a world away from the world away

it is 5:02 pm here in sydney. in a few short hours i will be in the air en route to china. somehow this day has arrived both incredibly suddenly and after painfully slow build-up. i am feeling the same feelings i felt in toronto right before i left in february: "what on earth am i doing? i know nothing about where i'm going or what i'm getting myself into!" but instead of a slightly gripping terror, these thoughts now inspire a gleeful excitement. i have no clue what the next ten weeks hold. and i can't wait to find out.

the only thing is that the beginning of my trip to asia also marks, more or less, the end of my time here in australia. i haven't quite managed to fit my head around that yet. my life in australia has become just that- my life. i walk right, stand left. i surf. i sometimes think about eating vegemite. i don't, but at least i think about it. much as henry higgins grew accustomed to eliza doolittle's face, i've grown accustomed to this place. and i've grown accustomed to my place in this world, this upside-down world where people go barefoot on city streets and places have silly names like nuriootla and banka banka. i've had a truly wonderful time here so far. it really is a beautiful country. and the sky- you must come see the sky here.

that's what i'll miss the most. not tim tams, not flip flops in winter, not 'home and away' the aussie soap that sheila's got me wrapped up in. i'll miss the sky more than anything.

sunset over the beach at byron bay.

i'm byron my time.

there are some places in the world where you arrive and want to leave immediately. buffalo, for one. an outlet mall. a pauly shore revue. and then there are places where you arrive, take one long, sweeping look around and immediately start trying to figure out how you can stay here longer. byron bay is one of those kind of places.

byron is a little contry town near the queensland-new south wales border, about an hour south of surfer's paradise. it is the eastern-most point in mainland australia and is bordered to the north by the ancient peaks of a centuries-old volcano. the beach ambles along for ages and the surf rolls in with a steady purpose, breaking off the just-visible mast of a rusted shipwreck just offshore. the sun rises in the east and sets brilliantly in the west, just like everywhere else. for all intents and purposes it sounds just like any other australian coastal town. but there is something different here.

there are no highrise buildings. there are no mcdonald's or hungry jacks. people have surfboard carriers on the side of their bikes and walk a bit slower here. the community is adamant about avoiding the creeping commercialism that seeks to turn all of the east coast into one giant highrise daytona beach party town. but it is more than the architecture of the city, even more than the free range-eating, earthtone-clad, djembe-playing citizens of this hippie mecca. the air is different, the time seems to wander forward, almost accidentally towards the next day, not fussed about what happens along the way. and people smile at each other on the street, cars let you cross with a nod of the head. you get the sense that the city has taken a collective deep breath. it's easy to be here.

you get the distinctive sense that byron is a place that people get stuck, not in a bad way at all, but stuck by their own choosing. my friend hannah described it as such:

"it's like regular, everyday people like you and me, people with jobs and lives and responsibilities somewhere else in the world arrived here and decided that they just needed to stay. and they thought, 'hmm, what can i do to make a living here? what am i good at? well, i'm really good at making windchimes. i think i'll open a windchime store!' or 'i've always wanted to be a lacto-ovo vegetarian contortionist- i think i'll stay here and do animal-friendly street theatre!' and they've just stayed and stayed."

it's true in many ways. the streets are full of second-hand book shops, crystal sellers offering to draw a portrait of you as a mythical fairy, beadworks shops and countless hemp clothing retailers. it is a city of dreadlocks and bare feet, campervans and herbal teas. it is everything kensington market wants so desperately to be and isn't quite. it is authentic and virtually free of any trace of pretentious, holier-than-thou self-righteousness. vegans dot the footpaths but don't sneer at you when you emerge from the kebab stand, your pita dripping with lamb. it's a community in the strongest sense of the word, a community of people who love this place and want to keep it as special as it is. and they are nice enough to share it with others.

i know it sounds a bit kumbaya-ish. i always thought of myself as a city boy through and through, the kind of person who would cast a cynical eye at a place like this. but after a day of surfing the brilliant blue waves, drink freshly sqeezed orange juice in the park, and watching the sunset paint the clouds in brilliant technicolour, you start to think about things a bit differently. you start to think, "hell, i've always thought that papier mache is a lost art. i wonder what i could do with that..."

freefalling

when you are young there are many things that you are taught that you do not do. my mom was particularly adamant about three things: never eat lying down, never run with a lollypop in your mouth, and stay the hell out of the way when hot water is coming though. i'm sure your family had its own set of things you certainly musn't do- lick an icy pole in winter perhaps. run with scissors. try to drown your neighbour caitlin under the kitchen sink. you know, things like that. and i'm sure if it had come up, there would have been a rule that went something like this: if someone asks you to willingly climb into a tiny plane, strap yourself to a complete stranger, fly to 14, 000 feet and then jump out of said plane, you do not do it.

and you certainly do not pay to do.

well, call me a renegade, call me a rule-breaker, but i simply couldn't come to cairns in northern queensland and keep both feet on the ground for the entirety of my visit. so i shelled out the cash and crossed my fingers. i boarded a bus with a crew of, and i use this term very loosely, professionals and we drove the hour out of the city to the drop zone. i pulled on the red and yellow jumpsuit pants that i can assure you are not going to be gracing the pages of men's vogue anytime soon. and i stepped into a plane about the size of a mini-fridge. and i checked to see if my fingers were still crossed. they were.

up we climbed, like charlie in his great glass elevator, up, up, and away until the farmland below was nothing but verdant patchwork with red dirt stitching. up higher until we were north of the clouds, looking down at a bona fide rainbow painted across the white popcorn floor of the heavens. up higher and higher until we couldn't go any higher and the first jump instructor pried open the plexiglass door. the cold air of 14, 000 feet above earth hit me like a wall. a very cold wall. a very cold, very high up wall. fingers? still crossed.

no time to think though, and before i could pause to feel nervous i was out the door and into the air. into the sky, freefalling for sixty seconds of fully realized elation. i screamed because i couldn't not scream. i laughed because i was flying. i was flying! i tend not to use exclamation marks, but this was an exclamation mark sixty seconds. i could feel the wind tugging at the skin of my face, the pressure of my descent unfolding my arms into a wide open embrace, hugging madly at the air as it rushed past me. and then the startling calm of the air under the open parachute, calm and cavernous. calm, but in mid-air. unreal.

i steered my red parachute towards the ground, turning in corkscrews and wide wheels, laughing with my whole body, wanting to stay up in the air for just one more minute. but feet belong on the ground and i made my way back to the planet. i landed on my feet. i landed smiling.

and somewhere along the line, i had uncrossed my fingers.

things i don't do

here is a list of things that i don't normally do at home:

- sneak into a campsite after hours to avoid paying the fee, then sleep in a tent with two relative strangers and make oatmeal on a barbeque for breakfast
- snuggle into a swag in the outback staring up at one million stars while listening to the not-so-distant howl of the dingo
- jump off waterfalls, swim in waterholes, loll about in thermal springs
- sit in a boat several feet away from giant saltwater crocodiles and feel the slow crawl of absolute terror inching up the back of my neck
- watch the sky turn into a brilliant canvas of purple and orange as the sun sets at uluru, the giant red rock positively glowing in the fading light
- kayak through the depths of katherine gorge looking up at a rock canvas of ancient aboriginal art while learning how to speak korean

these are things that i don't do in toronto. these are also all things i have done recently. to name but a few.

i'm not bragging. at least i hope i'm not bragging. it's just that i almost can't believe this country and what i've been up to since leaving sydney. i want you to come here and do it for yourself. i want you to understand just how immense, how powerful, how beautiful this country is.

and then we can talk about it while we get ready to go tandem skydiving.