The Hardest Thing

Hardest thing about travelling? The people you have to leave behind.

I’ve met so many people now. People who just happen to be going my way, so we might as well go together. People to laugh with, and to explore with. People to show me around, and people to get lost with. People I knew for a day, or maybe not even that long, people who keep showing up, again and again, and people I can’t get rid of if I tried (and believe me, I’ve tried...)

The hardest one’s are the times you meet somebody, somebody you just click with, and then you have to leave them behind, no way to draw it out any longer. I feel cheated, by those encounters, like I’ve been robbed of some great experience. But I also feel blessed, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Last week, I took a trip to the Lakes District in northern England. It wasn’t planned – rarely are my movements planned – and I stayed in a gorgeous little town called Ambleside. Here, the autumn leaves dressed the hills and mountains in yellow and gold, with the occasional glimpse of a shocking red petticoat, and Lake Windermere pooled at the town’s feet. During the day, I wandered through the woods and at night I went to hear a Jazz man play.

Andy sat down in the seat next to me, and told me of the time, years previously, that he had met tonight’s musician. He told me of the music, and then worried it wouldn’t live up to the hype. It was fantastic.

After the show, we shared a bottle of wine, and swapped travel stories. Words came easily, and afterwards, he slipped my hand into the crook of his arm and walked me back to my hostel. The next morning, he met me at my doorstep again and we drove off to explore.

Small villages, Wordsworth’s grave, a stunning view from the top of a hill and Andy tried to name the mountains that surrounded us, but couldn’t. He told me of adventures sliding down icy peaks and of market bazaars in Jordan. I was comfortable, easy, relaxed in his company, like we’d spent months getting to know each other and not just hours. When he drove away from the hostel later that evening, I felt strangely cheated, like somebody had stolen days from me, like I should have had much longer to get to know him. But it was only me, you see. Me and my nomadic lifestyle.

Last weekend, I spent the time in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Another person I’d met along the way, Stephan, invited me along, hoping to improve my opinion of the city. Stephan and I are very different people, and rather than opposites attracting, it was a case of opposites arguing, or at least debating heatedly. It was good when we were wandering the city, taking in the river and the bridges, the New Castle and discovering the weird and wonderful world of the Contemporary Art Museum. But, alone together at the dinner table, or in the hostel having breakfast, or the pub having a pint, we either argued, or had nothing to say. Two and a half days felt a bit strained by the end, and I couldn’t help wondering why I got so much time to spend with the wrong companion.

I’m coming home in two and a half weeks. It has been a fantastic time, and I have met some amazing people, but I’m ready to come and meet all my old friends all over again. It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to this place though, no matter how ready I am to come home. I’ve really come to love Britain, and the nomadic lifestyle that I lead. I’ve seen such amazing things, and had more adventures than I can tell you about here. It’ll be hard to say goodbye. But coming home is just the next adventure

Third Nomad

It seems I can't sit still. Well, I never could, hey? But at least here and now that's how I'm supposed to be. Weeks are for Uni work, and weekends are for jaunting all over the countryside. The weekend before last (and, yes, I do realise that I am being a little slack in the update stakes, but life is for the living, yeah?)I went on a little overnighter to London to visit Brett for his birthday. Which was a mixed-emotion event. On the one hand, it was absolutely awesome to see Brett. You know, I'm doing really good here, there's nothing like the overwhelming homesickness that crippled me during parts of my Slovakia experience, not even close. But then, its just so comforting to see someone from home. And its easy in a way that new faces and new places just can't be. On the other hand, the place I stayed was full of Aussies and Kiwis, and at the moment, that's just too much of a good thing. That environment seemed to bring out the traits of our cultures that I am least proud of: our tendency to get loud and drunk and to fill a place with ourselves, forgetting that there are other people and this is their place more than ours. And I just kept wanting to ask them all: If you just wanted to be drunk, loud Australians, spending all your time with drunk, loud Australians, why did you come here to do it?

But I realise that this is probably the exception, not the rule, to their stays. That, having been on the road, living amongst foreign people and customs that this is probably their respite. Their chill out moment, where they too just long for the ease of familiarity, just for a little while, before heading out on their way again. And I realise that there may come a time when I want this respite as well.

And I can't deny feeling elated by hearing Machine Gun Felatio sing Pussytown on the Antipodean-friendly jukebox.

So, for the first time in six weeks, I heard an Aussie accent. I heard a whole bunch of them, and Brett and I proceeded to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in the pub below the youth hostel that we were camped at. When the pub got too full and happy hour finished, Brett and I strode out into the night and caught the tube to (somewhere I forget) where we met Janine and Sned. Brett went through uni with Janine and I worked on a production of Ubu Roi with her last year and they are on their way up North to Janine's native Scotland, only here in London for the night. And so we sat and had a few beers with them and spoke of plans for future travels and gossip from home. Then, after sleeping in the bunk with a roomful of snorers, I had breakfast of jam and toast and the biggest cup of the blackest tea I could find in the bar downstairs. Brett and I then wandered around the streets of Shepherd’s Bush before I had to catch my train back home again.

