Heaven Beside You
They say that the world works in mysterious ways. That around every bend, off on every tangent and under every stone, life is full of surprises. Expect the unexpected because that’s what often times you’ll wind up tasting. The wooly world of traveling is of no stranger to surprise either, let me tell you. First hand I’ve experienced the rap-sheet of surprise from getting thrown off a Spanish bus in the middle of nowhere, snapping my laptop’s mother-board in half, sleeping on a deserted beach for ten days, knocking a would-be thief to the floor with a well-placed elbow and now, yet another surprise. I’ve fallen in love. Now, I’ve fallen in love on the road before. It's nothing new. With cities like Paris and Sevilla. With culinary majesty like French wines, Italian coffee gelato, Czech beer and Australian deep-fried scallops with a teasing of crushed sea salt on top. I’ve fallen in love with beauty the likes of Normandy, the hills of Tuscany, the cliffs of La Coruña, the banks of the river Seine and with so many other places I’ve found myself at along the way. I’ve fallen in love with places, moments, friendships, flavors, a host of memories and now, I’ve fallen again. With a girl named Vanessa.
We met downtown at a place called the Degraves espresso bar. I was in for my routine afternoon coffee and she was stopping through for, what I later found out, was Degraves legendary panini. I’d love to say that as I walked in our eyes met from across the room, they sparkled with magic and low and behold there it was, love at first, but it didn’t really unfold like that. I sat with my back to her reading my travel guide as she poured over her work eating her panini. It wasn’t until she passed me returning from the bar with some napkins that we were able to strike up some mindless ice-breaking chit-chat. A conversation ensued, we exchanged numbers, a polite kiss on the cheek and, as they always like to say, the rest is history. Whether it was her smile or her eyes or just the overall presence of Vanessa that caught and kept my interest I’m not sure. There was just something about her.
Turns out Vanessa is a twenty-eight year old production manager for an FMC (a food manufacturing company) here in Melbourne. She’s an Aussie, as is her father, although her mother is originally from Puerto Rico. If biological dominance has had any say, although I have yet to meet her, I'm guessing her mother is responsible for her daughter’s dark-featured splendor and lack of Australian accent.
To safe-guard myself from the hub-bub and nuisance that relationships often bring to the table, as well as to curb a few other bothersome things, I outlined three travel rules to be used in strict application before I left home last year. (1) No karaoke, (2) No carrots, and (3) No falling in love. Despite the beneficial role my three rules have played up to this point while traveling, somehow, against my better judgment, I opened up my heart to her and rule three was breached. I had no way of knowing what would come from our first kiss. There really isn’t any easy way to say this so I’ll just come right out with it. As of last Saturday, I’m very pleased to announce that Vanessa and I are happily engaged. Arriving at this decision, especially at this point in my life, hasn’t been easy. I still have further schooling to finish, I’m not financially stable and I have little to offer someone other than myself. But there’s no denying love and there’s no denying that I’ve found someone out there who understands me more intimately than I thought possible. She wears a smile that I haven’t seen for years. It’s her own natural aphrodisiac. When I’m in her presence the world seems so upside down as if the streets of town are paved with stars and magic’s abroad in the air. Everything is so effortless. I feel like I could do anything. I could climb the highest mountain or pee even with some really big guy standing beside me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’m in love. Like in a sonnet. Or in a poem. Love.
I’ve scarcely given much thought to how I’d feel when the day arrived that found me with a fiancé. It’s strangely weird. Dream-like in a lot of ways as if I’m awaiting the awakening of my delightful slumber. I guess there comes a point in life when finding that special someone actually materializes. It’s shocking. Mind-blowing and superbly divine. Lest you worry, rest assured that I will be returning home to the States as scheduled. I may be in love and I may be a little out of my element here, but I’m not stupid. We’ve discussed at length what we feel is an appropriate and responsible future for the both of us. Our schedules don’t really allow for a proper ceremony until at least next year so we’re not rushing into anything ridiculous (trust me mom, you can relax.) Whether it’s ultimately held here in Australia or back home in Seattle is something we’ll have to resolve down the road. For now, I’m perfectly content with the bliss I’ve found in Vanessa, with the smell of her hair, her smile, with her beautiful brown eyes and with this wonderful feeling of love.
This coming weekend Vanessa and I will be flying up to Sydney to meet her parents and some of her relatives that live in the neighboring areas (I’ll try to forward on some pictures of the two of us before then.) We’ve talked about taking a few week holiday on the west coast in Perth or in Broome, but for now we’re just taking in these wonderful moments we’ve been sharing together in Melbourne.
