Never Dull in Los Angeles

I love a good full travel day as much as the next person, but the thing about good full travel days is that they take a good full time to write about later.

On that note, let's go see if the laundry is done.

It is! Now on to the dryer. American washers and dryers? So big! I had forgotten. I could probably do three or four loads in one of these – too bad my clothes are limited. I should have tossed other people's stuff in. And it's cheap too – 1.25USD for laundry, 1USD for dryer. Is this standard, or just the hostel's price? Who can say.

Back to the story. I woke up for my free breakfast of bread and cereal. I do so love Raisin Bran. It's no Maximum Raisin (the one instance where the no-name knock off is superior to the real deal) but it will do. Raisins, quite possibly the most wonderful of all dried fruit – so much so that they get their own special name. Well, prunes get their own special name too, but they're not quite so wonderful.

All in all, raisin filled breakfast? Not bad for hostel grub. Then it was out to explore the city! After I figured out how to go out and explore the city. This would take some learning. I checked the internet, I looked at the hostel board, and then I grabbed the bus route maps that they had laying around.

The public transit in the greater LA area has been said to be a most terrible thing, but I was wondering if this was just because everyone here was so used to to driving their cars, and the few times they had to take the bus it was a god awful shock to their system.

So there I sat, pouring over the 720, the 704, and the 217 route maps. Each bus in LA costs 1.25 with no free transfers. But this isn't really all that bad when it appears every time you need to transfer, you have a destination that you wanted to see anyway. So after, shall we call it an hour and a half (I wanted to be really sure I understood what I was doing before I took off into this big scary wonderland. Would not want to end up in South Central Los Angeles by mistake. I don't know much about it in reality, but if the 1980 musings of NWA are anything to believed, when something happens in South Central Los Angeles, nothing happens, it's just another [person] dead.

Once I had completed all my planning though, then I was ready. And off I went, walking down to Ocean Street just jump on the 720. I have come to believe that the 7 means it is express, and that the 20 would do the same as the 720 just taking longer. Is this true? I'm not sure, but it's what I believe. There are also 900 series buses too which I think would probably be more express. But again, I'm not sure.

Stop number one was going to be Beverly Hills.

I got off the bus, right where I belonged, right on Rodeo Drive. Now, of course, you all should understand that this street was like a home away from home for someone like me. I've lived large in all the shopping areas of London, and recently passed through Milan, soaking up the consumerism and stylistic beauty. Now, I could show off my fashion on Rodeo drive, with all the rest of the beautiful people!

Or something to that effect, I'm sure. I was surprised that all the stores were open, honestly, I'm normally expecting something where you have to ring a bell and be allowed in by the shopkeeps – clearly this isn't the elite district I was led to believe it was. I have no time for these open door shops.

After watching four girls walk out of one shop, and then an old man double take after them, before he decided that looked like a store he would like to shop at, I knew I had to move on. Silver naked person statue photographed, and off I went. I wonder who it is.

Next, back onto the 720, and heading off to... hmm, I'm not sure what street I got off at, but believe you me, it's the street that the 217 runs down. I could have been ultra lazy and taken that bus for one stop, but no – I just walked three minutes down to The Farmers Market and Grove. This place is not a market, there will be no farmers selling things. Well – actually, there are some market stalls, but they're overshadowed by the number of restaurants.

This area is known as one of the best places to eat in all of LA and who am I to refuse eating at such a location? Especially when I discovered there was a BBQ restaurant at the back. I discovered this by reading the map of the food court. When a food court needs a fully functioning, colour coded map, you know that you're in the right spot for good eating.

The guy behind the counter called me forward and told me to check out the menu, take my time. I looked down upon it, “How am I supposed to choose?!” He laughed and walked away. After serious deliberation I narrowed it down to the chopped beef sandwich, and the pork sandwich. As luck would have it, the brisket was their specialty and thus the decision was made for me.

With a giant side of slaw, I dove into my meal, savoring every bite. I thought I should have a second meal, but that would probably not be the best financial decision I could make.

But then, as I walked out of the eating area, I passed by another place offering “the best hot dogs” (though Pink's Hot Dogs are said to be quite famous – but I don't feel like waiting three hours in line for them. Next time, LA, Next time.) and then I passed a place with funnel cakes – FUNNEL CAKES! I need more time in this city to eat!

But no, lunch was behind me, and all those treats, and pizzas by the slice, would need to wait. It was time to jump on the 217 bus and head on out to Hollywood.

Hollywood! Nah nah nah nah nah nah Hooooolly-wood!

Back in the early days of the internet, and text based browsing, hollywood.com was the first website I was able to guess at, and find. Search engines were few and far between – and you had to know the URL for those, which I did not at the time. When I found hollywood.com in those early nineties, I was excited. That same excitement fell upon me again as I discovered the true city.

The bus let me off right in front of the Chinese Theatre, my feet landing on Bill Cosby's walk of fame star. I had arrived. Tourists were everywhere, loving their time in the town, and people dressed in different costumes running various scams were setting to work.

One man was scamming a couple as I was scammed in New York – the blank DVD sale trick. I wanted to say something, but then I didn't want to have to run away, so soon in this crazy place. Next, I saw someone take a picture of people dressed as Darth Vader, without a helmet, and Princess Leia. After the photo, the guy who took it tipped a dollar. Darth Vader looks at it and shrugs, “a dollar? Normally people tip around ten bucks. A dollar?” I laughed aloud at this. No one is paying some random street costumed person ten bucks for a ridiculous photo. But then the taker of said image opened his wallet, and pulled out a five – a grand total of six bucks, now passing over. Are you kidding me?! I love this crazy town.

Next, I wandered up escalators, and stairs to stand under monoliths shaped like Egyptian elephants. You'll know it when you see it. There I could look out and see, for the first time, the Hollywood sign. There it was. Tiny in the distance. 500mm lenses made it fill the frame, quite nicely, and allow for a magical image. But, zoomed out you look at it and think, really? Is that all?

People tried to pose with it. I can't imagine why – it would appear a small white dot in the periphery of their image. Some might think it a smudge. “Why did you take a picture with those industrial buildings, and a highway? Ohh – you should clean your lens, you have a smudge there.” That's what people would say. Smudge. Smudge, smudge, smudge.

Mudge.

But then you walk away, and see your photo you took, and all you remember how crazy it is to see those letters on the hill – so iconic, and symbolic of pop-cultural North America.

With talks of it, perhaps, being torn down I had to see it. I had to photograph it. And it was worth every second. Because, when you walk away, you're left with this dreamy image of what Hollywood is. For three blocks, it's glitz, and it's glamour. And it's McDonald's selling Shamrock Shakes for St. Patty's day (I of course had one – so good, so good.)

But then things start to change. That wonderful Hollywood sign, it's really just an old billboard, isn't it? One that once read Hollywoodland. But we've created a mythos around it, and given it much more power and worth. Just like we do with Hollywood.

