Tag Archives: travel

Understanding wisdom, part one: The good

July 28, 2015 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

One of the benefits of ageing (usually promoted by the aged) is that as the years pass and the lines deepen we gain wisdom. I imagine wisdom as functioning like a crystal ball, but rather than being fuelled by magic, it’s powered by knowledge accumulated through experience. And as we gain wisdom that gypsy trinket becomes more powerful, it enables us to gain insight into the potential consequences of our actions and decisions. It might not help us predict the future, but it can empower us to alter the way it unfolds.

Hindsight is an insidious gift, it enables me to imagine an edited version of my life. How many times have I wished I could rewrite a year, an hour, a moment, knowing what I got wrong the first time? How much more accomplished might my life be if I could undo that thoughtless comment, that spending of a taxi fare on three more drinks, that stuttered and premature admission of desire? But hindsight is also useful, especially if I use it in an equation like this: hindsight + consideration = wisdom. And as hindsight is only possible with experience, experiences are a necessary part of developing wisdom.

I’ve tried to rewrite this equation, adding in a component for any knowledge that I acquire through reading, research and television. Hindsight + consideration + Frank Herbert + Twin Peaks = wisdom. But I think I was fooling myself, I don’t believe watching Pretty in Pink or 500 Days of Summer improved my ability to make more considered romantic decisions. Not compared to the stinging memories of public rejection, scorned tattoos and love gone wrong. My discomforts, my excruciating embarrassments, they have provided far more coherent and consequential lessons than any film or book. Except maybe Once.

That hasn’t stopped me attempting to short-cut the wisdom crafting process though (and ignore my equation). After making the decision to switch to writing for a living I tried to cram wisdom. I studied freelance journalism, read Steven King’s “On Writing”, and watched every season of Californication. And three years later I now understand that it is writing every day which improves my capabilities as an author, not reading about how to do it. I imagine the same applies to knife fighting, ventriloquism and parkour. Making decisions, trying new things, taking action, that’s the way to build wisdom. And living an eclectic and varied life comes with serious fringe benefits, being willing to try new things is the greatest way I know of to combat prejudices, whittle away at naiveté, and teach myself to be humble.

So undergoing experiences means we develop hindsight, but that’s just one of the components of my equation. I spent a lot of time in my twenties and thirties running away from conformity, from repetition, from ruts. I gathered stories and leapt into adventures, but somehow wisdom seemed to side-step me. I’d recover from the more painful mistakes by jumping into a new adventure, and somehow the failures became just a measure of how resilient I was. How nothing could break me. So many of those failures could have been avoided with just a little reflection, a little consideration. I didn’t take time to examine how my wins and losses were affecting me, nor how they affected others. And instead of wisdom I ended up manufacturing regrets. It was only around four years ago that I found the courage to simply slow down and examine my darkest moments with as much scrutiny as my brightest. And in forcing myself to examine past decisions, I finally started finding ways to improve my future. Some wisdom, at last.

So my ongoing advice to myself is two-fold. Firstly, say yes. Do I want to try out my neighbour’s new crossbow over a couple of cans of beer? Yes! Though accumulated wisdom tells me that switching to Bourbon after we run out of Stellas is a bad idea. Through doing, learning, achieving, I grow. Secondly, there’s that consideration side of my equation. I need to reflect on my experiences, in order to develop. If the natural progression of spending Thursday nights firing bolts into bags of sand is dressing in a camouflage onesie and tracking sun bears with a loaded automatic weapon, then maybe it’s time to switch to sand boarding. I’m not so good at the killing.

In five weeks I’ll be looking up at the Pyrenees from a small town in the south of France, and taking my first steps on a five hundred mile walk that runs from Catalonia to Galicia. I’ll be exchanging stories over ciders, popping blisters next to open fires, and trying to avoid accidentally ordering octopus in Basque. My strongest motivator for this journey is introspection, both my own, and that practised by the other pilgrims. After around five weeks of walking I should reach the West coast of Spain, at a little place called Finisterre, and there I’ll look out over what was once considered the end of the world. And I’ll reflect on what I have done, knowing that while I might not have found answers, with some consideration I can at least ensure my experiences generate some wisdom.

I’d like to dedicate this to the memory of my grandfather Colin, a man whose wisdom I never took enough advantage of. But his curiosity about the world was inspiring, and I’ll be looking
out for him in the changes of weather above France and Spain. Laters Grandad.

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Horizons (charging into)

July 22, 2015 reganbarsdell 4 Comments

Two days ago I finished writing a story. It began as a tale about two kiwis and a Canadian who decide to use gangsters and mobsters to market their new vodka, hoping to gain street cred and instead attracting a range of terrifying challenges. But I was somewhere between New Mexico and Utah two years ago, watching electrical storms on four horizons when I realised that Vodka just wasn’t enough. As I viewed spectacular lightning splitting dusky widescreen horizons, I knew my characters needed grander problems than smuggling spirits into Liberia and the Ukraine would earn them. I needed to take on something that would echo across the world, something which would require commentary from the Pope. So these human lightning conductors decided to invent a better religion, and the vodka became part of the back-story. But that’s another story for a different day, publishers willing.

