Why I Travel

“You like punk music, right?”

I looked up mildly confused from my pint of cider, mid conversation with some new people who had just moved to my city. It was a grey concrete kind of a place, and so the tradition was to take new folk out and show them that the people make it worth living in.

“I was just speaking to your friend and he said you liked punk. So do I. Do you wanna talk about it?”

I paused, fully confused, and looked harder at the guy who opens conversations like a brick to the face. He was tall, grinning widely, and had laughter lines at the crinkles of his eyes. He was probably the only person I’d seen all week who didn’t have a drink in their hand.

“Sure,” I said eventually, “pull up a chair”

And from then on, Matt and I were friends.

Matt was a geologist. He was loud, full of energy (caffeine induced or otherwise), and relentlessly positive. Over the years we knew one another it became apparent that we shared a lot of other interests rather than punk music alone. But of all of those interests, my favourite was our shared sense of humour that often left us having to stifle laughs in serious public situations, or choking on giggles trying to get to sleep.

It was a wet and windy winter when Matt died. The rain seemed to start on the first day of November and didn’t let up until Spring. I was at the beginning of my PhD, and frankly, struggling with more things than just that. The news found me with a pint of cider, mid conversation with some colleagues; but devoid of his grin. It’s strange how the patterns of life play out like a worn record sometimes.

My positive rock had gone. (He would have grinned at that because he loved puns. Particularly geology puns.)

And with him, a lot of other things went too. I lost the air in my lungs for a long time, as did everyone who was left behind in his wake. We lost the sound of laughter and of music. We lost who we were for a long time, each in our own different ways. And we were left to cope in whatever ways we could. For me, that catalyst became traveling.

The hardest part of his loss was the realisation of just how much positive impact he had had on my life. I knew it when he was around, and I thanked him for it – but I never realised the true measure, and I was never able to truly express my gratitude. How much he cared, how much he believed in me, how much he encouraged me to be the best person I could be. He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and that is a very powerful thing.

These realisations swelled like storm waters in my mind for a while, before eventually I decided to swim through them and seek sunnier skies.

I didn’t need much reason to travel more, having already been bitten by the wanderlust bug many, many years before. Travel already felt like an old friend. Certainly, breaking up with your partner of five years while neither of you has the money to bail out of the housing contract added to the drive of wanting to leave. A house is a small space when it’s filled with two broken hearts and a pile of unpaid bills.

I had to get out of that house, out of the city, and out of my life. I needed to convince myself that there was still some good left in this world. So, I took whatever little money I had and threw myself at every opportunity that arose. Conferences, mainly, were a great way to get around the globe. I’d write a research paper and institutions would publish it, which meant that my university would pay some of the fees for my travels.

In between conferences I would seek other places and other adventures. Sometimes friends would come with me, and other times I’d travel solo. Sometimes I’d make a bunch of friends along the way. This is where a lot of my real travel experiences came from: the crazy ups and downs of life and adventure, that, looking back, saved my mental health and probably my life in general.

Each time I’d live through something, or be floored by an experience, I’d want to tell Matt. I’d want to share this insane beautiful thing that happened in this vast unfathomable universe, because I knew he’d care. And I knew he’d see the wonder in it. And I knew he’d see things about it that I couldn’t. Sometimes in my head I would still try to articulate it to him – it made the void seem less painful that way.

The more traveling I did, the more I enjoyed it. I’d impulsively come up with goals for each year that would test me. This year I would see if I can see all of the European countries. Next year all my trips will be long haul. Then after that I’ll see if I can spend more time abroad than living in my own country. The list went on… and still does, really.

Each year I’d pick places that would challenge me, and my perspectives, and everything I thought that I’d known. Every time I would make a mistake, I taught myself how to learn from it. It ended up being this unhinged learning curve I don’t think I could have experienced through anything else. It taught me to believe in myself the way that Matt did.

I sat on the top of snow-capped mountains and watched the flickering stars and northern lights veil impossibly vast feats of nature. I ran through deserts that seemed older than time itself, where land and sky merge in shimmering golden blurs. I floated in the crystal clear shallows of tropical island beaches, and watched countless blood-orange suns drop behind the horizon in a blazes of fire.