I’ve had to spend a good deal of time and energy thinking of the girls in my past. All the relationships that didn’t work out for one reason or another. Sometimes as I lie awake in bed I think back and wonder why some of them didn’t make it as far as this one. Trying to pin down just what it is exactly that this one has that the others did not. But then I remember something. If you ever wish for things that are only in the past, just remember, the wrong things aren’t supposed to last. I guess that says it all. And as I sat with Vanessa last night, with the last bit of sunlight waning in the sky right at about the break of twilight, I hear her heart beat with that soft familiar rhythm and there’s this catch in my throat and I just swallow hard until it leaves me. Then I know.
I left my last post with a fairly loose and ambiguous ending. One based around the notion of fate and how things happen. That was, as you now know, entirely intentional. I honestly never believed much in fate. That is, not until it happened.
Freshness In Two Calories
This morning, while walking the urban streets of Melbourne, someone pinched my dispenser of Tic-Tacs from my back pocket. It was a brand new dispenser of mints that I had bought only minutes prior at the corner grocery and more significantly, it was a brand new flavor. A flavor I never had the luxury of experiencing before – extra-strong mint flavor. I was so distraught. I was forced to return to the corner grocery mere minutes later to replenish my supply of Tic-Tacs, and let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than having to buy not one, but two dispensers of extra-strong mint-flavored Tic-Tacs within the same five minute period from the same convenience store clerk. But once I popped open my second dispenser I found out that they were indeed well worth the wait. What an excellent and refreshing flavor those little things have. How do they do it? Such an emotional and frustrating morning misadventure just for the sake of fresh breath, all thanks to a mint thief. Fucking punk.
With fresh breath assured, I sat alone on an urban park bench outlining the rest of my day. Smack in the middle of Melbourne’s downtown corridor I sat when I was suddenly approached by a couple. A man with a camera and a lady with a spiral notepad moved towards me. I put my coffee down and cautiously made eye contact. Great. Approaching strangers, just what my morning needed. What a treat for me. Every time I’m approached by a stranger I automatically assume that they’re completely full of shit and, if giving the opportunity, they’re likely to fuck me. Fuck me for some money, fuck me for my signature or fuck me for something else. They’re either selling something I don’t need, soliciting for a cause I couldn’t care less about, setting me up for a scam or engaging me in some form of human interaction that I would personally rather not be a part of. Irregardless, I always assume their intentions are ill-conceived and never ever good. What can I say? I’m an optimist at heart.
It turns out the two weren’t as evil as I had assumed. They were both from the city’s largest newspaper and they were interested in an interview.
“We’re from Melbourne’s largest paper, The Age. How’s it going?” the lady asked me.
“Yeah going great thanks” I said.
“Would you mind if we asked you a few questions? We run a column called ‘fifteen minutes of fame’ whereby we ask a random passerby about whatever it is that concerns them. So you can talk about anything you’d like. Stand up on your soapbox if you wish” she said.
“I was conceived on a warehouse pallet of laundry detergent and born on a soap box nine months later” I smirked, “What is it that you’d like to ask?”
“Looks like you’re our guy then” she said. Then the fellow with the camera begin snapping away pictures.
I was interviewed for a period of about twenty minutes. The reporter seemed genuinely interested in my opinion, especially after discovering I was a foreign traveler in her backyard during such anxious times. The discussion revolved around the obvious. The Iraqi war and how traveling alone as an American was impacted by the former. Flat out, I told her I could never conceivably support the institution of war irrespective of the parties involved.
“War in every capacity is something I can’t condone” I said. “War is hell. It’s unimaginable hell to those that have never experienced it first hand. Sadly, I think the human mind has almost the infinite capacity to forget that. The fact that in war, real tangible people, fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and children with real names and real faces, with real likes and dislikes, people who are loved and enjoyed by others, die. They fucking die never to be enjoyed again. Humans don’t personalize war enough. They don’t stop to think how it would truly feel inside if their own kid was killed. How it must feel when your own son or daughter, brother or sister, nephew or niece arrives back home on your front porch in a black plastic bag. How horrible, how devastating that must be. I have to think that the idea of war might be viewed slightly differently if your home began to fill with the black plastic bags of your loved ones. And then, how every night as you lie awake in bed moments before you shut your eyes and fall asleep, your heart is gripped with that paralyzing helplessness reminding you again that your loved one is indeed gone, and never coming back. I can’t even pretend to know how deep and unending that sadness dwells or how tight and unforgiving its grip becomes to the family of those that have lost their loved ones to war. People die. On both sides of the fence, people die. And for what? Well, it’s all in the name of two things that have fueled warfare all the way through the annuals of history - Economics and religion. The pursuit of material goods at all costs and an unyielding, structured set of spiritual beliefs – the two very things that have ruined the breadth of the human condition.”
