Reconciling a new adventure

A couple of months ago I walked past a man taking a shit in the street.

Needless to say he looked scruffy, dishevelled. He was crouching in a strip of dirt, alongside the last of a line of small shrubs planted along the footpath. Elastic-banded tracksuit pants were around his knees, his back supported by a smooth concrete wall.

I spotted him from a few metres away. He didn’t care. He finished his business, stood and pulled his pants up in one gesture, and walked right by without so much as flinching.

But beyond just a small pile of shit in a garden bed, he left something else behind. An overwhelming sense of sadness.

He didn’t mean to. From his actions, his demeanour, his very aura, all he meant to do was relieve himself, and all he intended to leave behind was that pile of shit.

But for me that only made it sadder. It wasn’t disgust that I felt, nor was it pity. There was an element of shock, but it didn’t last. The sadness, however, lingered.

I walk that street often. Many do. Eye Street NW, in the heart of Washington, DC. It’s not a bustling stretch of pavement, but it’s not quiet either, particularly during business hours on a weekday.

For me the good coffee is down that way from my office, and the three block walk provides a welcome stretch of the legs on a sunny afternoon. The garden bed he chose, the wall that supported him just so happened to be the World Bank building. I don’t think it was intentional, but the sense of irony was too much to bear. The fact I carried a tray full of coffee for my colleagues and was sipping on one of Filter’s strong flat whites only made it harder not to laugh at the building sense of despair.

The shit remained a handful of days. I felt compelled to check each time I walked past. And check again each time I walked back, coffee in hand, leather shoes squeaking. Then one day it was gone.

The memory, though, is a lot harder to clean up, particularly as the weather cools. This will be my first full winter in Washington, a city which has already confronted me with its issues of poverty, inequality, and homelessness, yet has simultaneously inspired awe with its atmosphere of global significance, its intellect, its sense of power and its progressive aspirations.

How do you reconcile that image?

I know I am not the first person to be confronted by the dichotomy of DC, nor will I be the last. But I feel it could define my stay here. I may be able to insulate myself from the coming cold, but how do you insulate yourself against the despair, against the plight of people literally struggling to survive in a city overflowing with lofty ambitions?

--

I wrote this a month or more ago now, but didn’t feel right about posting it straight away. I wanted to finish it first, provide some sort of conclusion.

Over the past month the weather has turned colder still – we had our first sprinkle of snow a few weeks back, and there have been plenty of cold, long, miserable nights outside. But the number of cold, miserable people stuck outside hasn’t dissipated.

I have lived through cold winters before – Edinburgh, Seoul – but never with this overbearing cloud of poverty and disadvantage mingling with the descending cold.

As far as I can tell, there is no conclusion. There is no way to drag this issue upwards towards some reassuring warmth. I may return to a cosy apartment each night, but there are thousands who don’t, who can’t.

Reading back on my last post on this blog, more than 18 months ago, yearning for new adventure, I find a certain irony that this is where I now find myself. On a new adventure? Most definitely. In the past 18 months I have married, moved across the world, and dealt with many of life’s more extreme highs and lows.

But, compared to my carefree jaunts through Europe and my exhilarating journeys through the beautiful back country of Australia, this adventure feels more defined. Carefree, it is not. Rather, there is some sense of responsibility beginning to slowly seep in, a sense of purpose.

That’s not to say this new adventure can’t be fun or spontaneous or enjoyable. It can, and it is. But it also feels like it’s time to start using this adventure to contribute, to give something back to society, to the community, to my family, friends, and all those around me.

It’s a scary feeling, sometimes overwhelming (especially when it comes to issues like homelessness). But it’s also liberating in its own way. Rather than merely discovering and absorbing all the world has to offer, I am now trying to discover what I can offer in return.

Sadly, I don’t think I can offer a comprehensive fix for DC’s homelessness, although I wish I could. But, as with everything, it begins with awareness of a broken system, of disadvantage, of injustice; and a sense of purpose, a duty to explore what can be done, even on an individual level, to make a difference and give something back.

So let’s see what happens next.

Today, I achieved.

It wasn't anything special.

My one goal for today was to have a bit of time out. No work, just a few chores to do. So I wanted a bit of time just for me, doing something I wanted to do, not something I just found myself doing.

So I took the bike out - it needed some fresh fuel and a bit of a run - and went around the corner to the petrol station and a coffee shop. I sat, reading a book, having coffee and cake, and felt a little more like I thought I should.

It was a beautiful afternoon, I could see it from my seat near the big front window of the shop. And I could feel it in the air. One of those stunning early autumn afternoons, at the time of year just before the leaves start to turn. It could have been spring, but the air tasted different, hinting at the coming cold, inviting you to enjoy the remaining warmth.

So I did. I finished up my coffee, dog-eared the page, and got back on the bike.

It's less than 2km from the coffee shop home.

So I took a little detour.

Sadly, this isn't a recount of some epic. I'm not being ironic, I'm not being subtle. It really was just a little detour, a few extra backstreets, just around the local neighbourhood.

But with the wide streets, the towering trees lining the way, and the afternoon sun filtering through their still (just) green leaves... It was a huge detour.

For just a second I lost my breath and was somewhere else.

I was back in France. Back on the old upright baby Bandit GSF600.

I was in a foreign land, conscious of the fact I didn't speak the language, with little more than a tent, some dehydrated soup, and a few euros in my pocket.

I was lost, not entirely sure where I was, just a vague idea. I was nervous, anxious, not sure where I was going to end up. The light was fading, and I knew I had to find somewhere to go before the sun disappeared completely.

And I had no idea where that would be. I was a little hesitant, because I understood the urgency, the need to find my way, make a decision with the little time I had left.

But I was only nervous because I was free. For those few moments I was free. I could have been anywhere. I was in charge. And that's a big responsibility, being in charge, dealing with consequences. But more than anything it is liberating. You become so much sharper when you're the boss of your life. You breathe differently, because you choose to breathe. You have a sense of purpose, a need to survive, a desire to seek something better, somewhere grander, not because you are dissatisfied with where you are, but because you want to keep moving, keep advancing, keep experiencing new things, keep discovering. It's about surviving so you can begin thriving. It's about living with full awareness of where you are, and only a faint hint of where you will be next, but knowing that you will be the one to get yourself there, and nothing else matters. It's acceptance, it's achieving something new every day, and knowing you can face anything, but still being alert to the fact that you guide this vehicle, you choose your destiny.

As I took a breath of the autumn air, with its memories of summer sun and its warning of winter to come, I ...

I ...

I turned down a street I knew. The sun was behind me, I was heading home. And I lost that blissful, joyful, uplifting directionlessness.

I need a new adventure.

Or perhaps I need to learn to rediscover that feeling in my daily life.

I just need to live again.

Fabulous Five for South Korea

(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

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...

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

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

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.