During Travel Post #2

NOTE #1: This post was written on August 20th; typed up and posted today, the 21st.

"Did you find adventure?" Dinadin asked.

"No," the man said grimly. "Nor does anyone else. Adventure is something that happens to someone else. When it's happening to you, it's only trouble."

|You found something better than adventure," Palomides said gravely. "You found wisdom."

-- Gerald Morris; The Tale of Sir Dinadan

Ever built up an event or a holiday in your head? You had the whole thing planned out up there, didn't you? What route you'll take, or who will sit next to who at Thanksgiving dinner. You're imagining the conversations, probably. And it's amazing while it's up there, isn't it? Just perfect.

And then the day comes and -- well, you miss your exit. Your Uncle Rusty and Aunt Francine had a fight in the car on the way over, and their sniping spills over into the meal.

It's not ruined, per se. More like marred.

That's been Dublin for me so far.

Granted, I've only been here for...  about five hours so far, but it's been...

Well, let me try to explain.

If we were personifying cities: Bath would be the stately grandmother, proud of her history and eager to share her stories. London would be the middle-to-upper class older businessman, suit and hat and umbrella, confident and experienced and just a touch arrogant.  Cardiff would be the just out of university twenty-something, with a head full of knowledge that they can't wait to show off, young and confident while old in the same breath.

Dublin's the teenager who could care less about the museum, they just want to hit the gift shop.

Maybe it's because getting in was taxing -- travel tends to be, and missed stops and delayed planes make it worse -- but it's almost like Dublin's fighting its own history. This is the land of Wilde, of Joyce, of Swift, the proverbial literary land of milk and honey. All I see are shops and pubs.

There is an old joke about not being able to walk a block in Dublin without passing a pub. The answer, of course, is to go into every one. Then you haven't passed it.

Of course, my locale is vastly different here than it was in my other stops. London's digs were Te-Tiny (capitals needed)) but remote enough to be almost charming. Bath was a stately B&B. Cardiff was a renovated old house by the river. Here I'm in the Temple Bar district, the city's high street. I'm sure that if I had been in Picadilly or right off the Plass I'd have different opinions.

(I don't think Bath can get down the way the Romans used to do it.)

I think, maybe, it was the build-up. I'm Irish way back, and Eire is the homeland. I expected it to be home so much that when it wasn't, I got disappointed. And, maybe, just a touch homesick.

Tomorrow will be better. Rest and sleep will do wonders.

NOTE #2: As I wrote this, I sat in the Merchant's Arch Bar and Restaurant, eating a delicious Irish lamb stew, drinking a red lemonade and vodka, and listening to a live musician sing classic Irish songs as well as some modern covers. He did "Walkin' in Memphis" and honestly, it was just what I needed to hear.

During Travel Post #1

NOTE: This post was written on Aug 19th, and typed up and posted today, Aug 21st.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.” 

-– Antoine de Saint Exupéry

I realize that I am not the stereotypical backpacker. That when people look at me they expect two pieces of rolling luggage to be trailing behind. And, in general, that's true. Backpackers here are younger, college kids or look like they might have a kukari tucked away in their bag. I'm...  somewhere in between. A middle-class traveller staying in cheap accommodations to stretch every dollar.

It's bizarre, actually. How normal this all feels. I could do this forever. And it's unbelievable because I know when I get home, I won't be able to put it into words. How at peace I feel. How hilarious it is to see the locals, especially in Lacock, who were almost amused at how charming we found the little hamlet when they were obviously as bored as I am at home. How it feels to be a stranger in a strange land, but not be scared in the slightest. How as I expected, I did miss some people, but it's more a fond remembrance than a longing, a pining (and yes, there is a difference) while, at the same time and for no fault of their own, I don't miss others. How all our misconceptions are wrong -- the only downright rude people I've met over here have been foreign, the food's amazing (and all fried), that it's possible to have efficient, clean public transportation (US, take note.)

How I'm finding a little more of myself each day. I'm finding inner and outer strength, that getting lost is just fine.

I'm writing this on the train to Cardiff, going down into the Welsh countryside, my ears popping. I love train travel. I get to sit back and watch the world fly by. This will sound corny, but it makes me feel like an adventurer. It reminds me of railroad men and the Wild West, the bravery and excitement and the unknown.

In the tunnel under the Bristol Channel, Wales and the future on the other side... And the light approaches...

The Road Goes Ever On And On...

"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted."

--  Jack Kerouac; The Dharma Bums

So.

Tomorrow I take off. Less than 24 hours.  But before I go, I thought I'd let you all in on a bit of personal introspection.  Some aspect of blogging -- blogging like this, that is -- is more personal and diary-like anyway.  And this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, could possibly change everything type of trips that you build up and put up on a pedestal. Honestly, I'd like to see if it is one of those life-changing trips.  So what better way to do that than to record who I was before my trip, and compare it to who I'll be in half a month.

I leave for this trip... Well.  I leave homeless, isolated physically from dear friends, and with a broken heart.  I leave inches, centimeters, from completely falling apart, and not caring if I even bother to put myself together again.  I leave physically, spiritually, emotionally drained. It's less painful to be empty.

