I've fallen in love with Brighton all over again. Wandering through the lanes, I can't help but feel that I'm discovering it for the first time. Tiny alleyways with brass street signs mounted on irregular stony corners, shopfronts that totter twenty meters above the crowded pavement, comical architecture that loops and swirls and dances around brick and stone and glass - the buildings a mashing of characters as much as colours. There's a store for vegan shoes and one for glass baubles and one for handmade clocks. Any trinket that jingles or knick-knack that serves some obscure and mostly irrelevant purpose, you can find it; a kaleidoscope of creativity and a melting pot of the tanned, the tattooed, the pierced, the rocking and rolling. See the middle aged ravers buying their dubstep tracks on vinyl, the ageing hippies playing bongoes in the back of their new-age boudoirs, the angst-ridden teenagers who stew in skinny jeans at fountains and coffee clubs. It's uncharacteristically hot here, 28 degrees or more, and it somehow quickens the tempo of the place, as paunchy, balding men roll around in sweaty lunchtime haunts, and teenagers remove as many layers of clothing as humanly possibly without eschewing their top layer of skin. Perched on a balcony decorated with flags, drinking iced coffee and gazing down at the sea of bodies in leather, suede and silk, it's almost like a carnival. Down at the beach, the pasty masses gleefully line up with their towels in rows on the pebbles, hobbling to the water and back, their cool English aplomb abandoned in a crumpled pile with their shorts and sunglasses (you can later see the repercussions of this reckless abandon as half the population look like they've been spit roasted).
It's funny, I don't feel like I've lived here before. I feel like a tourist, taking photos on my phone and gawking at letterboxes, but then feeling against my fingers the cool metal of my very own house key, drinking cider at the beach with old friends and sliding straight back into my old queenly english accent (the only survivors of Aus are 'pants', 'thongs' and 'chips') - well... it feels like slipping into step with an old friend.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Brighton
Ok, so the last post was a little, shall we say, uncivilised. I have since arrived at my aunt and uncle's place, washed myself, and retaught myself how to speak in normal sentences. The things I do for you.
And I'm back home! In the home I used to live in*! I have flat out refused to be jetlagged and as a result, I'm not. Easy. I've ventured a couple of times into Brighton centre, and when I go it's a weird mix of familiar and bizarre. Things that were totally normal to me, things like red double decker buses, the old fairground pier, the red letter boxes, etc etc, now make me into yet another Easily Impressed Tourist. I'm trying to be chilled about it but the truth is that double decker buses look like toys and make me want to 'aww' like a small, brain dead animal, but NO, keep it together, don't bring out camera and scream "IT'S SO ADORABLE", just keep walking and eating chips with salt and vinegar.
That being said, it's still somehow fairly normal. Familiar in a way I can't explain. I thought I'd be nervous, seeing as it's my first trip alone, but being back home gives me this weird sense of calm, like nothing could go wrong. Which sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, I know. And I am well aware that I would be one of the first to die in a horror movie, given my inability to cook for myself, climb trees, run faster than a late-for-the-bus meander, or built huts out of sticks and mud. Or maybe I would go crazy really quickly and become the one who eats people and can turn her head around 380 degrees. Not sure where this is going.
Side note: I have a roommate. It is a cat. His name is Ozzie and we don't get on very well. After having labradors, I resent having to actually earn love from an animal. With dogs, feeding them and not dying is enough to warrant endless love. I feel like I have to buy this dumb cat roses and a candlelit dinner just so that he will stay still long enough for me to pat him. This morning, he woke me up at 5 am by gnawing on my toes and annoyed me until I fed him, the whole time giving me a look that said "stop breathing my air". Stupid cat.
(* Aunt and uncle ended up buying our old house, just to add to the deja vu.)
And I'm back home! In the home I used to live in*! I have flat out refused to be jetlagged and as a result, I'm not. Easy. I've ventured a couple of times into Brighton centre, and when I go it's a weird mix of familiar and bizarre. Things that were totally normal to me, things like red double decker buses, the old fairground pier, the red letter boxes, etc etc, now make me into yet another Easily Impressed Tourist. I'm trying to be chilled about it but the truth is that double decker buses look like toys and make me want to 'aww' like a small, brain dead animal, but NO, keep it together, don't bring out camera and scream "IT'S SO ADORABLE", just keep walking and eating chips with salt and vinegar.
That being said, it's still somehow fairly normal. Familiar in a way I can't explain. I thought I'd be nervous, seeing as it's my first trip alone, but being back home gives me this weird sense of calm, like nothing could go wrong. Which sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, I know. And I am well aware that I would be one of the first to die in a horror movie, given my inability to cook for myself, climb trees, run faster than a late-for-the-bus meander, or built huts out of sticks and mud. Or maybe I would go crazy really quickly and become the one who eats people and can turn her head around 380 degrees. Not sure where this is going.