Soon after I began work on the book, I started writing this blog. As I set off on a research trip to the USA and Europe my life seemed to have become interesting enough for me to find something to write about every couple of weeks. I find that when I’m travelling I live at a much faster pace. Each day lived seems so visceral, so textured, so rich. Every meal is newly spiced, every conversation has an accent, every dawn is described by new sounds. Each morning makes a promise, that the day will harbour some lesson, some learning, some new understanding. I want to share the revelations, the encounters, the mistakes and consequences. And then I return home, and that pace drops away.

I haven’t posted anything here for eighteen months, not because I haven’t been inspired, but because the achievements were gradual ones, and their rewards were ones of delayed gratification. And because working in a job for an income rather than outcome stifles my imaginative creativity. It’s been a period of building for me, a passage of time during which I’ve managed to set myself up with foundations for a simpler life, one which enables freedom and creativity. And it has helped me further understand the joy of simple living, with kind and thoughtful people. But my passport hasn’t been soaked with the sweat of border anticipation for far too long, and my pack lies forgotten beneath my bed, comforted only by memories of a brief and beautiful jaunt through a Buddhist kingdom. And I want to write a new book, so I need character inspiration, semi-autobiographic comic relief and the rewards that come with making simple mistakes in unknown lands with friends I haven’t met yet.

I’m six weeks out from a flight to Paris, I’m buying walking shoes and train tickets, and my heart beats louder in my dreams. The world is opening up again, my skies are wider than an office window, the winter storms are all around me, unframed, unbound. The pace is picking up, the sound of a jet overhead has regained a personal significance, and as I watch others post photos and thoughts from Castle Donnington, Positano, the Orkney Islands, envy has given way to a feeling of fellowship. I’ve written 150,000 words about another man’s journey, it is time to slip back to first person perspective again. And it’s time to share my ideas once again, and hope to strike a chord, provoke a response, or even provide inspiration for someone else’s adventures.

The great thing about horizons is that just like tomorrow, they lie just out of reach. But unless we’re clinically depressed, our progress towards tomorrow requires no effort, no act of change, no brave decision. But to approach the horizon, that demands a building of momentum, a setting of sails, the anxious lottery of purchasing Easyjet tickets. And most of all it require the triumph of adventurous spirit over apathetic submission.

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365 days on

January 1, 2014 reganbarsdell 2 Comments

I don’t always want to look backwards on New Year’s Eve but this year has been my most transformative ever, and the happiest I can recall. I had some sad and harrowing moments, but these were entirely offset by incredible times with beautiful people, many of whom helped me learn to better understand myself. Old friends and new have provided new viewpoints, unconventional ideas, and someone to measure myself against. Four people in particular have helped me understand what it is that makes me happy: a couch surfer, a film maker, a child and my new best friend.

A Canadian dancer and snake breeder entered my life through a Couch Surfing request late last year. Over a couple of months this independent thinking woman introduced me to the possibilities my own country offered. Seaweed soups, diving for paua (and ending up with sea snails), and late night discussions on a nest of sofas were among the more endearing moments from our friendship so far. But it was her deep and thoughtful contemplation of the ways in which she interacts with the world that had me cocking my head like a curious spaniel. She introduced me to a range of ideas more quickly than I was able to take them onboard, but I’ve spent many odd moments digesting the fruitful concepts she fed me and adding them to my understandings. I’d like to thank her for living her life like an adventurer no matter what her circumstances are. She helped draw my eyes up from my navel to the horizon, and helped me understand how to plot a new path for myself.

An American film maker was a second Couch Surfing discovery. Our friendship was born from similar interests and it grew quickly through the sharing of incredible experiences. We spent six weeks soaring in New Zealand, teaching each other, complementing each other’s world views and growing as individuals. But when I caught up with her later in Colorado we found a way to undo our bond with doubts and insecurities. We sacrificed our ability to inspire each other to better things and I came to understand the fragility that our pasts can instill in us. I gained from our time together though, she taught me to write as myself, to have faith in my good nature, and never to place too much trust in the judgement of others. As we travelled through the heart of the United States I began to truly understand the deep beauty of the world we live in through her gentle appreciation of the intricacies of nature. I’m forever grateful for the time we had together, though sad it had to end with us managing to grow so far apart.

The new child in my life is my wee niece. When I returned from my travels I visited my brother, his girlfriend, and their duck-fixated daughter. She taught me of the ability of children to reconnect us grown-ups to our truer selves. When she crawls into a room she’s a focal point, and it is endless fun watching normally taciturn New Zealand males gently place their beer bottles on the table and sink to her height, replacing stoic stares with wrinkle-webbed grins. Though children this age are armed with only facial expressions and grunts, they are a reminder that even without language we can communicate so much. This smiling little girl also reminded me that I never want to forget how to find simple pleasure as she does, in the way clothes hanging on the line cast bouncing shadows on a lawn, in the potency of the flavour of a lime, in the infectious giggles of others. Plus she’s going to grow into an awesome excuse to buy slot car sets and radio controlled cars over the next dozen Christmases.

The fourth and most important new person came into my life just as this amazing year was coming to an end. I arrived back in Aotearoa ready to carve out a new life, to create a beautiful, simple space in which I and others could learn to craft their own homes. As I began my hunt for land I met this woman, this fiercely independent kiwi girl who has lived her life making difficult choices and then learning so much from the consequences. In a year of meeting influential people she’s been the most incredible revelation of all. She’s someone who understands the joy of thinking independently, the importance of living within the world rather than just on top of it, and the benefits of living mindfully. She sees and appreciates me for who I am, rather than who she or I wish I could be. She magnifies my hopes and amplifies my dreams, and I hope that I contribute as much positivity to her life as she’s already brought to mine. I like to think she’s the best possible reward for simply being good.

