Christian Perez's Travel Journal

The Art of Travel, Mon May 22, 2006

I am struggling with a problem. I feel stuck, in a slump, somewhat isolated, adrift amid a flotsam of 'friends', bored yet overwhelmed by too many options for adventure, strapped for cash with too much time left, but not enough time to find work even if I wanted it. Should an overseas holiday, the so-called trip of a lifetime, be plagued with such nagging worries as this?

There are two issues: dislocated from everything I know, I no longer am sure who I am--and with such a constant uncertainty as my own identity, how am I to connect with others to form a meaningful experience out of such transient relationships? And thirdly, why am I using such a complicated sentence structure? I think the stress has gotten to me...

These thoughts spawned a restless need to get out, and look! a car of my own in the car park! What a lovely coincidence. So I drive, and I see the crashing turquoise ocean on the rocky cliffs of Kaikoura--snow peaked mountains rising out of earth that seems only a stone's throw from the surf-soaked beaches. I write a message out of white stones on a small hill on the beach--"Will U Marry Me"--in hopes that such a universal tear-jerker will avoid the cannibalisation suffered by other messages. It's time-consuming to collect the stones... (ironic, or course, that I swiped my stones from two others.)

Adventure beckons in Hanmer Springs, but first I do something I haven't ever done before... I walk into a souvenir shop and buy a trinket. Before you hiss at me in disappointment at my sudden transformation into a 'tourist', you should know it was actually a pottery gallery run by the artist, whom I interviewed intensely for almost an hour to determine if his art was really worth my 30 bucks. I discovered that 'travelling' becomes merely 'passing through' unless you stop, take a moment, and chat to a perfect stranger who lives there, and maybe take a piece of that moment with you. I have the inspiration of his life story and a nice piece of original kiwi art. I think it was worth a weeks worth of fish and chips, which in the end, just turns to poo anyway (which you can't hang on your wall as art.)

Adventure beckons again, so I follow this time. After meeting two Americans--the lovable afro'd chain-smoking pothead from San Diego and the (most likely) gay (probably) millionare from Georgia--we agree destiny has brought us here together to go mountain biking. A glorious afternoon of sunshine confirms our fate, and we head off for a magnificent, mud-filled two hours of front somersaults into trees, bushes, roots, rocks and the occasional soft earth, with moments of perfect clarity when making it around a steep corner without bodily harm or loss of balance. I return limping and proud, and wear my dirt smudges like scars hard-won from a battle long-fought.

Immediately upon returning to Christchurch, my spirits sink (even after attending a great rugby match.) Slowly, the beginnings of a thought come to me, inspiried by a story the pottery artist told me. The direction of your life can change dramatically with only one simple choice. Does mastery of the art of travel--life-changing, culturally-enriching, emotionally-invigorating travel that requires only time and an open mind--begin right now for me, if only I can summon the courage to choose it?

I think I've found at least a temporary solution to my woes: get the heck out of this town. I meet Alex, who needs a ride north and bribes me with pancakes, and my fate is confirmed, a direction chosen. The boy is heading north.