allow my first date to be the foundation for my impressions. Thus far things with the United Kingdom have been progressing well. It looks as though we might even share a place in the not-too-distant future - perhaps my faith has been well placed.

Right son, get them Reeboks on, we's goin' chav huntin'

2008-06-24T02:01:00.002+10:00

If I peek up past my computer screen in this internet cafe I am looking directly at Hyde Park, except for when the double decker buses block my view. The Clash is telling me to rock the casbah, but I think that I'll need to go and find a nice warm coat before I go out in search of this casbah.

It may be summer in London, but don't be fooled into thinking that its hot. The sun is nice and warm, but the shade is cold and British.

I know I know I know that I am behind (as always). In fact, I probably owe about 10 new posts - a summary of the US wouldn't go astray, then I need to update everyone on the beauty of Malaysia before launching into a grande description of the glorious MotherLand (and unfortunately I'm not talking about Mother Russia - hopefully I will make it there soon). And photos! I have so many photos!

The unfortunate news is that I didn't end up buying a laptop in Malaysia. I'm all talk apparently. Well, not all talk - just a slow mover. I talked about my overseas trip for about 3 or 4 years before I finally left. And if you think about it relatively (with regards to financial output), I should have a laptop within a few weeks. Although I might wait till I find work before I make that sort of financial committment.

In any case, I do have more regular access to the internet here in the UK, so you can expect a few more posts. If you're interested, please start logging in a little more frequently, and if I am falling behind, send me an email to get me moving.

Thanks to everyone who has been patient enough to persist with reading this.

Time to run for the tube!

No computer, ok lah?

2008-06-12T19:41:00.002+10:00

My sincerest apologies for the sudden stop in blog postings - I have literally had a total of only 10 minutes of internet time since I arrived in Malaysia.

I am currently sitting in the offices of the best law firm in Klang. Thankfully it is pleasure that brings me to these offices, and not business.

In fact, Malaysia has been nothing but pleasure since I arrived. Spending time with the people here has been the closest thing I could possibly have to being with my immediate family (whom I miss very much).

Thus far most of my time has been spent with family and eating. Eating before I go somewhere, eating when I get there, and then eating again when I get back. Anyone who knows me well would also know how much I am loving this sort of lifestyle. The food is superb. The only thing better than the food has been spending lots of time with such a caring, close-knit family. It is an honour to be considered a part of it.

I hope to spend the next week and a half exploring a little further - go to Kuala Lumpur, Melaka, maybe Langkowi or Penang. And eating lots more.

Unfortunately, I don't have enough time for a more substantial update. However I do hope to purchase a laptop while I am here and the Australian dollar is strong, which means that posts might become more regular.

I'm not promising anything.

What I can promise to you is that I am having a wonderful time in this country, and feel very much so at home.

A picture's worth

2008-06-01T12:14:00.001+10:00

Rather than spend my last few hours in LA writing furiously, I thought that perhaps I would finally put a substantial number of pictures online. They aren't perfect, I am yet to even rotate some of them, but you'll get the idea pretty quickly of where I have been and what I have done.

Enjoy!

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Baltimore%20and%20the%20Preakness/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Boston/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Chicago/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Graceland/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Los%20Angeles/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/New%20York/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/New%20York/Mothers%20Day/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Roadtrip%20South/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Seattle/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/St%20Louis/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Vancouver/

http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Washington/

Rollin' rollin' rollin'

2008-06-01T02:01:00.002+10:00

My Amtrak review is a very mixed one. It would be better called my Train Travel Review, because my review of Amtrak is far from shining.

Of 8 train trips I took, 6 were significantly late. Lowlights of travelling with Amtrak include the terrible food, the occasionally strange conductors, and St Louis station (if you can call the muddy ground beside the tracks a station). Highlights include the fact that their employees don't check dates on rail passes, so I was still travelling on mine almost a full week after it expired.