As I walked to Hollywood and Vine, the magic was still there, but then as I walked down Vine, towards Santa Monica Bldv. (and my 704 bus home) things started to change. Layers peeled away, and the magic was replaced with spray painted walls, no less than three fried chicken restaurants, and cracked sidewalks.

So close to wondrous, there is – the nothing. The difference between class can be felt here more than in most other places. The poor living under the watchful eyes of the rich, living – always in sight – upon the hills. It's a perfect metaphor, and is reminiscent of middle-aged Europe, where castles were always to be seen by the underclass, far below.

The streets don't feel as inviting, and the buses don't run on time. Hollywood is a dream, and the further you walk from its core, the quicker you're forced to wake up. It's a perfect metaphor for all those who leave home, their friends, their family, trying to come out here and strike it big. I thought that it must have always been fleeting, but not until I walked the streets did I understand to just what extent that was true.

Still – it is a beautiful dream while it lasts.

As for the buses? Forty minutes. That's how long I waited for the bus back to Santa Monica. But never mind that, it came, and I rode the one hour back, and then prepared for the night ahead. After all – St. Patty's day!

You see, way back in December, I was in Africa. And in Africa I met some people. One being this delightful girl from Santa Monica. And where is it that I find myself now? Santa Monica. All things being what they are, this combination of occurrences led to her picking me up from my hostel and whisking me away to dinner. After a visit with her puppy. Which is lovely.

I learned an important lesson here – do not buy a puppy with a roommate, if you have any thoughts of moving out within the next sixteen years. Especially if you're moving from the west to east coast.

How they will settle this dispute? I have no idea.

Dinner was Sushi, and for the first time in ages, I was in a location where the idea of eating sushi didn't seem terrible. The middle of deserts? Perhaps not the best of locations to try finding fresh fish. I do not often trust sushi while travelling, but here in beautiful Los Angeles? It worked out very well. Very well indeed.

And after food? Off to meet her friend, and then head out for St. Patty's day to meet even more people. Was I slightly nervous about this influx of new people? A little. But certain sitations make these moments easier. And a day like today? Well that was just fine. As would be revealed a number of these people work for various video game companies (EA, Sony) and proved to be most non-threatening. One just finished animations for God of War 3, the other is working Eas causal studio. None would reveal secrets of potential upcoming PSP2s. They exist. They must! I know this... except I don't. No amount of pina coladas (I felt these needed umbrellas) would pry their secret keeping lips.

Time passes, and it's time to head back to the hostel. I get a drive back, and then run upstairs to grab the shot glass I bought in Peru. This is handed over, finally relieving me of the fear of it breaking every time I go anywhere new, With this handed over, and night fallen, I say goodbye to my African-met friend, and head back upstairs to sleep.

There's another one for the books.

Lets be honest – this day was a lot better than spending 4 hours watching a parade in New York. On the plus side, the Staten Island ferry? That's good free fun – and people watching the remaining three hours of said parade were too enraptured to fill up the boat.

What will next year bring?

Never Connect Through Mexico City

I have probably had worse transfers in my life, but right now, at 6:45 in the morning after zero hours of consecutive sleep, I can't think of any.

I'm sitting in Mexico City airport. If it can be, at all, avoided in the future I will never return to this airport. It's not that it isn't pretty, and it's not that it isn't clean, or safe, or blah blah blah – it's that here's how my last hour was spent:

I got off my plane from Buenos Aires, and wandered around following connecting flight signs that all of a sudden stopped showing up. Then I was told I had to go through immigration. There is nothing more terrible than immigration in order to grab a connecting flight. It's ridiculous. I don't want in to your country, I want out! I never wanted to be here in the first place! But no, now I must join the long line of slovenly people looking to spend their wonderful time in Mexico. Which isn't to say people going to Mexico are slovenly, but that after the flight from 11pm to 8.30am, with the magic of time zones transporting us back to 5.30am we are all a tad slovenly. It is most likely I still smell, though now so do others, and thus all is well.

So there I stood waiting to get stamped into the country. Finally I made it to the front of the line, and bam, stamped in. Did she stamp it on any of the pages with one stamp already? No. She stamped it on a blank page. Thanks. Thanks a bloody lot. No, let us not see that there are few blank pages left, and make an effort to preserve them. Let's just rub another possible visa out of existence. That's just wonderful. I'm ever so grateful that you took the three seconds to flip through my passport. The page one over? Would have been great.

So now I'm in Mexico. I could go visit my friend in Mexico City – who knew you had to actually enter the country? Oh and while I was told in BA that my luggage was checked through, I am not trusting. And with good reason – my pack was one of the first out. I then had to have it scanned, opened, and checked through (welcome back to North America) and then placed on a new conveyor belt, which I am hoping will send it to its proper destination. Time will tell. About six hours time.

So now having been searched and cleared into the country, I must follow non-existent signs to M. Not that I've been told what M is, or that there are signs for it. I follow the signs to L, and it gets me there eventually.

Time to have my bags checked again, and get cleared out of the country. I'm so glad I had this thirty second stay.

Once more Scott Wilson your theory of “once you have the passport stamp, you've been there” falls flat on its face. I would not say I visited Mexico in these few moments, but stamp I have. Many countries I spent a long time in? No stamp.

So time to find out what gate my flight is. It is not yet listed. That's fine, I'll just plug in my laptop and hang out for a bit until it shows. Oh, but wait, the plug sockets in this airport are specially designed that you need a strange bonus prong, that all airport items have – but not you – to trip a breaker thing to allow the power to flow. So now, I sit, watching the battery drain on my laptop. Here's the thing – they have pay-wifi here. Who is going to pay for the three hour package of wifi when their battery won't hold out that long?! Mexico!

I can not tell you how excited I am to get to an English-speaking country. I didn't think I would care all that much, but after this long failing to communicate thoroughly, or having to accept being taken advantage of, because there is no way to express what you mean, I'm very excited to get to something that feels like home.

Yes, I may have a fun time at the American border – but once I'm in...

Plus, I'll be clearing through LAX this time, not Fort Meyers. I'm sure the guys a LAX are used to backpackers, yeah?

Wha – so close. So close.

So why have I not slept for more than an hour? Oh it has to do with two terrible monstrous things: Babies. They screamed. The whole flight. All nine hours of it. And the half hour we taxied around the ground. They would give ten minute breaks of silence before screaming again.

At first people started to shush them, this lasted hours. Then they gave up.

Look – here's the thing – if I screamed for ten hours, I would probably get shut down by the flight crew. So these babies should have to operate on the same level. I'm sure everyone coming off that flight is a lot more agitated and ready to snap then they were getting on. This is an in flight risk, even more so than a – shock – water bottle!

