Travel

The husband and I met in 2001, in England. At that point, I’d never been to Australia, but had met enough Aussies on the road that I was somewhat familiar with Australian vernacular. Much of the time, Aussies align themselves with the Brits, so, many words in their collective vocabulary will be the same as their English counterparts.

For example, both Australians and Brits call a flashlight a torch, whereas in North America the word “torch” is exclusively used for some sort of flaming piece of wood that you might brandish if you were exploring a cave in the 1800s.

I’m sure you know one of those families that are so outdoorsy and stoic that it’s irritating. They’re always headed off on epic cycling trips or month-long paddling excursions. They don’t have any wimpy kids in their brood, who constantly whine, “My legs are tired. Are we almost there?”

No. Their kids completed their first triathlon at the age of 6 and can easily carry a 20-lb pack as they scale mountains.

It’s 5:00 in the morning and I’ve been up for over an hour already. My experiment of early rising that I spoke about in my previous post is well underway. Except, it hasn’t been a conscious decision to be up and at ’em at this ungodly hour. I’m dealing with a massive case of toddler jet-lag over here. My 26-month-old woke me consistently and hourly from 11:00 pm to 4:00 am, at which point I gave up on sleep and succumbed to the inevitable.

Last weekend, Craig flew to New York for a quick visit with his brother. He left bragging about the fact that he’d only packed a T-shirt and a pair of undies in his backpack. I think he brought a toothbrush too. He is a big fan of travelling light.

I also am a big fan of travelling, but sometimes have difficulty with the light part. Despite the many items that I may accumulate in my luggage on any given trip, for me one of the best aspects of extended travel is taking an extended break from one’s possessions. You move from place to place with all your worldly goods in little contained units, and it becomes pretty easy to forget about all the other crap that you own elsewhere in the world, like your basement, or even worse, your parents’ basement.

When people find out that my husband is originally from Australia, I usually end up fielding a few questions about it. How’d you meet, Is his family still there, Does he like it here, and the inevitable: WHY did you choose to live in Toronto and not Sydney? (Subtext: Are you crazy?)

Yeah, it’s a hard one. On February days, when it’s a grey -22 degrees, and everything is covered in salt, and my car just got stuck on an ice bank whilst trying to park, and the inside of my nostrils is frozen, I ask myself the same question. These are problems that just don’t exist in Australia. In truth, I adore life down under, but being there doesn’t make sense for us right now. Life is pretty great in Canada most of the time, so we continue our day-to-day in The 6ix.