Travels, To and Fro (Part 1: "Fro")

Let us wander where we will,
Something kindred greets us still;
Something seen on vale or hill
Falls familiar on the heart;
So, at scent or sound or sight,
Severed souls by day and night
Tremble with the same delight -
Tremble, half the world apart.

-excerpt from Swallows Travel To and Fro by Robert Louis Stevenson

I spent most of my 20's single. In fact, I pretty much went a decade without a girlfriend. I'm not afraid of being alone. I'm tempted to say that I'm not even terribly afraid of being with the "wrong" person - I don't really believe there are right or wrong people. That value judgement is better applied to duration. You see, towards the end of that decade I learned the value of short term relationships. I had pretty much "resigned" (for lack of a better word) myself to the fact that that was what I was probably going to be dealing with for the rest of my life. And I relished it! During my first adventure, in Japan, I met, and had a short but wonderful fling with a woman there. It was then that I - half jokingly - thought that it would be great to travel the world and get to know different countries through their women. "The Littlest Hobo of Love!"

I've never exactly been much of a Don Juan. In fact, on my next adventure, while working in France, I realized that mine is not exactly an immediate charm - more of an acquired taste. I flew to Bergerac and was picked up and brought to the chateau (along with an Australian couple who had also just arrived) by "Claudine", the nanny. I didn't know it at the time, but "Sonya", the woman who we were working for, had it in mind that I might be a bit of a "companion" for the Claudine. (Sonya hadn't previously met me, we'd only talked over the phone.) Anyway, during the ride, we had all been talking. I don't remember what it was I talked about, but it was enough for the nanny to tell Sonya that I wasn't to have the bedroom beside hers after all, to just give it to the Australian couple. Now, I only know all of this because, after having spent some time there, we actually did end up hitting it off. Like I said - an acquired taste. It makes meeting people while traveling a bit of a challenge.

Of course, as soon as you think you've got something figured out in life... Well I met this woman. We'll call her..."Leslie." "I don't want a relationship," she said. "No meeting the families." "Just sex." She knew all the right things to say. (She also said she doesn't cry - pfft! Just throw on "84 Charing Cross Road" to watch the tears fly. Or "Casper" for crying out loud.) Nevertheless - sex we had, relationship we had, families we met... and tears we cried.

Five years, multiple break-ups, a dog and four apartments later... it was finally time to leave. Or rather, I'd prefer to say "go." This journey - if you will - isn't about leaving. It's not Leslie, or the dog, or even Halifax that I'm leaving. Actually, even "go" isn't the right word. I'm not "going" anywhere. I have no destination. I'm on an experiment. I've been accused over the years (mostly by my mother) - as have many who have done the same thing - of "running away." I've never felt that way. It's simply not true. I have nothing from which to run away. Not even myself.

It hit me yesterday, during an exchange of messages with my friend and pseudo traveling partner, Pat. In his blog, he talked about surfing, both literally and metaphorically. The reason I'm on this trip is because some part of me feels that there has to be a better way of living than the one we're all taught. I'm not sure what it is, but that's what I hope to discover. Lately I've been thinking about life as having 2 ways of living it. The first, and the most common, would be a type of surfing. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "Well, I'm gonna be a doctor, have a nice car and a nice family." He'll go to school, do his best to meet someone and ride that wave to the shore. That will be good for him. He'll be happy. We are all told that that is how it's done. For years I've been struggling to do the same. Problem is, I don't see a wave that I'm particularly interested in riding. That's where the second route comes in. For others, instead of getting off at the shore, they ride the currents. They follow them through the oceans, wherever they're led. If they are wise, they know how to stay afloat and not drown. They don't fight the current. They don't try to ride to shore.

Leslie and I are different in many ways. I was telling someone I'd met the other day that, based on my own tastes, chances are I could predict hers. If I like something, she wouldn't, and vice-versa. Does that make for a "wrong" match? Or do opposites attract? Does it matter? Despite having left a few weeks ago, I don't feel like we've broken up. I don't feel "single." One could claim that, because it's only been a few weeks, I'm just feeling withdrawal, but I don't think that's it. There is an anxiety that comes with withdrawal that I simply don't feel.

