I am writing this from my bed in Northern California, happy to be home after exactly 6 months overseas. I've been home a week now, but haven't even been able to begin the process the complex emotions faced in leaving until now. One main reason I came home when I did was because my mother was getting ordained as a minister in the United Church of Christ, the culmination of nearly ten years of work. My mother decided when she was 50 years old that her present career as an audiologist was no longer fulfilling her in the way a career should. She felt a compelling and all-encompassing call to use her talents in a different way, and began the process of enrolling in seminary, to see where exactly she would be lead. She began seminary while still working three days a week, owning her own business and caring for me and my sister. Eventually, once she finished her Master of Divinity, she sold her half of the business and moved fully into the process of becoming a minister. She completed her chaplain training at a hospital and moved into a job as a hospice chaplain, shepherding people through the process of dying.
I cannot think of a better person for this job than my kind, compassionate, loving mother. I could not have been prouder on Sunday when she finally become the Reverend Jennifer Lathrop, surrounded by friends and family alike.
During my last weeks in Australia, my departure date loomed over my head. As excited as I was to return home to friends and family, to witness my mother's special day and to complete my university degree, I was shattered at the prospect of leaving Australia, the place I had come to know so well, and Jamie, the man I had come to love so much.
But circumstances were out of our control, and neither of us ever seriously contemplated the idea that I would just not go home. I have worked too hard and sacrificed too much over the last 3 years to graduate just short of a degree, and there was no way I would not be there for my mother's ordination. So we doggedly prepared for my departure by filling our heads with the mundane-ness of our daily routine. I became so preoccupied with the slow process of packing up what had been my life for the past six months that I didn't feel the panic or sadness that I was sure would come. Though at first I relished this small comfort, I began to get nervous. Why wasn't I freaking out? I should have been a wreck. I was leaving behind the life I had made for myself and the man I loved and heading back to the bustle and stress of university life. I began to become neurotic over my lack of neurosis (a true feat). Did this mean I didn't love Jamie? Did it mean I wasn't sad? Was this normal? What was wrong with me? I doggedly continued packing and brushed Jamie away when he became sad, ashamed that I couldn't even muster a tear. In this cloud of uncertainty, we headed to the airport, waited in a long line, and headed for security. There, blocking the entrance, with heaps of strangers looking on concernedly, I lost it. Much to my relief. Glorious, choking sobs racked my body as I slumped against Jamie and wailed like a toddler. I have never been as happy to have been so sad. I knew that I hadn't become an emotionless robot, doomed to walk the earth alone, never feeling a connection to a place or a people. All the sadness I had dutifully placed in the back of my head to make room for the worries that came with packing up my life into two suitcases, getting to the airport on time, and all the other millions of tiny responsibilities of travel came flooding back into the forefront as I walked away from Jamie down the stairs. I was a real human, who felt love and regret and sadness like everyone else, and I would carry all these emotions back with me as I reunited with my family, where they would be joined by happiness, excitement, and yes, probably more tears.
I have learned so much from my mother over the years, but as I face these next challenges; juggling a busy schedule, jobs and internship, a long distance relationship, graduating, I will always remember that it is never unacceptable to follow a dream and to place your own happiness ahead of your fears. I have no idea what will happen in my immediate future, and I'm ok with that. Or at least I am trying to be. I have had a wonderful six months where I have learned and loved and traveled and explored and I suspect that I will continue to reap the rewards of this experience for many years to come.
So thank you Australia for this wonderful experience, and thank all of those of you who have read this blog and participated in your own small way in my journey.
And with that, Lathrop out.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
In which Jamie snores
Disclaimer: this post has virtually nothing to do with travels, Australia, or interesting experiences I have had. It occurs because Jamie's snoring kept me awake last night and I am grumpy. In my humble opinion, snoring is one of the absolute worst things in the world. It is a horrible sound, calling to mind a mixture of snot and choking, and occurs during one of the most peaceful times of day or night: sleep. Now, in the interest of honesty I must confess I am guilty of the occasional sleep transgressions. I talk in my sleep and steal blankets like its my job. However, I do NOT snore, and anyone who tries to tell my otherwise will get a stern talking to.
But back to my original point: Jamie snores. Fortunately not often, but he makes up for quantity with quality, if you can call it that and produces snores of such impressive decibels that I have been woken up by his nasal exclamations. I have chosen to deal with said issues in a variety of ways, which I was expound upon now. Feel free to use them upon any snoring relations of yours, I guarantee success.
1. The one-two punch. This is by far the most efficient way of stopping a snorer, though also the riskiest. It involves literally punching your sleeping partner, upon which they will wake up, surprised, and ideally, baffled as to why they woke up, roll over and continue to slumber peacefully and silently. Now I did say that it was risky, because you always run the risk of your sleeping partner waking up upon the punching, recognizing it as such, and accusing you. As you are probably the only other person in the bed, you won't be able to shift the blame, and will have to own up to the consequences of your actions. Another potential pitfall with this plan is that your sleeping partner may feel as though they are being attacked, and in their confused half-asleep state, seek revenge. Heads up.
2. The continued lean. I am partial to this method. Its subtle, effective, and reduces the odds that you will be in the receiving end of a half-awake punch in the face. This requires you gain a bit of purchase on the bed, wedge an elbow or shoulder into your sleeping partner and apply slow steady pressure until they shift enough to stop snoring. They may wake up, but if they do, its very easy to either feign sleep, or simply convert your wedging elbow into a snuggle arm.
3. The pincer move. This is a recent discovery, and one I am quite proud of. Its direct, humane, and allows one to continue whatever one may be doing whilst one's partner sleeps peacefully. I discovered this method while Jamie and I were watching Primary Colors. Not finding the Clinton allegory as interesting as I was, Jamie promptly fell sleep with his face mere inches from mine and began snoring loudly into my ear, drowning out John Travolta's poor attempt at Bill-esque sex appeal. I tried the continued lean, to no avail, contemplated the one-two punch, but couldn't bring myself to visit shock and pain upon my peacefully sleeping boyfriend. However, I couldn't hear Kathy Bates. At a loss, I reached out and pinched Jamie's nose. Silence. He continued breathing happily through his mouth and I heard every plot point. It should be mentioned that this method is not sustainable. Eventually, your peacefully slumbering partner will object to being manhandled and will begin to thrash around like a frightened shark. At this point, you must let go, or face the inevitable uncomfortable questions as to why you have a death grip on his or her schnozz.
Well there you have it. My patented anti-snoring devices. Stay tuned for more substantive posts when I am not sleep-deprived or hearing sinus orchestras ringing in my ears.
But back to my original point: Jamie snores. Fortunately not often, but he makes up for quantity with quality, if you can call it that and produces snores of such impressive decibels that I have been woken up by his nasal exclamations. I have chosen to deal with said issues in a variety of ways, which I was expound upon now. Feel free to use them upon any snoring relations of yours, I guarantee success.
1. The one-two punch. This is by far the most efficient way of stopping a snorer, though also the riskiest. It involves literally punching your sleeping partner, upon which they will wake up, surprised, and ideally, baffled as to why they woke up, roll over and continue to slumber peacefully and silently. Now I did say that it was risky, because you always run the risk of your sleeping partner waking up upon the punching, recognizing it as such, and accusing you. As you are probably the only other person in the bed, you won't be able to shift the blame, and will have to own up to the consequences of your actions. Another potential pitfall with this plan is that your sleeping partner may feel as though they are being attacked, and in their confused half-asleep state, seek revenge. Heads up.
2. The continued lean. I am partial to this method. Its subtle, effective, and reduces the odds that you will be in the receiving end of a half-awake punch in the face. This requires you gain a bit of purchase on the bed, wedge an elbow or shoulder into your sleeping partner and apply slow steady pressure until they shift enough to stop snoring. They may wake up, but if they do, its very easy to either feign sleep, or simply convert your wedging elbow into a snuggle arm.
3. The pincer move. This is a recent discovery, and one I am quite proud of. Its direct, humane, and allows one to continue whatever one may be doing whilst one's partner sleeps peacefully. I discovered this method while Jamie and I were watching Primary Colors. Not finding the Clinton allegory as interesting as I was, Jamie promptly fell sleep with his face mere inches from mine and began snoring loudly into my ear, drowning out John Travolta's poor attempt at Bill-esque sex appeal. I tried the continued lean, to no avail, contemplated the one-two punch, but couldn't bring myself to visit shock and pain upon my peacefully sleeping boyfriend. However, I couldn't hear Kathy Bates. At a loss, I reached out and pinched Jamie's nose. Silence. He continued breathing happily through his mouth and I heard every plot point. It should be mentioned that this method is not sustainable. Eventually, your peacefully slumbering partner will object to being manhandled and will begin to thrash around like a frightened shark. At this point, you must let go, or face the inevitable uncomfortable questions as to why you have a death grip on his or her schnozz.
Well there you have it. My patented anti-snoring devices. Stay tuned for more substantive posts when I am not sleep-deprived or hearing sinus orchestras ringing in my ears.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
In which I am a master baker
The title of this blog is dedicated to Brett Perrotta, friend, fellow travel blogger and appreciator of raunchy puns extraordinaire.
So here I am in Queensland, enjoying a work-free, obligation-free six weeks that are passing much too quickly. At times, I feel like a lazy sack of shit as I watch Jamie go to work at 5:30 am every morning, but then I reminded myself that there are few opportunities to simply do nothing in life, and they become few and far between as time goes on (disclaimer: yes, I know I used exactly the same argument to justify my laziness in January before I left for Australia, but lay off), and I should just take advantage of it. Also, no one wanted to hire a skill-less American for six weeks. Life goes on.
So here I sit, blissfully in my pj's at ten am, tapping away at the computer with a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside me and the whole day stretching out before me, blissfully empty. This is not to say that I am bored. I read, I go for walks, I play guitar, I keep Jamie updated via text message on Paul the Psychic Octopus, I'm a busy girl! But the best thing about this time to myself while Jamie is off bringing home the proverbial bacon, is that I BAKE.
Allow me to preface by saying that prior to my current housewifery, "domestic" was not a word that easily described me. When I would tell people that I was coming to stay with Jamie for six weeks, during which I would be essentially a housewife, I was met often with incredulity and more than once with "I canNOT see you as a housewife." Though I probably would have been mildly offended if anyone had suggested that housewifery was EXACTLY what they saw in my future, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. True, I was not a good cook. True, most evenings, left to my own devices I would make myself such hastily thrown together "meals" as a mustard sandwich, or cheese. "Baking" didn't even exist. So I vowed to myself that my time in Queensland would turn me into a domestic diva.
I baked several batches of chocolate chip cookies, ranging in their palatableness, and one DISASTROUS batch of sugar cookies, whilst in Melbourne, but leaving no indications that I shows any sort of aptitude for baking and/or cooking. I resolved to change this when I arrived in Queensland, and thus far I have baked chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal white chocolate cookies, snickerdoodles, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin-chocolate brownies, and, most recently, boysenberry shortcake. Suck it, Martha Stewart. I list all of these culinary achievements not to brag (ok, yes to brag) and also to prove that one does not need to have any initial signs of ability in order to have a successful career as an amateur (or in my case, master) baker. It gives me a ridiculously pathetic sense of accomplishment to take my latest creation out of the oven and gleefully feed it to anyone who will let me. Frequent victims are Jamie's parents, to whom I apologize in advance for any obesity, high blood pressure, or diabetes that may result from having these buttery, sugary creations crammed down their throats a few times a week.
Baking and cooking are probably two of the first things to hit the chopping block with a busy life, and I find that lamentable. There is a quiet peacefullness, or in my case, its equivalent (frantic neurosis) to be found in dutifully or not so dutifully following a recipe and reaping the delicious rewards for yourself and loved ones. I have been frequently guilty of pleading lack of time and just throwing a pot of pasta on the stove for the umpteenth time, but I hope that that will change when I return to DC. It is cliche, but food feeds not just your body but your soul, and especially with my penchant for buttery delights, I fear I am forgoing the physical for the spiritual benefits.
And finally, because he always complains that he is only a secondary character in my blogs and never a main player, here's a little shoutout to Jamie. All the joy I have found in baking and cooking would be inconsequential without my dutiful guinea pig to try out new recipes on. Though I worry slightly about his impartiality, hearing him grunt "Mm 'sgood babe" around a mouthful of whatever I have placed before him is immensely gratifying. And, lest we forget, I wouldn't even have this opportunity to lead this life of luxury and idleness if it weren't for Jamie's generous offer to share his home and his life for these six weeks. Never underestimate the quiet contentment that is to be found in falling asleep and waking up next to someone you love and who returns that love to you, plus interest.
So here I am in Queensland, enjoying a work-free, obligation-free six weeks that are passing much too quickly. At times, I feel like a lazy sack of shit as I watch Jamie go to work at 5:30 am every morning, but then I reminded myself that there are few opportunities to simply do nothing in life, and they become few and far between as time goes on (disclaimer: yes, I know I used exactly the same argument to justify my laziness in January before I left for Australia, but lay off), and I should just take advantage of it. Also, no one wanted to hire a skill-less American for six weeks. Life goes on.
So here I sit, blissfully in my pj's at ten am, tapping away at the computer with a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside me and the whole day stretching out before me, blissfully empty. This is not to say that I am bored. I read, I go for walks, I play guitar, I keep Jamie updated via text message on Paul the Psychic Octopus, I'm a busy girl! But the best thing about this time to myself while Jamie is off bringing home the proverbial bacon, is that I BAKE.
Allow me to preface by saying that prior to my current housewifery, "domestic" was not a word that easily described me. When I would tell people that I was coming to stay with Jamie for six weeks, during which I would be essentially a housewife, I was met often with incredulity and more than once with "I canNOT see you as a housewife." Though I probably would have been mildly offended if anyone had suggested that housewifery was EXACTLY what they saw in my future, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. True, I was not a good cook. True, most evenings, left to my own devices I would make myself such hastily thrown together "meals" as a mustard sandwich, or cheese. "Baking" didn't even exist. So I vowed to myself that my time in Queensland would turn me into a domestic diva.
I baked several batches of chocolate chip cookies, ranging in their palatableness, and one DISASTROUS batch of sugar cookies, whilst in Melbourne, but leaving no indications that I shows any sort of aptitude for baking and/or cooking. I resolved to change this when I arrived in Queensland, and thus far I have baked chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal white chocolate cookies, snickerdoodles, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin-chocolate brownies, and, most recently, boysenberry shortcake. Suck it, Martha Stewart. I list all of these culinary achievements not to brag (ok, yes to brag) and also to prove that one does not need to have any initial signs of ability in order to have a successful career as an amateur (or in my case, master) baker. It gives me a ridiculously pathetic sense of accomplishment to take my latest creation out of the oven and gleefully feed it to anyone who will let me. Frequent victims are Jamie's parents, to whom I apologize in advance for any obesity, high blood pressure, or diabetes that may result from having these buttery, sugary creations crammed down their throats a few times a week.
