blogSunlight streams through the highest windows in my house, here in Texas. Sunlight, false testimony to a winter that has already provided its first hard freeze. Away to the south and east, the ocean beckons, this time hundreds of miles away, the air here robbed of that vibrant tang of the sea.
And so my third week back home begins. As I’ve become accustomed to the rural life once more, I’ve taken care to pause every now and again for a bit of reflection.
This is the sad conclusion of things for my abroad experience. Yes, already. For those of you who are new to my blog and curious about my time in New Zealand, I urge you to click the “Blog Index” or “Tag Index” button at the bottom of this page, and select topics according to your tastes.
I must apologize, though, to the rest of you. Because to me, this really isn’t the sad conclusion of anything at all. I went to Aotearoa, I had my time there, and now I’m back. While I miss places and people, I’ve decided to focus more on the fact that I was blessed enough to have my time with them in the first place, replacing sorrow with joy.
No, instead this is how my story continues. If you—as in the MindSay community—would like, I’ll continue my Adventures in America on another blog, the name of which I will post in the Comments section of this post as soon as I have devised it.
But before I head off into that wild Texas sunset, I would like to give some advice to those of you thinking of studying abroad, whether in the near or distant future.
Ahem, without further ado, I present to you Jon’s Thoughts on Studying Abroad:
• A sturdy pair of basketball shoes serves almost as well as hiking boots. Almost.
• Take as many pictures as you can. You’ll regret those blurry pictures of someone’s elbow a lot less than missing that spectacular sunrise after all is said and done.
• Enjoy the little triumphs as well as your larger escapades. Turns out that you’ll remember the everyday just as much as that time when a monkey ate your friend’s hair.
• Get over your shyness; meeting new people is one of the best adventures you can have. Yes, it’s easier said than done, and yeah, you’ll stick your foot in your mouth a few times, but it’s well worth it, I promise.
• Try new things. Like crazy new stuff. Now. Don’t “wait until I’m more settled;” new stuff is what gets you settled. Go get lost, volunteer, bungee jump, hike, build a snowman (or sandman!)—don’t even let the sky be your limit.
• Take classes you know you’ll like; it’s tough enough being distracted by the fact that you’re in another country without having to deal with your arch-nemesis, literature, in the classroom.
• While you should try new things, don’t repeatedly do things that clearly aren’t you. If you’re not a drinker, don’t drink; if you’re not a partier, don’t party; if you’re not a social person, hang out with a couple of people at a time. Stay true to yourself.
• Cut the apron strings. If you’re in another country, be in another country.
• Get used to stereotypes. You’re going to hear them, you’re going to be forced to speak in them. No, it’s not fair. Get over it.
• And for the love of people named Mike, don’t freak out. The paperwork will get done, the flight will be okay, people will be nice to you. It’ll all come in the wash, so remember to actually enjoy yourself, all right?
And one more thought to the next generation of BloggersAbroad (and I suppose for everyone in general, too): for me, chronicling my adventures in this setting was both a fantastic opportunity and a huge hassle, particularly when I had those weeks when nothing happened worth writing about. Or rather, when I thought there was nothing worth writing about. There’s always something to comment on, and I’ll never forget how surprised I was when I was awarded a Top Blog for writing about something I honestly thought no one would even read. So in that sense, writing for BlogAbroad taught me to be more observant of my experiences, and I urge you to do the same. Write in such a way that even people who see your sights every day will step back and view their world with fresh eyes. But above all find your style, find your voice, and run with it.
And now my story will continue. While you joined me in the midst of my adventures, I’m still a newbie, out of his element on a multitude of levels. The rest of my life holds in its hands many things, most of all uncertainty. And that, I think, is the most exciting part. Here we go. I’ve got a song in my ear, a lightness in my heart, and a sparkle in my eye. It is my determination that when I’m finished, this earth will never be the same.
My name is Jon Jackson, and I thank you for spending with me the first semester of my junior year at the University of Otago in Dunedin, New Zealand.
egali
The Conclusion
Homehome
Memories lay scattered around my room. Here lay a photo, there some loose coins stamped with a kiwi, over there half a dozen plane ticket stubs. Normally, I’m a fairly tidy person, but for some reason, I could not bear to gather the remnants of my abroad experience until some not-so-subtle prompting from my parents. Some things, I thought with a smirk, will never, ever change.
