An anticipated return

There’s something calming about scotch before a flight. After the stress of fighting through crowds to the airport, navigating numerous check-in gates and surviving airport security interrogations, a small sip can be just the thing to bring your heart rate back to its comfort zone. I’m a hopeless traveler without one.

I have one now so all is good. And to be honest, apart from a suspended Tube line, the process of getting to the flight lounge has been unusually relaxed. So much so that a couple of security personnel at the screening zone were making out. I repeat, making out. Clearly they knew something about the working status of the security cameras the rest of us did not.

But anyway, I digress. I’m here waiting for my flight to New York (airports are proving a wonderful place for navel gazing and blog writing). It’s an eagerly awaited trip, although once again I don’t feel at all prepared which is becoming somewhat of a trend now that I don’t have to plan travel years in advance. I left New York eight months ago feeling like I‘d just said goodbye to a holiday romance; all late nights and good times with none of the revealing morning breath. This will be the trip that either confirms the city’s magical quality or reveals it to be an animatronic fraud, much like when I first returned to Disneyland as an adult. (To be fair, it was EuroDisney.)

New York City is a place like no other. That most of us can agree. For me it holds a powerful allure. My first encounter with New York was fresh off a 45-hour trek, heavily jetlagged and severely emotionally drained following a series of raw farewells in Australia. I was ready to collapse. I was ready to retreat. I was ready to hate being anywhere but home.

But how can you hate New York? On that first day I remember being recharged by the frantic neon of Times Square. Finding peace in the sanctuary of Central Park. Feeling like it should be home as I walked the streets of Greenwich Village.

In short, I knew in a few hours what took several months to discover about London – it’s for me.

New York is a city of sights and sounds. But the thing that took me completely by surprise was that it can also be still, when it wants to be. Away from the pace of Midtown, the streets can be calm and inviting. The small lanes tangled in the Village were tree-lined and immaculately kept. I was prepared for Manhattan to be anything but ordered. The revelation left me feeling that in New York, you can have your cake and eat it too.

I’ll be interested to see if the memory holds up. I’m quietly confident it will. And this time I won’t be carting my entire life, dispersed across three flimsy suitcases. I won’t be dragging the weight of starting a new life. I won’t be spreading costs across several Australian credit cards. This time I’m going to take New York out on a fancy date.

Yes, New York and I are going to pick up right where we left it. Hot and heavy.

Ticked off

Sitting on this rickety little plane on route to the Isle of Man makes me realise that I’ve been exposed to a whole lot of new since moving to London.

I’m on my way to deliver a workshop on how to write effective messages. It’s bizarre that a year ago I didn’t even know that the Isle of Man existed, let alone think I could be suitably qualified to deliver a lecture there on the do’s and don’ts of corporate writing.

But here I am, jammed into a tiny plane, on my way to said island to impart some wisdom.

Yesterday I gave the same presentation in Jersey, one of the Channel Islands. I can now say I’ve been to two of these Channel Islands and while I have no compelling desire to complete the set, I am enjoying the chance to visit new places. Dull as they may be.

Jersey isn’t the most exciting place in the world. And from all reports Isle of Man is no tourist mecca either.* Following my presentation in Jersey I was able to duck out of the office to see the local highlights. After a lap of the CBD (a street) I decided the time would be better spent getting a long-overdue haircut. (Someone in the office had remarked, “Mr Butterley! You’re hair is doing funky things!” It wasn’t a compliment.)

So I booked myself in for a cut with a girl whose previous appointment had been her Barbie doll - and paid an outrageous amount more than I would have in London for the pleasure. (On a side note, I may not be a qualified hairdresser but I do know it’s best to wash gel out of hair before attempting to cut it. I also know that ear cartilage is NOT designed to be twisted 180 degrees, no matter how finely you want to trim a hairline). No, I wasn’t enamoured with Jersey.

But I’ve been. Tick.

I’ve had quite a few ‘ticks’ since I left Australia. A year ago I was dreaming of finally making it to New York. This time in two weeks I will have been twice in nine months. Considering it took me 28 years to get there the first time, it goes to show that you really have to be unconscious or some manner of agoraphobe not to have some unique experiences when you’re on the same side of the world as practically everything.

