I've kept travel diaries for probably the last twenty years, and I've been a dedicated photographer for about the same length of time, so invariably one night I thought "Hey, I wonder if I could combine the two and make a living out of it".
I had no idea how to go about it, but figured all I really needed to do was put together a dossier of photos and samples of travel writing from previous trips, send it off to the attention of the Travel Editor at the Adelaide Advertiser, and a glamorous career submitting dispatches from every corner of the globe would surely beckon. This trip to the US would be a perfect start: send off an update every few days, accompanied by a couple of good photos, and they could run it if they wanted to - very little risk to the Advertiser, and a possible start for me.
I put together a dossier, combining a large wad of 5x7 glossies and writing samples, even a CV of what I wanted to achieve, and wrapped the lot up in a classy looking wallet with a business card attached. Damn, it looked awesome, bordering on professional - I'd hire me! Still, I'm a bit of a realist, so even at this early stage of the process I at least considered the possibility that this cold-calling method wouldn't get me too far. At least, I figured, I might get a foot in the door...
Those brash ambitions were thwarted pretty early - messages to pretty well every email address off of the "Contact Us" section of http://www.adelaidenow.com.au/ went unanswered, and when I cold-called with a dossier I was sent around to "Goods Inward" by the security guy, saying nothing could be submitted over the counter. I speculated upon a possible scenario:
Informant: "Stop the press! I've got photos of the entire Family First Party on a Thai sex holiday participating in a free-for-all orgy!"
Security Dude: "Sorry mate, nothing over the front desk - try Goods Inward"
As soon as I walked around the corner my heart sank a little.
After striding purposefully (manfully, even?) past a couple of guys wreathed in smoke who looked like they were just passing by from another world, I got to the Goods Inward door, hit the buzzer and was let into a room looking like a left over set from Brazil, boxes stacked to the ceiling. The large, gormless man with teeth like a Boston cemetery in charge of Goods Inward was seemingly dyna-bolted behind the front desk. He was also evidently hard of hearing - at least, that's my charitable interpretation of why he said what he did - as when I told him I had a package for the Travel Editor, he said "Travel Agent?".
They say you can usually pinpoint the moment when a relationship is over. This one was done for in a jiffy. I could nail it to the second. When we finally connected - when, for a fleeting, beautiful moment my intent was finally understood - he mumbled something about it not being a problem, took the dossier I'd lavished love and attention on, and slid it to the corner of the desk to never again see the light of day.
On my darker days I sometimes imagine it still there, unloved and forgotten, caked in dust, buried under dossiers and nude Family First shots. It will be uncovered in the fullness of time.
Or maybe sent to a Travel Agent.
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