Still though, it was a difficult process to sort everything into neat(er) piles, put them away. It seemed wrong in a sense; how was it possible to take these things, this proof that I had lived, and put it into a corner, a shelf, a drawer to quietly gather dust? Was it denying that New Zealand had never happened, relegating its place as once more just a dream? Was I supposed to go on with my life normally, now that “Visit New Zealand” was checked off my To Do list?
Days drifted past. My brother went back to Rice for one last week of classes and then finals. I kept myself busy by doing those little jobs around the house that always needed doing, but no one ever had time to do. It was in washing the windows, weeding my mom’s many gardens, cleaning out the barn that I was able to find answers to my questions. New Zealand had clearly happened, and was much more to me than simply an item from a checklist. I had refined my life’s direction on a bike trail, appreciated determination at the top of a mountain, encountered passion at a rugby game, discovered a new kind of culture in the classroom, and learned the value and beauty of nature while strolling the streets and pastures of a country far, far, away. These events and emotions had really shaped the Jon That Is, and there could be no denying that.
I also found myself struggling with those common re-entry problems that most people endure, such as how to answer that much-dreaded question: “How was New Zealand?” (Actually, I had to deal with “How was Australia?” more often, as a surprising number of people thought New Zealand was in, or at least a part of, Australia. No offense meant to any Aussies out there, but I believe I speak for most New Zealanders when I say, “Hmph!”)The classic quandary: how to summarize five months of…everything into the two or three sentences that most people wanted? I managed to finally come up with an answer or two I could live with, which was, “Oh, it was definitely one of the best experiences of my life” or, “It was basically a five-month vacation [insert chuckle or sheepish grin here].” There was also the stereotypical problem of incessantly talking about what they do/have/say in New Zealand to anyone who would even look in my direction for more than a moment, though since I’ve been on the receiving end of this sort of behavior, I’m quickly learning to keep the reins in on my mouth. And of course, there’s always the looking at the thousands of pictures and short movies on my computer, and thinking about how fun this was, or how I actually miss my flatmates and their bizarre ways, like Dan’s inability to wink or Hayley’s jigs.
There have also been some unexpected issues with being back, like the fact that I haven’t tried driving on the left side of the road or anything like that, or how strange it is to hear “zee” as the twenty-sixth letter of the alphabet as opposed to “zed.” Perhaps the strangest side effect of being back is the fact that it has become very difficult for me to understand thick Texan accents without unwavering concentration. My brother and I once had a conversation with an elderly gentleman and I spent the whole time thinking he was talking about boxes or building something until my brother, unable to contain his laughter, informed me later that he had been talking about a delicious meal that he had had that day.
Thus, what I’ve realized is that there is no need to keep separate the world that I experienced in New Zealand with the world that’s back here in Ben Wheeler. Though one place connotes excitement while the other is named after the first postmaster in Van Zandt County, both are now an integral part of who I am. It is not a matter of putting something away and forgetting about it, but rather it is continually moving forward, dreaming up, establishing, and overcoming the next challenge. For me, the next semester awaits back in Houston, and thanks to my time in New Zealand, my life and my mind is chock-full of new dreams which I intend to see through into reality.
But enough of that now. I believe some of that good old fashioned Blue Bell ice cream calls my name.
The view outside of my window. Though it’s the same as it has been for years, it is only now that I can fully realize how beautiful it is, and how nice it can be to be home again.
Still though, it was a difficult process to sort everything into neat(er) piles, put them away. It seemed wrong in a sense; how was it possible to take these things, this proof that I had lived, and put it into a corner, a shelf, a drawer to quietly gather dust? Was it denying that New Zealand had never happened, relegating its place as once more just a dream? Was I supposed to go on with my life normally, now that “Visit New Zealand” was checked off my To Do list?
Days drifted past. My brother went back to Rice for one last week of classes and then finals. I kept myself busy by doing those little jobs around the house that always needed doing, but no one ever had time to do. It was in washing the windows, weeding my mom’s many gardens, cleaning out the barn that I was able to find answers to my questions. New Zealand had clearly happened, and was much more to me than simply an item from a checklist. I had refined my life’s direction on a bike trail, appreciated determination at the top of a mountain, encountered passion at a rugby game, discovered a new kind of culture in the classroom, and learned the value and beauty of nature while strolling the streets and pastures of a country far, far, away. These events and emotions had really shaped the Jon That Is, and there could be no denying that.