I’ve been fortunate to travel this year and meet a beautiful array of people in the places I visited. I learnt the pleasure of the honest compliment from Ron in Colorado, rediscovered painting for the sheer joy of it with Belfast Kate in Derry, and rediscovered the poignancy of romance when I visited the lock bridge in Cologne with Ilja and Ivo. But returning home reminded me that we don’t always have to hunt out great people in Reykjavik, Westmeath or South Dakota. Catching up with my cousins Ben and Bam reminded me of how much fun it is to return to the people who knew you as a volatile young immortal, and I met the most important person of my new future in Cuba Street, over a cup of tea and forty minutes of breathless conversation.

So this year I’m not going to a big New Years festival, or catching a flight to Fiji. Instead I’m going to spend the evening with my cousin’s family, along with my guru/mentor/heroine. I realised some time ago that it isn’t the setting that’s the most important thing, it’s who you share it with.

Some of my most memorable events of 2013:

1. Dolphin swimming in Kaikoura, capturing it all on GoPro, and then it being set to one of the most beautiful pieces of music in the world.

2. Realising the true impact of altitude after (very briefly) chasing a fit young dog up a mountain at 10,000 feet in Colorado, surrounded by wild elk, deer, and evidence of bears.

3. Experiencing extreme-costume-envy as my sister and I engaged in a Derry Halloween. Her home-made ‘Beaker’ costume hatched smiles in children, flashbacks in adults, and a great photo of her and I high-fiving in front of a Northern Irish police Land rover. And having the photo taken by a PSNI despising Belfast girl dressed as ‘Spring’.

4. Watching my usually-separated-by-thousands-of-miles family battle it out to get to sit next to my nine-month old niece at a gorgeous meal in a sunny Marlborough vineyard.

6. A day which started in Paekakariki laughing more deeply and painfully than I have in years, and ended in Shannon where I realised coming back to New Zealand was the best decision I could have made.

8. A night in a lighthouse on Wellington’s South Coast, watching the skies transform and realising there was no other place on this Earth I wanted to be more.

9. Hiking to the cold face of Franz Josef glacier whilst being overflown by hundreds of helicopters in the breaking light of dawn.

10. Being introduced to the ‘tiny house’ movement by Jupiter, in her gorgeously renovated trailer at the base of the rocky mountains. Be well, Jup’s, my thoughts are with you, wild woman.

11. My Grandmother Zoe’s wake, a chance to learn how she impacted so many people in such favourable ways.

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Eating and cooking my way through and into Europe

October 3, 2013 reganbarsdell 5 Comments

It took me a while to realise that like music, food is a great way to integrate with other people when you’re travelling. I’d always been envious of those talented musicians that can bind a group of strangers through memorising a couple of dozen universally loved songs. My guitar playing though, was woeful. I once hosted a dozen Finnish music students in the hostel in Northern Ireland. The delightful elvish musicians would play traditional folk songs, interspersed with heavy metal classics. I was smitten. I used to join them at gigs, then we’d all head back to the hostel basement and play acoustic versions of Metallica and Skid Row classics. As we passed around a bottle of Bushmill’s after their last gig the drummer put his arm around me. ‘Karhu, (Finnish for bear)’ he said, ‘you are very very bad with the guitar. But we love your enthusiasm.’ Ouch, another rock and roll dream trampled.

A couple of years after my musical defeat I was struggling to find work in Cambridge, England. My girlfriend and I had picked a city to live in based on a half day of lying beneath the trees along Jesus Green, eating cheese and onion sandwiches in the sun. Perhaps checking rent prices or employment opportunities would have made more sense, but I’ve always leaned more towards romance than practicality. I soon found that most job opportunities in the city involved teaching students at the university or tending to patients at the hospital. I decided hospitality work might be a safer option. I’d learnt a few culinary tricks from my father, I liked the idea of free coffee, and I found a cafe that didn’t need me to work evenings.

I’ve never worked so hard in my life. From the minute I put on an apron to the moment I peeled it off, I didn’t stop grafting. But along the way I learnt the formula behind a good dressing, the importance of a sharp knife, and the joy of creating a beautiful dish from obscure ingredients. I spent time with Steph, a gorgeous Costa Rican who introduced us to her grandmother’s tendency to cook almost anything with a bottle of coke. The last I heard, she was working in one of Jamie Oliver’s kitchens, hopefully he’s had a chance to sample her specialities before he found out the principal ingredient. I also got to work alongside Welshmen, Aussies, Canadians, Polish and Mexicans, and we all shared stories and samples of foods we grew up with and missed. So I received not just free lattes, but many new recipes, and an understanding of the degree to which food can eliminate cultural barriers.

I’m now able to draw even more from my travels, by learning from everything I eat. I’m in Holland at the moment, a country that isn’t know for its cuisine. But unknown cuisines are often the most fun, you have no pre-conceptions and there’s something special about unexpected treats. I loved sharing ‘new herring’ and palling (smoked eel) with Francoise’ ruddy cheeked Uncle Han at a mobile fishmonger. As I licked the smokey oils from my fingers I imagined how great the eel would be blended with cream cheese and a little smoked paprika. I got to experience a traditional treat, and I had another inspiration for future dishes.

