First law: A body remains at rest only as long as is necessary to recharge batteries; or continues to move at a constant velocity so long as that velocity is enjoyable; and will only start or stop moving when acted on by a force, which is often the internal desire to go see something new.
Second law: The net desire to travel is equal to the rate of change of the passing scenery.The more scenery you see, the more you want to see.
Third law: When one body exerts a force which compels the body to travel, there is an equal and opposite force which compels the body to stay put. Luckily this force tends to only act up early in the mornings, and it easily overcome with coffee.
Wanderlust is like any other burning desire: it is a lawless, endless want that defies science, a thirst that demands to be slaked. Sometimes it is sated, and sometimes no matter what you do, you're still filled with an endless temptation to see more, do more, be more places and breathe more air. I don't get itchy feet: I get itchy legs, itchy lungs, itchy eyes and nose and ears.
Right now I am in an office job, tied to a 12-week internship I value hugely for the experience and yet cannot stand because of its restrictiveness. I'm spending my spare time learning Spanish, Japanese and French so I can get by in more countries the next time I have a chance to go.
Next summer, I have 12 weeks: I will spend them as far away as possible.
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Monday, 23 June 2014
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Anecdotally... 3: I hated school.
I can hear my mother on the phone at the moment, talking to my cousin. My cousin is ten years older than me, married with children, forever involved in the dramas that come of growing up in a middle-class world and suddenly finding yourself shut out from it.
My mother is talking about my cousin's kids, and what they'll be like when they grow up. She recommends waiting for something until her oldest is 12.
"By the time he's 12, he'll be out playing with friends," she said.
That assumes that, at 12, you have friends.
Friends probably come from school, when you're that age. At 12, in my first year of secondary school, I hated it. And I'm not saying that in the way that everyone hates school at 12 years old, when they resent the idea of being kept indoors on sunny days and having to give up Mondays in order to learn long division.
I hated school in a real, visceral way, that manifested itself in aches and pains and dizzying headaches. I hated the institution, the stuck-up natures of the people there, the unsympathetic teachers and the boring, banal homework we were given every evening. I hated the cliques, the childishness of everyone trying to act grown up, the forgotten invites to parties and the over-reactions to harmless remarks.
School is not a place for the strange. School, at 12, is not a place for the make-up shunning sports-failing sarcasm-dripping misfit. I excelled academically, hated every minute of it, and was too wrapped up in my own misery to try and reach out and make friends. Self-pity enveloped me. I hated school then, but looking back, I hate Past Me just as much. She should have tried harder.
I would go so far as to say I hate most of my past selves, and everything from 12 to 16 should be destroyed, erased from my past. I cringe when people bring those years up. Then, I lived for music, and gigs: they were a driving passion which obliterated all other thoughts from my mind. I fiercely defended friends I made through them, but now we've drifted so far apart I can barely remember their names. Some have changed so much that I wonder why I liked them in the first place, and conclude it was the mutual sense of not fitting in. Society had abandoned us, so we in turn cast out the conventions we were meant to adhere to.
School is the best days of your life, according to my mother.
I have no doubt that was true for her, affable and small and pleasant and good at tennis. An in-between sort of girl, not too cool or too clever but just enough of everything to be generally likable. She had part-time jobs and friends and a place on a nursing course before she even sat her A-levels.
I think adults misrepresent school. We're fed this bullshit from such a young age - that it is the best time of your life - that I felt guilty for not liking it. I felt like I was wasting a valuable chance, spunking away a childhood of youth and freedom on things that did not matter. Even now, I get jealous when people talk fondly about their early teenage years: I hated everything up till 17, when I shook off the loner victim mentality and proclaimed introversion to be too emo.
We can't put youth on a pedestal just because we retroactively yearn for it. Sure, sometimes I miss school, but only as an abstract notion. I miss the concept of playgrounds and half-terms and being with your friends five days a week. I don't miss the reality of backstabbing bitchiness and chronic sick-days due to my total, actual inability to face the world some days.
University was what kept me going. The prospect of it, golden and radiant, and predicating a good school education to get there. I got there. The institution of secondary school was worth it, and I am truly genuinely happy now (or, at least, working on it). I only hope to get happier.
