Tracks by Robyn Davidson

It’s not often that I see a movie if I’ve read the book. I prefer the visuals in my own head and I’m usually disappointed if the story has been changed. It’s even more unlikely that I see a movie and then want to read the book, but that’s what happened this summer when I saw the movie Tracks. I saw the trailer for the film at the beginning of the summer and was thrilled to find it playing in Vancouver.

Robyn Davidson on the cover of National Geographic

Tracks is the story of Robyn Davidson’s solo trek across the Australian desert in 1977 by camel. Davis walked for nine months over 1,700 miles through the Australian outback to the Indian Ocean with her dog and four camels: Dookie, Bub, Zeleika and Goliath. I wanted to see the film because of the amazing cinematography and I wasn’t disappointed, but I was also taken with the story of how Davidson was able to organize her trip. She had never worked with animals or undertaken any major treks before moving to Alice Springs to learn about camels. She had no money, and it was only when National Geographic offered to sponsor her that her trip became a reality.  Davidson wrote an article about her experience for the magazine.

Actress Mia Wasikowska as Davidson in the film Tracks

 After seeing the movie, I wanted to read the book. While the movie plays up parts of the film that make for good drama, such as the threats of wild camels and invasive tourists, and the relationship between photographer Rick Smolan and Davidson, the parts I loved most in the book were about Davidson’s desire to be alone in the desert. She wanted to walk through the desert by herself, and yet most of the time she was incredibly lonely. I’ve been thinking a lot about this anachronism: how to be alone without being lonely. Conversely, I also think a lot about how to be surrounded by people and still be alone, which is closer to my reality.

At the time of Davidson’s trek the media made a big deal that she was a woman alone doing the journey. Sure that’s remarkable, but the best part of Davidson’s story to me is that she went on a long journey without a defined purpose, other than to experience a place. Thinking about Davidson in the desert makes me want to go on a long walk, somewhere with open vistas. That’s unlikely in my wooded part of Ontario, but sometimes when I’m out alone in my canoe, I get that open feeling of space, and it’s like nothing else.   

Juke Box Treat

Even when Air Canada decides to delay your flight six hours without letting you know, or compensating you, sometimes there are still hidden treasures to discover.

I spent all of yesterday afternoon with my husband and boys at the Vancouver airport waiting for a flight to Toronto. We arrived at 3am local time, which was far too late to drive home to Kingston ON. So, after a short sleep at an airport hotel and an expensive taxi ride to our car,(we’d missed our ride because of the delay) no one was in a particularly good mood, or really hungry. Yet, we decided to stop for breakfast before heading to the highway. We were in the Sheppard and Keele area of Toronto, which is not an area we know well, nor would I say is it known for its restaurants. My husband Rob pulled into the first restaurant he saw in a not terribly appealing strip mall, unfortunately located next to an Adult Video store. He waved for me to check it out, me being the pickiest eater in our family, and the least interested in greasy spoon breakfasts. I wasn’t expecting much, but when I opened the door of the diner, I saw booths upholstered in sparkly red vinyl, matching red vinyl stools along a bar, a vintage milkshake machine and best of all, juke boxes in each booth.

 

 

 I gave my husband the thumbs up and he herded our sleepy boys into the Downsview Restaurant.  Breakfast was pancakes for the boys, eggs and coffee for Rob and I. The food was standard diner fare, but I was really interested in the juke box. I’m not sure I’ve ever really seen one, except for a tacky reproduction in someone’s basement. When I asked the waitress, who told me she and her husband have run the restaurant for 64 (!) years if the juke box worked, she smiled and said, "Sometimes." I gambled five quarters and was able to listen to three songs. Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” wouldn’t work, but Tina Turner’s  “We Don’t Need Another Hero” was remarkably clear as was John Cougar Mellencamp’s “Hurt So Good,” a song I don’t think I’ve heard since high school when my boyfriend made me a mix tape. (I didn’t tell my husband this.)  The kids pepped up enough to dance with us in the booth while we ate. We listened to part of Roy Orbison’s “Crying” before the juke box stopped working, which was too bad, because I was suddenly desperate to hear Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule The World.” We shamelessly took pictures like the tourists we were, while the regulars looked on in amusement. Every time the gears of the juke box dropped a different 45 onto its playing mechanism, there was a distinctly pleasant metallic smell. I don’t remember record players having a particular scent, but suddenly I was in my grandparents’ house in Montreal, if only just briefly.  

I’m still irked with Air Canada and my lost time and extra jet-lagged kids, but the diner was a lovely break in our travels.