I wrote to her the other day that I'm not searching for the "who", but the "what." If I've discovered it - if my theory is right, and I'm a drifter while she's a surfer - what does that mean? "Love" isn't the issue. (I'm sorry, but it doesn't conquer all.) Nor is it a question of faithfulness - the thought of meeting another is far from my mind. She has said that she is okay with my traveling. But for what kind of time period? How often, and for how long will the currents bring me around to her shore? Too long?

She lamented that I didn't mention her in either of my posts since I started out. I told her that I couldn't write about her until there was some kind of conclusion. It's funny, I sat down tonight, only to get down a few thoughts, and here I am - this "Hobo of love" - without a conclusion. "Maybe tomorrow..."

Have Hammer, Will Travail (a confession)

"Everybody gets what they want.
I wanted a mission - and for my sins, they gave me one."

- Captain Benjamin L. Willard "Apocalypse Now"

I love this quote, although I generally leave the first line out. I've never really been a big believer in the sentiment. For those that do, however, I'm sure you will appreciate this.

I guess I've been discovering over the past number of years that I'm not exactly the most selfless of individuals. I don't know why that is - I always thought I was a "pretty good person." I guess in the same way that everyone thinks they are - knowing I'm not faultless, but somewhat blind to them none the less. The first time (that I recall) someone actually called me selfish was a young Japanese girl I was dating around 7 years ago. I would have liked to blame it on a communication gap - but since then I've been slowly reconciling myself to the fact, and trying to rectify it.

One of the reasons I decided to try WWOOFing was because I wanted to give something of myself without monetary compensation. I specify "monetary" because I do receive a bed and food. It's not exactly an entirely selfless act, but when you remove money from the exchange, it feels a little more altruistic. My first experience in this was 2 weeks around Oromocto, New Brunswick. It was more or less what I expected - 6 hours a day, 5 days a week. Pretty casual. It was neither demanding, nor overly revelatory. I met some nice people, ate some good food and did a few fun things. (Perhaps it's because I've been in Quebec for the last few days, but I can't help but notice that the french word for "work" - travail - so closely resembles the word "travel.") As I planned, a few days after arriving, I started to contact a few places so I could set up my next stop when I was ready to move on. One person, south of Montreal, contacted me and told me that I'd be welcome there, but to first consider going to the farm of a friend of hers on the Gaspe peninsula. Her friend "Julie" - a woman in her late fifties - who is married and has 7 adopted children (all victims of various forms of abuse), lost her house to a fire back in March (on top of that, I would later learn that one of the children was responsible for accidentally setting the fire and that her father had died unexpectedly just one month ago.) When my contact told me all of this, I was delighted that I would be able to help someone in such a situation. It reminded me of when I was a kid and our family lost our boat shop to fire. Although I don't remember a lot about it anymore, it was pretty devastating. I do, however, remember that in various ways, the community did help us out. This would be perfect. I could give something back. I got what I wanted.

Another of my favourite moments in (a war) film is in the epilogue of "Saving Private Ryan," when the old-man Ryan is at Tom Hanks' grave and, weeping, recalling Hanks' sacrifice for him, he asks his wife to "Tell me I'm a good man." That he "earned" his life. It kills me every time I think about it. In fact, a sure way to get me to weep like a child is to display some kind of self-sacrifice. I discovered this some years ago. I've reached the conclusion that it has this effect on me because it is something I place very highly, and yet lack myself. Speaking to my sister-in-law a couple of months ago, I learned that her yardstick for living was in lengths of selflessness. What's more - she lives by this. I envy her.

As soon as I arrived at the farm I felt the "intensity." That's the best word I can think of to describe the sensation. I'm afraid I can't even give examples to illustrate what I mean. It was simply a feeling. I knew, when I went to bed that night, that the experience would be draining, both physically and mentally. I don't know why. I considered the situation carefully. I have forsaken a "home" in service of some kind of "mission." Exactly what the mission is, I'm not yet sure. The effect is that I don't have a familiar place to go to when I'm exhausted where I can recharge myself. Nor do I yet have the capacity to regenerate the power within myself. In that it takes some to make some, energy is rather like money. So I have to be careful about how I spend my energy ( all forms.) The thing is, despite knowing this, I still opted to stay with the family because they needed help and I wanted to help them. I would simply deal with the consequences later.