Baking and cooking are probably two of the first things to hit the chopping block with a busy life, and I find that lamentable. There is a quiet peacefullness, or in my case, its equivalent (frantic neurosis) to be found in dutifully or not so dutifully following a recipe and reaping the delicious rewards for yourself and loved ones. I have been frequently guilty of pleading lack of time and just throwing a pot of pasta on the stove for the umpteenth time, but I hope that that will change when I return to DC. It is cliche, but food feeds not just your body but your soul, and especially with my penchant for buttery delights, I fear I am forgoing the physical for the spiritual benefits.
And finally, because he always complains that he is only a secondary character in my blogs and never a main player, here's a little shoutout to Jamie. All the joy I have found in baking and cooking would be inconsequential without my dutiful guinea pig to try out new recipes on. Though I worry slightly about his impartiality, hearing him grunt "Mm 'sgood babe" around a mouthful of whatever I have placed before him is immensely gratifying. And, lest we forget, I wouldn't even have this opportunity to lead this life of luxury and idleness if it weren't for Jamie's generous offer to share his home and his life for these six weeks. Never underestimate the quiet contentment that is to be found in falling asleep and waking up next to someone you love and who returns that love to you, plus interest.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
In which left is right
Disclaimer: this blog is from last Monday, but due to technical difficulties (I have a hard time working Jamie's computer and can't figure out how to get mine to connect to the internet) its taken over a week to upload.
It may surprises some to know that in the five months that I have been in AUstralia, I had not driven a car until this morning. I really haven't had much occasion to get behind the wheel,except when my parents came. Then my father quickly monopolized the driving portion of the trip because apparently dying in a blazing fireball was not on his list of things to do in Australia. Its not so much that I am a bad driver, its just that I spook easily, like a thoroughbred horse or a chihuahua, which can make me a tad overexcitable on the road. So frankly, up until today, I had been perfectly content to mooch rides of others, and had very little desire to experience life on the other side of the road.
That is, until Jamie offered to let me have the care so I could go grocery shopping today. The last time I went grocery shopping in our sleepy suburb of Redland Bay, I took the bus. Five months in Bundoora has made me fairly confident in my public transit abilities, and I had actually taken Queensland public transit quite a bit during Kara and my Easter Break hobo extravaganza, so I was feeling pretty good. Jamie carefully pointed out the bus stop by our house to me, and getting there proved no problem. It was the getting home that would prove difficult (foreshadowing). I reached the bus depot at the shopping centre lugging my groceries, only to realize that I had no clue which bus I had taken to get there and there were approximately five different buses I could potentially take. Did I mention at the time I didn't know our house number, town or street? Yup. I quickly called Jamie at work and ascertained that I was to take the bus to Redland Bay and get off "at the tennis courts." Groceries in tow, I staggered aboard and confidently asked the driver if he stopped at the tennis courts. "Which tennis court?" Zing. I was stumped. I was in trouble, but wilted under his stare and meekly headed back a seat, where I proceeded to drop one of my grocery bags and crawl around on the floor in pursuit of errant fruits and veggies. Order temporarily restored, I glued my nose to the window in search of familiar landmarks. FInally I spotted what I thought was a familiar field, lunged at the stop button and dragged myself and my groceries past the glaring driver only to find myself standing in a field I had never seen before. I'm ashamed to say, standing there in that strange field, carrying upwards of five bags of groceries, I began to cry, sure that I would never see Redland Bay again, much less America, and Jamie would have to spend the evening driving around calling my name out the window. Fortunately this was not to be the case, and I soon flagged down another bus, this one driven by the same kindly bus driver who had dropped me off at the shopping store. He looked on concernedly as I lurched aboard, sweaty and tear-streaked, and helpfully told me where to get off....one stop later.
So you can perhaps see why I was so eager to avoid the bus. This meant, however, driving Jamie to his brother's house at 5:30 in the morning, in the dark, and navigating home solo, all on the opposite side of the road. As with the grocery debacle, getting there was no problem, and in fact, lured me into a false sense of security. I was Ellen Lathrop, champion left-side driver. I confidently plunged down a side street that looked marginally familiar, only to realize I had no idea where I was, and even less of an idea how to get home. As I wound through street after street, with no sign of the main road, I became more and more confident that I would die wandering these side streets, and months from now, my skeleton would be found, still doggedly clutching the steering wheel. This was not to be the case, however, as I came upon some old ladies walking and yelled for assistance. These angels of mercy pointed me in the right direction and I was soon homeward bound, rolling merrily along, 10 K under the circumstances, blithely ignoring the glares of drivers passing me. Somehow, a good half hour after I should have been home, I rolled into our driveway and victoriously texted Jamie that I had only gotten lost once...ok twice.
It may surprises some to know that in the five months that I have been in AUstralia, I had not driven a car until this morning. I really haven't had much occasion to get behind the wheel,except when my parents came. Then my father quickly monopolized the driving portion of the trip because apparently dying in a blazing fireball was not on his list of things to do in Australia. Its not so much that I am a bad driver, its just that I spook easily, like a thoroughbred horse or a chihuahua, which can make me a tad overexcitable on the road. So frankly, up until today, I had been perfectly content to mooch rides of others, and had very little desire to experience life on the other side of the road.
That is, until Jamie offered to let me have the care so I could go grocery shopping today. The last time I went grocery shopping in our sleepy suburb of Redland Bay, I took the bus. Five months in Bundoora has made me fairly confident in my public transit abilities, and I had actually taken Queensland public transit quite a bit during Kara and my Easter Break hobo extravaganza, so I was feeling pretty good. Jamie carefully pointed out the bus stop by our house to me, and getting there proved no problem. It was the getting home that would prove difficult (foreshadowing). I reached the bus depot at the shopping centre lugging my groceries, only to realize that I had no clue which bus I had taken to get there and there were approximately five different buses I could potentially take. Did I mention at the time I didn't know our house number, town or street? Yup. I quickly called Jamie at work and ascertained that I was to take the bus to Redland Bay and get off "at the tennis courts." Groceries in tow, I staggered aboard and confidently asked the driver if he stopped at the tennis courts. "Which tennis court?" Zing. I was stumped. I was in trouble, but wilted under his stare and meekly headed back a seat, where I proceeded to drop one of my grocery bags and crawl around on the floor in pursuit of errant fruits and veggies. Order temporarily restored, I glued my nose to the window in search of familiar landmarks. FInally I spotted what I thought was a familiar field, lunged at the stop button and dragged myself and my groceries past the glaring driver only to find myself standing in a field I had never seen before. I'm ashamed to say, standing there in that strange field, carrying upwards of five bags of groceries, I began to cry, sure that I would never see Redland Bay again, much less America, and Jamie would have to spend the evening driving around calling my name out the window. Fortunately this was not to be the case, and I soon flagged down another bus, this one driven by the same kindly bus driver who had dropped me off at the shopping store. He looked on concernedly as I lurched aboard, sweaty and tear-streaked, and helpfully told me where to get off....one stop later.
So you can perhaps see why I was so eager to avoid the bus. This meant, however, driving Jamie to his brother's house at 5:30 in the morning, in the dark, and navigating home solo, all on the opposite side of the road. As with the grocery debacle, getting there was no problem, and in fact, lured me into a false sense of security. I was Ellen Lathrop, champion left-side driver. I confidently plunged down a side street that looked marginally familiar, only to realize I had no idea where I was, and even less of an idea how to get home. As I wound through street after street, with no sign of the main road, I became more and more confident that I would die wandering these side streets, and months from now, my skeleton would be found, still doggedly clutching the steering wheel. This was not to be the case, however, as I came upon some old ladies walking and yelled for assistance. These angels of mercy pointed me in the right direction and I was soon homeward bound, rolling merrily along, 10 K under the circumstances, blithely ignoring the glares of drivers passing me. Somehow, a good half hour after I should have been home, I rolled into our driveway and victoriously texted Jamie that I had only gotten lost once...ok twice.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
In which I leave Victoria
So its coming down to the time when I leave Victoria, the Australian state which has been my home for the past five months. We've had some good times and some bad, so without further ado I present: Things I Will and Won't Miss About Victoria
Things I Won't Miss:
The birds: I would like to take this moment to say a big FUCK YOU to every Australian bird and their vocal chords (or whatever it is that birds have that allows them to make AWFUL noises approximately ALL THE TIME). But perhaps I'm being too harsh. They are very pretty and it certainly is a unique opportunity to get to see parrots and cockatoos on the daily. As a matter of fact, at this exact moment I am looking out my window at two pink and grey parrots canoodling around in the tree near my room. They are sidestepping around in a cute way, and kind of like knocking their beaks together (I won't deign to anthropomorphize them enough to call it kissing) and its generally very picturesque. Or it would be if I had earplugs. Worst. Sounds. Ever. Penetrating my closed window, drowning out my itunes, and making me want to stab my ears with a pencil. So no, birds, I will not miss you.
Bundoora: Sorry, but I have to say it. Bundoora, the suburb I have been living in about an hour outside Melbourne SUCKS. It reminds me a bit of Detroit (think boarded up storefronts and graffiti) but with less culture and things to do. The nearest grocery store is like a twenty minute walk or three stops by tram away, and the nearest bar (not counting the campus bar, the size of a small warehouse and to whose upkeep I imagine a fair percentage of our tuition dollars are designated) is 15 tram stops away. Did I mention probably 70% of the students commute to and from campus? Yeah, a tad isolating. So no, Bundoora, I will not miss you.
The Tram: Sorry Dad, I know the Melbourne tram system was the highlight of your trip to Australia, but I just can't feel the same fervent passion. Apparently the Victorian Transit Department hires only sadistic drivers who enjoy braking and accelerating with all the fervor their black little hearts can muster in what can only be viewed as attempts to actively throw passengers to the ground. Just last weekend, I accidentally punched a woman in the face as I stood up in the two seconds between leaving my seat and grabbing the railing. I felt terrible, but was quickly redeemed when, at the next stop, a man was thrown off balance and grabbed not only the railing but a sizable chunk of my hair. Owww. Also, remember how I mentioned that the closest bar is 15 tram stops away? Yeah, bar. As in drinking. As in alcohol + carsickness, as in MISERY. So no trams, I will not miss you, and your soul-stealing, cartilage-weakening, stranger-punching nausea.
The Bus: See tram, but with more active aggression from the driver, who you have to interact with to buy a ticket. Though, be warned, if you give him over a 20, you WILL be screamed at. On the bright side you may not have to pay. Money, that is. You will pay in future psychiatric bills, as you scurry down the aisle away from the driver yelling at your retreating back, hoping to make it to a seat before he punches the gas and you hurtle into outer space.
But that's enough of that.
Things I Will Miss:
Melbourne: Melbourne is WONDERFUL. Beautiful, clean, full of culture and life. I. Love. Melbourne. So. Much. The wonderful, sprawling Queen Victoria outdoor market reminds me of the night markets in the Thailand, practically thrumming with energy. Not to mention, Queen Vic will always hold a special place in my heart due to a DELICIOUS and heaping plate of fresh, homemade donuts, topped with ice cream and melted chocolate that I enjoyed there, and which I suspect is still haunting my thighs. But well worth it. Open, outdoor Federation Square on the banks of the Yarra River. So much exciting stuff happens in Fed Square. I have seen numerous street performers with varying levels of talents. African Drum Shows, Caribbean dancers, and some strange exhibition which involved elderly people doing something that looked a lot like square dancing. It is a cultural mecca, surrounded by the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, where I attended screenings during Melbourne's Queer Film Festival, and copious museums. But some of Melbourne's greatest treasures are slightly more hidden. Laneways are prevalent in Melbourne, tiny alleyways that weave labyrinth-like through the major city streets. These blink-and-you-miss-them treasures house shops and restaurants a bit more off the beaten path. My favorite is Shanghai Dumping, where you can by 20 dumplings for 6 dollars and merrily gorge yourself until you are thoroughly ill. So yes, Melbourne, I will miss you IMMENSELY, and hope to return to you someday.
Botanical Gardens: I have discovered an affinity for lots of new things whilst in Australia: baking, taking long walks, AustraliKiwi carpenters, geology (PSYCH), and most importantly Botanical Gardens. The one in Melbourne is GORGEOUS. Absolutely beautiful, sprawling, verdant, all kinds of adjectives. It is a perfect oasis in a bustling city, full of lakes upon which black swans float peacefully, when not being harassed by John Lathrop, and all kinds of other peaceful things. There are plentiful benches upon which I like to perch and do absolutely nothing but stare at the greenery around me and feel completely lucky to be alive.
The People: There are some pretty amazing people over here, American, Canadian, Australian, South African and more. I have lived with, taken classes with, traveled with some of the most fascinating people I have ever met, and watching them begin to pack up and leave over the last few days has been harder than expected.
Well there you have it. I realize at this point my con list outweighs my pros, but in my defense, I'm just trying to soften the blow of leaving one of the most gorgeous cities I've had the privilege of spending time in (no, not you Bundoora, jesus).
On Thursday I head up to sunny Queensland to begin a life of what can hopefully be described as Australian suburban bliss for the next six weeks. Jamie and I are planning on watching copious movies, reading lots of books, and trying to celebrate a year's worth of holidays in 6 weeks (getting pumped for the 4th of July). I am very excited at what the near future holds, and as long as Jamie can avoid breaking a hip or having a stroke (worries for men of his distinguished age), he, I and the possum who lives in our backyard should be very happy together for the next 6 weeks.
Things I Won't Miss:
The birds: I would like to take this moment to say a big FUCK YOU to every Australian bird and their vocal chords (or whatever it is that birds have that allows them to make AWFUL noises approximately ALL THE TIME). But perhaps I'm being too harsh. They are very pretty and it certainly is a unique opportunity to get to see parrots and cockatoos on the daily. As a matter of fact, at this exact moment I am looking out my window at two pink and grey parrots canoodling around in the tree near my room. They are sidestepping around in a cute way, and kind of like knocking their beaks together (I won't deign to anthropomorphize them enough to call it kissing) and its generally very picturesque. Or it would be if I had earplugs. Worst. Sounds. Ever. Penetrating my closed window, drowning out my itunes, and making me want to stab my ears with a pencil. So no, birds, I will not miss you.
Bundoora: Sorry, but I have to say it. Bundoora, the suburb I have been living in about an hour outside Melbourne SUCKS. It reminds me a bit of Detroit (think boarded up storefronts and graffiti) but with less culture and things to do. The nearest grocery store is like a twenty minute walk or three stops by tram away, and the nearest bar (not counting the campus bar, the size of a small warehouse and to whose upkeep I imagine a fair percentage of our tuition dollars are designated) is 15 tram stops away. Did I mention probably 70% of the students commute to and from campus? Yeah, a tad isolating. So no, Bundoora, I will not miss you.
