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.

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

(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...

(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.

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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...?

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...

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!

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.