A cynical rant from just another cynic.

by novemberyankeecharlie

THAT person. You know THAT person. The person that pretends to not want, let alone need attention. However they pause for effect when telling a story and have an answer for everything. They claim not to care about image but ask for a vodka lime and soda at your local bar EVERY TIME. They most likely live overseas in a bustling metropolis (their words) and tell anyone that will listen that they’re  just going with the flow, making sure they say it loud enough for people to pick up on their accent, which is most likely Australian or English. Don’t get me wrong I love my fellow countrymen, we’re fantastic and brilliant and everybody loves an Australian, right?

Wrong.

There is something about Australians and Brits when we travel. I think we just get too excited about it all. Australians at least have an excuse, we live in the middle of nowhere, a trip to another state is treated as a landmark vacation. To put it simply we’re entirely isolated from basically everyone apart from Kiwis (and they don’t count). By the time we save our hard earned pennies, anticipate and plan the journey for a good 3 months, we’re basically like a four year old on Christmas morning. Or more to the point, a 24 year old with a wad of fifty dollar bills in their pocket and access to copious amounts of liquor. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been THAT girl, playing on my accent as if I seem exotic (I don’t), describing my hometown Melbourne like it’s Hawaii with kangaroos (it’s not), and basically waking up the next morning realising I had acted like what my mates back home would call a wanker.

There’s something about travelling that strokes our ego, the mere decision to do it and then the independence we feel once experiencing it. We begin to marvel at ourselves and how fantastic we are for being so adventurous and brave. The idea of travelling is changing now as well, especially for Australians.

First it was the token trip back to the motherland, we flocked to London like sheep as if it was some kind of calling from our convict ancestors. From there you would base yourself, taking sporadic trips to European hot spots; Paris, Barcelona, the Greek Islands, Berlin, the list goes on.

Then the South America trip became the latest and greatest thing to do. London was so passe, like everybody can do a summer in Europe, but can you really say you’ve experienced the culture of Columbia? Didn’t think so. Oh, and when I say ‘culture’ I use the term loosely, it mainly consisted of the upper middle class realising how much they’d been paying for cocaine back in Melbourne.

Once South America became too ‘done’ and ‘known’ I saw a trend of friends deciding to take the ultimate trip (once again, their words), they decided to head to INDIA. I feel like when they made this declaration they expected gasps of shock, mouths formed in perfect O’s and a glint in the eyes of their audience of envy that they could be so bold, brave and above all enlightened. Without being condescending (but I realise I was and am), my eyes spoke volumes to these friends, the only glint they held was that of amusement. I understand the appeal of India and I am in no way saying that its value as a destination to travel to is less than that of any other country; in fact I believe its value surpasses many countries. I haven’t been and am therefore in no position to pass opinion. But being a judgemental little shit, I will. I imagine India to provide invaluable and unrivalled cultural lessons that would really allow somebody to grasp the insignificance of our first world problems. Perspective is something that comes to mind. If I believed that is why so many people have begun to flock to India then I would applaud them, I would stand up and bow my head at their interest to do so.

More often than not though it seems to be more about our ‘travel ego’. A term I believe that needs to come into fruition. The idea that you are more interesting just because you have been to a remote part of the world. And flipped, going to a remote part of the world to simply seem more interesting.

I moved to New York because the appeal of this city has been growing inside of me since I was 10 years old and my mum sat me down to watch Breakfast At Tiffany’s and The Way We Were. It simply grew when I saw the images of the city in Woody Allen’s Manhattan. I fell in love with this city before I got here, hence my unwavering commitment to Woody Allen, Joan Didion, Martin Scorsese, Jack Nicholson, Walt Whitman, Truman Capote, Jay Z, Robert Downey Jnr and probably my favourite; Jack Kerouac. I currently live around the corner from where Bob Dylan spent years recording, where Madonna chose to escape from her overbearing family in the early 80’s to write a pornographic novel before singing a classic about being a virgin. It has nothing to do with celebrity though. It has everything to do with history. I saw the New York skyline a million times in images and film, but nothing will ever compare to that first hand experience when I crossed the bridge from JFK on a Friday night in November.

Don’t get me wrong, of course I still get a kick out of reporting back to mates on the happenings of New York life and the surreal moments that inevitably occur in a city that has an abundance of musicians, artists and celebrities. I’m only human and my travel ego has a way of rearing it’s defiant head too.

Despite this rant, I don’t judge anyone for wanting to travel anywhere. Travel is an amazing concept in itself, I had to spend 30 hours to get to my dream city. Maybe the move I made here will define the rest of my life, or maybe it will be a year I simply look back on with nostalgic fondness. Either way, I didn’t do it for anyone else.

I did it for me.