How to Avoid Pickpockets and Other Stories

A small brown face rounded the length of booths that separated the sellers from the buyers. Her eyes were deep and her face devoid of expression. Nothing moved beyond the reaches of her mouth as questions and short answers were pushed at me, neither begging nor demanding, but landing solidly between the two.

I had purchased a plate of papaya from the woman she was with. Five Fijian dollars for five of the sweet ripe fruit. I had noticed the girl watching where I pulled the equivalent of $2.50 in American currency from my bag. Her gaze had grabbed for the few fives I had kept in that pocket.

At her second appearance, I swung my small backpack to the front of me. She’s going to try to pickpocket me. Maybe she won’t, but my traveling mama Heather taught me too well to think otherwise.

I purchased a mango from an Indian man, languishing in conversation behind piles of sticky fruit. He passed the plastic bag and a dollar coin into my hand.

I turned and gave it to the girl. Maybe she wasn’t going to steal. Maybe I could give something small. I wasn’t afraid of her. It was worth a shot.

I asked if she knew of good pineapple. Without an apparent thought, she pointed to the stall directly beside her. It’s likely she didn’t care. Maybe helping the stupid foreigner would get her a few more dollars.

(The pineapple did end up being good.)

“Do you need anything else?”

Nope. Thank you for your help. See ya!

I made my way to the bus stop. After two hours in a foreign city, encountering friendly temporary guides who got me where I needed to go, a creepy old woman leering into my face about hotel activity expenses, flirtatious men, beautiful and bored Indian women, a small boy playing peekaboo with me among the dress racks, and a swindling restaurant manager, I was ready to just go back to the hostel. Perhaps it wasn’t very brave of me. Perhaps I could have kept on and continued collecting stories.

But God I was tired of the internal alert I had set to make sure I was okay.

The heat I loved was licking energy from my body. An apt description would be to say the South Island had frozen me and now Fiji was using me for popsicle. I was dripping enough. No matter how much I was happy to sweat instead of shiver, I could not deny the drain it has initially.

I tried to stride with purpose past groups of men who I knew meant me no harm but instinct devoloped in California streets kept me moving forward intently. I could not count the number of “Bulas” called over my shoulder with a smile that did not mean I would chat.

“Wailoaloa Beach/New Town” read the piece of wood dangling over about 18 inches of sidewalk. I didn’t heave a sigh of relief, but I did look over my shoulder to see if the girl had followed me. If she did, my bag was staying firmly in my arms.

I didn’t see her and my flip-flops slapped against uneven concrete to the bus stop.

A stony face appeared again at my side.

Okay. Well. “What’s your name?”

“Patricia.”

“Pretty name.”

Nod.

And then she asked if I had any more money.

I fished $3.50 out of my otherwise empty pocket.

She asked if I had more. If I had my card with me. What my name was. My parents’ names. More cash. Am I staying with a Fijian or Indian family. Stand closer to her. Am I coming into Nadi tomorrow. She needs a helper for something. Am I sure I don’t have anymore money.

I don’t condone dishonesty. But my parents’ names are not Em and Allen. I am not leaving Fiji 3 days ago. My money is never left at a hostel without me.

I don’t care what I looked like with my bag sagging into an artificial beer belly and my hand on my ass holding my phone, I climbed onto that purple bus with all of my belongings and a small thank you to the woman who took me across the world throughout high school.

Patricia, if that was her name, has a story I don’t know. I don’t blame her for anything. After all, she technically didn’t do a single thing wrong. I gave what I felt I could without jeopardising much more than a few dollars.

No matter where I go, each new shift wrecks me from the inside out. I churn with the uncertainty of a different country, my safety, and the creation of another home. Do other backpackers and travelers feel like this?

Maybe it’s just me wrestling with a significance I assign to another country. Or it’s everyone. I’m not sure.

For now I’m on an island, removed from all but the occasional ego of an Israeli and the enthusiastic greetings of comforting staff.

I’m liking one of my new nicknames though. “Locke and Load.”

Bula, Bro.

Rock Up

“Abiel!!! Welcome home!”

A few months back I fretted about how I was going to make my way up the North Island. I was fraught with self-made pressure to see things I hadn’t seen. Try not to spend money better saved for next destinations, but still get yourself to those places you ought to check off your list.

I’m so damn thankful I stopped letting my mind spout that BS.

