Adventures Abroad: Chapter One
Who goes on a trip overseas in the middle of semester you ask? Well, well, well, guys yours truly does. My life has revolved around a constant sense of pragmatism, both in the economic and social context, so when my parents offered the travel opportunity of a lifetime to me a year prior to this journal entry, I decided to take up their offer for a two-and-a-half-week stint in South America. I looked at the positives: I can organize this during mid semester break and only miss a week of class, I can organize this during Greek Easter and avoid the chaos that is my vast ethnic family celebrations and I can go on a unique holiday at an economically opportune time – out of peak travel season and into the off-season hotel rates realm!
However, in a cruel twist of fate, I managed to mess up the dates completely so I’ll be back for mid-semester break, back for Greek Easter and back for a world of pain that centres around begging for participation marks and kissing the arses of my fellow peers for a positive review in our group assessments. The way I see it, glass half full, I think I’m using the 20% tutorial quota we could miss of class (and which I would’ve done anyways) efficiently. And like I said, there’s nothing I love more than being pragmatic.
So I write now, because I also had a hunch that this trip, in true Farmakis fashion, would be rife with follies, fun adventures, and above all fuck-ups, so what better way to stay relevant to the USYD Crowd than publish a highlights reel for Pulp? I can’t solely rely on my social media presence, although that has already been quite aggressive, so indulge me and let’s kick off these reflections with the plane trip over.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my parents, but there are times, particularly when they force me to break into the QANTAS lounge as a ‘challenge in development and assertive behaviour that I question my upbringing. We’re an hour into the trip, cleared customs and checked through International security and now hoping to score a champagne breakfast and steal a couple of magazines in the lounge. Of course, we only have two tickets, and considering the pecking order of the family, I’m left high and dry getting a plate of hot-cakes and watered down syrup at the airport McDonald’s if I can’t manage to sweet talk my way in. I play it cool, or at least attempt to, chuck on a pair of fake Bailey Nelson glasses I wear to manifest my pseudo-intellectual wanker-ish image and sneak into the entrance bathrooms, while Peter (my father) pretends to argue with Roula (my mother) about what time they’d like to be called to board the flight. The distraction is a success and I’m shucking poached eggs off of artisan sourdough in no time.
Aptly prepared for the flight ahead, I’ve got the fortnight’s readings downloaded and ready to be studied. To be honest, after a quick snooze in our stop over flight to Auckland, spending the next ten hours somewhere between working out how Casey Affleck won the Oscar for Manchester By the Sea, and trying to sneak a rum and coke (or twelve) past my parents, I think this is the first time I’ve ever truly understood a Foucault reading.
Wind your clocks thirteen hours behind sweethearts, I’ve touched down in Santiago, Chile.