I Got Lost In My Travels: Australia, Part 2

Flying across the world is no joke--particularly when your flight requires you to jump ahead in time. Brian and I departed from LAX on a Saturday evening, and when we shuffled, zombie-like, off our plane  into the Brisbane Airport 14 hours later, it was Sunday night. The flight itself had not been awful--on the contrary, it was probably the best flight I've ever been on, with plenty of food and wine and leg room and enforced, guilt-free idleness. But a 14 hour flight is a 14 hour flight--plus, as much as possible, we fought hard against the temptation to sleep on the plane. The reason being: we had a 12 hour layover in Brisbane before the final leg of our journey to Cairns the following morning, which was  a freaking awesome opportunity to try to orient ourselves to Australia time. We rented a hotel room adjoining the airport, and collapsing into the bed was utter bliss. 

Too soon, we had to wake up for our next flight, but we were nearly there, nearly to the real start of the vacation. As we left the hotel, I hounded Brian about putting on sunblock--"Highest rates of skin cancer in the world, dude!"--but when we stepped outside and took in the fact that the sun had not yet even risen, Brian simply smirked and shook his head, and I knew I would be in for many years of mockery. 

Three hours later, as our flight began to descend over Cairns, I happened to glance out the window--my eye had caught an interruption in the endless blue of the Coral Sea. Below us was a massive reef. I nudged Brian, and together we silently watched one reef, and then another, and then another, pass by far below, and for the first time, I grasped the sheer size of the Great Barrier Reef. And what we were seeing was only a tiny, tiny portion.

Cairns: The Gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. My initial impressions were somewhat muted--travel and sunlight and heat and crowds often overwhelm me, and there was plenty of all of that! It's a bustling city, or at least it was a year ago. I suppose, a bit, it reminded me of a far-less-trashy Daytona Beach. And to be fair, most folks don't go to Cairns to go to Cairns; it's a stopping off point before moving on to the really good stuff. And that's exactly what we used it for. We didn't waste a moment. The instant after we tumbled out of our cab, we hit the ground running--we got to our hotel and dumped our stuff and charged ahead. The next couple of hours we spent  exploring, getting some local currency, and grabbing a bite to eat, before heading to the Marina, where we took a ferry to Green Island. 

Not much to say about Green Island--it's a resorty-kind of island, catering to daytrippers and overnighters. We booked a brief excursion to there, simply because the idea of me not exploring the Great Barrier Reef on my first day was anathema. And it was worth it; we snorkeled a bit, and it felt a bit like an appetizer of things to come. And we got to spend some time stalking this little fella: 

 

Our time at Green Island was brief--perhaps mercifully so, as it really was crowded-- and after a few hours of snorkeling and walking about the island, we hauled our waterlogged bodies back onto the ferry, which soon deposited us back on the Mainland. Blissfully exhausted, we made our way back to the hotel for a bit of rest before we went out to dinner. 

Later that evening, we sat outside on the terrace of an Indian restaurant, and enjoyed a soft breeze finally start soothing away some of the heat of the day. We relaxed over our paneer masala, lamb vindaloo, and naan, watched the crowds of tourists pass by,  and agreed that no matter where one went, Indian food was delicious the whole world over. We managed to stay awake long enough to devour it all, and then stumbled back to our hotel for a few hours of sleep. 

(To this day, I resent the amount of time I had to spend on sleep when I was there. Anyone else feel like that about vacations?) 

Our next installment will find your intrepid heroine on the high seas, trying her best to befriend sharks and keep her cool whenever she finds Nemo.

I Got Lost In My Travels: Australia, Part 1

I've never really trusted time. It seems to be one of the most inconstant concepts, you know? You're experiencing something wonderful, and time flies. You're witnessing a catastrophe unfold and 5 seconds can feel like 5 minutes. You're engaged in something absolutely boring and time seems to move backwards. You graduate from college at twenty-two and then five years later, you're forty and trying to figure out how many years have actually passed. 

