Ruminations on peregrinations.

I’ve been in Canada for three days now, and I’ve had time to start processing the past few months. Mum and Rob are in Vegas, so I’ve had the house to myself. I’ve fallen into a slow routine of Youtube yoga, protracted dog walks, and desultory job searches. It hasn’t quite sunk in that this is my life now. I won’t be catching a train in a couple of days to see a new place, meet new people, and try new food. On that note, having facilities to cook again has been a welcome luxury. As has tap water. But whilst it’s true that I’m very comfortable and content, there are a lot of things about Asian life that I’m missing. I never thought I’d get used to the rock-hard beds, or that I’d express a preference for squat toilets over western-style. I never thought I’d fancy dumplings or curry for breakfast, or that I’d miss rice after not eating it for two days. Canada feels aggressively quiet, clean, and peaceful. I walk the dogs past cloned houses and feel uneasy. Everyone is boxed in to geometric regularity, set behind manicured lawns and big shiny cars. There’s too much sky, air, and space, and not enough of the honest, gritty life that I’ve fallen in love with. Cars slow to let me cross the road, the pavements are flat and litter-free, no one tries to get me in a tuk-tuk; it’s easy, but empty.

Just having the dogs and cats to talk to has made me even more grateful for the hundreds of incredible people that I met on my journey. Maybe we trekked to a waterfall, or a lake, or a gorge. Maybe we cycled to see dolphins or royal tombs. Maybe we went to a temple, or the beach, or karaoke. Maybe we just caught a bus, or shared a dorm. I don’t remember all of your names, or even all of your faces, but you are all imprinted on my experience, and had a direct impact on my life, whether we met once for a few hours, or multiple times over a couple of weeks. We probably asked each other where we from, where we had been, and where we were going. Because that was what was important – that’s where we found common ground. I didn’t care where you went to school, or what your parents did, or how much you earned, or how big your house was. We didn’t have any of that. Just our backpacks, and a vague sense of where we wanted to go.

Nothing bad happened to me in seven whole months. I never got robbed, or hospitalised, or had a plane delay, or lost my passport or baggage, and I never felt like I wanted to come home. I learnt a lot of important lessons, despite the absence of any formative mistakes. Some of them were practical, like ‘Always load the Google Map before you leave,’ but my most important lessons were the direct result of the positivity of my experience. I learnt to trust in the kindness of others. I was overwhelmed by the generosity and compassion that I received from strangers, and that’s something that I’ve resolved to adopt in my own life. Before I left I was only ever warned about the dangers of other people – it never occurred to me that most residents of our world are good.

I’ve definitely become more patient – nothing you can do can make a Cambodian bus arrive on time, and with that comes a sense of calm acceptance, positivity, and confidence that everything will be fine. The universe provides; I always met the right person when I needed them, and I never went without something that was necessary. If anything I learnt that there aren’t many things that are necessary – I wished that I’d left my make-up at home, and wasn’t too distraught when I found myself trainer-less. Having less made me happier, and I now have very little desire for material possessions, or even the ownership of a home. Being reunited with my laptop has actually been a bit of a disappointment. I’m now furnished with a method of wasting time.

Because no time was wasted in Asia. A late bus meant longer to have a chat, or sit in the sun, or grab some almonds. An extra day in a town meant another temple, or a new friend. I cannot think of one occasion when I was bored, even on the twenty-two hour bus journey to China. I thought a lot. It was the first time that I’d had leisure to evaluate three years of relentless work, and think about what I’m going to do next. At first that space was scary because it was formless, but over the months my thoughts became more cogent, and I developed some self-understanding.

No, I didn’t find myself. I got lost at least three times a day. I had the opportunity to reinvent myself in every new city, and the variety of my experience demanded a variety of selves, which at times was more confusing than affirming. I thought travel was something that you did, then got out of your system but it doesn’t work like that. I’m already planning the next trip.

Go west.