So what do we do? I propose sound-proof baby chambers, or head masks, or even a needle to put them to sleep for a few hours. Or, you know, a needle to put the rest of us to sleep. Why not give them some sort of sleepy time drug? Why not tell parents that if their baby screams for more than forty five minutes then these things will come to pass – then they can think if they want to take their child or not. Or, hey, baby flights. Get them all together and have them all suffer hell, leaving me to sleep.

Or just not let them on overnight flights. I can deal with a baby screaming in the afternoon, but from 11pm to 8am, I am less gracious.

And then, when I got off the plane, and walked by the two monsters, I discovered they were 2 to 3 years old. This is the age a parents can deal with their child, and communicate. I thought I heard real words in the screams... but no, no teacup-human would possibly scream for that many bloody hours. And yet they did.

At this age we can totally throw them in the soundproof cage near the back of the plane. And if the parents want to stay with the child, fine, they can go in too. But if they want peace, well lesson learned wee one.

Something must be done! Now lets turn off the lappy, save battery, read some more Ian Rankin – Doors Open, and find my gate!

8:20 – I have been alerted to the gate I need to board at. Gate 59 – the farthest from where I was sitting. But that's ok, because now I'm there and can read and waste time until I get on my flight taking me to America – and something I feel that I understand. And people I know. People I know is a key thing.

Then in a few days I'll by flying into San Francisco to meet up with Katherine, and perhaps use more rusty pilers to remove more earrings. But probably not. Which makes me sad. And her, happy, I'm sure.

It should be noted for the record, and back dating purposes, that today is March the 16th. Rarely do these get posted correctly, and I've given up on proper back dating. But as I write one a day, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what day is what. Or which is which.

Also – I am almost through my Malaria pills. Still taking them, since Africa, then South East Asia, then Peru. Only a small handful left. It was brought to my attention by a medic that I would be relieved to know I couldn't possibly have chlamydia whilst I was still taking them, as doxy is used to cure such things. I'm pretty sure I wasn't looking to pick up chlamydia, but – you know – good to know, I guess.

One more hour, and I'll be off again. I hope my baggage will be on board. Seriously, I'm quite looking forward to clean clothes. It's gonna be great.

As I sat in the plane headed to The States I was both excited, and apprehensive. Apprehensive because America hates letting me into their country, and they always do new and strange things that I don't quite understand. Landing, though, I was just stoked to know that when I ran into problems I could get out of them using my words, and be understood. And that? That was really exciting.

Of course, then I landed, and quickly made my way through immigration. For the first time I had an expiration date stamped into my visa with the American stamp. The girl at the desk also told me I was Argentinian. I assured her I was not. She asked if I had two passports, and I told her that there was no way that I was from Argentina. She questioned this again, but then I told her I'd not have had to pay for the 70USD entrance visa to Argentina were I from there. Seeing this in my passport, she agreed. Points for not peeling that out yet. (Can anything bad happen if you peel out old visa to free up pages?)

And then the baggage claim. Out come the bags, away walk people with their bags, and then the belts stop moving. I have no bag. But, neither do eight other people. Who connected. Twenty minutes pass, and I go from calm, to forlorn. I love my stuff, and I'm so close to offloading a bunch of it. To lose it all now? That would be a real kick in the undesired kicking place.

The man tells me he will check to see if there is more luggage. He comes back and says there is not. He wonders if it might have come on another flight. Time passes, and he says – ahh, it was on another Air Mexico flight, and out it came. And I hugged and kissed my pack, and told it that we had a pact that it would never do that again! But I forgave it. What else could I do? I'd also need to soon tend to its wounds with duct tape bandages, before its booboos got any worse.

Leaving the luggage claim area I silently wondered how my pack leaving Mexico city had ended up on a flight from half a country away. I did not believe this mysterious tale, and wondered what really happened to it in the in-between time.

Exiting, I was of course stopped and told that my bags would need to be searched. Of course they would.

I am becoming an expert at being searched. An absolute expert. I know when to smile, how to answer their questions, and how to laugh appropriately at each repeated joke. Ai ya. I almost broke form. Today the guy going through my pack in his snazzy black gloves, told me how cold it's been lately. “I bet it was colder where I was,” I said under my breath. Where was that, he wanted to know. But I held my tongue, and didn't say the truth – oh, just in South America. Not that warm. Please, continue to unpack my bags.

And he did. He unpacked all the sub bags from my bags, and then unpacked those. And then went through all the pockets. Now I almost have a respect for a good search – all those quasi-searches just feel like a waste of time, they're not doing anything, just pushing things around. But this guy was pretty on the ball. Of course, he left – unsearched – the same three pockets that everyone misses.

Like I said, I'm becoming good at being searched, and I bet I could get things across borders that shouldn't pass. Not that I would be such a damned fool – but, still.

I also thought about the “you packed this bag yourself? It hasn't been out of your sight?” question. I no longer answer it as, yes – no. I am more truthful. Yes, I packed it myself, and yes it was in my sight until I put it on the conveyor belt for the plane.

If you get caught with drugs in your bag, it's crap that you get charged even if they were put in your bag when you had no access to it. I refuse to shrink wrap my pack – they're just going to cut it open and search anyway. But to assume everything in a bag is the travellers is ridiculous. If I left my backpack in a movie theatre, and ten hours later, I go to pick it up with a police officer, there's no way he could prove in court that what was in that bag was placed there by me. But when you get off a flight, you are granted no immunity. Which is stupid. Because this scam is well known.

But the more I thought about it, the people who traffic drugs probably want their merchandise to get through, so they can claim it at the other end. And as such, they would probably put it in nice cases that look like they won't be searched – unlike the big duct taped knapsacks, which get hit up all the time. So I no longer worry. Still, I answer the question differently in hopes that it might help some day. Probably not.

Eventually I was told that I could repack my belongings. Great, the precarious packing doesn't take twenty minutes, go off on a coffee break and leave me to it. I love that.

But then I was through, and just had to figure out how to get from the magical LAX, with what looks like a spaceship control tower outside of it, to Santa Monica. I feared for a moment and then asked at the information booth – two women with green antenna on their heads (presumably for St. Patty's day tomorrow). They preened over my beard for a few moments, and told me that I wasn't orthodox. Then they set me up with all sorts of information, such as how to take a shuttle to parking lot C, grab the Big Blue Bus from bus bay 12, once I'm there, and how to simply ride BBB3 all the way to my hostel. Price to get from LAX to my hostel? 75 cents. I paid a whole buck. Man, really? TTC! Curse you!

So easily enough I ended up in my room, checked in, and after discovering that while wi-fi is everywhere here, and while no one else has a problem connecting to it, my computer requires me to stand in a corner, on a book shelf, in order for data transfer to work. So be it.

A few messages to a girl I travelled with in Africa, and I have perhaps set up some plans for the future. We shall see.

Out to explore.