The Tram: Sorry Dad, I know the Melbourne tram system was the highlight of your trip to Australia, but I just can't feel the same fervent passion. Apparently the Victorian Transit Department hires only sadistic drivers who enjoy braking and accelerating with all the fervor their black little hearts can muster in what can only be viewed as attempts to actively throw passengers to the ground. Just last weekend, I accidentally punched a woman in the face as I stood up in the two seconds between leaving my seat and grabbing the railing. I felt terrible, but was quickly redeemed when, at the next stop, a man was thrown off balance and grabbed not only the railing but a sizable chunk of my hair. Owww. Also, remember how I mentioned that the closest bar is 15 tram stops away? Yeah, bar. As in drinking. As in alcohol + carsickness, as in MISERY. So no trams, I will not miss you, and your soul-stealing, cartilage-weakening, stranger-punching nausea.
The Bus: See tram, but with more active aggression from the driver, who you have to interact with to buy a ticket. Though, be warned, if you give him over a 20, you WILL be screamed at. On the bright side you may not have to pay. Money, that is. You will pay in future psychiatric bills, as you scurry down the aisle away from the driver yelling at your retreating back, hoping to make it to a seat before he punches the gas and you hurtle into outer space.
But that's enough of that.
Things I Will Miss:
Melbourne: Melbourne is WONDERFUL. Beautiful, clean, full of culture and life. I. Love. Melbourne. So. Much. The wonderful, sprawling Queen Victoria outdoor market reminds me of the night markets in the Thailand, practically thrumming with energy. Not to mention, Queen Vic will always hold a special place in my heart due to a DELICIOUS and heaping plate of fresh, homemade donuts, topped with ice cream and melted chocolate that I enjoyed there, and which I suspect is still haunting my thighs. But well worth it. Open, outdoor Federation Square on the banks of the Yarra River. So much exciting stuff happens in Fed Square. I have seen numerous street performers with varying levels of talents. African Drum Shows, Caribbean dancers, and some strange exhibition which involved elderly people doing something that looked a lot like square dancing. It is a cultural mecca, surrounded by the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, where I attended screenings during Melbourne's Queer Film Festival, and copious museums. But some of Melbourne's greatest treasures are slightly more hidden. Laneways are prevalent in Melbourne, tiny alleyways that weave labyrinth-like through the major city streets. These blink-and-you-miss-them treasures house shops and restaurants a bit more off the beaten path. My favorite is Shanghai Dumping, where you can by 20 dumplings for 6 dollars and merrily gorge yourself until you are thoroughly ill. So yes, Melbourne, I will miss you IMMENSELY, and hope to return to you someday.
Botanical Gardens: I have discovered an affinity for lots of new things whilst in Australia: baking, taking long walks, AustraliKiwi carpenters, geology (PSYCH), and most importantly Botanical Gardens. The one in Melbourne is GORGEOUS. Absolutely beautiful, sprawling, verdant, all kinds of adjectives. It is a perfect oasis in a bustling city, full of lakes upon which black swans float peacefully, when not being harassed by John Lathrop, and all kinds of other peaceful things. There are plentiful benches upon which I like to perch and do absolutely nothing but stare at the greenery around me and feel completely lucky to be alive.
The People: There are some pretty amazing people over here, American, Canadian, Australian, South African and more. I have lived with, taken classes with, traveled with some of the most fascinating people I have ever met, and watching them begin to pack up and leave over the last few days has been harder than expected.
Well there you have it. I realize at this point my con list outweighs my pros, but in my defense, I'm just trying to soften the blow of leaving one of the most gorgeous cities I've had the privilege of spending time in (no, not you Bundoora, jesus).
On Thursday I head up to sunny Queensland to begin a life of what can hopefully be described as Australian suburban bliss for the next six weeks. Jamie and I are planning on watching copious movies, reading lots of books, and trying to celebrate a year's worth of holidays in 6 weeks (getting pumped for the 4th of July). I am very excited at what the near future holds, and as long as Jamie can avoid breaking a hip or having a stroke (worries for men of his distinguished age), he, I and the possum who lives in our backyard should be very happy together for the next 6 weeks.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
In which I prove that you don't need a plentiful bank account to be x-treme
When I decided to come to Australia, I decided it would be a new chapter of adventure in my life. I wanted to skydive, bungee jump, and all sorts of other extreme (henceforth referred to as x-treme to seem cooler and, you guessed it, more x-treme) endeavors. I soon realized, however, that being x-treme is a bit pricey, and as anyone who has ever watched me gleefully steal pens from banks/anywhere they are stupid enough to leave them on the counter without that annoying tether or rejoice that bread is on sale at the grocery store knows, extravagance is not normally my jam. So when I realized skydiving and bungee jumping cost hundreds of dollars, and that bargain hunting for the cheapest company with whom to entrust my life and supervise me throwing my body from great heights was probably unwise, I knew I would have to look elsewhere for adventure.
Which is how I found myself sitting on a busy street corner in downtown Melbourne with my guitar and my good friend Kara, going to town on our rendition of "You Belong With Me" by our girl T-Swizzle. Yup, busking, or for the uninformed, street performance.
Our road from mild-mannered American students to sidewalk troubadours has been a long one. We first discussed the idea of busking while inspired by incredible talent at Bluesfest, coupled with copious amounts of boxed wine and a couple inebriated renditions of various Boyz II Men songs. We had brief pipe dreams of busking our way around Australia, making enough money to keep us in campsites and bus tickets, but alas scheduling conflicts got in the way (as they do with most great duos) and with less than a week remaining in Melbourne we decided it was now or never.
I met up with Kara outside her dorm at Uni Melbourne. We had discussed doing a quick runthrough of the songs we were thinking about, having never previously performed together, but quickly decided that rehearsal was for pussies. We hit the road and soon found a suitable location for our talent (read: a bench by a tram stop on Bourke St). I feel that I should preface with some background of our musical talents: Kara has a beautiful singing voice and performs regularly with her a cappella group in Chicago. I have been dicking around with a guitar for about four years now, never progressing past the stage of "novice," and have never performed in front of anyone besides my parents (who were supportive. Thanks Mom and Dad).
Needless to say, I was spooked, and trembling hands do not make for smooth chord progressions. Eventually I began to overcome my sheer terror and get into the groove a bit more, yet by ten minutes into our "performance" our guitar case remained woefully empty, the $1.80 Kara deposited into it as seed money glinting forlornly in the fading afternoon light. However, a few more minutes into our patented acoustic version of "Paparazzi" and an older man dropped a two dollar coin into the case. We both immediately dropped all pretenses of professionalism and effusively thanked him, Lady Gaga all but forgotten as we giggled like maniacs over our newfound success. After this initial donation, the funds were practically rolling in. We managed to play it cool after our first outburst, mainly because I realized I can do one thing at a time: play guitar or thank people like an idiot, albeit a grateful one. Surprisingly, only one of these is conducive to successful busking. The rest of the performance went relatively unremarkably, aside from the fact that we were performing on the side of a freaking road in a major city and no one was booing us or actively trying to shoo us away. We did face our fare share of struggles as we battled the sounds of clanging tram bells and an overzealous street sweeper (really sir, the streets are clean enough. Take your loud machine away from us, can't you see we're trying to make an honest dollar?) but our most tenacious foe came in the form of a rather aggressive fellow who attempted to join in our spontaneous performance. This man trundled up to us, looking slightly disheveled, with a guitar slung under his arm. Initially we thought maybe we had taken this man's territory, and perhaps we were in for a busking turf war, but this man had more peaceable intentions. He was merely a fellow musicians, and drawn by our melodious strains, had come to add his tunes to the mix. Only a couple problems: he was terrifying, and it didn't work. We soon realized the reason I wasn't able to figure out what chords he was playing was because his guitar only had 4 strings and the reason he wasn't able to join in with us was because he was insane. Eventually he stuck to drumming on his guitar as we played and bopping his head to the beat. Oh well, everyone needs a Ringo.
Our overall take was 12.60 for about an hours worth of performance. Not too bad, and more importantly, enough to treat us to a split lentil burger for dinner. Guess I'll see you guys on "Behind the Music."
Which is how I found myself sitting on a busy street corner in downtown Melbourne with my guitar and my good friend Kara, going to town on our rendition of "You Belong With Me" by our girl T-Swizzle. Yup, busking, or for the uninformed, street performance.
Our road from mild-mannered American students to sidewalk troubadours has been a long one. We first discussed the idea of busking while inspired by incredible talent at Bluesfest, coupled with copious amounts of boxed wine and a couple inebriated renditions of various Boyz II Men songs. We had brief pipe dreams of busking our way around Australia, making enough money to keep us in campsites and bus tickets, but alas scheduling conflicts got in the way (as they do with most great duos) and with less than a week remaining in Melbourne we decided it was now or never.
I met up with Kara outside her dorm at Uni Melbourne. We had discussed doing a quick runthrough of the songs we were thinking about, having never previously performed together, but quickly decided that rehearsal was for pussies. We hit the road and soon found a suitable location for our talent (read: a bench by a tram stop on Bourke St). I feel that I should preface with some background of our musical talents: Kara has a beautiful singing voice and performs regularly with her a cappella group in Chicago. I have been dicking around with a guitar for about four years now, never progressing past the stage of "novice," and have never performed in front of anyone besides my parents (who were supportive. Thanks Mom and Dad).
Needless to say, I was spooked, and trembling hands do not make for smooth chord progressions. Eventually I began to overcome my sheer terror and get into the groove a bit more, yet by ten minutes into our "performance" our guitar case remained woefully empty, the $1.80 Kara deposited into it as seed money glinting forlornly in the fading afternoon light. However, a few more minutes into our patented acoustic version of "Paparazzi" and an older man dropped a two dollar coin into the case. We both immediately dropped all pretenses of professionalism and effusively thanked him, Lady Gaga all but forgotten as we giggled like maniacs over our newfound success. After this initial donation, the funds were practically rolling in. We managed to play it cool after our first outburst, mainly because I realized I can do one thing at a time: play guitar or thank people like an idiot, albeit a grateful one. Surprisingly, only one of these is conducive to successful busking. The rest of the performance went relatively unremarkably, aside from the fact that we were performing on the side of a freaking road in a major city and no one was booing us or actively trying to shoo us away. We did face our fare share of struggles as we battled the sounds of clanging tram bells and an overzealous street sweeper (really sir, the streets are clean enough. Take your loud machine away from us, can't you see we're trying to make an honest dollar?) but our most tenacious foe came in the form of a rather aggressive fellow who attempted to join in our spontaneous performance. This man trundled up to us, looking slightly disheveled, with a guitar slung under his arm. Initially we thought maybe we had taken this man's territory, and perhaps we were in for a busking turf war, but this man had more peaceable intentions. He was merely a fellow musicians, and drawn by our melodious strains, had come to add his tunes to the mix. Only a couple problems: he was terrifying, and it didn't work. We soon realized the reason I wasn't able to figure out what chords he was playing was because his guitar only had 4 strings and the reason he wasn't able to join in with us was because he was insane. Eventually he stuck to drumming on his guitar as we played and bopping his head to the beat. Oh well, everyone needs a Ringo.
Our overall take was 12.60 for about an hours worth of performance. Not too bad, and more importantly, enough to treat us to a split lentil burger for dinner. Guess I'll see you guys on "Behind the Music."
Monday, May 31, 2010
In which I am S.A.D.
No, no, don't start sending me copious pictures of cats wearing shoes and/or other clothing or speculating on the cost of mailing Prozac cross-continentally, its not that bad. However, I seem to have come down with a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. But Ellen, you say, Seasonal Affective Disorder is for people who live in cabins in Alaska where the lack of sunlight for six months of the year turns them into depressed alcoholics, and/or vampires depending on your level of interest in the movie "30 Days of Night," not young students studying abroad in sunny Australia. Well, Australia it may be, but sunny it is not at the moment (forgive my syntax, I am depressed you see). At the moment, changes are occurring in Melbourne. Leaves are turning colors and, more distressingly, falling. Days are cooler, nights are frigid, and I am suddenly overcome by urges to wear wool sweaters and to buy a beanie. This can only mean one thing: I am experiencing Fall. For the second time this year. Alarming, to say the least. Watching the days get shorter and colder is bad enough once a year, let alone twice, and the feeling is leaving me slightly well...off-kilter. This is not to say that this is all bad; generally speaking, I very much enjoy Fall. There is something to be said for curling up in bed with a good movie and a mug of tea on a rainy day, and I do love sweaters. Just not in May.
Fortunately, there is light at the end of the tunnel. At the end of June, once my exams are finally over, I'll be moving up to sunny Queensland, the Australian equivalent of Florida, where the sun is warm and the people are tacky. Sigh. Can't wait. Jamie and I will be playing house for a little over month, wherein I will perfect my 1950's housewife impression, and he will choke down cooking experiment after cooking experiment. Fortunately, I have chocolate chip cookies down pat (baking is an excellent activity when one is suffering from cabin fever) so if worse comes to worst, he can survive off of them.
So unfortunately, this means I won't be returning home to California until early August. I miss my family and friends with an emotional depth I wasn't sure I was capable of, but I'm very excited for what the near future has to bring me in Australia. And, gentle readers, this means the blogging will continue as Jamie and I settle into domestic bliss...or some vague approximation of it.
Fortunately, there is light at the end of the tunnel. At the end of June, once my exams are finally over, I'll be moving up to sunny Queensland, the Australian equivalent of Florida, where the sun is warm and the people are tacky. Sigh. Can't wait. Jamie and I will be playing house for a little over month, wherein I will perfect my 1950's housewife impression, and he will choke down cooking experiment after cooking experiment. Fortunately, I have chocolate chip cookies down pat (baking is an excellent activity when one is suffering from cabin fever) so if worse comes to worst, he can survive off of them.
So unfortunately, this means I won't be returning home to California until early August. I miss my family and friends with an emotional depth I wasn't sure I was capable of, but I'm very excited for what the near future has to bring me in Australia. And, gentle readers, this means the blogging will continue as Jamie and I settle into domestic bliss...or some vague approximation of it.
Monday, May 17, 2010
In which geology finally pays off and Team America emerge victorious from Bus Trivia
Certain things come to mind when one thinks of Australia: kangaroos, koalas, that horrible Men at Work song, Vegemite, and the Outback. Upon my arrival in Australia, I vowed that, come hell or high water, I would make it into this vast expanse of desert, and last weekend I fulfilled my promise to myself.
In all of my previous travels around Australia, the plane has swung wide out over the ocean, only returning to land just before landing. This time, flying into Alice Springs, we had no choice but to fly over Australia's vast interior, an experience that gave me yet another reminder of how immensely vast this country is. As we touched down, I stared out across a vast plane of tiny tufted trees, looking like something out of a Dr Seuss novel, each spaced just far enough apart to cast its own individual shadow, giving the land a mottled look.
We checked into our hostel and spent the afternoon wandering around the bustling metropolis that is Alice Springs. PSYCH. "The Alice," as it is called by the locals is, generously, a sleepy town. We enjoyed a nice omelet brunch, accompanied by an old man sitting on the bench across the way playing a variety of popular tunes, ranging from "On the Road Again" to "Roxane." In the immortal words of Notting Hill, "surreal, but nice." There wasn't much to see in the Alice so after a little souvenir shopping we headed back to the room to prepare for our 6 am wakeup the next day.
