Now that I’m finding my feet in Sydney with dogs curled up around me in my living room and using me as back support*, “softer” moments, as I call it, are occuring at an increasing rate when emotional music plays only in the head during split seconds of peace like these (or when you stare out of a window when it’s raining).
Times where things like that are somewhat required as a form of escapism.
This September marks the first year I’ve ever gone on a road trip solo a.k.a without family. It was to commemorate the start of my working career where I spent the first week back in Adelaide living out of a car and going through towns faster than my underwear cycle. A far cry from my ten year old self I think, instead of experiencing simultaneous feelings of claustrophobia and motion sickness. Probably one of the factors that I can allude to such results is the driving that my overly caffeinated parents would never have admitted that there is a thing as too much coffee whilst being in the Australian outback overnight (so far roadkill score still at negative thank goodness). Instead, it was replaced with multiple pinch-me-I’m-dreaming glimpses of the ocean as we rounded every bend of the Great Ocean Road, or waking to a differently coloured sunset (hashtag #InstagrammerStarterKit) each time I opened our roof tent when we made our way up to Victoria.
Hoped my Instagram captions helped to mask all that fear of being in a metal box for more than an hour at a time.
I think it was the second day or so when something in my other half broke, announcing that no way in hell he was going to be an Instagram boyfriend. Or whatever terms they use nowadays to call partners whose extra jobs include functioning as a living tripod. He didn’t want to have it. This trip was supposed to be for us. For graduating, and to the start of the rest of our lives as I move on to Sydney and him staying on in Adelaide for the next couple of years. And yes, I was acting a little douchey as much as I didn’t want to admit, imperiously ordering him around in front of other tourists and him carrying the occasional bag (which in my defence he offered to). Angry words were exchanged and painful silences were endured all around the table for about half an hour, which came to a full end after a fit of angry tears and promises to cut down on my d-bagginess.
Point is, I think that the whole hype about living on the road has to be taken with a large pinch of salt. Sure I’ve waved the Go-Pro I “borrowed” from my dad when he was looking the other direction off a cliff facing the 12 (or 11?) Apostles and at the oncoming waves at the Loch Ard Gorge. But it won’t be able to translate all that stress and worry of keeping yourself safe on the road once it turns dark. Or the amount of shots taken to get that one perfect picture. No amount of idealism that Instagram offers will be able fully define how all of that crazy can turn out to be one the best trips of your life. Fluffy slipper, skirt/pants and all.
*Instasnaps help to give indication to canine kind