I want to point out that this is by no means an exaggeration. This is not me embellishing. This is not me wanting to make America look weirder or wackier than it is. This is just what I saw in my one and a half hours wandering the Santa Monica Pier. Oh America, sometimes (often) I really do love you.

I turned left and saw, in front of me, the ocean. I had no idea where this hostel was located, but it couldn't be in a better spot. Ten minutes had me walking on the sand, where my mind was overcome with thoughts of everything that the last three months had brought me. I was reminded of walking the beach in Florida, but then I was transported to Dune 45 in Namibia, before being swept away to the blowing dunes of Peru. These thoughts will accompany my actions for the rest of ever. And it will be strange to discover when they pop up. Vodka and snowballs will most likely bring me to Antarctica, next winter.

I dragged myself to the present, attempting to experience it for all it was worth. A sixteen year old, with a girl in her early thirties, was dragging along a little girl. All of them were dressed in what I believe to be the national outfit for this beach – bikini top, and jean shorts, buttons undone, and opened. I wondered for a moment – was I seeing three generations together?

On the pier, I walked to the end, watching as lifeguards attempted to save a rather obese woman, collapsed on the ground. The officers with them walked up to us and said – word for word - “Move along folks, nothing to see here.” Then he swaggled towards us, hands on his hips. Television could not have set it any better.

On my way back, I heard the sound of children singing. No less than thirteen six year old girls, with faces painted like those I saw in certain colour and luminescence related districts of greater Holland, wearing green and black mini dresses, danced in line, bumping and gyrating, while singing about how they weren't girls anymore, and needed to be treated that way. The fifteen seconds I spent videoing this, as proof that such a thing did occur, was the most awkward and creepiest moment I'd experienced in some time. The fact that others were there simply enjoying the spectacle distressed me nearly as much.

On my way to escape from that nonsense I came across a man wearing a speedo, holding live snakes, while preaching about how He, not he the snake holder, but He the capital H He will save us from our rapture, if only we look and listen. For added impressiveness he did this while balancing on a rubber dodge ball.

Hardly able to process anymore, I headed back to the hostel along the pedestrian street, where I was nearly lost in a flock of breasts, topped with giant lips, which must have had bodies somewhere – I'm sure. My only solace was in the dinosaurs that offered a reprieve. They were made from bushes, and brass, and whatever else dinosaurs could be made from. There, by one, I saw another potential triple generation, where i would be older than the eldest in the lot.

With much work, I made my way through a side street and back to the hostel.

There, I was gifted with three dollar all you can eat pasta, garlic bread, and lemonaid. Lemonaid? Please. I made it for you. You are my best friend.

A donut on the pier ran more than this.

Over food I heard about the American health care issue from the Americans (I did not bring this up – but had been wondering of it for so long.) You know – when they talk, you really can see the problems with the Canadian system. Still, I told him – as his argument started to persuade me – I prefer to have a system that will sew all my fingers back on, rather than making me pick and choose which to save.

However, without that, we never would have had The Ringer.

EZE: It's a Personal Choice

Final day with the GAP: Antarctica Crew... Bye-bye.

I woke up for group breakfast. After dinner last night, this was mostly just a way to get the final moments of face time, take some last pictures, and prepare for the group departure. With eating done, and people congregating in the main lobby the taxis came one by one taking people away. Spastic waving through windows, and final parting hugs once more. One by one they all disappeared.

As I waited for my 1pm taxi, I was asked if I'd move it up to noon – and then share it. Well now, isn't this interesting? I wouldn't need to convert my 10USD bill to pay for the taxi if I just shared, so why not? Off to EZE i went earlier. And then, of course, I got to EZE. I went up and tried to check in.

I could not check in. Not until three hours before my flight.

My 11:00pm flight.

There would be some time that needed killing. But I could do this with my laptop. I was told there was free internet in EZE. There is no free internet in EZE. I could watch movies after plugging in. Where could I plug in?

It took me a few minutes before I realized that this airport I was in now was the same one I flew into three weeks ago. It hit me as a rather strange awareness, honestly. But after this epiphany I found myself disheartened. I had this problem last time I was here. There was no plug sockets.

Somewhere people needed to plug in their floor cleaners, but where – where?! In the cafe. Huh. O.K. there was a plug socket, and this would require buying a three dollar soda. But with that I could justify sitting in place for the required eight hours before I could check in. So now I'd plugged in. What would I do?

There was an episode of Co-op Live to watch, and that killed an hour. Three and a half hours of podcasts, while I played Frozen Bubbles... and then it hit me. This was no longer satisfying. While I had no problem killing days doing this before, I had re-discovered the excitement of travel. And with that, rather than filling time, I felt like I was wasting time. Time that could be use for exciting discovery, and wonderful wanderings. Yesterday was a fun day of nothing, but when you have two in a row – it's much less... great.

I killed another few hours by writing yesterday's blog – and getting to this point in the current blog. And we've become caught up to the present. It's all rather eerie. Everything that's happening now is happening now in the blog. I can talk about how there are security guards wandering in slow motion, and all number of cockroaches making their way across the floor. My soda is long since empty, and I'm quite bored.

But let us discover what I'd like to write about now. Maybe Antarctica. It's not late enough to really think back on it, and re-cap it... but soon I'll be in a brand new country (well one that's not here) and a place I'd never seen. And then I'll be looking forward, rather than looking back.

First – I'll invoke my inner Professor Parker, “Let's take a break.”

I discovered that I have Sudoku on this laptop – and that killed more time. Alright – so I have one more hour before I can go check in, and get to a brand new waiting room. And then in just three hours I can board my plane, if that gets in on time – which it probably wont.

There are smaller cockroaches kicking around now. Where have the big ones gone, I wonder?

So Antarctica – what stands out? There were blues that you could never really imagine. Not in the context of Antarctica. I expected whites, and greys. And that's all. But there was so much colour. Colours that you may have seen in photos, that have nothing to do with their colour balancing, and everything to do with what was truly there in front of you.

There wasn't much blue sky, but that was for the best, I feel. I have my shots with the blue, and my shots with the blowing snow, and the grey cold skies.

The weather – it was never that bad. We had some wind, and there was some cold. But it was that type of cold that you want to feel. The cold that lets you know you're somewhere else. If you had only shorts and a t-shirt, well that would be fine, unless the kitchen staff saw you – then you weren't allowed outside, and you'd need to sneak around.

The food was lovely – magical – but I've already adapted back to one or two meals a day, and I'm feeling fine with that. The memory of what it's like to be hungry is all sorts of neat. It makes the meals better. And it makes small meals more important. I bet flight food is going to be fantastic from this point on.

Lack of internet. I didn't really touch on this – but it was great. A lot of people have mentioned it since – the moment we got on the boat, we put away our tech. I still wrote my blogs, but that was no different than other people writing in their journals. I didn't listen to podcasts, or watch movies, or play games. I didn't even think about it. Every day there was something going on. Landings, lectures, meals – so many meals, chatting with good people.