So? Time? Never to be trusted, in either the best or worst of circumstances. And then there's time in 2020--we'll call it "Plague Time." I've recently started falling into the habit of saying something like, "Oh, yeah, we did such-and-such about seven years ago, back in August." Y'all know what I'm talking about. I've heard a dozen variations of it over the course of the last eight months; I've seen it play out in countless ways. Someone forgets to pay their rent at the beginning of the month because what is time anymore? Someone no longer can find their watch, because they haven't had to be anywhere at a certain time since god only knows when. I've missed more than one meeting, forgotten more than one appointment, and entire months have blurred together for me.     

So it seems a little ridiculous for me to say what I'm about to say, given that Plague Time makes the following statement feel a little impossible: 

A year ago today I was on a flight to Australia, with my friend and travel companion, Brian, headed for an unforgettable Bucket List experience.

Whenever I start to feel a little low, or anxious, or isolated, or completely defeated--which is to say, about once every ten minutes--I remind myself of how, a mere year ago, I was so very lucky and privileged to be able to go on that journey. The timing was freakishly lucky--the Australian Bushfires had already started but had not yet gotten out of hand, and we had about four months to go before the world really went to hell in a handbasket, with the pandemic. Of course, when Brian and I were sitting on that plane, happily availing ourselves to the free booze and trying to figure out which movies to watch first, we didn't think about pandemics and travel bans and masks and crowds and all the ways that our lives were about to get completely upended. 

It was an incredible trip; we spent almost twelve days exploring Tropical North Queensland, snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, hiking through the Daintree Rainforest, and simply reveling in a land so completely different from what we've known and experienced. And then, in a blink of an eye (that pesky, fickle concept of time again) we were back Stateside, and returning to our homes and our jobs and our cats and the holidays. And what with one thing and another, I never did get around to posting on the ol' blaurgh about this magical trip. 

Well, now that we are in the middle of a raging pandemic, and the weather here in Southern Indiana is turning pretty durned cold and precluding even outdoor gatherings, I certainly have a bit more time on my hands than I used to. So I'll see if I can't take a bit of that fickle time and spend some of it recalling and recording my journey to Australia, and my explorations there. Maybe it will only serve as a memorial for that one time I went somewhere--or maybe it will be an inspiration and reminder that fuck yeah, some day, some time, I'll go somewhere again. 

And you will, too. 

Plague Thoughts, September 2020

Normally this is almost my favorite time of year--summer is in its death throes; a peep of scarlet and gold starts tingeing the trees; the mornings are sometimes a little bit cool; the last of the crickets keep chirping, a bit feebly, but grimly holding on though they must know, instinctively, that their season is coming to a close. We are on the cusp of what is usually my favorite time of year--fall fun and frolicking with friends, followed by wintery, cold, bleakness outside, and cozy companionship inside. 

But this year--not so much. Fall and winter will come, and that is comforting enough, I suppose. Time will keep on keepin' on, and each passing month will bring us closer to the end of this current bizarre, lonely, masked universe in which we've landed ourselves. It's only been, what? 6 months since we relocated to this current Dumbest Timeline, but really, it feels like literal years. Memories from the first few months of 2020 are fuzzy and fading, and it now feels like all I've ever known is this. Zoom meetings. Masks. Nightmares about being stuck in crowds without masks. Grocery deliveries. Things like casual shopping trips, hugs and handshakes, simple library processes and policies, nights at the local bars, plane trips, and buffets--all of them distant echoes from the now-mythical Before Times. 

Just after the "shutdown", but before everything really seemed to go into stasis, I attended an impromptu meeting at the library. As we spoke about various pieces of business related to how to operate in the weeks ahead, I looked around the table and wondered, When will we all meet in person again?

6 months later, and we haven't yet. 

In late July, during the lowest point of my (inevitable) isolation and depression, I had the good sense to set up a recurring "family time" with my aunt and uncle. Once a week, I drive out to the country where they live and the three of us sit on their front lawn and watch the sun set and the birds and squirrels and chipmunks frolic--all of us masked, and me sitting far away from them. It's a peaceful and sweet and comforting routine, and I hope we can keep it going until the winter. 