I also found myself struggling with those common re-entry problems that most people endure, such as how to answer that much-dreaded question: “How was New Zealand?” (Actually, I had to deal with “How was Australia?” more often, as a surprising number of people thought New Zealand was in, or at least a part of, Australia. No offense meant to any Aussies out there, but I believe I speak for most New Zealanders when I say, “Hmph!”)The classic quandary: how to summarize five months of…everything into the two or three sentences that most people wanted? I managed to finally come up with an answer or two I could live with, which was, “Oh, it was definitely one of the best experiences of my life” or, “It was basically a five-month vacation [insert chuckle or sheepish grin here].” There was also the stereotypical problem of incessantly talking about what they do/have/say in New Zealand to anyone who would even look in my direction for more than a moment, though since I’ve been on the receiving end of this sort of behavior, I’m quickly learning to keep the reins in on my mouth. And of course, there’s always the looking at the thousands of pictures and short movies on my computer, and thinking about how fun this was, or how I actually miss my flatmates and their bizarre ways, like Dan’s inability to wink or Hayley’s jigs.
There have also been some unexpected issues with being back, like the fact that I haven’t tried driving on the left side of the road or anything like that, or how strange it is to hear “zee” as the twenty-sixth letter of the alphabet as opposed to “zed.” Perhaps the strangest side effect of being back is the fact that it has become very difficult for me to understand thick Texan accents without unwavering concentration. My brother and I once had a conversation with an elderly gentleman and I spent the whole time thinking he was talking about boxes or building something until my brother, unable to contain his laughter, informed me later that he had been talking about a delicious meal that he had had that day.
Thus, what I’ve realized is that there is no need to keep separate the world that I experienced in New Zealand with the world that’s back here in Ben Wheeler. Though one place connotes excitement while the other is named after the first postmaster in Van Zandt County, both are now an integral part of who I am. It is not a matter of putting something away and forgetting about it, but rather it is continually moving forward, dreaming up, establishing, and overcoming the next challenge. For me, the next semester awaits back in Houston, and thanks to my time in New Zealand, my life and my mind is chock-full of new dreams which I intend to see through into reality.
But enough of that now. I believe some of that good old fashioned Blue Bell ice cream calls my name.
The view outside of my window. Though it’s the same as it has been for years, it is only now that I can fully realize how beautiful it is, and how nice it can be to be home again.
The Spectre in Houston
The night was humid. Really humid. Lordy, was it really possible for me to breathe this much water without drowning? And how was it possible to be warmer here than in New Zealand?
My friends didn’t seem to notice the watery air around us, and in spite of sucking down a gallon of water with every breath, the smile on my face remained broad as I chatted with them. The conversation spanned topics, continents, time. I was introduced to some of Rice’s newer students, one of whom suddenly turned to me and said, “Ninja.”
Ninja? What? We were talking about something completely diff—OOF!
The wind was knocked out of me as one of my sneakier pals crashed into me from the left, and I went reeling. Ah, I had been given a warning. But I was laughing as I teetered crazily for a moment before regaining my balance. Just like old times.
I was back at Rice University for a few days before Thanksgiving, and the yearning for all things Kiwi that I had expected to feel was instead replaced with a quiet happiness. Though a large number of my friends are yet scattered across the globe, enjoying their own incredible adventures, I was still surprised at how much I really had missed my friends, missed Rice. Upon my return, I hugged, laughed, talked, listened, watched, wrote, and even sat down with more gusto, more passion than I thought possible. After being around the world and back again, life just seemed so much bigger and capacious than it did before I left. The most monotonous tasks were now performed with a smile and genuine enjoyment, and I relished the weather, so much warmer and sunnier than Dunedin, though for my former home summer approached.
But then again, not everything was quite like old times. The university had undergone a few cosmetic changes while I was gone, which was a little tough to adjust to. And of course there were the innumerable new faces I saw everywhere. Also, since I was this time a visitor and not a resident on campus, I had rather limited access, which meant I had to wait patiently for someone to enter or exit before I could enter most buildings.
