Coincidence or what? On my recent return from Australia, the first piece of music I heard on the radio was Frank Sinatra singing “It’s very nice to go trav’lin…but it’s so much nicer to come home” and, for a while, I felt in tune with the sentiment. But I’m sure the comforts of home tend to dull the senses eventually. And never let it be said that I should “get out more”.
The distance I travelled was immense, yet the ease of the journey and the speed with which it may be achieved has come to be taken for granted. But still I marvel that the world we inhabit has become so accessible to so many of us. And why do people live where they do? How much choice are they able to exercise (supposing they want to)? Is the grass always greener? Is there really no place like home? More than half the global population now inhabits cities, but that leaves almost half that does not and, from the window of a train passing small, lakeside settlements along Australia’s Central Coast, I could see the attraction of hunkering down somewhere picturesque and tranquil. You could, if so inclined, hide away in places like that, untouched by the troubled world – until such time as the trouble turns up on your doorstep in the form of social unrest, ecological disaster or both. But that’s not part of the dream, I suppose.
Of course, there are many people who live where they do because of their employment, like the young Frenchman who was in the seat next to me on one of the flights. I asked how he came to speak English so well, and it was because he had worked for several years in international banking in places like Singapore and Hong Kong. Being currently unemployed, he was on a recreational trip to Australia and was quite relaxed about where he might end up living. Oh, to be young and footloose! On another flight, I spoke to a young Australian woman who works in London and was flying back there having spent a week with her British boyfriend who works in Sydney. I didn’t enquire how the relationship was going, but I did ask about her work, which is in digital advertising. I hope I didn’t misjudge the extent of her interest in my telling her tales of my short, undistinguished career in advertising back in the 70s, when ‘cutting and pasting’ involved actual scissors, glue and Letraset. If so, she indulged me with impeccable politeness, nevertheless.
But despite my enthusiasm for travelling – which sits well with my imagined persona as an intrepid and capable international adventurer – there were some moments on this last trip that raised the tiniest concern in me that I may not be up to the challenges much longer. My spirit of self-reliance was dealt a blow when, on one of the flights, I tried and failed to twist the plastic cap off a bottle of water. Either it was faulty, or my arthritis-weakened grip was not up to the job, but a younger man seated across the aisle had noticed my dilemma and sprang to my assistance with the sort of kindly smile that is reserved for old people. Again, when having difficulties with seat-belt catches, headphone sockets and touch-screen in-flight entertainment systems, it was a young person sitting next to me who volunteered their services, without being asked, as if to say, “poor old sod doesn’t know shit about modern tech. Better help him out.”
Despite these slight humiliations, I remain defiantly hopeful for the time being, though I do note that the last verse of Frank’s song, a paean to the comforts of firesides and slippers, may be what it comes to in the end.
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