“So I get the impression that you’re a proponent of peace then? Have you participated in a protest since you’ve been here in Melbourne?” she inquired.
“No. Fuck the doves and the fuzzy-notion of peace” I said. “Humans aren’t peaceful creatures. They’ve never been peaceful creatures and in my opinion they will collectively never be peaceful creatures. As much as I’d love to live in peaceful coexistence with every animal and every human, I’m a realist. I have no faith in that utopia ever being realized. Put simply, I don’t have that level of trust in my species. As for protesting, I can’t march down the streets of a city hooting and hollering and calling for some notion called peace when I honestly don’t believe in it.”
“So what are you a proponent of?” she asked.
“I’m not a proponent. I’m not rooting for any particular. I’m not a cheer leader or an activist, and I’m certainly not an advocate for change. The way I view it, I’m not a part of any of it. I have no loyalties to any identifiable group or faction and I view everything from a safe distance knowing that I simply don’t belong to any of it.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, if you’re not a proponent of anything than what might you be exactly?” she politely asked.
“I’m an extraordinarily happy individual that has been blessed by an unbelievably wonderful group of family and friends that surround my life. A life, as it turns out, that has become more fulfilling and rewarding beyond my wildest dreams. I’m a lover of fine wines and beautiful music, an artist, a traveler, a dreamer, a romantic at heart, a loyal friend, a caffeine addict with more to say than I probably should and I’m very, very grateful for it all. I’ll never take any of this for granted, this wonderful gift of life I’ve been given.”
In a nutshell, that was the interview. The cameraman and journalist sat there looking slightly taken aback as though I had just gave their column something it probably hadn’t really ever seen, for better or for worse. They were grateful for my honesty and seemed really appreciative so I’m under the impression that it went well. What will actually make it to print, who knows. Looking back I feel I may have been a tad harsh. I mean, somewhere deep down I certainly hope there’s a part of me that believes lasting peace in the world is possible. I really, really want to believe that. I don’t know. I’ve seen and experienced too much in twenty-five years to really allow myself to believe it.
After the interview I was feeling mildly upbeat. As if good things were in the air. It was nice to vocalize my caffeine intake if for no other reason than to just speak my mind and clear it of angst. Having someone there with an once of interest was nice as well. I took a deep breath, tossed my empty coffee cup in the trash and decided to go for a walk.
Peculiarly enough, I’ve found that fate always has a way of making herself known. If you ask me if I believe in fate, I’d say, well, I’m a believer that things happen. Fate is what happens. With that said, fate again reveled herself to me, proving yet again that one should always expect the unexpected. Somehow, fate always knows what’s in your heart. It knows your true intent and inclination despite what you may say or may do. She knows you better than you know yourself and well, I guess that’s the beauty of her.
It all started in the streets. Walking the streets of metropolitan cities is one of my greatest joys. I absolutely love it. I could walk for days on end, literally, losing myself in the individual flavors and enchantments of every city. And in doing so I run into a lot of people and a lot of places. I get lost, often only temporarily, and I encounter a lot of the unexpected. Today was no exception. I somehow found myself in the middle of Melbourne’s Harley-Davidson dealership. I took a left down a back street, a right at the corner and low and behold, there it was. A Harley shop. Fantastic. Harley dealerships, for me, happen to be one of the places in the world, albeit few in number, where I feel intensely almost infinitely comfortable with all that I am and all that I’ve been in life. A place where happiness and enjoyment are taken to the tilt, where emotions escape literary equivalence and nothing but enrapture ensues. Like in a record shop or a kitchen store, at a live music gig in front of a good band, perched on the steps of a winery with a fine cab on Sunday afternoon, on a deserted island with no notion of time or waste, or in the loving embrace of that special someone. The perfect context. Absolute captivation. Standing there on the floor of that motorcycle shop was nothing short of perfect. As I stood among the rows of bikes, reflections of chrome flashing and dancing around my peripheral, the perfume of black leather jackets lingering, the euphoric sonnet of a purring Heritage Softail in the alley behind me – as I stood there something magical took place. As if I could almost taste the kiss of fate. Almost. She just stood there and smiled back. Why, I’m not really sure. There was a moment of serene calmness. Sterile silence. And there was something else I just can’t quite put my finger on.