I hope my cousin's son is happier at 12 than I was. I hope I am never that miserable again. But I take issue with all blanket proclamations that school years are the best years of your life. You can't spend life assuming your best days are behind you: all of my best days are to come, and will still be to come, for as long as I live. What's life without something to look forward to?
My mother is talking about my cousin's kids, and what they'll be like when they grow up. She recommends waiting for something until her oldest is 12.
"By the time he's 12, he'll be out playing with friends," she said.
That assumes that, at 12, you have friends.
Friends probably come from school, when you're that age. At 12, in my first year of secondary school, I hated it. And I'm not saying that in the way that everyone hates school at 12 years old, when they resent the idea of being kept indoors on sunny days and having to give up Mondays in order to learn long division.
I hated school in a real, visceral way, that manifested itself in aches and pains and dizzying headaches. I hated the institution, the stuck-up natures of the people there, the unsympathetic teachers and the boring, banal homework we were given every evening. I hated the cliques, the childishness of everyone trying to act grown up, the forgotten invites to parties and the over-reactions to harmless remarks.
School is not a place for the strange. School, at 12, is not a place for the make-up shunning sports-failing sarcasm-dripping misfit. I excelled academically, hated every minute of it, and was too wrapped up in my own misery to try and reach out and make friends. Self-pity enveloped me. I hated school then, but looking back, I hate Past Me just as much. She should have tried harder.
I would go so far as to say I hate most of my past selves, and everything from 12 to 16 should be destroyed, erased from my past. I cringe when people bring those years up. Then, I lived for music, and gigs: they were a driving passion which obliterated all other thoughts from my mind. I fiercely defended friends I made through them, but now we've drifted so far apart I can barely remember their names. Some have changed so much that I wonder why I liked them in the first place, and conclude it was the mutual sense of not fitting in. Society had abandoned us, so we in turn cast out the conventions we were meant to adhere to.
School is the best days of your life, according to my mother.
I have no doubt that was true for her, affable and small and pleasant and good at tennis. An in-between sort of girl, not too cool or too clever but just enough of everything to be generally likable. She had part-time jobs and friends and a place on a nursing course before she even sat her A-levels.
I think adults misrepresent school. We're fed this bullshit from such a young age - that it is the best time of your life - that I felt guilty for not liking it. I felt like I was wasting a valuable chance, spunking away a childhood of youth and freedom on things that did not matter. Even now, I get jealous when people talk fondly about their early teenage years: I hated everything up till 17, when I shook off the loner victim mentality and proclaimed introversion to be too emo.
We can't put youth on a pedestal just because we retroactively yearn for it. Sure, sometimes I miss school, but only as an abstract notion. I miss the concept of playgrounds and half-terms and being with your friends five days a week. I don't miss the reality of backstabbing bitchiness and chronic sick-days due to my total, actual inability to face the world some days.
University was what kept me going. The prospect of it, golden and radiant, and predicating a good school education to get there. I got there. The institution of secondary school was worth it, and I am truly genuinely happy now (or, at least, working on it). I only hope to get happier.
I hope my cousin's son is happier at 12 than I was. I hope I am never that miserable again. But I take issue with all blanket proclamations that school years are the best years of your life. You can't spend life assuming your best days are behind you: all of my best days are to come, and will still be to come, for as long as I live. What's life without something to look forward to?
Tuesday, 22 April 2014
How to not be a dick in hostels.
I'll start with a disclaimer: I am by no means an expert.
But in the last 9 months, I've spent 11 weeks in 9 countries staying in hostels, so I have at least some idea.
I've had my share of grotty experiences, from shacks in Ayuthaya with only a fan to serve as "air conditioning" in the 37-degree heat and witnessing drug deals on an adjacent bunkbed in Vienna, to Tokyo dorms that more closely resembled pigeon-holes in post rooms and a Hong Kong digs with no shower.
But I've also had the best of times. That place in Tokyo is where I've made my best travelling friends. There's been a 6-person room to myself in Seoul, a free in-house onsen in Beppu, traditional tatami-matt rooms in Nagasaki and a guest-house built by the owner's own hands in Nara.