The other evening, as I was driving home from my weekly family time with them, I drove past a sushi restaurant on the outskirts of town. This sushi restaurant has been here for a dog's age--since before the first time I had lived here. For 16 years at least, and probably a lot more, that sushi restaurant has stood in the same location--slightly shabby, but always there. And in business. What unremarkable sushi and indifferent service failed to do, the pandemic seems to have succeeded at. The place seems to be a shell--the building is dark and empty and silent; the business sign isn't lit. Has the sushi restaurant gone completely out of business, or have the owners only gone to ground, temporarily, until happier, healthier times? Either way, I realized that I had hit a new point in These Pandemic Times (TM)--I found myself relating to a building. I'm still present, still enduring, but I feel weirdly empty, dark, and silent. Abandoned, even. My existence feels as though it has dwindled down to the basics: work, which is comforting for its routines and schedules and company, but also stressful and a little heartbreaking; grocery deliveries; occasional visits outside in parks and on lawns with a dwindling group of friends. Several of the people in my social circle have moved out of state over the course of the pandemic. My dreams and ambitions (such as they were) are on hold--if you will, on a leave of absence. Closed until further notice, but not permanently. One day, I hope to re-occupy the building of my life, but right now, all I have it in me to do is...well, exist. Endure. 

Indiana feels the same. 

The Summer of Our Discontent

The other day, I popped into my office at work. I rarely go in there, now--I am in the library only one week in every three, and the work is non-stop, so my office serves only as a bolthole to which I retreat to shove a hastily-grabbed lunch down my gullet before returning to the often exhausting efforts of supporting curbside work. 

Anyway. My office has a faintly abandoned air about it, unsurprisingly. I had simply popped in to see if I could find some pens, and was on my way back out when my eyes happened to land on the coat rack by my door. Dangling there, forlorn and completely useless at this point in the year, was a scarf. I had probably hastily slung it there, back during the week of March 9, and then forgot it before I left for my long weekend vacation. The one I never took, because the world ended and our Library closed. So that scarf remained there as winter turned to spring, and spring melted into summer--four months ago, but honest to god, it feels like a hundred years ago.

I stood there for a moment, almost dizzy with discombobulation, before shrugging it off and soldiering on. My world has dwindled to focusing on the current day, the current task, the current duty. I answer emails, I do schedules, I try to support my colleagues, I binge watch television, I sleep, and I mourn the old life, the old routines, and I wonder if we will ever go back to that. But introspection is a dangerous, depressing venture that frankly, I don't feel equal to embarking upon. 

It's July now. Outside, it's hot, hot, stupidly hot, and the sun shines relentlessly in a brassy sky. It's been rather dry, too, this summer. My country has lost its goddamned mind and a very vocal segment of the population feels that bowing to mask mandates to preserve public health will lead to the mark of the beast or a microchip or something, and when they are not busy protesting masks, they are denying the existence of historic and current systemic inequity and racism. COVID-19 cases are absolutely skyrocketing and my sisters live in Florida and I'm worried to death for them. And while each brutally hot, suffocating day seems to drag on and on, I know that in a moment I will blink and three months (aka ten years) will pass and autumn will be upon us. And we will still be stuck in this pattern because 'MURICA. 

I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm scared, and I don't know how we are going to make it through this.

Welcome to the summer of our discontent. 

Days of the Week Mean Something Once More

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's how to properly value Fridays.

This was my first week back at work. We've started up curbside appointments, and it's taken what seems like months to iron out all the procedures, and a fair bit of helping to keep things running smoothly and safely fell on my shoulders, along with a group of about 20 others.

On Monday, I put in 16,000+ steps, and passed out as soon as I got home.

On Tuesday, I awoke thinking "I can't do another four days of this." All that day, I was in a high bitch of a mood--tired and exhausted and in pain, even.

On Wednesday, I got my second wind--it helped that there were various work fires to put out, and a noticeable uptick in work to be done, and we were a bit short staffed. It's almost like, when there are more challenges, it's almost easier to rise to the occasion with good cheer and energy.

On Thursday, I plateaued. I chugged along and did work and remained present and reminded myself that the weekend was almost here.

And on Friday, I basically just spent it doing all of what I had done earlier. And I thought, with increasing glee, oh god. The weekend. I can't wait. I just have to get through the next several hours of work, drop shit off for T---, work for The Prof, send off about twenty emails, oh! and pick up wine. But, oh, god: the joy of Fridays. What a lovely, lovely thing. It is a simple, pure joy, and I will never forget it.

At 10 PM on Friday evening, Mama Manager put down her sword.

