The next leg of my journey will take me to SE Asia.
I flew back to Sydney last night from Tasmania just in time to return to an airport.
There is no plan yet, but I do have a flight to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, one Southeast Asia on a Shoestring Lonely Planet Guidebook, about two months time, and a whole lot of options.
Admittedly, I probably won’t crack open my guidebook book until I’m sitting at the airport, but I feel a two hour wait and five hour flight is ample time to plan my initial few days. I will let the plans develop from there.
The exotic nature of SE Asia – Bali wood, elephants, bright colors and foreign languages – is very exciting, but the next 24 hours look dreadful.
I have an evening flight out of Sydney to Melbourne, then I will be waiting around the Melbourne airport from 7 p.m. until I board my 1:30 a.m. flight to Malaysia. The flight is 5 hours, which means I will be coughed up on the streets of a foreign world at the early hour of 7 a.m.
The timing doesn’t worry me as much as the flying does.
I’m a nervous passenger of the skyways, not because I fear falling, but because I fear everything else that could go wrong. In fact the only time I relax is when the plane is pulling away from the terminal, the jet engines blasting the ground further and further away.
I worry that I won’t know what I’m doing through the airport, and that I will look like a moron or get pulled aside by security – my bewildered look of cluelessness being easily confused with “suspicious behavior”.
I will wait at the wrong terminal and miss my flight.
Then upon landing, my fears escalate. What if I did something wrong – didn’t get the right visa, or worse, what if I can’t get the visa upon arrival like the guidebook said I could and I’m not allowed to enter the country?
Honestly losing my luggage is the lease of my concerns. (My bag is too heavy anyways…I’d be much more mobile without the added weight.)
Deep breaths!
I’m not sure yet when I will be meeting back up with Katie and Brian. We are all planning on traveling SE Asia together but I haven’t heard from them, so I’m not sure if they are on my flight to Malaysia or if they are meeting me in Kuala Lumpur.
Don’t worry though…once I get out of the airport unscathed I’m able to hit the ground running. I’m a resourceful traveler, alone or teamed-up, and my fears end once the immigrations officers release me into the swell of life outside the airport.
So as long as I end up on the other side of this ordeal with my nerves intake and most of my luggage then I will consider these upcoming flights a success!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Couchsurfing
The extent to which I am grateful toward the people who have hosted me on couchsurfing is indescribable. They have not only housed me, but they have enriched my travelling and afforded me experiences I would not have thought possible and provided the comforts of a home.
Couchsurfing is a network of people who offer their couch (or some form of sleeping accommodation) to travellers. The system is self-policed by references we leave one another after a positive or negative experience has been had. Couchsurfers are usually welcome to stay one to three nights and each experience is different. The idea is to immerse yourself with locals and experience the culture, so CSers and hosts usually interact with one another, whether it is sharing dinner and long conversations or trips to the beach or a tour of the town. Couchsurfing awards travellers the insider’s perspective and knowledge to the area they are visiting.
My experiences have all been rewarding.
At the Latham’s household, where I stayed in Sydney, I was given my own bedroom, which had been the eldest son Dean’s room before he moved out, with computer and view of the backyard pool. I had ridden with Kim Latham (the mom) to Ulladulla, which saved me bus fare for the three hour trip to the south of Sydney, hung out with Brett, the 23-year-old second son who picked me up from the city center upon my arrival and drove me to the airport when I left for Tasmania, and Chloe, the 21-year-old daughter who shared a love of books, dance and horses with me. I also attended an Australia day BBQ with Brett, hosted by his friend Izzy. The party lasted from 11 a.m. until we made it home at 5 a.m. the next day. It was a great party and town outing, followed by the worst, completely immobilizing, hang-over I have ever experienced. I won’t go into detail.
Then my first two days in Tasmania were spent with Sally and Paul Snell, and couple with two kids, Millie and Lachy aged three and four. While I was at their home, again I was given my own room with a queen sized pullout bed, we adopted Todd, a fellow couchsurfer and American, who was stranded and homeless in McDonalds. (Sally felt bad and thought he might be a possible travel partner for me- she, like my real family, was concerned about me travelling alone. She was able to convince Paul to bring him home.) The four of us shared many great meals accompanied by Tassie wine, lot’s of laughs and a trip to the Gorge, a national park surrounding a huge water dam in Launceston, a northern city in Tasmania.