When phones beeped to life as we neared Ushuaia the spell was broken for most. I stayed out until the free wifi in the airport. And then it was back. But being out of the connectivity was a wonderful experience where you could really focus on the moment, rather than thinking of what else you could be up to.

It's like not having a cellphone. When you're out, you're out – and it's great. But then you get that phone, or you get that internets back, and all of a sudden the addiction is back, and you couldn't picture a world without them.

Alrighty – back to frozen bubble and now it's 7:45. That's about right, as another podcast ends, for me to wander to the check in desks and wait. Bye bye bugs crawling all over everything. You shall not be missed.

What an action packed day, and no – it ain't over yet.

HA! HA! I'm through. I thought it wouldn't happen for a while, but I'm through to the airport proper. It took three people to mysteriously arrange my tickets, but it was done. And, like all should be, the airport tax was included in the ticket price, so I need not pay anything extra.

Once I had ticket in hand, I made my way through the scanners, and then through customs, and then finally into the airport. I had a long time waiting for those two things, let me tell you, and in that time I realized something. I smell. I mean, I know it must be, but I hadn't fully owned up to it yet. I do. I had four changes of clothing for the Antarctica trip – I'm in number four still. You know how long I was gone for.

On the boat I wasn't prepared to spend 4USD to wash a shirt, and 3USD to wash a pair of boxers. So now, now I smell. I have a clean change of clothes for when I land in LA and I'm hoping the hostel there will have laundry facilities. And then all will be right again. But, man, I'd hate to be sitting beside me. Just saying. Well – I've had to sit near “me” before, so now tables have again turned.

Moving on.

With 11.25 peso to my name I looked for bargain. No fast food through the gate, so nothing would be cheap. But, there was a wee market selling me RocketsMAX for 3.75. These are the ultimate in candy coated chocolate saucers. M+Ms never did it for me, I'm a Smarties person. But I love the super amount of chocolate that you get in M+M peanut – so I often fall prey to them. But these RocketsMAX have the chocolate content without the peanut waste! These are chocolates of choice for me. And they fit the price.

I was now down to – what? 7.50. Sounds right. Cans of pop were 11. Huh. Oh look, a Coke vending machine. Well, I might as well investigate. Oh me lord, for only 5 pesos I can get a 500ml bottle? The bill reader didn't work. Of course not. But I saw a second machine earlier. I went to it, fed in my bills, but then my 50cent coins didn't work. Of course not. Persistence paid off here, and after many upsetting punks it finally accepted and the Sprite was mine! Now I could fill my belly and take home 2.50 as a souvenir.

You know, I thought I might fall asleep here – but luckily there's a little girl running around screaming and crashing into things/people. Her parents think it's darling. I'm happy for them.

Question – all over the world I've seen FREE PUBLIC WI-FI as an available network. I have never been able to connect to it – and it seems strange that that label is in every continent. What it it? A hardware thing reading weird? Is it a virus that opens up peoples laptops as public hosts that you can connect to (but perhaps only at close range)? Is it a real thing that mysteriously floats around.

Seriously – what's up with that? You must have seen them too – have you ever connected? I crave information!

Well there's no plug socket here, and no web access. I guess I'll just eat my candy, drink my soda, and read. That is if the little girl stops trying to poke me through my seat. Ah, at least her parents have pulled her away. Back to the screaming, perhaps?

Antarctica: Disembarkation

Five thirty the alarm goes off. The night before still seems like it was the perfect idea.

No regrets to be had as I shove final items in my pack, and take pictures of the boots I walked across Canada in back in 2006, the boots I injured my knees in in Tokyo in 2008, the boots that saw me through the Alps and the Andes. The boots that never made it to Australia. Personified more than an Ikea lamp, waiting in the rain, are memorialized before being left behind.

For some time I'd thought about offloading them. And all my hikes are behind me now. They'd been encrusted with the water's salt, and were far past their prime. Still – it was hard to let them go. But attachments are made to be broken.

Showered, stationary and not grasping walls for once, I stumbled like a zombie up to breakfast. Halls were emptying of luggage. Passengers were making their way back to dry land. People were congregating hoping for final goodbyes, parting hugs, and final words.

With all things at their end, we made our way down the gangway to the waiting bus that took us to Ushuaia airport. There, within the gift shop, terrible products were observed. And exhaustion almost brought me to purchase terribly unneeded items. Saved, at last, I was by the realization of free wifi.

For the first time I had contact with the world outside. E-mails were made to confirm plans for California, and Japan thereafter. I'd need to make Singapore, Hong Kong, and China plans before long. But there was still time for that. Not much, but some. Off we were called to the plane said to be waiting at the gate.

The plane was not there. Nor was it there an hour later. But soon thereafter we boarded, sat down, and I promptly passed out. Sleep was much required by this point. A momentary awakening came as the food tray rolled by, and then I was out once more until the touch down in Buenos Aires. Ah Buenos Aires, back again.

Bussed to the hotel where the next two nights would be spent, bags were tossed in rooms, and rather than drifting off to sleep we gathered to wander Florida street from end to end, passing multiple McDonald's, Burger Kings, and sandal shops. I had Caramelized Milk Ice Cream. Where else can one get such a flavour? Bed Bug infested hostels were also passed. Good riddance.

The streets were much the same as they were when I last wandered them, except I saw seven goths and two people wearing LOST shirts. These aberrations made me wonder two things – had LOST become even more fantastic since I'd been away, and was there a goth convention in town? Where were these people two weeks ago?

For the first time in two weeks, we all felt hunger. It was about tea-time, our usual third meal. And yet no food was brought to us. There was no one making their rounds to keep our glasses full of water. For that matter, we had no glasses to speak of.

For the first time we appreciated the meals with which we had been provided.

On the boat a buffet of fruit, yogurt, bacon, pancakes, eggs, hash browns, sausages, and all other tasty treats were laid before us. Lunch time was a salad bar, and a buffet of hot treats which ranged from meats, to pastas, to all number of things looking to fill ones belly. There were also vats and vats of desserts. Every three days there would be a separate tray of fresh cooked foods. Tea time was sandwiches, and dinner was served from one of three choices.

On the boat we didn't eat because we were hungry, we ate because food was there. And at the time that seemed like more than enough reason.

Bellies always full we never knew hunger. Now, walking the streets, hours before our next meal, the feeling was - novel.

At seven forty-five the feeling of living in a televised re-run, and the thought of bellies waiting to be filled, ended. A bus picked us up to drive us to dinner, which would be accompanied by a tango show. Before we ate we were given lessons to the dance. Ridiculous lessons which I think I might try to remember for a drama game, or opening exercise to break the ice with new classes.