Do you ever feel as though you’ve become a vastly different version of your previous self? Something so unfamiliar you begin to wonder who you really are? As though a Pandora’s Box of change has been unleashed before you exposing you to something you never foresaw? And even though you observe this change not with sadness, not with malice, but with a healthy dose of ambivalence, you still can’t help but wonder what happened to yesterday? Then, all of sudden, complete acceptance of all the change ensues....
In a strangely odd way, I think I finally allowed myself to acknowledge all this. I stood there today and I realized that although I’m not really sure who I am any more, I’m perfectly fine with that. There’s not much left of what I used to be and that’s ok. Today, somehow, in the middle of a motorcycle shop, I seemed to have graduated to another level of self-awareness. To a level where the role I play in the grand universal scheme is now that much clearer. That much more concise. My adventures have never been about self-realization in the conventional sense, for I’ve always known who I am. Instead, I’ve always looked at it more along the lines of - I know who I am, but what can I become? Like the tempering of an imperfect sword. I knew what I was yet unsure of what I could become. I guess today was just another day on the anvil of the blacksmith, realizing indeed that I have become something else.
Now I acknowledge that when all of this dropped english hits your palate, I run the great risk of sounding like a cheesy sap. An emotional blowhard wrought with sentimentalism and maybe even a healthy streak of the good ol’ femininity. I mean honesty, who the hell gets emotional in a Harley-Davidson dealership?! Though I whole-heartedly confess that as I’ve aged I’ve mellowed in my disposition, I'm now at the point in life where I find no shame in that. I’m rigid and maybe even uncompromising sometimes, but I can admit to having a very tender soft side. Exposing that soft side is, well, what opens one up to the scorn and the putrescence of critics. For me though, I’ve always found a good deal of satisfaction and humility in describing the events of my life, the thoughts of my psyche and the slue of imperfections that bind me irrespective of how they may be judged and interpreted by others.
To be honest I’m not entirely sure what it was today. Whether fate really conspired a meeting point in time. Whether some neat chemical reaction took place in my head or if my curious imagination embellished the entire event and made it out to be more than it really was. Or maybe it was just the mere presence of bikes that made the ultimate difference. To recognize that a motorcycle is a likely component in the next phase of my life somehow triggered an acceptance that I’m getting older, life is forever changing and it’s about to make another significant change very soon. I simply don’t know. I’m not sure what today was other than exceedingly memorable and I’ll take what I was given for whatever it may be worth. If you ask me if I believe in fate, I’d say, well, I’m a believer that things happen. Fate is what happened.
Living For The City
Today, I bought myself a gym membership. Well, ok, god-for-fucking-bid, I bought a health club membership. And I feel so, so, so…...timid and feminine. So pathetically main-stream healthy. Like the pussyfication of drew is starting from the top down. First he joins a health club, then he enrolls in yoga class and by the end of the week he’ll be eating sterile tofu bean-curd, wheat grass, pressed-flax and bails of agricultural grade hay. I feel so violated.
All else aside, I was starting to suffer from a case of unbelievable endorphin withdrawals so I had to do something. I joined up with a health club in my resident suburb and already, after one work out, I feel renewed. The bull is back in business. I simply can’t envision my life without some form of pure physical exertion. For me, life in the gym or on a road bike or even on foot walking through the streets or in the foothills of the mountains is par excellence. Give me some good tunes and a physical challenge and in it I’ll burry all sorrow. My life has become infinitely more enriched thanks to the mental benefits of weights and exercise and there’s not a passing day I take that for granted.
