To travel is to forget. Perhaps that is why the Count of Monte Cristo calls it a cure for what ails. Lack of reliable Wi-Fi, too, it should be noted, helpfully cuts one off from the world and the relentless, soul-crushing news cycle, that is even all the more perilous now under the new boss. And that’s a good thing. To not know. To not think about that life, and instead focus on what’s around you, what is near and close. Because it is everything, if you want it, if you allow it to be. All the world as they say is your oyster, and so much more, so much more if you are young, vibrant, and every breath so utterly vital, and if you are not, then you must pretend you are because a rolling stone gathers no moss, and if we are not ourselves being born every day then we are dying. And when I travel, I realize I am not ready to die because there is so much more to see and do in this great big, beautiful world of ours. And I want to live.
People pose for pictures, they strut and strive for the perfect take, and not necessarily for family or friends per se, but for the wider world, for their socials, if you are so inclined. After all, there’s a famous opera house in the background, famously over budget and time, beside a busy harbor, a majestic bridge, and something to see every which way you turn. There’s a massive cruise ship at the dock. There must be ten thousand tourists flooding the streets. There’s a wedding party or two. A bridesmaid holds the long dress, while the groomsmen giggle like schoolgirls in their black tuxes and pointy shoes. And I am not so inclined, but I will take this picture, now, if only to capture the moment, the image, because life goes on all around you, everything all at once, all the time.
The outdoor eateries remain full, the closer they are to the water, the more so, with not a table to be had unless you want to wait, but why wait? Why not explore? Why not buy a souvenir or a curio, or a gelato (gelato looks so good)? Why not join the groups of people, nary a lone soul, sip wine, chill with champagne, down draughts of beer, finger French fries, nibble on nuts, crave ceviche, prey on prawns, and carry on, go on, ogle those oysters. I am. Definitely. Deliver me a dozen! Please!
We must eat. But where? We consult our phones. We are unable to navigate the world without them. I resist the temptation to look like a thousand people at a screen. I would rather seek out a seeker than sink deeper. Some lovely locals tell us affectionately that there is a “Macca's” around the corner. The man looks suspiciously like he could be one of the owners of Manchester United, but I know he’s not. Could be, being the operative words. He just had that smirk that reads total jerk.
It is half dream, half real, half not slept much after 26 hours of travel, but not tired, not yet, but I know it is coming on because everything comes on, and you can’t stop the coming on, no matter how you try because momentum is everything, and for while it is with you like wind at your sails, but eventually you crash, and hopefully on the shores of some magic isle.
This place is alive, it pulses with life, teems with vibrance and energy as we ride the light rail from one stop to the next, from Circular Quay to George Street. People come and go; the sun turns down and the night turns on, but nothing really, nothing turns off. The sidewalk bars fill up, here we go, angelheaded hipsters beside punters and pints, and other ordinary people out for the night. And it’s hard, it’s contagious, this energy and this thirst, this lust, this feeling buzzing in our heads because life can be so restricting, so sterile, so limited by self-imposed barriers, and when you travel, all you see is possibility. And possibility.
The travel. Watch your idea of life unravel, watch it disentangle, see it from another angle. We get caught up, we get lost in our thing, which means we miss everything. And I know I have missed it all, like I have been two feet tall, like my eyes can only see two kinds of hallways, and I am always walking to one end or the other, in one door and out the other when there are so many other buildings to explore. Can I not wake from this dream?
But to travel is to experience another life for a few days, maybe a week or two if you are lucky. It cures all. It leaves the past behind. Forget it. Go far enough that it can’t find you. Go far enough, not so you can say you’ve been there, but far enough so you know you’ve been there and what you’ve seen leaves a mark, an imprint, an indelible memory. Because travel is a gift, and you are both the giver and the receiver of all things. Choose wisely. And let it be.