With A Winner

I think a part of me judged her before I consciously realized it.  Rocky Mountain Barbie, casually beautiful without even trying.  Thankfully though, I forgot my insecurity about five seconds later: we got on famously.  She’s tender and brave, and loves tramping around the outdoors as much as I do.  Our shared humor is the perfect synergy of 70% nerd, 20% dumbdumb, 5% dirtbag, and 5% snort.  I get the distinct impression our fellow hostel-mates secretly think we’re assholes, but that’s okay: we think we are hilarious.  Together we decided to stick, as much to our mutual delight as to the chagrin of those we’d encounter along the way.  Poor guys.

We were off to a brilliant start, hiking a bit of the Queen Charlotte Track off the northern coast of this southern island, a trek without achilles-snapping tendencies, thankfully.  As if our water taxi ride through Marlborough Sound could be any more stunning, we were given a performance by a pod of Hector’s dolphins, shy little guys, but oh so graceful.  I really believe interacting with animals is the most holy reminder of all that's good in the world.  Whether squishy or fluffy, sea creatures or land, they are to me, hope personified.   

Marlborough Sound

We slowly made our way northward, on a mission to hit Abel Tasman National Park before beginning to inch our way southward along the west coast.  Unbeknownst to us, the weather would soon turn, compelling us to curl up under thick blankets in front of the fireplace for the duration of the weekend, watching rainbows flicker in and out over the barren kiwi orchard adjacent to our hostel.  Before that though, we’d kayak the park, visiting colonies of male petrels looking for a mate, and islands of baby seals whining for their mamas to return with dinner.  It was as splendid a day as I’ve had, all the more so because I didn’t barf, which is kind of my thing when bobbing along on the ocean.  Bonus. 

Our departure from this park that is a national treasure was as difficult as emerging from under our cozy nest of comforters to head out into the frosty early morning dark.  But emerge we did, in effort to maximize the dawning light of a new winter day to begin our long drive down the wild western coast.  Watch out New Zealand, we Katies are coming for you!!

For a Year

Today is a year.  More than a year since my kick-ass goodbye party in Chicago, more than a year since I left my job and my friends.  A year since Mom and Kimmy drove me to the airport, talking me up, and talking about people they knew.  A year since I sat in the Philadelphia airport, waiting to fly one-way to Ireland, wearing Elise’s most beloved Cub’s t-shirt and the hiking pants I’m wearing right now.  A year since I met sweet little Josie and her equally sweet, if not more grouchy son, who drove me all the way to Galway.  I remember walking the wild western coast of Ireland, in a haze of sea foam and jet lag, wondering what the year would bring, who I’d meet, who I’d be.  The big picture of those wonderings, in hindsight, is too much for me, impossible to reflect on in their entirety.  But I can think about and acknowledge the little bits.  Because what has this year been, has any year been, but lots of little bits linked together like the finest of golden chains, worn thin by the salt of our tears?

How am I different, who am I now?  If anything, I’m much the same, if a little more… myself.  Both a little more open, and a little more skittish.  I’m more enamored with the world and her crazy people, as equally galvanized by love as I am fractured by hate.  I’m a little more inked and a little more brave.  A little more sun-kissed, a little more sun-damaged.  Sometimes I think I’m a little more tolerant, other times I’m concerned I’ve become decidedly less patient with nonsense, cultural or otherwise.  I’m more expectant and anticipatory, excitedly bracing for what’s to come.  I’m a little more idealistic and a little more realistic.  I feel a little more peaceful being single and childless in a world that stigmatizes women like me, even if on some days, I’m also a little more sad about it.  I’m a little smarter, and a little less sure of things.  Of anything.  A little drier of booze, but more saturated of coffee.  I’m more independent, and more in need of my people: there’s nothing like being solo for a year to teach you the value of relationships.  

This world is a big place, and we get to be here.  I get to be here.  This is no little bit.  I'm grateful.  So radically, terrifically, from-the-trampoline-into-the-ballpit grateful.  Let's see what's next.

To Middle Earth

It took me a minute to realize what I was feeling.  A kind of rejoicing, that a place such as this can exist.  Where the people are the friendliest, the air is pristine, and the land is raw.  The sea is a million shades of green at any given moment, jade and turquoise, pistachio and lime.  Crystalline and clear, it's home to more whales, dolphins, and penguins than anyplace, anywhere.  Commanding, magnificent, and proud, this is a place still seemingly as uncorrupted as the day is rose from the sea so many eons ago.  An island home to some of the most hilarious creatures I’ve ever met, big fat ninjas who are the best of company, and a reminder of the bulldogs with whom I was raised.  This place is New Zealand.