Removing Amtrak from the equation, going by train is actually a decent way to get around. Granted, it takes a really long time to get from place to place (I left New York at 4pm on Tuesday afternoon, and didn't arrive in Vancouver until 4pm Friday afternoon, and spent all but 4 hours of that time either on a train or in a bus where the train from Seattle to Vancouver wasn't running). I'll also concede that there isn't always a lot to see out the window (the endless states of North Dakota and Montana come to mind).

But you see a lot more than you ever would by air. The long trips are conducive to (mostly) interesting conversation, bringing people closer merely because we are all confined to the same space for a significant amount of time.

There are no seat belt signs confining you to your seat, and lounge cars tend to be a reasonably social place, should you choose to engage.

Its also an economical way of travelling, particularly with the savings on accommodation. Thankfully, there is sufficient room on the long haul trips to spread out and get some decent sleep. Make sure you get the window seat.

In short, I would recommend train travel for anyone with time to spare (allow extra if travelling with Amtrak), a book to read, who enjoys looking out a window, and has a good tolerance for crazy people.

Just my kinda thing.

There's no place like...

2008-06-01T01:22:00.002+10:00

I can now fire off a reasonably substantial list of American towns and cities that I have visited: Boston, Chicago, St Louis, Washington, Roanoke (VA), Knoxville, Nashville, Memphis, Baltimore, Seattle, Los Angeles, New York and then add in the Canadian city of Vancouver. And that is just on this trip. I probably have every right to add cities like Las Vegas, Phoenix, San Francisco, San Diego, New Orleans and Miami from the previous family trip that we took to the US.

In short, I have seen a lot of what this country's city living has to offer.

For me Seattle and Vancouver both appeared to be the most livable cities. I could easily see myself buying a modest home in North Vancouver somewhere, nestled at the feet of the mountains, just a short drive away from one of the inlets, surrounded by the lush green forests that give Vancouver a lot of its character. Seattle could accommodate me with a cosy apartment somewhere around the downtown area, or somewhere around the harbour where I could happily ride a ferry to work each day, but still be close enough to everything that I can smell the coffee.

But there is no place that draws me like New York City. Not quite the hideous concrete jungle that is Los Angeles (and don't worry Alane, I'm not talking about the beautiful Chino Hills area, nor am I implying that the people of LA match the city's ugliness - quite the opposite), New York really only has snippets of aesthetic beauty. To get out of the city and into some greenery, you need a car and a full day. Living is expensive, the climate can be extreme and the people have a reputation for rudeness.

Perhaps ignore that last comment.

Nevertheless, I would love to wake up in the city that never sleeps. I have never felt more at home, relaxed and comfortable anywhere outside Sydney as I do in New York.

Perhaps what draws me is the honest dichotomy (an oxymoron?). I never thought I would say that about the financial capital of the world, where market traders regularly ruin lives daily, where business can be horribly cut-throat, where image can be everything. But there is something honest in there.

There is an acceptance that emanates from almost every New Yorker - this is what the city is, and we still love it. We make every pretension when it comes to our image - we are the best in the world, and will never be made to look otherwise. But we also make no pretensions with regards to the inner workings of this place - New York city can be an ugly beast, which is perfectly capable of swallowing people whole. Its a dog-eat-dog world out there, so if our dogs fight in Central Park and mine loses, that's the way of the world. C'est la vie, as a cousin's boyfriend so delicately put it.

But I will file suit against you. Because its a man-eat-man world in New York City.

And I love that.

At a time when I am near-obsessed with seeing the importance of acceptance in all facets of life, New York both embodies this spirit and crushes it.

And it accepts that this is exactly what New York is.

Update

2008-05-25T01:31:00.002+10:00

Having failed in the purchase of a laptop in either New York or Chicago on my way across the country, the blog is going to have to suffer a little more. The train ride was long, uncomfortable at times, but I definitely met... people. Some fantastic people, some interesting people, some strange people. I hope to keep in touch with some if not all of them.