I saw creatures and ecosystems and the intricate balance of life. I walked in places I’d dreamed of going as a kid. I followed paths as they unfolded in front of me without ever needing to think. I learnt to let go and just be. And, in a comforting and ironic kind of a way, I saw that truly it is people that make a place worth living in. Human nature has always had its positives and negatives, but I started to the see the good more than the bad.

Traveling didn’t allow me to breathe again; it just showed me that the air was in my lungs the whole time. It held me close, and gently let me see on my own that I no longer ran because I was trapped. It allowed me to keep a part of my friend with me wherever I went, knowing that he would have loved to be adventuring alongside me, and remembering our old travel plans we made back when we were giggling kids with wanderlust on the mind, adventure in our hearts, and our futures laid at our feet.

Matt isn’t here anymore – but his legacy is. Even absent he still managed to spark a change in me that will keep burning. And, that spark is in you too.

Set your life on fire. Seek others who fan the flames. Never stop traveling.

 

matt believes

 

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France: The Conference Wine Conundrum

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The stunning medieval cathedral in the sleepy, quiet city of Albi in southern France. For more photos see my Instagram @travels_of_bri

I am a current PhD researcher, and so on a semi-regular basis I am expected to be some sort of functioning adult (not fueled entirely by caffeine) and to present my research at various conferences around the world. While this is a fabulous excuse to travel more, it does involve nearly twice the amount of effort that vacationing or backpacking alone does. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had to program a graph in an airport lounge trying to keep hold of your bag with one hand, wildly waving your phone around for signal in the other, with 3% battery remaining on your laptop and a chorus of screaming children voicing their concern about the upcoming flight in the only way that they know how. But, if you haven’t, I can assure you that it’s stressful.

Most conferences I attend generally gift me USB drives, poor quality plastic pens or generic mugs with the conference logo printed on them*. The calibre of the “conference haul” is rarely high, but it performs a basic function. It says to the attendees “We value you being here. We value it so much that we ordered in several thousand shitty miscellaneous office supplies – even though we know that the only human contact they will receive thereinafter will be in the emergency case of a colleague you don’t particularly like asking to borrow a pen –  just to say that we appreciate your presence”.

So, when I turned up at a particular conference this year in the city of Albi, southern France, I was rather surprised to find that my conference haul was actually.. Well, it was actually a haul. Within a large canvas bag I not only had copies of the programme and some information about the local area but also an entire freshly baked baguette no less than 3ft long, a hand crafted blue beret with the conference logo sewn onto the front, and a bottle of rather expensive red wine from a local vineyard.

This was pretty fucking exciting. It was especially fucking exciting because I had presented at the same conference the year before in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil,  and was gifted a half-broken gym bag and a leaflet on how to avoid contracting the Zika virus**. Later on during the day it transpired that wafting your baguette while wearing the beret around absolute strangers at the conference was, instead of being obnoxiously rude, in fact a great way to get a conversation going:

“Can you believe this?” ((wangles baguette around))

“It’s crazy isn’t it? Guess we’ll all have to drink our wine together!” ((flounces off in beret))

After the initial buzz most people’s attention naturally turned back to the conference at hand. Conferences tend to last between 3 – 5 days and feature a series of presentations, panel discussions and keynote speakers. In the evenings there are often group activities or meals where you get to know other academics better***. As one of the conference evening activities was to visit a local vineyard and sample some (all) of the wines, our personal bottles escaped our attention until the night before or morning of our departure from France.

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Just one of the beautiful vineyards of the region. For more photos see my Instagram @travels_of_bri

And so, a number of tactics suddenly became apparent to make the most of the expensive free wine before our looming departure. These were needed as the wine was corked: I admit that that doesn’t sound like a big obstacle in fairness, most wine bottles have corks. The problem was that we, the attendees, were staying in a French University halls of residence, that (a.) did not have any sort of cutlery or crockery available other than a single plastic cup****, and (b.) was a good 40 minute walk from the nearest civilization that didn’t have a single supermarket or place to buy a bottle opener.  