Before I left home last year, I thought I’d be zooming around this country in a camper van with a friend from home.  I didn’t realize that our southern hemisphere reunion wasn’t to be, or that I’d arrive here in the middle of winter.  It felt wrong to do Middle Earth without my Samwise Gamgee, but, as all bends in the road lead to somewhere, I kept on with my plan to do this country, even if it meant doing it, like the countries that came before, alone.  And thank God I did.

In my continued effort to remain present, I find myself basking in this joy, this opportunity to lose myself in this most perfect of places, with these most cartoonish of creatures.  I’ve lost hours and days among the seals, tripping over the fatties blending into the rocks as I climb among them, befriending the pups playing in the waterfall.  I’ve seen enormous sperm whales surfacing from the underwater canyons where they’re feeding just off the coast.  I’ve gotten sucked into the drama among a little blue penguin colony, as little Solo showed off for his new mate, and the little twin chicks begged for food.  It’s been glorious.  

Despite this saturation of majesty though, I still have to check myself.  Because sometimes I feel guilty for experiencing these things, for knowing this kind of joy.  People all over the world and in my own life, people I love most fiercely, are suffering.  Really, truly suffering.  And I’m not there, and can’t actively do anything to alleviate their pain, apart from praying and being in touch.  So maybe joy is a choice, believing in hope and beauty in a world laced with fear and pain.  That roly-poly seal pups will make me laugh out loud in the midst of acute heartache is proof of joy; that roly-poly seal pups are joy.  In fat rolls.

With Some Devils

Muirs Beach

The moon is extraordinary tonight.  Enormous and low, it’s a crescent.  A bright orange star hovers at the tip, a planet perhaps, or a fairy.  It’s the moon I used to doodle as a girl, when I still believed if I hoped and tried hard enough, I could fly myself up after my parents fell asleep, to schmooze with all the creatures who surely lived there.  I try to soak it all in, the sounds, the sky, even the temperature.  Protected as I now am by my fabulously forest green coat, a gift from Michelle and 1991, it’s still cold enough to make me dance.  I wake in the morning in a cloud of my own breath, sprinting through my frosty little compartment to the bathroom, an effort to expedite my morning toilette and return as quickly as possible to the burrow that is my bed.  A bonus, if you’re wondering, to being a solo traveler in a family-traveling world: the more beds, the more blankets.  All.  For.  Me.

Here in Tasmania, I’m getting back to my traveling roots.  Chasing rainbows up and down the coast, hiking national parks, and slowly perfecting the art of driving on the left side of the road, I move slowly.  I’ve encountered about 12 people and 900 wallabies, cartoonish little chubbers, and much more delightful company than the maniacal monkeys I’ve come to know and loathe.  This is a little dollop of an island that fell off Australia so many eons ago, a microcosm of that spectacular country that seems to be about 90% sky and 10% people.  Kind, friendly, easy people who I’ll surely miss when I take my leave.

In addition to having the world’s best oysters, Tasmania also hosts some of the most fantastical creatures on earth.  Bandicoots and eastern quolls, Tasmanian devils and pademelons, weirdo little buddies I had to meet to believe.  They snort and bark and carry on, peeking out from the bushes when they think I’m not watching.  In the evenings I run a wallaby gauntlet to get in and out of my trailer; they’re as curious of me as I am of them, and I think they want to share my snacks.  I get the feeling if I settle down and keep quiet, they'll start chatting me up like Mr. and Mrs. Beaver in Narnia.  Anything could happen on a day like today.

Bay of Fires

But in the meantime I am perfectly content tumbling around this enchanted island in my little Suzuki and in my head.  I’m letting the scents of eucalyptus and pine and salty air newly born from the sea clear my brain and heart of the smog of the last several months, and the last several years.  I’m visiting haunted penal colonies, and a granite coastline covered in a stunningly orange lichen, the bay of fires stolen long ago, like the rest of the country, from the Aboriginal natives.  I’m taking advantage of the quiet, sleeping without earplugs, and staving off frostbite with cup after cup of granny tea made the way my aunt Mary Alice taught me.  And for today, that’s enough.

With A Legend

I think we leave everyone we meet a little better, or a little worse: our encounters with one another are never empty and heaven forbid we underestimate our influence.  We have the power to boost weary spirits and instill hope.  In the same way, we can wallop someone's best effort and ruin their day.  While some of us are the spiciest of riojas, and others no more than a generic boxed wine of unrealized potential, Michelle is the most playful of champagnes, bubbling and sparkling all over the place.
  

I knew last year on the camino that Michelle was a special lady.  Even in the gnarliest of weather she walked on without complaint, propelled by a combination of self determination and optimism unlike any I've seen.  She was generous with her time and herself as so many of us scrambled for a moment in her orbit.  Together the rest of us shared a collective camino suspicion that I can now confirm to be true: Michelle is in fact a real, live legend.