And then the meal began. I would have pumpkin pasta, salad, and poached pears. The tango show would last three hours. While this might seem wonderful to some, or terrible to others, it was made acceptable by the addition of an open bar. Asking for a beer and a coke confused the waitress. Someone else at my table spoke up indicating that I wanted them separate, saving me from a potentially disastrous mix.

For three hours we watched people dance in different costumes, loosing all track of the plot. It started in 1900, went to 1940, and at some point I think one of the female dancers was metaphorically raped. It was all very confusing. Others seemed to rectify this with bottle after bottle of red wine. Red wine. Ugh. Who drinks that stuff?

Between dances an old man sung. Speaking Spanish may have made the progression of events more understandable, but perhaps not. Perhaps the plot was as impossible to understand for all viewers as it was for us.

Three hours passed and we boarded a bus. Sure the bus had no driver. And sure two strangers hopped on it. And sure when we got a driver he said he'd take us to the wrong place – but none were in much state to complain. Mostly there was laughter at the confusion.

For what it's worth, we ended up where we should have – and then beds allowed for comfortable lapse into darkness. While I was warned of my roommates snoring, I heard nothing, and slept peacefully in comfort. Beds that do not try to toss one from their surfaces are a rare and wonderful treat as of late. And the pillows, finally the right size to fit my sleeping patterns? A true delight.

Any Port in a Storm

The Drake continues to shake, though at breakfast only two glasses break. No tables are empties of their contents. People begin to recover.

The dinner that was so haphazardly glossed over, yesterday, now comes back to my memory as one that was fraught with problems and disaster. Unlike the first breakfast, no chairs broke and no people were sent flying over tables – however, wine bottles, and glasses, did smash to the floor as the boat pitched. Near the end of supper as the service staff was stacking up dishes on a table to clear them away, that table's cloth was frictionlessly tempted to fall to the floor, taking all those items piles on to with it. And jugs of water placed precariously near the edge of service stations, boarded by coffee cups? These items didn't all make it either. But, at least the water jugs were made of plastic.

I wonder if we'll ever see statistics about the things broken on this vessel?

Cape Horn was passed as we all stood in the bridge, being thrown hither and thither. What fun! Closed toed shoes are advised.

After breakfast we are told that the ship is bouncing around too much for some of the morning lectures. I once more begin to power through my novel, trying to offload whatever weight I can before I fly.

One by one we are called down to settle our tab. My visit to the doctors ran me 29USD. Not all that bad to prevent the trip from being the most disastrous thing I'd ever experienced. Sea-sickness. This is not a pleasurable thing. And the amount of people still locked in their rooms as the Drake continues to quake, speaks wonders for how important any sort of pill, tab, or patch to remedy the situation can be.

Lunch time, a final lunch, with a final dessert. This lunch is good, but not nearly as exciting as the hamburgers and hot dogs from the day of the wedding proved to be. Meal time conversations run their course, as all things start to come to a rest.

It is announced that today's engine room tours are canceled. It is said that this is due to some sort of crisis in the engine room. I imagine the first engineer just can't be bothered. And I don't blame him one bit.

In the lounge, before dinner, the stashes of vodka we all thought we would need are collected together. A bottle of tangerine, one of peach, and one of raspberry. None of us drank as we thought we might. There was so much to do, and so much to see, and even a moment hung over would mean missing part of the adventure. But here, in the final hours, we gathered and attempted to make a dent in the collection. Vodka, it turns out, is not any of our favourite drinks. Unless it's Ukrainian. And made at Antarctic research stations. Then it's bloody magic.

At dinner I try to sit at a table with some folks I know, for a final chat. I get looks from the two sitting on the end of this table. They promptly evict me, telling me seats are reserved for two others. There has never, this whole trip, been such nonsense, and it's always sit where you will when you will. This is why we all carry books to the table, to save our seats. But – one speaks up. I can honestly say there have only been two people on this trip I've felt some hostility towards, but on a boat, we keep our mouths shut. When I am evicted, I smile, and move one table over – peopled with a group of similarly delightful people who I've come to enjoy. One nods towards the lady who sent me packing, and quietly mouths to me, “she's a cow!”

Someone else having said it, I can smile in reply, and move on.

Now, it may seem petty to have added this – but it illustrates an important aspect of the trip: Two weeks is a long time to keep idle politeness in check.

This table change has led to some great education, I might add. The island of Guernsey. One of the British Isles. I had no idea such a place existed, but now come to realize that while under British rule, they have their own government, currency, and closed off culture that leads – it would seem – to cultural madness. It is quite an amazingly unique part of the world, as are the other islands around it, and ones that i will look into closer in due time.

It's strange to be informed of places that you had no concept of even existing – it's like being told there's an eighth continent, and wondering how you'd missed it all these years.

Midway through our meal, the boat stops shaking, the forks come to a rest, coffee stops leaping from within the cups. And outside, there is no longer open seas, and endless horizon. Outside are the city lights of Ushuaia. Outside is the proof that we are home. Antarctica is behind us, and real life only a threshold away.

For some this means work, and family, and daily routine. For others it means travel where thought needs to be made as to where sleep will come, and how food is to be gathered.

The dream has nearly ended. But not quite.

After dinner, a final dinner, we head to the lounge where a movie starts to play. “What's it about,” I ask. She – whom I slid across hallways with on the first day rolls her eyes at me and replies, “Antarctica.” Of course.

The bottle of Raspberry vodka is grabbed, and we head off to the Polar Bear Bar.

It's the first time that I've been there this trip for any purpose other than simply looking outside through their glass walls. Sprite is used as a mixer, and over the next five hours the bottle is emptied between all those who wish to drink from it. It is the perfect ending to the trip. It is the necessary ending to the trip.

For some time the sense of mope-mope-mope that often accompanies the closing of one chapter was threatening to fall upon me. But this evening proved to be the closing that was required to make passing on perfectly acceptable.

Long conversations were held with all the right people, while jaw dropped faces, and open eyed expressions were passed on from those completely trapped between tables and walls by intoxicated conversationalists recounting the same discussion had twelve times over.

Openings, and chiming, “hellos,” were timed between passing moments of, “smell ice do ya?!”

Photographers, often locked away in sleep from nine pm stayed awake through talks of relationships, the following of passions, and lives to be lives – well until the morning had set in. Promises to get in touch when cities were passed through, made, and doctors explaining why lack of commitment is the perfect way to carry on between moments of dropping that sea sick patches might just be placebos paved the way for some to carry on to bed.

And finally officers discussed drinks by the liters, death is one engine stops, and strange sounds coming from the roof.

Pink bottle carried away, empty, by bar staff and clocks ringing four, it was finally time, after all moments had reached their optimum conclusion, for sleep. Back in my room I laid my head to pillow for the next ninety minutes that would be granted as rest.