We met up with our guide, a diminutive Kiwi named Sam, before the sun came up Friday morning, and as we drove out to Uluri-Kata Tjuta National Park the sun rose to the strains of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." To say the sunrise was spectacular would be an enormous understatement. It began as a single red ember just above the horizon, glowing hotly. Then, slowly, it began to send out tendrils, like ink dispersing in water, until soon the entire sky was bloodred. This only lasted for a few moments before the sky reverted to its normal electric blue, but its a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever.
We played a couple getting to know you games on the bus, and the group of 4 other Americans I was traveling with was quickly nicknamed "Team America," setting the stage for the intense inter-country rivalries that were to characterize the trip. Before long, we arrived at our first stop, King's Canyon, and the dreaded Heart Attack Hill. The journey from the ground to the top of the canyon is undertaken in one fell swoop during which you scrabble as quickly as your lungs will allow up steep "stairs" aka rocks. Fortunately the view on top was incredible. Sheer nothingness goes on forever in any direction, the only break in the monotony was a tin-roofed Aboriginal settlement glinting in the distance. As we began to navigate the perimeter of the canyon, Sam began to explain to us the geological processes that occurred to shape features such a King's Canyon, and how those intersect with the Aboriginal creation philosohpies, known collectively as Dreamtime stories. According to Aboriginal Dreamtime legends, the geological formations were created by giant humans, animals, and human-animal hybrids who wandered the landscape long before any of us arrived. It was simply fascinating to hear about the Aboriginal lore, as well as the ways in which these people learned to survive off this seemingly barren landscape. Fun fact: Having no written language, Aborignal people passed down incredibly vast amounts of information on survival techniques orally. However, this knowledge had to come from some trial and error. In order to figure out which varieties of seemingly inedible plants were edible and which were poisonous (hint: everything in Australia is poisonous), early Aboriginal peoples needed guinea pigs. They couldn't use the children, because even before "The Greatest Love of All" was released, they knew the children were the future. They couldn't use young or young-ish people because they were the hunters and gatherers, and the tribe depended on them for survival. And the old men were out of the question because they were tjilpi, or elders. They couldn't even test them on animals, because animals are scarce in the death, and why would you poison a perfectly good kangaroo/lizard when you could eat it. So, you guessed it. Sorry Grandma. At least as they died, presumably horrible, painful deaths writhing in agony, the old women knew they were providing useful knowledge to future generations.
After King's Canyon, we headed to our first campsite, where we were introduced to swags. A swag is simply a large sack that you put your sleeping bag into and zip up around yourself. Basically a glorified body bag, but surprisingly comfortable. And one advatnage of sleeping in a giant sack is that you are free to roll over and stare up at the MULTITUDE of stars.
The next day we headed to Kata Tjuta, which means "Many Heads" in the native Aboriginal language. Nearly everything in Aboriginal culture is divided into Women's Business or Men's Business. Men hunted while women gathered. No women's lib here ladies, sorry. Due to the incredibly difficulties of day to day survival, this division of labor was integral to the survival of the tribe. Everything was separated, including sacred sites. Kata Tjuta is a men's sacred site, and to this day, it would be incredibly poor form for an Aboriginal woman to visit. Much of the lore surrounding exactly why this site is a "men's" site or even why it is so holy is highly privileged information, and as none of us had completed our six months in the desert living off the land, it was unfortunately off limits for us. Regardless, it was completely awe inspiring and we again found ourselves scrabbling around on steep rock faces (Sam's helpful advice being to "run," because running up sheer rock is so simple). The views, again, were spectacular, and the climbs were, as always, completely worth it.
After roaming around Kata Tjuta for a bit longer we headed back to camp, after a stop off at a cattle farm the size of Denmark...or Belgium. I can't quite recall...Regardless, I think Team America made great strides in inter-country relations by NOT purchasing any alcohol, obviously because we prefer to sip a nice cold glass of lemonade and discuss relevant current events. Actually, we were just broke and the store didn't sell goon. Oh well, we did introduce everyone to s'mores around the campfire, so if that's not extending the cultural olive branch than I don't know what else.
The next morning (after being woken up by dingos) we headed for Uluru, the largest single rock in the entire world. Now rocks can get pretty big. We've all seen boulders, after all. Safe to say, Uluru puts them all to shame. Its 9.4 kilometers around and 348 meters high...above ground. It is estimated that Uluru extends at least 2.5 kilometers into the ground. All one solid, unbroken piece of rock. As you might imagine, its pretty awe-inspiring to stand at its base. We watched the sun rise and set over Uluru, changing colors on the rock face, and walked around the base of it, really gaining an appreciation for how huge and variegated this enormous rock is. One thing that attracts many people to this site is the opportunity to climb Uluru. Over 40,000 people climbed Uluru last year, out of nearly 400,000 visitors. If this doesn't seem like a lot, that's a good thing. Traditionally, Uluru is where boys who have just finished their Walkabout (6 months or more wandering in the desert living off the land)go to become initiated men. They climb Uluru to receive sacred knowledge, and it is very disrespectful for anyone else to make the climb. Unfortunately, respecting indigenous cultures has never been incredibly high on the importance list of most western cultures, and many people climb regardless, fueled by that desperate need to summit tall things (see Everest, Kilimanjaro, et al). If disrespecting one of the oldest cultures in existence isn't enough to deter you, consider the danger. The climb is incredibly steep and difficult, and the last person to die attempting the climb occurred just a week before we got there. If extreme danger isn't enough, consider the environment. Thousands of people climbing the rock every year adds up to a lot of human waste. Yup, human waste. As in poop and worse. And when it rains, all that poop etc washes off the top of the rock and into the waterholes located on either side of Uluru. One has become so pulluted that animals won't drink from it anymore. And when animals turn down water in a DESERT, its a problem. Side note: yeah, that's also the equivalent of walking into a cathedral, mosque, or synagogue and taking a nice dump on the floor. Real classy. But if extreme danger, disastrous environmental impact and intense cultural disrespect are your cup of tea, giddy up. Adding insult to injury, its incredibly important to Aboriginal people to protect visitors to their land. If someone dies on your land, its a huge problem for you, because it means you didn't do everything within your power to keep them alive ie show them your water sources, make sure they have food, keep them from climbing an incredibly dangerous, incredibly sacred rock. So for all of these people who don't heed the numerous warnings, both about the dangers of the climb and the incredible cultural significance of the rock, and die in the process, the Aboriginals must perform a sorrow ceremony because they consider it THEIR FAULT that you were a disrespectful idiot. Yikes.
Fortunately, no one from our group decided to do the climb and we appreciated Uluru from the safe, respectful ground. On the five hour bus ride back to Alice Springs, we were all starting to go a little stir crazy so we decided to have a "friendly" little game of trivia. Some of you may know my affinity for, and bizarre skills in the realm of obscure knowledge. I am happy to say, despite some stiff competition from "Cup o' Tea" aka the Brit, "Oh my God" Team America emerged victorious, no small thanks to the hours I have spent this semester wishing I were dead in Geology class. So thank you, crazy Dr. White, and also thank you to my incredibly obscure memory which allows me to remember not only who broke the sound barrier but also what an alluvial fan is.
All in all the Outback was amazing. The rocks were red, the sky was blue, the flies were abundant and aggressive, (at one point we had a contest to see who could accumulate the most flies on them without moving. I won, with eight on my shin alone, thank you, thank you) and frankly, that's good enough for me.
In all of my previous travels around Australia, the plane has swung wide out over the ocean, only returning to land just before landing. This time, flying into Alice Springs, we had no choice but to fly over Australia's vast interior, an experience that gave me yet another reminder of how immensely vast this country is. As we touched down, I stared out across a vast plane of tiny tufted trees, looking like something out of a Dr Seuss novel, each spaced just far enough apart to cast its own individual shadow, giving the land a mottled look.
We checked into our hostel and spent the afternoon wandering around the bustling metropolis that is Alice Springs. PSYCH. "The Alice," as it is called by the locals is, generously, a sleepy town. We enjoyed a nice omelet brunch, accompanied by an old man sitting on the bench across the way playing a variety of popular tunes, ranging from "On the Road Again" to "Roxane." In the immortal words of Notting Hill, "surreal, but nice." There wasn't much to see in the Alice so after a little souvenir shopping we headed back to the room to prepare for our 6 am wakeup the next day.
We met up with our guide, a diminutive Kiwi named Sam, before the sun came up Friday morning, and as we drove out to Uluri-Kata Tjuta National Park the sun rose to the strains of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." To say the sunrise was spectacular would be an enormous understatement. It began as a single red ember just above the horizon, glowing hotly. Then, slowly, it began to send out tendrils, like ink dispersing in water, until soon the entire sky was bloodred. This only lasted for a few moments before the sky reverted to its normal electric blue, but its a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever.
We played a couple getting to know you games on the bus, and the group of 4 other Americans I was traveling with was quickly nicknamed "Team America," setting the stage for the intense inter-country rivalries that were to characterize the trip. Before long, we arrived at our first stop, King's Canyon, and the dreaded Heart Attack Hill. The journey from the ground to the top of the canyon is undertaken in one fell swoop during which you scrabble as quickly as your lungs will allow up steep "stairs" aka rocks. Fortunately the view on top was incredible. Sheer nothingness goes on forever in any direction, the only break in the monotony was a tin-roofed Aboriginal settlement glinting in the distance. As we began to navigate the perimeter of the canyon, Sam began to explain to us the geological processes that occurred to shape features such a King's Canyon, and how those intersect with the Aboriginal creation philosohpies, known collectively as Dreamtime stories. According to Aboriginal Dreamtime legends, the geological formations were created by giant humans, animals, and human-animal hybrids who wandered the landscape long before any of us arrived. It was simply fascinating to hear about the Aboriginal lore, as well as the ways in which these people learned to survive off this seemingly barren landscape. Fun fact: Having no written language, Aborignal people passed down incredibly vast amounts of information on survival techniques orally. However, this knowledge had to come from some trial and error. In order to figure out which varieties of seemingly inedible plants were edible and which were poisonous (hint: everything in Australia is poisonous), early Aboriginal peoples needed guinea pigs. They couldn't use the children, because even before "The Greatest Love of All" was released, they knew the children were the future. They couldn't use young or young-ish people because they were the hunters and gatherers, and the tribe depended on them for survival. And the old men were out of the question because they were tjilpi, or elders. They couldn't even test them on animals, because animals are scarce in the death, and why would you poison a perfectly good kangaroo/lizard when you could eat it. So, you guessed it. Sorry Grandma. At least as they died, presumably horrible, painful deaths writhing in agony, the old women knew they were providing useful knowledge to future generations.
After King's Canyon, we headed to our first campsite, where we were introduced to swags. A swag is simply a large sack that you put your sleeping bag into and zip up around yourself. Basically a glorified body bag, but surprisingly comfortable. And one advatnage of sleeping in a giant sack is that you are free to roll over and stare up at the MULTITUDE of stars.
The next day we headed to Kata Tjuta, which means "Many Heads" in the native Aboriginal language. Nearly everything in Aboriginal culture is divided into Women's Business or Men's Business. Men hunted while women gathered. No women's lib here ladies, sorry. Due to the incredibly difficulties of day to day survival, this division of labor was integral to the survival of the tribe. Everything was separated, including sacred sites. Kata Tjuta is a men's sacred site, and to this day, it would be incredibly poor form for an Aboriginal woman to visit. Much of the lore surrounding exactly why this site is a "men's" site or even why it is so holy is highly privileged information, and as none of us had completed our six months in the desert living off the land, it was unfortunately off limits for us. Regardless, it was completely awe inspiring and we again found ourselves scrabbling around on steep rock faces (Sam's helpful advice being to "run," because running up sheer rock is so simple). The views, again, were spectacular, and the climbs were, as always, completely worth it.
After roaming around Kata Tjuta for a bit longer we headed back to camp, after a stop off at a cattle farm the size of Denmark...or Belgium. I can't quite recall...Regardless, I think Team America made great strides in inter-country relations by NOT purchasing any alcohol, obviously because we prefer to sip a nice cold glass of lemonade and discuss relevant current events. Actually, we were just broke and the store didn't sell goon. Oh well, we did introduce everyone to s'mores around the campfire, so if that's not extending the cultural olive branch than I don't know what else.
The next morning (after being woken up by dingos) we headed for Uluru, the largest single rock in the entire world. Now rocks can get pretty big. We've all seen boulders, after all. Safe to say, Uluru puts them all to shame. Its 9.4 kilometers around and 348 meters high...above ground. It is estimated that Uluru extends at least 2.5 kilometers into the ground. All one solid, unbroken piece of rock. As you might imagine, its pretty awe-inspiring to stand at its base. We watched the sun rise and set over Uluru, changing colors on the rock face, and walked around the base of it, really gaining an appreciation for how huge and variegated this enormous rock is. One thing that attracts many people to this site is the opportunity to climb Uluru. Over 40,000 people climbed Uluru last year, out of nearly 400,000 visitors. If this doesn't seem like a lot, that's a good thing. Traditionally, Uluru is where boys who have just finished their Walkabout (6 months or more wandering in the desert living off the land)go to become initiated men. They climb Uluru to receive sacred knowledge, and it is very disrespectful for anyone else to make the climb. Unfortunately, respecting indigenous cultures has never been incredibly high on the importance list of most western cultures, and many people climb regardless, fueled by that desperate need to summit tall things (see Everest, Kilimanjaro, et al). If disrespecting one of the oldest cultures in existence isn't enough to deter you, consider the danger. The climb is incredibly steep and difficult, and the last person to die attempting the climb occurred just a week before we got there. If extreme danger isn't enough, consider the environment. Thousands of people climbing the rock every year adds up to a lot of human waste. Yup, human waste. As in poop and worse. And when it rains, all that poop etc washes off the top of the rock and into the waterholes located on either side of Uluru. One has become so pulluted that animals won't drink from it anymore. And when animals turn down water in a DESERT, its a problem. Side note: yeah, that's also the equivalent of walking into a cathedral, mosque, or synagogue and taking a nice dump on the floor. Real classy. But if extreme danger, disastrous environmental impact and intense cultural disrespect are your cup of tea, giddy up. Adding insult to injury, its incredibly important to Aboriginal people to protect visitors to their land. If someone dies on your land, its a huge problem for you, because it means you didn't do everything within your power to keep them alive ie show them your water sources, make sure they have food, keep them from climbing an incredibly dangerous, incredibly sacred rock. So for all of these people who don't heed the numerous warnings, both about the dangers of the climb and the incredible cultural significance of the rock, and die in the process, the Aboriginals must perform a sorrow ceremony because they consider it THEIR FAULT that you were a disrespectful idiot. Yikes.
