“I live in my own little world. But it’s ok, they know me here.”
― Lauren Myracle
Hi everyone, I am back from being a nomad traveler and I’ve missed you all.
I have never been the one with self-imposing discipline and I owe this blog to my full-time job that gets me out of bed every morning! I also currently don’t have a computer (don’t worry, I am getting one soon if you have any recommendations let me know), so writing on a phone made me want to regret being borne. But I am over the moon to be back home, start sharing my travels with you and also catch up on what you guys have been writing.
Before I get into my trip and the highlights, I wanted to share a different piece with you. I want to become a Travel Writer one day, that’s my dream job. Because I love writing and my sole purpose in life is to travel. However, despite the fact that I love writing, I love traveling, and I have been staring at the “Travel writer” on my vision board for a while, I have not had the means to go on big trips.
Then I realized, my traveling abilities might be limited but my writing isn’t. With this post, I aim to emphasize that adventure is all around us, even at a place that you have been numerous times before. You don’t have to go far to learn and be inspired. Revisiting a place might surprise you with an unexpected delight. Even if I can’t travel far to a wondrous place on this planet yet, seizing opportunities and defamiliarizing the familiar will give me a great new perspective.
Sorry about the long intro, here it goes:
The last thing I expected
I wasn’t expecting much from my weekend getaway to Victoria, BC.
I’ve lived there for many years and I’ve seen it all: the silent air of the beach punctuated by the sound of waves slithering into the sand; the scorched sunrays sinking into the blood-red horizon; the deer gracefully striding through the tall trees; the mossy woodland fresh with morning dew.
Now, I was back during the least exciting month of the year; January. I was strolling downtown and my mind was hazy with laziness. I kept taking aimless steps and the winding streets took me to the Fisherman’s Wharf.
It was a typical cloudy day. The sky an expanding white blanket and everything below it was coated in grey.
I stepped on the precarious grounds of the wharf. Figurative ground because the Fisherman’s Wharf is stretched on a small corner of the Pacific Ocean. Floating docks, boats, and homes were surfing the small ripples, wobbling ever so slightly.
The wharf is a lively sight during the warm summer days, there is never a dull moment. The smell of fish and chips wafting in the air while sun-soaked tourists line up for fried foods and ice cream. Seagulls scouting for unattended food while seals sink and resurface, teasing their audience.
But this day held no excitement. Everything was still. Yet everything was in constant motion.
There was a strange beauty to the abandoned wharf. The multicoloured homes were standing brighter against the grey day, luminescent, surrendered by a tranquil bliss.
I trod lightly on the narrow wooden alley. My heels clunked, interrupting the hush. There were no seagulls or seals jabbing the quiet atmosphere. Just the solid me, on an unbalanced structure, that was holding on to the salty fluid.
Yet, all was grounded and divine. As if the summer days corrupted the wharf’s innocent beauty. The abundance of life somehow took its liveliness. How can something so unstable, purposed to be used for only a short window of the year, transfer such firm assurance to someone?
I wondered; how many times have I revisited myself? Who is the raw me, stripped of materials, schedules, and the hectic race? Who am I on bad days, who am I on good days?
My prejudices assess me under the spotlight of social fabrications, but just like the Fisherman’s Wharf, there is a solid beauty buried in me that awaits to rise in solitude.
I also invite you to revisit places and also yourself, you might be surprised. Cherish the greatness of your accessible world.