We caught the train from Varkala back to Kochi, which was as sweaty an affair as we were anticipating. Thankfully there weren’t too many uncomfortable stares, and the journey passed without much incident. We caught tuk-tuks to the hotel, via an optician for Raf, who had found herself at the mercy of a rogue wave that swept away her spectacles, then had some kati rolls for lunch. We visited the Church of St. Francis, where Vasco da Gama’s tombstone is displayed, and the Dutch Palace, which houses excruciatingly beautiful murals that have stood the test of time, despite having been painted in vegetable colours. In the evening we watched a ‘cultural show’, and saw how traditional Keralan make up is applied. It’s the thickest in the world – you need coconut oil to get it off, and the end product was captivatingly grotesque. A Mohiniyattam dancer showed us her bewildering eyebrow moves (just like that Cadbury advert), and a triumvirate of old men provided the music. We then watched an extravagant Kathakali performance, in which a green-faced man denied the advances of a yellow-faced man dressed as a woman. We said our clipped goodbyes when we got back to the hotel – the fellowship was broken.

My journey west is my most ambitious so far. Estimated to take 40 hours, I’ll take three flights, with two 12 hour layovers, to reach Canada, and successfully circumnavigate the globe.

I got up at 06:00 on the 5th of April, and caught a taxi with Rachel to the airport. My first flight from Kochi to Mumbai was pain-free. I caught an illogocally infrequent bus to the international terminal, and was warned by the guard that there wasn’t much on offer until I went through security. He was right. The spotless atrium, supported by white arboreal pillars, was a barren wasteland of marble. I found a spot on the floor and alternated between my kindle and mp3, wondering if it might have been worth spending an extra £50 to get a more reasonable flight.

I ate at one of the two cafes available, and after nine hours of nothingness was able to check in and spend my last rupees. As I boarded the plane I consciously suppressed a wave of nausea. I was leaving India. I was leaving Asia.

I couldn’t sleep on the flight, partly because I was so full from the unnecessary meal at 03:00, and partly because the seat was uncomfortable. I was lucky not to have anyone next to me, and relaxed as best I could by watching films.

I arrived in London at 06:00 (having been awake for twenty-eight hours), and was overwhelmed by the oppressive black duffle coats, stern expressions, and sallow faces of my fellow passengers. I cried as I bounded into my Dad’s arms. It had been seven months since we’d seen each other, and when I’d left I’d had no idea when I’d be back. I dried my happy-tears, then we went to Windsor to make the most of our curtailed reunion.

The Queen was home; the Royal Standard billowed out as we watched the changing of the guard. We wandered around the picturesque town and I had a horrid lump of homesickness for Oxford. We had an ambrosial pub lunch, washed down by an ale that was like nectar, then sat by the river and watched awkward new couples on dates, and pensioners walking their dogs. All too quickly our time was up. Dad drove me back to the airport, and for the third time I found myself in a departure hall.

I settled into my window seat, did most of a crossword and watched yet another film. I was sentenced to more plane food (although at one point I was mercifully furnished with a scone, real jam, and Rodda’s clotted cream), and then the flight was over. I’d done it.

My brother and his girlfriend met me at the airport. An unfamiliar silence pervaded the night. No horns, no rubbish, no dust, no people. It was -1℃ (you can imagine how that felt in Birkenstocks), and icicles were strung along the car bumpers like bunting. I arrived at Mum’s house, buzzing from excess fatigue. By the time I went to sleep I’d been awake for fifty-two hours. I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.

The last homely house east of the sea.

Calgary’s a bit like Rivendell. I’ve eased gently into the travelling life, but maintained the comfort of having my own room, free laundry, and Mum’s roast dinners. My disturbed sleep last night was punctured by visions of delayed flights, lost luggage, and fake reservations, but I’m now safely at the gate in Calgary airport,  gazing out at the towering silhouettes downtown, which are sharply juxtaposed with the unearthly clarity of the mountains to the west. I’m waiting for my flight to Vancouver, where, all being well, me (and my bag) will board our next flight, to Tokyo.

I’ve really enjoyed my time in Calgary, particularly meeting the friendly locals, eating the sugary delicacies, and spending time with Mum and Aaron. Circumstances have changed a lot since I was last here, and being a lot more relaxed (with no vacation work hanging over me) has meant that me and Mum have got on better than ever before. The location of my mum’s new house meant that I didn’t feel isolated, and the dogs have ensured that I never had a dull moment.