I’ve been to great West End shows, attended film premieres, become dwarfed by massive nightclubs and been accused of alcoholism by overzealous health authorities. Just last week I went with a group (including my stepbrother Tim who is on his own European journey) to an underground restaurant - a restaurant which ‘pops up’ in some unconventional space like a lounge room or industrial kitchen. It was awesome. The food was outstanding, the company grand and I survived the night without having any major organs harvested. Definitely worth the risk. (Although given it was a B.Y.O. event I did pay for it the next morning – possibly supporting the NHS’ assessment of my drinking habits. Tim and I were due for a day of sightseeing but decided to call it quits after an hour of modern art at Tate sent us both a little psychedelic.)

I think what I’m slowly getting at – both in this entry and life in general – is that I’m lucky to be here. On the rare occasions that I do forget about Tube congestion or the cold or the credit card bills and take a look at all the cool stuff I’m doing, I wonder if I could ever get sick of being in the heart of such activity.

Although, sitting here on this vibrating model plane with rather jagged-looking cliffs below, I realise there are times when unconsciousness does seem a mightily appealing option.


*Having now returned (safely) I can report that there really is little to see on the Isle of Man (or at least in the capital Douglas). Other than the crescent bay and perhaps the Home of Rest for Old Horses, which I half expected would be some quirky slaughterhouse. It was, in fact, a retirement village for horses.

But the people were lovely and quintessentially eccentric. The ground crew at the airport sported decidedly oversized leprechaun hats to mark St Patrick’s Day. The taxi drivers doubled as tour guides, pointing out such local gems as the Air Force Ejection Seat factory.

And I’m in love with the sweet lady at the airport check-in counter. “Oh my dear, you’ve come to the wrong airline. Make your way over there.” She then stood up, pushed her chair along to the competing airline’s desk and proceeded to check me in. Gold.

I resigned today

From my Australian job that is.

Terrified that I might fall foul of the Global Financial Crisis and be forced to return prematurely to Melbourne broke and dejected, I requested a career break from ANZ. Kindly they came to the party, which has been a fantastic security blanket while re-establishing myself.

Now, four months before I’m due back behind the desk, I’ve hit that point where I need to make a decision. I loathe decisions.

I do know that I’m nowhere near ready to go back: I have more to see. The sun is being all flirtatious. I can’t afford the airfare.

I need more time. A lot more. But unfortunately that doesn’t work for work, which is fair enough. While it’s really no big deal – I have another job and I am on the other side of the world after all – it’s one of those moments that forces you to stop and finally give some airtime to those little voices. Do I want to stay? Do I even like it here? Am I willing to give up a good thing back home?

The answer is undoubtedly ‘yes’ to all. For now. So safe in that knowledge, I feel comfortable in cutting the safety chord and watching it snap all the way back to Australia.

It’s a good feeling, and another reminder that I’ve survived. Which is all I really hoped for this trip. It also means I’ll be home when I’m good and ready.

But I will miss the Z.

I’m totally at peace with it

I’m totally not.

In four months, I’ll be 30. I’ve used so much headspace planning dinners, parties and Spanish villas that I’ve been distracted from the real reason I’ll be ‘celebrating’ in late June. I’m about to enter my fourth decade.

I spent the weekend with a friend from Australia – someone nearly four years my junior, who had tactfully told me on my 28th birthday that I had great skin for someone my age. This weekend he turned 26 and lamented about how quickly old age had arrived. When I heard myself reeling off that whole ‘you’re so not old’ lecture I’ve had so many times before from those approaching 40, I realised 'crap, I’m finally there'. At last the realities of my own impending birthday were sharply in focus.

I am getting old…er. But that doesn’t bother me. So much. I’m not showing too many signs of aging - not visible ones anyway. I’m still confused for mid-20s and apparently for my age I do have great skin. Although I am finding I run into walls a lot more recently.

No, it’s not an age thing that’s got my mind stewing. It’s that old achievement chestnut. I mean, I have done a lot in a (relatively) short time, but I’m nearly 30 and I don’t have the clarity I expected to have at this point. Now that I’m over here in London and I’m slowly starting to figure out what I want to achieve, I’m kicking myself that I didn’t work it all out 10 years earlier.

At younger ages I knew exactly what I wanted in life. At 8, I wanted to be a priest (read into that what you will!). At 12, I fully expected to become the youngest actor to win an Academy Award (how I cursed Anna Pacquin when she stole my thunder*). And at 18, I was studying theatre at university, on my way to the big time.

By 20 I had lost all sense of direction, and ten years later I’m yet to truly get it back. As I entered adulthood and began working all day only to hemorrhage my wage on rent and credit cards, I become somewhat trapped in a corporate routine that I never quite saw myself in. I lost that clear picture of what I wanted, or what I could be.