Michelle is the kind of woman I want to be.  She’s strong and brave and loves a good adventure.  She laughs easily and often, and seems to have a handle on what it means to live with integrity, gratefully and full on.  She’s so fearless in the face of barking kangaroos that she actually barks back.  I, however, run for my life.  She patiently taught me the art of driving left, and gifted me with the depth of her heart as we talked about everything under the cool Australian sun as we zipped along the Great Ocean Road.  She succeeded in expanding my palate to include grilled cheese with vegemite, while I failed in my reciprocal attempt to awaken her inner American with peanut butter and jelly pancakes.  I suppose nobody's perfect.

So many times on this trip and in this life, I am awed by goodness.  Whether by the trees or the critters living among them, by the squeaks of new babies or the way a coconut tastes when I’m dying of thirst, there are a million little things that astound me in their perfect simplicity.  More than ever before, I count friendship and connection among the greatest of gifts, one of the things that most sustains me.  My time with Michelle blew wind into my solo sails, and reminded me how much better life is when we it’s shared.  Or, more precisely in this case, when it’s shared with a legend.

With My Favorite Hipster

My inspiration for visiting Australia wasn’t the Great Barrier Reef.  It wasn’t the mountains, or the beaches, or the surfers.  My primary reason for visiting this country, and even rearranging my trip to do it sooner than originally planned, was for the people.  And as if time with one of my favorite high school friends wasn’t enough, I had another little duo a bit further south who were a pressing priority, and I knew, would give me the boost I needed to continue eastward, and closer to home.  This little duo was Colin and Michelle. 

Colin and Michelle are a mother-son combination I first encountered on the camino back in the fall.  Like so many other magical bits of that particular adventure, our connection was brief in time, but longstanding in connection, so it didn’t seem strange to be circumnavigating the globe for a visit.  I would start with Colin.

I realized quickly that my time with Colin could qualify as total cultural immersion: Australian hipster 20-somethings are as foreign a population to me as any of the other cultures I've hung out with this year, so I was delighted to see how these fabled millenniels really live.

We were off to a running start when Colin managed to find me at the wrong terminal of the airport; it’s been exactly once this year that I’ve had a familiar face to greet me on arrival, and phew, was it refreshing.  After winding our way out of the terminal, we were greeted by a chubby lot of enormous kangaroos: they were ridiculous to see in person, like big fluffy pears with tails, and I’m pretty sure I snorted.  Colin promised more to come as we headed into the early dusk toward the city he calls home, and, equally exciting to me, toward a proper bed in an apartment-not-a-hostel.  Dreamy.

Together we spent a whirlwind few days together, catching up on life, exploring Melbourne, and inking a bit of camino into our flesh.  I learned more than I ever wanted about Australian Rules football, and even managed to pilfer a hoodie or two as a buffer from the cold.  Despite the difference in our age and generation, Colin gives me such hope for the state of the world.  Because even as a fresh young 24 year old, he is intelligent, thoughtful, and a selfless friend.  He’s creative and talented, and makes everyone better just by being himself.  If Colin and his hipster friends really are taking over the world, I think we'll be okay.

Down Memory Lane

Many of my closest friends growing up were guys.  Even before puberty, I experienced the beauty and value of boyfriends with Alex.  I went on to log a million hours driving around aimlessly with Ryan, wasting gas and laughing.  There were plenty of others before a later connection with Brady, who remains one of my most consistent friends to date.  But one of my all-time favorite fellows, around whom so very many of my youthful memories evolve, was Gillig.

Gillig was one of the best.  Before we were old enough to vote, we were discussing systemic racism and poverty in Mr.Shue’s sociology class, and trying to curse in French when we thought Madame Gladfelter couldn’t hear us.  I don’t remember him ever creating drama or talking smack, nor do I remember him ever aligning himself with any of the cliques, however many cool points he would have been awarded by their exclusivity.  He was a star athlete in a sport nobody realized existed, and I understand looking back, a bit of a hunk. Together we giggled our way through high school, more often than not at his nerdy jokes, while we eagerly awaited our graduation into the big wide world that fascinated us. 

After achieving his degree on a fencing scholarship, he went on to live and work all over the world.  A ski instructor in Canada, seasons in Central America, years here and there in Europe.  Truthfully, he became so cool, I was a little worried.  All the same, I was way more excited to see him than anything else Sydney had to offer.  It took me about 5 post-reunion seconds to realize, like a million times before, I needn’t have worried.

Gillig and I were able to spend a few long and lazy days together with his gorgeous wife Shirin, and their squeaky new baby Charlie.  Like 20 years before, we talked as much about international relations and adventure as we did about Kiwi cartoons and our mutual friends.  Adult Gillig is much the same as the affable fellow I remember, except that now, apart from remaining the king of nerd humor, he is a master in the kitchen, and a most loving family man.  My time with his recently expanded little family was some of the best I’ve spent on the road, and a solid reminder of how much I love my mates.  Next time Gilligs, the oysters are on me!