Standing around in Paddington Station, feeling slightly sorry for myself after a night of beer and interrupted sleep, I get a phone call from Jess and we speak for an hour of gossips and goings on. It was so very lovely to hear her voice and catch up on what everyone has been getting up to, but I would really hate to be in charge of her phone bill at the end of the month...

And then this weekend just gone, I went to visit Cardiff Castle. Like most castles I have visited so far, Cardiff Castle is made up of many parts, some dating way back to the times of William the Conqueror and some parts more recently renovated. Part is still in use today, for weddings and receptions and to receive Prince Charles and other dignitaries when they visit Wales. They have rooms in this part of the castle set up as they would have been in the Victorian era, which was when the last of the renovations were made by an architect named William Burgess. This guy specialised in highly ornate, Eastern inspired decorations. Painted ceilings, patterned floors and gold leaf abound. My favourite was the Arab room, which was a sitting room for the Marques’s wife and, funnily enough, was inspired by the architect's visits to the Middle East. It had beautiful patterned floors in coloured marble and what they called Harem windows, carved so that you can see out from inside the room, but it's very difficult to see in from outside.

Afterwards, I wandered the streets of Cardiff for a couple of hours. The shopping streets of Cardiff are all interconnected by little enclosed arcade streets with boutiques and cafes and quirky little gifts stores. I resisted many a temptation in the two or three recycled clothing stores I found. Aren't I good? Then I spent around a quarter of an hour standing and watching an electric string trio grin cheekily and whirl their way through show tunes and jazz numbers and finally four and a half minute’s worth of the history of music.

And tomorrow is Thursday, my day off. I have a day of cultural enlightenment planned for myself in which I will visit the Art gallery (the main one, and any others I can find on the way) and then a trip to the Marina, to visit the Dylan Thomas Museum and the other museum that I know is down that way, but the name of which currently eludes me. To end the day, I plan on sitting in cafe Mambo, or the Monkey cafe, sipping tea, munching on a cookie and updating my (much, much neglected) paper journal. Can't wait.

Near Beverly, Yorkshire

Things I learnt while working on an archaeological dig in Arram:

– That despite the entire UK being small enough to fit twice into NSW with room left over, something as simple as travelling from London to Beverley, which should really only take about three and a half hours, takes over five hours, and involves two buses and three trains.

– That all Brits, whether they follow cricket or not, upon hearing my accent, like to rub it in that they are beating us at Cricket. I’d just like to say, it took you eighteen damn years! I wouldn’t gloat just yet.

– That staying in a Fourteenth-Century-Dominican-Friary-cum-Youth-Hostel practically all by yourself sounds awesome, but is damn creepy come midnight.

– That archaeologists are really passionate about archaeology. After six days with these guys, I think we had a total of five conversations that didn’t revolve around a dig. Four of those five conversations were about where we were going to go for beer tonight.

– That archaeologists find putting the Australian in the tent marked ‘beer tent’ pretty damn amusing.

– That dirt ain’t dirt, apparently. There are many, many types of dirt, and just as many words to describe them.

– That after digging at the same bare hole for two days, finding a bit of broken Roman Pottery at the bottom is very exciting.

– That it’s pretty exciting to look out over a trench and suddenly see the blobs of different coloured dirt resolve into a picture. You finally know what everyone else was talking about, and can see where the Iron Age hut and its surrounding pit used to be. It’s like watching one of those 3D pictures coming into focus.

– Holding something in your hand that was made over 2000 years ago is awe inspiring.

– That there is a huuuge difference between the East Yorkshire accent and the West Yorkshire accent. Apparently.

– That to a German, the Australian accent sounds a lot like the East Yorkshire accent.

– That archaeology is fifty per cent geology, fifty per cent history, and I’m not such a big fan of geology.

– That I don’t think I am archaeologist material, I think I’ll stick to the book side of history.

– That the East Yorkshire archaeologists find it very amusing to regale the Australian with stories of ghostly monks before she has to go back to the Friary at night....

– That I want to come back to Yorkshire.

Corsets, and Tumblers on Ropes

This morning I wake up early because the French girl on the other bunk has been snoring all night and it's impossible to sleep in. My sleep cycle still hasn't synced to the northern hemisphere anyway, and so I am awake and alert. And I pull out the guide book whilst munching on the hostel's breakfast of jam on toast and decide that today is the day I visit Shakespeare's globe.

I am in love with the Underground. I purchase an all day ticket, and then my journey is easy. I cross vast distances all under the city and pop up next door to my destination. Or sometimes not. The closest station to the Globe is London Bridge, and I climb up the stairs there, and then have to make my way through large walled in markets and past little cafes and wine bars to the side of the Thames. I stand, perplexed, for ten minutes outside of a bar called "Walkabout". They claim to be Aussie and sell kangaroo burgers. I am disturbed.

