Grace's Great Voyage Down Under, Week 1: A mess of moments.
G’day. Please excuse the horrendously OTT title I conjured up for
this…series? Yes, I am dubbing it a ‘series’, albeit very cautiously and optimistically.
I’m not a travel blogger. You guys know that. I have serious
respect and adoration for those humans – the ones who brave the endless
expenses and annoyances of journeying around the world and in doing so try new
things, push their limits and explore new territories they may never have
considered visiting before…and take plenty of photos and notes throughout these
mad ventures, to then pour into their online platform for all to read. As if the
act of travelling wasn’t busy and baffling enough, these guys actually write
reviews, compile lists and recommend countries/cities/towns/hotels/restaurants
and much more, all for their readers.
So much love and respect for that, y’know?
Right, now I feel I’ve covered myself by virtually yelling
that I am not a professional travel writer. And I’ll be listing some of my
favourite travel bloggers at the end of this post, just FYI.
My recent trips have made me feel so many things; insane bravery,
sickening curiosity, strange comfort, sudden alienation, palpable panic…and the
most intense, almost hot joy.
While I was in Berlin (my favourite European city, I reckon) for
the fourth time, I found myself going out to places I hadn’t heard about the
first few times I’d visited and so somehow felt I had discovered, I was trying food I’d never come across before
(still veggie, mind you!) and attempting to navigate the public transport –
with varying levels of success. And before that, in Barcelona, I’d been staring
up at the Gaudi houses in the city centre (and commenting, most elegantly: ‘yeah,
it totally looks like this place has labia though’), eating lunch in a new
pop-up vegan café while bingeing on its free WiFi, before spending the night playing
beer pong (and absolutely smashing it, if I recall correctly…) while happily slurping
2-for-1 6€ gin cocktails.
But I didn’t want to write long posts about each of these
cities, giving specific details of where I’d been within the different
districts or how I got around and how much money I spent on this, that and the
other…
I’ve decided to write posts in the future about my trips to various
Other Places – but not necessarily the
way a seasoned traveller and blogger might. I’m just going to write about
specific things, moments, and some
will exist in a big compilation post while others may stand alone. For
instance, if I had an especially magical dinner date, or discovered a secret
spot nobody had told me about, or even just had a conversation with a native
(of which I have already had many, in Australia!), then that might exist in its
own post.
However, after a blur of a First Week in this country, I felt
a big mess of moments would work best. Moments, and feelings.
***
The sudden,
quickening and maddening heartbeats, pummelling my ribs from the inside as I
walk through the ‘NOTHING TO DECLARE’ area at 6:31am and realise I’m just the
other side of a wall from the relatives and the part of the world I haven’t
seen, or been in, for over four years.
-
Feeling hectic
in the head (sleep deprivation) and swirly in the stomach (car sickness) as we
drive through beautiful bright forest to get to a place with a funny name –
Mully-bimmy? Mullumbimby! – on a quest to procure properly magical medical marijuana.
-
Tapping
my flip flops – I’ll never call
them ‘thongs’ – on the hot pavement as I sit under a steel shelter waiting for
the hourly bus into town, and towards coffee. Six stops later I’m sipping my
long black on the decking outside the coolest espresso place in town, and it
tastes extra excellent because it’s a victory. I navigated the horrendous Gold
Coast public transport system, for the very first time.
(Stupid bike, obscuring this totally Instagrammable message)
Tasting
what might just be the best vegan peanut butter brownie I’ve ever had in
Cardamon Pod, Ferry Road. It’s like a brick, though. I’m happy to share it with
the family – and am flattered beyond belief when my little cousin offers me the
rest of his carrot cake, having eaten the red macaron topping in record time.
-
Hanging
out with my cousins, for days at a time – which shouldn’t be a big deal, but
for me it’s so special. I knew so many other kids at school who’d see their
cousins and aunties almost every day – some even attended the same schools, and
shared lifts home. They were each other’s first besties, and friends they could
always count on. I never had that. My cousins and two of my aunties, plus one
Nana, have always existed out of reach, on the other side of the world. And so
to me, it may always be a strange and perfect thing to hang out with them for
hours at a time. To grab coffee, walk briskly along the beach, and watch
Brooklyn Nine-Nine before bed.
-
Eating nachos
with vegan cheese, tomato, avocado and kale on a blanket in the living room,
before drinking a few gins in Nana’s garden. Clapping the sprigs of mint in my
hands before dropping them in my glass.
-
You know when
live music stirs your insides and heats you right up; makes you jump and thrash
around, wiggle all over and squeeze your eyes shut, for some reason feeling
sure that depriving yourself of sight means your ears will be able to drink more
of it in. It being the amazing sound that’s happening right now, onstage, metres
from me. My body feels the exciting energy that’s fast filling the room and
threatening to burst through the roof of this old village hall – one of many
that are holding acts in this local music festival.
It only
occurs to me to take my phone out and capture some of this magic several songs
in – when the green-haired saxophonist is properly letting rip, thrusting
behind his instrument which shouldn’t look hot OR cool but totally does both,
and the trumpet player in the yellow rain mac is visibly sweating behind his
sunglasses but obviously beyond caring. I don’t think a fifteen second video on
my phone can ever do this moment justice, though.
(Reading Cat Clarke's 'Entangled' while on my train from Melbs to Ballarat)
I
recognise all the roads here, even the ones I’ve never been down before. They
have a distinct Look. Almost stupidly wide, split into lanes and utterly rammed
with white vehicles; all a dull grey but for the enormous company logos marking
the shopping areas at regular intervals, and the colourful, if faded, murals
painted on the tall blocks either side. I wonder how old those kids are now,
the ones whose portraits adorn the concrete walls on the highway.
-
Even the
rain is warm here. Each drop is heavy and they splat hard on my legs and
shoulders as I walk down Musgrave Avenue, but they dry quickly in the hot breeze that still blows happily through the streets and into my face despite
the onslaught of dark clouds overhead.
-
I don’t think
I’ve ever been to a restaurant that abhors footwear. I like it. Here, in this
mood-lit upstairs area of this Thai restaurant on Chapel Street, in Melbourne,
I leave my silver sandals on a shelf at the entrance and before long am sitting
comfortably in a lazy lotus pose, twisting spicy noodles onto my fork and
stabbing at chunks of tofu, too. Catching up with a more or less lifelong
friend; a neighbour for over 20 years who is now at home, elsewhere.
There are
straw sandals available to wear into the toilet. That’s a comfort.
***
Some of my favourite travel bloggers, in no particular order (please note: not all exclusively travel writing) (please comment/tweet me
with any more you like reading!):
Travels of Adam (I especially love his Hipster City Guides)
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