There was also that peculiar sense that I was slightly out-of-phase with everything. It was akin to that same feeling when one goes back to their old high school for the first time a couple of years after graduating. You see all these people whose whole world is contained within those walls, and you can’t see why they can’t see an existence beyond those bricked bounds. There’s a bit of nostalgia mixed with the thought, “Wow, was I ever really like that?”
That same smothering panic that I first experienced in Los Angeles was here, too, though thankfully less extreme. Everyone seemed to have accepted its presence, forever combating the stress and fatigue, but never quite rising above it, and I couldn’t understand why. I told a few of my friends to relax, that everything would still work out if they chilled out, but my concern was met with incredulity, disbelieving laughter, and shakes of the head.
It was at those times I felt the most as though there was a bubble surrounding me, separating me from my friends in a sense, making me feel as though I were a merely a shade, a ghost floating in and out of existence. With that buffer, I felt I was also separate from the breakneck pace that whirled around me, the pace that had suddenly become my anathema.
No…not suddenly.
The people, the brochures, the books, that enigmatic collective we call They, all told me to expect changes to have occurred during my time abroad, both at home and within. I had prepared for changes at home, but I was somewhat surprised to find just how much I had changed. After all, if I had remained here, I would be just as strung out, just as tapped out, just as burned out, and now…nothing could have been more repellent to me as that sort of existence. Even during those mad rushes to finish papers and cram for finals back at the Uni of Otago, it was all suffused with that notion that life was much too important and precious and short to freak out over something as miniscule as a few sheets of paper. So there was live jazz when I should have been studying, mountain climbing when I should have been writing, dancing when I should have been thinking. And though in the end it was my worst performance in an academic semester ever, I have no regrets. Instead, I have memories, and you know, I think it’s that sort of thing that makes our time on this earth worth experiencing. More than anything, more than souvenirs, more than stories, more than grades and pictures, being back at Rice showed me how much I want to hold on to that feeling, the one that tells me to enjoy sunrises and Godzilla and snow and ::wince:: bicycles and being cold. Of course, I’ll always be working towards a better future and better Jon, but not at the expense of the Jon that is, the future that unfolds today.
And so my ten days in Houston passed, in defense of my new creed. I lived, loved, laughed, and was as one free. I got used to things that had become strange to me, such as seeing squirrels again, and finally, I departed that place for my third home, Homehome as some call it, back to Ben Wheeler.
My friends didn’t seem to notice the watery air around us, and in spite of sucking down a gallon of water with every breath, the smile on my face remained broad as I chatted with them. The conversation spanned topics, continents, time. I was introduced to some of Rice’s newer students, one of whom suddenly turned to me and said, “Ninja.”
Ninja? What? We were talking about something completely diff—OOF!
The wind was knocked out of me as one of my sneakier pals crashed into me from the left, and I went reeling. Ah, I had been given a warning. But I was laughing as I teetered crazily for a moment before regaining my balance. Just like old times.
I was back at Rice University for a few days before Thanksgiving, and the yearning for all things Kiwi that I had expected to feel was instead replaced with a quiet happiness. Though a large number of my friends are yet scattered across the globe, enjoying their own incredible adventures, I was still surprised at how much I really had missed my friends, missed Rice. Upon my return, I hugged, laughed, talked, listened, watched, wrote, and even sat down with more gusto, more passion than I thought possible. After being around the world and back again, life just seemed so much bigger and capacious than it did before I left. The most monotonous tasks were now performed with a smile and genuine enjoyment, and I relished the weather, so much warmer and sunnier than Dunedin, though for my former home summer approached.
But then again, not everything was quite like old times. The university had undergone a few cosmetic changes while I was gone, which was a little tough to adjust to. And of course there were the innumerable new faces I saw everywhere. Also, since I was this time a visitor and not a resident on campus, I had rather limited access, which meant I had to wait patiently for someone to enter or exit before I could enter most buildings.
There was also that peculiar sense that I was slightly out-of-phase with everything. It was akin to that same feeling when one goes back to their old high school for the first time a couple of years after graduating. You see all these people whose whole world is contained within those walls, and you can’t see why they can’t see an existence beyond those bricked bounds. There’s a bit of nostalgia mixed with the thought, “Wow, was I ever really like that?”