The scenery was equally mixed - the neverending fields of North Dakota and Montana were exactly that. The Mississippi River took on a whole new beautiful shape heading down from St. Paul-Minneapolis; crossing the Rocky Mountains was magical. I might write a few more words about it at a later date when I have more time.

I am currently in Vancouver, BC, which is beautiful. I am staying with a cousin's uncle (from the other side of the their family), who is an extremely generous host who lives on the foot of the smaller mountains on the north side of Vancouver.

Unfortunately neither of my phones (Australian or American) work in Canada, so I am slightly more cut off from the rest of the world than usual, which isn't an entirely terrible thing. It'd be easy to go wandering for days on end in the woods up here. Very pretty, very tranquil.

I probably won't be spending terribly much time on the internet either, not until I get to LA (where I will probably stay up all night trying to catch up on a few blog entries). So feel free to slacken off with checking back until about the 29th May. Hopefully I will be posting more then.

Until then, just don't worry aboot it, eh?

Please don't be too dismayed

2008-05-20T22:03:00.002+10:00

Yet another temporary post which will only briefly provide news (but no entertainment).

The next leg of my journey is now due to being: the great trek over to the west coast. Enlisted in my troop to complete such a task is the service of two Amtrak trains - one which will accompany me to Chiacgo, and another which will make the final pitch across the country to Seattle.

From Seattle I will board a bus which will whisk me up to Vancouver, where I am grateful to be met by a very distant relative who has kindly offered to put me up for a night or two.

This sojourn across these United States of America will begin this afternoon at 4pm in New York, and will find its conclusion hopefully in Vancouver by Friday evening, 5pm.

After Vancouver (and after the Memorial Day weekend which prohibits me from finding accommodation), I will visit the coffee-sipping, grunge-rocking town of Seattle for a few days before flying back into LA on May 29.

My flight to Malaysia departs from LAX at 1.40am on June 1.

I will endeavour to write something interesting on this blog between now and then. My sincerest apologies for now that there is nothing new and exciting to read - I will catch up soon.

Thanks for reading.

Memphis, Tennessee

2008-05-15T18:11:00.002+10:00

Beale Street greeted us tonight with a police officer drawing his gun at a guy while his partner wrestled the guy to the ground.

Welcome to Tennessee, gents.

News

2008-05-12T10:35:00.002+10:00

Quick post in between updates...

Tonight I am about to embark on a road trip with cousin Andrew. I am sure it will be wild. I am also quite sure that internet access is going to be limited.

For those concerned with my safety, our current plan is to go as far as Memphis, Tennessee, and visit places like Nashville, Richmond, Baltimore and Washington (probably in that order).

For those concerned about my reputation...

Be concerned.

I'll try and make an update somewhere along the way, however please don't begin to riot if you don't hear from me in the next 8 or 9 days. There are far better reasons to riot!

Post-script: Happy mother's day

Travel my way...

2008-05-11T17:45:00.003+10:00

I stuck my foot in the Mississippi River!!

I was a cowboy for a day!! Actually, I was the horse and my adorable cousin Stephanie was the cowgirl. At least I wasn't the cow.

OK I was the cow too... and even a crab at one stage. Laugh if you like, but I had a great time.

...now you go through St Louis...

Singin', swingin', shrill trumpets ringin'

2008-05-11T15:39:00.002+10:00

Chicago highlights:

An evening of swing dancing to a 14-piece band, lorded over by a bouncer with a curly moustache at Al Capone's favourite jazz club - the Green Mill.

Millenium Park, downtown Chicago.

My first home-cooked Indian meal in a month.

Just being in a home.

Chicago lowlights:

Unfortunate souls rattling cups on every corner, begging.

Realising that the full moon wasn't outside in the starry Chicago night - it was actually in my dorm at the hostel, asleep without any sheets covering it.

Chicago? Chicago.