The next morning, Julie told me how excited she was, that she told the children that I was a "blessing." I'm not sure anyone has ever said that to me before. It strengthened my resolve. And it helped that when she speaks, she always has a smile and her eyes shine like few others. She is also in incredibly strong woman. I would stay... for two more days. On the third night I laid awake, unable to sleep. I knew that I had to leave. The next morning I lied to Julie and told her that I had to go. She cried, and said it would be okay. "Maybe you will see someone and you will send them here?"

Of course, I must also say that I am, perhaps, being a little over-dramatic. After all, the family does have a warm place to stay (although 9 people in one room isn't exactly ideal.) And it isn't as though it's up to me to "save" them. I just wish I'd had the strength to do more. ("I could have done more." - Oscar Schindler. Just to round out the war film quotes. Although I always found that particular scene somewhat over-done. Perhaps it comes to me now, because when one travels, one feels things more intensely than they normally would. But we're hardly talking about the Holocaust here. Forgive me for over-dramatising again.)

Last night I took the bus to Riviere-du-Loup and am staying in a four star hotel for a couple of nights. I can feel my strength slowly returning, if not my pride. The funny thing is, as I sit here at the computer, it occurs to me that even writing this feels selfish - as if I'm sending this out into cyberspace, (figuratively) asking someone to "tell me I'm a good man." Regardless of the answer, I know for certain that I can be better. As a "rest stop" goes, this one is not without significance. I could just as easily head back to Halifax as go on. But at this point, it isn't really a choice. I have to continue on.

Late last night, after arriving at the hotel, I wrote to a friend (who is living under somewhat similar circumstances) only saying that I'd just had a few intense days. He wrote back that they are all just experiences. It's funny. It's been my motto for years now that there are no "bad" experiences - what's important is that it makes a good story. But (and with all due respect to my friend Pat) it's important to know that they aren't "just" experiences - to varying degrees, they are all trans/formative (but I suspect he knows that anyway.) He also wrote in his blog (and something that has been on my mind since I started out) "If ever your distant goal is more important than a human in front of you that needs your help - you will surely fail." I don't believe in regret. It is a waste of energy. I believe we all do what we must under the given circumstances. But it is with shame that I admit failure. And it is with hope that perhaps I am closer to succeeding when the opportunity next arises.

"I think the children are very lucky to have you for a mother," I said
"I think I am very lucky to have them - they teach me the patience. And hope. Lots and lots of hope," said Julie, laughing.

East Coast Saskatchewan

As with my other adventures, before I left I was pretty eager to do so. Though this one is a little different - in that I have no ultimate destination. Nor even a plan to return from whence I came. There are only a series of steps that are pretty much unknown to me until I am just about to take one.

The loose plan is to travel about 400-600 km with each step. Somewhere within that distance I hope to find a person/people/family that needs some kind of assistance for a few weeks in exchange for a bed and good food to eat. (This, perhaps, isn't as ridiculous as it sounds - if you know about an international organization that goes by the acronym WWOOF, which stands for World Wide Opportunities in Organic Farming - a resource that caters to those who wish to do just as I plan.) Starting out in Nova Scotia, I figure I will continue west for a few months and possibly head south around January, then west until I hit the Pacific. After that - probably Asia, or maybe South America. But that is a long way off, and as anyone who is familiar with me knows - I have a strong tendency to change my plans. That is - I never know what I'm going to do until I do it.

Having left Halifax two weeks ago, my first stop is Waasis, New Brunswick. A country house that backs on to the Oromocto River, fifteen minutes east of Fredericton. I've only ever driven through New Brunswick before. Never visited. When travelling west from Nova Scotia, my overall feeling when in N.B. is to simply get through it. It is a path to a destination, not a destination itself*. Perhaps this is how westerners feel about Saskatchewan, although both times that I've driven across that province I found it quite beautiful and satisfying. In any case, I must confess that the past two weeks have not altered my attitude towards this eastern province. Not that it's been an unpleasant experience. Perhaps it's the fact that it so closely resembles any inland country road in Nova Scotia - I may as well have not bothered to leave home at all! Or that I am anxious to get a little farther afield. Or perhaps I've been swayed by the entries in Stuart McLean's "Welcome Home: Travels in Small Town Canada" (I've not yet made it to the chapter on Sackville .) Whatever the reason, I shall be heading to Quebec soon, and am looking forward to it.

*Of course, according to Eastern thought, this wouldn't automatically imply something negative. Normally I would agree - just, not this time.