Fortunately, no one from our group decided to do the climb and we appreciated Uluru from the safe, respectful ground. On the five hour bus ride back to Alice Springs, we were all starting to go a little stir crazy so we decided to have a "friendly" little game of trivia. Some of you may know my affinity for, and bizarre skills in the realm of obscure knowledge. I am happy to say, despite some stiff competition from "Cup o' Tea" aka the Brit, "Oh my God" Team America emerged victorious, no small thanks to the hours I have spent this semester wishing I were dead in Geology class. So thank you, crazy Dr. White, and also thank you to my incredibly obscure memory which allows me to remember not only who broke the sound barrier but also what an alluvial fan is.
All in all the Outback was amazing. The rocks were red, the sky was blue, the flies were abundant and aggressive, (at one point we had a contest to see who could accumulate the most flies on them without moving. I won, with eight on my shin alone, thank you, thank you) and frankly, that's good enough for me.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I which I give all the gnus that's fit to sprint
Sundays have always been my favorite day of the week. Ever since I was little, Sundays have been special. We would wake up early in the morning and head to church. My Dad would leave early to sing in the choir, meaning that whoever strategically placed themselves in his car on the way home often could persuade him to stop for donuts. After changing out of church clothes, we would head up to my grandparent's house in the foothills of San Jose, listening to Garrison Keillor on the radio on the way there. I always used to love going to Grandma and Grandpa's because I was allowed to feast on all kinds of junk food, Pringles and sour cream and onion dip, and (my favorite) Stouffer's microwaved macaroni and cheese, which in my organic household of origin, was manna from heaven. Grandma, Mom, Laurel and I would sit around the kitchen table and play round after round of cards, laughing, joking, and eating, while my father and grandfather barbequed on the back patio, and (I'm assuming) talked of manly things. When they deemed the meat cooked, we all gathered around their table and ate together. We would drive home when it was dark, and sometimes I would pretend to be asleep in the back seat just so that my Dad would carry me inside to bed.
That ritual has long since ended. My sister and I have moved away, and my grandparents now live in a retirement community only about a ten minute drive from my house, and my parents see them often. Now, they accompany my parents to church, and my grandfather dutifully pulls the car around front while my mother waits with my grandmother and her walker. There is no place for weekly donuts in my father's new healthy diet.
But the idea that Sunday is a day that is different from the rest has remained with me, long since those pilgrimages to visit my grandparents have ended. I still treat Sundays as special, a time for a reflection on the week that has just ended or on the one that is about to begin. So after that, the longest lead-in ever, I have realized through this Sunday-time reflection that I have not spoken at all about my trip to Tasmania, one of the coolest places I have ever been. So, here I go, and if you haven't guessed yet, I'm feeling a bit long-winded today, so pull up a chair and get comfortable.
DAY 1: Flight, Launceston, Cataract Gorge
Kara and I flew in from Brisbane along with two other IES-ers, Holly and Eileen at 1 am. By the time Holly, Eileen and I got home to Bundoora, it was almost two in the morning. Oh did I mention we had to be back at the airport at 6 am? I didn't, did I? Yes, we did. We had barely enough time to unpack, repack, think to ourselves "Sweet Jesus, I'm tired" and get back in a cab. Fortunately, the flight was short and everyone's excitement at going to Tasmania was enough to create a false sense of alertness, at least for the time being. We hit the ground running when we arrived in Launceston and headed for Cataract Gorge, a truly gorgeous canyon-like rock formation. We were gruffly prodded into a chairlift over the gorge by a crotchety old man with a cast on his leg that I tried to convince myself couldn't have possibly been from a chairlift-related injury. Before I knew it, Kara and I were swinging 50 feet above the ground, clinging to the flimsy safety bar and hoping no strong winds would arise. The chairlift deposited us at the "top" of the gorge and we wandered around amongst the spectacular views for a time before returning to our bus and our gloomy old bus driver, Glen.
DAY 2: Wineglass Bay and the Sexually Ambiguous Berry Farmer
The next day we went to Freycinet National Park to hike to Wineglass Bay, one of the Top Ten Most Beautiful Beaches (according to who, I don't know, but still impressive). When we arrived, we pulled up essentially at the foot of a mountain and were informed the beach was "over there." As in over the mountain. Did I mention one of the reasons this beach has stayed so pristine is because its only accessible by foot or boat? And I'm guessing another reason is because only a select few hikers actually make it to the bay because so many of them DIE in the attempt. We gamely started upwards, occasionally judging our progress by the mountain face looming above us. When we finally reached the summit, sweating and winded, we finally understood the warning our guide gave us before setting out: "the downhill is worse than the uphill." We stared down below us at literally just a field of boulders paving an incredibly steep incline which we quickly nicknamed "the stairway to hell." Fortunately it was all worth it when gorgeous Wineglass Bay stretched out beneath us. Pure white sand, beautiful turquoise water, and even a couple friendly wallabies combined to make this one of the coolest picnics I've ever had. After a treacherous climb back over the mountain, we met up with Glen, who had opted out of the climb, and headed off to Kate's Berry Farm for some fresh scones and jam. The scones were hot from the oven, the jam was the best I've tasted, and came from the berry fields that stretched out in front of us as we ate, and "Kate" may at one point have been Kevin. Regardless, he/she can make a damn fine jam and it was a welcome treat after conquering that mountain.
That night we went to Port Arther for a ghost tour. As most of you know, Australia began as a penal colony where English criminals would be sent, occasionally for such menial crimes as stealing a loaf of bread. Over time, the convicts essentially mingled with the free Australians, often being hired out as labor for farmers and for the most part became just part of the scenery(fun fact: Kevin Rudd,Australia's current Prime Minister, is descended from a convict). Except when they didn't. Apparently being sent thousands of miles from home for minor crimes was not enough to reform some criminal, who continued to break rules whilst incarcerated. These lovely fellows were then sent to Port Arthur, where presumably many of them continue to hang around as ghosts today. Our guide, Todd, was a lovely chap who was particularly fond of acting out some of the various ghostly encounters he's had over the years, complete with gender-specific screaming. He told us repeatedly that he was magnet for these spirits, particularly the bad ones, but not to worry, because he had a magic amulet (I'm not kidding) that would protect him. Unfortunately, the rest of us were amulet-less, and therefore apparently out of luck. He described one particularly unpleasant ghostly encounter experienced, called, reassuringly a "death echo." The story goes that a female prisoner had committed suicide by throwing herself off the roof of the hospital building. Occasionally, when people walked under it, they experienced the echo of her death, which allegedly feels like your entire body is being submerged in freezing goo, and, if Todd's impression is to be believed, involves lots of shuddering. Fortunately, our group was death echo-less, and the scariest moment for us occurred in the Separate Prison. The "Separate Prison" is a polite name for "the prison that will without a doubt render you completely insane, if you weren't when you got here." It was essentially a huge solitary confinement wing, where you were sent if you were bad. So let's review: you were sent to Australia because you were bad in England, you were sent to Port Arthur because you were bad in Australia, and now you're being sent to the Separate Prison because you were bad in Port Arthur?? We are dealing with some seriously sick puppies in the Separate Prison. Right as Todd finished telling a story about the ghost of a convicted rapist who occasionally shows up behind tour groups and attempts to drag women back into the dark passages behind us, we heard footsteps. As I did not want to be ghost-raped, I quickly burrowed into the center of our tour group attempting to create a buffer zone of more desirable targets between me and the ghost. Todd thought it was just the wind, but we still beat a hasty retreat from the Separate Prison.
DAY 3 Port Arthur in the Daytime and an Encounter with THE DEVIL
The next morning we headed back to Port Arthur, for the non-ghostly aspect. It was actually quite a pretty place and we happily enjoyed a quick tour and did some wandering. One of the sadder chapters in Australia's history occurred at Port Arthur in 1996, when a lone gunman opened fire in the cafe, and over the course of a day, killed 35 people both at the historic site and in the surrounding area. Several Port Arthur employees were killed that day, and though pamphlets are provided, visitors are asked not to ask their guides about the events, as it remains an incredibly difficult topic for most employees. The Port Arthur Massacre is the reason why Australia's gun control laws are now some of the toughest in the world.
After leaving Port Arthur (and listening to Glen's gruesome monologue about the massacre, thanks for that) we headed to the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park to see some of the famous animals. One word: YIKES. They are truly alarming animals. We happened upon their enclosure right about feeding time, and let me tell you, if you have never heard the sound of bone being crunched, its horrifying. Apparently his meal of AN ENTIRE RABBIT left this particular devil in an amorous mood, as he then tackled a nearby female, bit her on the back, and dragged her with his teeth back to his den, where he began the not-so-elaborate Tassie devil courting ritual, aka gnawing on her stomach. As we watched in horror, the keeper (whose job I do not envy) chuckled and made a comment about romance being dead. Indeed, sir. We quickly moved away, not wanting to see what was going to happen next, and moved past several pairs of fighting devils (apparently, that's all they do) and into the enclosure where you could pet kangaroos, who fortunately did not at any time do anything terrifying, a nice change.
DAY 4 Mt Wellington Descent of Death, and then a near death experience at the world's most low budget ghost tour
Mt Wellington is a 1200 metre mountain in Tasmania that we were informed we would be mountain-biking down. It was a completely beautiful view at the top, but very cold so we quickly snapped pictures and then resumed huddling together for warmth, before hopping on our bikes for the white-knuckle trip down the mountain. A truly amazing, albeit terrifying experience.
That night, Kara, Randy, Asha and I decided that we would forgo the drag show (apparently that is considered normal nightlife in Hobart) in favor of another ghost tour. We figured, hey, we enjoyed the last one (near-ghost-rape aside) why not try another one?? So we headed off to the Hobart Prison where we met our tour guide/ticket taker/director of the whole enterprise/maybe just a bored night security man, Brendan. Brendan directed us up the hall to wait "with the others," a phrase that caused us to think perhaps we were being led to our doom, which would turn out to be a pretty fair assumption. We wandered down the hall to a small room with folding chairs placed at random through it, and a bulletin board with the words "ghost experiences" hand-written on the top. No one ever accused Brendan of having extravagant taste. We waited "with the others" until Brendan showed up and began the tour. To say that his delivery was 'deadpan" would be an exxageration. We began to suspect that Brendan was himself a ghost, a suspicion that was confirmed when he pointed to a picture of a prisoner named Isaac who died in a fire who looked EXACTLY LIKE HIM. This was the point in the tour when we began giving Brendan/Isaac a wide(r) berth and noting our exits. This was also approximately the time that Brendan/Isaac started "jokingly" trying to lock us in cells. Several times. Not at all funny. After this harrowing experience, we decided we had had quite enough of Hobart, but it was just in time, because we were leaving the next day for Melbourne.
Altogether the trip was amazing. Australians love to hate on Tassie for being "bogan" aka hick, but I loved every second of my time there.
So there you have it: My trip to Tasmania. I leave on Thursday for a trip to the Outback, so maybe you'll hear about that one some time in June...
That ritual has long since ended. My sister and I have moved away, and my grandparents now live in a retirement community only about a ten minute drive from my house, and my parents see them often. Now, they accompany my parents to church, and my grandfather dutifully pulls the car around front while my mother waits with my grandmother and her walker. There is no place for weekly donuts in my father's new healthy diet.
But the idea that Sunday is a day that is different from the rest has remained with me, long since those pilgrimages to visit my grandparents have ended. I still treat Sundays as special, a time for a reflection on the week that has just ended or on the one that is about to begin. So after that, the longest lead-in ever, I have realized through this Sunday-time reflection that I have not spoken at all about my trip to Tasmania, one of the coolest places I have ever been. So, here I go, and if you haven't guessed yet, I'm feeling a bit long-winded today, so pull up a chair and get comfortable.
DAY 1: Flight, Launceston, Cataract Gorge
Kara and I flew in from Brisbane along with two other IES-ers, Holly and Eileen at 1 am. By the time Holly, Eileen and I got home to Bundoora, it was almost two in the morning. Oh did I mention we had to be back at the airport at 6 am? I didn't, did I? Yes, we did. We had barely enough time to unpack, repack, think to ourselves "Sweet Jesus, I'm tired" and get back in a cab. Fortunately, the flight was short and everyone's excitement at going to Tasmania was enough to create a false sense of alertness, at least for the time being. We hit the ground running when we arrived in Launceston and headed for Cataract Gorge, a truly gorgeous canyon-like rock formation. We were gruffly prodded into a chairlift over the gorge by a crotchety old man with a cast on his leg that I tried to convince myself couldn't have possibly been from a chairlift-related injury. Before I knew it, Kara and I were swinging 50 feet above the ground, clinging to the flimsy safety bar and hoping no strong winds would arise. The chairlift deposited us at the "top" of the gorge and we wandered around amongst the spectacular views for a time before returning to our bus and our gloomy old bus driver, Glen.
DAY 2: Wineglass Bay and the Sexually Ambiguous Berry Farmer
The next day we went to Freycinet National Park to hike to Wineglass Bay, one of the Top Ten Most Beautiful Beaches (according to who, I don't know, but still impressive). When we arrived, we pulled up essentially at the foot of a mountain and were informed the beach was "over there." As in over the mountain. Did I mention one of the reasons this beach has stayed so pristine is because its only accessible by foot or boat? And I'm guessing another reason is because only a select few hikers actually make it to the bay because so many of them DIE in the attempt. We gamely started upwards, occasionally judging our progress by the mountain face looming above us. When we finally reached the summit, sweating and winded, we finally understood the warning our guide gave us before setting out: "the downhill is worse than the uphill." We stared down below us at literally just a field of boulders paving an incredibly steep incline which we quickly nicknamed "the stairway to hell." Fortunately it was all worth it when gorgeous Wineglass Bay stretched out beneath us. Pure white sand, beautiful turquoise water, and even a couple friendly wallabies combined to make this one of the coolest picnics I've ever had. After a treacherous climb back over the mountain, we met up with Glen, who had opted out of the climb, and headed off to Kate's Berry Farm for some fresh scones and jam. The scones were hot from the oven, the jam was the best I've tasted, and came from the berry fields that stretched out in front of us as we ate, and "Kate" may at one point have been Kevin. Regardless, he/she can make a damn fine jam and it was a welcome treat after conquering that mountain.
