After the Odyssey

Arriving in Rarotonga after 39 hours "on the road" was more than a little surreal. I kept forgetting where I was - it looks a bit like home, and a bit like other places I've visited, but it isn't any of those. This is a new country to me, a new culture, new air scented with frangipani, a balm to the senses after all that journeying in stale airline cabins.

I spent the first two flights scribbling frantically. Newly motivated and enabled to make blogging fun, the pages filled at a rapid rate. Transit in Denver was a little tight, walking the length of 60 gates, and my new shoes were hurting a bit. But I boarded, slurped squishy peaches and wrote again.

Once at Los Angeles airport, I took my time. Ten hours till the next flight. I ate a wonderful lunch in the lookout tower restaurant, watching the planes come and go, including some big-daddy A380's, amazing to see in action.

Through security and into my terminal, I typed up the stuff I'd scribbled and scheduled a bunch of blog posts, which you've hopefully seen by now. Drank soup and surfed. Ate yoghurt and posted more stuff, and there were still hours to wait. Finally got on my third flight of the day, watched two movies, dozed a bit, and went into transit at Auckland. 

A few hours later I was joined by family members for our shared adventure to Raro. We boarded the 777 - perhaps the same that brought me from L.A.? - watched another movie, ate, and arrived. 

Jetsetting may sound like fun, but trust me, it's pretty tough till you get there. 

Going Without...Internet

So here I am on a beautiful South Sea island - yes, I live on one too, but this is different - endless beaches, exciting foods, lagoon islands, wild animals and other cute locals. Still I find my mind wandering back often to my online life that's going on without me right now. Is anybody commenting on my scheduled posts? Are there questions waiting that only I can answer? My fingers itch to home in on a keyboard and connect.

But I mean, what the heck? That's not what I'm here for. I'm sitting on a deserted beach, turquoise water at my feet, the roar of the surf pounding the outer reef, and a friendly local dog who's taken up residence beside me in the golden sand. Why on earth would I even be thinking of the old everyday stuff? I could say I miss my friends, but it's only been one day. I'm stronger than that.

No, I'm here today to enjoy the solace of solitude, and other days to celebrate with my family. There's an internet café down the road at $12 an hour, so I could get on if I was desperate. However, I really don't think that's necessary. The world beyond this island can do without me for a week - or rather, the world and I can do without each other.

Fontspotting: Goudy Stout

The mountain is bonus. I was waiting for a bus.

While I was searching to identify this font, I hit gold and also discovered another restaurant on Rarotonga using the same one:

The word "restaurant" in particular - possibly also "Tumunu" but if so, it's been force-squeezed a bit horizontally. It does look very similar, it's just a bit too narrow.

I've used one of the Goudy variants - GoudyCat, I think - on a book project before, but they all look fairly different. This version here certainly wouldn't have suited my science fiction book!

Rarotonga: First Night

Greeted by a houseful of lizards, I enjoy the sight of my grown brother chasing them around. Wild chooks roam the lawn - an inordinate proportion of roosters makes for a lot of noise. The lawn is also full of fallen coconuts and more loom in the trees overhead.

On the drive over from the airport, I noted goats unfenced by the main road and also numerous gravestones set in the yards of homes. Mongrel dogs wander in public. The island's central mountains aren't high, but rise almost vertically to their jaggy spikes all covered in the wild green bush like New Zealand on steroids.

After dark we walked to nearby Mr Wu's general store. It was raining, and I had no coat or brolly, so I slung a towel over my head and shoulders to keep dry. Mr Wu sells petrol, canned goods, a small selection of fruit and veg, hot pies, ice cream, and intriguing fried snacks made of breadfruit and manioto.

We follow the barely-lit shoulder, torches bobbing in the black ocean of the island night that is itself but a pinprick in the wide, deep, black Pacific. Back at the house there is one TV channel. For ads, business owners voiceover their homemade slideshows.

Not wanting to leave the laundry outside overnight, we lay two brooms and a mop across the backs of two chairs and call it good.