Tag: travel

Going Home

sandybarker

This weekend I fly to Perth on the west coast, and will drive 5 hours to the southwest coast to see my dad for his 60th birthday.  I am going ‘home’. 

 

‘Home’ is a word laden with connotations that make me feel a plethora of emotions.  Coming ‘home’ after a long trip brings mixed emotions – from relief to sadness, and many shades in between.  From necessity in conducting a long-distance relationship, Ben and I have come to know our ‘home’ as ‘wherever we are together’.  Home in the context of my up-coming weekend, is my hometown, and even more than that, it is where my parents are. 

 

Ironically I have never lived in the house where my dad and step-mum currently live.  They sold up the house that was my home – and home base – for 15 years and moved from Perth to the south coast.  They did this a couple of years ago, and the last time I saw them at that house, in the hills outside of Perth, I drove away in tears.  I had lived there, moved away, lived there again, and then moved away again; it was my home base, my longest permanent address ever.  I still had boxes of stuff there long after I had moved to Sydney.  It wasn’t until my dad called and said, “Darling, come and get your boxes,” that I knew he and Gail were serious about selling up and moving elsewhere.

 

Now they are building a new home that my clever dad designed, and while they do that, they live in a rental property in the tiny, extremely beautiful, town of Denmark.  This is where I will be heading to this weekend.  But even though I have never lived there, and this is only my third visit to the house in two years, it feels like home.  As I have said before, ‘home truly is where the heart is’. 

I will sit at the breakfast bench in my pyjamas, with messy bed-hair, and as a 38-year-old woman, let my dad squeeze me fresh orange juice.  When he places it before me, I will say, “thank you, Daddy,” as I have done for decades and he will say, “You’re welcome, Darling,” as he has said for just as long.  It is a ritual that is a small, but integral part of the whole.  And in no other context do I drink orange juice; it is just what we do, one of the things that makes their home my home too.

 

In addition to the trip south, I will spend a fast and furious Friday seeing as many people as I possibly can, all of whom are ‘family’.  Like ‘home’, ‘family’ means so much more than its dictionary definition, as I am fortunate to have long-time friends who are as precious to me as my relatives.  I will be seeing three of these friends tomorrow. 

 

First will be Thomas, who I met in the first week of university many years ago.  We get to see each other so rarely, but it is always a homecoming when we do.  Tom has been my partner in crime so many times, that just a single word, or a look can set us both off on a nostalgic fit of giggles.  He understands my love-hate affair with my hair, as he has his own, he is unfailingly supportive and compassionate, and our mutual love of the dance floor has made us an impromptu floorshow dozens of times.  Even though we can only squeeze in a quick coffee tomorrow morning, it is worth it just to see him.

 

I will then hit the road and arrive at Jules’ house for lunch, and Stace will join us.  Both women have known me since I was 14; both are my sisters.  They have known me through bad 80s hair, and bad 90s hair, come to think of it.  In those 24 years we’ve all gained weight, lost weight, gained it back and lost it again.  We have seen each other through every relationship we have had, including three marriages (not mine), and the heartbreak we all endured in our 20s.  We have seen each other at our best and our very worst.  There are three children (again, not mine), so I have happily adopted the moniker ‘Aunty Sand’, and I am an awesome aunty.  Tomorrow I meet my newest niece, who arrived only a few months ago.

 

Tonight I will be collected from the airport by my dad’s sister and her husband, and we will catch up over a bottle of red, as is our ritual.  I am, at once, a friend and their ‘young’ niece.   I have travelled and worked and lived enough to have wonderful, worldly, lively conversations with them, but at the end of the evening when they hug and kiss me goodnight, I am their ‘Sand’, who still loves to be showered with affection and called ‘Darling’ before she climbs into bed.

 

Going home to Perth is often these whirlwind trips where I cram in as much love and laughter and, as many ‘catch ups’ as I can, but I do not come back to Sydney depleted.  Just the opposite.  Even though I love to go far and wide, a trip ‘home’ to Perth feels like an oasis.  With ease I strip off the roles I play in my working and grown up world, and just be me, the woman-child.  A dose of family and old friends, a visit home, where I am just ‘Sand’, becomes a sliver of heaven in my busy world.

 

I will not get to see everyone this trip over west; it is too short.  I will miss my mum and her sisters and their families.  I will miss many old friends.  I will not be able to take Ben with me this time, maybe the next. 

 

But these are not thoughts to dwell on, as I am looking forward to my glass of orange juice, and to wishing my dad a very happy 60th birthday.

 

Happy Birthday Daddy.