2008-05-05T15:08:00.002+10:00

There are many places in the world that can be legitimately described as awesome; unfortunately, I haven't seen all that many. But in my limited experience, Chicago is a place that is genuinely worthy of awe.

Chicago is a city in which you can look in almost any direction and there is something to see. Chicago is the type of city which makes me want to take photography lessons. Chicago is a city which inspires a desire to better understand architecture and design.

Chicago has kept my eyes open very wide without fail whenever I have gone anywhere near the downtown area.

I'll happily admit that there are parts of the town that are downright shabby, but my general impression thus far:

Chicago? Yes please.

...hopefully there will be more to come at a later date :-)

Oh baby don't you wanna go?

2008-05-05T08:47:00.005+10:00

Staying in hostels is great fun, I have met some wonderful people and have enjoyed tapping into the wealth of travel knowledge and community spirit that are so readily shared at these places. Despite the fact that a roommate of mine in Chicago slept in the nude (and was apparently too hot for sheets), and that there is a need to always wear thongs in the bathroom, my experience of hostels has been brilliant.

But there is something to be said for the comfort of a home and the love of a family. There is nothing in the world quite like it.

Staying with family (and friends who might as well be family) has been like finding oases in beautiful deserts: whilst there are still some amazing things to be seen wondering around on your own, knowing that there is a friendly place to stop along the way is a luxury that makes any journey far more enjoyable.

So thank you to all who have already endured me, and thank you in advance for all those who have volunteered themselves for the future. I genuinely appreciate the family time much more than you might realise.

Sweet home Chicago.

Revolution, Liberation, Precipitation

2008-04-30T10:32:00.003+10:00

The Freedom Trail is a great walk through Boston, touring around all the historical sites that were significant to the birth of this nation. After walking it today I feel a real sense of the American psyche. I feel liberated.

And saturated. Probably more saturated.

Boston's a really pretty city, and I am definitely glad that I extended my stay here (despite the inclement weather).

iPod with my little ears...

2008-04-30T10:30:00.001+10:00

Every playlist and song that is on my own iPod.

Weird... All the bars in America seem to be playing the exact same music that I left back on my iPod at home.

I hope someone is firing that thing up every now and then.

In other news

2008-04-29T08:01:00.001+10:00

Its raining. And I don't have a coat.

:-(

Edit: I bought an umbrella.
It broked.
I bought a raincoat.
I'm still soaked.

Revision

2008-04-29T08:00:00.000+10:00

Just booked myself in for an extra night in Boston. This place is really pretty, and there is plenty to see!

I am also now a proud member of the Boston Public Library. Beautiful building.

Free internet.

And so begins the poverty...

News post

2008-04-27T14:46:00.002+10:00

This was a country built on railroads. I thought I might explore a few.

Current itinerary:

27th Apr - New York to Boston
29th/30th Apr - Boston to Chicago
5th May - Chicago to St Louis
6th May - St Louis to Chicago
7th May - Chicago to Washington
9th/10th May - Washington to New York

Then its time to go roadtrippin (thanks to the Jacqueses who suggested, and to the Jacques who agreed to come). The route is yet to be decided, but may include New Orleans, may involve a trip around the Great Lakes or could be a trip down to Miami. I will keep you all posted.

Back to the west coast by May 22, then maybe Seattle, Vancouver and possibly San Francisco before heading back to LA to see Naomi for one last big hug, and fly to Malaysia.

But anyone who has been in touch with me would know how quickly these plans could change. Check back regularly for updates!

United Nations. We hope.

2008-04-26T04:35:00.003+10:00

Often criticised for their inability to accomplish things, the United Nations can often seem like a really defunct institution. I tend towards optimism in most facets of life, but even I am dismayed at times by the meaninglessness of some of the UN's actions. Inactions.

But I must admit that when I visited the headquarters in New York, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope in just the idea of nations united. It is definitely a powerful thing.

