Why I love "slow travel" and staying in one place for a while

Nestled here far down deep in the heart of the Southern Hemisphere winter is fast approaching. Browned leaves and rain and necks wrapped in colorful scarfs busy the streets. Colors dampen and deepen.

Three months ago tank topped and tanned bodies walked the beaches and dared to plunge in the still chilly Southern Ocean. Apples plumped, picked off trees. Ice lattes ordered to abate the heat. I had just arrived in Tasmania then. I was new to the streets, tirelessly getting lost, trying to learn the currency of new coins, and reminding myself to walk, then drive, on the left side. As I feel often as I travel, I was preoccupied with all the new discoveries, my attention spread thin but far.

But a few days have quickly become more than three months in this city of Hobart, Tasmania and a few days ago I saw a mural of some kind of monster or modern take on a buddha? (you tell me) and it shook me into a realization: I'm getting to know this place.

The realization happened like this: when I first arrived to Tassie there was a blank wall of a parking lot a few blocks from my house. I'd walk by it every time I came home from the grocery store (side note: it is so nice to live within walking distance from everything!). Then over the weeks, I began seeing the outlines of a mural. A body? A lot of strange shapes. Then. A blue head with three eyes. Eyes on knees and toes. A sun painted after a rainy day.

One day, laden with bags, I looked up to see the artist signed their name. The painting was done and the three-eyed creature looked down at me. I stood in awe at the mandala wheel of life in his arms. I smiled knowing I saw him in each stage of his creation.

I'm enjoying the groundedness of slow-style travel. I'm staying here long enough to put down a few roots. My time here though long in a sense, is still temporary. It is the style of travel I've longed for, no rush to leave, and lots of chances to explore a place deeply. To learn histories, camp under the stars, feel the change of seasons, and start to weave into the community.

Time reveals itself too in the memory of names and layers of foam. Working in a cafe I've come to remember a lot of names and faces and orders. Peter always with his almond latte and plain croissant. A double shot cappuccino with caramel and sugar for Paul. Brett and Sue come in together, his a plain latte, hers on soy. On Mondays, we all swap stories of our weekends. Jackson tells me about his son’s soccer games and Fiona shows me photos of her puppy Biscuit. It feels as if I’m slowly weaving myself into the fold of this city, and as if the city itself is folding itself smaller and tighter to hold me.

The apple tree down the block now has bare branches. I remember on warm days in February when I’d stand on the sidewalk and Danny would hop over the fence, skirt around the cliff by the stream below and reach out to grab a few apples. He’d toss them to me and I’d stuff them in a bag. The tree wasn’t on anybody’s property, but still it felt a bit scandalous. Now that tree and I are acquaintances, friends who nod at each other there on the corner of Princess and Queen Street each afternoon as I come home from work. That sense of newness, of scandalous, dazzling exploration has faded into the intricate comfort of our little life.

I've found myself balanced between weekend adventures and weekly routines. I have a small bookshelf and have a pantry filled with ingredients. I'm slowing down enough to feel winter coating my skin, staying long enough to invest in buying things like a toaster and a few new dinner bowls. But not long enough to buy new curtains. Instead, I took our curtains and attempted to dye them pink with beet juice. But when I hung them to dry the rains came and bleached away my efforts. I laughed and hung them up again in the house, same as before. Then I drank the rest of the beet juice. I've discovered my favorite brand after trying nearly all the juices in aisle three of Woolworths (or "woolies" as the locals say.) It is one of many mundane yet joyous discoveries of being in this place for a while.

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I'd love to hear about how you like to travel or hope to travel. How do you try to integrate into a new place? How much do you invest when you know you'll move on someday? Do you plan your exit ticket from the start, or like me, wait and wait because the unknowing feels a bit enchanting? Do you ever feel like anything could happen?

Thanks for hanging out with me and my thoughts here this week.

Love,

Ava

// Rewilding Child