weekend away up the coast
So I've been watching for a weekend when I had both days free, and one came around last weekend, and on Thursday night at like 1:30 in the morning I got onto Wotif.com and booked a place up the coast, the Ettalong Beach Tourist Resort. I did it all very leisurely - had a play to go to on Friday night (Exit the King starring Geoffrey Rush of all people, at the Belvoir), so Saturday I got up and just took my time having breakfast and getting packed. I caught a train sometime around noonish and rode up to Woy Woy. Was planning on taking a taxi from the station but there were no taxis and there was a bus with "Ettalong" displayed on the front. I double-checked with the driver that she went there, and had my first experience of being not-in-Sydney - the bus driver was warm and friendly, and said, "Yes, love! Two dollars thirty thanks!" Sydney bus drivers always look at you like they want to kill you, and never smile or say any words at all, must less call you love. People in small towns are just friendlier.
The hotel was a blast, completely quirky but so welcoming. The complex has rooms on the floor above the ground ("first floor" in Aus., "second floor" for you Yanks), in a vast maze of cute tiled walkways and federation colours and palm trees and little tables for two sitting around everywhere. The ground floor has markets - lots of stalls with $2 things, and hippy clothes, and handbags and belts and cacti and a fruit stand and live music and places to buy food. The markets were on both days, so the first day I did recognaissance and the second day I bought stuff - a jumper (actually down the road at the hemp store - but it's actually quite nice!), two silver necklace chains and three spencers for the cold weather. The first day I ate at one of the little cafés and had a homemade meat pie with homemade tomato sauce, and the owners lovely old dog Rosie came up and nudged me with her nose to pat her for a while. The hotel also has a cinema built in, in fact you can buy a package that includes a room and cinema tickets, so I had planned to see lots of movies but in fact didn't need to. Next time I go up there on a rainy winter weekend, though, I'm totally on it.
I went for a long walk along the water, remembered all the birds you see up there, and watched the view change as I walked along - across to the last houses at Wagstaff, and then out to where the waves were breaking white as they came past the heads at Patonga, and then further around so you could see the expanse between the peninsula and Barrenjoey head.
I had a big nap, took myself out to dinner at a nice restaurant, thought about a movie but ended up finishing my book for book club (Be Near Me by Andrew O'Hagan), and the next day pretty much did the same thing all again, had lunch in Woy Woy, trained home, arrived just ahead of a another batch of cold rain, and took another big nap.
It was a lovely weekend. I won't lie, I was in a strange mood while I was up there, and so the experience while I was having it wasn't just pure enjoyment. I was exhausted from long days at work and several nights running of bad sleep. I was still feeling bad about being 44 - exacerbated at work when I mentioned to the office manager that I was going up the coast for the weekend and she said, "Oooo! Are you going with that guy you talked about, the one at the philosophy group?" I've lost track of which one she even meant, but kind of snapped at her, no, there's no prospects there, I'm going alone! Okay?
So I was feeling torment about that, and about the future - which country should I live in? How can I decide? How will I make it happen? And of course I was feeling torment about the past, because S and I lived up there for three years and I hadn't been back, certainly not to Ettalong, since either a doctor's appointment at the medical centre there, or maybe it was a Sunday late-night run to the only late-night chemist to get him some nicotine patches. We definitely went to the movies there, and he brought me to the markets once as well. So, there was that.
But what I find now is the real benefit of a change of scenery - I remember the scenes. I know that on that walk along the water my feet hurt, my shoulders hurt, it was cold, I could feel the tired creases under my eyes, I was checking out all the fishermen and feeling sorry for myself for being single, I recall all that torment and both physical and emotional pain, but now when I think back on it I just remember what it looked like to look out upon. I remember the trees, the birds, the water, the dunes, the changing view, the wind, the freshness of the air. It's wonderful. It's a really happy thing to remember. So, that's the first relevation of travelling - it's worth pushing through and going out to have the experience even if your feet hurt and your shoulders hurt, because you won't remember the pain, you will remember the scene, and the scene will do you good when you get home.
