Australia

Ask any of my friends, Australia has haunted me. Ever since I returned from a semester abroad there two years ago, my life has always managed to tie back somehow to Australia. The experience was one of sublime liberation; I broke out of my awkward shell, broke new grounds with my sexuality, and learned to be a new person. A calmer, more confident, better socialized, more fun person. An arrogent, obsessive, shallow person with deep emotional disconnect. It took me two years to recover, to lose my obsession, to find a functional middle ground, to relearn basic life lessons, to patch the schism between my pre and post Australia self and become an emotionally, socially, internally complete person.

Then I applied to go to graduate school there.

Graduate school and I have bad history. I meant to apply early in my senior year, and balked in future panic. Then I intended to do it during the summer, and still couldnt force the motivation. Of the 20 or so schools I investigated, I only managed to apply to two during my American Roadtrip: the two Australian schools. Application due date, August 31st (when I was in Los Angeles), response date, "First week of November" (when I was scheduled to be in Cuzco, Peru).

The other schools I planned to apply to later in my roadtrip. Didn't happen. I bumped it to after my roadtrip. Didn't happen. I'd take care of it early, in Quito. Didn't happen. I pushed and pushed it back until I convinced myself I was too late to try at all, until I was already in Peru and Halloween was fast approaching. I would hedge all my bets on Australia and hope against hope for the best.

But I lacked faith. As the countdown to knowing commenced, I suddenly felt compelled to reach out to other schools. I'd felt guilted for weeks now on my failure to kickstart myself, but somehow, cruising down the endless coastal desert of Peru, I found my motivation.

I like deserts. I like spiders. I like evolution and the crazy diversity of the natural world. I like research. I want to do research. That's what I'm going to do.

In the meanwhile, I waited to hear back from the places I really wanted to go. The vague response date was torturous. I lost hours of sleep between insomnia over my results and slaving over the computer, seeking new avenues and backup plans. I played and replayed scenarios in my head about how I'd response to acceptance or rejection. I spent my free hours in Peru digging through college websites, eschewing tourism or socializing (with a few notable, often unpleasant exceptions). Wondering why I have generally so little to say about Peru? That's why.

Frankly, I didnt like Peru. Everyone from the money changers to the taxi drivers tried to rip me off. The people had an unpleasant streak of douchitude. Buses were longer and more hellish than before. Hostels were quieter and lonelier. My Spanish devolved in frustration, and I stopped trying to speak it. My only new friend I'd made in a week was a small puppy someone had brought on the bus to Cuzco, a welcome change from the typical pets on buses: crying babies. Also a welcome change from mangey flea-and-maggot-ridden strays.

Perhaps my foul opinion is influenced by multiple nights in a row of no sleep?

The bus to Cuzco, by the way, took 10 hours. It was supposed to take 6 according to the driver. We sat for an hour in the bus terminal before leaving, sat another hour in a rural town office of the bus company, and were never told why. These delays were typical, though they would only result in an 8 hour trip. This discrepency was due to simple driver lying, also typical. Crying babies, poorly dubbed movies, pushy food vendors and annoying untalented singers-for-coins were all typical. The shark-like taxi drivers in the bus terminal quoting absurdly high prices and attempting to drop you off at the wrong hostel to collect kickback from the hostel owner was nothing new. The projectile pink vomit of the girl behind me, and the puppy, were really the only atypical things that day.

By all accounts, I shouldve been grumpy in Cuzco. My last night in Arequipa, I decided to see just when Australia scholarships were being announced. I didn't find a date, but I found out Macquarie gets only 7, and UQ gets only 28, and all are only awarded to those in the top 10% of their graduating class, and only to those with published works. I was neither, and thus technically ineligable. For me to win an award, someone must not be doing their job.

And yet, this didnt upset me much. I felt like I had an answer, and even though it wasnt the one I wanted, it meant an end to my anxiety. I could sleep again. I had sent emails out to every professor I had intended to, and now was just awaiting responses. I was a free man.

In Cuzco, I chose what Lonely Planet called a 'party hostel', which translates to 'there's a huge bar right outside my bedroom, which I share with 8 British alcoholics (or am I repeating myself?)´. And yet, this is the best thing I couldve done. Who needs sleep when you have other people who speak English? Hell, half the people in this city are gringos. I celebrated with pizza and a marathon of Scrubs.

The next day was to be my tourist day. I started by going to the city center and the giant square, within which was a giant cathedral. Same as every other city, although this cathedral sported a painting of the Last Supper featuring roast guinea pig.

No, what really set this cathedral apart was the fact that I wasnt exploring it alone. An Australian named Christian (an ex-catholic, appropriately enough) entered right around when I did. He seemed friendly enough, and when he mentioned going to the market afterwards, I gladly volunteered to join him.

We combed the market, dodging pushy clothes vendors, dodging pushy cocaine vendors, sampling grimey chocolate, gawking at the assorted body parts in the meat section, and inventing new juice concoctions. When he asked me after "Where to next?", I smiled inwardly. My first new friend since Quilotoa.

What we did next didnt actually matter. We hiked up to the city's Requisite Giant Religious Statue On A Hill, past some ruins, and down for a beer in the square. Nevermind we got repeatedly lost, walked 3x more than we needed to, and probably shouldve been mugged in some of the places we were. Point is, I had company, with whom not only could I communicate with on a deeper level than "Where's the bathroom?", but actually had alot in common. We only hung out for a few hours, but in the traveler's world, that's akin to your childhood buddy.

As luck would have it, a celebration was going on. It was either a cultural holiday, a high school graduation, or or an attempt to ward off swine flu (as the giant pig float seemed to insinuate). Either way, big street dance party. Christian and I struck up chat with two local girls (though I still questioned his sexuality quietly), and between the two of us, could actually talk with them. When I'm not sick, tired, angry, anxious, or lonely, it turns out I can almost speak Spanish.

We met up with his friends for dinner in a surprisingly fancy restaurant. When dinner usually costs 4 or 5 bucks, dropping nearly 20 US is alot, but for alpaca steak, corn booze, and what might be flan, its worth it. When you're having a good day, you roll with it. You spend money and ride the wave as long as you can.

This was their last day in Cuzco; they were headed north and I was off to Macchu Pichu. You might be inclined to play up the old "Parting is such sweet sorrow" cliche, but that just wasnt true here. I wasnt sad at all, just content. They were like therapy to me. And they'd stick with me, in my big boat.

Australians really are ubiquitous in hostels around the world. Every previous time, I've left with a desperate craving to return to the country I love. This time, I was just glad I met some cool people, and that was the extent of it. I had a new lease on my trip: new plans, new strategies, a clean bill of health, a grip on grad school, and a renewed sense of optimism about what's ahead. I can lay my thanks for it all on the Australians, but instead, I'm just going to thank my new friends, passing as backpackers do like ships in the night.

I have yet to hear back from any school.