I’ve felt really shaky all morning, and I had to hold back the tears when leaving Mum (neither of us like goodbyes). I hadn’t anticipated this fear when I was planning my travels. Apparently there’s a lot of stress involved in being a free-spirited travel bum.

After the shortest and most beautiful flight of my life (to date), skimming the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, I’m now sitting in Vancouver airport – the most westerly point of the Earth that I’ve ever visited. Tokyo will be the most easterly. I’m really expanding my horizons today. The fear has melted away, replaced by excitement, anticipation, and self-belief. It’s too late to turn back now, I can do this, everything is going to be okay.

I’m thirty two thousand feet high, flying over the Pacific ocean. I’ve just had a very interesting plane meal, consisting of edamame, egg, a mini pickled onion, noodles, seaweed, and vegetable curry with some weird holey thing I’ve never seen before. Fumbling with my chopsticks, I surreptitiously watched my neighbour deftly scoop the noodles into her mouth, barely hesitating in her game of Candy Crush, and tried my best to imitate her technique. I’m going to be a pro by the end of this adventure. The cabin crew are omniscient, anticipating what you want before you open your mouth (big up All Nippon Airways), and so far my journey’s been really enjoyable. There are two eighteen-month-old children in the aisle next to me, so this could all change very quickly, but so far, so good…

The flight passed by in pockets of sleep, and an immersion exercise in the Japanese language, courtesy of a film called ‘Samurai Hustle’. My younger fellow passengers weren’t a problem, and neither was security or reclaiming my bag, which dutifully followed me across the Pacific. I’m now sat in arrivals waiting for a certain someone, who just happened to book a flight to coincide with my time here. But it’s okay because there’s free WiFi. And a friendly police officer called Takayama who’s been keeping me company. He’s very up to date on his current affairs; we discussed the radicalisation of British Muslims, the impending referendum on Scottish independence, and Abenomics before he scooted away, presumably to do his job. He also helped me out with my Japanese, and recommended some places to go and food to eat;  though a visual image of Okonimiyaki offered absolutely no elucidation as to what it actually is.

She’s here.

My little brother.

My little brother is nineteen years and four months old. He is six feet and three inches tall. He moved to Calgary last year to attend university, and this has been my first visit since he emigrated (or immigrated depending on where you stand). Last Sunday he introduced me to IHOP, and three of his friends. Bonding over syrupy pancakes, we debated the new Alberta licence plate that’s being introduced, and laughed at the tragic sentiment of the IHOP birthday song:

Happy, happy birthday,
From us the IHOP crew.
We wish it was our birthday,
So we could party too.

This week has been equally amusing. On Thursday I was invited to join the guys at Kilkenny’s, Aarons favourite pub, on account of its reasonably priced steak and Newcastle Brown. I was very impressed with the local ale, particularly the Wild Rose Brewery’s ‘Velvet Fog’, and after one or five, we merrily meandered out of the bar, into the cars of our heroic designated drivers, Donny and Brandon. Over the course of the night, it had emerged that I was ignorant to one of the best-loved and most historic Calgarian institutions; ‘Peters’ Drive-In’ (established 1964). To remedy this we made the trip down Crowchild Trail (which is a motorway, not a footpath), and I was presented with a  gargantuan mint-chocolate-toasted marshmallow-milkshake (which seemed like an excellent idea at 12:00 a.m.). It was delicious, and I’m glad to have been introduced to previously unknown lactatial possibilities (even though I don’t like milk).

The following night, we all went to the Blind Beggar, (another ‘pub’) to see Aaron’s friends’ band. Retlaw’s funky psychedelicism washed over us as we washed down the beers,  and we steadily got lost in their groove.

But that wasn’t the end of my musical exploration whilst here in Calgary. Saturday was the BBC’s Last Night of the Proms, and despite never having watched, or indeed shown any interest in it before, we all went to the cinema at Chinook (courtesy of Mike’s excellent motoring skills), to wallow in some shameless patriotism.

