The latest chapter of my wacky Australian adventure saw me driving from Melbourne to Perth (4000km in 9 days), then flying across the continent the next morning from Perth to Townsville (4700km in 1 day).
I was supposed to have made it to Melbourne months ago. Even though I may not have officially declared my intentions in writing, I had it in my mind that I’d spend the bulk of my year on the work and holiday visa in Australia living in Melbourne.
You guys, I just turned 30 last month. 30. Remember when we were kids and thought 30 was OLD? I mean geez, my parents were younger than that when they had me.
When I look back at 2014, I think: Man, I worked hard and accomplished a lot.
I’ve long been a preacher in support of living a balanced life. It’s why you’ll never find me staying late at the office or bragging about how I went to the gym 6 out of 7 days last week.
On January 1, New York and I celebrated our 6 year anniversary. Except, unlike previous years, it didn’t feel like much of a celebration. I wasn’t happily toasting to another year of living in New York City – I was wondering how many more years I’d be ringing in here, and what would come next.
We first met 5 years ago.
I was on a 2-week roadtrip up the west coast, reveling in my newfound freedom, eager to see and do as much as I could – simply because I could.
I remember how I used to spend my childhood summer vacations moping around the house. “I’m booooooored!” I’d moan daily.
“Go outside. Find a new hobby!” my mom would urge. To which I’d roll my eyes and find some way to kill time before we were allowed to turn on the TV in the evening.
Holding true to my 2014 goals, I’ve been very deliberate thusfar in scheduling all sorts of trips – including smaller weekend jaunts that I always said I should do, but haven’t yet made happen.
I’m 29 years old now. Aside from having to manually change my age on the sidebar of this website and my social media platforms, I don’t feel any older. I’m pretty ok with that!
I’m always deliberate in telling people that the walk from my apartment to the Graham Ave subway stop takes 12 minutes. Exaggerating to 15 is a surefire way of ensuring that no one will ever visit me in my little Brooklyn nook, while rounding down to 10 just doesn’t do this long-drawn walk justice.