Leaving the Snells I was joined by another couchsurfing host, but instead of staying at his house we decided to buy a $20 tent from target and hit the coast. We went on a road trip and landed at a beautiful beachy camp site where we shared a fire with a family from the northsouth area of Tasmania.
These folks and others have my deepest appreciation, which can only be paid forward to the travellers who I will host in my future abode.
Couchsurfing is a network of people who offer their couch (or some form of sleeping accommodation) to travellers. The system is self-policed by references we leave one another after a positive or negative experience has been had. Couchsurfers are usually welcome to stay one to three nights and each experience is different. The idea is to immerse yourself with locals and experience the culture, so CSers and hosts usually interact with one another, whether it is sharing dinner and long conversations or trips to the beach or a tour of the town. Couchsurfing awards travellers the insider’s perspective and knowledge to the area they are visiting.
My experiences have all been rewarding.
At the Latham’s household, where I stayed in Sydney, I was given my own bedroom, which had been the eldest son Dean’s room before he moved out, with computer and view of the backyard pool. I had ridden with Kim Latham (the mom) to Ulladulla, which saved me bus fare for the three hour trip to the south of Sydney, hung out with Brett, the 23-year-old second son who picked me up from the city center upon my arrival and drove me to the airport when I left for Tasmania, and Chloe, the 21-year-old daughter who shared a love of books, dance and horses with me. I also attended an Australia day BBQ with Brett, hosted by his friend Izzy. The party lasted from 11 a.m. until we made it home at 5 a.m. the next day. It was a great party and town outing, followed by the worst, completely immobilizing, hang-over I have ever experienced. I won’t go into detail.
Then my first two days in Tasmania were spent with Sally and Paul Snell, and couple with two kids, Millie and Lachy aged three and four. While I was at their home, again I was given my own room with a queen sized pullout bed, we adopted Todd, a fellow couchsurfer and American, who was stranded and homeless in McDonalds. (Sally felt bad and thought he might be a possible travel partner for me- she, like my real family, was concerned about me travelling alone. She was able to convince Paul to bring him home.) The four of us shared many great meals accompanied by Tassie wine, lot’s of laughs and a trip to the Gorge, a national park surrounding a huge water dam in Launceston, a northern city in Tasmania.
Leaving the Snells I was joined by another couchsurfing host, but instead of staying at his house we decided to buy a $20 tent from target and hit the coast. We went on a road trip and landed at a beautiful beachy camp site where we shared a fire with a family from the northsouth area of Tasmania.
These folks and others have my deepest appreciation, which can only be paid forward to the travellers who I will host in my future abode.
Surf's Up
The wave hit me from behind. I caught the swell too late and had pushed my body too far up the board, and now I was watching helplessly as the nose of the board was pushed under the water as the tail was lifted from behind.
The water washed me from the board’s surface and tumbled me around like a rag on the spin cycle. Spitting and stumbling, water pouring from my nose and down my throat, I emerged and gathered my bearings. The board, which was attached to my body by a cord velcroed to my ankle, was still trailing the offending wave and dragging me with it. I grabbed the board steadied my legs and searched the sea for another wave.
No matter how many times it knocked me down under gallons of salty water I would kept coming back to the surf for more. This was after all my second time surfing and the ocean was still teaching me who was boss- I heard the message loud and clear and politely continued practicing by trial and error.
My second round at surfing (the first was almost two weeks ago in Ulladulla, a small town three hours south of Sydney) was intoxicating. Already I was standing up more than not, and I was experiencing fewer wipe-outs, while experiencing a delicious adrenaline rush that inspired me back for wave after wave.
The facilitators of this experience were Wendy and Hamish, a couple I was couchsurfing with in Hobart, Tasmania. We had woken at 5 a.m., piled with boards and mugs of coffee and tea into the car and drove 2.5 hours up the east coast of Tasmania to Bichno as the sun rose pink in the distance.
When we got in the water Wendy coached me through a few waves and then left me to my own devices so she and Hamish could tackle bigger surf further out into the ocean.
