Tag: travel

Going on holiday

I booked my tickets two weeks in advance and my accommodation just a handful of days before the big day. 

No one in Australia does that. For instance, my friend booked a week’s stay in a cabin far, far away—five months in advance. That’s normal.

And here I was booking flight tickets to Tasmania, about to spend ten days in a city I knew nothing about. In hindsight, I’m proud of myself for choosing Launceston—it’s a delightful place to visit. But even until the last moment, the day of my journey, as I sat in the back seat of the cab, looking out at Canberra’s iconic welcome to Autumn, I wasn’t excited. Even as I went through security check, I was more alarmed that we no longer have to take out our electronics for screening than I was excited about my upcoming trip.

photo of the ocean as seen throug the flight windor

Sitting in the plane, watching the ground become bigger and bigger as we soared into the sky, I felt nothing. My glasses fogged from me breathing through my face mask, but I had the best seat in the house—the window. Still, my insides felt like a balloon that failed to balloon.

It didn’t feel like I was going away on holiday.

I landed and walked into the biosecurity area of the Launceston arrivals zone. And I texted my trusty friend and brother: Launceston Airport is a massive tent.

We queued up in what looked like a huge white canopy with three podiums with officers checking everyone’s border permit and asking each person individually if they’ve travelled to any hotspots or have any symptoms. It’s incredible how much we humans function on trust systems. Once I’d shaken my head no to all his standard questions, my officer—a stubby man wearing a polo t-shirt and pants—gadded me a card that had some contact information in case I developed any symptoms. I thanked him and walked out—and into the actual airport. It was smaller than the Canberra airport—just two conveyor belts for baggage. Brilliant and easy to find. A good five minutes later, my yellow backpack waded its way to me, and I hoisted it up on my shoulder and turned to face the exit.

Those glass doors didn’t open automatically.

No worries. I’m used to motion sensors not sensing me. I went closer only to realise that the double door had a big circular sticker on either side of the partition with text that read, “Touch to open door”. Amused and highly sceptical, I touched and viola! I was out in the chilly breeze and the sunny outskirts of Launceston.

Following the sign, I turned left, looking for a bus. The airport shuttle was supposed to be waiting for passengers who wanted to go into the city. Instead, there was a van—an approximately 15-seater vehicle with a chubby bald and smiling man waiting outside. On the van, clearly visible, was a sticker that read, The Airport Shuttle. I had to ask. “Is this the airport shuttle?”

He didn’t sneer. He wasn’t sarcastic when he replied, “It is! Where do you need to go?”

“The city, please.” As if that was a destination by itself.

“Do you have a specific place in the city?”

“Ah, yes. The Backpackers Hostel.”

“Sure thing. I can drop you off right at the door. How long are you in town for?”

I told him, and he suggested I go to the visitors’ centre and get myself a walking map. He helpfully added that it’s inside the post office, which I knew was built in the early 19th century and was still functioning handsomely.

photo of the old clock tower, Launceston
Post office, Launceston

I thanked him, paid him, and took my seat. And at long last, I removed my mask and did a full mouth rotation to make sure my facial muscles were still operating. 20 minutes later, I stood outside the hundred-year-old building—just another old building, I realised as I later wandered around town—that was the hostel I’d be staying at.

And then it hit me. 

I had ten glorious days to do anything but the things that defined my life.

photo of the suburbs of Launceston as seen from across the Tamar river
Welcome to Launceston

To be continued…

Keep walking

Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.

Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

This is a great book. It’s relevant to everyday life in so many surprising ways. I don’t ride a motorcycle—can’t even get my feet to touch the ground on most motorcycles. And yet I read it, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

I’m away on holiday for a couple of weeks, and until I get back with more haiku and photographs, I’m sharing some of my favourite quotes. Hope you enjoy!

If you want more, check these out:

Travel haiku | Musings about life | Copywriting adventures

My neighbours, the corellas

Australia is known for many things. Great red deserts echoing oceans of silence, two-tonne crocks that leap miles over your head, sharks that killed more people last year than Covid did, kangaroos that avow up in your garden every day, the Great Barrier Reef that sadly has little barriers to entry, stunning summertime radiation that can cause skin cancer, spiders the size of your head, snakes nestling in the u-bend of your toilet, and a thousand-year-old history that most people don’t recognise.

Australia is known for many things, including its wide array of natural forces that can kill you.

But there’s so much more to this sunburnt mass hanging out at the bottom of the world map. There’s an opportunity for happiness everywhere you look.

Every evening, I ride my bike, smiling at weary folks pedalling home after work, eyebrows scrunched in the effort, mouths slightly ajar, huffing as they crank up their gears to scale tiny mountains.

On my way back, I slow down to watch the corellas’ sunset show. Hundreds of them call out to each other, flying over my head, their wings racing my wheels. They congregate on the telephone lines trapezing from one to another, hanging upside down, showing off gymnastic limbs. Young and adventurous, they nibble each other’s feathers, challenging friends to see who can balance on one foot for longer.

My neighbourhood corellas

Amidst their inharmonic cacophony, I see silent cockatoos perched atop tall trees, looking down at the antics of their less-worshipped cousins, prancing about as if they own the land. Until—one majestic golden-crowned cockatoo decides that she’s had enough.

She hoists herself from her eucalyptus, kicking at a weak branch as she did so, setting off a series of events.

As snapped tree bits rain on me, I swirl to avoid twigs in my wheels while at the same time, the screeching me intensifies with cockatoos and corellas now battling for attention, their cries punctured by mild protests from sophisticated galahs on their way home. They tut-tut at the noisy birds like an angry mother chiding teenagers who refuse to go to bed, as they pass by without stopping for fear of being pulled into the catfight.

And at that moment, when I ride past these socially non-distant, highly-lovable creatures, an immense joy floods through me, only to be enhanced by the luscious breeze that shoots through my post-gym sweat-soaked t-shirt. Long-standing grand-trees with their grey hair tips and browning hair buns wave at me, bringing a song to my lips and joy to my soul. The sun goes down, and I look forward to it all the next day.