So here's my guide on how to not be a dick in hostels.
DO: take off your shoes. Especially in Asian countries, this is a big thing. But in general, unless the floor is made of lava, taking off your shoes at the door - at at least within your dorm - stops mud getting tracked everywhere you're living.
DO: be neat and tidy. Everyone is crammed in the same living quarters. Be on your best behaviour. Play nice.
DO: pay your dues. If you borrow someone's shampoo, lend them your razor or something. Mooching is not okay. And if you're in a position to help someone, do - which is why I am now apparently the "saint" of Nishi-Kawaguchi, after patching up someone's bleeding forehead with my handy first-aid kit.
DO: talk to people. Everyone. You might not get along with everyone, and that's okay. But you'll be amazed at who you meet - students, teachers, barmen, engineers, corporate drones; everyone in a hostel is there for a reason, and it's probably insatiable wanderlust.
DO: pick up other people's slang. I came back from a six-week trip with "aye" ingrained in my daily vernacular, and I am currently touting "Oh, I wouldn't say possibly, I'd definitely say for sure," on an irritatingly regular basis.
DO: realise that "where are you from?" is likely to replace "what's your name?" as an opening line. I've hung out for hours with people only to realise I have no way to identify them other than "the really tall Swedish guy" or "that Mexican guy's girlfriend".
DO: take chances. We get taught that there is danger around every corner, but travelling teaches you strangers are mostly kind. Have a drink or two, or three or four. Make friends. Go to karaoke and play football in the park. Appease the police. Kiss strangers. Laugh as much as you can.
DON'T: be noisy. So shut up in dorms. No calling friends at noon, because people WILL still be sleeping. No laughing drunkenly on the porch, and no sex. Okay, none of these are going to hold - but you should at least try and be quiet about them.
DON'T: do anything illegal.
DON'T: expect everyone to be your new best friend. Some people are just dicks. Accept it and move on.
DON'T: spend two hours in the shower. Especially if there's a very limited number. Get in, get clean, wash your hair, bugger off.
DON'T: feel guilty about engaging in behaviour that you would otherwise frown upon. A few cigarettes and make outs won't kill you, and it turns out that sharing someone's last smoke is a surprisingly good bonding experience.
DON'T: expect it to last forever. And at the same time - don't forget about it either.
Memories are all we have, really, as humans. Don't ruin someone else's. And let other people in - they're the ones who will make your memories really precious.
Go now, and hostel like a nice human being. And not a dick.
But in the last 9 months, I've spent 11 weeks in 9 countries staying in hostels, so I have at least some idea.
I've had my share of grotty experiences, from shacks in Ayuthaya with only a fan to serve as "air conditioning" in the 37-degree heat and witnessing drug deals on an adjacent bunkbed in Vienna, to Tokyo dorms that more closely resembled pigeon-holes in post rooms and a Hong Kong digs with no shower.
But I've also had the best of times. That place in Tokyo is where I've made my best travelling friends. There's been a 6-person room to myself in Seoul, a free in-house onsen in Beppu, traditional tatami-matt rooms in Nagasaki and a guest-house built by the owner's own hands in Nara.
So here's my guide on how to not be a dick in hostels.
DO: take off your shoes. Especially in Asian countries, this is a big thing. But in general, unless the floor is made of lava, taking off your shoes at the door - at at least within your dorm - stops mud getting tracked everywhere you're living.
DO: be neat and tidy. Everyone is crammed in the same living quarters. Be on your best behaviour. Play nice.
DO: pay your dues. If you borrow someone's shampoo, lend them your razor or something. Mooching is not okay. And if you're in a position to help someone, do - which is why I am now apparently the "saint" of Nishi-Kawaguchi, after patching up someone's bleeding forehead with my handy first-aid kit.
DO: talk to people. Everyone. You might not get along with everyone, and that's okay. But you'll be amazed at who you meet - students, teachers, barmen, engineers, corporate drones; everyone in a hostel is there for a reason, and it's probably insatiable wanderlust.