The building itself was far from spectacular. In fact, it seemed almost run down in some areas. The gardens were pretty, but entirely fenced off. And I know it was naive of me to expect more, but the security guards just didn't seem all that sophisticated.

Yet walking through the security checkpoint, I found myself very excited. I was thrilled at the idea of being on an international territory (yes, to visit the UN you must actually leave US soil - unfortunately no, you don't get a stamp on your passport that proves it). I was eager to impress everyone that I spoke to, with some faint idea at the back of my mind that this is what should be done here - it is a place of unity, respect and peace.

United nations is a fairly romantic notion. Even before the birth of the nation-state people struggled to coexist peacefully, and whilst forming nations added politics to the already volatile mix of racial, religious and geographical tensions, it did little to halt conflict. In fact, it became yet another reason to go to war.

But with nations and nation-states also came a new sense of diplomacy. Nations can work together in ways that, historically, different races or people from different religous groups could not. All sorts of different people can be united under the banner of 'nation', whereas defining people by their race or religion is much more constraining.

Standing in the lobby of the UN Headquarters I was as giddy as a scholar who finally discovered not the solution to his problem, but a new path to a potential solution. It was exhilarating, and I couldn't get enough of the idealism that existed within the walls of that very building.

Or maybe I am just naive. Either way, I'm not letting go of my idealism easily.

Is peace worth fighting for?

New York, Zoo York, Jew York, Too (much) York

2008-04-22T12:57:00.003+10:00

Highlights:

Central Park is beautiful. It isn't just the flowers that are blooming, it is the people as well - there is so much life here. An afternoon can be easily wiled away just watching, relaxing, enjoying.

The Guggenheim Museum has an exhibition on by Cai Guo Qiang. It is the most amazing exhibition that I have ever seen. His ideas are challenging, his vision is grand and his favourite material is gunpowder. Say no more.

I stood inside an Egyptian tomb over 4,000 years old in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw burial cloths equally as old. I now know why everyone in the world wants Egyptian cotton.

The emotion stirred by Ground Zero and stories of September 11, 2001 is still very poignant. I wonder what the Middle East is going to be like...

Seder with a group of Jewish families was... delicious! My first Jewish religious experience.

The food here is phenomenal.

The biggest highlight is that I still haven't seen a fraction of what this place has to offer. Come to New York.

Drive me crazy

2008-04-22T12:28:00.002+10:00

Yes, another driving post. But I am not the driver.

I am amazed at the judgement shown by people driving in New York City. Lanes are ignored, double-parking is frequent, indicators are a barely used accessory, yet I haven't seen an accident. I know they happen - I have seen the scratched, dented panels and fenders. Yet traffic flows, people zip through spaces that a Sydney driver wouldn't even consider, drivers seem to co-exist in spaces between lanes between spaces between cars.

Sitting in the car with Murray I feel completely comfortable (whereas in Sydney I wouldn't). Sitting in the back of a cab, I am rigid with tension and nerves.

Interesting but irrelevant observations!

Wrong way, Monsieur Ratsinger

2008-04-22T12:19:00.003+10:00

I stood about 2.5 metres from the Pope on Friday evening. He waved through his car window as he (and his entourage of over 50 vehicles) went the wrong way down East 87th St from Park Avenue, right out the front of our building.

As exciting as the whole event was, the cherry on top was definitely the lone police scooter that ended a convoy of 30 - 40 highway patrol motorcycles, big SUV's, buses of media, limousines, police cars and black vans going the wrong way down East 87th.

Only the Pope. Only in New York. I love this place.

And home, home's anywhere you are too...

2008-04-22T11:58:00.005+10:00

End of week two and a tiny bit of people-sickness is kicking in. That is not to say that I am sick of the people here - on the contrary, I love the people that I am spending my time with here.