Side note: I have a roommate. It is a cat. His name is Ozzie and we don't get on very well. After having labradors, I resent having to actually earn love from an animal. With dogs, feeding them and not dying is enough to warrant endless love. I feel like I have to buy this dumb cat roses and a candlelit dinner just so that he will stay still long enough for me to pat him. This morning, he woke me up at 5 am by gnawing on my toes and annoyed me until I fed him, the whole time giving me a look that said "stop breathing my air". Stupid cat.
(* Aunt and uncle ended up buying our old house, just to add to the deja vu.)
Friday, July 19, 2013
Arrival
Maybe I just don't need to sleep not going to lie to you people wouldn't dream of it but I think I am becoming a zombie that can just live without rest because it has been 40 hours in my life and I have not slept for more than half an hour and not even consecutively and there has been a nice queue of minor fuckups with flights not a big deal just lots of delays and waiting and being lost and currency and delays and now due to another minor but adding-to-the-pile fuckup my family thought I was getting in tomorrow so I am in Heathrow Airport almost crying with hysteria because malaysian airline is full of incompetence and I am dirty and sweaty and hysterical and red eyed and my hair is gross so overall I just look like that chic from the ring but I am HERE and that still fills me with happy and excitement and so yeah that is me at the moment I hope you are well and I think I have proved that I do not need to sleep ever ever again thank you new york I will be here all week
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Departure
So I leave tomorrow and that's a weird thing. So much effort and planning and chaos and IT HAPPENS TOMORROW. I'm going to miss this place.
The space, the total and unending space of living, stretched out in the enormous blue sky and the red earth that stains skin and imagination. The lilt of the accent and the slow curve of that famous australian smile. The familiarity of the bridge with the lampposts that curve inwards endearingly, that cafe with the art gallery shining in its crevices, my home with its many, many eccentricities. The people that filled these spaces with their warmth and their humour. The ones who roasted marshmallows over a fire in my front room, who trekked to beaches in a convoy of Various Beaten-Up Vehicles, who lay in my bed and waited for the hour to change, who danced on tables and in parks and at parties and who I suspect will never stop dancing out of the sheer joy of being young and happy about it.
This place was only starting to become mine, and now I guess I'll have to continue loving it from afar.
The space, the total and unending space of living, stretched out in the enormous blue sky and the red earth that stains skin and imagination. The lilt of the accent and the slow curve of that famous australian smile. The familiarity of the bridge with the lampposts that curve inwards endearingly, that cafe with the art gallery shining in its crevices, my home with its many, many eccentricities. The people that filled these spaces with their warmth and their humour. The ones who roasted marshmallows over a fire in my front room, who trekked to beaches in a convoy of Various Beaten-Up Vehicles, who lay in my bed and waited for the hour to change, who danced on tables and in parks and at parties and who I suspect will never stop dancing out of the sheer joy of being young and happy about it.
This place was only starting to become mine, and now I guess I'll have to continue loving it from afar.
The Plan
July: Brighton, England; my hometown, and known for its quaintness, gay pride and many drugs.
August: Contiki. Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Florence, Vienna, Amsterdam, Munich, Alps.
September: London. Family & friends, good food, culture culture culture.
October: Eastern Cape of South Africa. Volunteer work caring for a herd of elephants.
November: Cape Town & Johannesburg, seeing my cousin graduate high school. Partying accordingly.
December: Cape Town. Beaches, bars, familiar accents. Then back HOME (to Noosa) for a wedding.
It's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening!!!!!!!!!
August: Contiki. Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Florence, Vienna, Amsterdam, Munich, Alps.
September: London. Family & friends, good food, culture culture culture.
October: Eastern Cape of South Africa. Volunteer work caring for a herd of elephants.
November: Cape Town & Johannesburg, seeing my cousin graduate high school. Partying accordingly.
December: Cape Town. Beaches, bars, familiar accents. Then back HOME (to Noosa) for a wedding.
It's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening it's happening!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, July 14, 2013
It's 1.21 a.m.
And I am tired. Have been going through emotional farewells with clothing for hours now. I think I would feel more comfortable deserting my first born. This pug accurately displays my emotions.
In other news, I just stubbed my toe and apologised to it aloud.
Bed time.
 |
| dang. that is a surprisingly high definition pug. |
In other news, I just stubbed my toe and apologised to it aloud.
Bed time.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Four more days!
ARGH I LEAVE THIS CITY AND STATE AND COUNTRY AND HEMISPHERE AND TIMEZONE IN APPROXIMATELY FOUR DAYS.
Ohm. Calmness. Serendipity.
Jesus.