That night we went to Port Arther for a ghost tour. As most of you know, Australia began as a penal colony where English criminals would be sent, occasionally for such menial crimes as stealing a loaf of bread. Over time, the convicts essentially mingled with the free Australians, often being hired out as labor for farmers and for the most part became just part of the scenery(fun fact: Kevin Rudd,Australia's current Prime Minister, is descended from a convict). Except when they didn't. Apparently being sent thousands of miles from home for minor crimes was not enough to reform some criminal, who continued to break rules whilst incarcerated. These lovely fellows were then sent to Port Arthur, where presumably many of them continue to hang around as ghosts today. Our guide, Todd, was a lovely chap who was particularly fond of acting out some of the various ghostly encounters he's had over the years, complete with gender-specific screaming. He told us repeatedly that he was magnet for these spirits, particularly the bad ones, but not to worry, because he had a magic amulet (I'm not kidding) that would protect him. Unfortunately, the rest of us were amulet-less, and therefore apparently out of luck. He described one particularly unpleasant ghostly encounter experienced, called, reassuringly a "death echo." The story goes that a female prisoner had committed suicide by throwing herself off the roof of the hospital building. Occasionally, when people walked under it, they experienced the echo of her death, which allegedly feels like your entire body is being submerged in freezing goo, and, if Todd's impression is to be believed, involves lots of shuddering. Fortunately, our group was death echo-less, and the scariest moment for us occurred in the Separate Prison. The "Separate Prison" is a polite name for "the prison that will without a doubt render you completely insane, if you weren't when you got here." It was essentially a huge solitary confinement wing, where you were sent if you were bad. So let's review: you were sent to Australia because you were bad in England, you were sent to Port Arthur because you were bad in Australia, and now you're being sent to the Separate Prison because you were bad in Port Arthur?? We are dealing with some seriously sick puppies in the Separate Prison. Right as Todd finished telling a story about the ghost of a convicted rapist who occasionally shows up behind tour groups and attempts to drag women back into the dark passages behind us, we heard footsteps. As I did not want to be ghost-raped, I quickly burrowed into the center of our tour group attempting to create a buffer zone of more desirable targets between me and the ghost. Todd thought it was just the wind, but we still beat a hasty retreat from the Separate Prison.
DAY 3 Port Arthur in the Daytime and an Encounter with THE DEVIL
The next morning we headed back to Port Arthur, for the non-ghostly aspect. It was actually quite a pretty place and we happily enjoyed a quick tour and did some wandering. One of the sadder chapters in Australia's history occurred at Port Arthur in 1996, when a lone gunman opened fire in the cafe, and over the course of a day, killed 35 people both at the historic site and in the surrounding area. Several Port Arthur employees were killed that day, and though pamphlets are provided, visitors are asked not to ask their guides about the events, as it remains an incredibly difficult topic for most employees. The Port Arthur Massacre is the reason why Australia's gun control laws are now some of the toughest in the world.
After leaving Port Arthur (and listening to Glen's gruesome monologue about the massacre, thanks for that) we headed to the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park to see some of the famous animals. One word: YIKES. They are truly alarming animals. We happened upon their enclosure right about feeding time, and let me tell you, if you have never heard the sound of bone being crunched, its horrifying. Apparently his meal of AN ENTIRE RABBIT left this particular devil in an amorous mood, as he then tackled a nearby female, bit her on the back, and dragged her with his teeth back to his den, where he began the not-so-elaborate Tassie devil courting ritual, aka gnawing on her stomach. As we watched in horror, the keeper (whose job I do not envy) chuckled and made a comment about romance being dead. Indeed, sir. We quickly moved away, not wanting to see what was going to happen next, and moved past several pairs of fighting devils (apparently, that's all they do) and into the enclosure where you could pet kangaroos, who fortunately did not at any time do anything terrifying, a nice change.
DAY 4 Mt Wellington Descent of Death, and then a near death experience at the world's most low budget ghost tour
Mt Wellington is a 1200 metre mountain in Tasmania that we were informed we would be mountain-biking down. It was a completely beautiful view at the top, but very cold so we quickly snapped pictures and then resumed huddling together for warmth, before hopping on our bikes for the white-knuckle trip down the mountain. A truly amazing, albeit terrifying experience.
That night, Kara, Randy, Asha and I decided that we would forgo the drag show (apparently that is considered normal nightlife in Hobart) in favor of another ghost tour. We figured, hey, we enjoyed the last one (near-ghost-rape aside) why not try another one?? So we headed off to the Hobart Prison where we met our tour guide/ticket taker/director of the whole enterprise/maybe just a bored night security man, Brendan. Brendan directed us up the hall to wait "with the others," a phrase that caused us to think perhaps we were being led to our doom, which would turn out to be a pretty fair assumption. We wandered down the hall to a small room with folding chairs placed at random through it, and a bulletin board with the words "ghost experiences" hand-written on the top. No one ever accused Brendan of having extravagant taste. We waited "with the others" until Brendan showed up and began the tour. To say that his delivery was 'deadpan" would be an exxageration. We began to suspect that Brendan was himself a ghost, a suspicion that was confirmed when he pointed to a picture of a prisoner named Isaac who died in a fire who looked EXACTLY LIKE HIM. This was the point in the tour when we began giving Brendan/Isaac a wide(r) berth and noting our exits. This was also approximately the time that Brendan/Isaac started "jokingly" trying to lock us in cells. Several times. Not at all funny. After this harrowing experience, we decided we had had quite enough of Hobart, but it was just in time, because we were leaving the next day for Melbourne.
Altogether the trip was amazing. Australians love to hate on Tassie for being "bogan" aka hick, but I loved every second of my time there.
So there you have it: My trip to Tasmania. I leave on Thursday for a trip to the Outback, so maybe you'll hear about that one some time in June...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
In which I achieve Enlightenment...or at least have a fleeting glimpse of it
One of the greatest blessings whilst in Australia are the small breaths of home that occasionally intrude upon my otherwise separate existence here. Recently I read The Kite Runner (I know, I know about 4 years later than the rest of the world), and visibly flinched at the mention of Los Altos, San Jose, Fremont, and all those other locations so tied in my memories that now are so far away from me. Yet I have had the immense pleasure of reuniting with some wonderful people from home; namely my wonderful parents and sister, who flew all the way to Melbourne to visit me. But additionally, I have also run into a couple old friends, the most recent of which was this past weekend.
Claire and I grew up in the same town, went to the same church, and in fact, being eight years older than me, she was often called upon by my parents to babysit me and my sister. In recent years, her life has taken her far from Los Altos, finally settling in Mt. Eliza, a small town about an hour south of Melbourne. She lives with her partner and their adorable dog in their self-described slice of Melbourne domestic bliss in Mt. Eliza, within walking distance of the ashram that represents a large part of their life.
Though I exist in my own suburban existence here in Bundoora, it lacks a certain home-like, non-ghetto quality that was readily apparent and available in Mt. Eliza. We did some shopping in the downtown area, bought some presents (hear that, Mom and Dad?) and took the dog to the dog park before heading back to Claire's to get ready for satsang that night at the ashram. The ashram is a spiritual center based around the teachings of Swami Shankarananda, known informally as Swamiji. Born a Brooklyn Jew, Swamiji graduated from Columbia and was working as a professor at Indiana University when one night, he opened the door to find a gun pressed to his head. Right as he began to ponder the meaninglessness of his existence thus far, the gunman looked at him closely, said "Wrong house," and left.
If that isn't the kind of encounter that leaves one grasping for answers, I don't know what is, and indeed, for him it sparked a journey that would take him to India, New York, LA, and finally leave him in Melbourne, Australia, where he runs the spiritual center. My first encounter with Swamiji occurred when I was helping Claire de-thorn roses in preparation for that night's festivities. There was suddenly a flurry of activity around me and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of a man, perhaps in his fifties, about my height, clad in orange robes and obviously in a hurry.
"Swamiji, this is Ellen," Claire said. "I used to babysit her."
"No kidding," he said, the Brooklyn still evident in his voice. We made small talk, he asked me how I liked Obama, we high-fived, and then, in a swirl of orange, he was gone. I didn't realize how flustered I had been until after he was gone.
The rest of the de-thorning passed uneventfully, and, once finished, we went to join the gathering party in the meeting hall. We took our places on cushions on the floor and I began to look around the room. Cushions sat in rows on the floor, some occupied, some with a shawl hurriedly thrown over them, clearly reserved. People greeted each other, smiling, extending their smiles to me, asking how I liked Australia, what I was studying, etc. Music began to start, guitar, bass, sitar, saxophone, a wonderful hodge podge of music, sounding both improvisatory and deliberate all at the same time and people began to quietly sway along with the music.
After a few brief announcements by one of the ashramites who was the emcee for the night, we began to chant, at first all together, then with the men echoing the women. Then swamiji arrived and began to speak. He would speak, interspersing spiritual wisdom with personal anecdotes and questions that in any other setting might be hypothetical, but in this case which he clearly expected answers to, waiting expectantly until a tentative hand was raised and an answer was volunteered. At the end of the talk, Claire whispered that now we would have the opportunity to meet Swamiji, and we dutifully took our place in the line forming before him. After not an insignificant time spent in line, we were standing in front of Swamiji.
I followed Claire's and Jess' cue and knelt before him. He had a sort of fan made out of peacock feathers that he would tap people with in a sort of benediction, and we were dutifully swatted. I don't remember what was said, just again that flustered feeling. We made more small talk, I smiled like an idiot and soon he was folding the three of us into an embrace. His cheek pressed against my hair and though I probably should have felt uncomfortable, I didn't. He handed each of us a square of chocolate, as though we had been good at the doctor's office, and with one final goodbye swat, we were off.
We moved a few feet down the line to Ma Devi, Swamiji's partner at the ashram, and a Swami in her own right. Claire introduced us, and we made the same small talk. "Here," she said, "Take this" and handed me a small photograph of a robed saint, smiling broadly and making the "ok" sign. "He'll protect you," she said and chucked me gently under the chin. We rose and headed to the kitchen for chai and cake, which we ate as I was introduced to countless new and smiling faces. I was constantly struck by how friendly everyone was, chattering away happily to me about their experiences with Swamiji and at the ashram, asking me questions about myself, seeming genuinely interested.
The next morning, Claire took the dog to the dog park and Jess brought me back to the ashram for the Gurugita, a chant with 216 verses that we all dutifully recited. Though I found myself occasionally lost and often stumbling over twelve-syllable Sanskrit words, I was congratulated effusively by my neighbors for "keeping up," proving once again their extreme kindness. After the chanting we went to breakfast where everyone, probably twenty people, sat together around a large table and chatted. I saw Swamiji signalling to Claire and nodding his head in my direction. Dutifully, she stood and introduced me to the whole table, as though I were the new kid in class. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at me. I found myself on the receiving end of several questions, asked in rapid succession:
"What are you studying?" "How long are you in Australia?" "How do you find university here?"
I felt like a sports star at a press conference and answered as best I could. When Swamiji and Ma Devi left, Swamiji stopped by me. "Come back and see us sometime," he said, and as our eyes locked I knew he meant it.
Claire and I grew up in the same town, went to the same church, and in fact, being eight years older than me, she was often called upon by my parents to babysit me and my sister. In recent years, her life has taken her far from Los Altos, finally settling in Mt. Eliza, a small town about an hour south of Melbourne. She lives with her partner and their adorable dog in their self-described slice of Melbourne domestic bliss in Mt. Eliza, within walking distance of the ashram that represents a large part of their life.
Though I exist in my own suburban existence here in Bundoora, it lacks a certain home-like, non-ghetto quality that was readily apparent and available in Mt. Eliza. We did some shopping in the downtown area, bought some presents (hear that, Mom and Dad?) and took the dog to the dog park before heading back to Claire's to get ready for satsang that night at the ashram. The ashram is a spiritual center based around the teachings of Swami Shankarananda, known informally as Swamiji. Born a Brooklyn Jew, Swamiji graduated from Columbia and was working as a professor at Indiana University when one night, he opened the door to find a gun pressed to his head. Right as he began to ponder the meaninglessness of his existence thus far, the gunman looked at him closely, said "Wrong house," and left.
If that isn't the kind of encounter that leaves one grasping for answers, I don't know what is, and indeed, for him it sparked a journey that would take him to India, New York, LA, and finally leave him in Melbourne, Australia, where he runs the spiritual center. My first encounter with Swamiji occurred when I was helping Claire de-thorn roses in preparation for that night's festivities. There was suddenly a flurry of activity around me and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of a man, perhaps in his fifties, about my height, clad in orange robes and obviously in a hurry.
"Swamiji, this is Ellen," Claire said. "I used to babysit her."
"No kidding," he said, the Brooklyn still evident in his voice. We made small talk, he asked me how I liked Obama, we high-fived, and then, in a swirl of orange, he was gone. I didn't realize how flustered I had been until after he was gone.
The rest of the de-thorning passed uneventfully, and, once finished, we went to join the gathering party in the meeting hall. We took our places on cushions on the floor and I began to look around the room. Cushions sat in rows on the floor, some occupied, some with a shawl hurriedly thrown over them, clearly reserved. People greeted each other, smiling, extending their smiles to me, asking how I liked Australia, what I was studying, etc. Music began to start, guitar, bass, sitar, saxophone, a wonderful hodge podge of music, sounding both improvisatory and deliberate all at the same time and people began to quietly sway along with the music.
After a few brief announcements by one of the ashramites who was the emcee for the night, we began to chant, at first all together, then with the men echoing the women. Then swamiji arrived and began to speak. He would speak, interspersing spiritual wisdom with personal anecdotes and questions that in any other setting might be hypothetical, but in this case which he clearly expected answers to, waiting expectantly until a tentative hand was raised and an answer was volunteered. At the end of the talk, Claire whispered that now we would have the opportunity to meet Swamiji, and we dutifully took our place in the line forming before him. After not an insignificant time spent in line, we were standing in front of Swamiji.
I followed Claire's and Jess' cue and knelt before him. He had a sort of fan made out of peacock feathers that he would tap people with in a sort of benediction, and we were dutifully swatted. I don't remember what was said, just again that flustered feeling. We made more small talk, I smiled like an idiot and soon he was folding the three of us into an embrace. His cheek pressed against my hair and though I probably should have felt uncomfortable, I didn't. He handed each of us a square of chocolate, as though we had been good at the doctor's office, and with one final goodbye swat, we were off.
We moved a few feet down the line to Ma Devi, Swamiji's partner at the ashram, and a Swami in her own right. Claire introduced us, and we made the same small talk. "Here," she said, "Take this" and handed me a small photograph of a robed saint, smiling broadly and making the "ok" sign. "He'll protect you," she said and chucked me gently under the chin. We rose and headed to the kitchen for chai and cake, which we ate as I was introduced to countless new and smiling faces. I was constantly struck by how friendly everyone was, chattering away happily to me about their experiences with Swamiji and at the ashram, asking me questions about myself, seeming genuinely interested.
The next morning, Claire took the dog to the dog park and Jess brought me back to the ashram for the Gurugita, a chant with 216 verses that we all dutifully recited. Though I found myself occasionally lost and often stumbling over twelve-syllable Sanskrit words, I was congratulated effusively by my neighbors for "keeping up," proving once again their extreme kindness. After the chanting we went to breakfast where everyone, probably twenty people, sat together around a large table and chatted. I saw Swamiji signalling to Claire and nodding his head in my direction. Dutifully, she stood and introduced me to the whole table, as though I were the new kid in class. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at me. I found myself on the receiving end of several questions, asked in rapid succession:
"What are you studying?" "How long are you in Australia?" "How do you find university here?"
I felt like a sports star at a press conference and answered as best I could. When Swamiji and Ma Devi left, Swamiji stopped by me. "Come back and see us sometime," he said, and as our eyes locked I knew he meant it.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
In which I've got the Blues
I apologize for my long absence from the blogosphere. I have had the immense good fortune to have been overwhelmed by outside events for the past nearly three weeks, including but not limited to: a visit by the Lathrops, camping through Queensland, five days in Tasmania and a visit to the Byron Bay Bluesfest. I will definitely go more into detail on the rest of my adventures in my next couple posts, because I want to give them the attention they deserve, but I really need to talk about Bluesfest.
