Travel Biography – Page 7 – Sandy Barker

Perspectives

October 14, 2008October 14, 2008sandybarker

When you stand at the edge of a cliff and peer over, looking down nearly a kilometre to the valley floor, you feel a flood of emotion – perhaps exhilaration, maybe awe, even terror. You needn’t choose, because all of these emotions can exist simultaneously. You may even feel powerful, omniscient, as though you oversee all you survey.

When you sidle up to the roots of a fallen Redwood, however, you feel tiny, because at its feet you ARE tiny. But if you’re very still and you listen closely, you can hear the whisperings of an ancient giant who lived through epochs.

I have said before that for me, travelling is about gaining and changing perspectives. Why go anywhere if vicariously living through the window of my television is as fulfilling as actually being there? Because it is not. Imagination and longing, seeing through someone else’s eyes, well, they’re just not the same as actually going myself. In Australia, we watch Getaway and The Great Outdoors mentally adding places and experiences to our ‘to go’ and ‘to do’ lists. Yet, it is when we venture from home – on a day trip, a road trip, or a world trip – when we go somewhere else, that we invite a shift in perspective.

I just spent the better part of a week ‘somewhere else’ – two places where I had never been before: Yosemite National Park and Lake Tahoe. I went with Ben, and I have to thank him for taking me, and for being my ever intrepid travelling companion. It is such a joy to travel with him, not only because he is my best friend and I kinda like having him around. But also because I take as much pleasure in seeing his reaction to places as I do in experiencing my own.

And Yosemite in particular is a place where reactions are just as epic as the place.

I won’t bore you with details of how we got there or where we stayed, just know this: The journey to the park took most of a day, but was a drive through vast and beautiful scenery and small, inconspicuous towns. The place we stayed was a Bed and Breakfast with a giant feather bed, and waffles in the mornings (yum). It offered a stunning view of the nearby mountains, and thoughtfully provided Adirondack (a word I love, but struggle to say) chairs on the deck, from which we watched the sunset while sipping wine and nibbling cheese. The driving and the staying were a big part of our trip, but the real star of the show was Yosemite itself.

We took great advice and on the first of our two full days, we started at the top. A road deep in the heart of the park, Glacier Point Road, leads to two spectacular lookouts, and the start of many hiking trails. Entering the park from the southern most entry, we wound up and up to the start of GP Road. Not far from the turn off we found ourselves on a rare straightway, and rarer still we were the only car in sight for a mile or two. Just ahead of us were three young bucks standing on the road. As we approached, they skittered away, but were curious enough about us to stay close by and watch us as we slowed up and watched them from the car. I looked in the rear view mirror to see a line of cars approaching and our moment was over, but for the minute or so we regarded them and they regarded us, the forest was still, and so were we. We were in the presence of great beauty. Oh, their eyes!

Further along the road we came to Washburn Point Lookout, and this was where I ran out of superlatives. I had been exclaiming “Oh my God”, and “Stunning”, and “Look at that!” for the better part of a day, but nothing had prepared me for the views from this lookout. We looked out at peaks named Half Dome, Grizzly Peak and Washington Column.

These mountains, these valleys, they were formed and shaped by a glacier. Like driftwood they are convoluted and erratic, yet smoothed and polished by the touches of wind, ice and water, over centuries. They have grey bald heads and thick carpets of gowns that stretch to the valley floor. That day the sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at it. Oh yes, Yosemite was putting on a grand show.

We drove further to the end of GP Road, and came to a hub of activity. The dozens of people at Washburn Point exploded into hundreds at Glacier Point itself. There was a gift shop(!) and we dodged inappropriately attired tourists wearing thongs (flipflops) and tight jeans. We jockeyed into positions at the lookout walls, and peered over – Ben with confidence and awe, and me with terror and awe. A tiny heart-shaped car park sat nestled amongst trees.

And the river was a grey-blue snake rolling along the valley floor.

We maneuvered through throngs of grumpy children and cajoling parents, and decided against the 4 mile hike to the valley floor, because the estimated time to get back up was four hours.

Back in the car, we drove instead to the head of the Taft Point Trail. This lead us through a ferny gully

and musty woodlands, where we saw more deer, and we emerged at a rocky vantage point (Taft Point to be precise). In the distance was a spindly guard rail, but Ben does not consider a sheer drop to a valley floor as imminently dangerous; in his mind he does not need the safety of a guard rail. As I watched in horror, he crept closer and closer to the edge, and then perched on it as one might perch on a park bench if one was going to feed bread to some pigeons.

I walked away before I had a heart attack, and went to find cool things to photograph.

Sometime later with some coaxing and a vigorous internal dialogue, I got within a couple of feet of the grossly inadequate guard rail and peered into the abyss. It made me hyperventilate, but I did it. And yes, it was an amazing view – for the three seconds I saw it. Did I feel all powerful? No. I could not stop the floodgate of thoughts about falling and suicide and why B.A.S.E. jumpers are so stupid. But I loved the brilliance of the blue sky, and from up there my view of it was uninterrupted. I loved my brief encounter with the crow, whose wings I heard flap before he settled in the bare branches above my head. “Whump,” his wings whispered, then the cawing of that distinctive “AAArkkkk” echoed out across the valley.

A few more people came – not many – and we looked like colourful beetles dotting the giant bald head of the peak (and Taft Point is just a ‘blip’ when you see it on the map – a pimple when compared to El Capitan).