On the bright side, NO CAMPING HAPPENED! Friends instead took me to Byron where we stayed at the Backpackers Inn, in dorms that quickly assumed the smell of dying small mammals. We drank sangria with lots of european people, and were forced to admit to the spanish, french, english, finnish, italian, dutch and german that actually, we come from the far away and exotic lands of Brisbane, two whole hours away minus Lost Time. I am creating the phrase Lost Time, meaning time which was wasted because I have an unholy lack of navigational skills, because I feel like it will be mentioned a lot. I should count up the hours.
Anywho, it was good times. And now I am thrown into the world of packing and organising myself, and I should mention that it is about now that I realise that I don't know how to do anything. What is a passport? How do I travel in a big metal flying machine? What happens if a crazed dwarf urinates on my boarding pass? WHAT THEN?? To be honest, I don't know how I made it this far.
Ohm. Calmness. Serendipity.
Jesus.
On the bright side, NO CAMPING HAPPENED! Friends instead took me to Byron where we stayed at the Backpackers Inn, in dorms that quickly assumed the smell of dying small mammals. We drank sangria with lots of european people, and were forced to admit to the spanish, french, english, finnish, italian, dutch and german that actually, we come from the far away and exotic lands of Brisbane, two whole hours away minus Lost Time. I am creating the phrase Lost Time, meaning time which was wasted because I have an unholy lack of navigational skills, because I feel like it will be mentioned a lot. I should count up the hours.
Anywho, it was good times. And now I am thrown into the world of packing and organising myself, and I should mention that it is about now that I realise that I don't know how to do anything. What is a passport? How do I travel in a big metal flying machine? What happens if a crazed dwarf urinates on my boarding pass? WHAT THEN?? To be honest, I don't know how I made it this far.
Saturday, July 06, 2013
Shame Spiral Saturday
Okay, so today was a rare day where I had absolutely nothing planned. No work, no trips away, no parties or events, only a lazy day in bed. What I did not expect today to become was a spiral of shame.
Explanation: I figured I should clean up this blog a little before it becomes the TRAVEL BLOG, in the vain hope that someone other than estranged relatives will read it (fingers are crossed). Hence, the background is now the sky. Symbolic shit, right there. AND there is a whole page of writing stuff and nonsense which you can read relatively painlessly should you feel the need. But the biggest thing, I thought, was to go through my old posts and remove anything stupid or unnecessary or embarrassing and OH MY LORD THAT WAS A TRIP INTO MY PAST THAT I DID NOT NEED.
Some are nostalgic, like when I babbled about mock exams, then real exams, then schoolies, blah blah growing up blah blah - they're not too thrilling but they can stay. Then there are the posts where I thought I was a much better photographer than I am - those can be edited down. Then there are the posts that make me shrink into the foetal position, toes curled, and scream at the sky "how was I such a fuckwit?" The further back you go, the more there are like that - the ones where I was just... for want of better words... a pretentious douchebag 15-year-old. SORRY, WORLD. I genuinely apologise for anyone who had to read the posts where I kindly illuminated readers on the meaning of happiness, or suggested listening to Skrillex remixes, or used the word 'indie' non-ironically. It is a sad day when you lie in your bed and realise that you spent at least a year being a caricature of yourself.
So I have removed them. Guess you'll never get to hear about the best places around to buy an overpriced 'vintage' rolling pin, or admire emotionally-intense photos of footprints in sand or half-eaten food. A cruel blow, I know.
Explanation: I figured I should clean up this blog a little before it becomes the TRAVEL BLOG, in the vain hope that someone other than estranged relatives will read it (fingers are crossed). Hence, the background is now the sky. Symbolic shit, right there. AND there is a whole page of writing stuff and nonsense which you can read relatively painlessly should you feel the need. But the biggest thing, I thought, was to go through my old posts and remove anything stupid or unnecessary or embarrassing and OH MY LORD THAT WAS A TRIP INTO MY PAST THAT I DID NOT NEED.
Some are nostalgic, like when I babbled about mock exams, then real exams, then schoolies, blah blah growing up blah blah - they're not too thrilling but they can stay. Then there are the posts where I thought I was a much better photographer than I am - those can be edited down. Then there are the posts that make me shrink into the foetal position, toes curled, and scream at the sky "how was I such a fuckwit?" The further back you go, the more there are like that - the ones where I was just... for want of better words... a pretentious douchebag 15-year-old. SORRY, WORLD. I genuinely apologise for anyone who had to read the posts where I kindly illuminated readers on the meaning of happiness, or suggested listening to Skrillex remixes, or used the word 'indie' non-ironically. It is a sad day when you lie in your bed and realise that you spent at least a year being a caricature of yourself.
So I have removed them. Guess you'll never get to hear about the best places around to buy an overpriced 'vintage' rolling pin, or admire emotionally-intense photos of footprints in sand or half-eaten food. A cruel blow, I know.
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