I loved every minute of our morning surf and only stopped when my arm muscles, largely unused and certainly unaccustomed to the demands of paddling and pushing up on a surf board, refused to cooperate further.
By 12:30 p.m. we were all spent and starving, so we headed to the local bakery for some lunch (I had a toasted chicken, pineapple and cheese sandwich with a huge coffee ice cream float.).
We cruised back to Hobart and enjoyed a few more bakery and beach stops along the way.
I’m at high risk for becoming addicted to this surfing lifestyle.
The water washed me from the board’s surface and tumbled me around like a rag on the spin cycle. Spitting and stumbling, water pouring from my nose and down my throat, I emerged and gathered my bearings. The board, which was attached to my body by a cord velcroed to my ankle, was still trailing the offending wave and dragging me with it. I grabbed the board steadied my legs and searched the sea for another wave.
No matter how many times it knocked me down under gallons of salty water I would kept coming back to the surf for more. This was after all my second time surfing and the ocean was still teaching me who was boss- I heard the message loud and clear and politely continued practicing by trial and error.
My second round at surfing (the first was almost two weeks ago in Ulladulla, a small town three hours south of Sydney) was intoxicating. Already I was standing up more than not, and I was experiencing fewer wipe-outs, while experiencing a delicious adrenaline rush that inspired me back for wave after wave.
The facilitators of this experience were Wendy and Hamish, a couple I was couchsurfing with in Hobart, Tasmania. We had woken at 5 a.m., piled with boards and mugs of coffee and tea into the car and drove 2.5 hours up the east coast of Tasmania to Bichno as the sun rose pink in the distance.
When we got in the water Wendy coached me through a few waves and then left me to my own devices so she and Hamish could tackle bigger surf further out into the ocean.
I loved every minute of our morning surf and only stopped when my arm muscles, largely unused and certainly unaccustomed to the demands of paddling and pushing up on a surf board, refused to cooperate further.
By 12:30 p.m. we were all spent and starving, so we headed to the local bakery for some lunch (I had a toasted chicken, pineapple and cheese sandwich with a huge coffee ice cream float.).
We cruised back to Hobart and enjoyed a few more bakery and beach stops along the way.
I’m at high risk for becoming addicted to this surfing lifestyle.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sydney continued...
Sydney continued…
After buying a map, riding the bus around the city center and chatting with a few locals (One local gave me a free map minutes after I’d purchased one…It’s still in the plastic.) I felt more confident to hit the pavement on foot and set about exploring the city.
Starving because I hadn’t eaten all day I stopped to buy a bag of banana chips and two peaches from a roadside fruit vendor with a heavy Turkish accent. He showed me the green line bus, a free bus line that runs 9:30 to 3:30 daily up and down the main downtown streets. Monetary, time and convenience ironies like this occur all the time on the road. I think that if I were a bit more patient then I would discover these freebies before spending as much money. Who knows?
Munching along, a bit frustrated about being $30 poorer for no good reason, I made my way toward the Sydney harbour. I was walking through the Rocks, an old section on the waterfront full of cobble streets, original stone building built by the convicts/settlers of Sydney, cafes, shops, galleries and restaurants, when I paused in front of a nude photography gallery and was approached by the photographer.
“Come in. You timing is perfect. We were looking for someone to give a makeover,” the Israeli photographer said. (No nudity was required)
The gallery was full of fleshy photos, tastefully done. The photographer had shot for the likes of Vogue and other flashy publications.
A young German girl sat me down in a chair and started painting my face. The three of us chatted throughout the makeover and before too long she’d completed my transformation. I haven’t had makeup on in about five months so the change was shocking, and rather impressive. I was stunned by how good her work was, and my hair looked awesome. She straightened and fluffed giving me a voluminous head of slick locks (The tragic haircut I suffered a month ago is not so bad anymore. The layers have grown and softened in severity.)
Leaving the gallery I felt mismatched. From the neck and up I looked great, but I was wearing shorts, a tank-top and a backpack that didn’t even whisper the word glamorous. But I worked it…turning heads along the way (real or imagined).