That same smothering panic that I first experienced in Los Angeles was here, too, though thankfully less extreme. Everyone seemed to have accepted its presence, forever combating the stress and fatigue, but never quite rising above it, and I couldn’t understand why. I told a few of my friends to relax, that everything would still work out if they chilled out, but my concern was met with incredulity, disbelieving laughter, and shakes of the head.
It was at those times I felt the most as though there was a bubble surrounding me, separating me from my friends in a sense, making me feel as though I were a merely a shade, a ghost floating in and out of existence. With that buffer, I felt I was also separate from the breakneck pace that whirled around me, the pace that had suddenly become my anathema.
No…not suddenly.
The people, the brochures, the books, that enigmatic collective we call They, all told me to expect changes to have occurred during my time abroad, both at home and within. I had prepared for changes at home, but I was somewhat surprised to find just how much I had changed. After all, if I had remained here, I would be just as strung out, just as tapped out, just as burned out, and now…nothing could have been more repellent to me as that sort of existence. Even during those mad rushes to finish papers and cram for finals back at the Uni of Otago, it was all suffused with that notion that life was much too important and precious and short to freak out over something as miniscule as a few sheets of paper. So there was live jazz when I should have been studying, mountain climbing when I should have been writing, dancing when I should have been thinking. And though in the end it was my worst performance in an academic semester ever, I have no regrets. Instead, I have memories, and you know, I think it’s that sort of thing that makes our time on this earth worth experiencing. More than anything, more than souvenirs, more than stories, more than grades and pictures, being back at Rice showed me how much I want to hold on to that feeling, the one that tells me to enjoy sunrises and Godzilla and snow and ::wince:: bicycles and being cold. Of course, I’ll always be working towards a better future and better Jon, but not at the expense of the Jon that is, the future that unfolds today.
And so my ten days in Houston passed, in defense of my new creed. I lived, loved, laughed, and was as one free. I got used to things that had become strange to me, such as seeing squirrels again, and finally, I departed that place for my third home, Homehome as some call it, back to Ben Wheeler.
The Longest Day
I rubbed my eyes wearily and glanced at my watch. Wha…? Three in the morning? Why was everyone yelling? Wait a second…where was I?
I pulled myself into a sitting position, the airport chairs utterly unforgiving. Ah, yes. Auckland. Awaiting my flight to Dunedin in the morning. With just my backpack, because my luggage had once again been lost, this time simply left in Sydney for no discernable reason. Oh well, it was just all of my clothes and most of what I owned. Just everything I need.
I shook my head to clear it of the crankiness. Now wasn’t the time. People yelling in an airport at three in the morning does not often bode well for anyone. I adjusted my glasses and looked around. Everyone was staring, transfixed, at the television screen. Was everyone waiting for a flight or something…?
Then it clicked. The All Blacks were playing Ireland. The time delay. Ohhhhh.
It was going to be a very long day. Literally. With time changes, and heading back to Houston, one day was going to be stretched across forty-one hours and still retain the same date. But the day got better as it progressed, though it was still frenzied. I flew from Auckland to Dunedin later that day, took a shuttle back to 10c Moat, stuffed my few remaining belongings in a bag, ordered another shuttle, and sat down to breathe while the flat descended into full chaos. Marco, Dan, and Christa were also leaving the same day along with a couple of friends and a neighbour, headed for the north part of the South Island for weeks of tramping through forest, mountain, beach, and everything in between. Some of us would not return to 10c, and so the frantic packing was tempered with a few moments of sitting around and talking as though we’d see each other the next day and the day after that, and the one after that, though this was really goodbye.
I’ve never been good at goodbyes. Period. There simply haven’t been many times when I had to look someone in the eyes, and know that I probably will never see him or her again. So rather than tears being shed, jokes were exchanged, and 10c was as vibrant as ever in its final moments.
I was the last to leave, the flat strangely quiet while Hayley and I stood by the door waiting for my shuttle. This really was it. She and I joked a bit, avoiding acknowledgment of the end. 10b and 10a Moat were similarly quiet, as the occupants had also mostly emptied out.