That's what I leave as. Empty.

Tablua rasa, from the Latin. Blank slate. The philosophical ideal that we're all born a blank slate, an unscribed tablet, everyone equal.  Nurture over nature.

I hope and pray to powers I doubt even exist anymore that something good comes from this. I'm terrified that it won't the big dream that I'm making this out to be. I'm terrified that it will, and that I'll come home and be stuck.  I think I'd die if I got a taste of what could be but couldn't have.

So. I leave terrified, and empty, and broken, wanting things I don't have, don't know if I can have, or if I should even want them.

I leave with my Entire Life hooked over my shoulders. I could conceivably drop off the face of the planet as long as I have what I've got packed. Do you know how humbling it is to know that you have every belonging of importance packed away for easy transport?

Do you know how... freeing it is? Knowing you could just go on and on, 'down from the door where it begins'? Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you'll be brave enough to do that one day?

So this is me. Terrified, yes. Empty, yes. Broken, of course. That is default human condition.

But grateful. Grateful for the chance, the opportunity. Grateful for those who inspired me, who taught me how to be brave. Even if you don't know it.

I'm shutting everything off for the night.  At the latest, you'll all hear from me on the 31st, when I get back home.

If I decide to get back on the plane.

The road goes ever on and on.

Bravery and the Fine Lines

"Can you hear that? That’s me smiling, y’all. I’m smiling so loud you can fucking hear it."

-- Jenny the Bloggess

My last entry concerning what I am coming to call The Great California Wedding Rush was, basically, a rant post.  It was quick (well, for me) and off the cuff, and full of sarcasm and anger.

Well, I'm back from Cali now, not as well rested as I'd like to be (damn you jetlag, still kicking my butt two days later). I've still got the sarcasm, but now I've got a serene focus that's helping me glide through the days.

The weekend was short -- far, far too short, but then again all time is when it involves good friends.  I spent the majority of my time at the beautiful Mission Inn in Riverside, California, where my friends got married in the gorgeous chapel on site. 

Now, in my last blog post I mentioned the story of the Origin of Love, from Plato's famous Symposium, a conversation about love that supposedly occurred in real life and was heard down the line by Plato and written down.  The particular story I cited was told by the character of Aristophanes, a real-life contemporary of Socrates'. Since he was a comic poet, some scholars have interpreted his myth as a parody of creation myths. But even if it was intended to be that way, it still contains that one good thing that call great comedy does:

On one level? It's true.

People always say, "You're starting out on this journey together" to newlyweds. Roads and travel and new lives are easy parallels, and it's easy to equate a partner with a passenger or fellow traveller; someone you've brought along for the ride, to talk to you during the long stretches of nothing, to take over when you need some well-needed rest, and someone to enjoy the sights with.

So let me say this, to our lovely newlyweds, M & S (I'd switch the order, but it wasn't that sort of wedding): Thank you. Thank you for inviting me to be a part of your happy, happy day. Thank you for reminding me, the old cynic that cringes when someone says "God bless you" when I sneeze, that not all religious people are the fire-and-brimstone types that get far too much press and ruin it for the rest. Thank you for showing me within twenty minutes of meeting the two of you exactly what I want, and for giving me the hope that someday, I will be as complete as you (seriously, you both just glow when you talk about the other). Thank you for giving me a moment during the day where I was able to realize that there was no room for the typical single-at-a-wedding melancholy, that everyone I loved was happy, that there was absolutely no room for anything but overwhelming joy, that I was fiercely happy.

Yes, your road together will be hard -- potholes that most people don't even imagine will probably be your norm -- but you are both strong, and strong together.  You have faced tough times before, and you will face them again, and damn it you will be stronger for it, not weaker. Steel is forged through fire and water, after all.  And we love you, even when it feels like no one else does.  Wholly, completely, no matter what.  Fuck them. You have us. And we're better anyway.

While I've got everyone here, though, I'd like to say something to my not-so newlyweds (EL and her honey), my no-longer newlyweds (A & R), my almost-weds (N & E), my never-gonna-happen-and-we're-just-fine-thank-you-very-muches (Midassa and Walkabout Man):  You are all so much braver than you think.  You've chosen a path and you're sticking to it and to each other and that? Is brave. Even if you don't think so, I find you to be incredibly brave.

To the rest of us, the never-doing-that-agains, the never-gonna-happens:  Love actually does exist. I've seen it. And with far too alarming regularity for it to be a fluke.  But even if it doesn't, that's okay.  Striking out on your own and doing things that make you happy is brave as hell as well.  I daresay even moreso, because you'll have ignorant fools telling you how brave you are to do that all by yourself!  And we'll smile and nod and say Oh yes, it is, isn't it? and secretly laugh inside at how easy it is to please ourselves.

And finally, to all of you, named and unnamed: Thank you for letting me a part of your journey, even in the limited capacities of annoying backseat driver and quick pit stop crew.  I love you all.

One day I hope to be as brave.