What I do mean is that I am missing all the people who aren't here. I don't miss Australia just yet (although I do automatically sit up and pay attention when I hear an Australian accent in the crowd), but I do miss my friends and my family. Especially with the sudden, forced changes of plans. It would be nice to have a more familiar face here to boost my confidence, to bounce ideas off of, to laugh with.

That being said, my New York family have been wonderful. Murray and Francine have provided endless amounts of encouragement and support, whilst still giving me complete freedom. Not only have they given me full run of their beautiful home in the middle of upper Manhattan, but they have also dispensed tips, happily included (or not included) me in any of their plans, and have fed me the most spectacular meals.

Perhaps I shouldn't publish this post, lest everyone comes to New York to abuse their hospitality. Oops!

I could make New York home quite happily, if I could have my family and friends here too. I do wonder though - is my comfort here a result of the fact that I do have family here?

I thought I had already learned to appreciate the importance of family. Maybe this is a lesson that repeats itself over and over. I shall keep you all informed.

I am. Are you?

2008-04-18T14:14:00.004+10:00

I am.

The shortest possible sentence in the English language, yet probably the most powerful.

Also a surprisingly significant sentence and concept in many aspects of life.

For example, I found out today that the State of New York doesn't believe who I am. In fact, the United States government will not believe that I am who I say I am in many contexts.

Why is this significant? If I can't prove who I am, then I can't legally own a motorcycle in this country. A frustrating revelation given that I went to bed with such cold feet, worried about the risk that I was taking if I was to buy this bike that I test-rode yesterday, but woke up with a strong resolve - I would buy this bike or regret my decision not to. Anticipating regret makes difficult decisions slightly easier.

Having difficult decisions made for you is also easy. So now I will plan myself a train or bus tour of this grand country, despite the fact that this grand country will not believe in me.

I will make this work. I know who I am. I know that I am.

I am.

Central Park, NY

2008-04-17T14:21:00.007+10:00

Wow.

New news

2008-04-16T14:56:00.003+10:00

Briefly...

LA was really great! Seeing Naomi and meeting RJ was brilliant, and I couldn't have asked for more in hosts. Thank you so much for your couch, your food, your bathroom, your driving skills, your patience and yourselves. I'm looking forward to coming back to visit!

I flew into NY on a red-eye flight, arriving at 6.30am Monday, and have been on the go since. There is so much to see and do here, and I am totally in love with the place and the people.

Including more motorbikes. Don't hold your breath.

Actually, feel free to breathe a little easier - my baby Geni (also known as UKP 05, 02 Suzuki GS 500 back home) has gone to a new home. She will be well loved by her new owner, a family man who has a passion for biking. I hope to see you on the road when I get back, Geni.

More soon, so keep an eye out! Or in.

E'erbody in the club gettin' tips (revisiting my final night in LA)

2008-04-16T08:54:00.005+10:00

In the USA, people in the service industry are paid not for the work they do, but (theoretically) for how well they do the work. This happens in the form of tips. If they serve well, they can expect their 15% and more. If they don't perform quite up to standard, they might fall a few cents short of that magical 15% mark - and when you are getting paid a pittance for your base wage, every cent that you get in tips will count.

As such, this is generally a place where customer service is good, if not great - people's livelihood relies on it. Therefore this is a society in which there is a strong expectation of swift, friendly, helpful service. Afterall, it is the customer who is paying most of the wage directly from their own wallet, and they want their money's worth.

Obviously where there are expectations, there are also disappointments. This high expectation of good service can become highly entertaining in circumstances where it isn't fulfilled.

On Saturday night RJ and his friends had a booking for about 20 people at a teppanyaki restaurant in a nice neighbourhood in LA (Fullerton). Knowing his friends well, guests were told that the booking was for 9pm, but the reservation with the restaurant was made for 9.30pm. The plan was mostly a success - come 9.30, 15 of 22 people were there and the other 7 were on their way. We took our seats, ordered drinks, and contemplated menus, knowing that the other 7 would merely order appetisers when they arrived (they were going to be too late to have their food cooked on the grill in front of us).