And then it was time. There was a honk, and a driver strode to the door briskly, calling loudly. I picked up my bags, gave Hayley a tight hug and a few hurried words of goodbye, and walked away from Moat Street. I glanced back once, but Hayley had already disappeared from sight.
The day passed in moments that lingered, hours that flew. I claimed my luggage (though I can’t say “without incident”…grumble) upon my return to Auckland, and met up with only two other Arcadia kids, a trio of three from the original thirteen. Others had gone home early or delayed their trip, so we stuck together throughout our wait and flight, and toasted our time in New Zealand with one final glass of chardonnay, as two of us would soon relinquish our freedom and be underage once more. I chuckled quietly to myself as I glanced at the nighttime sky. I arrived in New Zealand in the early morning, and was leaving late at night. How appropriate.
In the hustle and bustle of clearing customs in LA, I lost sight of the other two Arcadians as I was accosted by a solicitor who told me that he used to go to Rice University, and played football for “Coach Ken” and he even designed and did the tattoo on his arm himself, in just under three hours, and…the tales grew taller. I rolled my eyes and walked away, knowing that I had just bungled yet another farewell.
As I waited for my flight, I wondered at the knot of anxiety growing in my stomach. What was wrong? My luggage was fine, I had all of my documents, customs had found no flaw in my belongings, yet…I looked around at the drawn faces around me in the airport terminal. Every face was a reflection of my own brooding, and I realized that this tenseness, this anxiety, this worry that I felt was just how it was to be in this place. The politeness and smiles I had received from the New Zealand staff were replaced with harassed-looking faces, half-snapped commands. I supposed then that this was my critique on American society after being away from it for so long. Many people comment on the rampant materialism and like things, but Australia and New Zealand are cut from similar molds, and so to me, there was not a major difference in that realm. The difference was in the attitudes. Even in bustling Sydney, the mood was relaxed, a sort of “Eh…whenever” feel about the place that told all who entered to just chill, everything would work out in the end. In LA, I could feel the stress, desperate to consume my newfound calm. On that final flight to Houston, I thought wearily, How can people live like this? How can people exist in such a worked-up state?
Suddenly, it was all over, and I was greeting my beautiful girlfriend and brother at the baggage claim. After all that time, some things hadn’t changed, and for a moment, for one single moment, it felt like I hadn’t left at all, like my entire experience was already a fading dream.
I walked out into the night with my companions and luggage. Back in Houston…what would it be like?
I pulled myself into a sitting position, the airport chairs utterly unforgiving. Ah, yes. Auckland. Awaiting my flight to Dunedin in the morning. With just my backpack, because my luggage had once again been lost, this time simply left in Sydney for no discernable reason. Oh well, it was just all of my clothes and most of what I owned. Just everything I need.
I shook my head to clear it of the crankiness. Now wasn’t the time. People yelling in an airport at three in the morning does not often bode well for anyone. I adjusted my glasses and looked around. Everyone was staring, transfixed, at the television screen. Was everyone waiting for a flight or something…?
Then it clicked. The All Blacks were playing Ireland. The time delay. Ohhhhh.
It was going to be a very long day. Literally. With time changes, and heading back to Houston, one day was going to be stretched across forty-one hours and still retain the same date. But the day got better as it progressed, though it was still frenzied. I flew from Auckland to Dunedin later that day, took a shuttle back to 10c Moat, stuffed my few remaining belongings in a bag, ordered another shuttle, and sat down to breathe while the flat descended into full chaos. Marco, Dan, and Christa were also leaving the same day along with a couple of friends and a neighbour, headed for the north part of the South Island for weeks of tramping through forest, mountain, beach, and everything in between. Some of us would not return to 10c, and so the frantic packing was tempered with a few moments of sitting around and talking as though we’d see each other the next day and the day after that, and the one after that, though this was really goodbye.
I’ve never been good at goodbyes. Period. There simply haven’t been many times when I had to look someone in the eyes, and know that I probably will never see him or her again. So rather than tears being shed, jokes were exchanged, and 10c was as vibrant as ever in its final moments.
I was the last to leave, the flat strangely quiet while Hayley and I stood by the door waiting for my shuttle. This really was it. She and I joked a bit, avoiding acknowledgment of the end. 10b and 10a Moat were similarly quiet, as the occupants had also mostly emptied out.