 

Losing watches

sandybarker

At a recent interview – for the job I am in currently – I was asked to describe my organisational skills. I replied, “Freakish.” And they are.  I am a list-maker. I have reminders – electronic and on post-its and on calendars – for all sorts of things. I do not forget birthdays, appointments, work responsibilities or social arrangements.  My job requires that I adhere to a strict timetable, and I am responsible for decision-making and organization that immediately affects 180 students and 6 other staff members.

I am a planner in most aspects of my life – except when I am in ‘travel mode’.

When I travel I revel in the freedom it affords me. I shake off the shackles of timetables, commitments and calendars. I take off my watch and happily forget what day it is.  On occasion, there are planes or trains to catch at specific times, but mostly I can indulge a side of myself that is rarely seen in my day-to-day and working life.  In recent travels I am happy to plan a day or two ahead, and leave the rest to unfold as it comes.  And I am often happy for others – in many cases Ben – to make big decisions about what, where and how. I give over to the lack of obligation, and it feels terrific.  I haven’t always traveled like this, but in the past few years I have been fortunate with travel companions who allow this side of me to emerge.

My greatest experience of this feeling happened in late September 2006. I stood on the dock of a small marina in the south of Santorini, Greece, and I searched the fleet of sailing vessels for the one with the red G.A.P. flag.

Standing next to me was a tall, dark-haired stranger who seemed to share my nervousness about being in the right
place. “Are you on the sailing trip up to Mykonos?” I asked. “Yes, god I am so glad I am in the right place.” “Me too.” “I’m Ben,” he said with hand extended, “Sandy,” I replied as we shook hands and smiled at each other.  We made our way down to the marina and found our yacht. We were greeted exuberantly by our skipper, Patrick, and introduced to the other 5 people we would share the next 9 days with. All were strangers to me, yet within hours I sat with them at dinner, laughing,
enjoying terrific local seafood and knowing that I was amongst friends.

Earlier that day, when I said goodbye to old friends and left to take up my trip with strangers, I had fretted. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the right bus to get to the right marina to meet up with the right yacht. I had all the same worries about the people on the yacht that a child has about their fellow students on the first day of school. “What if they don’t like me?”was foremost in my mind.

I needn’t have worried. I am still in contact with these fellow travellers 18 months later, and Ben from the yacht is the same Ben who shares my passion for life’s experiences, and peppers my posts about subsequent travels.

We all shared something on that boat that I have never experienced before; an intense feeling of freedom. We slept when we were tired, and we ate when we were hungry. For people from diverse professions all driven by deadlines and timetables, this was liberating.

I lost my watch and did not find it again until packing on the last day. I did not miss it. I forgot what day it was, and
not because the days all melded into one, but because each day seem twice as long as the frantic days of home. Each
day was filled with languid hours, each moment was lived in present tense, which is the key to this kind of bliss – not obsessing about the past, not fretting about the future.

Even the itinerary was ‘loose’. Patrick was the perfect skipper for this kind of trip. He knew the Cyclades islands so
well, that he sailed according to the whims of the weather and the sea. No matter the island on which we landed, he
knew the best places to eat, the best places to see, and how to squeeze every minute from the day without feeling rushed.

Sailing between islands came with its own unique joys. Being on the water with no other place to be at that exact moment, is exhilarating. Swimming off the boat, diving into the bottomless dark blue sea, is exhilarating.
Watching dolphins cresting waves beside the yacht is exhilarating. Breathing salt air, basking in sunlight,
feeling the spray of the ocean on your face, holding on tight to ride the swell and looking ahead as the next island emerges from a hazy horizon – all bliss. 

There are so many terrific stories to tell from this trip, and I will some day, but more than unbelievable meals and
extraordinary sights, this trip unlocked something in me. I have described it to Ben as a loosening of knots. I discovered that life is less about timetables and meetings and the pressure of deadlines. Much more important are the moments when we are completely present.

I consider this particular trip a gift. 8 nights and 9 days in the middle of the Adriatic to remind me to be present, to stop obsessing about unimportant things. Whenever I get too caught up in the rigmarole, I think back and remember to breathe.

Oh yes, I will still be obsessively on time for flights, but when I get to the other end and my real journey begins, I
happily and purposefully lose my watch.

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Loathe of Flying Pt 1

sandybarker

I LOVE to travel, but the cruel irony is that I hate to fly.

I appreciate that there are people who are desperately afraid of flying. That is not me. I suffer only from loathe of flying. I do not fear the plane falling out of the sky. In fact, often times I am so blasé about flying that I am asleep by the time we take off and I wake after we are in the air.