Working out in a new gym, err health club, always proves to be fascinating. The new guy always gets the customary stares and glares. The machines are all different, they’re in different locations, the water fountain is never easy to spot and holy-shit, everything’s in kilograms down here! Though no two gyms ever seem to be the same, despite their differences there are remarkable similarities between venues of fitness, both home and abroad. Like a well versed theater production, there always seems to be the same cast of characters. Insofar as I’ve experienced, fitness joints always have the same four distinct characters. First off, there’s the happy-go-lucky trainer behind the counter. He’s the one with every answer to every fitness question ever posed in the history of mankind. He’s the one with the fat ear-to-ear bullshit businessman smile. The fitness wolf, if you will. He’s the guy who’ll try everything in his power, irrespective of your true intent, to talk you into a life-long contract membership. A contract that empties your wallet and adds a second mortgage to your house. He’s the unskilled business man of the fitness world. He’ll sell you magic potions and secret training sessions. Anything to get a cut of your cash. He’d sell his own mother if he could. Then there’s the guy who frequents the gym for his nightly social call. For his chit-chat butterfly tea party. He’ll watch sports from the corner-mounted television and talk to anyone who’ll listen. Granted, he may get a set or two in but only after squandering away his entire evening. He’s there for kicks and jollies and though he may seem harmless at first, he’s also the one who’ll have the music turned off and the Yankees game turned up so keep a close eye on this guy. He’s dangerous. Then there’s the case of the guy with the stellar upper body and no legs. He’ll work his upper body region seven days a week, twice on Monday, and he’ll build a beautifully polished physique….. from the waist up. He’ll never do a set for his lower region because, well, that just might hurt. It might hurt and it’s not readily apparent to the opposite sex, which, in his mind, would defeat the entire purpose of frequenting the gym. If you’ve ever paid attention in the gym, you’d know who I’m talking about. All arms and no legs. These guys are easy to spot. They look like a fucking martini glass. Finally, what would we make of the health club atmosphere without the prancing, dancing, hip-swaying, ass-shaking, tease-of-a-woman in her teeny-weeny two-piece sporting a fresh pair of pearly sneakers with a designer bottle of water in hand? You know, the girl that’s so insecure, so deprived of attention and self-worth that by furnishing an outfit so tight and so, well, non-existent, that any man in his right mind would have to acknowledge her presence. And in doing so she stokes the dismal flame that is her self-esteem with that fuel that is nothing more than the frequent hormonal glares and pre-mature hard-ons of strange men. Way to go girl. I have to wonder though, if at any time your self-image hinges primarily on the opinion and erections of strangers, wouldn’t it perhaps be appropriate to seek extensive, and expensive, counseling? Don’t get me wrong. I’m a man. I have a penis. And I have blood in my veins. So I admit they’re great to look at. But maybe these types of women have issues. I don’t know. I could be wrong. 
Outside of the health club I’ve been frequenting the downtown area, vigorously seeking out the vulgarities and delicacies of the city of Melbourne. (Pronounced “Mel-bun” not “Mel-buRn” for future reference if you want to impress your friends.) The city of three and a half million people is beautiful. Certainly more so than I was expecting. Now, I wouldn’t put it up there with my beloved mistresses, Paris or Sevilla, but for a modern-era city it’s beautiful in it’s own right. The city is essentially cut by a river that empties into a bay that pours into the Pacific. Melbourne sits on the bay in a stunning setting of promenades and beaches. And though the bay beaches aren’t the white coral Fijian sands of Malamala island, somehow I’m managing. The city boasts lush botanical gardens, an intricate and truly functional transportation system, plenty of coffee shops and cafes for my routine caffeine adjustments, an excellent street layout and more specialty backpacking stores than I’ve seen in a city yet. And the biggest surprise of Melbourne so far is the food. Unbelievably inexpensive and oh so fresh, this is a hungry mans paradise. Kilos of meat for a fraction of the American price. Fresh pizzas, shark-meat fish and chip stands, whole-roasted charcoal chickens with peri peri, Chinese Szechwan noodles with extra chili and being that I now live with a resident Indian chef, I have now acquired a thang or two for a good curry. Full of cilantro, lemon grass, fresh black pepper and thick cuts of lamb, beef or chicken, oh yeah pal, this is what foodie dreams are made of.
Hard to imagine, especially if you’re back in the soggy-salad bowl of Seattle, but, being that it’s late summer down here, the sun is out in force. How I truly love the sun. I’m thoroughly convinced that blue skies kissed by the sun are the world’s best natural aphrodisiac. Palm trees, back-yard barbeques, domestic Australian shiraz and domestic Australian women certainly foster along the cause, wouldn’t you say…
And to wrap things up, it looks like the kids in the desert shit box are at it again. War is upon us. I’ll keep my personal and moral views about war to myself, but I have to wonder. Seems like everyone wants to go to the party and no one wants to stay and clean up. Once all bombs have been dropped and objectives completed, have fun cleaning up and rebuilding that shit pile of a mess governor Bush. It’s gonna’ be a doozy. A lengthy doozy.
What’s Going On
Fiji was incredible. Sun and humidity that never ever let up. Great local people and an incredible re-introduction to life on the road. I snorkeled, I drank. I sunned my buns and re-established the belief that everything in life is better with sand between your toes. It was a brisk bout of relaxation and after three days I caught a six hour flight out of Nadi, Fiji bound for the great city of Melbourne, Australia.
A welcomed introduction into the land down under, for me, might have been something like “Good’aye mate” or “Cheers mate, welcome to Australia.” That would have been nice, but as I have learned time and time again on the road, expect the unexpected and then once you’ve endured the unexpected, get ready for the real shake down. After filling out the obligatory customs card declaring I had nothing, no food or plant products, no alcohol or cigarettes, no commercial merchandise and no Fijian shit, I walked off the plane, down the ramp and into on-waiting immigration agents. The gave me a once-over, stamped my passport and sent me on my marry way. I collected my pack from baggage claim and queued up for custom inspections. They ran my pack through an x-ray machine and saw something they thought looked like a piece of fruit.