That afternoon, after a lunch of nuts, dried fruit and apples (a lunch we would not repeat again, as we are not chipmunks and it did not fill the void), we waited in line to catch the shuttle to Mariposa Grove, one of three groves of giant sequoias in Yosemite. The shuttle was necessitated by the copious amount of cars already up at the grove; the road was shut to more cars, and this wasn’t even peak season. We squished onto the bus, fitting more people on than I would have believed beforehand. I even asked the driver if I could sit on his lap. A flirtatious septuagenarian replied that of course I could! I thought this might be even more dangerous, so instead I was crushed into the dashboard by the four Polish people who insisted there was enough room on the bus for them too.

The ride was short, however, and before long, we were standing amongst giants.

Ahhh. The air was so rich with intoxicating smells, we could almost pluck them like berries from a bush. Redwoods smell a bit like pine trees, only deeper, and more ‘heady’. Under that was the earthy mustiness from the wet forest floor, and the top note was smoky. There had been a prescribed burn not long before, and fallen sequoias were still smoldering.

We followed the small crowd, seeking out the path that would take us to Grizzly Giant, a 2700-year-old tree, who is 31 feet across at his base.

I say ‘he’ because when we finally saw him, he was like a gruff, but loving grandpa. Tall, obviously, but unlike many of the trees around him, his branches reached out. The usual tufts of green that seem to cling directly to the trunks of most redwoods, were extended on thick muscly arms. He was definitely the patriarch of the forest. We took photographs and got as close as we could – his base is protected by the wide girth of a fence.

The walk back to the shuttle bus was quieter, as most people had pressed on further into the forest to see more redwoods. We walked back past the Bachelor and his three lady friends, and on to the part of the forest where the burning had blackened the ground.

Fallen trunks cut into sections, lay like giant pieces of licorice. Smoke drifted up from thicker trunks, and in the late afternoon sun, the smoke became another character in the forest. The air here was as thick as the trunks, and I was torn between enjoying the smell of wood burning and wanting to breathe.

Just before we emerged from wooded paths into the car park, we stopped at the roots of a fallen tree, and took a couple of photos. How little I was in relation to a being that was old even when Jesus was born.

But I didn’t feel small. I felt happy. I loved my first day in the park, and we drove back to our B+B, tired but filled with all we had seen, we looked forward to the next day when we would explore the valley floor by bicycle and by foot. The park ranger in the Yogi Bear hat waved us out of the park.

Later that evening, we would dine on (delicious) sushi in a nearby town, and watch Juno on dvd, but although we had a lovely evening, these are details are inconsequential when we’d had such an epic day…

Next time ‘The Valley Floor’, featuring bikes and hikes, squirrels, a bobcat, waterfalls and dry lakes, El Capitan, and a blue, blue sky.

Block head

October 4, 2008October 10, 2008sandybarker

My brain is starting to work in a whole new way; I think I am actually accessing brain cells that have been hibernating for the past 39 years. I am now calculating distances by blocks.

Formerly, I used minutes, as in “It’s about 10 to 12 minutes away,” or kilometres, “Oh, about 5 k’s from here.” But in Seattle it is all about the blocks, because Seattle is on a grid pattern. Ben’s apartment, soon to be my home too, is on West Republican (even though I am not one).

From here, it is 3 blocks to the supermarket, 4 blocks to the post office and a cinema, 4 blocks to the gym (other direction), and 6 blocks to our favourite Asian restaurant and the expensive supermarket with the great wine selection.

Blocks do convert to time and distance though, because 12 blocks is approximately one mile, but of course I work in kilometres, so as I walk these blocks I start doing the conversions in my head. “6 blocks is half a mile and a mile is 1.6 k’s, so 6 blocks is .8 k’s and subsequently, 8 to 10 minutes away – at a steady walking pace.” Ben’s work is about 14 blocks away, so 2 k’s and a good 20 minute walk. Got that?

Last night after work, Ben walked further into the city to buy something, and because he is not well, I offered to pick him up (granted, in his car). This is where the whole block thing gets really useful. Driving in Seattle is easy. Downtown is rampant with one-way streets, but unlike Sydney and Perth and even Vancouver, every other street goes the opposite way. In Sydney, if you need to get to somewhere, you may need to drive 8 or 10 blocks out of your way and then cut back. I call that ‘being stuck in one-way hell’. Here, the most you have to overshoot is one block. Max. Now, that’s thinking.

I use blocks for running too. 6 blocks from here, on Queen Anne Avenue, is the steepest hill I have seen since San Francisco. And it is 14 blocks from the flat to the top. 2 kilometres! Oh, yes, that is a punishing hill. I walked it the other day – then ran it – in chunks – a few blocks at a time. Doubtful if I will ever run the whole thing all at once. I am not THAT much of a blockhead.

Compelled

October 2, 2008October 2, 2008sandybarker

I never do this – post twice in one day – but the first of today’s posts I started last night, and I have just read something that compels me to write again.

Charlotte Otter is a South African woman living in Germany, and she write Charlotte’s Web, which is on my blogroll (check it out – she is lovely and clever). Charlotte, too, is a writer, and in a recent entry she posted a few paragraphs from her novel. Her heroine, Sanet, is a South African woman living in London. She feels displaced, as is understandable when not living in your home country, but there is more to her feeling than that.