The Dutch have been all too happy to introduce me to foods ranging from traditional childhood treats, to deep-fried pub grub. I got to sample bitterballen (deep-fried gravy balls) in darkened pubs, and poffertjes (mini pancakes with stewed fruit and cream) at an antique-crammed farmhouse restaurant. The best Dutch meal so far though (in terms of both flavour and sheer effort) was a sweet and sour meaty treat called zuurvlees. Ivo (one of our Maastricht hosts) made us this well known southern dish from his mother’s recipe. Preparation began with marinating beef for 24 hours, and eventually ended with the addition of appelstroop (a sweet apple sauce) and ontbijtkoek (breakfast bread), which are stirred into the thickening stew. The enjoyment was as much about the stories around the dish, as it was about the deep, rich flavours.

Autumn has set in here in Northern Europe. Ripened apples and pears weigh down the branches of the trees we cycle under, as we coast between windmills and canals. My hosts have provided beds, bikes, and entertaining conversations. I can’t pay them for their kindness, but I can cook this fresh seasonal fruit with thyme and honey, and roll fresh sweet pastry over the top. The appreciative sounds that escape between mouthfuls later in the evening don’t need much translation. None of us needs to learn a new language to draw pleasure from sharing a meal. That being said I’m sure at least half my Dutch vocabulary is names for pastries and condiments. Much of the rest is made up of words I can use to communicate my appreciation for each new delicacy. Mooi (nice) isn’t usually enough, I have to stretch to prima (terrific) or even lekker (luscious).

Six years ago I sold my last guitar to help pay for a ticket to England, a trip which saw me end up working in kitchens. I like the idea that my failure to spread joy through music so easily leant itself towards learning a new way to bind people together.

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From Ireland to Holland

September 21, 2013 reganbarsdell 2 Comments

I flew out of Dublin on Sunday, just hours before a set of airplanes were due to do a flyover of the River Liffey. Initially I was worried I was missing out on something rather grand, but two things shifted my disappointment to joy. Firstly I found out that the flight line-up included a jet owned by budget airline Ryanair, which guaranteed there would be delays and timing issues. Secondly, as we touched down in Maastricht a pair of biplanes with acrobats on their top wings flew over us, performing slow barrel rolls. They were bewitching in their lack of caution, and immediately I felt I was somewhere just a little bit special. Intimate daredevil acts rather than overblown theatrics, that’s the way to this boy’s heart.

Maastricht rests at the base of the Netherlands, nestled between Belgium to the West, and Germany to the East. Soon after our arrival Francoise and I are led to the city centre by her friends (and our enthusiastic and engaging hosts), Ilja and Ivo. As we walk towards the spires that lance the skies above the city centre, the streets shrink and the buildings grow. While strolling we’re constantly passed by cyclists on gearless grandma bikes. The age of the bikes and their poorly mounted bells ensure they never approach silently as they judder and clatter down the bricked lanes. My mood shifts between delighted and charmed as I hear and smell the cafes and bars, and glance down the narrow alleys that run between the aged building frontages.

Churches and cathedrals are often the most impressive structures in European cities and towns, and this place is no exception. But as the spiritual requirements of nations and their populace change, these buildings frequently languish in ghostly silence. Here though, the religious monoliths abandoned by those whose faith has evolved are being resurrected in some very interesting ways. Their gothic and baroque shells are providing beautiful usable spaces, and the result of these renovations are locations thick with atmosphere, and enlivened by their renewed purpose.

We start with a visit to one of these updated properties, which the Guardian newspaper called “the most beautiful bookshop in the world”. As we enter between thick steel doors I’m spellbound. In 2008 the centre of this ancient Dominican church was filled with a three-story skeleton of black steel bookshelves and walkways. Cleverly the hollow structure ensures your views of the thirteenth century stonework are barely impeded, no matter which way you look. The more functional appeal of the towering steel work, is that it enables me to get closer to the ceilings as I ascend the stairways. Up here the carefully lit stone ceilings offer up their artful decorations far more effectively than from the floor a hundred feet below. I shudder a little as I can almost feel the haunts peering over my shoulder as I flick through novels and magazines.

Our next stop is another post-religious renovation, the Kruisherenhotel. This sixty room conversion is a brilliant example of converting the intimidating to the intimate. The lighting must take the most significant credit for the transformation, diffused spotlights are used to accentuate the past as much as they are to illuminate the present. The placement of modern sculptures between ancient detailing doesn’t push the boundaries of taste, and the use of the padded doors from the old confessional booths inserts a softer texture between the hard stone and steel.

These sympathetic installations help to highlight the pride of the citizens of this old city. They have ensured that the past hasn’t just been preserved, but that it is functional, that it is integrated into people’s lives.

Yesterday was a day of less metropolitan pleasures. We boarded a boat tour on the Maas River, bound for four locks, and a nosey at what canal living was like. It was a journey of the simplest comforts, my belly was warmed with Nescafe coffee, and filled with home-made cheese and pickle sandwiches. The Dutch commentary was intermittent, and fortunately translated by Francoise. Entertainingly the gaps between the captains explanations were filled by an eighties mega-mix. The sounds of Roxette and Tears for Fears tunes built a nostalgic backdrop and put me in a contented mood as we drifted along the waterways. We passed rowing teams, long barge houses and occasional upset geese, and the even the grey skies and patches of rain couldn’t mute my pleasure.