I bought a plane ticket from Queenstown to Wellington. I listed the 3 places I wanted to go because they held people I wanted to say goodbye to. I have hitchhiked and bused my way north, reflecting on how much has changed since I last did this.

I did it. I f*cking did it. I am 10 days short of a solid year away from home and 3.5 months shy of seeing that home again.

And yet, as I rocked up to Howard’s Mountain Lodge, my first workplace, and poked my head into reception, I grinned widely. Man. I made this my home.

“Abiel! You’re back! We have a bed for you upstairs or wherever you like. You know how it works. It’s so good to see you. You’re home now.”

Yeah. I am. I woke up to reggae pounding through the room. I baked cookies and wandered streets I loved so well. I watched snow drenched mountains show off their majesty. I knocked on doors hoping for hellos.

Hugs enveloped me. “You’ve changed Little Blue. You don’t talk down to your hands anymore. You are so confident.”

I guess I just know it will work out now. I actually know it.

I baked one more batch of cookies, watched Romeo + Juliet, curled around reflections of who I was before. “I reckon I’ll hitch up to Taupo for a night.” My manager called the sister hostel. “They’ll give you a bed free of charge.”

If you find a new way to say “thank you so so much” please let me know. I think I’ve exhausted my quota.

I’m the experienced one now. I remember watching the people who had been here for almost a year or more. The understanding they had that you can manage anything. I get to reassure other young women that they can hitchhike. I can give them advice on where to go. I can sit in a corner of the common area and feel completely comfortable with all I have done and seen. I can go to hot pools alone and watch the girls who are there be surprised that I’m doing this without anyone. I’ve done it. With all the work and self doubt that came first.

“Aw mean! When did you get in?”

“The guys who picked me up outside Taupo just dropped me off here. They said they didn’t trust Rotorua to leave me anywhere else.”

“Come in! You know where your room is. You picked the perfect time to rock up.”

And she hugged me, fed me, talked to me, welcomed me.

I will make my home as hospitable as you have made yours. I will model my generosity off of yours. I will always remember the home you gave me. I will always be thankful that instead of pushing my way through new places, I cultivated the relationships who shaped me as I worried my way through the beginning of 18.

“Love ya, girl!”

Putting the I in Write

Why do I write?

I’m in the process of considering this question and I came upon a piece of the answer today.

It’s a less obtrusive photography.

I can pull out my notebook and highlight what I want to remember about you. The pieces that stand out. The funny thing you said. But my camera may just make you uncomfortable.

I stood in The Spice Room kitchen trying to photograph what I could with the gentle shutter clicks. Still it felt…off. Maybe their stories didn’t need photographic evidence or maybe I just told myself that so I didn’t have to admit how little I know about my craft.

But with a pencil, it is not immediately known that I have seen. Omit a name and it was never about you. Rearrange a few words and suddenly the world gets what I wanted them to notice.

With words I can show you that pureed spinach actually looks closer to an emerald or the jungle than it does vomit. I can note the scars of chefs who have burnt and cut and created until their bodies subtly reflected the lives they lead. I can tell you that some of my favorite smiles come from these men who sing to themselves and say “the curries will miss you.”

I write because it’s how I think.

I write because we are saturated with images.

I write because this way, you see what I see.

And sometimes my occasionally egocentric self just prefers it that way.

(also I’m constantly in awe and it’s nice to share that)

Something that Prisoners Do

“Why are you digging ditches? Isn’t that something that prisoners do?”

Sure. But I get to be outside, use my body, and I’m not cleaning toilets. Your point?

The last thing anyone between the ages of ten and twenty-five wants to hear is “It builds character.” Whatever you are trying to get us to do or endure, we know it builds character and we know it’s good for us. It just feels like you’re giving us a condescending pat on the head and a “life gets better, sort of and we know what we are doing, sort of.”

That being said, you are right most of the time. If there is something that more of the Western world needs to have experience in, it is physical labor.

When I first arrived in Wanaka, I answered an ad for a job for yard work and wood stacking. I sent a text and before I knew it, I was scheduled to arrive at a suburban address the next day. Slightly nervous and ready to fight anyone who told me I couldn’t work in the dirt, I knocked on the door.

“Hi! Nice to meet you…I thought he got a boy.”

Knew it.

“My name is a bit gender neutral.”

“Well it’s quite heavy digging. Do you think you can handle it?”

A flicker of uncertainty sent my thoughts to the bulging disc in my lower spine and my occasional limp. “Yes. I do.”