Charlotte writes this about her heroine:

What is becoming clear to me is that if you are alienated from yourself, you are alienated from everything, and that will become the core of Sanet’s crisis: she will be offered the opportunity to be true to herself. The question is, will she take it up?

That is the statement that resonated so deeply with me.

Two years ago I was so completely unhappy in my own life. I had moments I enjoyed, I laughed enough that many people would not have really known this about me, but I felt like I was living someone else’s life. When you live that inauthentically, you cannot access any kind of inner peace. As a result, I discovered that I didn’t really like this person that I was. I isolated myself frequently, and not out of the need for ‘alone time’ that I have now, but to prevent others from having to put up with me. I became increasingly disagreeable, sullen, and felt a deep sense of loneliness – even when amongst friends.

I got to a point where I knew things had to change.

Then I went on a trip. A long trip. Across the world to two other continents. Greece-London-Peru and back home. The trip provided so many catalysts for change that my head was spinning by the time I got back home.

It literally changed my life.

I met people who loved life. I met Sheila and Deb and Geraldine.

Sheila is sixty-something, and gorgeous. I met her and her equally lovely twin Sharon, in Peru. Sheila has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, a love of adventure and am unwillingness to succumb to nay-saying. Sheila broke open my heart. She saw through the cracks and just stuck her hands in and pulled apart that hard casing. Then she encouraged me to pursue the impossible.

Deb, who I met with her husband Marty onboard the yacht in Greece, is smart, and career-minded. She knows what she wants and because of this, she has the life that she wants to live. She does all this with a broad smile and a hearty sense of fun. She and Marty have a sexy, joyful marriage. When I met them, I knew that it was entirely possible to have what I truly wanted.

Geraldine, our guide in Peru, is the most pure-hearted and kind person I have ever met. Her gentleness and kindness humbled me. When I was sicker than I have ever been before, she looked after me rather than visiting her own family, whom she hadn’t seen in months. Her selflessness made me want to stop being such a selfish, moody cow.

And then there was the cute American guy who stood on the dock of Tinos and said, “I want my life to be bigger.” I thought, ‘Me too’, and I wondered at that early moment in my big trip if I would have the courage to do anything about it.

I had no idea then that we would embark on parallel – and more frequently, converging – journeys that would bring those wants to fruition. And at that early moment in my big, life-changing trip, I had certainly had no idea that I could actually meet someone, a man, whose wants and dreams and goals would compliment mine, and challenge me to live that ‘bigger life’. I was, however, starting to see glimpses of my authentic self.

I met many others on my trips and visits and they all added something unique to my shift in perspective. Jaime and Paul, from Halifax, never want to miss an opportunity. Lara from Vancouver lives with such beautiful hope in her heart. Patrick from New Zealand and Liliane the Brazilian, crossed oceans and cultures to create a life together. And on that trip, I got to see my Little Sis in her natural habitat, London. (It is ‘home’ for her, even more so now that she is loved up.)

I had left home in want of something. Then I had gone around the world (literally), succumbed to illness twice, laughed until I couldn’t breathe, and cried as I said goodbye to new friends and my oldest friend, Vic. I saw lots, I did stuff, and I collected souvenirs from my travels, but the most important thing I brought home from that trip was my authentic self.

I made big changes after that, and some of those changes were painful because they involved breakups with people close to me. Mostly the changes were about shedding heavy burdens, such as obligation, fastidiousness, isolation, and a couple of unwanted kilos. I reconnected with those I had neglected, I moved house, I booked more trips and I took on more responsibility at work, all in the space of months. I took care with the new friendships I had forged, and apologised to those people who had endured my ‘funk’. I learned (again) to appreciate all that I had, especially the incredible people I call family and friends.

The tattoo of a butterfly adorning my lower stomach took on more meaning, as I emerged from my chrysalis and felt truly happy.

I still try to honour my authentic self. Big decisions, and even some small ones, are about the inner peace that comes along with serving that goal. Sure, I have had moments of doubt and sadness, and even fear. But never again will I let myself shelve what I truly want. I want to live a big life, and that’s what I am doing.

Third Date

October 2, 2008October 2, 2008sandybarker

I have been very candid about my month-long love affair with Seattle dating back to January of this year. We had a rocky start, though. It was a Seattle rain storm that took from me a favourite hat and an umbrella, but we soon made up and I embarked on a whirlwind romance with the city. I loved its restaurants and vistas, its culture and its people. I was smitten.

We had a brief fling in April – 6 days of five-star luxury while Ben attended a conference. We flirted, Seattle and I. I dressed pretty, I let the sunny days kiss my nose, and we drank each other in. Brief, yet passionate.

Now I am back, and this visit is a little like a third date. Now I know I am moving here, Seattle is starting to let its guard down, and I am seeing sides of it I haven’t seen before. Some are delicious, like the nooks and crannies of the Pike Place markets, where Ben and I bought aromatic oils and spices the other day, and some a little too revealing this early into our relationship.

I went for a run yesterday, and waited patiently for the pedestrian signal to change from red to green. The roads are wide thoroughfares – 6 lanes – so this took a while. I didn’t mind. It was a sunny day and I was in Seattle, working out new running routes for when I move here. I eventually crossed and started running at a warm-up pace. I got about two blocks before signs indicated that the ‘sidewalk’ (I read American) was closed and I would have to cross to the other side. SIGH. I hit the signal button, then waited, and waited, and waited. The light did inevitably turn green, and a couple dozen cars waited impatiently – or patiently – I couldn’t really tell as I jogged across the street. Of course, now I was back on the wrong side. And I was in ‘Butt-crack America’.