Somehow this city has quickly drawn me in. I’m enjoying picking out what I can from the written and spoken Dutch language, it seems to draw enough from German and English to make translation an entertainment rather than a chore. I love that the people are frequently on bikes or foot, and perhaps as a result there are few signs of the obesity issues of other places I’ve been travelling lately. And this despite every delicacy I’ve tried so far being either very sweet, or being cheese.

It’s interesting to compare the way I feel here, to the way I feel in Ireland. If cities might be people then I’m pretty sure Dublin is a dishevelled old bloke with a taint of beer and loss, who covers his concerns with cheeky bravado. He’ll never quite earn my trust, though I’ll not forget him in a hurry. I always feel a little more at ease when I leave him behind. Maastricht on the other hand is a tall, sensibly dressed woman in her thirties. I noticed a small curious tattoo on her wrist every time I chat to her, but her banter would be so engaging that I would always forget to ask about it. Like the presence of the tattoo, her tales about her life always leave me with at least one more question at the back of my mind.

I’m very thankful for the circumstances which drew me here, I only wish I had more time to take on what this region seems to offer. I’m sad to be leaving Lady Maastricht in a couple of days, but I guess there’s always another tomorrow.

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The people we choose to spend time with

September 8, 2013 reganbarsdell 1 Comment

We spend a large portion of our lives with a number of people due to circumstances, rather than choice. Life starts this way. We don’t get to choose those assigned to nurture us, those kin who will contribute significantly to our initial ideas on how the world works. Whether we’re raised within a family, a tribe, or an orphanage, those around us during our formative can either inhibit or develop our sense of self-worth. Their actions act as a template for our moral framework. They can help us to understand that we are valuable and valued, or they can damage us beyond repair.

Once we leave home, many of us will spend eight around hours a day with a new mix of people in order to earn a living. Our workmates are likely to affect our day-to-day mood, the degree of satisfaction we derive from our jobs, and our desire to seek new opportunities and advance ourselves. They may also influence our diets, our political views and our prejudices. And we don’t usually get a say in the selection process for these people either.

So we spend a lot of our lives being influenced by an arbitrary assortment of people. How important is it then that we take care in selecting the rest of the people that we hang out with? I was at a wedding in the United Kingdom a few years ago, and I was asked to make an impromptu speech. I thought about the friends of the groom that I knew, some witty, most currently drunk, and all affectionate. I spoke of how a person might be judged by the qualities of their friends. Looking at those we choose to share our time with can help us understand a lot about ourselves. Do I like Karl because he’s the only person who will stay out drinking with me until 5:00am? Do I like spending time with Kelly and Janine because they are gorgeous, and when we’re seen together around town feel like I’m living in a music video? Or do I spend as much time as possible with Di, because she reminds me to be myself, and at times inspires me to be my best self?

A good friend’s father once told her that the worst place to meet a lad was in the pub, that she should instead hope to find a boyfriend in more positive environment. I can understand the logic behind this, though the population of the UK and Ireland might dwindle if it were to become a popular idea.

Meeting people through an activity which improves us, seems more likely to lead to positive relationships. Marathon clinics, Spanish classes, football teams, all these activities bring us into contact with people who want to improve, and who are happy to share the experience. Over the past year I’ve found my closest new companions through hosting travellers on my couch. We shared a joy for exploring new country’s and trying new activities, and we aren’t afraid to stay in a stranger’s home. They’ve accompanied me on sand castle building competitions, glacier climbs and surf lessons. They’ve been people who have actively encouraged me to live more enthusiastically, and I’m hopeful that at least a couple of them will become friends for life. And now I get to catch up with some of them in their homelands. I haven’t connected with every single one, but i know from experience that if I had met ten strangers in a pub, I wouldn’t end up rafting the Grand Canyon with any of them.

We shouldn’t underestimate the power that others have to transform us. I owe it to myself to find friendships with people who I admire, respect and am occasionally envious of. They’re more likely to motivate me through their actions and inspire me through their ideas. And if I am brave enough to be open and honest with them and they still want to spend time with me, then that’s an amazing and rewarding thing.

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Travelling on, without leaving myself behind

September 4, 2013 reganbarsdell 4 Comments

Sometimes I’m incapable of examining my own behaviour with any degree of detachment. I sit so deep within my life that I struggle to see shifts in my mood, or changes in my thinking. This has resulted in a somewhat rough week of introspection.

My most recent summer in New Zealand was an incredible time. I had been seasoned by a difficult winter, and rather than curling up into bitterness and cynicism, I hit spring with all the positivity I could muster. I found a home near the sea, worked hard with a mix of entertaining people, and experienced some of my country’s most beautiful and thrilling offerings with a Couch Surfer who was to become a great friend. It was the warm culmination of six months of rebuilding myself, of figuring out what drove my happiness.

Hosting travellers for several months had reminded me of the joys of discovering new lands and strange cultures. I resolved to set flight again, determined this time to see it as a way of achieve specific tasks, rather than just aiming to ‘expand my horizons’. Sub-consciously I knew I didn’t need to find myself, or grow in any substantial way, I had earned tranquility through my own positivity. I had an opportunity to work on my writing and spend time with an inspirational woman in the United States, and I knew the opportunity was too good to miss. I handed in my notice, and boarded a flight to Los Angeles.