I still think to myself I’ll be an actor when I grow up. Or I’ll give writing a go in the next few years. But it’s getting to a point where I should really wake up to the fact that I am grown up now and I should stop thinking of myself as that 18 year old, expecting that everything will one day be conveniently delivered in a sealed envelope.

The thing that I think really gets me as I race towards 30, is that I haven’t tried. Not really. I haven’t really taken the risks to be that actor, or write that book. Or even stopped to have a good think if either of those are what I actually want in life. To be fair, taking myself out of my routine and planting myself on the other side of the world has done wonders for renewing my sense of direction. And while I’m still not 100% sure what I want, it’s becoming increasingly clear what I don’t – and that in itself is a long overdue start.

It just sucks that I’m only working this out as I say ‘farewell twenties – but are you sure you can’t hang around for one more drink?’ At least the puzzle is starting to reveal itself. The challenge will be to make my 30’s count. I don’t think my skin can hold on till 40.

And in the meantime, I plan to celebrate hard – lest I remember again I’m just a fraction younger than 30.


* Further research has revealed that an eight-year-old Tatum O'Neal was, in fact, the youngest Academy Award winner, being awarded in 1973 for her performance in Paper Moon. In my defense, as a 12 year old, I had no idea the Seventies even existed.

Winter Coat

There’s something comforting about a good winter coat. They’re warm, protective and personally, I think everyone looks good in one.

When I touched down in London, I was without mine. Three weeks of warm weather and sunshine had rendered me blissfully ignorant to the fact that somewhere in the world – somewhere I would be returning soon – was a place in the midst of one of the coldest winters ever (or so the British keep telling me). My body, which had conveniently forgotten about low single-digit temperatures, quickly lost it and even though a full week has now past, we’re still not really talking to one another.

In turns out London is that cold. Arriving here last summer meant that I barely noticed the seasons turning from lukewarm, to cool, to Icelandic. I think that slow transition may have given me somewhat of an immunity to the true penetration of the cold. It’s kind of like that old corporate analogy – put a frog in a pot of water and turn on the hotplates and it will happily laze around in the Jacuzzi-like conditions, unaware that its insides are slowly turning to soup. However, drop that frog in a pot already boiling and the intensity will make it instantly leap out. Last Saturday, I was that frog. Except the water wasn’t so much boiling as freezing. And I was trying to leap straight back onto the plane, but apparently such rash moves don’t go down well with airport security.

In fairness to London, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t want to carry a suitcase full of heavy sweaters and coats across the world so I’d packed a light jumper and jacket to wear on my return. What a fool! I convulsed the whole way home, thinking I’d rather be anywhere else than here.

Returning to work only reinforced that train of thought. I spent my first morning questioning why I hadn’t been born into significant wealth, so I could spend my days sailing the Mediterranean and frequenting celebrity hotspots. But I suppose returning to work after a holiday is depressing for everyone. I’ve never met anyone who’s said, ‘thank god that holiday is over. I can’t wait to catch up on emails’. (If you are that person then I don’t think we can be friends anymore.)

My first week back was made more arduous than perhaps necessary due to my required presence at an all-day workshop. One of the presenters started by nonchalantly informing us “I know there’s too much information on this slide, and the text is too small, and you won’t read it, but it’s worth putting up anyway.”

No, it’s not.

There is too much information and the text is too small. And NO! I’m not going to read it. It hurts! It makes me want to scour my eyeballs with the complimentary stationary and move to the mountains where I can raise goats and be far, far away from your masochistic abuse of technology!

My death stares did little to dissuade her from going through each bullet point in detail, proving that there was, in fact, no worth to the slide after all. Perhaps I’m being a little harsh. But I’d just returned from an amazing trip and frankly, this was not the snap to reality I needed.

I’ve been reminding myself that I’ve had the same feelings in the past when I’ve returned to Australia. Over the years I’ve ventured north many times, visiting exciting places and experiencing warmer climates. And every time I returned to Melbourne, I was struck by how cold it was and how Europeans have it so much better. I also harboured significant ill will over the requirement to return to work.

So I think what I have is just a touch of the post-holiday blues rather than anything more sinister. It’s funny, I’ve eagerly anticipated trips to London so many times in the past. But as soon as London becomes home, and I have responsibilities, it all becomes a bit of a drag. I suppose life can’t always be a holiday.

