Before landing, the mind is a shallow vessel filled with old myths. For me,
Tasmania had always been reduced to a ghost and a cartoon, the frantic,
spinning Taz of childhood television and the tragic, vanished shadow of the
extinct Tasmanian tiger. But the real geography began when the planes touched
down. We converged from different corners of the map to meet here, some of us
escaping the heavy tropical humidity of Manila and others dropping down from
Brisbane, a gathering of close friends seeking a shared horizon.
Usually, I am a slave to the itinerary, mapping out destinations with the
clinical precision of a seasoned traveler. This time, I chose the holy
innocence of the blank slate. I watched no digital videos, scrolled through no
curated social media feeds, and harbored absolutely no expectations. When
Hobart finally rose to meet us, it hit with the magnificent shock of pure,
unmediated discovery. There is a rare, clean joy in arriving somewhere
completely blind, and I intend to preserve that mystery.
This capital city houses a quiet contingent of two hundred thousand souls,
anchored precariously south of the massive Australian mainland. The locals
call it Tassie, a place where winter bites with a pleasant sharpness and life
slows down to a beautiful, laid-back crawl. For five glorious days, the rhythm
of the road pulled us onward. We journeyed into the solemn sandstone history
of neighboring Port Arthur, stood shivering at the summit of Mount Wellington
while gale-force winds and sub-zero temperatures whipped against our skin, and
immersed ourselves completely in the warm, artistic pulse of Hobart’s local
culture.