I’ve travelled quite a lot, I’ve become accustomed to creating new homes in new lands in a matter of days. But each departure from home is different, and this time somehow I left something of myself back in Wellington. Within days of leaving my friends, family and stability, I began to undo, to fray at the edges. I was being introduced to some incredible experiences. I was encountering critters, scenery and kindness, and I knew I was very fortunate to be exploring a new land, with an incredible host. But somehow I remembered my capacity for over analysis. I began to actively think myself into a difficult place, largely due to uncertainty and anxiety. I was still having a great time, but I began to draw into myself.

It is a very humbling experience, having someone you care about very much let you know that they don’t know who you are anymore. I couldn’t see the changes, and in the end I had to make a very difficult decision to leave a perfect situation, to give me some space to reassess. I’m now in Northern Ireland, staying in my sister’s Backpacker Hostel while I untangle the strands of me that got knotted. I left behind a bed in a castle, a captivating American and a comfortable writing environment. I’m hoping to rejoin all of these very shortly, but I have to know I deserve them first.

In the meantime a week in Derry has helped me understand how much I’ve changed over the past few years. A couple of nights ago I was sitting in the “Indian Room” chatting at length with my sister and a Canadian traveller about life, travel, and hostel experiences. Next door in the main lounge twelve energetic young travellers were passing about bottles of Black Bush and preparing for a big night out. I realised I was in the right room. I’ve grown out of the need to steal centre stage. I used to feel a need to counteract my tendency towards quiet enthusiasm with boisterous bravado.

It’s always been important to me to remain young at heart. I’m frequently frustrated by people whose horizons shrink with every year that they age. But I realise now that I have different needs than I had in my twenties. I don’t need to age, but I do need to mature. I need to be understood for who I am, I need to spend time with people I admire, and I need to remember that the real me is far more engaging than any character I might play. I’ve also realised that some degree of stability and predictability in my life isn’t a bad thing. Knowing where I might be in six months and who I might be sharing that with, those things let me concentrate on advancing everything else.

I thought my greatest travelling challenges would involve surviving arid desert landscapes, avoiding grizzly bears, and finding a flat white in America. Instead my struggles have been internal. I’ve learnt how important it is to hold onto my sense of who I am. It’s not easy having to confront your fallibility in a foreign land, but I’m back on track now. Life should be about living that next day just a little better. And it all begins today.

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Hellooo Europe. And Britain.

August 26, 2013 reganbarsdell 1 Comment

I’ve only just got it. Really, really got it. I’ve figured out that I travel for the interactions with others, the scenery really is just a set of backdrops. Iceland prompted this realisation. It’s a wet wee isle, entertaining scenery, but nothing hugely different to what I can see back home, at least in summer. And certainly not as dramatic as some of the visual splendour I travelled through in the US. But the people, the stories told by the people, the self-deprecation, the feisty humour. Smashing. A tour guide led a small group of us through Reykjavik the day we arrived. She told stories of christmas trolls, believing in elves enough to move motorways and the surprise election of the current mayor of the capital city (a stand up comedian). She lovingly took the piss out of her compatriots, and I knew I wasn’t in America anymore. This was an arts university graduate working for tips, and she was genuinely witty in her second or third language. Not even on brewery tours had anyone been this engaging in the States.

I love that Iceland is so proud of their gene sharing with the Viking hordes. They quietly, almost reluctantly admit that their own Viking heroes were largely sheep farmers and horse breeders rather than raping, murdering pillagers. They sell Norse God action figures and install huge longboat sculptures on the foreshore, and their mythologies are woven into their lives. They seem a very self-assured people, fighting International conventions to ensure whale meat remains available in restaurants. I’m from a tiny island in the middle of nowhere too, but we have a nationally tendency to be somewhat apologetic about what others might see as our short comings. Icelanders have a depth of pride that maybe kiwis can learn from.

The Maori people back home have a strong mythologised culture too. Legends provide children with strong heroes, moral guidance and a sense of belonging. I found that many Americans were ignorant of the tales of the Native American tribes, which is a great shame. I loved the myths of so many countries as a child, and I was proud that my country had our own. But lately in New Zealand general access to our mythic heritage may be under threat. The cultural icons of the Maori people are being assessed for copyrighting and trade marking. As a result I’m starting to lose confidence in my right to claim any degree of allegiance with what I see as my own cultural heritage, seemingly because I’m a whitey. Where in Iceland their stories and legends are a unifying point of cultural pride, I hope that in New Zealand they don’t end up contributing to divisions between people.

I didn’t have nearly enough days in Iceland, but at least my flight out was bound for another entertaining stop, London. Every time I accidentally on purpose end up in the shining jewel of the British empire something fun is kicking off. This time I did a search for “beer festivals” just a day or two before I flew out of Denver, and lo! The biggest beardy weirdy drinking convention in the British Isles was kicking off from the day I arrived. Yes please! London Olympia was lined with 800 beer, cider and perry (pear cider) taps, pork scratching vendors and bratwurst stands. The London Craft Beer Festival was having its debut outing the same weekend, but we decided to kick it old skool in hopes of avoiding over-hopped new world styles. We had no regrets as we sipped at creamy stouts and comfy brown ales. It was one of those events you wish you could teleport all your mates to. We shared a pint with one of the Scottish brewers, many of the smaller breweries had only one pint on tap (out of a total 800), and their alcohol architects were at hand to talk up their wares. The event was more about tasting than boozing, and there wasn’t a single screen showing football…Good on ya English beer brewing fellah’s and pickled fish vendors.