Or can it? I’m in New York in just over a month. I’m going to Spain and Venice as well. I’m turning 30 (I’m totally at peace with it), which of course means parties. And London life is quickly reminding me that there are things to be done here that simply aren’t possible down south.

There’s plenty to distract me from the realities of work, and the cold, until the summer frivolity rolls around. And in the meantime, I’ve got a good winter coat.

Manic Mumbai (a.k.a. longest blog ever)

India has never been a place that held much appeal for me. I thought one day I’d like to see the Taj Mahal, but that’s about it. The rest of India seemed dirty, smelly and dangerous.

So I wasn’t sure how I’d go with a three-day stopover in Mumbai for an Indian wedding. We’d be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel, but that was some 250 kilometres from the wondrous Palace itself. And I really hadn’t done any research on Mumbai, so I didn’t know anything about the city and the only landmarks that sprung to mind were the shanty towns from Slumdog Millionaire.

When I arrived in Mumbai I was expecting chaos. India’s propensity for colour and bedlam is widely known. So I was not at all surprised to see crates and airport staff sitting scattered along the tarmac at Mumbai airport. In fact, after everything I’d heard it seemed mildly organised. The crates were out of the plane’s path after all.

However, when I entered the terminal it became clear that any organisation was hanging by a thin thread. For example, baggage collection was no straightforward task:

“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage can be collected from Carousel Number 1.”
“Passengers on Flights QF 51, you’re baggage can now be collected from Carousel Number 3.”
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage is now on Carousel Number 1.”

As we trudged back to Carousel 1, we overheard a disagreement between two airport staff that tipped us off to the fact that the correct carousel was in fact, Number 3. When we left with our luggage, the correct announcement still hadn’t been made, leaving an airplane full of exhausted passengers getting increasingly irate.

If the taxi ride from the airport hadn’t been so life threatening, it would have made an awesome ride at Disneyland. Crammed into a tiny car, we hurtled through the outskirts of Mumbai. Traffic lights were little more than street art, and I found it quaint that cars with ‘right of way’ would slow at intersections to allow our taxi to fit through the gap in the traffic flow.

Driving through the streets I was confronted with stark scenes of poverty. Scores of people slept on the bare footpath, beggars knocked on the windows when the car was stationary. And the slums were a hotchpotch of hastily thrown together habitats, piled on top of one another (dishearteningly, those I saw were luxurious compared to the larger slums deep in the city). Ramshackle shops bordered the edges of the slums, plastered with Virgin, Vodafone and Pepsi signs. A massive billboard towered above run-down buildings with Ingrid Bergman urging passersby to purchase Mont Blanc products. It all spoke to the duplicity of the city – a metropolis with the extremes of poverty and wealth, but with little more separating the two than police officers brandishing large sticks.

After an hour’s drive, we arrived at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It was breathtaking, but while I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the lavish beauty of the place, it was somewhat disconcerting to know that I’d be enjoying its comforts when so much of the city slept in considerably less fortunate circumstances. After the attacks on the Hotel little more than a year ago, the establishment was well prepared. Armed guards bordered the entrance and guests underwent airport-like security – but without the attitude. And while it appeared slightly uninviting and excessive, I did sleep easy knowing that a repeat of those terrible events was extremely unlikely.

The touristy bits

While the trip was brief, I was able to experience some of Mumbai. The streets were chaotic – but in a way that became totally energising. Life here is so different that it makes the concept of people watching a more worthwhile exercise.

We took a trip to Elephanta Island, which is an hour boat ride from Mumbai – which says more about the quality of the boats than the actual distance (the ‘captain’ got the engine started by pulling a rope, which signalled the people below to fire things up). The caves were amazing, with massive statues of deities carved into the stone walls. We were lucky enough to go on a festival day, which meant not only was entry free, there were hundreds of people making offerings at the rock alters and idols throughout the caves. Again, it was manic. People crowded in front of Shiva’s giants heads, offering flowers, food and even money to their deities.

There were also monkeys on the island, which I found both adorable and feral. They’d also steal your bag if given half the chance, making them the most pressing threat I experienced in Mumbai. They fascinated me, until I realised their remarkable similarity to humans, particularly in the genital regions - at which point I felt kind of creepy.

I have to also mention that we were a point of fascination for many of the local children and teenagers. I’m guessing it’s because many in villages wouldn’t come across too many Caucasians. They would shake our hands and ask to have photos taking with us. Of course, this totally tapped into every celebrity fantasy I’ve ever had, so I would have been quite content to stay there all day lapping up the attention, however my comrades thought it was best we move on. I’m now investigating real estate on the island.

