108. Flight or fright? We get to choose.

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I have been beautifully befriended by another solo traveler and yesterday I tagged along on her sightseeing trip.

This was pretty much an ideal outcome for the lazy tourist I am.

All the research was done, the itinerary planned, guide booked. All I had to do was turn up with my legendary wide mouthed frog smile at the correct time.

It was a great day out.

We were a study of complimentary opposites, my travel companion and me.

While she patiently waited for the view to clear of tourists to capture whatever monument we were visiting, I was snapping the faded glory of the adjacent playpark.

While she was framing out the tribe of selfie stick wielding tourists, I was taking photos of them.

While she was keeping a respectful distance to the posed group shots, I somehow got invited to join them.

In the car, she was bristling with snacks for the ride, I was bristling with tunes for my portable speaker – the BaliBali soundtrack I’m adding to each day.

This kind of random day is what I love about being somewhere new where no one knows my name, my history, my anything.

You can learn about yourself as you learn about someone’s life in Vancouver Island as you learn about the place you’ve both decided to be at this exact time of your lives. You can be bold with your admissions, honest about your regrets and ambitions in equal parts.

I look back at the random connections I’ve made while traveling over the last few years and, without exception, they are memories that make me happy. The truth is if you think someone is a gift to you – whatever it is they bring to the table that particular day – then they’re a gift. Simple.

Flight or fright? We get to choose.

105. Just doing a whole lot of flakey zoning out

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I dated a guy for four minutes a while ago and he used to describe yoga as ‘zoning out’. ‘How did you enjoy your zoning out?’ he would say.

Did he think I was off down grading a cell phone plan?

While it’s true the mind is somewhat set free during yoga, should I for a moment ‘zone out’ I would find myself toppling fast towards an inelegant collision with the man or woman to my left. Or my right. The toppling would be random.

While yoga is mainstreaming faster than electric cars, there is still much swirl around What Actually Goes On in those classes.

Another conversation – as recently as last week – revealed a thoroughly modern man’s active decision to ‘stay away from that flakey stuff’.

flakey

adj.,to be unreliable, and/or absent-minded, flightyfickle. Generally unresponsible.

Bob said he’d bring beer and instead he invited his friends who brought no beer.And he used to be into punk and now he likes disco. Dude is totally flakey.

Truth is, I can be absentminded. I can turn up for a flight 24 hours late. I can turn up to a restaurant 24 hours early. I have no idea what’s in my diary on any given day till I look at it in the morning. If you ask me what my car registration number is, I have to go look at the car. Again.

But, when I want to, I can also have a focus so laser pointed, it could scare small animals.

Ramping up the yoga, as I have over the last year, is firming muscles in my mind and my butt in equal parts.

So the laser focus is occurring more often, and the ‘Brinsdon moments’ (as my sons like to call my randomness) are becoming more infrequent.

This can only be a good thing.

104. I can ooom with that.

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I’m off somewhere in the world, to get better at yoga, to get better at me.

The flight airlifted me out of my life at midnight, and I’m still in the sky. Whoever said time flies wasn’t in a long haul plane at the time.

I said no to a cocktail on takeoff, and made one of my own instead – one lorazepam, two melatonin. If I did that every night after work I’d lead an extraordinarily relaxed life, but it possibly wouldn’t have much in it.

My first thought when I came out of my coma was one of great clarity. I didn’t pack any yoga clothes.

You would think this would have been a high priority for me, heading off as I was on a yoga holiday. You’ll be pleased to hear I did pack my own mat, and some underwear and a few assorted other things that are probably completely wrong for where I’m going.

I’m going to have to be chipper about this, and let the locals bum fuck me with Lululemon pride. Or they might talk me into something made from hemp, some wildly patterned tights for my wildly abundant thighs.

On the bright side, I do have a new season Prada dress sitting obediently at my feet. It’s fresh off the runway in Europe, fresh out of Queen Street Prada, fresh out of the Collection Point confessional at the airport, fresh out of my credit card and not yet out of it’s tissue.

The combination of these two events means I won’t have much rupiah to splash about for the next two weeks but as it’s inner wealth I’m seeking, I can ooom with that.