This is my affectionate term for those parts of the states – here in Seattle, or anywhere – that do not exactly show the country off at its best. That stretch of road, just three blocks from home, with its cracked pavements and warehouses, its homeless wanderers and youthful loiterers, is almost certainly the butt-crack of Seattle. I kept looking ahead to see where the pedestrian bridge Ben had promised was.

Like a beacon in the distance it stood proud and beautifully constructed, unaware that it was in the midst of decay and mess. I hit my third little round button of the day, and waited, and waited, and waited. “Oh, come the F@*k on!” I was losing patience. So far my run had consisted of two sprints and a lot of waiting. FINALLY the light turned. I headed up and over the bridge which traverses the railroad tracks, and started my ‘run proper’.

It is hard to marry the waterfront parkland with the street parallel, because they couldn’t be more different. On the other side of the bridge are tracks for pedestrians and cyclists, lush green grass, and park benches. On clear days you can see across Puget Sound to the Olympic mountain range in the west. The frightfully large seagulls of the northwest, duck and weave along the shoreline, and fishermen lazily dangle their lines in the water.

Once I actually started running along the waterfront, my tetchiness eased and I hit my rhythm. The air was salty and clean, and the sun hot on my shoulders. I glanced at the scattered few who were lying on the grass and soaking up the late-season sun. They had the distinctive look of ‘locals’ – comfortable enough in their environs to casually lounge around in public. I wondered when I will start to feel like that, but this being only my third date with Seattle, that is a little way off yet.

I hit a natural ‘turn-around’ point, and started running back towards the footbridge. I had already decided to overshoot it and find another way home. I knew that if I kept running and passed the apartment, I would get to another crossover closer to downtown.

Running back towards the city lends a spectacular view. The skyline has its distinctive icons, but there is so much I have yet to explore I wandered with my eyes, taking in as much as possible. I am starting to place myself within this city. I am learning street names, shortcuts and landmarks.

Just before the crossover to the other side of the tracks, there is an outdoor sculpture gallery. It is a favourite spot in Seattle, because it is a junction of sorts. The waterfront, downtown and our neighbourhood converge there. It is 5 minutes from the apartment, 5 minutes from Ben’s work, and right on the waterfront, where cafes and storefronts jut out over the water. Oh, and the sculptures are kind of cool too.

Not long afterwards, I made it back to the apartment with the sense of satisfaction I have after a long run, but also with something else. I am getting to know this city, much in the same way I got to know Sydney when I first moved there and discovered its many delights and frustrations.

At the moment I straddle two cities. I curse the Sydney traffic as I crawl along each afternoon, and think about living in a city where traffic is much lighter, and ostensibly we will likely live without a car. However, I know I will miss the coastal walk between Coogee and Bondi beaches, because there are few views in the world more beautiful. I will enjoy living in a city where there are literally 100 restaurants serving the cuisines of the world, but am mindful that the minor frustrations will reveal themselves soon enough.

No place is perfect to live in, but there is always more to learn about, more to appreciate and more to love. I think I am ready to ‘go all the way’ with Seattle.

P.S. Check out Ben’s FLICKR page for some more recent shots, including views from our roof.

Spring has sprung

September 1, 2008September 6, 2008sandybarker

Today is the first day of spring. And in Sydney, spring is my favourite time of the year.

Dark mornings of drizzle give way to pink and orange sunrises, and the midday sky turns a vibrant blue. The air smells fresh, like grandma’s house when she throws open the windows and gives it a good airing. And in spring, I forget about all those winter afternoons I arrived home after dark to a cold house.

I fell in love with Sydney in spring. I had come here for the Olympics. I was a volunteer, so spent several weeks dressed in daggy chinos and a hideous, over-sized polo shirt with bright yellow sleeves. Nevertheless, it was easy to forget how ridiculous I looked in my white straw hat and bright blue bum bag, because the city of Sydney put on a bloody good show.

Each day was perfect. 28 (82) degrees, a light breeze and the aforementioned blue skies. Every day! It was as though the organisers had placed their order for optimum weather, and nature had delivered.

I was utterly seduced by Sydney in the spring of 2000.

I flew back to Perth post-Olympics and announced to anyone who cared (and some who didn’t) that I was moving to Sydney. Three months later, I lived here. I arrived on the 30th of December, because I liked the symbolism of seeing in the new year in my new city.

But here in my new city, in the middle of summer, reality bit – hard! Gone were the blue skies, and the gentle breezes. Gone were days of 28 perfect degrees, and in their place were the brooding, heavy skies of the Sydney summer. I had been duped.

You see in my hometown, Perth, summers are my favourite time of the year. The days are hot, yes, but the skies are clear, and the heat is dry. I love summer in Perth, but when I tasted spring in Sydney, and expected more of the same only hotter, I was being naive.

No, the summers in Sydney are grey-skied and humid. Sticky, hot days are threatened by low-hanging thunder clouds. And just when the air gets so dense you can feel it pushing down on you, it pours: fat, hot drops of angry rain that make the streets steam and the air smell like grease.

And indulge me for a moment while I mention my hair. A Sydney summer is the natural enemy of naturally curly hair. Mine grows so big in a Sydney summer, it needs its own postcode. Honestly, if I had wanted to live in the tropics, I would have moved to Queensland.

