In the sharp night Icelandic sky, which had momentarily cleared of cloud and rain, hung the familiar Orion constellation. There was something about the congruity of that ever-recognisable belt. The new depth revealed by dark skies and shaky binoculars, always inspired me.
The nebula hidden just below was my own cosmological constant and anchor to the world to which I would soon return. A reminder that just as with the stars, wherever I travelled in the world, there I would be. Like Orion I’d always be hunting for something. Less like him I’d not always be sure what it was that I was hunting for.
Tonight though we were all certain. The elusive Northern Lights were our prey and we waited with breath held in anticipation or stolen by the icy, swirling wind. Of course, like with any hunt we had to be prepared to go home with empty mouths. An unslaked hunger to bear witness to the silent inner workings of our complex world.
A slow bus-ward trudge commenced as the cold continued to gather while time ticked away. I didn’t feel bad that I was not going to see the lights. Instead only proud of the distance I’d come and that I’d given myself this opportunity to feel so alive. I was sure there’d still be plenty of explosive moments yet to come.
Besides, if anywhere had taught me not to be so shackled to my expectations, then New York, which I had only just departed, was that place.
Big Christmas in the Big Apple
What I’d expected was snow covered streets melted only by traffic and coffee spilled while handling giant pizza slices. Happy faces skating frozen lakes. Windows lined with wooden toys. The glass steamed up by the chilly breath of hopeful children.
It was a fantastic city full of sights and buzz. But the only Christmas magic I felt, as a few flakes of snow drifted down atop the Rockefeller centre in miraculously still conditions, was quickly dispelled. “Is it normally so calm like this?” I asked, “You’re 800 feet in the air man what do you think?” came that typical surly New York reply.
Brooklyn however had been full of nice surprises. Views of that iconic jeweled skyline. Probably the world’s best cup of coffee (not the one in Elf, that place had closed). And what was truly the best of what travel had offered me: coincidence.
Coincidence
Drinking in a bar close to the brewery, trying to come to terms with being back on my own again after having only just made friends in San Francisco, another friend coincidentally appeared. This time an old friend. Twelve years we reckoned had passed since we last met. Whilst I posted a picture of the bar for distant friends to see, he was sat right around the corner reading it.
Of course we didn’t have nearly enough time to catch up on 12 years of our lives. But the time we spend on the paths we travel I realised, was less important than how and when those paths coincide. Making unique moments that made this trip my own.
The final surprise New York would have for me was not any of the great things my friend recommended for me. Not even the relaxing night off I gave myself cat sitting Stirling.
No, instead it was one of the most touristic things I could have chosen to see.
The Statue
Although smaller than I’d expected, again it was the unexpected that made her come to life for me. Stood inside the pedestal, Emma Lazarus’ words stamped in copper changed the meaning of the statue for me like they had been doing for others for over 115 years.
I’m sure my travel-weary body and barbwire-tattered trousers went some way to helping me see these words from the perspective of the trembling voices of the Ellis Island immigration museum. Their striking effects empower the meek, welcome the needy and cast out the pomp and unduly proud.
As these sick and tired bodies drifted through the sea-washed sunset gates, inspection, detention, freedom and happiness were all in equal play. Any of my own anxieties these past few months were far out-stripped by what they must have felt.
I wonder did her beacon-hand glow with world-wide welcome, easing their fears and kindling their hopes? Or would they be doomed to wash up like wretched refuse on the teeming shore.
A Flag in the Wind
Such conflicted thoughts of hope and helplessness bubbled up again for me in Iceland.
An acoustic guitar warms the air in Hlemmur Mathöll food hall. I sit against the radiator and plate glass that resolutely combine to reject the cloud-locked skies of Reykjavik’s odd December. Perhaps by the end of my Prince Polo chocolate bar, the low-lit blue sky will return. Or snow. Or thunder even. The weather here it seems is as changeable as my thoughts on returning home.
I am like the restless Icelandic flag whipped by the wind. A bright red cross, a flame of passion for all the words and pictures I created. Like the lava the cross represents, spilling forth to form new lands and with them new purpose. The flag also bears a white cross of ice. Like some hollow cavern, sometimes empty of promise or belonging in the world. Finally, surrounded all by the deep blue of the ocean. At times I felt strong and proud like these Nordic island borders. But sometimes still like an islander without a boat, helplessly adrift on the colossal tectonics of the world.
I wondered as those New York immigrants probably did. “Could I somehow bridge the seas and find a life to live?” Would I be warmed by that subterranean soul I’d found within my core? Or would I wonder icy caverns instead. A chill-stifled voice inaudible, the only sound the echoes of my own lost footsteps.
The Light
As I neared the bus door I was resigned to my wish of seeing the Northern Lights, remaining just that. The wind that ragged at coats and ponchos, sapped out heat even through my two layers of trousers. I was ready to give in.
That’s when I heard it. A hoot of excitement from the American contingent. I wheeled around like a wide-eyed prize fighter who’d been caught off guard with a celestial hay-maker.
There in the sky, hung an off-white glyph. A milky lizard tail laid lazily across the night. Like a sorcerer had stamped their ownership on the heavens above us. From it traced down neat ruled lines that gave the sky a depth no star could ever manage.
Like Fuji’s clouds the lights would slowly and imperceptibly change. The tail became two great beams. A ghost train from behind the cloud, ferrying beings in worlds we’d never know.
Bracing myself against the wind-shook bus was not enough to capture the moment. Merely enough to reveal the colour hidden to our naked eyes.
In a way I was glad. Too often would I have to force myself to put the camera down but now I was left with no choice but to stare up at this silent-lipped spectacle.
The End
This would be the punctuation point in my little trip once around the globe. A point by which I’d hoped to have become so changed by the world that I would no longer worry about the flaws in my character, concentrating only on my strengths.
I thought back to Bartholdi’s statue and how her mild eyes and silent lips command such power without aggression. Her meekness intertwined with her greatness.
Also her Liberty Green shell, when formed, created widespread worry among her carers and admirers. I know some words I’ve written appear like a creeping rust oxidizing over how I’ve previously been seen.
But that flaw now forms an essential part of the statue. It seals the thin copper from the harsher elements she faces. My own flaws give me my perspective and the passion for what I enjoy.
With all the wondrous and terrible things I’d seen in these past 100 days the world had changed me it’s true.
More than anything it merely changed the way I looked at the person I always was.
Henry Miller was right, “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”
I look out to the green haired rocks, gathered like petrified goblins awed by the abyssal falls. With my notebook only halfway filled, I’m ready to see in as many new ways as the world will let me.
My trip was at an end. My future was just beginning.