Second thing is I was noticing that funny thing that happens to the traveller brain that you find yourself catapulted into thinking, "This would be a nice place to live. I could live here. I should live here! How can I live here?" I know it wasn't just me, because I saw lots of other people pulled to the pictures in the realtor's windows like they were magnets, all weekend. So what is it about the traveller's brain, that the minute you arrive you start to imagine a future where you permanently live in the place, and in doing that you somehow don't realise that you actually are in that place, right then. When I had my cute lunch at the cute place in the markets, with the tasty pie and the nice dog, my brain was going, "If I lived here, I could have lunch here. It would be nice to live here. But maybe hard to get to work. Maybe I could live in Sydney but just come up here on weekends, and then I could have lunch here." I do live in Sydney, it was a weekend, I was in fact there, I was in fact eating lunch at that café. Right then. What's wrong with the traveller's brain, that it does that?
An extension of this thought happened later that evening when I was tormenting about which country I should live in, and how I can decide, and how I can make it happen, and when to make it happen, and I was feeling very distressed until the revelation came to me - if you are yourself, you can be yourself wherever you live. Your identity won't be changed just because you live in a different place. I don't have to live in Newcastle to embrace my League fan self and the salt of the earth people I like to be around. If I live in Denver I won't be eaten out from the inside by the hikey-bikey outdoorsy health people. I can be in Denver and be me, because I will take me along. Duh! So, in a deep way, it doesn't matter where I live. There is no right place where I can be the most me. I will be me wherever. My selfhood, my roots, go way down deep.
This seemed obvious but also kinda profound. It fits with the stuff that Astrobarry and Salem Tarot have been telling me about my upcoming months. A powerful journey of self-discovery. Okay then. Bring it on! And if the me I discover and then fully become ends up living in Ettalong and going to that café all the time for lunch, I will be me. And if, as I hope, I find my way back to Denver to be near my family, I will take Aussie me home and still be her. And if I never end up living in New York at all, my Inner New Yorker will still be artistic, a little bit punk, and an academic on weekends.
So, that's what my traveller brain was thinking about in the funny little hotel in Ettalong on a very cold and wet Saturday night. And now my post-travel brain can think back on the funny little room and the comfy blue chair and the dicky heater and the saggy bed, and forget that I felt any torment while I was there, and only remember the scene.
The hotel was a blast, completely quirky but so welcoming. The complex has rooms on the floor above the ground ("first floor" in Aus., "second floor" for you Yanks), in a vast maze of cute tiled walkways and federation colours and palm trees and little tables for two sitting around everywhere. The ground floor has markets - lots of stalls with $2 things, and hippy clothes, and handbags and belts and cacti and a fruit stand and live music and places to buy food. The markets were on both days, so the first day I did recognaissance and the second day I bought stuff - a jumper (actually down the road at the hemp store - but it's actually quite nice!), two silver necklace chains and three spencers for the cold weather. The first day I ate at one of the little cafés and had a homemade meat pie with homemade tomato sauce, and the owners lovely old dog Rosie came up and nudged me with her nose to pat her for a while. The hotel also has a cinema built in, in fact you can buy a package that includes a room and cinema tickets, so I had planned to see lots of movies but in fact didn't need to. Next time I go up there on a rainy winter weekend, though, I'm totally on it.
I went for a long walk along the water, remembered all the birds you see up there, and watched the view change as I walked along - across to the last houses at Wagstaff, and then out to where the waves were breaking white as they came past the heads at Patonga, and then further around so you could see the expanse between the peninsula and Barrenjoey head.
I had a big nap, took myself out to dinner at a nice restaurant, thought about a movie but ended up finishing my book for book club (Be Near Me by Andrew O'Hagan), and the next day pretty much did the same thing all again, had lunch in Woy Woy, trained home, arrived just ahead of a another batch of cold rain, and took another big nap.
