emotionalmarkup

I’m swimming in the dour blue decor of Sydney International airport. Behind me, an American soap opera blares out vacuous platitudes and those we-pay-our-writers-ten-dollars-an-hour plot lines. In front of me are ashen stares, captivated by their fleeting predicament. Like me they are coming to terms with the next ten hours in economy class and riveting dialogue such as: “Abe found out the truth and thinks I’ve got something to do with it. Oh my God.” And like Abe’s eventual response, my flight was to be as uneventful.

But words demand to be written, particularly when the words represent the universal lamentations of international travel. If humans are evolving, and implicit in this evolution is that we’re all growing taller, then no-one told Cathy Pacific. While there’s ample area for everything above the hips, the seats leave so little room for the rest of your body that every adjustment, scratch and lunge for the water bottle is monumental struggle. I’m not overly tall for a human. I don’t stand above the crowds and never brush my head against the roofs of public transport facilities but my knees are unaccustomed to being wedged against anything but my levis when I squat, which isn’t very often anyway. Only a touring troupe of contortionists would be the last to complain, and I’m certain that, after eight hours even they might feel the need to liberate themselves, run up and down the aisles and cry to the gods of joints and ligaments for clemency.

So you can imagine the relief when the sleeping pills finally kicked in.

As much fun as it is, being the plaintiff in a one-sided tirade detailing the injustices and human misery associated with moving around the planet, none of this is new to the travelling public nor to me, but despite being such adaptable creatures, I fail to see how one can grow accustomed to 24 hours of this experience. My next charitable donation will go to whatever society fights for the rights of battery hens, or teleportation research, or, if I’m suffering from acute jet lag, whoever approaches me in the street with a bucket and absurd costume.

As I fly over what I hope to call my new home for a while, arising from its sleep and looking into the sun streaked mirror of the Mediterranean, I wonder how the scales will balance. Will I regain the imagination I’d sledge-hammered into a corner in my head with drugs, love and the rhythm of routine? Can I ignite a sense of passion into my artistic, culinary and verbal output? Or is it escapism in disguise? To alter your life for experiences; to blow yourself into a dramatic change with a cyclone of amnesia, denial, fear and hope, is the ultimate masochistic act - far greater than stapling your nipples to leather straps, although the risk of infection is about the same depending on the continent.

I type these words just after having landed at Barcelona airport – all baggage accounted for; guitar in one piece and begging for a shower. There’s an unexpected feeling of calmness here at 10:30am. Outside, tourists are lighting up cigarettes fuelled by the same fervour that rammed them through the customs gates. Every so often I hear snippets of French, Italian and English – all of which I can claim to understand at some level. The air smells clean but a faint trace of coffee screws my nostrils like a rabid dog on heat. That’s where I’m headed first.