The rural picturesque countryside of Southern France was not prepared for what happened next as every academic confined to the halls of residence put their qualifications to good use. Only in the case of expensive free conference wine has the phrase “Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.” been put into such effective play.  A number of methodologies emerged:  

The group of Dutch practitioners staying on the level below me had opted for a collaboration strategy. Together they had used a divide and conquer tactic to scour the entire campus for any pens and office equipment that they could get hold of*****. They then lined up all of their personal bottles and used a different implement to try and open each with varying levels of success. They had essentially created an impromptu drinking research collaboration group, and by god they were determined to be the ones getting the research grant at the end of the day.

In stark contrast, two elderly British professors had converged on the floor above, shouting animatedly about possible solutions to the wine conundrum. As they had no tools or ways to implement said solutions they simply became louder and more enthusiastic, repeating each hypothesis with increasing gusto and conviction the more it was speculated. It didn’t matter whether the Dutch group opened the wine successfully first, the Brit’s had thought of the right thing, so as far as they were concerned they were the first authors.

The Americans had gone for a “fuck it” approach. It was simple but effective. They were aware of the commotion across the halls and by extent Albi itself, but had no interest in sharing intel nor getting their names on a paper. Several of them had gone off to nearby hotels where they had politely – and in complete isolation – opened the wine. Eventually some had returned after blearily wandering the picturesque city back to the halls irrespective of one another, and very clearly looking like they had possibly maybe drunk an entire bottle of wine each.

My own method took a little while to come into play; I thought I was being clever by observing the advances of the others and waiting to attempt to open my own bottle the next morning. As far as I was concerned I was conducting a drinking ethnography for the sake of science.

But, I was not clever. Not at all.

The next day you see, as everyone else was due to return home, I had instead decided to stay for another week or so travelling around Southern France on my own solo adventures. This meant that I needed to get to the fairly nearby city of Toulouse on my own, in a region where English was not common, and my high school French was… a bit merde… The best method I’d seen so far was devised by my American friend Rob, who had essentially dismembered the cork of the wine using a conference pencil. But Rob’s methodology was not perfect. By dismembering the cork you pushed it back into the liquid where it sat staring back at you every time you took a swig.

Silently judging you and your poorly thought-out travel plans.

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The conference haul of southern France in all of it’s glory.

But, it was the best method so far and I’ll be damned if I left a good conference haul go to waste – for the sake of academia! I ended up drinking the entire bottle of wine between the hour of 8am and 9am straight from the bottle and on an empty stomach, while being silently judged by floating bits of cork, sitting on the floor of the halls of residence where the decor could only be described as ‘1984-esque’.

I’m not going to talk you through the entire ordeal that I put myself through that morning. The only things that you need to know are (a) about half way through the bottle I had to call some friends back home in England to question my life choices, (b) I definitely missed my bus despite standing outside for almost an hour before it was supposed to depart, and (c.) I have no idea how I got to Toulouse safely, let alone found my airbnb apartment*****.

My mis-adventure in Southern France taught me to beware of academics bearing free conference wine. But more importantly it taught me to beware of my own drinking standards when it comes to free alcohol, especially when you are a lone idiot abroad. A lesson well learnt.

*Sometimes I steal triple the quantity of pain au chocolat that any mere mortal can manage at breakfast, so really it’s all swings and roundabouts. I’ve become quite inventive with smuggling them out of the food hall, actually. I’ve also become exceptionally good at understanding “You there! Miss! Put the pain au chocolat down!” in a range of languages.

** As someone who can attract all 7 of the mosquitoes that inhabit England I spent my entire time in Brazil basted head to toe insect repellent. I was still bitten.

*** You get drunk together. You all get very, very drunk together.

****I saw a blunt knife at breakfast one morning but it was taken away by the staff before I could pilfer it to add to my pain au chocolat collection.

*****Ironically, all found supplies were branded by long dead conferences, covered in layers of dust and stored at the back of shelves.

******I actually had a fractured foot at this point in time also, which I’d managed to do while running a month or two earlier and not letting it rest while I was travelling around Italy and Malta. If there is one thing that I can fully endorse, it’s that you need to work out exactly where your airbnb place if BEFORE turning up in the city thinking that you can just “wing it”.