Around The World Without Flying

Getting from the train station in Shanzhen to my hostel on Hong Kong Island is a mission. Ticket machines, currency exchange, language barriers, immigration checkpoints, and six different metro lines. But I love the challenge. The fact that I’m running on four hours of cramped sleep and no breakfast or lunch makes it even better, a tougher nut to crack. Just figuring out how to get there might be my favorite part of travel.

An old man on the metro calls me “gentleman” then flashes a thumbs up. And with that I’ve arrived in Busan, my final stop in Asia. It’s been the most intense month of my life, travel-wise. From Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang to Chongqing to Qingdao to my new home in South Korea. Something in the vicinity of 6,000 kilometers by bus, boat, train, taxi, tuk-tuk and metro. If only there was some kind of flying machine to make this travel lark easier…

Today was Friday. As was yesterday. We’ve crossed the international date line, somewhere north of the Hawaiian Islands right about now. Since I set out from GMT, I guess this means I’m halfway home. But I can’t say I’m thinking of it like that. Looking ahead to these next eighteen months in the Americas, I see another lifetime of experiences and relationships, a whole jumble of journeys, rather than the second half of one.

They’re home already, so we park up the road a bit, walk to the gate and hop the wall. I cut through the lawn to the front door. They’ll wonder who’s ringing the bell. Nobody rings the bell. Especially not me. I’m not supposed to be back here for another year. I push the button and wait for the birthday boy, the best man I’ve ever known.

We watch a red sun disappear above the horizon and beyond the river. The Amazon is so wide in places you can’t see the far bank. A slice of moon appears in the darkened sky, soon joined by ten-thousand stars and the ghostly smear of our galaxy. I think of the first men to sail these waters, navigating the unknown by these lights in the sky.

On a boat named Maluco, we’re literally sailing off into the sunset, heading west from Cartagena towards the San Blas Islands. The captain, his wife, and two bothers are from Venezuela. Myself and a couple from Australia has us at capacity. I lay out on the cramped deck for a few hours and watch the land fade with the light.

Twas a rough night sleeping across two seats on the ferry, but I’m awake at the crack and giddy like a kid at Christmas. Today is the day, three and a half years in the making. I go up on the top deck and find it empty. The helicopter pad becomes my dance floor, the wind my music, the rising sun my spotlight, and I dance the dance of a very happy man.