London was another briefish four-day interlude. Gatwick to Dublin is a quick hop, and then it was a skip to the bus lanes, and a jump to Castlepollard in Westmeath. I’ve been living in Castle Tullynally for a week now, helping with the gardening and tourist shepherding. I was shocked to find it only took 48 hours to get used to waking up and looking out the boudoir window to see white and grey towers and the arched gateway. I guess that’s a positive thing though, running a huge mansion looks like exhausting work, and the place probably costs even more than a two bedroom flat in Wellington. I’m enjoying being able to wander down to the vegetable gardens and harvest fresh beetroot for tonight’s chocolate cake though. And on the way back to the kitchen I pass donkeys, llamas and battlements, and I reflect on how fortunate I am to get to call another place home, even if briefly. I’ve always had mixed feelings about the Republic of Ireland, again it’s a people thing. It’ll be interesting to see how some time living with the locals shifts my perspective. And of course there’s some lovely scenery.

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Ten weeks in the US

August 12, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

Over the past few days I’ve started feeling myself transitioning towards my next destination. Chatting to myself in an Essex accent, considering what something might cost me in pounds or Icelandic Krona. I’ve been resisting this as much as possible though, so that I can draw as much as possible from my last weeks here. Every day her has had unexpected surprises, strange encounters and at least one “accidental” exposure to high fructose corn syrup. This week it was American Donuts. Homer Simpson, I concur.

One of the simplest ways to access another culture is via their food. My mate Paul has worked in the grocery trade back home for yeeeeaaars. He and I discovered Eastern Europe together a few years back, as part of an Oktoberfest training mission. The first thing we’d do on hitting a new country is visit a supermarket, buy up unknown deli delights that could be placed on bread, and had a backpacker picnic. Uncle Bully would have cried if he’d been with me on my first foray into a King Soopers store. Nothing in this unfeasibly huge warehouse of edibles comes in just a single variety. A hundred different bottled waters, a dozen different icing sugars. Ice Cream. Baseball nut ice cream (no idea), cotton candy ice cream, lunar cheesecake, “Icing on the Cake” ice cream, and (I shit you not) “Premium churned reduced fat no sugar added caramel turtle truffle flavour”. I can’t be left in the freezer section alone.

A couple of days ago I popped into a bottle-shop/bottlo/liquor store to buy gifts. Same gig, key lime and cream vodka, seriously. It was a mecca for booze hags. I’ve been somewhat bemused by the ability of US TV cops to drink all afternoon, tip the barman eighty dollars, bounce of every wall on the way out of the pub, heave their last three Long Islands into a gutter, then pull out their car keys. The attitude towards drinking and driving may, just may, need addressing. Bars are frequently in the middle of nowhere, next to a highway, with huge car parks. And the beers are cheap. Cover your eyes fellow craft beer drinkers, because here I’m paying around $4 for a pint of good nitro milk stout. They stop just short of asking if you’d like that pint of absinthe in a take away cup.

I’ve been out on expeditions a couple of times with a talkative, intelligent gent, a home brewer with an entertainingly understanding of booze. Unfortunately a drink driving incident a couple of years ago means he now has to blow into a breathalyser attached to his cars ignition, prior to driving. Once the car’s in motion he then gets peeped at every fifteen minutes, and again has to blow, or something happens. Maybe the engine dies, and the power breaks and steering lock, I don’t know, I haven’t been shared a bottle of tequila with him on the road. He also had to undergo all manner of other anti drink driving education prior to even getting back in the car. So there’s punishment for those who get shid-faced, then drive, then get caught. But the inebriated horse has already bolted. Room for improvement, America. Just sayin’.

One of the most valuable discoveries in the past week, has been the introduction to the “Tiny House” movement. I’ve spent the majority of my time in Colorado living in a trailer park. Firstly these miniature communities have all the imagined entertainment benefits. The stories behind why people shift into them are often visceral, and hugely varied. They’re also far more communal than a suburban setting, no fences, entertainment spaces (car ports) open to the street, thin walls. Your bongo playing, midweek boozing and stand-up arguments are communal activities. But far more relevantly to a wandering pedlar of stories, they’re affordable. People choose to live here because they’re don’t end up tied into a thirty mortgage. Ok, and because in some cases no bank would ever offer them one. But you can buy a trailer for the price of a car, and pay a low rental fee to the park owners. There are some sound lessons here, and the owner of a beautifully renovated trailer opposite Francoise’s put me onto “Tumbleweed Homes”.

Tumbleweed Tiny Houses

The “tiny house” idea takes things a step further, it involves serious “downsizing”. These owner built shelters are all about eliminating unnecessary space, they’re a counter to the huge McMansions that loom in new housing developments, and all the stresses associated with them. They’re not for everyone, if you like swinging cats you’ll be disappointed. But you can build one for as little as $10,000, and as long as it’s small enough, you can install it on a trailer. There are minimum house size requirements in the US, but if you can mount it on wheels, you can construct to any size you like. I’m taking some of the ideas back home. I don’t need five bedrooms, I need a space of my own which I’ve built to meet my needs. And to avoid the stress of lifetime debt. And to live in a community that accepts the twitchy writer guy who lives in a treehouse…

Sigh. In two days I’m leaving Colorado for Iceland. I imagine it’ll take some time for me to digest all that I’ve been through here in the States, spending time in Europe and Britain will no doubt help me apply perspective. I’ve had my expectations variously fulfilled, exceeded and trampled upon. And I’ve met some beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent people. To all of you that have helped a kiwi discover sand boarding, rock climbing, and rules around Native Americans getting exclusive rights to sell fireworks, thank you so, so much. To all the Americans I didn’t get to meet, maybe next time. I’ll definitely be back.