I stopped in more aboriginal art galleries, walked along the water and took photos of the infamous Harbour Bridge and Opera house and was pleasantly surprised to see Prince William arrive in a stream of security vehicles, greet the crowd and board a boat (He is thinner, older and balder in person).
Walking still, but now armoured with a cup of coffee, I found a nice park across from Central Station to sit and read while I waited for instructions from my couchsurfing host (he was to be off work by 5:30 and it was nearly 4:30). Worried because I hadn’t heard any news, I decided to phone him and discovered that my phone wasn’t working. Crap!
Another girl in the park loaned me her phone and I was able to get in touch with Brett.
As instructed, I retrieved my backpack from the internet café, caught a bus to Newmarket (a cool area of the city with lots of cafes and thrify shops, mostly a university area) and met him infront of a red Marlborough Hotel.
He was a nice, in his early 20s, blond and blue eyed. I classic Aussie guy. And soon we were off, driving the 30 minutes to his house in the suburbs.
During the drive I reflected on my day. Sydney didn’t knock my socks off, but it did subtly impress me. It’s a city of beaches, a relaxed and tanned population and beautiful weather. I enjoyed my romp through the streets, but it was a relief to be driving with Brett into the suburbs where he and his family dwelled.
After buying a map, riding the bus around the city center and chatting with a few locals (One local gave me a free map minutes after I’d purchased one…It’s still in the plastic.) I felt more confident to hit the pavement on foot and set about exploring the city.
Starving because I hadn’t eaten all day I stopped to buy a bag of banana chips and two peaches from a roadside fruit vendor with a heavy Turkish accent. He showed me the green line bus, a free bus line that runs 9:30 to 3:30 daily up and down the main downtown streets. Monetary, time and convenience ironies like this occur all the time on the road. I think that if I were a bit more patient then I would discover these freebies before spending as much money. Who knows?
Munching along, a bit frustrated about being $30 poorer for no good reason, I made my way toward the Sydney harbour. I was walking through the Rocks, an old section on the waterfront full of cobble streets, original stone building built by the convicts/settlers of Sydney, cafes, shops, galleries and restaurants, when I paused in front of a nude photography gallery and was approached by the photographer.
“Come in. You timing is perfect. We were looking for someone to give a makeover,” the Israeli photographer said. (No nudity was required)
The gallery was full of fleshy photos, tastefully done. The photographer had shot for the likes of Vogue and other flashy publications.
A young German girl sat me down in a chair and started painting my face. The three of us chatted throughout the makeover and before too long she’d completed my transformation. I haven’t had makeup on in about five months so the change was shocking, and rather impressive. I was stunned by how good her work was, and my hair looked awesome. She straightened and fluffed giving me a voluminous head of slick locks (The tragic haircut I suffered a month ago is not so bad anymore. The layers have grown and softened in severity.)
Leaving the gallery I felt mismatched. From the neck and up I looked great, but I was wearing shorts, a tank-top and a backpack that didn’t even whisper the word glamorous. But I worked it…turning heads along the way (real or imagined).
I stopped in more aboriginal art galleries, walked along the water and took photos of the infamous Harbour Bridge and Opera house and was pleasantly surprised to see Prince William arrive in a stream of security vehicles, greet the crowd and board a boat (He is thinner, older and balder in person).
Walking still, but now armoured with a cup of coffee, I found a nice park across from Central Station to sit and read while I waited for instructions from my couchsurfing host (he was to be off work by 5:30 and it was nearly 4:30). Worried because I hadn’t heard any news, I decided to phone him and discovered that my phone wasn’t working. Crap!
Another girl in the park loaned me her phone and I was able to get in touch with Brett.
As instructed, I retrieved my backpack from the internet café, caught a bus to Newmarket (a cool area of the city with lots of cafes and thrify shops, mostly a university area) and met him infront of a red Marlborough Hotel.
He was a nice, in his early 20s, blond and blue eyed. I classic Aussie guy. And soon we were off, driving the 30 minutes to his house in the suburbs.
During the drive I reflected on my day. Sydney didn’t knock my socks off, but it did subtly impress me. It’s a city of beaches, a relaxed and tanned population and beautiful weather. I enjoyed my romp through the streets, but it was a relief to be driving with Brett into the suburbs where he and his family dwelled.
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