My friend Kara and I had made plans to do some traveling over Easter break to Queensland, hoping to hit the Gold Coast as well as Brisbane. Now I can only speak for myself on this one, but my traveling is motivated by one thing, and one thing only: cost. So I can honestly say that I knew nothing about Brisbane, the Gold Coast, or the surrounding areas prior to booking other than that the flights were cheap. Possibly not the most culturally elevated perspective to take, but I am a struggling student, so lay off.
A few weeks before our departure, Kara sent me a link to a music festival she had heard about, relatively near to where we would be traveling. Being the thrifty traveler that I am, I quickly clicked through to the ticket prices, saw that it was 130 dollars for a single day pass and did a double take that would make any cartoon character green with envy. I quickly wrote Kara back and said that it just wasn't in my budget, but something made me stay on their page, just poking around, I told myself. The lineup was impressive, I had to admit. I had always wanted to see Matisyahu live and all the Aussies were raving about Jon Butler Trio. And then I saw it. I thought it must have been a typo, but there it was: The Avett Brothers. Before I knew it, my fingers were punching in my credit card number and I was on my way to see one of my favorite bands, one I was sure would be the Next Big Thing but hardly anyone had heard of stateside.
As the days ticked down to Bluesfest, Kara and I both had several "Are we really doing this moments." The side trip to Byron Bay, in addition to costing us 130 dollars for one day of entertainment, would throw off the rest of our schedule. Regardless, we found ourselves up squatting illegally on a campsite Thursday night in the Gold Coast, awaiting the Greyhound bus that would take us two and a half hours south into the sleepy coastal town of Byron Bay, that for 5 days every year in April explodes with musicians, hippies, and revelers of all shapes and sizes, coming from near and far for the Bluesfest.
Kara and I arrived, blinking in the bright morning sunshine with all our possessions on our backs and no where to stay that night. After being assured by multiple people that everything was booked and we would be better off just setting up on a nice park bench somewhere, we managed to talk ourselves into two nights at a campsite for one person. While technically we were two people, we comforted ourselves in the dubious knowledge that this night, unlike the night before, at least one of us was staying legally at a campgrounds. We quickly pitched our tent and sat down in the grass to feast on a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, skittles, and Goon (boxed wine) that we passed back and forth. When we had drunk enough Goon that we felt we could safely smuggle the remainder into the festival,* we struck out for town where we would catch the shuttle to the grounds.
*For contextual purposes I feel I should include a brief account of the Goon: A bag of Goon holds 4 liters of (cheap, bad) wine. For cost-cutting purposes we decided that we would be much better off sneaking a bag of Goon in with us than purchasing drinks at the festival all day, however, we failed to take into consideration how much 4 liters of wine weighs. After a couple minutes of trying to walk with the bag of wine in the shoulder bag we were taking turns to carry, we decided this simply wouldn't work. We had to make the bag lighter somehow, or one of us was going to end up hunchbacked. As any starving student knows, wasting alcohol is a cardinal sin, so the only option was to drink as much wine as possible before we left for the festival. To lighten the load you see. Well one thing led to another, and though the bag was much easier to carry, the walk to town, shuttle bus ride, and process of getting into the festival is a little blurry, and the next thing I remember is getting a rather vulgar word henna tattooed on my wrist (in my defense, who puts a henna tattoo booth somewhere drunk people can access it? irresponsible, if you ask me.). Post-tattoo, we headed into the music tents to begin our day of music.
Matisyahu
For those of you who may not know, Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew reggae artist. If that alone doesn't intrigue you, he is incredibly talented and manages to blends traditional Jewish themes with sweet reggae beats. If you haven't already, I highly recommend you check him out. Live, he is...fascinating. Kara and I joined the crowd milling about in front of the stage about 20 minutes before the performance was to start at 4. At 4, with little to no fanfare, Matisyahu sauntered out onstage, wearing khakis, a button down, yamulke, and payot, the long sideburns worn by some Orthodox Jews. Not exactly the most rock n roll image, but nonetheless, he ambled to the edge of the stage and hurled his well over 6 foot frame into the crowd. When he had safely been deposited back onto the stage by some of the (presumably very strong) audience members, he launched into his set. I have to say, for someone who looks like he was interrupted sitting down to a nice meal with his grandparents to come onstage, he put on an amazing show. The energy in the crowd was palpable and we danced throughout the whole set. The atmosphere at his show was also the best I would say. We met a ton of friends, shared drinks and conversation and swayed to the music together, enjoying the communal experience of great music on a beautiful (if somewhat overcast) day.
Swell Season
Swell Season is a band I hadn't heard of, but Kara had and so I tagged along. Sometimes it can be awkward to go see a band you know nothing about. You can't sing along, you don't know what to expect, you just feel slightly out of sync. With Swell Season, and with any truly impressive band, there was no such discomfort. I was instantly swept up in the raw intensity and emotion captured by the music. I bought their CD and have been listening to it ever since. They're hauntingly, achingly beautiful, wryly, dryly funny, and completely honest. If you haven't heard of them, I highly recommend you check them out.
Buddy Guy
Buddy Guy is a legend, pure and simple. He held his own as an established bluesman among all these up and coming acts hungry for their big break. We didn't get to stay at his set, as we were pressed for time, but I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to see him again.
Blue King Brown
I'm a sucker for artists who understand the gravity of their position as mouthpieces for global causes (though it can be taken too far, I'm looking at you, Bono) and strive for more than just rock star preening while performing. We watched Blue King Brown and it was impossibly not to get swept up in their energy. They're young, fresh, vibrant, and struggling to make the world a better place. What could be better? If you haven't heard of them....yeah, yeah, you know the drill by now.
Jon Butler Trio
Jon Butler was the last act we saw that night. We were drunk and exhausted and muddy (it had started raining torrentially about 45 minutes earlier, and the entire festival grounds were flooding) and barefoot. We contemplated ducking out, but decided we couldn't give up the instant street cred gained among Aussies by casually mentioned we had seen Jon Butler live. Also, someone had mentioned that Jon Butler never cuts his fingernails on his right hand to pick with, and I really wanted to see that. So we packed into the already packed tent and joined gamely in with the chants of "J-B-3" until the man himself appeared. The fingernails were long, the music was bomb, and we went home happy in the knowledge that we had seen what all the fuss was about.
The Avett Brothers
In my retelling of the day/night I went slightly out of order. Technically, we saw the Avett Brothers before Buddy Guy, Blue King Brown and Jon Butler, but as they are the main reason I spent 130 dollars, I felt I should save them for last. Simply put, they're dynamic. Mark my words, they'll be the Next Big Thing in 2010. Two brothers from North Carolina heavily influenced by bluegrass and traditional melodies, plus a cellist, and one guy who alternates between bass guitar and actual, enormous slappin-da-bass bass, though to be fair, all the guys play multiple instruments. Their music is simple, sweet, and completely heartfelt.
We had worked our way up to the second row, just behind the barricades separating us from the stage, and waited, tense and excited, our bodies thrumming with the energy of the gathering crowd. When the band emerged, they launched smoothly into their set, sampling early Bluegress-influenced songs melded seamlessly with their newer releases. The brothers switched off on vocals smoothly, their close harmonies blending effortlessly, eyes closed in concentration. No blustering bravado, no ego stroking, only pure, good music that comes from somewhere most people have no concept of and can only hope to be lucky enough to bear witness to when it emerges. There is something incredibly beautiful about watching people do things they clearly love more than anything in world, and watching such a thing, it becomes impossible not to love it yourself. We threw back our heads and screamed over the music, and when that wasn't enough we offered up our hearts in our cupped palms pointed towards the music, and on that raining Good Friday night, we believed in Salvation.
My friend Kara and I had made plans to do some traveling over Easter break to Queensland, hoping to hit the Gold Coast as well as Brisbane. Now I can only speak for myself on this one, but my traveling is motivated by one thing, and one thing only: cost. So I can honestly say that I knew nothing about Brisbane, the Gold Coast, or the surrounding areas prior to booking other than that the flights were cheap. Possibly not the most culturally elevated perspective to take, but I am a struggling student, so lay off.
A few weeks before our departure, Kara sent me a link to a music festival she had heard about, relatively near to where we would be traveling. Being the thrifty traveler that I am, I quickly clicked through to the ticket prices, saw that it was 130 dollars for a single day pass and did a double take that would make any cartoon character green with envy. I quickly wrote Kara back and said that it just wasn't in my budget, but something made me stay on their page, just poking around, I told myself. The lineup was impressive, I had to admit. I had always wanted to see Matisyahu live and all the Aussies were raving about Jon Butler Trio. And then I saw it. I thought it must have been a typo, but there it was: The Avett Brothers. Before I knew it, my fingers were punching in my credit card number and I was on my way to see one of my favorite bands, one I was sure would be the Next Big Thing but hardly anyone had heard of stateside.
As the days ticked down to Bluesfest, Kara and I both had several "Are we really doing this moments." The side trip to Byron Bay, in addition to costing us 130 dollars for one day of entertainment, would throw off the rest of our schedule. Regardless, we found ourselves up squatting illegally on a campsite Thursday night in the Gold Coast, awaiting the Greyhound bus that would take us two and a half hours south into the sleepy coastal town of Byron Bay, that for 5 days every year in April explodes with musicians, hippies, and revelers of all shapes and sizes, coming from near and far for the Bluesfest.
Kara and I arrived, blinking in the bright morning sunshine with all our possessions on our backs and no where to stay that night. After being assured by multiple people that everything was booked and we would be better off just setting up on a nice park bench somewhere, we managed to talk ourselves into two nights at a campsite for one person. While technically we were two people, we comforted ourselves in the dubious knowledge that this night, unlike the night before, at least one of us was staying legally at a campgrounds. We quickly pitched our tent and sat down in the grass to feast on a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, skittles, and Goon (boxed wine) that we passed back and forth. When we had drunk enough Goon that we felt we could safely smuggle the remainder into the festival,* we struck out for town where we would catch the shuttle to the grounds.
*For contextual purposes I feel I should include a brief account of the Goon: A bag of Goon holds 4 liters of (cheap, bad) wine. For cost-cutting purposes we decided that we would be much better off sneaking a bag of Goon in with us than purchasing drinks at the festival all day, however, we failed to take into consideration how much 4 liters of wine weighs. After a couple minutes of trying to walk with the bag of wine in the shoulder bag we were taking turns to carry, we decided this simply wouldn't work. We had to make the bag lighter somehow, or one of us was going to end up hunchbacked. As any starving student knows, wasting alcohol is a cardinal sin, so the only option was to drink as much wine as possible before we left for the festival. To lighten the load you see. Well one thing led to another, and though the bag was much easier to carry, the walk to town, shuttle bus ride, and process of getting into the festival is a little blurry, and the next thing I remember is getting a rather vulgar word henna tattooed on my wrist (in my defense, who puts a henna tattoo booth somewhere drunk people can access it? irresponsible, if you ask me.). Post-tattoo, we headed into the music tents to begin our day of music.
Matisyahu
For those of you who may not know, Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew reggae artist. If that alone doesn't intrigue you, he is incredibly talented and manages to blends traditional Jewish themes with sweet reggae beats. If you haven't already, I highly recommend you check him out. Live, he is...fascinating. Kara and I joined the crowd milling about in front of the stage about 20 minutes before the performance was to start at 4. At 4, with little to no fanfare, Matisyahu sauntered out onstage, wearing khakis, a button down, yamulke, and payot, the long sideburns worn by some Orthodox Jews. Not exactly the most rock n roll image, but nonetheless, he ambled to the edge of the stage and hurled his well over 6 foot frame into the crowd. When he had safely been deposited back onto the stage by some of the (presumably very strong) audience members, he launched into his set. I have to say, for someone who looks like he was interrupted sitting down to a nice meal with his grandparents to come onstage, he put on an amazing show. The energy in the crowd was palpable and we danced throughout the whole set. The atmosphere at his show was also the best I would say. We met a ton of friends, shared drinks and conversation and swayed to the music together, enjoying the communal experience of great music on a beautiful (if somewhat overcast) day.
Swell Season
Swell Season is a band I hadn't heard of, but Kara had and so I tagged along. Sometimes it can be awkward to go see a band you know nothing about. You can't sing along, you don't know what to expect, you just feel slightly out of sync. With Swell Season, and with any truly impressive band, there was no such discomfort. I was instantly swept up in the raw intensity and emotion captured by the music. I bought their CD and have been listening to it ever since. They're hauntingly, achingly beautiful, wryly, dryly funny, and completely honest. If you haven't heard of them, I highly recommend you check them out.
Buddy Guy
Buddy Guy is a legend, pure and simple. He held his own as an established bluesman among all these up and coming acts hungry for their big break. We didn't get to stay at his set, as we were pressed for time, but I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to see him again.
Blue King Brown
I'm a sucker for artists who understand the gravity of their position as mouthpieces for global causes (though it can be taken too far, I'm looking at you, Bono) and strive for more than just rock star preening while performing. We watched Blue King Brown and it was impossibly not to get swept up in their energy. They're young, fresh, vibrant, and struggling to make the world a better place. What could be better? If you haven't heard of them....yeah, yeah, you know the drill by now.
Jon Butler Trio
Jon Butler was the last act we saw that night. We were drunk and exhausted and muddy (it had started raining torrentially about 45 minutes earlier, and the entire festival grounds were flooding) and barefoot. We contemplated ducking out, but decided we couldn't give up the instant street cred gained among Aussies by casually mentioned we had seen Jon Butler live. Also, someone had mentioned that Jon Butler never cuts his fingernails on his right hand to pick with, and I really wanted to see that. So we packed into the already packed tent and joined gamely in with the chants of "J-B-3" until the man himself appeared. The fingernails were long, the music was bomb, and we went home happy in the knowledge that we had seen what all the fuss was about.
The Avett Brothers
In my retelling of the day/night I went slightly out of order. Technically, we saw the Avett Brothers before Buddy Guy, Blue King Brown and Jon Butler, but as they are the main reason I spent 130 dollars, I felt I should save them for last. Simply put, they're dynamic. Mark my words, they'll be the Next Big Thing in 2010. Two brothers from North Carolina heavily influenced by bluegrass and traditional melodies, plus a cellist, and one guy who alternates between bass guitar and actual, enormous slappin-da-bass bass, though to be fair, all the guys play multiple instruments. Their music is simple, sweet, and completely heartfelt.