Tiger hats, and yellow caps – photographers new and old – vodka from the continent – ice, penguins, whales, and dolphins – games invented – landings missed – waters tossed – blues never seen.

Once More Through the Drake Shake

We had left Antarctica behind us, and were now headed back across the Drake Passage. This strip of water is known for some of the roughest traverses. While, for many people, it can be the quiet, peaceful, Drake Lake – for us it was the time honoured Drake Shake. There would be no peace for us as we were again delighted to find walking in a straight line more difficult than for a Russian after two liters of vodka, neat.

I looked at my book, the final adventure of DI Rebus, and attempted to read some more of it. But through the windows the horizon was playing all sorts of tricks. Not only was it coming up, just to hide itself once again, it was coming up at angles one could spend hours with a protractor trying to figure out. And never the same one twice.

“Doctor, please come to reception. Doctor, to reception.”

No rest for him this day, as calls were made more than they had been since our first passage. People whom I'd seen every day for over a week were suddenly locked in their rooms, seemingly tied to their beds, emerging only for meal times, and often not even for those.

Lectures went on in the lounge, describing the eating patterns of Humpback Whales, and Orcas. We played a game, it was called – try to stay awake. With the rocking of the boat, the darkened lights, the comfortable chairs, and the soft voices lulling one off to Nod, it was a game hard to win. Still – the presenters played a game all their own. For two weeks they'd been playing it, and it was only now in the final moments that we grew wise to it. Before each lecture they gave, two words were pulled from a hat.

Interdigitation, and slovenly. What does interdigitation mean? I'm not sure. Neither did the presenter. But it was his job to work both in to the next one hour presentation. We stayed alert, now keen on this attempt to spice up their own talks, and heard above the slovenly eating patterns of the humpback, and how Orcas could be distinguished based on the interdigitation on their dorsal fin. Do their dorsal fins have interdigitation? No. But were we wise to the dropping of this word? We wouldn't have been.

And it makes me think back to the other lectures I had heard, wondering what nonsense was spread around there. It also made me think that such a game would be interesting to play while teaching back in “the real world.”

The next lecture mentioned how sea-sponges looked like a 1957 Chevy. Something was out of place with this comment. This was the word drawn from the hat. The hat, of course, being nothing more than an envelop with the words “this is a hat” printed on the side.

And then it was time for lunch. Some people showed, some people did not. It was delicious. It strikes me that I've not often discussed the food on this ship. Always there, it just seems something taken for granted. There was delicious mousse.

In the afternoon, I found two half moon swivel chairs and used one to rest my behind, the other for my feet. It was the most comfortable two chair combination I'd yet come across (all chairs being bolted to the ground, and thus unable to move.) And in the middle of the boat, it was relatively free from nauseating rocking.

Here, for three hours, I sat and I read. And well the Ian Rankin novel is no more of an academic text than, say, DS9: The Never Ending Sacrifice (which is not to be confused with the soul key – as the former was quite well written, and the Soul Key was pretty terrible. Dan Brown could have done better. I shudder at the thought.) it was quite good. Very quickly I was sucked into the world of seedy Edinburgh, taken back to my weeks spent there, and all of a sudden I wondered should I have started with the final book in the 17 volume epic?

At four thirty I was dragged back to the chilled waters, as an announcement claimed that engine room tours would begin shortly. Nothing was off limit on this vessel. We stood on the bridge, we wandered the lifeboats, and we would now see the engine room.

Being led through it by the first engineer, we were warned, in other words, that what we were entering was akin to the world of Astar – the robot. He can put his arm back on, you cannot. Play safe.

Every two steps, as the boat swayed left to right, would see you passing some moving part, sharp tool hanging from chairs, or wiring unconvincingly insulated. We were told not to touch anything. If the boat causes you to fall, fall – do not grab a thing. And should the watertight doors start to seal, let them close. They will not open for you, and people have been known to be chopped in two by these monsters.

Yes, it was a delightful playground of cold war wonderlands. I felt like I was inside the video game, Missile Command. This made more sense when I recalled the boat was built in the mid seventies.

Climbing back above water level, where tea time sandwiches were abundant, and instant death or dismemberment seemed far away, I returned to watching lectures, and reading. My eye grew heavy, yet it was still so early. Not even dinner. I'd take a nap. This seemed a most gracious use of my time, and lying on my stomach, I could manage enough surface area to not be tossed onto the cold, carpeted, floor. Also – I was best to make the most of my window while I still could.

Dinner came and went, and in an attempt to wake myself, I stood outside, took a walk around the ship. The crisp air worked its magic momentarily, but back inside I once more grew dreary. I thought that I could stay up for the evening game, but after one or two questions all was for naught. I would find myself thrown atop the blankets, quickly asleep.

In sleep the rocking did not stop. In sleep dreams did come.

It seemed every hour I was roused from my slumber, sure that I was in an airplane hurtling towards the ground. The sound was right, the motion fit, and the speed seemed elevated. The dream images that backed these sensations up did nothing to help my false perception.

It's strange – after the fifth theoretical plane crash, you really stop to care. It just grows annoying that you're awake once more, gripping on for dear life. I can rest on my back or my stomach, but not sleep that way. And on my side? In the great Drake Shake? Staying attached to ones mattress is hard, and terrible, work.

Saying Good-bye to the Penguins - or - One Wedding and a Polar Dip

Deception Island, Whaler's Bay. The sun is shining, the sky is blue; it's the perfect place for a swim. Or a wedding.

The sun is shining, and the sky is blue, so why is it that I can't seem to move forward? Every time I lift my foot to take another step, I seem to float backwards like an ethereal spirit trapped about a Scandinavian passenger ferry. When I make contact with the solid ground once more, it lands in the same position from where it lifted off. The winds blow at more than thirty knots, and the ice on the deck does nothing to improve the progress-requiring friction.

Grasping for rails, and clinging to whatever their hands manage to come in contact with – ropes, pulleys, other peoples jackets, or arms, I find solace in the fact that I am not alone in my struggles. When I reach the front rail, I make sure to grasp on, and not let go. It would be such a shame to miss the passing through Neptune's Bellows, especially with the lighting conditions being what they are.

With great ease, my beard takes on a life all its own. No longer is it a part of me, but instead a creature all its own. At times it feels great hatred for he who had kept it imprisoned, reaching up to block the world from me. At other times such a withholding of sight doesn't seem enough, wrapping around my neck in a hope to strangle away all future breath. My only respite comes from the moments when internal disagreements cause it to break from single minded directives, splitting in the middle, an attempt to escape without cohesion. It is during this moment that I can manage to tame it, and return to a life lived under my own control.

This return does not happen until a number of people had taken a number of pictures of me during these moments, of course, but that's all part of the charm, I'm sure.

With the bellows entered, the wind seemed to die down somewhat. Heading back to our cabins and dressing in our cold weather gear, with a tiny alteration, we made ready to land at Whaler's Bay.