Mostly the loathing is because of what happens on the ground. I hate airports. I understand that few people actually like the airport experience, but I have had such bad luck at airports that I am often anxious when I get there.

I once arrived at the airport for a month-long trip to the USA where it was winter. I had boots, jumpers (sweaters), coats and ski gear in my carefully packed suitcases. My idiot travel agent had assured me that my airline allowed 2 bags at up to 32kg per bag, so I had one big heavy suitcase, and a small suitcase, its ‘mini me’. My large suitcase was seriously overweight. I argued that my travel agent had assured me I could carry up to 32kg per bag – and all I had was a paltry 27kg. I even called my travel agent, who was so stupid, she swore black and blue that she was correct and that the perfectly coiffed woman standing opposite me was the idiot. I told my agent I would be paying the excess baggage and then billing her. She was outraged at my suggestion – she was outraged, but she wasn’t the one facing an excess baggage charge every leg of a 6-leg journey.

We argued a bit more, and less than 3 minutes later, I had slammed my mobile phone shut (it was the best I could do to display my disgust) and was repacking my carefully-packed bags on the floor of the airport. In the middle of my summer, I lightened my load by putting on a jumper, boots and a long winter coat. When I was done, the small bag weighed almost as much as the big one – a feat in defiance of physics – and I was checked in. Idiot-travel-agent-woman.

In Calgary, I locked my friend’s baby in the car – while it was running, at the 3-minute kerbside drop-off point. Baby in the car, luggage in the car, keys in the ignition, and my girlfriend and I standing there, early morning, temperature well below zero. She started laughing in response to our predicament, albeit hysterically, and I stood there dumb-struck for about 30 seconds.

Thank fortune we had the car boot open, and that I could crawl inside, push through to the backseat, and contort my body enough to flick the lock with the edge of my finger nail. Thank fortune because her husband had lost the spare set of keys the day before. Baby Canyon was none the wiser and thought it was hilarious that Aunty Sandy was doing such a funny thing. I made my flight, but it took me until well into it to start breathing normally again.

And for some reason, no matter where in the world I am, I am selected 9 times out of 10 for ‘random security checks’. Random! As in, ‘You look like a good sort, so I will randomly select you‘? In Denver airport I wished I hadn’t worn my stripy toe socks inside my boots. The security staff did not find them as festive as I did, so I was randomly selected for further searches.

At Heathrow, when batteries were the greatest potential danger, and not liquids, the security officer asked, “Excuse me Madam, is there anything battery-operated in your luggage?” I immediately thought to my personal massager, and to save us both the embarrassment, I replied a simple, “No”.

I do not mind the latest security measures. I would much rather be safe, than to complain about them, and in truth I have flown quite a lot in the past few years, so I have my routine down pat. Shoes off, coat/jacket off, plastic bag of toiletries out, laptop out, bags flat, through the sensor, all back on and in again.

There have been a few glitches, like when I was in Peru. I had packed my hand luggage that morning for the trekking I would be doing at the other end of the flight. And without a thought to the plane travel, I included my Swiss Army knife – the one I’d had for a decade, with my name engraved on it.

When the security officer stopped me and asked about the knife, I indignantly denied it, as I had forgotten how stupid I had been. I cannot imagine the look on my face as I realised he was right and that I was about to lose a prized possession.

While in Hawaii, Ben’s bag was searched by hand after the scan because it was jam-packed, and he realised he had left his pocketknife in the bag. He whispered this me, and I had visions of us being carted away by U.S. security for further questioning. But no, Ben was simply chastised for a 150ml bottle of sunscreen, which was confiscated. “I told him not to pack that,” I said, and Ben looked suitably contrite. Phew.

As my luck at airports leans more towards ‘bad’ than ‘good’, I tend to arrive exceptionally early for my international flights. If all goes well, I have a comfortable window of time in which I can shop duty free, or have a leisurely cup of tea, or even browse bookshops. When it all goes pear-shaped, I have wiggle-room and will stress less (well, a little less anyway).

At Heathrow in 2006, they changed the gate for my flight to Athens at the last minute and my ‘comfortable window’ dissolved into harried running from one end of the airport to the other with 50 of my fellow passengers. When we got to the new departure gate, we were herded onto buses and shuttled to the other side of the airport (a 15-minute drive), and ended up at a gate that was suspiciously located where the original departure gate was.

But sometimes, my ‘boy scout’ approach to flying backfires on me. The last time I flew out of Australia, I arrived 3 hours before my flight. I was the only person at check in, the only person at security and had to interrupt two customs officers chatting so they could okay my departure from Australia. I was all the way through with a wait of 2 hours and 50 minutes until my flight – and I had already changed money. I browsed, I shopped, I had lunch, and I still had another 2 hours to wait.

