Strange pubs and nice strangers

And exercise in third person and also disassociating

After three nights in three different places, she’s happy to be still for two days. Just over two weeks ago she signed a lease to a new apartment, last week she turned in her old keys, Friday morning she flew to Melbourne and now, stationed in Ballarat after a quick weekend wedding in Point Lonsdale, with a conference to attend tomorrow, she’s windswept, frozen bones and teeth, fighting a cold, looking old in mirrors yet feeling like the 23-year-old that first arrived in this country (in this city in fact) in 2010, all the way down to her consistently inappropriate dress code.

Before the move happened she had every intention of a carefully organized trip, reaching out to her friends in Melbs to arrange. Due to the extra dose of migratory chaos, she booked most of her accommodation the day before her departure, although of course she randomly ran into friends from Newcastle on the streets of Fitzroy. Into the night they danced.

There was an outdoor amphitheater where young people read poems about bats, a packed two storey art gallery with different artists in every room,

to a greasy spoon diner in the shape of a tram,

and a cheery house up the road where folks bounced up and down on a couch yelling for Hawthorne. Still Adelaide won.

Around 11pm she pranced back to her tiny room at the Royal Derby Hotel above a loud group of revelers. The merry making was nice; she had been making merry too. Pubs are cool. The US doesn’t have pubs where people sleep, but in Australia pubs are great option, especially for solo travelers. Airbnbs can be spooky and uncertain. Pubs might have questionable characters down the hall, but at least you’re never alone.

North Melbourne went from almost sunny to dreary again as she trudged to meet a ride secured a few hours before. The increasing freezing rain and wind chilled her highly caffeinated, throbbing heart. Her jacket isn’t waterproof. When the backpack gets wet the dye bleeds onto things. Plus she was on her period, hungover. Who was her ride? Where were they going? Her name was Kathryn, a climate change economist. She was soft-spoken and lovely.

They headed to the environmentalist/activists’ wedding. Yes the ethics of marriage would later be discussed.

They arrived in Point Lonsdale and she was eventually able to get into her room (at a guest house this time). More glory ensued that evening. The wedding was a perfect mix of joyful tears, dancing and conversations about the end of the world. The sun came out on Sunday morning and blissfully (still drunk?) she walked by the beach and marveled at existence, saying a Wendell Berry poem over and over again.

”Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful even though you have considered all the facts.”

She secured a different ride back from Point Lonsdale, this time with a German professor and an Iranian doctor in a Tesla. (They bought the Tesla before Elon Musk became a Trump supporter.) When the professor first arrived in Australia he got confused because he would try to book places to stay in “hotels” but only some of them would actually let you sleep. Yep! It’s confusing, but when you find ones where you can stay, even if it’s a little grimy (Saturday morning she hovered in the tub after her shower, afraid to step back onto the cold dark tiled floors that held too many secrets and cooties from fellow hallmate), even with the ick factor, it still seems cool. It’s a little edgy, a little time-travelly.

They dropped her at The Plough Hotel in Footscray.

She checked in as soon as she could and collapsed on the bed. She rose a few hours later, her headache subdued. The neighborhood had blooming flowers bloom and budding trees. She recited the Wendell Berry poem again. It’s nice being in strange places, taking photos of sunsets, feeling lost but not dangerously so, pledging allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.

The free rides from climate change fighters dried up towards, so it’s off to the Footscray train station at 7:30 this morning. She loves the train. On the walk there men slept under awnings and rummaged through the trash. It was not the time to recite poems. At the station a polite man took her coffee order. He spoke in his native tongue to the man who ordered next. What were they saying?

On the train to Ballarat she opened her laptop to work. She barely looked out the window, but when she did, it was beautiful.

Even in motion, not every moment gets to be a poem.