“You declared no food sir. Are you sure you have no fruit with you?” an agent asked.
“Yep. Positive.” I replied.
So the agent decided to open my bag, an easy customary check of my carry-on. He found nothing. No drugs, no weapons and certainly no fruit. But then, he found an item of interest. A book. The autobiography of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, better known as Malcolm X.
“Is this your book?” he asked me.
“Yeah, sure is” I said.
“Would you mind telling me about this book?” he asked.
“It’s a good book” I smiled.
“Are you a student?”
“No.”
“So you’re reading this book for pleasure?”
“Um, yes sir” I answered.
He rifled through the book, reading a few of the passages that I had highlighted and the notes from each I had scribbled in the side margins. Of course, almost everything I had highlighted dealt with radical race and religious issues. Injustices dealt to the black man by the “devil” white man and his christianity throughout the course of history. Pretty uncomfortable material to someone with a low tolerance for that kind of literary spice.
“Would you mind telling me why certain passages in this book are highlighted?” he asked.
And it was at that point I should have been the bigger man and politely grinned, politely beared it, expressed some element of professional restraint and casually given the officer an intelligent response, but for some reason, I didn’t. I was tired. I was hungry. I was a bit defensive about the critique of my book and I really wasn’t feeling all that good.
“Since when is engaging in historic study a crime?” I asked. “So I highlight. So I write in the margins…..”
“Ok mate, why don’t you come with me please” he piped.
And so, my first hour and a half on Australian turf was spent talking with agents and various security personnel with my bags dumped empty, searched and completely dissected. They searched through every item I had with me, checked my ticket and passport, and drilled me with questions. “Where are you from? What are you doing here? How long are you staying? Where are you staying? Who are you staying with? How much cash do you have with you? What are you doing in Australia? Why are you reading this book? Why are these particular passages highlighted?” My god. At first I felt like I was drunk. Then I felt like I was on trial. The irony of all of it. To think that I, a white yank sporting the typical muslim attire of an Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt, a low-riding pair of jean shorts, a pair of Vans sneakers and enough hair product to mold Don King was being questioned on account of my possible religious zeal. Ironic because the day I vouch for any religion, be it islam, christianity or otherwise, is the same day I vouch for the bee-gees, pour red wine down a storm drain, eat carrots, give up swearing, acquire vegan eating habits, buy a Honda Civic, move to North Dakota and tattoo a caricature of Margaret Thatcher in a thong to my knob alright?! Drew with staunch religious ties? Get the fuck outta’ here. My individual spirituality is way too important for that kind of weak shit. At the end of the day, after they had established I had no drugs, no weapons, no plants, no seeds, no food, no fruit and no wild intentions, they let me go with a smile. I apologized and all was forgotten.
“Welcome to Australia” he laughed.
“Thanks, mate” I said.
Since my interesting introduction to the land down under I’ve been able to settle in nicely. I spent my first few days relieving myself of the last spell of my irritating Fijian cuisine and after a few nasty sessions of liquid exit, I feel like a brand new man. In many respects, I guess I am. I’m now living in a new country, a new city, I have new roommates, the currency is oddly new to me, the beers are original and shit, the wine down here is so cheap. For the first time on the road I now have an official address. My new home is East Bentleigh. A middle class suburb located about fifteen minutes south of downtown Melbourne just north of the Pacific Ocean. The weather is a balmy 95 degrees (being that it’s late summer down here) I got a nice cold beer and I’m surrounded by a great group of Aussies, (the identities of which will slowly emerge on this site.) But for now, it’s all about finding my niche of routine. It’s time to learn the delicate intricacies of Aussie-rules football, rugby, cricket and Australian women. There’s a gym down the street. A pub and fish & chips stand across the way. A wild array of coffee shops perfect for a morning session of ink. A barbecue in the backyard. The great metropolitan city of Melbourne awaits my lusty gaze and how could I ever forget the beach just down the way? And then, there’s the entire rest of Australia. Cheers.
Sweet Sweat
Welcome to Fiji, where the air is as moist as pure moisture.
Upon stepping off the plane I felt like I was hit in the face by a giant wet pizza oven. Like I had just walked into the reptile house at the local zoo. You could eat the air with a fork here, hell, probably even with a pair of chopsticks. So I'm adjusting.