My Dogs Are Barking

7:30 AM on June 1
Fourteen years ago, I started my first professional, full-time job. I was 26 years old, and had just moved to California after graduating with my master's and spending what seemed like countless years in a (comparatively) footloose and fancy-free student lifestyle. The student life I had led had been characterized by deadlines of hyper-inflated importance, odd hours, hastily-arranged lunches and coffee dates and happy hours with friends, late nights of reading boring technical literature, and unending anxiety about grades. It was grueling and stressful and, in hindsight, absolutely glorious for the freedom it gave me without my realizing it.

I don't remember what I wore on my first day of work; I don't remember if I had first day jitters. I do remember realizing, very early in my day, that my boss was a bit of a mercurial and moody person; I remember eating my lunch in the stuffy attic of the old Carnegie part of the library; I remember the little thrill of pride and glee I got when I answered my first basic reference question. And I remember returning to my empty, lonely, overpriced apartment that night, completely fucking exhausted. 

Today, I start back to work after the longest stretch of relative freedom I've ever experienced in my adult life. While the last good few weeks I've spent glued to my laptop at my kitchen table for unending odd hours, including evening and weekends, returning to the library building and putting in up to 8.5 hours a day in there is going to be a bit of a shock to the system? Will I be as exhausted as I was on that summer day, 14 years ago?

******************************************************************************
6:30 PM on June 1
Oh my god my poor feet.

I'll be sleeping the sleep of the blameless tonight.

Plague Diaries, Issue 64: May 25, 2020

March 7 was a predictably chilly day here in Southern Indiana, typical for late winter. Probably it was a day where it wasn't quite cloudy, but not quite sunny, either. I honestly don't remember. What I do remember about that day is that I spent the afternoon in the company of two of my oldest friends, Michael and Anna, and their sons, Wes and Miles. I held three-month-old Miles for a little bit, and hugged Michael and Anna and Wes, and we didn't do much of anything--just sat about, close to one another, making lazy conversation, and playing with our phones. Eventually, we ate pizza, and I bade them good-bye. I ran to Target for a quick shop, and returned home for the evening.

Later that night, I jotted down in my diary, Coronavirus fears still running high. Target was sold out of a lot of stuff.

I didn't know it that day, but Michael and Anna were the last people I saw, socially, before the world ended. And so I thought it rather fitting that they would be the first people I would see, socially, when I emerged back into this new world. Which is what I did today. Today was 40th birthday, and I had originally intended to spend this day with an intimate group of family and friends in Cincinnati, and goddammit, I didn't want this day to be a total wash. So when Michael and Anna reached out to see if they'd be able to do a drive-by today, I thought, Fuck it. To my surprise and relief, the spike that so many models had predicted has not yet happened. And so, we concocted a plan for a picnic. Just me and Michael and Anna and Miles, outside, on picnic blankets in the shade at Bryan Park, giving each other plenty of space. And it was absolutely a joy to be with them--these dear friends who have been family to me for a very long time. We didn't get near each other, we didn't hug, I wasn't able to hold Miles--almost three months older, and bigger, and changed, so changed! This is the "new normal"--the necessary normal, the normal that I am trying to make work for me.

Which makes me think--it's now time to bring this volume of The Plague Diaries to its close, on the day when I "broke quarantine" and began to resume life in its altered form. Next week, I start back to work in the library building. And while we'll be following all sorts of protocols of social distancing and PPE, the fact remains that my risk vector will go up significantly once this part of my life starts back up. It doesn't mean that I'll be going to get-togethers, or demanding pedicures, or hopping on planes to see my family and friends. But it does mean that I will have to take cautious, calculated risks in order to start rejoining the world in its altered form. Or, as I laughingly told Middle Sister earlier today, "time to resume my usual, voluntary social isolation."

If there's another lockdown/quarantine, I'll probably start "Volume 2" of the Plague Diaries, but I will be very surprised if this will happen. Because, of course, #'murica. But regardless, I will definitely try to post more regularly here, whether or not it's about Life During COVID-19. Posting on here regularly--it's been one of the only 2020 goals I've really been able to follow through on. And really, it's been something I've been meaning to be better at for years, and now, finally, it's happened.

All it took was a pandemic.