Sure enough she brought me outside and explained the job. I was to dig a trench around the back, side, and part of the front of the house in order to install insulation. It needed to be well over a foot deep in some cases and about six inches wide at least. Stubborn and determined to prove myself a hard worker, I attacked it.

Seven hours later and covered in dirt and sweat, I climbed into my friend’s car with a request to return the next day.

My employers wanted to keep me around. I dislocated my knee cap and they asked if I could be back at work four days later. Upon my return I was told “Under no circumstances are you to push your knee too hard.” They fed me lunch, sent me home with loads of organic apples, and recommended me to friends as a reliable laborer. After being gone only a week, I walked up the driveway to warm smiles and genuine hugs. Homes are good places to be.

When you are relatively small and female, there are bound to be stories associated with your penchant for hard labor.

As I was moving dirt one day, two electricians walk around the corner. The first to arrive engaged me in polite and pleasantly surprised conversation. Then the second walked around the corner.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Locke.”

“You don’t look like the sort of person to be digging ditches!”

Mm. Don’t I? Well. “I don’t look like the sort of person who should be doing a lot of the things I do.”

One hour later: “Wow. You’re good at stacking wood.”

The funny part was, I wasn’t at that point. Maybe he was just surprised I could carry armfuls of wood???

Half an hour later: “Bye doll!”

F*ck. You.

That was the only time I spilled a wheelbarrow of logs.

I walked up to my boss. “I don’t really like being called ‘Doll.'”

“Did he call you doll?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. People can be a little backwards down here. I’m sure you noticed.”

There are a lot of reasons why I loved working for them, but I think that response to the condescending sexism is the top reason.

If you are able, I encourage you to work in the dirt. Have your kids do garden labor. Help them see that the world needs those who sweat and haul as much as they need the artists. The fruit pickers, the construction workers, the garden workers, the factory workers, the miners are all doing the things you have the privilege of ignoring.

And to those who have left all they know to find grueling conditions and a culture that does not want them,

Thank you for “stealing” those jobs.

Because we all know the U.S. doesn’t want to do them anyway.

“Like a Slingshot, Eh?”

I entered a travel writing competition on the transformational power of travel. I realized I write because I like to and I hate being judged for it. This is the first competition I have participated in for my writing. Here’s hoping.

“Like a Slingshot, Eh?”

My fingers strolled up the neck of my mandolin, wishing for the experience only practice gives. However if wishes were fishes, we wouldn’t have a severe overfishing problem in our oceans, so I set my instrument aside and began learning foreign words from the backpackers sitting nearby.

Bat’se. Czech for “afraid.”

People often choose to tell travelers that we are brave. They act as though our discomfort within the comfortable is something to be deeply admired. They tell us that courage is being fearful and doing it anyway.

But to be honest, most of us just feel like we are backflipping off the tightrope spanning bravery and stupidity.

I entered my first solo venture to New Zealand terrified of ATMs and banks. I knew nearly nothing of cooking and it would be my first experience in applying for a job. I had no clue what I was doing. On the worst evenings, I would curl up beneath the covers of a borrowed bed, tell myself “But I’m doing it anyway,” and find a way to move forward.

Provalo. Italian for “try it” or “prove it.”

Comparisons run rampant through hostels and travelers. The constant appraisal of your priorities becomes exhausting. The drinkers, the campers, the partiers, the hitchhikers, and those who fit all of the above share rooms and subject themselves to the scrutiny of social interaction. But I don’t fit.

I value hiking.

But not as much as the Englishman who chose to hike the length of New Zealand.

I value home.

But not as much as the German who dreamed of being home for Christmas and will likely not return to this part of the world.

I value community.

But not as much as the Irish girl who stayed at her hostel job for nearly the full duration of her working holiday.

At what point will I realize my values will never align with another’s and my achievements can only matter to me? Glancing at dusty camping gear and watching the intrepid walkers taking on mountains, I breathe deeply to remind myself there is nothing to prove and everything to try.

Selbstbewusstsein. German for “self confidence.”

I adore the moments of falling in love with a stranger, not for their body, but for something I cannot explain. I don’t speak to them, but I watch them, glance behind me, and wish I was wearing sunglasses so my gaze could linger. Some strange magnetism, or maybe just their style, drew me in for that space. My favorites are the confident ones. Their stride catches my eye and I wonder what inspired their sureness of self. Who was inspired from childhood and who found it in the satisfaction of jobs well done? Who learned to love themselves from a significant other and who chose to reinvent themselves?