So, how do I cope with this abomination of summer?

I leave.

Ever since that first summer, I have actively avoided being in Sydney from late December to the start of February, which is fortuitous, because that is when school breaks for summer holidays. I cannot really see my principal being sympathetic to tales of woe about my afro. “But I simply cannot stay. You see, it is summer, and I cannot deal with that many bad hair days in a row.”

Summer is no fun when you look like Donna Summer.

I have spent many of those summers back in Perth. Ahhh, Perth. Perth is where summer was born, raised, and will never die. The beaches are powdery white, and the surfers deeply tanned. The air is briny, and the sky is so brilliantly blue, it is almost iridescent.

Stunning!

So, why has a girl so in love with summer agreed to live in Seattle? Isn’t Seattle the home of, well, rain? And isn’t rain the opposite of summer? Ah, yes, these are all valid questions. But you see, Seattle hides a secret. I does not actually rain there nine months of the year as often reported. It is more like eight months, but those other four…sigh…are beautiful.

See?

So, when I move there in late December (that whole ‘new year – new city’ thing), I will take my umbrellas (plural, ’cause you never know when one will be sucked into traffic by a gust of wind), and I will look forward to the Seattle summer of ’09. I am promised blue skies, gentle breezes, and about 28 degrees. Sound familiar?

Red Tape and Pure Hope

July 25, 2008sandybarker

I cried at work today.

I hate crying at work. It is worse than crying in front of strangers, and is perhaps exacerbated by the fact that I am a teacher. Kids are sweet and curious creatures, and little distresses them more than a teacher in distress. So, when I showed up for afternoon sport with my tear-stained face and red eyes, concerned students lined up to ask if I was okay. Two even did the ‘Friday Feeling’ dance to cheer me up (this involves a very dorky hip wiggle and some equally dorky arm waving – it makes them laugh, at me, when I do it each Friday). It didn’t work. It just made me cry more.

You see, I heard from the U.S. government today.

They received my application for a green card (good). It is in the queue to receive a green card (pretty good). They are currently processing green card applications prior to March 2002. No, that is not a typo. And yes, that means there is a 6 and a 1/2 year wait list (not good at all).

Suddenly, all the plans that Ben and I are making, including where we will live, seemed to flush themselves down a giant toilet. All I could think was ‘my friends go home to their significant others every night, and I don’t’. The weight of that feeling crashed down on me as I imagined another year or two or three of this long distance arrangement.

I called Ben. He responded as someone does when they are side-swiped. That was 8 hours ago.

Since then I have spoken with my mother (the American – not that the Americans seem to care much about that VERY close family connection) thrice, and she has sent a couple of strongly-worded emails to the American government. I am pretty sure these will not make ANY difference, but I think they made her feel better.

I have also spoken to hopeful friends, and helpful friends (and in times like these, hopeful and helpful are equally welcome). And I got a lovely email from my bestest friend (yes, Ben) also telling me to stay hopeful.

With all this hope and support keeping me buoyant (not to mention two glasses of a very nice Barossa Valley Shiraz), I have searched through website after website trawling for ways to circumnavigate the machinations of a slowly turning government agency. I think I have found my answer.

The E-3 visa is a new kid on the block, and is open only to Australians who have a university degree, AND who have a job offer in the U.S. I have two out of three, so all I need now is someone stateside to take a chance on an Aussie girl who is bright, hard-working, resourceful, and creative. Oh, and the biggest plus: the E-3 takes about 2 days to secure an interview, and about 30 days to process.

So, now I (hopefully) line up interviews for my September/October visit to Seattle. Then, (hopefully) I will find an employer who sees the benefits of hiring a brilliant Aussie woman, who just happens to have some red tape stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Window seat

July 7, 2008July 9, 2008sandybarker

I am not a window seat kind of a girl.

I say this metaphorically, and literally.

In life, I do not like to sit by the window and watch. I like to get out there in it, and invariably I end up a bit mucky for my efforts. But this is my preference. I actually feel for the ‘watchers’, those people who say stuff like, “I wish I could do that” or “If only I had [insert attribute or asset here], I would be happy”. I much prefer being an active participant in life, and sometimes I get injured or have a set back, but I often feel great joy.

I am not a window seat kind of a girl on a plane either. I prefer the aisle – the aisle affords me freedom.

Two days ago, I flew from east to west to visit my family and friends. Still at the terminal, I sat in my aisle seat patiently waiting for those who would be seated next to me. They didn’t come. As the plane pulled back, I realised I had three airline seats to myself, a rare pleasure.

I stayed in the aisle seat for about as long as it took for the young family across the aisle to make more noise than young families should in a confined space. I moved to the window seat, and stretched my legs across the other two. I had appropriated 2 pillows from the overhead locker above my head, so I was as comfortable as a person can be in coach.

My ‘special meal’ came 30 minutes before the meal service started, and I watched a film I had wanted to see for some time. Does airline travel get any better than this? (Well, yes, if you’re Ben who gets upgraded every time he flies, just for showing up.)

I even had a nap. For forty-five minutes!

When we started to make our descent, I lifted the window shade I had lowered for my movie viewing. The sun streamed in, as although it would be raining on landing, we were above the cloud line. We descended through the clouds and I watched as the earth emerged through the wisps of white.

I rarely see this type of view, because I almost always sit on the aisle.