But superstition and experience just wouldn’t allow me to be one of those people who leaves it all to the last second, and squeezes into their seat moments before the door is sealed, the plane is crossed-checked and we are cleared for departure.  That kind of stress would only make flying even more hellish.

Next time: The joys of long-haul flights, and best and worst airports.

Natural Habitats

sandybarker

I am a friendly person. As such, I am blessed (and cursed) to have friends all over the world. The blessing, of course, is that I enjoy these diverse and enriching friendships immensely. The curse is that I miss these friends more often than not. Some of these friendships were forged when I travelled, and others while living in various places on three continents. I am great at staying in touch, even when some of these treasured friends are not (I say this with love, and a wink). For these reasons, much of my travel involves visits to places where friends live.

A tourist can get into a city and explore its nooks and crannies armed with nothing but a guidebook, but to visit a place where a friend lives is to get to know the place – and the friend – in an entirely new way.

Last September Ben flew into Sydney, his first visit to the southern hemisphere, let alone Australia. And in September, Sydney shines. It did not disappoint me, or him, for the days we were here together. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, and warm, salty breezes. On the second day Ben asked, “Why can’t you take me somewhere pretty?” We were in Bronte, about to walk the cliff-side path to Bondi. He was being ironic. On the third day, after seeing the coast, Circular Quay, Botany Bay, Taronga Zoo, Sydney Harbour and various other attractive hotspots, he asked if there were any ugly parts of Sydney. I replied, “There must be somewhere, but none that I know of.” I had a glint in my eye when I said it, and he knew that, for this time I was being ironic. I wanted him to fall for this city as much as I have; he knew that too.

However, when we love where we live we often take it for granted. When I knew Ben was coming, it forced me to view Sydney through fresh eyes. I had to forget the day to day stuff, the traffic and the rude, impatient drivers, the huge piles of rubbish on the side of the road right before the councils do their quarterly ‘clean up’, the abruptness of sales assistants, the nightmare of parking – anywhere.

I had to go back to the roots of my love for this city, which was born about 8 years ago. I had to ask myself, “What made me pick up, and pack up, and move my stuff from the west coast to the east coast, without a job or a home to come to?” I cast my mind back, and I created a list of the must-sees and must-dos. In a week of exploring the city, my beloved Sydney, we worked our way through approximately 1/4 of the list. It’s a start. And on a selfish note, I fell back in love with this city with renewed passion and verve, and made a promise to myself to get out in it more.

I need to remember that the salt air along the coast is revitalising, and summer or winter, can shake me from a slump or a rut. I need to remember how much I enjoy the buzz and energy of a city filled with parks and waterways, and a passion for the arts, a city where the dozens of different cuisines are authentic, because dozens of nationalities reside here.

In essence, I became a traveller in my own town. Ben bore witness to this; seeing me in my ‘natural habitat’, and the passion I have for it. It was a way for him to get to know a different facet of me.

Similarly, I get to benefit from this dynamic when I visit cities where my friends live. They want to show it off, they want me to love it, and see it in its best light. So, I can toss the guide book in the bin as I know I will see the highlights and the hush-hush stuff that natives are not supposed to tell you. My friends in Seattle almost whispered when they told me that it doesn’t really rain 9 months of the year there. This is a fallacy perpetuated to ensure that ‘OTHERS’ do not head to the north-west in droves and ruin the delicate balance of their fine city.

In my recent trip to the US, Ben got to reciprocate. We flew together to Minneapolis/St Paul from Vegas, where we’d just spent Christmas with my family (a whole other story and fodder for a separate blog post). From the sunny skies of Vegas to the grey skies of Minnesota – not to mention it was -5C outside – it would seemingly be a hard sell. Not so. Ben is a Minnesota boy, born and bred, and with my impending arrival, he penned his own ‘to do’ list. And through his eyes I easily saw beauty and light through the cold and the grey.

My favourite thing on his list was, ‘walk across a frozen lake’. When Ben told me he was really looking forward to doing this with me, I said, “I’ve never done that before.”  He replied, “I know.” That it would be my first time made it all the more special. ‘Firsts’ are things we try to do as much as possible.