And then it was time. There was a honk, and a driver strode to the door briskly, calling loudly. I picked up my bags, gave Hayley a tight hug and a few hurried words of goodbye, and walked away from Moat Street. I glanced back once, but Hayley had already disappeared from sight.
The day passed in moments that lingered, hours that flew. I claimed my luggage (though I can’t say “without incident”…grumble) upon my return to Auckland, and met up with only two other Arcadia kids, a trio of three from the original thirteen. Others had gone home early or delayed their trip, so we stuck together throughout our wait and flight, and toasted our time in New Zealand with one final glass of chardonnay, as two of us would soon relinquish our freedom and be underage once more. I chuckled quietly to myself as I glanced at the nighttime sky. I arrived in New Zealand in the early morning, and was leaving late at night. How appropriate.
In the hustle and bustle of clearing customs in LA, I lost sight of the other two Arcadians as I was accosted by a solicitor who told me that he used to go to Rice University, and played football for “Coach Ken” and he even designed and did the tattoo on his arm himself, in just under three hours, and…the tales grew taller. I rolled my eyes and walked away, knowing that I had just bungled yet another farewell.
As I waited for my flight, I wondered at the knot of anxiety growing in my stomach. What was wrong? My luggage was fine, I had all of my documents, customs had found no flaw in my belongings, yet…I looked around at the drawn faces around me in the airport terminal. Every face was a reflection of my own brooding, and I realized that this tenseness, this anxiety, this worry that I felt was just how it was to be in this place. The politeness and smiles I had received from the New Zealand staff were replaced with harassed-looking faces, half-snapped commands. I supposed then that this was my critique on American society after being away from it for so long. Many people comment on the rampant materialism and like things, but Australia and New Zealand are cut from similar molds, and so to me, there was not a major difference in that realm. The difference was in the attitudes. Even in bustling Sydney, the mood was relaxed, a sort of “Eh…whenever” feel about the place that told all who entered to just chill, everything would work out in the end. In LA, I could feel the stress, desperate to consume my newfound calm. On that final flight to Houston, I thought wearily, How can people live like this? How can people exist in such a worked-up state?
Suddenly, it was all over, and I was greeting my beautiful girlfriend and brother at the baggage claim. After all that time, some things hadn’t changed, and for a moment, for one single moment, it felt like I hadn’t left at all, like my entire experience was already a fading dream.
I walked out into the night with my companions and luggage. Back in Houston…what would it be like?
The Land of Oz Part Three: Blue Mountains and Beyond
“They’re called the Blue Mountains, but they’re not really blue, and they’re not actually mountains, so…yeah,” our guide, Luke, said easily. He couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than me, and seemed to fully embody the word “scruffy.” He sported a beard that looked far too patchy to be taken seriously, drove a van that couldn’t be too much younger than me, but his eyes…His eyes spoke of a wildness that wasn’t limited to western New South Wales. As we made the hours-long jaunt toward the Blue Mountains that really weren’t, he told us about his travels around the world, and how he had ended his journey right back where he started, if only for a little while.
The moment I stepped on that dubious van, I knew that this trip would have everything that the previous day didn’t. I traveled with a handful of people rather than a busload, and the trip was structured to interact with nature rather than photograph it. We even ate lunch in a wind cave:
A couple of people on the tour eating lunch with Luke, our guide (middle).
Throughout the day, Luke somehow navigated us around the crowds of tourists so that we merely passed by them instead of jostling amongst them. We learned that the Blue Mountains are older than the Grand Canyon, and are blue because of oils released from trees that provide a haze in the air to give the appearance of bluishness, and that they’re a series of plateaus interspersed with valleys rather than actual mountains, but hey, “Blue Mountains” is much easier to say.
The weather, where it was perfect the day before, was now temperamental, giving us a few rays of sunshine before turning windy and torrential, and then back again. A few of us wound our way down a narrow, snaking track in one of the more severe downpours, the hardy grass slashing at our faces and arms, umbrellas and rain gear long since useless. We emerged at a lookout point just as the sky cleared, and beheld something totally unexpected:
A spectacular double rainbow (look very closely) arching over the valley as the clouds cleared. The rain gone, and the returning flies forgotten for a moment (quite an event in itself, as anyone who has ever been to Australia can tell you), we grinned at each other and lingered on our little precipice a little longer, then made our return, Luke stopping dead every few moments to identify this half-seen bird, listen for that frog. This was the difference in my two trips. From the perspective of the staff, one was a job, and the other was a dream made reality, and it was that passion for one’s work—or lack thereof—that made or broke the entire journey.