It was a lovely weekend. I won't lie, I was in a strange mood while I was up there, and so the experience while I was having it wasn't just pure enjoyment. I was exhausted from long days at work and several nights running of bad sleep. I was still feeling bad about being 44 - exacerbated at work when I mentioned to the office manager that I was going up the coast for the weekend and she said, "Oooo! Are you going with that guy you talked about, the one at the philosophy group?" I've lost track of which one she even meant, but kind of snapped at her, no, there's no prospects there, I'm going alone! Okay?
So I was feeling torment about that, and about the future - which country should I live in? How can I decide? How will I make it happen? And of course I was feeling torment about the past, because S and I lived up there for three years and I hadn't been back, certainly not to Ettalong, since either a doctor's appointment at the medical centre there, or maybe it was a Sunday late-night run to the only late-night chemist to get him some nicotine patches. We definitely went to the movies there, and he brought me to the markets once as well. So, there was that.
But what I find now is the real benefit of a change of scenery - I remember the scenes. I know that on that walk along the water my feet hurt, my shoulders hurt, it was cold, I could feel the tired creases under my eyes, I was checking out all the fishermen and feeling sorry for myself for being single, I recall all that torment and both physical and emotional pain, but now when I think back on it I just remember what it looked like to look out upon. I remember the trees, the birds, the water, the dunes, the changing view, the wind, the freshness of the air. It's wonderful. It's a really happy thing to remember. So, that's the first relevation of travelling - it's worth pushing through and going out to have the experience even if your feet hurt and your shoulders hurt, because you won't remember the pain, you will remember the scene, and the scene will do you good when you get home.
Second thing is I was noticing that funny thing that happens to the traveller brain that you find yourself catapulted into thinking, "This would be a nice place to live. I could live here. I should live here! How can I live here?" I know it wasn't just me, because I saw lots of other people pulled to the pictures in the realtor's windows like they were magnets, all weekend. So what is it about the traveller's brain, that the minute you arrive you start to imagine a future where you permanently live in the place, and in doing that you somehow don't realise that you actually are in that place, right then. When I had my cute lunch at the cute place in the markets, with the tasty pie and the nice dog, my brain was going, "If I lived here, I could have lunch here. It would be nice to live here. But maybe hard to get to work. Maybe I could live in Sydney but just come up here on weekends, and then I could have lunch here." I do live in Sydney, it was a weekend, I was in fact there, I was in fact eating lunch at that café. Right then. What's wrong with the traveller's brain, that it does that?
An extension of this thought happened later that evening when I was tormenting about which country I should live in, and how I can decide, and how I can make it happen, and when to make it happen, and I was feeling very distressed until the revelation came to me - if you are yourself, you can be yourself wherever you live. Your identity won't be changed just because you live in a different place. I don't have to live in Newcastle to embrace my League fan self and the salt of the earth people I like to be around. If I live in Denver I won't be eaten out from the inside by the hikey-bikey outdoorsy health people. I can be in Denver and be me, because I will take me along. Duh! So, in a deep way, it doesn't matter where I live. There is no right place where I can be the most me. I will be me wherever. My selfhood, my roots, go way down deep.
This seemed obvious but also kinda profound. It fits with the stuff that Astrobarry and Salem Tarot have been telling me about my upcoming months. A powerful journey of self-discovery. Okay then. Bring it on! And if the me I discover and then fully become ends up living in Ettalong and going to that café all the time for lunch, I will be me. And if, as I hope, I find my way back to Denver to be near my family, I will take Aussie me home and still be her. And if I never end up living in New York at all, my Inner New Yorker will still be artistic, a little bit punk, and an academic on weekends.
So, that's what my traveller brain was thinking about in the funny little hotel in Ettalong on a very cold and wet Saturday night. And now my post-travel brain can think back on the funny little room and the comfy blue chair and the dicky heater and the saggy bed, and forget that I felt any torment while I was there, and only remember the scene.
posted by Ellen at 10:47 pm
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