DO: pick up other people's slang. I came back from a six-week trip with "aye" ingrained in my daily vernacular, and I am currently touting "Oh, I wouldn't say possibly, I'd definitely say for sure," on an irritatingly regular basis.
DO: realise that "where are you from?" is likely to replace "what's your name?" as an opening line. I've hung out for hours with people only to realise I have no way to identify them other than "the really tall Swedish guy" or "that Mexican guy's girlfriend".
DO: take chances. We get taught that there is danger around every corner, but travelling teaches you strangers are mostly kind. Have a drink or two, or three or four. Make friends. Go to karaoke and play football in the park. Appease the police. Kiss strangers. Laugh as much as you can.
DON'T: be noisy. So shut up in dorms. No calling friends at noon, because people WILL still be sleeping. No laughing drunkenly on the porch, and no sex. Okay, none of these are going to hold - but you should at least try and be quiet about them.
DON'T: do anything illegal.
DON'T: expect everyone to be your new best friend. Some people are just dicks. Accept it and move on.
DON'T: spend two hours in the shower. Especially if there's a very limited number. Get in, get clean, wash your hair, bugger off.
DON'T: feel guilty about engaging in behaviour that you would otherwise frown upon. A few cigarettes and make outs won't kill you, and it turns out that sharing someone's last smoke is a surprisingly good bonding experience.
DON'T: expect it to last forever. And at the same time - don't forget about it either.
Memories are all we have, really, as humans. Don't ruin someone else's. And let other people in - they're the ones who will make your memories really precious.
Go now, and hostel like a nice human being. And not a dick.
Friday, 14 February 2014
Adventure time.
I want to see the world.
I want to put into words everything there is.
I want to gaze at the northern lights in Iceland and dance under falling leaves in a New England autumn. I want to see the clouds from the other side at the top of a mountain and come face to face with whales in the sea.
I want it all - all the cultures, all the tongues I don't understand, all the new places and experiences. I can't understand why anyone wouldn't.
I've got itchy feet just thinking about it. There is so much of the world to see that we can't ever see all of it. But it feels like we ought to at least try.
I want to feel my heart thudding against my ribs as I abseil down a building. I want to drive across deserts of sand in straight lines for hours. Catch a train across Russia. Backpack through Italian countryside. Headbang at festivals. Gaze in wonder at the same stars in the same sky in all the different countries I can.
In the book he gave me for my birthday, my then-boyfriend wrote: "To settle down is to admit you've seen all the world has. Never stop travelling." He spelled traveling wrong - because what does spelling matter, compared to the jungle islands of Micronesia or temples in Jordan?
What's the world for if we don't try and see it?
That is why I don't have the money to go out this week. It's all in my bank account, saving up for posing in front of signs in Gangnam and visting the hells of Beppu over Easter. I can't wait.
There isn't much of a point to this, except that mostly I love how my university loan is going to be spent on going new places and having new adventures. There's no education better than trying to see the world, is there?
I want to put into words everything there is.
I want to gaze at the northern lights in Iceland and dance under falling leaves in a New England autumn. I want to see the clouds from the other side at the top of a mountain and come face to face with whales in the sea.
I want it all - all the cultures, all the tongues I don't understand, all the new places and experiences. I can't understand why anyone wouldn't.
I've got itchy feet just thinking about it. There is so much of the world to see that we can't ever see all of it. But it feels like we ought to at least try.
I want to feel my heart thudding against my ribs as I abseil down a building. I want to drive across deserts of sand in straight lines for hours. Catch a train across Russia. Backpack through Italian countryside. Headbang at festivals. Gaze in wonder at the same stars in the same sky in all the different countries I can.
In the book he gave me for my birthday, my then-boyfriend wrote: "To settle down is to admit you've seen all the world has. Never stop travelling." He spelled traveling wrong - because what does spelling matter, compared to the jungle islands of Micronesia or temples in Jordan?
What's the world for if we don't try and see it?
That is why I don't have the money to go out this week. It's all in my bank account, saving up for posing in front of signs in Gangnam and visting the hells of Beppu over Easter. I can't wait.
There isn't much of a point to this, except that mostly I love how my university loan is going to be spent on going new places and having new adventures. There's no education better than trying to see the world, is there?
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