Chichen Itza, Mexico (Image Source:

8 November 2010

I’m on the train, heading to Newtown. The carriage smells of damp. Dashed lines of rain interrupt my view of the grey sky, the grey rip-rap and the wet rusted railway lines. It’s meant to be late Spring but I’m dressed in a red jacket and a knee length woollen coat. My sunflower-print umbrella, the one that leaked all the way to the station, is at my feet. A paperback, Donald Westlake’s The Ax, has been stashed in my satchel bag. I got through four pages. I can’t focus. It’s three weeks until Matt and I head off overseas for what he calls our Global Prowl. To keep himself busy while we travel he’s got himself a spot writing travel articles for He’s  also got two novels to write and about forty paperbacks to read – the Donald Westlake in my bag being one of them. Each of those forty paperbacks I’ve been told is the perfect size and weight for travelling. Now that I’m reading the Westlake maybe it won’t make the cut.

My planning hasn’t gotten that far. I’m a bit worried that three weeks out I still haven’t been to the doctor to get my shots, still haven’t applied for an Egyptian Visa or the American ESTA, still don’t know whether to book transport to Kitchener or Montreal for Christmas, and still haven’t found a good pair of walking shoes.

Our itinerary so far includes a seven month trip through San Francisco, New York, Kitchener/Toronto/Montreal, Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico City, London, Cairo (via an unconfirmed number of countries), Athens (via an unconfirmed number of countries) and finally Thailand where no doubt we will squeeze the last juices from our savings. France, Portugal, Spain Croatia, Bulgaria and Poland may or may not be added. No doubt the trip will be an exploration of cultural jetsam: museums; archaeological ruins; art galleries; literary pilgrimages and hopefully a good meal or two.

Everyone has been telling me that New York is the best city in the world except the newspapers that tell me it’s the best city in the world for bedbugs. I’ve given offence to my New York-initiated friends on several occasions by doubting that New York is a wonderful town. Beyond museums and the unavoidable jazz venues I don’t know what I shall see, eat, do. I have been told that you can do anything, any time in New York. This is great, because I really want to climb a pyramid.

In case climbing pyramids in New York falls through, I should get to explore exotic old ruins in Mexico – Cakamul, Palenque, Tulum, Chichen Itza – along with the other million tourists washing up onto the shores of the Yucatan Peninsula during January. Treasure, trash in unequal portions. I guess I’ll get to see how tourism and conservation co-exist (and be part of the conservation problem).

A man in a poncho sits next to me on the train and plays chess on his phone. I don’t believe he is Mexican -that would be too much of a co-incidence – but I bet he doesn’t worry about theft and kidnapping when he travels, just as he doesn’t mind wearing something a little out of the norm for Sydney.  I’m embarrassed to say that I hold all the fears and trepidations of an inexperienced and nervous traveller. Such fears make me the kind of tourist who is all too tempted to get on that tour bus to avoid standing out and those little impracticalities caused by blatant ignorance and stupidity. While on that tour, I’d probably feel tempted to buy a poncho at the tourist shop but feel guilty for a) spending money and b) spending money on an item that probably sent a granny blind. Six months later you’d probably find me back in Sydney shivering at train stations because I didn’t pack my poncho in case someone looked at me. If that’s not self-indictment, I don’t know what is.

I don’t buy into the whole travelling to find yourself bullshit. I don’t have work at any of our planned destinations, I’m not writing a book and I’m not studying anything. I’ve bought a plane ticket to see stuff. This makes me a consumer. Let’s hope that this trip at least gives me a more global perspective and maybe in amongst all the interesting bits of cultural driftwood we find there are a few pieces worth turning over for a second look. Maybe even New York.