Becoming Brian O’Kelley

I’ve flown 175,000 miles this year, two full weeks in the air, plus the many hours of sitting in cabs and airports. My current journey, from New York to London, then Sydney via Singapore, then back to New York via Los Angeles, accounts for 25,000 of these. It was an amusing booking: a British Airways ticket bought via Expedia but flown on Qantas, code sharing with American. When i called to make a change I spoke to each airline once, Expedia twice, and finally gave up after four frustrating, futile hours.

I had the chance to stay with my friend Rags in London, a rare chance to feel like a native. Monday night Amit, Scott, and Mell treated me to a pub / dinner / lounge, of which I recall very few details. Scott called me “evil” in the morning - I think this means it was a fun night! When Rags returned from New York, we watched the painful Croatia-England football match at a pub - quite an experience - and had some fabulous Goan food.

I recovered by waking early on Thursday to take a long run in the morning drzzle. I ran through Soho, through Piccadilly, to Buckingham Palace, then along the pond in Hyde Park, sharing the paths with horses and cyclists. When my watch said to turn back, I did, watching the steam drift up from my shirt. I eschewed the paths and pointed myself directly toward the BT tower, the moist grass swishing beneath my feet. Is this freedom, running carefree through an empty field amidst an age-old city, forging new paths that nevertheless have been trod for millenia? I dashed back into the hubbub of the West End, dodging wrong-way cars and umbrella-masked pedestrians, smiling like a hyena, blasting my marathon mix as my mind leapt free of the streets and the mist, joyously greeting the rising sun.

My flight schedule was such that I spent Thanksgiving on the plane. Qantas didn’t serve turkey, but I did eat a Pret Manger “Christmas sandwich” in London, which had the requisite turkey, dressing, and cranberry, though sadly not warm gravy. The flight was far less painful than I expected; I slept much of the way, though I was fascinated watching the plains of Eastern Europe slowly change from industrial to remote, from green to white, then to darkness as we flew east and south. As we approached Singapore I was awestruck by the number of ships in the harbor: thousands, of all sizes and purposes, meandering, waiting, steaming; empty and full; sublime in their revelation of the massive industrial scale of the world we live in. Already boggled by the utter newness of the lands I traveled over, the port of Singapore was the exclamation point on what suddenly felt like an odyssey.

Sitting at an outdoor bar with my friend Josie that evening, drinking Tooheys, watching the crowds of after-workers and pre-clubbers mingle and cavort, I was touched by the absence of culture shock. Drinking beer outside always seems strange, as it is illegal in New York, and doing so in November was unusual. Still, the language was English, the people were cosmopolitan, and the beer list was not so different than what you would find at Blind Tiger in the West Village. This was not to be a week of cultural revelation.

Instead it was a week of friendship and beauty. I had expected the latter; the former was a pleasant, welcome surprise. Both elements of the journey were clear on Saturday morning, when Thomas and James picked us up at the hotel for pancakes and the bridge climb. The pancakes were fantastic (how can any place with “chocolate pancakes with chocolate ice cream and chocolate sauce” on the menu not be fantastic?) even though the weather was drizzly.

The Bridge Climb was far more complex an endeavor than, say, walking up the Brooklyn Bridge. First, we filled out a medical form. Then we removed all of our metal and personal effects, including cameras and earrings. Then we donned jumpsuits, belts, harnesses, radios, straps, and hats. Then we went to the “practice bridge” to practice hooking on our harnesses and climbing up and down ladders. Then, finally, we made our way up the stairs to the bridge.

By the time we reached the top (a far less strenuous or dangerous climb than all the preparation would make you think), the sun was peaking through the clouds, and we could soak in the extent and beauty of the harbor. For all of Singapore’s activity, it has nothing on Sydney - the Opera House just below us, looking like the head of a cockatoo; the Botanic Gardens just beyond; the beaches far off in the distance; the skyscrapers of Chatswood echoing the Central Business District.

Still craving exercise from the long flight, I wished the climb had taken more out of me, so I went for a jog around the Opera House, around the Botanic Garden, past a techno concert, past a Navy ship with crewmen poised to lower the flag at sunset, up a long winding hill to King’s Cross. On the way back the sun had gone down, the flag was gone from the empty deck of the destroyer, people were sitting in restaurants and cafes, and the thumping and colorful lights from the concert echoed across the harbor.