An anomaly in a decidedly senior demographic, we sat down at the front, Diet Coke and huge popcorn in hand (which, retrospectively, was an inconsiderate choice for a classical concert) and let ourselves drift away into the virtuosic artistry, expertly navigated by Sakari Oramo. Three hours later we emerged, humming Land of Hope and Glory and the National Anthem (which, I was informed, is also the second national anthem of Canada). We decided that in order to counteract our gluttonous indulgence of British culture, we should do something quintessentially Canadian. So we went ice skating. Now, avid readers of this blog will already be familiar with my inherent physical instability, from when I climbed a mountain, so multiply that by a billion, and you have an idea of what I’m like on ice. With a lot of bruises and laughter, we crawled around the Olympic Oval, eventually collapsing in a pained heap, and deciding it was time to go.

Me and my brother have always been close, and now that we’re effectively grownups, we’re even closer than before. It’s going to be so hard to leave him behind as I move on to the next leg of my journey, and I’ll miss him so much. But he’ll always be my little brother. No matter how many more inches he grows.

Intemperate temperatures.

We had a barbecue on Sunday. It was 27°C. This in itself isn’t particularly noteworthy, however it becomes so in light of recent events. Its been snowing since Monday, with temperatures hovering around zero. This has made dog-walking somewhat treacherous.

This is not merely on account of my liability to slip, but also because of the fallen branches that litter the pavements, their leafy canopies brought down by the weight of the silent snow. Remember when I said packing was difficult? That was without taking into account the potential for snow, so I’ve found myself slightly unprepared, layering up and scrounging some snow boots from Mum.

To further compound matters, I’m currently suffering a power outage. That leaves me without Netflix, or a way to communicate (no WiFi, and the phone is connected to the mains). I’m not sure which circumstance I judge to be more severe. I’m left with little choice but to wait for Mum and Rob’s return (some five hours from now) and to retain as much body heat as possible. Brrrr.

The power came back three long hours later, my torment exacerbated by the indeterminacy of my situation. I passed the time by reading a bookbook (because my Kindle was out of charge) and clutching my two furry companions close to me, my desire for their warmth outweighing my revulsion at their breath. By these desperate means, I survived.

Much to my relief, the forecast is bright, potentially reaching 21°C at the weekend. Travel Lesson #1: Always expect snow in Calgary.

Wedding crashers.

At the weekend we were lucky enough to be invited to a wedding party. Mum’s friend from work, Jenn, was celebrating her marriage to René, which took place a few weeks ago. We dropped the dogs off at the kennels, packed up the car, and made the ninety-minute drive to Bassano, the self-proclaimed ‘Best in the West by a Damsite’. There’s not much going on in Bassano. Think ‘Endora’ in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape’ (I promise I’ll stop with the Johnny Depp film references at some point). We turned off the highway and were confronted with a solitary main-street, featuring a community library and a dated hotel.

Somewhat apprehensive, we sidled into the corrugated-iron ‘community centre’, under the hostile gaze of the locals, undeniably unnerved by our unfamiliarity and foreign accents. Feeling somewhat out of place, we stood in the corner observing the diversity of the community that we had infiltrated. Forty-somethings tottered around in bodycon dresses, sporting two-tone hairstyles that I haven’t witnessed since the early 2000’s, schmoozing with white cowboy hats and plaid shirts, carefully tucked into well-worn jeans. We welcomed Mum’s fellow colleagues with relief when they arrived, and managed to find some plastic seats to drag around an unstable table. Soon after, the happy couple walked into the hall, Jenn in a flowing white dress, and René sporting some red chinos and a bowtie. The ceremony that they had previously undertaken was stutteringly re-enacted, and then we were invited to help ourselves to some Alberta beef and jacket-potatoes, overseen by two indistinguishable octogenarians, white-haired and wrinkled in their black tabards. Once the plates had been cleared, the party started. The fluorescent panel lights were extinguished in favour of coloured spotlights and lasers, that wouldn’t be out of place at a school disco. Not knowing anyone gave me the monumental advantage of not caring about making a fool of myself, so I happily took to the dancefloor with some keen four-year-olds, and danced my little heart out. The night ended early, and as we made our way back to Calgary, the horizon melted into a fading spectrum of colour. My first wedding-crash was a success. Bring on the next.

Walkies and wingdings.