Situated under an active volcano, ash coats much of the beach. Much of the whaling station that served this area at the turn of the century, had been washed to sea during a volcanic eruption in the mid seventies. Buildings, oil barrels, and a cemetery for those whose life was lost in the line all now lay beneath the waves.

An airplane hanger, some huts and a number of oil barrels loom large as our zodiacs pound the waves, kicking ocean spray in the face of those, unlucky enough to pull a front seat, While they would normally be the main draw for this stop, they find themselves avoided. The few seals laying near the beach garner some attention, but even they are quickly passed by as the parade up to Neptune's Window, an opening in the cliffs, begins.

A constant stream of people climb the path as each new zodiac unloads ten more units to join in the march. Once all guests had arrived, a ceremony was to begin. The wedding of two passengers. In snow suits, they stood ready to exchange vows, but before that could begin, a veil was adorned on the bride. At this height the winds whipped with the same fury they had on the upper decks, hours before. To keep the veil in place, and offer some form of comfort, a frost fighting thermal headband was placed atop.

Streaming through the breeze this veil added the final touch of beauty to the ceremony, and added a great depth an interest to the wedding photographs – especially when taken at close range with a 10mm wide angle lens by a professional photographer. And there, with the wind muffling, vows were exchanged. And the two were pronounced husband and wife.

Depending on your understanding of, and take on the legal system, you may not agree that the two were joined. And while I was of this mind at first, seeing two people in love, exchanging rings, making vows, and being at peace with one another – why should there be limitations on who can join together these people, and what right is there to say that such a connection can only be made in certain locations? Furthermore – why should papers and legal documents have any control over how people wish to spend the rest of their lives? These people were married this day, looking over the ocean, on a barren rock in Antarctica, with seals barking below, birds swooping overhead, and the waves crashing into the cliff face on which they stood.

And then we all ran down to the water for a swim.

Perhaps we didn't all go for a swim – but nearly a third of us did. And maybe we didn't run down, the winds were picking up, lessening the lower we descended. For a moment I thought I might not go in. While I wore shorts on deck in the morning, I was now prepared to admit – the first honest and true time this trip – that I was a little cold. I wondered how jumping into the water would play against that.

It is said that if you dig down into the beach you will uncover pools of water heated nearly one hundred degrees from the volcanic activity. There was a time that these pools would be constructed for those who braved the surf, to warm up afterwards. This is no longer allowed in Antarctica, through the attempts to keep the landscapes pristine, and unaltered by man as much as possible. We'd just have to take their words about the warmth trapped away.

Behind a floating dock, visible in picture postcards of the whaling station floating in the bay decades past, now resting upended upon the shore, we changed out of our gear. It's only when the gear is taken off, outside, piece by piece, that you really come to understand how much you're wearing. Stripped down to my bathing suit, I was ready to enter the waters.

The few whom had plunged in ahead of me entered with a scream, and exited with many expletives shouted for all near, and far, to hear. They then quickly grabbed for a towel, and returned to dress once more.

I walked in slowly, coming to terms with the water temperature, and when up to my waist I pushed into the surf, taking a few strokes, to make it an official swim. Eyes open underwater, I was surprised with how brown and murky it was. On the surface it appeared so clear. While it was cold, it wasn't breathtakingly so. For a moment I thought about kicking around for some time longer, until I made a move to stand, and could not feel the bottom. Fear pulsed through me – what if there was a rip? What if there was an angry leopard seal? Suddenly my attempts to reach shore seemed as hurried as those of all others.

Back on dry land I grabbed a towel and made my way, slowly, back to my clothes. The cold was not me enemy here, but instead the stones beneath my feat. I would much rather have stood, wet and in the winds, than feel the sharp rocks underfoot.

Watched by a seal, I re-dressed and boarded the zodiac back to the MS Expedition. There was a sauna on board. I discovered this on the first day, but could never think of a time when it would be needed. Now, when all feeling in toes had abandoned me, it seemed the perfect time. Inside were other swimmers, also trying to warm their toes. Only the toes seemed affected.

It was there that stories of the cold were exchanged. Some claimed it to be freezing, and painful, for others it wasn't so bad. I put forward the idea that cold water swimming is like getting a needle at the doctors. If you expect it to hurt, it will – if you don't, you'll be fine. It's all internal, and all in your mind. And if you want the experience of talking later about the time you went into the Antarctic waters, and were chilled to the bone, frozen in a heroic act, well then you'll start to self narrate it moment of, screaming and shouting as you leave the sand behind. And that's fine. Subjectivity, rather than objectivity, is rule here. And really, that's how it should be.

Hibernation until lunch seemed to be a general rule – and it was then that I ran into Anna. “How'd the swimming go?” I asked her. She paused a moment and then claimed that she did not go in. I reminded her that she had made a promise to another passenger that she would. And that's when the hitting began. The violence in these people, I tell ya.

The afternoon took us to a chinstrap penguin rookery. This was our final excursion – our last time in the zodiacs, our last time putting on the auto-inflating pressurized life jackets, our last time stepping foot on the strange continent. But no one was thinking of that as we fought the ocean, each swell testing the watertight seal on pants and jackets as we made a hard turn towards the shore. And then once on land, all thoughts were towards the elephant seal on the shore. It was our first sighting, and our last opportunity to see one. While not the odd looking male, it was still a good spotting.

Blue sky overlaid snowy peaks, reflected in crisp lakes below. The scenery was spectacular, as we had come to expect. Somehow each departure managed to be just a little beyond the one previous. I wondered what those who stayed the twenty-five day trips would end up seeing. Still, walking along a path to reach the far shore, passing chinstrap penguins, stopping to photograph one or two while heading towards the gentoos, I felt that this trip had been the perfect length, and I had seen everything – and more – than I could have hoped for.

There, as penguins porpoised in to the land, I watched a disturbance in the distance. A bird circled some far off splashes, that grew closer. A leopard seal had caught a stray penguin, and was thrashing it around on the surface, rending its flesh, turning once cute bird into an afternoon meal.

As the final bites were taken, and the waters returned to their peaceful calm, we were called back to the landing crafts. Or final excursion was at an end. Walking those last steps over the slippery ice, and jutting rocks – stopping now and then, granting penguins the right of way as they crossed paths – it finally dawned on me that the trip was nearing its conclusion. Those people with whom time had been spent, on land, would rarely be seen over the next two days, and after that, perhaps never again. These animals that had traversed from foreign to well known, and well loved, may forever remain locked away from sight. The lands that once were seen as barren, now viewed as beauty, were closing their doors, setting the chairs on the tables, and sweeping up the floors.

As with all endings, returning to the boat was bitter sweet. Dinner was mostly silent. And afterwards, I could not keep my eyes open. Sleep called, and I answered, earlier than I had before. The sun had set on this adventure.