The topography changed several times in as many minutes. It was beautiful, and the best part of a really good flight.

I felt a twinge, because I knew how many times I had missed this exact feeling.

I took shot after shot. The earth was drenched, and the colours vibrant – every shade of green. Then there were scars, great gashes of red earth ripped through the bush. Farms presented a patchwork of neat borders and varying shades and textures. Vineyards appeared, with their perfect rows of vines pointing the way to grand houses and wineries. And then the outskirts of Perth itself, where trees pepper an urban landscape in dark green tufts.

It is my home.

I love Sydney, which is why I have lived there nearly eight years. I love other places around the world, and I am sure I will love living in Seattle next year. Western Australia, however, is home. I will always come back here to see it, and my loved ones who live here.

It is so easy to take the familiar for granted, but on Saturday I got to see my homeland through fresh, somewhat misty eyes. I felt pride mostly, because it truly is incredibly beautiful and I cannot wait to show it off to Ben.

And I had this small, but significant joy all because I took a window seat.

Travel Meme

June 21, 2008June 21, 2008sandybarker

Questions and answers about my favourite topic. Play along at home, and drop me a comment if you want to add your own answers.

Where, of all the places you have never been, do you want to go to most?

Southeast Asia – Camobodia, Laos, Thailand, Vietnam. Intrepid Travel has a 4 week tour I really want to do some time in the next year or so. I have only ever been to Indonesia, and I want to see more of Asia. This part of the world intrigues and invites.

Where do you most want to go back to?

Greece. The Islands. Life slows down. Details are everything. I can breathe there. It is where I fell in love.

Favourite City?

This is excruciatingly difficult to choose just one, so I will cheat a bit. Favourite in Europe: Florence. Favourite in Australia: Sydney. Favourite in North America: Vancouver. I will add to this list as I live it.

Least favourite city?

Tijuana. Hell. On. Earth.

Do you speak other languages?

If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it. Too true. At times, in the past, I have had enough of the following to get what I wanted from the locals (take that how you like): French, Italian, Spanish and German. I can brush up pretty quickly, but despite studying French at university I know I will never be fluent (all those bloody verbs!), and I care very little.

How do you get by without being fluent?

Smiling, sign language, and some key phrases. Smiling is the most effective.

Best airport?

Once you’re through security, London Heathrow is like an up market shopping mall. Very posh! You will probably be shuttled from pillar to post, because they’ll change your gate 65 times, but the waiting is as pleasant as it can be in an airport.

Worst airport?

10 years ago it was Johannesburg (smoking inside, hot, stuffy, nowhere to eat and a little scary). Most recently it would have to be LAX (see my post on my last trips through there).

Best travel tips?

Before you fly, order a special meal. It will come about 30 minutes before everyone else’s. Take ear plugs and a sleep mask. Block everyone out.

Biggest travel mistake?

Wearing jeans for a long haul flight. Forgetting to ask for an aisle seat.

Best coffee outside of Australia?

Vancouver: Cafe d’Artigiano. BOWLS of steamy, creamy, strong, but smooth coffee. People line up outside in the snow!

Best meal while travelling?

Indulge me. There are three.

One: On Naxos, in a tiny village clinging to the side of steep hill, we arrived soaking wet, and were clothed and fed by Martina. She served us roasted goat, stuffed peppers, Greek salads topped with her homemade goat’s cheese, and rustic bread fresh from her oven. There was no menu, and it cost us about 10 Euros each. Ridiculously cheap.

Two: Flying Fish in Seattle. Three courses. Sublime food. Wonderful company. I cannot wait to go back.

Three: Somewhere in the heart of the Beaujolais wine region, is a tiny restaurant, whose sign is barely discernible from the road. There are four tables, one of which is on a balcony which overlooks a deep and wide valley. I sat on this balcony with colleagues from my touring days for several hours, and we ate four courses of the most exquisitely presented and tasting food. My dessert was a heart-shaped strawberry mousse sitting on a chocolate shortbread crust. We drank more than a bottle each of the local wine, and did not need any dinner.

Most breathtaking view?

Again, it is difficult to narrow this down, but two stand out.
Machu Picchu in Peru, is incredible. It is literally perched on the top of pointy peaks, and sits amongst clouds.

Milford Sound, New Zealand. Ben and I did an overnight cruise, so we slept on the sound and then awoke to these stunning views.

And that is a wonderful note on which to end…

More to come…

Pure Glee

June 13, 2008June 13, 2008sandybarker

I was having dinner with my friend, Patrice, and she described her best travelling moment as sitting on the lawn of a resort in Papua New Guinea, and eating coconuts. It was her first time on grass in three years, because she had lived in a concrete jungle, and the resort lawn overlooked the ocean. The coconuts were fresh from the palm tree, and were sticky and delicious. There she sat, eating and slurping away as she gazed out at a spectacular view and scrunched her toes into the grass. It was pure glee.

Glee is not only a great word (try saying it out loud – you’re smiling now, aren’t you?), it is a wonderful state of being. Glee only comes when you are right in that moment. When you’re in the thick of glee, there is no thinking and there is no worrying; there is only divine joy. There is no real formula for glee either. It is hard to seek out, because it just happens, and before we know it, we are basking in it.

For traveller’s, these are moments that we remember with clarity, the emotional snapshots we file away in our memories to revisit when we need them most.