My first few days in Canada have been an easy transition into my nomadic state, and very domesticated. While Mum and Rob have been at work I’ve busied myself with Netflix, making weird salads out of what I find in the fridge, and, my most important duty of all, taking the dogs out. Cinder and Billie are too strong and stupid for me to take them out together, so we collaboratively worked out an alternating sequential system. I take one out after the other. It’s been a massive help in terms of getting my bearings. My canine friends have expertly navigated through the maze of eerily identical houses (think ‘Edward Scissorhands’) to convenient shops and innumerable off-leash parks, absolutely faultless in their roles as tour-guides – excepting perhaps the marked absence of a commentary. Regardless of this, I’ve been very glad of their companionship.

But don’t think for a moment that, as a solitary dog-walker, I’ve failed to ingrain myself into the famously welcoming and hospitable local culture. Yesterday evening I partook in a veritable Canadian institution. Wing night. We drove up to an industrial-looking ‘pub’ called the Winkin Owl (the absence of an apostrophe was duly noted). Passing through a camouflaged door (that I definitely wouldn’t have found by myself), I was confronted by the counter-intuitively delicious smell of frying, complimented by a residual undertone of beer. We sat next to the window, and were immediately presented with a menu, listing the sixty-nine options of wing available. I promptly suggested that the choice should be made by Mum and Rob, on account of their aficionadoship, and my utter flummoxation at what was in front of me. Soon, there were three baskets of wings set in front of us. And they were delicious, in their sticky, saucy, spicy smokiness. While we were eating, I found myself marvelling at the skill and dexterity of the locals, one individual even being so bold as to wear a white shirt, proving his prowess in a daring exhibition of confidence. Through this man, I witnessed the pride and honour that is the very essence of this tradition. Families, coworkers and friends were meeting over baskets of fried flightless appendages, which, though biologically useless, find their worth in their gastronomic exceptionality, representing a perspicacious metaphor of the human condition. Finger-lickin’ good.

Home is behind, the world ahead.

I’m leaving the UK! I’m currently sat in Gatwick airport, waiting for the omniscient screen to permit me access to my all-important gate number. I’m used to flying by myself, I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen. The difference this time is that I don’t know when I’m coming back. This made packing exceptionally difficult, and I’m sure I’ve made lots of nooby mistakes, like packing too many clothes, and forgetting my passport (lol jokes, bag drop might have been a bit difficult without that), but I’ve done my best, I’ll let time be the judge of my organisational prowess.

The past week has been terrifying and sleepless, as what feels like months of planning is drawing to an inexorable and unavoidable climax. But my anticipation is complicated somewhat by the nature of my first destination. I’m flying to Calgary; somewhere I’ve been fairly frequently, to see my Mum and brother, so the beginning of my venture into the unknown is actually going to be pretty familiar. There’s also the added implication of gaining my Permanent Residency visa – something I’m not intending to ever use or need, and which will be nullified when I fail to spend 730 days of the next five years in Canada. But you never know, I guess. Choice is a wonderful thing.

I may have been a bit misleading; I’m not flying entirely by myself. I’ve got my lucky protective handmade mascot amulet, courtesy of Emily: Marvin the sloth, Marv for short, I guess, which is apt because he will be able to MARVel at all the amazing things I see. He’s pretty creepy, just like a sloth should be, and I’m very glad to have him. Thanks to all my nearest and dearest and furthest and worthiest for all their support and well-wishings for my adventure. If nothing else, this trip has made me feel very loved.

So, fast forward a few hours and I’m sitting in a freezing air cabin, eating some coagulated microwave rice and trying to suppress my sobs whilst watching ‘Saving Mr. Banks’. Nine hours is a pretty long time to have your legs crushed by the anti-soshe in front, (who, coincidentally, had the emergency exit seat, so didn’t need the extra room anyway), so I was pretty glad to land. What I didn’t know was that the next two hours of my life would be consumed by a soul-eroding crawl through security and immigration, accompanied by the prerequisite screaming child, before I could finally get my bag (the lock for which had been broken) and meet my mum.

Now, safely ensconced in her house, and happily introduced to Rob, I’m engaged in a relentless battle, struggling to conquer the exhaustion that’s been accumulating over the past twenty-three hours of my waking. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to last.