I checked myself into this dodgy-as-fuck hold up of backpackers. It's full of the typical Aussies and Kiwis, littered with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, testament to a good time had. Eminem plays on the radio. The walls are stained with something fluid in nature, I'm left wondering what. There's no air conditioning, no maid service, no room service, no balcony or anything else even remotely posh. This place is border-line dump and yes, I'm loving it already. To be back on the road is an unbelievable rush of emotion. To be on the road rivals almost all other forms of human pleasure. To me, to do anything else at this point in my life would be nuts. The road is like an enduring climactic orgasm for the soul.
Wander this World
Pack your shit drew, you’re going away.
Tonight as the city begins its hustle and bustle of the Saturday night, I leave the big L.A. behind in a plume of jet exhaust as I catch an over-night flight to Fiji. I’m perplexed and left in a mild mental fog as to where the time has gone. It really seems as though the time continuum has been violated. I mean, I just got here! Yesterday it seems I was boarding my flight to L.A. and now I’m leaving? An indicator of the good times I’ve had here? Very Likely. Which, if the movement of life through time is accelerated by good times, would lead me to believe that the last year of my life has been nothing short of epic. Finishing up work at the law firm, romping around the Old World for six months, returning home for a brief yet brilliant reunion with family, friends, college pals, my beloved gym and the fragrance and feel of my own sheets. Then it was off to Los Angeles and now, Fiji and Australia. I’m not taking any of this for granted. Not a single moment. Not a breath.
At times I’m scared. Perpetually frightened at the nakedness and newness of it all. The vulnerability. The unknown. But I realize, as I often do, having to remind myself every now and again, that life at its best is often a mixture of fear and excitement. Which may be what drove me to travel in the first place. Travel brings me fear, it brings me excitement and it provides me with a dose of fright and reality. Thus far it has done wonders to topple my naivety and break apart the ties of woeful ignorance that binds me.
Then there are times of blissful jubilee. When all the wanton newness is just plain cool. When my confidence and ambivalence completely override whatever fear-wrought feelings I may have. As if the emotional pendulum has swung full circle, or half circle, from scared to brimming with self-assurance. Right now, I’m probably somewhere in between the two. Jittery, mildly apprehensive and convinced that compelling quintessence is around the bend.
Crumb Theory
“A dizzying array of suburban sameness paired with a Latin side dish, a splash of yup and garnished with a sun-kissed and cool sky.” This is Orange County California. Not quite Los Angeles, not Fiji, and certainly not Australia. But for the course of the next week it’s my official home. I’m the lucky, and very appreciative, guest of my web designer and his lovely wife. Somehow, they agreed to be gracious hosts for the week and let me share in a slice of their eclectic Orange county lives. So, we’ve raced RC cars, played canasta, stolen donuts, cooked homemade Italian, cleaned up dog piss and caught up on the past. Isn’t life grand?
So what is my impression of this place? Well, all of this Orange countyness reminds me of some very appropriate Bugs Bunny wisdom. “It’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live here.” That pretty much sums up the whole of sprawling LA for me. Then again, I live in Seattle, that temperate temple of rotten weather, bad traffic and cynical clinical depressants full of coffee. Yeah, I’m thinking it’s time to put myself in the market for a new home. And speaking of Seattle, I now have a new favorite website – www.seattlesucks.com
Genius. Pure genius.
Frisée aux Lardons
Time to fly. As I anxiously coup with this fleeting moment hours before flight time, I have a sense of revelry, of enthusiasm, of blissful happiness and melancholy dementia that accompanies one when they leave everything behind. And though I’m overwhelmed with positive, exciting emotions, l feel the urge to cry. A serene cry. That’s really all I long for. What has brought on all these emotions I’m not quite sure. Perhaps a number of reasons but in essence, I’ve really come to acknowledge the support cast of family and friends that I have. They leave me speechless at every turn, eternally grateful for their presence in my life and aching with a heart full of something I just can’t put my finger on. It aches for all the blissful memories they have given me. The joy and fulfillment my life without them would not boast. I’m certain you all know who you are, and if not don't worry, one day you will. I love you.
Now if you’ll excuse, my chariot awaits.