And which of them is just a bit of an arrogant prick?

My gait has changed since being away from home. I walk and wonder if others see the person I have become. The limp from a chronic injury is fading and my shoulders are straighter with the experience of being alone. Even on my worst days, I find myself smiling with the privilege of wandering the world.

For comfort zones expand and life becomes a process of exploring its boundaries.

Jilear. Peruvian Spanish for “flirt.”

“May I kiss you?”

There are many reactions to that simple question. My favorite is the look of surprise. “I mean sure. But why?”

Why not? I find you attractive. Perhaps I just want to know how you taste. Perhaps it is my way of telling you that you are absolutely fascinating and worth my time.

Or perhaps it is a desire to grow a little more aware.

I don’t measure my growth as time passes overseas, but if I did, I would observe who I was at each kiss. Nervous and unsure. Temporarily infatuated, but aware of my own beauty. Amazed and willing to take the first step. Mutually attracted and curious. And straight up “I wonder what would happen.”

Sometimes I ponder who I would be if I was still home. Possibly searching for some relationship built to last or discovering my polyamorous nature while surrounded by people whose opinion I fear. In its own way, it would still be a journey. But there is something about the average American mentality that avoids those odd girls rocking faded blue hair who ask for a kiss.

Or maybe I just wasn’t looking before I left.

Transformera. Swedish for “transform.”

“You are facing new things all the time, Abiel. People who haven’t had to deal with that will never quite understand.”

Mom somehow manages to say it best.

I worry about coming home. I left just after highschool. I will return God knows when. I chose travel as my first adult lifestyle and the chrysalis I emerged from, cannot be what I return to. I guess it is meant to be just another adventure, another season of transformation.

Yet even with this thought process, you can never go back. Not to a place, not to a memory, and definitely not in time. You can only watch yourself accelerate towards the end.

“Time is relative and linear, but it always seems to go faster.”

“Well maybe time is like a slingshot, eh?”

Maybe so, my friend. Maybe so.

Invested in Some Fruit Company

“Run Forrest, run.”

And he ran. For “no particular reason. People just couldn’t understand it.”

I had never seen Forrest Gump before this evening, and like so many before, I found myself falling in love with the careful southern drawl sharing his mama’s wisdom.

He ran and fought and saved lives. He loved and cried and spoke. He worked. Most importantly, he was loved.

“My mama used to say you can tell a lot about a person from his shoes.”

His mama cared for him. Told him he was no different. She loved him just the way he was and was never ashamed of him. He was exposed to travelers and happenstances. He remembered clear lakes and sunrises. He collected a feather and his favorite book was Curious George.

He is a character.

But I’m pretty sure we are too.

Characters waiting to see what shows up in our box of chocolates.

I met two Canadian protagonists today. Matt and Liam have surfed and wandered their way through Australia and New Zealand. Unlike the many backpackers who choose to mosey about, they have chosen this temporary lifestyle for a vastly different reason than most. They are not here to drink. Nor are they here to find themselves. They are here to be themselves.

And that makes a huge difference.

Play guitar and piano. Know goodbyes aren’t necessarily forever. Travel alone. And go home.

But not because you have to

Because you want to.

perhaps I’ll tell your story to a stranger at a bus stop, just to see how long they listen

ISH

“I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.” – David Bowie

This is my new answer to people asking me questions about my plans. More often than not, I truly just don’t know.

While on the ferry from Wellington to the South Island, I met a guy who was fascinated by how Americans use the suffix “ish.” “You stick it everywhere. Like that answer was an exact answer. You don’t need to say ish.”

But I do need to add ish. I’m showing you the flexibility of my world. The fact that all of what I’m planning is subject to the whim of three little letters shows you that I am unfazed by the fickleness of planning. At the same time, I usually have some sort of idea in the back of my head. It’s just more realistic to say I really have no plan…ish.

But for those of you who are curious, here is my current general idea of what I am doing.

Tomorrow I am hitchhiking north for a night to see a friend before returning back to Christchurch.

My traveling buddies and I will be going to Arthur’s Pass National Park once we finally leave Christchurch. (My traveling buddies are 3 lovely Germans with a love of dancing, singing, and head massages. They are trying to teach me German. The gendered nouns are throwing me off. Like, what the hell. Why is a butterfly male?…but if there are multiple they are female. I usually just end up spluttering as I try to pronounce their R. “You don’t have to roll it. Just say it normal…Okay don’t say it like an American. Here. You say it in the back of your throat…We’ll work on it.” Insert me hissing like a cat in an attempt to make it work.)