Since that dinner, Patrice’s story has inspired me to write of my own moments of emotional alchemy, when I have experienced glee while on my travels. I thought I’d start with my encounters with creatures.

Snorkeling off the coast off Maui with green sea turtles was what started my love affair with these serene beauties. They move so slowly and gracefully, as though there is all the time in the world. All fears I had about being in the ocean vanished as I dreamily paddled above them, and I was delighted when a grand old soul popped his head up above the surface about two meters from me. I am sure he gave me a wink.

Ben’s shot of a green sea turtle

Llamas are my favourite land animal. They have spunk, and are damned cute to boot. When traversing Peru on motorcycle with my guide, Geraldine, we stopped at a llama farm. I was still recovering from salmonella poisoning, but my weariness was forgotten as I walked amongst alpacas and llamas. They ate from my hand, and I laughed out loud like a delighted child. “Llama, llama, llama.”

There’s something in my eye

Ewok

Shaggy

Up the New South Wales coast, at Copacabana, my friend Paulie has a beach house (It is his home and it is stunning, and I am jealous, but this isn’t the time or the place). The kookaburras love to come and visit Paulie’s beach house, because they know they will get a feed. This fellow hung around for about 20 minutes and ate raw meat from my hand, which intrigued a fellow party-goer aged two.

Look at you

For some reason, dogs love me. This has taken some getting used to. I have a long-held fear of big dogs since I survived a childhood attack by a German Shepherd. Regardless, dogs do not know this, and in my travels I often make as many canine friends as human ones. On Siros, in the Cyclades Islands of Greece, this dog met me and Ben in the main square, then took us on a tour of the town.

Ben’s shot of Siros, our dog

She was such a lovely spirited dog, and a little naughty too (she chased and cornered a cat, and wouldn’t come until we threatened to leave without her). After a couple of hours, she led us back to the square and we thanked her for the tour with a bag of chips. Many of the dogs in Greece are homeless, but this one had a collar so she belonged to someone. For those two hours, however, she belonged to us.

I love kangaroos. They are almost as cute and cool as llamas. My dad (Ray) and step mum (Gail) live on the south coast of Western Australia in the tiny hamlet of Denmark (yes, that was intentional). Their home is in a semi rural area, where the roads and gardens are shared with the native kangas. When I wake, and before I drink my freshly squeezed orange juice, I go and say good morning to the mob. They look up from their eating, perfectly still, except for their mouths that continue to masticate. After a few moments, they decide that I am not as interesting as I obviously find them, and they go back to their breakfasts.

In the afternoon, they lounge, or fight if they are boys and are bored, and eat some more.

Dad tells the story of a joey, fresh from the pouch, attempting to hop across the road. He was hopping with all his might, while his mother waited for him on the other side, but for all his efforts, he was only hopping on the spot. Yes, kangaroos are funny creatures.

Lambs like to frolic and there are few things more adorable than a frolicking lamb. I saw hundreds of the things all over New Zealand as we drove the winding roads. Leaping, jumping, running, frolicking. I would laugh aloud, as they are even clumsier than me.

On our quad bike tour I got to pet a lamb, which was probably not as much fun for the lamb as it was for me. He, she, it was bleating like I was choosing it for its shanks, but I just pet its curly little head instead.

Some days later, Ben and I were driving to Christchurch, and found ourselves being unseasonably snowed upon. We stopped at a tiny town – one church, and one abandoned shack – and took in the silence that comes as snow falls in the middle of nowhere. Well, almost silence. I could hear bleating. I went off around the back of the church, and there hiding in the woodpile was this little lamb.

He came to me like a dog would, and stayed close by my side.

The poor little mite had wandered too far from mum, and like in a lost kid in the supermarket, was scared. I pointed it in the right direction, and it ran off to reunite with mum (who seemed indifferent to her terrified child). I had lamb shanks for dinner that night. Yes, true!

I am not Dr Doolittle, but I do talk to animals. It is a reflex response now. I can’t help it. My voice travels up a few notches, and before I know it, I am having a one-sided conversation with one of mother nature’s creatures.

I remember once in a hotel in New Zealand I asked Ben a question. He didn’t answer even though he must have heard me, so I asked again. “Are you talking to me?” he replied. I looked around the room, empty of people except the two of us. “Um, yes.” He smiled at me, “I thought there must have been a bird outside and you were talking to it.” How could I argue with that?

I guess I talk to them, because I am in a moment that I don’t get to have everyday. These animals intrigue and engage me, and before I know it, I am not worrying or thinking about anything else. I just feel the glee.

More later on gleeful moments in natural beauty, glee in response to human beauty, and glee from loving where I am, who I am with and what I am doing.

Five Minute Friends

May 22, 2008May 22, 2008sandybarker

Last weekend, I went away with strangers. Well, not just strangers. I went away with my ‘foodie’ friend, Simon, who organised a group of us to go to the Hunter Valley wine region for the Lovedale Long Lunch.

Lovedale is a region within the Hunter Valley, and each year a handful of wineries throw a huge lunch. People come, they eat, they drink, they indulge in general merriment, then they pile into cars and buses and drive to the next winery where they do it all again. As well as Simon, there would be Shona and her husband, Dan, and best friends Pelagia and Pat. And they would not be strangers for long.