I suppose I should mention food, which is a concern for every inexperienced traveller to India. I’m not really a fan of curries, or vegetables for that matter, so I did struggle with the food. Don’t get me wrong, what I had was tasty and good quality – and I didn’t need to visit the bathroom more than necessary – it’s just that after a lifetime of meat and three veg, it’s just not my thing. Thankfully, the Hotel’s room service had every type of meat available, 24 hours, and I would regularly make my offering of Rupees to my In-Room Dining idol.

The wedding

Nothing I could write can convey the colour, music and joy of an Indian wedding.

Having missed the village ceremonies, I joined proceedings three days into the event. The day began with a loud street procession to the Taj Mahal Hotel, representing the groom’s traditional journey to the bride’s village. The guests, dressed in ornate Saris and Kurtas, danced through the street in absolute celebration, while tourists stood on the side taking photos. Having been one of those tourists many times before, it was nice to feel part of it this time around.

The ceremony consisted of 16 rituals, starting with the procession and ending with the newly weds departure. Every ritual seemed bizarre and elaborate to me – but then, my only comparison is a western wedding, where the ceremony is really just the bit you have to sit through before you can get pissed. It made me think that the Indians really get it. A wedding is a celebration. And every ritual, and every guest, has a role in adding to the spectacle of it all.

In short, it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

A fond farewell

On my last day I decided to have a private yoga session, which was part relaxation, part tribute to my grandmother who had made eight pilgrimages to India to study yoga. It loved it, although the instructor – before we started and after taking just one look at me – told me I needed to tone my lower abdomen. I begrudgingly agreed and let me mind wander briefly to Elephanta Island, my new happy place.

Perhaps a little more wisely, he also said that during the session we ask the universe to make the room a womb, and in that womb we become childlike again and grow and learn so that at the end of the hour, we return to the world a better person. I found this a very powerful analogy, and much like my trip to Mumbai. Three days of wonder, excitement and adjustment. I was a child again, discovering something entirely new about the world, and at times vulnerable and dependent on others. And as I leave Mumbai now, I know I am so much better for the experience.

It has all left me with a craving to return to India. There is so much more I want to see and learn. And the real Taj Mahal doesn’t make the top three.

So I will be back. But I might bring a packed lunch.

Transition

So I may have been a little eager to shout out how keen I was to get back to London.

I mean, I am. Of course.

But damn, this whole leaving thing can be really hard.

Over the years I’ve had many friends venture overseas and they’ve always handled the life change with pizzazz. For them it’s just like slipping on a new outfit, designer of course. For me however, it’s starting to feel more like an old pair of comfy track pants I’m reluctant to take off.

Now that I’ve gone through this twice, the whole experience reminds me of those last ten minutes in ‘Six Feet Under’. For those who find ‘Six Feet Under’ too obscure a reference, firstly, what are you doing? See it. Now. Secondly, the last ten minutes (without spoiling anything) is both amazing and devastating. In equal amounts.

That’s how leaving, both times, has felt. Amazing in terms of a new life for the taking. Devastating that indeed, everything does end. When I’m in Melbourne, or London, neither extreme is immediately apparent. It’s only in the transition that what I stand to gain, and lose, bludgeons me over the head.

It’s been good to remember that Melbourne really does rock. Despite my initial hesitations, the weather, the coffee, the people (and the bacon) eventually (cruelly) reminded me that I have left a lot behind by moving overseas.

It reminded me too that I very much have a past. I can pretend that past vanished when I traded my thongs (who calls them ‘flip flops’, really?) for several layers of heavy fleece, but it’s still there. It also reminded me that that is a good thing.

A surprising high point. I went into “work” for a visit – that being my non-UK work (I’m on a career break) and I was treated like a bit of a rock star (which I handled with all the grace of Mariah Carey at an awards ceremony). People warmly encouraged me to come back, soon, (which I suspect could have more to do with their workloads than any compelling desire to see my face every day). Outside of work, friends told me they missed me. Even my sisters were nice to me.

In short, I felt appreciated. Which is all anyone really wants in life, right? So why am I giving it all up? Again.

It’s led me to think about 2010 – my Year of Taking Chances. I’ve decided that this is the year it’s going to happen. I’ve had to make some sacrifices, and now it’s time for the pay off. It’s like the universe is saying, ‘really, we want you to stay. You should stay. But if you can convince us this whole London thing will do you good, then you go and prove it to us.’

Get ready to have your arse kicked 2010.