In June I go to Tasmania for three weeks to meet up with another friend I made in National Park and to participate in a museum festival. Still wavering on whether or not I’ll join in with the nude swim on the winter solstice. Cause freaking brrrrr.

Here is where things get fuzzy. My visa expires in September. After which I am thinking I will go to Australia again to see the mainland. Or maybe Samoa. Or Fiji. Or Vietnam. Or none of the above and I do something completely unexpected.

Or go home.

But I promise it won’t be bowie-ng.

 

 

…that was terrible…

 

…Or we could just shriek about it

“Wow. Your bag is heavy.”
“Don’t hitchhike. It’s dangerous.”
“You’re awfully young. You have to be careful about traveling alone.”
“You’re so brave.”
“That’s awfully scary.”
“Here are alllll the bad things that may happen to you.” (Paraphrase)

If the above things haven’t been said or shoved down my throat, they have been heavily insinuated. Negative statements have been a very small portion of what I have heard about my trip. Positive feedback has been overwhelming.

But negative or doubtful feedback has been present. While I have done my best not to let it affect me, what comes to mind is: Why?

I heard over and over about the scary things that could befall me by traveling alone. A whole f*cking lot actually. I had fears from childhood, stories of far off dangers, headlines from my hometown, and rumors of countries never visited by the people who chose to share the horrors of such places with me.

When I wasn’t rolling my eyes or highly amused, this thought came to mind, (well, it came to mind all the time, I just tried to laugh it off):

Do you not know I’m afraid?

When you stand there and tell me all the reasons why this is a bad idea, what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?

I am afraid.

In fact, there were a SHIT ton of moments where I was just straight up terrified.

And guess what? My smile was fake as I reassured you that “yeah. I’ll be careful. New Zealand is safe. I know what I’m doing. I have friends there. Other people do this too.”

What I really wanted to say was “please just F off.” I know you meant well. I truly do. I see your side. I heard your fears. I was bathed in them. Fears of growing old. Fears of missing life. Fears of the world. Fears of the unknown. Fears of the known. FEAR.

I know this entity. We’re buddies actually. He comes and chills on my shoulder, I say “what’s up?” He shrieks “THE WORLD WILL BURN.” I try to casually respond “ah yup. I’ve known that since Trump got elected.” He nods and keeps quiet for a bit. Until something new shows up and he starts his hysterics once again.

I was afraid as I prepared for my five day track.

I was afraid as I bought my plane ticket.

I was afraid as I waited for the day to arrive.

I was afraid on my first and second and third hitchhike.

I was afraid of going to the bank and setting up my phone.

I know the world is scary. America is one of the scariest places I’ve been. (Fear interjects with “ITS ALL TERRIFYING!”)

Because yeah. Uh. It kind of is. There are humans out there. I know that. I’ve cried about it. I sobbed and fretted over my heavy bag, my lack of experience, and my age. I wondered if I would be picked up by psychos and listened as intimidating looking men said they are too scared to hitch.

I sat at a table with my head in my arms asking my mom why people would tell me these things. “Are they trying to make me not do it?”

The thing is. I don’t know. Maybe you are simply trying to tell yourself the things you wish you heard. Reassure your own little fear sitting on your shoulder.

He’s not going anywhere. So please don’t send him attacking mine.

He’s got his hands full with the concerns of a wee 18 year old doing plenty of crazy shit.

So next time you are tempted to inform someone of no useful info and only how scared YOU are to go do something, please just say “I’m proud of you for facing your fear. Use common sense and you will be just fine.”

Or you know. Give them a hug. We could use that too.

The First Local

“Thank you for being you.”

I have been told time and time again that crying in public is no shameful thing. Yet even with that in mind, I held back my slow tears until I walked out the door.

Saying goodbye is one thing. Leaving home is another. And melancholy is an adjective I have decided to apply to my travels, right alongside humorous.

I leave National Park the day after tomorrow, but with a different sort of feeling than the first time. Like before, I know I will be back. Like before, I am moving on to other homes and more beautiful people. Unlike before, I feel a closure on what was one hell of a wonderful season.

I wish I could introduce you to the humans who chose to come close to my curious soul. All of them deserve far more recognition than I am able to give.