Drawing Flies
One week from today and a flight leaves for the southland of southern California. I fully plan on making it. After all, I only go around once. I’ve found in preparing for this trip that traveling this time around is different. Things are different. I’m different. So naturally I shouldn’t be surprised that this bout is not likely to be like my last experience through Europe. Those nervous pre-departure days of heartburn and anxious nights are gone, replaced by an inexorable feeling of excitement that in seven short days everything is going to change, and when it does, I’ll be ready. My fanatical days of packing, unpacking and re-packing are behind me. Instead, lessons gleaned from the road previous will allow a precise pack of the bag in a few minutes the first time around. And the greatest difference I’ve taken note of is that I’m disembarking this time around with a much greater appreciation for travel and a better understanding of what traveling entails. I’m more intimate with how to travel and how not to. I’ve come to acknowledge that travel is a metaphor for life. Travel shares the same momentary context that life does. The ups and downs, the thrill and excitement, fear, compassion, adventure, wistful sadness, fresh knowledge, friendships, and in the end both a greater sense of who you are, and who you aren’t. These are likely to surface again this trip. And if I discovered anything, it's that perfection of context, both on the road and in life, sneaks up on you and is as much about environment, attitude, companionship, and the background music as it is about the destination. You can seek it out and look far and wide but you simply can’t forge context. Who knows what background music waits around the bend.
Tommy D
I know that if sit here and stare, waiting for my inner muse to arrive with his pan flute of inspiration, I’m not likely to get any writing done. Precisely the reason I’m forcing my ink. I don’t feel compelled to write today. Not at all. I’d rather just lay here. Play a round or two of free cell on my lap top or read a chapter and a half out of a book. Go for a walk around the lake by my house, practice guitar chords or maybe throw in a dvd like GoodFellas and grab a beer out of the fridge stock. I can think of few better ways to spend an afternoon than to watch a classic mob movie headlined by guys like Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro. “What do you mean I’m funny? You mean the way I talk? What? Funny how? What’s funny about it? Whatcha’ say? Funny how? Like I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m here to fucking amuse you!? What do you mean funny? How am I funny? What the fuck is so funny about me? How the fuck am I funny? What’s so funny about me? Tell me what’s funny.” Try using that line at your next dinner party. Classic.
Unrelated to the high-dollar high-risk glam life of the mafia is, well, my life. I love my life. It’s sweet, fulfilling, radical and all those other cool things. Yet still, deep-down, I truly find the mafia lifestyle appealing, almost seductive. The food, the fashion. The connections. The kisses on the cheek. The cigars. The risks. The money and power. No nine to five bullshit. The sheer allure of it all. The ultimate perk is the brotherhood. The camaraderie. The fact you’re a part of something. Sure, every now and then you might have to whack some wise guy who got out of line or wind up in the pen after getting ‘pinched’ but what job doesn’t have its perils? It may sound crazy but I know myself well enough to recognize that had I grown up with a mafia front like a cab stand or an Italian ristorante or trattoria across the street, and had I been any part Italian (which I’m not), I would have fallen into that life in a second. In a heart beat. In half a heart beat. I wouldn’t have even had to think about it.
“For us to live any other way was nuts. To us those goody-good people who worked shitty jobs for bum paychecks and took the subway to work and worried about bills, were dead. They were suckers. They had no balls. If we wanted something we just took it. If anyone complained twice, they got hit so bad they never complained again. It was all just routine. You didn’t even think about it.” I guess life within the criminal underground mafia is a trade off. Your life is intense; the most thrills per waking hour, never a dull moment, but with that lifestyle comes a slue of shit and corruption like jail time and, well, the off chance of being whacked. Kinda’ like you get the quality of life, but only for a short time, oh, and there are no guaranties.
That’s enough wet-dream fantasizing for one day.
As the seasons change the adventure continues. My internal tanks of angst were beginning to spill over so I figured time was ripe to hit the road again. I bought my tickets yesterday. I’ll be looking for that elusive context, unruly, maybe even brutish, adventure, and maybe even some peace of mind. Peace of mind that lasts. Fifteen days from now I’ll be headed to Los Angeles. That stagnant, stale-aired utopia of non-smokers and earth-muffiny vegans. Just my kind of company. After eight days in southern California I’m headed to some island called Fiji, where as my luck has it, they have kava by the cupful and lots of ocean front real estate. I can already feel addiction taking hold. Finally, my true adventure begins when I touch down in Melbourne Australia. My new home for the next, well, the next long while. What follows is really anyone’s guess. Drew’s untimely death in the jaws of a giant croc? Drew hospitalized with the world’s first documented case of pathogenic Vegemite candida infection of the mouth? Drew crippled in boomerang accident? Not likely, or so I hope. I’m guessing something along the lines of a beach-side barbeque with sand between my toes and a beer in my paw.
The reality that I’m leaving has yet to sink in. The excitement that is, really hasn’t caught on. Maybe I’m a little slow. Retarded-like you know. I get that way sometimes. In the mean time, I’ve got some prep work. My travel mise-en-place is still lacking a guide book, shoes and a few other miscellaneous items of importance. Speaking of which, I haven’t even begun my good-byes.