Null In Nelson

Travelling is life. It is the life I have chosen. Some friends called it escape, others don’t understand that I call this dream life. Everyone chooses the life they think is right. Some follow a good plan, and a few complete it. I just lost the dream somewhere along the journey.

We take a few days of rest in Nelson, the Tuscany of New Zealand. The kites on the beach put me in a bad mood: there’s no wind in the sail. I can hardly keep my eyes open for all the beauty. My ears can no longer hear the incredible stories. Or simply put: blind, deaf and dumb are very bad travelling companions.

Neither of us have ever been particularly good at being quiet. Not even now. Travelling through Nelson on a beach cruiser, up to the cathedral, into the city. Shopping, then find out: today is opera in the park. Buy tickets, organise a picnic, off to the stadium and try to clear my ears. It works. The endorphins come up again and again, like when you’re five at a folk festival.

I open my eyes for a moment and see the talented tenor tuck Thomas, who is clearly buoyed up by the thought of his friend’s dumpling during “O sole mio”. That’s fine by me, as long as such tones and such a mischievous grin come out of it. New Zealand All Stars perform bombastic versions of their songs with the Wellington Symphony Orchestra. Soul ladies hurl Bohemian Rhapsody around our ears until fireworks to Orff bring the first part of the evening to a close.

We then narrowly miss the concert by the Chilean friends of a Yenesen in a church that has been converted into a pub. Above all, travelling means always wanting something new. I want more music. There’s plenty of it on Nelson’s party mile, Bridge Street. Travelling is an exchange. At some point, every traveller asks themselves what they are actually prepared to trade. Worse still. You don’t ask yourself that. It’s just thrown at you without being asked.

At Liquid NZ, a local guitarrero plays covers to a crowd that is heating up. The audience couldn’t be more colourful, at least up to the point where everyone is ultramarine blue. More and more people are dancing. One guitar, a hundred people. He plays his fingers to the bone. All night long. Without a break. After more than four hours, we can barely stand up and end our “rest day” somehow quite out of sync, staggering home in silence.

Our “home” is a very nice hostel in Nelson. After a day of rehab, my services as a web designer are in demand. My work is often much more relaxing than travelling. I extinguish the candle flame on my bum and concentrate on the fire at the head end. Suddenly there is “enough” again. Hope.