I try to have a little bit of an adventure two or three times a year, if not for any reason other than to remind myself that there’s a much larger world outside of my ego (though that world is not that much larger). I usually take these trips by myself–most of my friends are not interested in bicycling five-hundred miles and camping in the rain, or staying in group dorm hostels. I also have a tendency to undersell the experiences of trips themselves, probably because I think that I like travelling alone.
I’m writing this in a public library in Katoomba, NSW, nestled in the Blue Mountains of Australia. The wind is practically blasting the top of the library off, which is comforting in a strange sort of way. There’s three people sitting at the table with me; An older fellow with Errol Flynn facial hair, who is mouthing the words to whatever it is that he’s typing–every now and then he picks up his phone, calls someone, and leaves a completely enigmatic voicemail; a young woman with a remarkably unblemished face whose phone makes a monkey noise whenever she gets a text message; another young woman who looks like she piled several sunburns on top of one another and then got another one to finish it off. A few minutes ago, a little girl ran by screaming that “Let It Go” song from that Disney movie that’s all the rage right now. I’m not an expert on the film, but I think she only knew the chorus. Adding it to my watch list.
My ankle hurts from the hike. I tweaked it a few days ago, playing soccer with a group of foul-mouthed expatriates from the UK, one of whom called me “fucking-America-cunt-bag” when I accidentally kicked him in the shin trying to get the ball away from him. He was delightful other than that, had one of those great long-on-top haircuts that’s been really popular since the World Cup.
The Blue Mountains are fantastic. They look like a stack of grey-and-purple pancakes that have been stacked on top of one another, sharply cut in half, and then had a ochre-yellow syrup dribbled on top. The wind was so intense that I had to vise-grip my phone out of fear of it flying down into the rainforest below. The Three Sisters have to be seen to be believed. There’s something totally wizardy about them.
Last night, I sat quietly as my fellow hostellers spoke German and Dutch to one another, while one Kiwi attempted to play the didgeridoo, which ended up sounding more like a fart-in-a-tube than the sort of mysterious cave echo I popularly associate with the instrument. I laid out a rough beat on some bongo drums and we all sang Toto.
I always surprise myself with how quiet I am when I travel. Normally, I want the first and last word in any conversation–I am very much in love with the sound of my own voice. I find myself very rarely entering into conversation when I travel, preferring to sit quietly and listen. It isn’t out of fear I don’t think, more just not having anything at all to say. This morning, I had a nice conversation about racism in America with the owner of the hostel, who told me that he really enjoyed a satire of the American political system he saw on the TV a few nights earlier. I responded that we didn’t really need the satire, our politicians do it all by themselves.
I love bunk beds–though I never seem to be quick enough to get the bottom bunk in the hostel dorms, I always end up making the quiet climb, making the whole frame shake with my bulk. I fell out of bed this morning due to a misjudgment in the height of the bed, though nobody woke up.
I would say the main reason to stay in a hostel is this–there’s something deeply calming about laying in a room and listening to nine other people sleep–the deep breaths, quiet snores, and blasts of flatulence are perhaps the best lullaby I know.
twells 