Just as comfort levels rose and small talk grew between new and old friends, friendly conversation over drinks and menus was interrupted rather rudely by a quick-tongued manager.

"Who is responsible for this reservation? I need to speak to the person responsible for this reservation."
"I guess I am responsible?" (April, RJ's lovely cousin who made the booking and was also celebrating her birthday)
"Well, I need to know how many other people are coming."
"Um, I think 5 people are coming. Either 5 or 7?"
"When are they going to be here."
"They are on their way, I'm not sure when they will actually arrive. But they're just ordering from the appetiser menu, so you can feel free to fire up the grill anytime - we don't need to wait for them." (Smile from April)
"But are they coming? When will they be here? Because I have 5 seats here that need to be filled. And if your friends don't come, I am charging you $25 a head for those seats."

I must interrupt here just to add that there was nobody waiting for tables at this stage, and there was two whole teppan grills going unused.

"Oh! But, they are coming? I just spoke to them, they are coming and ordering appetisers."
"Well, if you confirm that now, and I reserve these 5 seats for them, then I am going to charge you $25 a head if they don't show up."
"But you didn't make any mention of this when I made the booking? Is this a rule? You didn't mention this at all when I called before..."
"No, but I am the manager here and I am telling you right now that I am changing the rule, ok? This is how it is. Either you say yes, your friends are coming, and whether or not they turn up you pay. Or you say no, and I don't reserve those seats for you. That's it."
"... what?! But nothing was mentioned about this sort of a policy when we made the booking."
"No, but I am mentioning it now, ok!"
"Excuse me, but aren't we the paying customers here?" (Steps in Ahmed, one of RJ's more hilarious friends with a sizeable mouth)
"Yes, and I am the manager."
"So you are trying to run a restaurant, I get it. But we are the customers and you need us to run your restaurant. You made no mention of this policy when the booking was made, surely you should be willing to try and find some sort of compromise here for us."
"No, I am telling you now. Either you book those seats and pay, or I give them to the next people that walk in."
"No, we are the customers. You need to compromise. You made no mention of this before."
"I am telling you that this is how it is, ok?"

Manager walks away.

After a 30 second discussion and a unanimous vote, we all finish our drinks and walk out, completely stunned.

Despite the fact that I am still slow and unsure when it comes to leaving tips, I think the only tip coming his way that evening was the one from a member of our group on the way out:

"Thanks... FOR NOTHING!"

On a post script, we ended up at a place called Yardhouse, which was wonderful. Great atmosphere, brilliant staff, wonderful manager and fantastic food.

Post-post script, the 7 people who were late turned up at the teppanyaki place at 10.30, an hour and a half late. Then they decided not to join us at Yardhouse after we walked out of a restaurant for them. Shame.

All up, an entertaining and memorable final night in LA. Much thanks to all, even the manager.

Hi-ho, hi-ho, off to New York I go...

2008-04-14T23:25:00.000+10:00

Flew in this morning. I love this place.

Its All-Right, Its All-Right

2008-04-13T02:22:00.003+10:00

They move in the most mysterious ways!

Driving on the right side of the road doesn't feel too wrong. Having the bulk of the car to my right when I am driving definitely doesn't feel right. But turning left is alright, and turning right feels pretty right.

You might have to think about that for a little while. I know I will.

The hardest thing about driving around in LA (and no, I haven't attempted any LA freeways in my friend's car) has been figuring out where to look. You definitely can't look into the eyes of any other driver on the road - its like looking into the eyes of a pit bull. You can't afford to gaze too long at the palm trees either, because you might just miss your turn to slip through the stop inersection. You can't even just concentrate on looking straight out your windscreen because in this city chances are that the person who is more likely to run into you is coming from behind. But don't spend too long looking back there, or you might just become that person.