It being my birthday weekend, I thought that the LLL would be a terrific way to celebrate. So, I packed my overnight bag, ate a light breakfast, picked up Simon and we drove the 160kms to the town of Cessnock in the Hunter Valley. We took the scenic route, which was definitely scenic, but had Simon begging me to return to Sydney via the motorway the next day. Windy roads = nauseous passenger stomach. I slowed down a bit, which did not detract from the stunning drive. The sun was breaking through the trees and burning the dew from the grass. Cows and sheep looked up from their breakfast as we drove past. The road was nearly empty, except from a few motorcyclists who must have been loving the curvy roads.

We drove through the tiny town of Wollombi, where the ‘outback’ has crept towards the city. I wanted to stop and explore this testament to times gone by, but we were on a deadline – there was eating to do – so I will have to go back soon.

Minutes later we were in Cessnock. Ahhh, Cessnock. Yup, that’s all I have to say about that. Nothing much going for this town except its location – right in the heart of the Hunter Valley wine region. There are some shops, some houses, and no character whatsoever. We were staying a motel, which was clean and nice enough, and filled to the rafters with other Lovedale Long Lunchers. We dropped our bags and drove out to the first winery of the day: Emma’s Cottage Vineyard.

As we pulled in the driveway, we were greeted by people dressed as pirates, a theme that was never repeated throughout the day, and baffled us a little. We parked, walked past a small family cemetery, and joined up with the excited crowd of people milling around the entrance. $25 got us a meal, a glass of wine, and our wine tasting glass for the day. And then I met my new friends.

(Thank you to Shona for this pic)
It was that sort of meeting where I knew right away that we would all have a brilliant time, as we were laughing together within minutes. I had made 4 ‘five minute friends’, new friends that seemed like old friends within minutes. Pelagia and I even discovered that my next door neighbour is one of her best friends, which was really trippy, because Sydney has 4 million people in it – what are those odds?

We spent the rest of the day at three other wineries, where we shared bites of delicious meals, and drank tasty Aussie reds and whites. Each winery showcased its wine and its setting, as well as teaming up with a local restaurant and local producers.

We planned ahead from our menus, but after two lunches and a dessert, all I could do at the last winery of the day (Gartelmann Estate) was taste wine, gawk at the increasingly ‘sloppy’ crowd, and talk the penned alpaca (cute!).

At five we wrapped up our long lunch (6 hours) and headed back to our respective accomodation. Shona and Dan were at the Crowne Plaza (NICE!), and Pat and Pelagia were at Pepper’s Resort (nice in a ‘nana’ sort of way). Simon and I drove to the Comfort Inn in beautiful Cessnock, where we stayed for approximately 27 minutes before going to visit Shona and Dan at the Crowne. We took cocktail stuff and settled in for the evening.

I know it may be hard to believe that we wanted to drink anything else that day, but we did and it was my birthday, so we had a room party with gin and tonics and chips from the mini bar. We laughed about stupid stuff, and shared details from our lives, consolidating our ‘5 minute friendship’. And then we went to spa!

I had forgotten my swimmers and so had Shona, so we donned knickers and tank tops, and wrapped ourselves in fluffy white robes. With Simon and Dan in board shorts, we four strolled through the hotel lobby like we owned the place and went ourside to the pool area. A young couple was in the spa, so we would have to share. I was more concerned about the rain. For me, it was too cold and too windy to show my knickers in public. I dangled my feet while the others shivered in a semi-warm spa and avoided the (we soon discovered) naked couple on the other side. It was a quick spa session, but our little gin-steeped adventure, and fun.

(Spa and pool at Crowne taken the next morning)

After quick showers and freshening up we went to meet Pat and Pel at the local pub, an Irish pub, which was huge and stuffed with people. We commandeered a table, and ordered light meals. Well, no that is a total lie. We ate pizza and sausages with mash, and a Caesar salad. You would never have known that we had eaten all day.

Then, I was crashing. I don’t know whether it was the long day of driving, drinking and eating that made me want to curl up and sleep on the pub floor, or the fact that I was another year older. I am a partier, but I was pooped. The night continued a bit longer; I know there was some dancing (not by me), a visit to Pat and Pel’s room (at Pepper’s Retirement Village – I mean, Resort) and a dingo sighting on the drive back. Then, at about 11 and with much relief I climbed into the starchy white sheets of the Comfort Inn.

I’d had a full and fun birthday, and met four lovely new friends, and broken bread with my favourite foodie, Simon. I had also spoken to my parents, and my sis, and the next day I would get to talk to Ben. Yes, it was a lovely way to celebrate my 39th!

The next day we were going to do it all again – this time three wineries and a stop at Tempus Two were on the cards. I was completely for all of that, except for one thing. I hadn’t gotten to talk to my favourite boy. Long distance love means Ben is 15 hours behind Sydney time. I wanted to talk to him so much, I said my goodbyes after the first winery of the day, and made the drive back to Sydney along the motorway.

I know from photos sent on by Shona and Simon that they all had another brilliant day, including a stop at the cheese factory. I am happy that they did, especially as Shona, Dan, Pat and Pel are all parents and do not have the chance to getaway as often as I do. And I am sorry I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to Pel and Pat, but I will hopefully see them soon.

And me? I cannot wait to get back to the Hunter. I hadn’t been there since 2003, and quite frankly, that is just too long between drinks. Next time, I will take Ben so he can see the wide blue skies, the beautiful bush wineries, and taste some of the most delicious wine in Australia. We might even see a wombat in the wild.

Oh, and we are sooo staying at the Crowne!

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