Oh no,

I know, I know. I'd like to acknowledge that I've been pretty horrible at updating this blog.

There comes a point, while traveling, that a person begins to feel the need to decide between documenting her journey, or living her journey. As I've been traveling a lot, I can verifiably say that this choice is completely unneccesary- that one can both document and live at the same time. But it just takes a lot more effort, time and energy.

As noted in my previous few posts, I am still in australia. Technically, I should be getting ready to leave. But something pulled me here. Something is pulling me here. Whether it's the allure of beaches, of hot sunny days in january, of strange accents or simply the wonderful friends I've made since i've been here, I don't know. But just as therew as something telling me to leave mexico early, there is something telling me to stay here. And a bit more- to come back.

I know it's really easy for a traveler to fall in love with a place, to attach memories or feelings to the land itself and to attribute these things to the place, instead of the people. It happens often, even to the study abroad student who travels for six months and then returns home to find himself a bit changed. Home no longer means the same thing. And so he thinks about the country he left, looks at photographs, writes emails, listens to music... anything to keep that memory alive and tangible. The silent promise repeating "i'll return someday" and the even more silent knowledge that upon return he will be disappointed: buildings will be in different places, faces will be unfamiliar, streets forgotten or gentrified.

I've been that study abroad student. I won't be so arrogant as to state that I've changed so much over the past two years. But what has happened is this constant search for home. At first I thought it was because I was one of those nomadic people. But then I realized that I was in fact just like everyone else. Except I wasn't ready for home to be familiar. By living in Granada, I think a little magic was kindled inside me. I originally attributed it to the city itself, of course, and not to the real source. I know now that magic can be anywhere, and that any city or country or people has the ability to charm my heart, as long as I leave myself open to the experience.

I will tell you about where I'm living now in Sydney. A charmingly grungy suburb, bustling with people and cars till all hours of the night, reminiscent of mangier parts of the east village in new york city. Vintage and Bric a Brac shops line the streets near my house, and the air smells a mix between thai food, insense and petrol. Artful graffiti cover most spare walls, splashing the town with color and vibrancy and a twinge of artfullness that may be lacking in its somewhat shabby exterior. Farther down the road, closer to the city, trendy clothing stores, tatoo parlors, indian/ african/ spanish/ mexican/ italian/ chinese restuarants crowd the buildings, and the sidewalks are spotted with outdoor seating for small delicately named cafes. The cafes serve breakfast till 3pm eggs and spinach and mushrooms and grilled tomato on thick wheat toast. The town plaza is filled with shops, and boasts a grocery store, although I've never been inside. On top of the town plaza there is a bold looking analog clock. It's not that the clock doesn't work, it works perfectly. It's just set to the exact wrong time. I pass that clock every day in the morning on my way to breakfast, and have looked at it many times. It's not even on the correct minute. It's completely off by 6.25 hours... or something. My apartment rests above a pizzeria, owned by an italian immigrant from Naples, with bitingly ethno-centric statements like "I came to this country and learned 45 adjectives to describe my pizzas. The fucking chinese come in and they put up one picture! No english!" Infront of my doorway stands a woman holding a lotus flower. Every few weeks a few artists stop by and fix her up, spraying paint onto the exposed brick parts, adding more color and depth to her features. My room has sunlight all day. Light yellow walls, the paint peeling away in some cornersand one single solitary photograph, framed and hung next to my door of a little boy climbing on a fountain infront of a stone building facade. And hand written underneath the photograph in blue scrawl states the date and location of this memory: "Granada, Spain, April 1991"

And so now that you have the backdrop for my stories, I promise I'll be writing more often. That's part of the challenge of this whole trip, and recently I've been notified of the lack of storytelling on my part. So I'll be pushing myself a bit more, and I hope you keep reading.