Published: May 1, 2008

The following is an excerpt from my travel journal, written in the summer of 2007.  Overwhelmed by a series of misfortunes, I set out on a cross-country journey by bus to find something to ground myself, some sort of passion to replace a love I’d lost.  In doing so, I risked relations with my family and friends, but ultimately returned home a month later, having found the passion I’d been seeking: travel itself.

***

In this passage, the reader finds me at the beginning of my journey, Niagara Falls.  After confusing bus schedules and ending up on the Ontario side of the Falls quite by mistake, I spent the night in the city and wrote about my experiences the next day.

I love going through customs.  It’s like a game show where you already know all the answers.  If you win, they say, “Have a nice day.”  If you lose, you’re deported.  I think it says something about this trip if even the customs people think it’s odd when I tell them I’m traveling alone.

As for me, I’ve hardly noticed.  I’d say I’m enjoying the solitude, but it doesn’t even feel like solitude.  I honestly feel less alone out here than I do at most parties.  Maybe it’s just that I’m still too damn tired to notice, or maybe it’s just that the beautiful things I’ve seen so far are too distracting.

Following my “accidentally in Canada” fiasco, I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.  After all, I had planned on seeing the Ontario side of the Falls at some point anyway.  Who cared if it was a day earlier?

Providentially, the Niagara Falls International Hostel just so happened to be a block away from the bus terminal.  I was met by an extremely friendly staff and checked in for the evening (I paid mostly in quarters; thank you sock full of change).

My roommate was a 60 or 70 year old man from Scotland named Eddie.  He was balding, and in every way looked the part of an old man. Still, he was spry, and laughed as often as he spoke.  Unfortunately, I was never in on any of his jokes; Eddie spoke with a thick Scottish accent that was almost impossible to understand.

I first met Eddie while walking up the stairs to my room.  He saw my guitar and went off indecipherably about how music is great, and I should feel free to strum along at midnight or any time I should so choose (I gathered the gist of his message mostly from his hand motions).  I could hardly understand a word of what he said, but he sounded friendly, so I smiled, said something non-committal and headed for my room.

I’d barely begun unpacking when the door opened and in he strolled.  I would’ve preferred a younger roommate (or at least one who spoke English), but at least with an old man I wouldn’t have to worry about my stuff being stolen.

From what I gathered in the brief conversation we had before I left for the Falls, Eddie travels more in a year than most people do in a lifetime.  I guess that sort of opened my eyes to what was around me.  My friends, my family and even customs might think I’m crazy for taking this trip, but there’s an entire underground community of travelers traversing the world at any given moment.  Think of the stories they have to tell.  It makes me proud to be a novice member of what I’ve tentatively labeled the Universal Society of Loony Globetrotters.

Once I’d settled in (or as much as one can settle into a 4×4 box with bunk beds), I headed for the Falls.  Providence struck again: the hostel was a block from the river gorge and only three kilometers from the falls themselves (whatever that means, I’ve never understood the metric system).  Within twenty minutes, I was there.  My first goal was reached.

I had expected the Falls to be a let down visually; how can something not be after weeks of anticipation?  They weren’t.  They were, in fact, twice what I’d imagined they would be.  Water, more water than seemed possible, cascading over the edge and into a misty abyss.  I’d gotten there at the perfect time of day, too: sunset.  I walked along the edge till night fell, not listening to music, not doing anything to heighten the experience.  It was enough just to be there.

Coming down from my euphoria, I headed back to the hostel, pausing a few times along the way to snap photos of the moon overhead and the lights on the falls.  I went upstairs to bed, where Eddie was, surprisingly, still up.  I fell asleep to the sounds of him talking about God knows what, and slept straight through till 11 the next morning.

And here I am.  It’s around 3:30 in the afternoon, and already I’ve exhausted the possibilities of the American Falls and Goat Island.  There’s plenty to do, but you have to pay for the privilege.  So, having purchased a souvenir penny (my goal is to collect one for every city I stay in), I think I’ll settle in on the Canadian side to plan my next move.

***

After Goat Island, I spent the remainder of my time before my bus left talking with Eddie (who was staring indiscreetly at a Korean girl practicing yoga in the parking lot), some other staff members, and Judy, the hostel’s facilities manager, outside on the deck.  Sitting in that unofficial assembly of USLG (all their assemblies are unofficial), I felt at home.  These wanderers, they were my kind, or at least the kind I longed to be.  The kind that make you uncomfortable by initiating conversation on the subway; the kind who don’t apologize when their house isn’t exactly Martha Stewart clean for guests because life is too short to spend all of it vacuuming; the kind who’d take a tent in a national park over a warm shower in a Disneyland resort.  They’re born wanderers, they live as wanderers, and they raise their children to wander.  They’re stable, they’re supportive, organized and responsible, but they understand that life isn’t meant to be lived in one place till you die.  It isn’t irresponsible to wander; it’s your responsibility as a citizen of this planet.

I know these things because I listened to them talk.  These people weren’t dumb or crazy; far from it.  They understood the risks of travel, and they all agreed that they would worry sick if their children someday went down the same path that they had.  But they would never stop them.  In fact, they encourage them.  Of course there are risks to traveling, but what important or necessary thing doesn’t involve risk?  Would you keep a son or daughter from driving because you worry about car accidents?  Would you keep them from going to college because you worry about alcohol abuse?

I was sorry to leave when my bus departure drew near.  My consolation is that in a few days I’ll be hostelling again, this time in Milwaukee.  I’m almost more excited for that than I was for Niagara Falls because I know practically nothing about that part of the country.

I left with an awkward goodbye as I’d entered with an awkward hello.  No goodbye is ever comfortable among strangers.

***

Night driving is quite a thing.  The whole landscape takes on an ethereal appearance, tree blending into tree, the illusion of congruity broken only by passing headlights on the opposite road.  The most dull and dirty city settings have endless possibilities in the dark.  They become things of mystery.

Time, or at least the way you experience it, also changes at night.  It’s simultaneously shorter and endless, miles crossed as you drift in and out of sleep, creating a veritable rift in your personal universe.  You open your eyes, wonder where you are or how long you’ve been sleeping, or if you even slept at all (it never feels like you did).  Then you fall back for another fifty miles.

The moon’s a little over half-full.  I wonder where it’ll find me when it’s at its peak?  I can only hope out west.  You experience the night differently in the desert, too.  Or so they tell me.