How do I show you what I learned from the fireman who let me listen for hours and ask questions for what was perhaps even longer? Stories and information and ideas all but burst from his eyes as my boundless energy soaked all of it in. “You have time. I’ll see you again.”

Can I bring you to the moments I was reassured into peace by one of the hardest workers I know? I would watch the cigarette smoke spill from her mouth as she told me it would be okay. She will always be there for me, if only I could show how deeply I mean it when I say I will be there for her.”I’m proud of you, Wee Feet.”

Do your best to imagine the hugs I have been held in by two of the strongest women I know. They pushed me further, taught me more, and helped me move forward as I navigated the ups and downs of my first job. “You did it. You did the track you’ve wanted to do since the beginning. Now go get some rest.”

Forgive me for saying that as a chronically positive person with a cynical streak, it takes a lot for me to say “I could have a marriage like that.” (I can literally count them on one hand.) But I met one in National Park and I hope that everyone can know a couple as wonderfully badass, interesting, alive, deep, welcoming, and straight up beautiful as these two. Without them, I would not have been able to do the Round the Mountain Track with this level of confidence and without them, my view of New Zealand would be very different.

And if only I could properly paint the picture of my new favorite tiny home. Incense wafts gently through a space full of promise and wandering possibilities. Instruments are tucked into every corner and fabric attractively and haphazardly drapes itself across most surfaces in sight. Vests, hats, toolboxes, and pillows kaleidoscope themselves into the personality of one of the most brilliantly unique people I have the pleasure of knowing. If you ever find yourself confronted by the feeling that time no longer has meaning, but every fleeting moment is worth more than hours spent elsewhere, than you will understand what it means to be in this space.

It is both difficult and easy to tell those far away that you are sad. It is difficult because the reaction is often “let me fix it,” “I wish I could fix it,” or “come home to fix it.” It is easy because you’re far away. I don’t really have to deal with any of your reactions. Ultimately though sadness is a feeling, a wave of experience bound to return and bound to recede.

I will finish my goodbyes and say thank you to all who love me so well. For it is understood that nothing is forever.

“You can begin again, honey. You can begin again.” – “Begin Again” by Dispatch

In Other News, I Bought a Mandolin

My eyelids dragged shut, my legs creaked at me, and my brain simply drifted back into the fog of sleep as I regained consciousness this morning. Waking up was a slow process and I found myself starting to slip into some odd sort of funk. “I should be doing something. Maybe I should go on a hike since the weather is nice. Perhaps I am silly for not starting on something sooner.”

Finally I shook my head of the silliness and reminded myself I walked really freaking far yesterday. I trailblazed to a crater very few people see and managed to be back on time to do a shift as receptionist.

“Just get yourself out of bed, Abiel. You can do this.”

I was able to make a good breakfast and go on an outing with two lovely friends. “When in doubt, go out” is some of the best advice I received before I left. Today it proved true.

Come afternoon, I wandered to the tiny house of one of my favorite people.

“Hey! Look what I got! A mandolin. It was only $50 and it’s helping me figure out the violin too.”

I fell in love with the little instrument he showed me. It’s deep, dreamlike color, uneven brush strokes, pearly silver pegs, and the elegant hardware.

“A year from now, we’ll all be gone,
All our friends will move away.
And they’re going to better places,
But our friends will be gone away.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat with happiness as he began to sing “Rivers and Roads” by The Head and the Heart. The little mandolin rang and I let my voice join their song.

For the next hour or so, I plopped on the carpet and learned chords until my fingers were indented by the strings.

“So what would you suggest I look for if I were to buy my own mandolin?”

“Well. You know what?…one second.” I watched as he scrolled through his phone for a moment. “So I would ultimately like a mandolin that I can plug into an amp and I have a bid on one right now. If you like, you can buy that one off me.”

Holy shit. Really?!

So uh. I am now traveling with a mandolin.

And I could not be happier about it.

I’m working on learning to play “Rivers and Roads” and “What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor” because what’s life without variety?

Thankfully I was taught the latter song and told to wing the strumming pattern for the former. (“It gives it more soul.”)

Multiple hours later, I was still curled up with my new instrument and my friend had made a rack for all of his other instruments.

Oh. He plays the didgeridoo. Coolest freaking instrument ever and it sounds otherworldly beautiful.

“By the time I get to America, you can come with me and we’ll go play our mandolins at some music sessions.”

That’ll be f*cking awesome.