Driving here has been easy and tough at the same time. Its not so much that my driving skills are the wrong way around, its just that my observation instincts are geared to the opposite side of the road. So whether I am crossing the road as a pedestrian, or negotiating a 4-way stop sign intersection in the car, it takes me a full second to figure out exactly where to look. Cruising aong, I have to learn to be aware that I am sitting on the left side of the car, and that the bulk of the car is actually sitting just past my right shoulder.

That being said, test riding motorcycles has been just fine. When you are riding you are concentrating 100% on making sure that you have your own personal space. I think that's why I feel safer on a bike - I am in control of my own space and don't need to worry about someone else's space that I might be considered responsible for.

Still no luck on buying a motorcycle. I'm thinking of flying to New York and trying there.

In other news...

2008-04-11T15:07:00.006+10:00

LA is ugly, but there is definitely some movie-like magic to its bland hideousness.

I have thus far been unsuccessful in my hunt for a two-wheeled machine that will get me around this great nation. Plans for a Sunday departure may need altering, be it the date or the mode of transport.

Seeing Naomi and finally meeting her husband has been wonderful, and they have been very accommodating hosts. I will try not to burden them too longer with my immobility.

Tourist highlights include: Farmer's Markets and the Getty Centre today, seeing the rich houses in Chino Hills yesterday, Naomi and RJ's choir practice on Tuesday evening.

I'll try update again soon, hopefully with happier motorcycling news.

The Getty Centre, LA. Gorgeous.

Say cheeeese!

2008-04-11T14:27:00.006+10:00

I remembered only a few things about America after our family trip here in Dec 01/Jan 02... I remembered snow in New York, basements in the suburbs of Chicago, theme parks in Cali and Florida.

I learnt more before coming here by casually flipping through the thousand-odd pages of my Lonely Planet and by actually paying attention to some of the travel stories told vividly by excited friends... Huge freeway interchanges in LA, vibrant cultural hotspots in Seattle and Vancouver, amazing musical communities in Memphis and New Orleans, fantastic hot dogs in New York.

I know I didn't come to America with a strong plan under my belt or a solid idea under my hat. My mother and most of my friends will happily testify to that. In fact, as far as trip preparation goes, I had none.

What I thought I did have was a good cultural preparation. I knew that Americans (in America) were generally hospitable people (if a little impatient at times). I knew that my Australian accent would get me out of a lot of sticky situations. I knew that America was the land of fast food, huge meals and plenty of carbs and protein.

However I was completely unprepared for the full frontal cheese assault that has been attacking my digestive system since I flew in on Tuesday. Everything in America comes with cheese. Everything.

I'm not talking about a creamy brie on water crackers with a French wine to begin your meal. I don't mean that your rocket comes with Italian shaved parmesan, or that your greek salad has some delicately crumbled feta dotted throughout. Nor do I infer that your dessert is a platter of New Zealand cheeses with fuit. No, not at all.

Cheese in America comes melted over your fries. Cheese comes in the form of a sauce all over your salad. Cheese comes dripping from your hamburger. Cheese is melted, cheese is oily, cheese is abundant. Cheese is also multicultural: "Would you like American, Swiss or Cheddar poured all over your sandwich, sir?"

Please don't think that this is a rant (although it might be). It is rather an observation, nothing more. I have actually discovered a way to benefit from this cultural difference and my stomach's inability to cope with the sudden influx of dairy and oil - rather than force the traditional three meals in a day, I can now happily survive on a hearty breakfast and a light evening snack. This saves me time and money, without which I wouldn't be able to update this blog.

So in effect, you benefit from the cheesiness that is the United States of America. God Bless America.

And Switzerland.

And Cheddarland...

Chili Cheese fries. Not even I could finish them.

Start Blogging?!

2008-04-06T11:21:00.001+10:00

More like start packing!

I'll get this thing happening soon... Keep an eye out! Or keep it in. I like eyes better when they are in.