The next morning Paul picked us up from the hotel and we went to the CYC to go sailing. After the harbor guide navigated us through the marina, John took the helm and we sailed gently out into the harbor. As the breeze carried us out, we drank Cascade beer, waiting for orders from the skipper to winch and duck, basking in the warmth of the sun, casually networking. We meandered out toward Manly, peaking out to the Pacific, then made our way to a mooring at a beach for lunch. Stephe, Josie, both Pauls, and I dived in and swam to the beach, where we challenged each other to pushups and headstands, none of which was particularly impressive. Then we swam back, luxuriating in the cool water, to eat oysters and prawns and salmon, followed by fresh fruit. Yes, it was a tough trip indeed!

During the week, I had to wake up each morning at 7 AM local time to do a status call with the US. Then I would jog, or perhaps catch up on email, then have a fantastic breakfast at the Executive Club, then head off to work for the day. I was working in five time zones: Sydney, Moscow, London, New York, and Los Angeles, which created a surrealism around the day as people popped online and offline with seemingly no rhyme or reason. That said, I felt like I got done what I needed to get done in all of the time zones, though perhaps with less continuity than I am used to.

The fascinating thing about my time in Sydney was that each day, people went out of their way to include me in their lives. On Monday, Roger (who I met sailing) invited Paul and I to an online media networking event where his business partner, Tony Surtees, was speaking. I spent half an hour socializing with Tony, then left to meet Stephe, who took us to a hip hop club. On Tuesday, we had dinner with Bryan Ries and his wife Noa, then went to drinks at Icebergs in Bondi. On Wednesday, Stephe took me mountain biking, then the Mooter team took us to a fantastic Chinese dinner and out to a pub, where James and I played (miserable) pool. By Friday, when Tony and Roger took me to lunch, I felt like I had more of a social life in Sydney than in New York!

By Friday I started to call the Four Seasons “home”, to the amusement of my hosts. Spending nine nights in one place is an unusual luxury in my life, and the sense of displacement was amplified by the fact that upon returning to New York, I begin the process of moving into my new apartment. Friday night was a fitting end to my time in Sydney: drinks at the Pure Profile offices, then dinner on King’s Wharf, then dancing at a club nearby.

Dancing with Thomas and Jazelle, watching Derek smile with his friends, seeing Paul’s grin as he returns from the bar with drinks, watching Josie chat excitedly to the other Paul, I realized how generous these people had been with their time and their kindness, treating me as a guest and a friend. For all Sydney’s beauty, it is the people that are burned into my memory - Noa pointing out the shops on Oxford Street as we drove by; Ruthie fixing drinks on the yacht; the Irish man in the Botanic Gardens taking the time to take the absolutely perfect shot of Josie and me in front of the Opera House.

On Saturday, after shopping in the market for Christmas gifts, we made our way to Bondi beach. It was cool and cloudy, but I stripped off my shirt and began to run along the headlands, following the route than John had suggested. The path ran up and down along the rocks, past beaches and lifeguards, through a cemetary, past a lawn bowling club with crowds of people hooting at good rolls, past fields and swimming pools, up steep stairs and down ramps, and finally to Coogee beach, which disappointingly had no topless women to gawk at. My watch beeped 4 miles as I turned back, enjoying the crash of the waves on the rocks, the feel and smell of the ocean, the container ships off in the distance, the gentle excuse-mes to couples strolling along the path, the glimpses of Bondi in the distance, the challenge of pushing my tired legs up yet another incline, the thrill of being alive. I reached Bondi and took off my shoes. I stood on the beach and did a short yoga session, feeling my tired muscles relax. I tried my usual futile attempt at a beach headstand, looking forward to the yoga retreat in January at which I plan to master this subtle art.

Then, compelled by the surfers and the dimming sun and the ecstasy of the day, I jumped into the water, watching the surfers flitting about like seabound birds, letting the waves crash into my body. I knelt, letting the yogic sand wash off my skin, bobbing up and down with the tide, feeling at peace.

The constant traveler’s idyllic sense of home turned topsy-turvy, like Galileo in reverse, I wonder: am I seeking a home or is it seeking me? If a home is the place where friends and family celebrate and give thanks for blessings, perhaps I must reconsider my idea of an apartment or house as a home, and look inside - creating a home in every present moment, in the banter with a flight attendant in the seat I just occupied for 20 hours, in the recognition of a favorite cornice in London, in the discovery of common ground over dinner in the West Village. This is the true grace and glory of travel: the recognition of that which is most familiar and intimate through contrast with that which is not. And so I exult in my return “home”, to my family and friends, to my enterprises and explorations and projects and possibilities, I exult. I am home.