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The light and dark of road trips

August 2, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

It’s vultures that circle the skies, from Colorado down through to Arizona. The hawks and eagles are in remission this year, and maybe the one before. The carrion feeders are on display, and at times it’s a little unnerving. Like when you’re low on fuel fifty miles from your destination, on desert flanked roads.

Over the past ten days I’ve travelled South West, across a dry, over-stretched lands. More than ever it has become apparent how this country was born of her passageways, first her railways, then her roads. The combined powers of the oil and transport industries have conspired with politicians to produce the cheapest gas prices I’ve experienced. The result is a nation scattered across a continent, with hundreds of miles between real destinations. And the hulks that travel the black top, churning through fossil fuels that this country seems so loathe to give up, they’re evidence of ignorance limited global resources. Huge RV’s tow four-wheel drives, which in turn are loaded with Harley’s. Madness.

Restaurants and gas stations are centred on nothing more substantial than the road. A million miles of anchor points for the chain takeaway empires fencing their wares. It’s not just the V8’s that tear through crude fuels on voyages between the States, their drivers need high fructose corn syrup to hammer that accelerator. Amongst the repeated signposts though, are the struggling entrepreneurs, the Moms and Pops trying to make a living from the fast travelling millions. So road trips are long stretches of gradually shifting scenery, punctuated by handmade signposts beckoning towards vaguely promising distractions. We pull over for cheap root beer floats, fields of coloured dinosaurs or UFO watch towers. Anything to break up the journey, and allow engagement with what we hope will be true American characters, aching to leak unlikely stories and sketchy explanations for their way of life.

At least these people are fighting to make a living, no doubt balancing a number of revenue streams, and employing friends and family where possible. It’s the reservation lands though, that speak to my heart. Intermittent, unkempt “Travel centres” are advertised as being run by tribes, names that I have always associated with pride. Navajo, Ute, Lakota. But these rundown halls offer only broken coffee machines, two litre slushies and an unvarying array of “hand crafted” trinkets. They’re usually overseen by despondent, overweight women.

Worse than these though, are the faded advertising boards which count you down to casino turn offs. Each time the promised centres of “hot gaming” are horrid windowless buildings squatting in a fenced off portion of wilderness. There are always a few dozen cars littering the mid day mid-week car parks. How can these fetid holes be a temptation? One proudly advertises all you can eat crab legs for twenty bucks. It hardly seems a steal, and I can imagine the stench as the patrons hiccup and belch at the pokie machines, greasy yellow stains dappling their frontage. Yellowed teeth are no doubt bared as they stab at the buttons, their shambling motions dislodging crustacean shards onto shiny surfaces, then to be picked out by rhythmic pulsing lights. Shudder.

It seems that there is a canyon separating these tribal people from the rest of the nation, and that continued ignorance is widening the gap. On a reservation campsite we get a talk from a young half Navajo ranger, and he mentions how nice it is to get the chance to talk to others about the ways of his people. He talks of past achievements of his ancestors with fondness, but the litter covered grounds of his peoples National Park seem to speak of giving up. In my country we’ve had our problems, our difficulties between those who came before, and those who arrived after. Some of the Maori tribes in New Zealand are creating positive changes through engaging with their cultural heritage, I can only hope that the same is happening here in the United States. And that these examples will eventually be a beacon for those who seem to have abandoned hope.

After almost two months of engaging with this country, I’m starting to see the cracks. I love the landscapes and the critters. I love the ideas behind what America was meant to be. I love the chocolate cream pie. The coffee…not so much. It honestly seems that for a long time now this really has been a land of opportunity for many people. But things seem to be coming undone. A new nation is a little like a newly founded religion. This country was set up, much like a fresh faith, with so much positivity, with such positive ideals, and with such trustworthy ambition. But the world’s religions begin to lose their way when they place intermediaries between the believers and their belief. Translators of god’s word. Keepers of the faith. And it is especially dangerous when these intermediaries are given powers and knowledge beyond the rest of us mortals. The US government is now keeping secrets from its people, implementing hidden laws to “protect” the flock. Secret spying, offshore prisons where people are held indefinitely without trial, stealing people away in the night from both within and outside of her borders. America is slowly sacrificing those most important things it stood for.

Maybe this shift will be undone. Protests exist, and in Boulder I’ve talked to a lot of frustrated, intelligent people who see the issues. But it seems that in general there’s a tendency towards national complacency, complacency encouraged by the media. A media which often encourages rage in all the wrong directions. I have seen so much to love about this country, and met a range of positive, self motivated people. I hope that people like these will be able to shake the others out of their sugar-fuelled drudgery, in time to halt the backwards slide. Because I want to return here and see a lot more. But I wonder quietly, if someone somewhere will be reading this blog, and putting a wee cross next to my name.