On Thursday at BU Sydney, we were exposed to an “Adventure day!” which included lots of advertisements for lots of jumping: from rocks, cliffs, planes, bridges, and boats. The travel agent who ran the show was my polar opposite: a big crocodile Dundee hat, t shirt, jeans and snake skin earrings with a long Pocahontas style braid. She told stories of vicious crocks, scared students, and instances of what can happen if a shark swims next to you (tip: screaming isn’t really the best reaction while snorkeling --shoot). As my fellow students romped around after her storytelling, signing up for various plane jumping activities and things that made me queasy, I really started to wonder where my was place in Australia. I knew that it must be here somewhere; but in those activities, I couldn’t find that burning thrill of excitement that comes when one signs up to fall 14,000 feet, flail around, and hope for the best. Although I must admit, in my regular routine, I can flail pretty well.
Feeling a bit out of place, I took the evening to wander around the city with some new friends after class to see the light show at the Darling Harbour in Sydney. After all, I knew that once I saw those famous tips of the Opera House, and the monstrous, magnificent Harbour Bridge, I would feel like I was really, fully here.
Lo and behold, after a quick stop in a scuba and backpacking bar (literally called ‘scu-bar’), and a happy toast with Gaby avec some cider, we strolled down George’s Street to find the Harbour, and the Opera House illuminated in dancing, sparking lights. As part of an art festival called Biennale, the Opera House is cloaked in spectacular colours, and only in this season of Australia. As I walked up past the big boats, small boats and lovers on the dock of Darling Harbour, I stood in front of the new world, and took a breath of a new beginning. There it was: the shimmering glow of my something totally new in my summer semester in an Australian winter wind. I had officially arrived.
The next day, we had our first Travel Writing class, and I met the legendary Professor that all my friends had told me about in Boston (seriously—professors, students and IP workers tell the happiest tales of this woman). She’s a writer, herself, and her personality is booming, her wisdom bountiful. She’s got a killer laugh, and she puts her money where her mouth is. Unlike anyone else I’ve met before, she talked openly and supportively about “the writer lifestyle,” and as I sat in my seat, I realized that for the first time in my life, that I was about to work with someone who takes writing, thinking, journaling, and creating seriously, and against the odds, has made the stuff of her dreams, the stuff of her life. As she sat with us and displayed a slideshow of pictures from the years of Travel Writers gone by, I couldn’t help but feel that burning thrill of excitement of that gravity-defying, gut-wrenching, hold-on-to-your-hat-and-pray-for-dear-life feeling of lift-off that can only come from one big, life changing chance that may never come again. Although I may not have signed up to jump from 14,000 feet for the thrill of feeling alive, I am about to embark on a time where my sense of creativity and expression will truly take flight, and my ambition, my soul, and myself can all ignite in a new sort of life—and hopefully that lasts longer than it takes to touch-down on the ground with a big, burly Australian flying-partner strapped to your back. This trip is the free-fall, and this is just the sort of thrill I’ve been looking for.
Happy Travels,
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