Finally, we traveled to our final stop, a remote park that was often frequented by wild kangaroos. While we munched on some snacks that Luke had brought along, our group roamed the park, though it wasn’t long before we spotted our first kangaroos. How close did we get, you ask?
Pretty close.
A short while later, we chugged back to Sydney on the Little Van That Could in high spirits, though almost disappointed to leave that sanctuary, home to hundreds of diverse species, some of which are unique to the region. I wished we could have done a bit more hiking, but all in all, the trip was fantastic, and half the price of dolphin watching. Sunset in Sydney seemed somehow more soothing that evening as I made my now-standard rounds of Darling Harbour and Circular Quay. At last, the adventure addict in me had quenched its appetite and bedded down for a few days.
The next two days were a blur. The end of my week suddenly seemed a lot closer after dedicating so much time away from Sydney. I returned to many of the places visited before, including a return trip to Bondi Beach to see the rest of the Sculpture by the Sea exhibit, and to watch some random guy break the world record for the highest bungee jump by leaping out of a helicopter and plunging 300 meters (almost 1000 feet). Then once again my bags were packed, I was hugging my friend goodbye, and I was on an airplane watching Australia dwindle into the distance.
The moment I stepped on that dubious van, I knew that this trip would have everything that the previous day didn’t. I traveled with a handful of people rather than a busload, and the trip was structured to interact with nature rather than photograph it. We even ate lunch in a wind cave:
A couple of people on the tour eating lunch with Luke, our guide (middle).
Throughout the day, Luke somehow navigated us around the crowds of tourists so that we merely passed by them instead of jostling amongst them. We learned that the Blue Mountains are older than the Grand Canyon, and are blue because of oils released from trees that provide a haze in the air to give the appearance of bluishness, and that they’re a series of plateaus interspersed with valleys rather than actual mountains, but hey, “Blue Mountains” is much easier to say.
The weather, where it was perfect the day before, was now temperamental, giving us a few rays of sunshine before turning windy and torrential, and then back again. A few of us wound our way down a narrow, snaking track in one of the more severe downpours, the hardy grass slashing at our faces and arms, umbrellas and rain gear long since useless. We emerged at a lookout point just as the sky cleared, and beheld something totally unexpected:
A spectacular double rainbow (look very closely) arching over the valley as the clouds cleared. The rain gone, and the returning flies forgotten for a moment (quite an event in itself, as anyone who has ever been to Australia can tell you), we grinned at each other and lingered on our little precipice a little longer, then made our return, Luke stopping dead every few moments to identify this half-seen bird, listen for that frog. This was the difference in my two trips. From the perspective of the staff, one was a job, and the other was a dream made reality, and it was that passion for one’s work—or lack thereof—that made or broke the entire journey.
Finally, we traveled to our final stop, a remote park that was often frequented by wild kangaroos. While we munched on some snacks that Luke had brought along, our group roamed the park, though it wasn’t long before we spotted our first kangaroos. How close did we get, you ask?
Pretty close.
A short while later, we chugged back to Sydney on the Little Van That Could in high spirits, though almost disappointed to leave that sanctuary, home to hundreds of diverse species, some of which are unique to the region. I wished we could have done a bit more hiking, but all in all, the trip was fantastic, and half the price of dolphin watching. Sunset in Sydney seemed somehow more soothing that evening as I made my now-standard rounds of Darling Harbour and Circular Quay. At last, the adventure addict in me had quenched its appetite and bedded down for a few days.
The next two days were a blur. The end of my week suddenly seemed a lot closer after dedicating so much time away from Sydney. I returned to many of the places visited before, including a return trip to Bondi Beach to see the rest of the Sculpture by the Sea exhibit, and to watch some random guy break the world record for the highest bungee jump by leaping out of a helicopter and plunging 300 meters (almost 1000 feet). Then once again my bags were packed, I was hugging my friend goodbye, and I was on an airplane watching Australia dwindle into the distance.
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