I had packed my ski pants and jacket for Minnesota, because I knew it was cold there, and that he wanted to do the lake thing. I did not wear these big, heavy pieces at any other time in my 5 week trip, but it was worth packing them, just for this outing. We suited up. Now, I should mention that Ben is hard-core when it comes to the cold; he can bear really cold weather. I cannot. So, when I saw that even HE was layering on the clothes and reaching for the serious gloves and boots, I knew this would be serious cold. Would the running I had done from the house to the car, and the car to the restaurant prepare me for being outside long enough to walk across a frozen lake? I crossed my fingers inside my mittens.

We put Spot, his room mate’s dog, on a leash, and I am not sure, but I think he was even more excited than I was. A few short blocks of walking along shovelled walks – people are so considerate in the mid-west – and we were there. There had been a fresh dump of snow not long before, so we could only see the ice when we cleared the snow away, but it was a lake, and it was frozen, and I was standing on it.

There were little ice-fishing huts dotted along the other side of the lake. I ensured Ben that would be an activity I would never participate in because it combines two of my least favourite things: fishing and being freezing cold for a very long time. I took photos of the bare landscape and houses across the lake, because it was all so beautiful. Even the ploughed streets with their shovelled walks were beautiful. I said so, and Ben just shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah, I guess so.” Could he see it all through my eyes? The beauty of a familiar place? I hope so.

Other outings included the Walker Art Centre where we saw a Kandinsky, and an installation by Warhol, and nearly a collection of Kahlo (it was a two-hour wait and I was hungry – I know, we may regret that someday). We made the obligatory excursion to the Mall of America, which did not disappoint. How could it? There is a roller-coaster inside – and a Ferris wheel! Just in case you finish shopping and you suddenly realise that you needed to ride a fairground attraction that week – there they are, handily right in the middle of the mall!

We also headed to ‘Uptown’ in Minneapolis, the Soho of the twin cities, where we ate at Ben’s favourite restaurant ‘Chino Latino’. As the name suggests the menu is an eclectic mix of Asian and Latin food – including Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, Spanish and Italian. It is a funky place, with hip waiters, groovy decor, and a diverse crowd. I liked it off the bat. That it is a favourite for Ben and he got to show it off, made me like it on a different level. It was part of seeing him in his ‘natural environment’. As too was visiting his parents in the home where he grew up. But again, that is a topic for another day.

Sometimes, when you go to visit somewhere and a friend lives there, they tell you that you must come and live there too. My friends who lived in Sydney long before I moved here from Perth would say it to me every visit. Years later the switch flicked in my head, and I made the move. Mostly, when I visit these places, it is about seeing the friend. The added benefit for us both is that the place becomes another character in our story. We interact with it, we draw on it, we see it – both of us – through fresh eyes. In addition, we are given a context for that person that we didn’t have before. When we’re apart, we will always be able to picture them in their ‘natural habitat’.

And that is a truly great thing.

Off the Beaten Track

sandybarker

‘Off the beaten track’ is a state of mind as well as a way to travel.  Many of my travels have been on well worn roads, but my approach allows me to have experiences far beyond the brochures.   

In the past decade travelling has taken me to incredible parts of the world, where I have met people who have influenced my life, and done things I had never considered.  I have greatly embraced the surprises that travel brings, even on ‘well-planned’ trips, and especially when those surprises could have been considered disastrous.   

One of the best days of my life started with a head cold and a scooter ride through torrential rain, but on a Greek Island in the Cyclades, this was the beginning of an incredible adventure and the forging of an important friendship.   My mindset is what takes me ‘off the beaten track’, which is why my Blog carries this name.  

My passionate affair with travel took hold when I was given a life-changing job with Contiki Europe as a Tour Manager in 1997.  With Contiki I travelled Europe extensively and even though our tours stuck mostly to well worn paths, my experiences during that time marked an incredible change in my view of travel.I ran organised tours, yet I saw a diverse range of clients, from tourists who saw Europe through the lens of a video camera, to travellers who sought out their own adventures.   

Armed with these powerful observations, I vowed from then on to always be a ‘traveller’.  Mostly, I have succeeded.  This does not mean that I enjoy five-star luxury travel any less, just that a backpackers’ hostel in New Zealand, serving free soup at 6pm, can bring me as much joy.  The diversity of my experiences is what keeps me addicted to my drug of choice: travelling.    

My focus for this Blog, and the accompanying photographs will be the travel I have done most recently.  In the past 15 months I have been sailing through the Cyclades Islands of Greece, traversed Peru by plane, train and motor cycle, had adventures in Hawaii, New Zealand and Canada, and discovered treasures in the cities of Las Vegas, London, Seattle, Christchurch, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Denver and my home town of Sydney. 

Where next?  This is a lengthy list peppered with must-returns and must-sees. 

I invite you to read, comment on and contribute to “Off the Beaten Track”.