The Globe is easy to find, and not as expensive as some other attractions. A slightly bored looking guide takes us around the rebuilt theatre. It’s built to the same specifications as Shakespeare’s Globe and using the same techniques as would have been used in Elizabethan times, although it’s not in the same location as the original. We stand in the pit in front of the stage and then we climb to the highest galleries. It’s an open air stage and the clouds look like they're about to open onto us – very authentic. I buy a ticket for the afternoon's matinee of Pericles and then wander around the museum.

In each year's season, the Globe puts on about five or six productions. Some of them are Shakespearean, some of them are not. Some of them are modern performances, and some of them are produced just as they would have been in Shakespeare's day. That means no light but what the sun provides, few props, costumes made from fabrics available in Elizabethan times, in Elizabethan style using Elizabethan methods. And girls’ parts are played by men. In the museum, they call everyone's attention to a small stage. Here, a costume mistress and her assistant bring out the outfit the actress playing Ophelia wore in last production of Hamlet, and offer to dress someone in it to give an idea of what the actors go through, and also what Elizabethan women went through. Of course, I volunteer myself to be dressed.

I am taken backstage and given knitted silk stockings and a linen chemise. Back onstage, my stockings are cross-gartered and leather shoes are put on my feet. I am strapped into a corset - a real corset - and I have to sit tall or I can no longer breathe. Next are hooped petticoats and a roll of fabric which ties around my bum to give me hips, and then a heavy skirt and jacket. Linen cuffs are tied to my wrists, and a linen cap to my head, and finally I am dressed. As if I were to be sitting in my chambers all day and not greeting people. I can barely move, and even sitting down takes preparation and thought – care to arrange my skirts just so – and this is the Elizabethan equivalent of tracksuit pants and slippers.

It takes nearly as long to undress me as to dress me, and when I am finished it is time for the show to begin. I am seated in the galleries, because I am too tired to stand in the pit. The play is a modern version of Pericles, but there is still very little set or costumes, and the only light is the sun (behind the clouds). Half the cast is a troupe of acrobats and to indicate a ship on sea during a storm they swing and hurl and climb and tumble on ropes hung from all around the theatre. The actors interact with the audience and the whole thing is much like it would have been in Shakepeare’s day - big on music, and sound and spectacle. Nothing at all like seeing a civilised production of Julius Ceaser at Newcastle’s Civic Theatre.

Afterwards, I catch a train back to the city, and wander through the streets. I find a little Italian restaurant and have pasta and wine for dinner. The place is tiny, yet the head waiter is manic, taking everything on himself whilst the rest of the staff stand behind the counter polishing glasses. I am stunned to see someone at the next table light up a cigarette. Apparently, you can still do that here.

With jetlag, I went to bed early, it is going to be a long journey in the morning. I think tonight, I will sleep straight through the snores.

London, Now.

I’m in London, still, and I am very, very tired. Today, I looked at the tombs of Kings and Poets, stroked the stone carvings of their faces. I strolled along the Thames, bathed in the accents around me, and smiled big, silly, ecstatic smiles to be on the other side of the world, looking at things that were old before white man had even heard of Australia. There is nowhere I have to be, except where my feet and sense of adventure lead me. I have no obligations yet, and sitting sipping tea I pondered a guide book like the touristy traveller I am almost ashamed to be, and picked, based on proximity, the sites I would like to visit, and visited them. The Temple Church was closed until further notice, but rather than disappointed, I simply shrugged my shoulders and found something else to visit. In the evening, I ran late to see a production of As You Like It; I giggled though the first half, and struggled to keep my eyes open through the second half as jet lag hit. Tomorrow, I’m going to visit Shakespeare’s Globe.

Love you to wee bitsies and I mean it when I say I wish you were here.

Hyperactive Jetlag

I’m here. I am so out of it. My body does not have any idea of what time it is, nor what state is should be in therefore is compensating by just being exhausted. I want to walk around. After nearly thirty hours of travel time, I never want to sit again. I want to curl into a little ball and sleep for the next three days. I want to cram everything there is to do in London into three days. I can’t wait to go exploring.

I wanted this, my first entry from a new country, to be interesting and exciting. I wanted to tell you about the fully-veiled Muslim women I saw in KL airport, about the Egyptian men in turbans, how there was three distinct smells between the plane and the customs desk at Heathrow (detergent, sharp and overly clean in the halls; curry-stuffy and hot in the line up for passport check, surrounded by Indian women in sari’s; and an exotic perfume that wafted by me in the wake of a hidden Muslim woman). But I am too tired for length and eloquence. I just wanted to let you all know that I am here and I am safe. Tonight, I sleep. Tomorrow the adventures can begin.