Immediate Personal Survival

Train Yard by clyfhull
Poster printing by zazzle.ca

In the winter of 2004 I took my first true solitary adventure. I booked a flight from Vancouver to Tokyo and, as a pre-adventure, I bought a rail pass and spent two weeks crossing Canada from Halifax. I'd started a journal (my first travelogue) and, with the second entry, I gave it the same title I'm giving this post. For me it sums up the most attractive (and most terrifying) aspect of traveling. When I go somewhere new, I prefer to go in (almost) cold. Granted, I do still like to bring a travel guide - but I never make hotel reservations. If I've never been to a place, I have no idea in what part of town I'll want to stay. Anyway, the more pre-planning one does, the more they rob themselves of the immediacy of the experience. Traveling isn't (or shouldn't be) like everyday life. Most people (myself included) spend most of their lives in day-to-day routine. They get up, prepare for the day, go to work, eat, do whatever chores need to be done, entertain themselves in some way and sleep. Most people could probably lead their lives in their sleep. There's no real conscious effort (which isn't to say that it is necessarily easy.) When I travel, a good portion of every day is concerned with food and shelter. It is immediate and conscious thought, as opposed to the back-of-the-mind "rent's gotta be paid" and "it's Wednesday - time to go to the grocery store" variety. I think that, when one is too comfortable - when our basic needs are met with little effort, we lose touch with some primal instinct - something which keeps our focus sharp. Of course, it isn't easy to maintain such a focus. In fact, it can get exhausting. The trick is to strike a balance, because, after all, sometimes you just want to be in familiar surroundings and watch your favourite movies all day. That's when you return home (and crash at a friend's place because you gave up your apartment before you left.)

Artist's Statement (photograph exhibition March 2010)

Notre Dame, Paris by clyfhull
See more prints & posters at zazzle

Clyf Hull...hates speaking of himself in the third person.

Nonetheless, Mr. Hull (indeed!) began his artistic endeavors out of high school when he attended the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. After exactly one month, he decided that his time and money (especially his money) would be best spent on beer and jazz records - and right, he was. After about two years of drinking and philandering, he decided to get back to the art thing. He moved back in with his parents and, having wonderful senses of humour, they agreed to support him. During the following five years, he divided his time between painting canvasas and illustrating comic stories (and beer - one doesn't get much opportunity for philandering when one is an unemployed artist who lives with his parents. Especially when they live in Isaac's Harbour, Guysborough County.) He had some minor successes - had several exhibitions at galleries in Antigonish and Halifax and sold some pieces internationally. At the end of those five years he was forced to admit to himself that, perhaps his dream of never having a real job was a tad unrealistic. And besides, he felt bereft of inspiration, with little to say. Deciding that it was probably time to actually experience life rather than just imagine it, he moved to the big city and got a job...in a bar (keeping that dream alive!)

Since then, he's left (and returned) to that particular job more times than he cares to remember. His return to painting, however, was only the once. After his first couple of years at the bar, realizing that, perhaps this wasn't real life after all, he decided to do some travelling here and there. One such place was France, where he was employed by a young English family to help renovate a chateau that they had bought. Part of the experience was painting a fairly large number of large scale canvases to adorn the walls. He has not returned since to that particular form of artistic expression.

As they say, "Once an artist, always an artist." Well, they're silly, but that didn't stop our current subject of discussion from buying himself a digital camera in the fall of 2008. Since then, when the bar business will allow (still livin' that dream) he tries to combine his passion for illustration with that of travel. In comparing his previous output with that of his photography, it is ironic (or at least notable) that the style at which he was most proficient was trompe l'oeil ("realism" for those mercifully unfamiliar with art-school jargon), whereas in his photography he purposely avoids a realistic perspective. In fact, some even look like ink drawings, or an impressionist painting until inspected more closely. He does tend to make things difficult for himself. He hopes that people will find in his present work, perspectives that differ greatly from that which we are accustomed. That is to say, that his images make us look at familiar (and even iconic) scenes in different ways. Or, you know, that they're pretty.

Clyf Hull(...is also very full of himself.)

If you are interested in checking out a myriad of products with his designs, please check out his store Clyf Hull Design where you can buy prints of all sizes as well as fully customizable merchandise such as a coffee mug with a picture of the Seine on it. Who wouldn't want to drink out of the Seine?!