In the midst of what felt like an extended Australian winter -- our van, our home on wheels -- was acquiring a new coat, so we packed our trekking gear and went into the ever present Antipodean wild in search of adventure. The following narrative is constructed from journal entries composed on the trail.
Dear, sir, I hope this letter finds you in good health; I write to you to thank you for your work.
One of the most appealing aspects of the van life movement is in the dreaming --
A poem composed exclusively on the public transportation system of Melbourne.
We landed in Melbourne via Air New Zealand on July 28th, 2016 but before telling of our near month stay in the city as we waited for the ideal house on wheels to make itself available to us, I must mention how absolutely fabulous (Hobbit Style Second Breakfast on our connecting flight, I’m looking at you) it was to fly Air New Zealand. Now that that has been mentioned, onward to our Melbourne misadventures. We, in the spirit of our journey, decided not to do a lot of planning before the trip; a circumstance that has allowed us to adapt quickly to figurative (and literal) bumps in the road. The first of which falls under the figurative. Our first choice in Melbourne Airbnbs* — which we requested a few hours before our flight out of LAX — denied the booking due to such short notice. We received this news during our layover in Auckland. Add equal parts stress, terror, and travel exhaustion, mix it with a 30-minute free airport wifi countdown, sprinkle in some classic miscommunication and you have the recipe for our first micro-fight. Tempers flared but then subsided, solo walks around the terminal were had, and we decided upon an Airbnb in St. Kilda with an instant booking option before boarding our connecting flight. See? We learn quickly.
The manner in which I left my mother and father was one of my major fears regarding my current journey; the other is the very public promise of writing that I made myself. It’s been my tormenter for as long as I can remember. Whether I name this beast Scriptophobia or Graphophobia or keep it unnamed, my subconscious breathes life into it with each passing day I choose not to enrich myself by writing. Strengthening its underbelly with scales forged from my self-doubt; growing stronger by effortlessly snapping my bones in its powerful jaws to gnaw and suck on the marrow of my self-diagnosed Imposter Syndrome.
It's raining in Melbourne; my phone informs me that it'll be raining all day. A sudden vibration, word from my mother, informs me that it's raining in Miami. On my side of the globe, it's currently 8:14 AM, Monday, August 1st, and I meant to organize these particular thoughts into prose during my final hours in Miami -- hours that passed into memory and regret, for the best-laid plans of mice and men oft go awry.