We had worked our way up to the second row, just behind the barricades separating us from the stage, and waited, tense and excited, our bodies thrumming with the energy of the gathering crowd. When the band emerged, they launched smoothly into their set, sampling early Bluegress-influenced songs melded seamlessly with their newer releases. The brothers switched off on vocals smoothly, their close harmonies blending effortlessly, eyes closed in concentration. No blustering bravado, no ego stroking, only pure, good music that comes from somewhere most people have no concept of and can only hope to be lucky enough to bear witness to when it emerges. There is something incredibly beautiful about watching people do things they clearly love more than anything in world, and watching such a thing, it becomes impossible not to love it yourself. We threw back our heads and screamed over the music, and when that wasn't enough we offered up our hearts in our cupped palms pointed towards the music, and on that raining Good Friday night, we believed in Salvation.
Friday, March 12, 2010
In which I look up
I have discovered I have a tendency to look down while walking. I'm not sure when this originated, or why, but I simply walk with a downcast gaze, often lost in my thoughts. This is a habit I've been trying to break whilst down under. There is so much to see everywhere I go, that I feel I am severely limiting myself by stumbling around, eyes fixed to the floor, tangled in my own meandering thoughts. Instead, I've been trying to turn my gaze and my thoughts outwards. A simple 30 minutes walk down the bike path to the supermarket becomes a veritable laser light show of sights and sounds: I hear the thrumming of insects in the grass, sounding for all the world like the audible exhale of the earth. I watch the tall grasses ripple in the breeze and feel the warmth of the sun on my back, warming me through my t-shirt. I look at the ground under the shade of a gum tree, then stop and really look at it, noticing tiny lizards no longer than my littlest finger skating under and over the tangle of leaves on the ground. The breeze stirs my hair and dries the sweat on the back of my neck, as the tail of a snake disappears into the underbrush. A magpie eyes me suspiciously, then continues to awkwardly sidle up his branch, from which he will survey his domain and rain horrible screeches upon any and all who dare enter his kingdom. I continue on, over the precarious wooden bridge arcing over the creek, now brown and swollen from the torrential rains which have finally come, fourteen years late, to the parched countryside. I walk in silence, cresting the slight hill from which no civilization is visible, save for the paved path beneath my feet and the lights on the football field jutting upwards in the distance. I hear the sound of my own breathing, quiet amongst all the other sounds, as my footsteps disturb a small family of moths whose dusty wings buffet my face and body as they regroup and continue their loopy paths into the sky.
I know in a bit I will come back out to the main road. I will walk for a couple blocks, past the footy fields where the old shirtless man runs countless laps, slapping each goalpost as he passes it. He will acknowledge me with a grunt, I will raise a hand in greeting and walk on. Traffic will pick up, and I will invariably be honked at by passing vans, or cars full of teenage boys will scream out the window to watch me jump, startled. I will head up the hill, past the fast food restaurant, into the grocery store where I will dodge small children and their pursuing mothers, tired old people, and overworked cashiers. After making my purchases, I will head back down the hill, this time laden with shopping bags. The magic of my walk will be somewhat spoiled on the walk home, as my shopping bags bangs discordantly against my knees and the small hills become more difficult under my load. But I will still look up, up at the sky, up at the trees swaying gently in the ever present wind. I will still notice the dead tree jutting out of the center of the pond, upon which ten or twenty cranes have chosen to perch, hulking, warming their black feathers in the sunlight. I will still watch the caterpillars undertake the arduous journey across the path, determined in the face of the whirring wheels of passing cyclists. I will reflect, not upon my own passing faults and foibles, but upon how fortunate I am to be where I am, how blessed to watch these next few months stretch out before me, bursting with possibilities.
So I think the least I can do, in the face of all this beauty, is to look up.
I know in a bit I will come back out to the main road. I will walk for a couple blocks, past the footy fields where the old shirtless man runs countless laps, slapping each goalpost as he passes it. He will acknowledge me with a grunt, I will raise a hand in greeting and walk on. Traffic will pick up, and I will invariably be honked at by passing vans, or cars full of teenage boys will scream out the window to watch me jump, startled. I will head up the hill, past the fast food restaurant, into the grocery store where I will dodge small children and their pursuing mothers, tired old people, and overworked cashiers. After making my purchases, I will head back down the hill, this time laden with shopping bags. The magic of my walk will be somewhat spoiled on the walk home, as my shopping bags bangs discordantly against my knees and the small hills become more difficult under my load. But I will still look up, up at the sky, up at the trees swaying gently in the ever present wind. I will still notice the dead tree jutting out of the center of the pond, upon which ten or twenty cranes have chosen to perch, hulking, warming their black feathers in the sunlight. I will still watch the caterpillars undertake the arduous journey across the path, determined in the face of the whirring wheels of passing cyclists. I will reflect, not upon my own passing faults and foibles, but upon how fortunate I am to be where I am, how blessed to watch these next few months stretch out before me, bursting with possibilities.
So I think the least I can do, in the face of all this beauty, is to look up.
Friday, March 5, 2010
In which I am a cultural ambassador/circus freak
It is very interesting to be an American in Australia. As an educated, cultured American who doesn't spent all my time with a greasy wifebeater stretched over my potbelly in my doublewide cheering on "the game" (only 20%) it has been occasionally frustrating to feel as though I am personally responsible for all of the United States' faults and foibles. To listen to one of my floormates (who affectionately calls me Sarah Palin, thank you for that) tell it, I was Bush's right hand man in the days leading up to the Iraq War, gleefully tapping my fingers together evilly as we jointly planned Operation Iraqi Freedom. Or that must be how he sees it, because otherwise why would I be put on the spot for justifying our military involvement in the Middle East, despite being too young to vote in both 2000 and 2004 and never actualyl having my personal opinion consulted?
I find myself in an uncomfortable predicament: Do I renounce my homeland, denying it three times before the cock crows (whaddup obscure Biblical reference) in order to curry favor with the Australians, Candadians, Koreans, oh wait, every other nationality I have come into contact with, or do I stand my ground, taking a more defiant stance, crowing things like "We saved your asses in World War II" or simply flexing my biceps and chanting "USA! USA! USA!" In the end, I have chosen something of a middle ground. I won't reject my homeland. I am proud to be American. I appreciate all the opportunities growing up in the United States has given me, and I won't simply roll over and apologize for our faults until I'm blue in the face to appease my new friends. However, I will acknowledge the problems that exist in our country, and how they have unfortunately affected the rest of the world. I will explain that I believe we are taking steps to address these problems, that I proudly voted for Obama in 2008, that I support comprehensive health care legislation passed, and that I am among the majority of Americans who do believe we have strayed slightly off course in the past 10 years, but that I believe that we are slowly but surely getting back on course.
Another fun aspect of being an American in Australia is the circus freak aspect. For many of the Aussies I've met, I'm one of only a handful of Americans they've met, and the fact that I'm around all the time, available to answer questions is a constant source of amusement. For them. Being in a sorority has been a popular talking point amongst Aussies and they constantly ask if American universities are like how they are portrayed in the movies, especially greek life. "Like you really all just party all the time?" I pause, debating if I should enter into how Greek Life at GW is a little different from Greek Life as say, SMU, but eventually I decide to just roll with it. "Yeah, pretty much" I say nonchalantly. "And you get hazed and have to do all kinds of horrible things just to get in?" This is actually a question I have been asked several times. The first couple times I launched into a long explanation of how hazing really doesn't exist within my sorority and that while I understand that some organizations feel that it builds a better sister or brotherhood, I disagree. However, that's proved unsatisfactory to the Aussies and has led to numerous followup questions, so lately I launch into stories of what I have heard of other chapters at other schools doing, the more humiliating the better. Give the people what they want, right? Just tryna be popular over here. Another source of amusement is my American accent,especially when I use phrases that are popular here, like "How ya going?" or "I reckon." I don't have much of an ear for accents, but being here for almost three weeks has given me a couple phrases which I have developed a pretty good approximation of the Australian accents. These I will obligingly perform when requested, and the assembled Aussies will giggle or egg me on, as though reacting to a baby that has been taught a dirty word.
So I am adjusting to my new role as a stranger in a strange land. Occasionally, it is necessary to step in and explain that I do know who Victor Hugo is, and your mini biography of him isn't necessary. Or sometimes its simply a better use of cultural relations to exclaim "G'Day, mate!" in my best Aussie and listen to the giggles.
I find myself in an uncomfortable predicament: Do I renounce my homeland, denying it three times before the cock crows (whaddup obscure Biblical reference) in order to curry favor with the Australians, Candadians, Koreans, oh wait, every other nationality I have come into contact with, or do I stand my ground, taking a more defiant stance, crowing things like "We saved your asses in World War II" or simply flexing my biceps and chanting "USA! USA! USA!" In the end, I have chosen something of a middle ground. I won't reject my homeland. I am proud to be American. I appreciate all the opportunities growing up in the United States has given me, and I won't simply roll over and apologize for our faults until I'm blue in the face to appease my new friends. However, I will acknowledge the problems that exist in our country, and how they have unfortunately affected the rest of the world. I will explain that I believe we are taking steps to address these problems, that I proudly voted for Obama in 2008, that I support comprehensive health care legislation passed, and that I am among the majority of Americans who do believe we have strayed slightly off course in the past 10 years, but that I believe that we are slowly but surely getting back on course.
Another fun aspect of being an American in Australia is the circus freak aspect. For many of the Aussies I've met, I'm one of only a handful of Americans they've met, and the fact that I'm around all the time, available to answer questions is a constant source of amusement. For them. Being in a sorority has been a popular talking point amongst Aussies and they constantly ask if American universities are like how they are portrayed in the movies, especially greek life. "Like you really all just party all the time?" I pause, debating if I should enter into how Greek Life at GW is a little different from Greek Life as say, SMU, but eventually I decide to just roll with it. "Yeah, pretty much" I say nonchalantly. "And you get hazed and have to do all kinds of horrible things just to get in?" This is actually a question I have been asked several times. The first couple times I launched into a long explanation of how hazing really doesn't exist within my sorority and that while I understand that some organizations feel that it builds a better sister or brotherhood, I disagree. However, that's proved unsatisfactory to the Aussies and has led to numerous followup questions, so lately I launch into stories of what I have heard of other chapters at other schools doing, the more humiliating the better. Give the people what they want, right? Just tryna be popular over here. Another source of amusement is my American accent,especially when I use phrases that are popular here, like "How ya going?" or "I reckon." I don't have much of an ear for accents, but being here for almost three weeks has given me a couple phrases which I have developed a pretty good approximation of the Australian accents. These I will obligingly perform when requested, and the assembled Aussies will giggle or egg me on, as though reacting to a baby that has been taught a dirty word.
So I am adjusting to my new role as a stranger in a strange land. Occasionally, it is necessary to step in and explain that I do know who Victor Hugo is, and your mini biography of him isn't necessary. Or sometimes its simply a better use of cultural relations to exclaim "G'Day, mate!" in my best Aussie and listen to the giggles.
Monday, March 1, 2010
In which the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley
Before you wonder if I've perhaps suffered a mild seizure whilst titling this blog, let me put you at ease. It is a quote from "To a Mouse," a poem by the Scot poet Robert Burns, written after turning up the winter nest of a mouse while plowing. But Ellen, you are surely asking yourself now, I'm so happy to hear you didn't fall victim to an epileptic fit before telling us about your trip to Sydney, but what the hell are you talking about?
Well, much as the poor little mouse's comfortable dwelling was rent asunder by forces out of his control, our plans for our Sydney vacation didn't quite go according to plan.
We decided to head up to Sydney for Mardi Gras, the epic weekend of partying that traditionally occurs prior to the Christian tradition of Lent, which marks the time of reflection and self-denial prior to Easter. In Sydney however, the hedonism is brought to a new level through a combination of traditional Mardi Gras festivities with those associated with Pride Days showing support for the GLBT community. Basically, just an excuse to make the parties bigger, better, and even more fabulous. Nick, Kelsey and I decided to fly up on Wednesday night, stay with friends of mine (Thanks again Eliott and Torey!) for two days and then move on to stay with a friend of Nick for our final two nights, before flying out at 6:30 am on Sunday (yes, you read that correctly. in the morning).
We arrived in Coogee late Wednesday night and while Nick and Kelsey went to see what the city had to offer, I went down to the local bar with Eliott, where we ran into some GW people and Nikita and I took a toolish DG picture. The next day, after waking up early to conduct a rather important job interview in a sketchy internet cafe surrounded by strangers who now know all the valuable skills I would bring to a leadership position, we headed down to GORGEOUS Coogee beach, which the boys are lucky enough to live literally a block away from, and spent the day lying out on the sand. Ok well Kelsey and I lay out, Nick gave us twenty minutes, then retreated to the shade to read his science fiction novel. After a relaxing day, the boys headed off to a booze cruise and Nick and Kelsey and I hit the town. After an extra long goon pregame session which may or may not have featured a Britney Spears music video retrospective and Nick reenacting some choice cheerleading moves, we headed out to Oxford Street to see what the Mardi Gras crowd had to offer us.
The giddy mood was palpable and there were rainbow flags and revelers everywhere. We looked around for a little and then headed into the first club. It is at this point, gentle readers, that I must address a personal shortcoming of mine that emerged this weekend. I cannot keep up with the music at a gay bar. No one who knows me would ever use the word "coordinated" or "peppy" to describe me, and I am afraid both of these things were required. The music was at least three times faster than anything I have experienced and after bouncing myself around uncomfortable for a few songs, I finally settled for a rapid shuffle-step combo that somewhat mimicked my fellow party goers, who seemed unfazed by the machine-gun style bassline. After hitting up some more places and trying out some new pickup lines (What time is it? was met with mixed success), we headed home.
The next morning we woke up ready to head to our next crashpad in Bondi. Unfortunately, our crashpad was not ready for us, ie, our host had not been able to move in and could not provide accomodation, as she had none to offer. Undeterred, we packed up our belongings and headed down the hill to the local Macca's (that's McDonalds for you Yanks) to utilize their free wireless to plan our next move. The knowledge that we were homeless in a strange city on a strange continent should perhaps have been met with some consternation, but I'll admit to feeling some excitement. In my nearly two weeks in Australia, countless things have gone wrong. In fact, its safe to say that exactly nothing has gone exactly according to plan or been in any way shape or form what I expected. However, this powerlessness over my surroundings has been somewhat liberating. If I miss a tram that I desperately needed to get me somewhere by a certain time, no amount of complaining or stress is going to make it reverse and retrieve me. If I want to pout about it, I definitely can (and sometimes do), but the knowledge that there's nothing to do but wait has provided me with a surprising amount of relaxation.
After a bit of searching, we found three rooms in a hostel for Friday night, and decided that Saturday night would just be sleepless, as our flight out was at 6:30 the next morning. We checked in to our new room and met our 12 new roommates, who created us with a series of nods and grunts. After shoving our bags into a locker, we headed out to explore the city. Well, Nick and Kelsey had been before, and had seen all the sights, but they indulged me and dutifully tramped around to the tourist spots with me, obligingly posing for pictures every four steps. I'm happy to report that I enjoyed the sights of Sydney much more than I though I would. For some reason, I thought it would be unbearably humid and somewhat oppressive, full of towering skyscrapers. While it was full of skyscrapers, and could have been more temperate, the city itself is beautiful, with plenty of open green space. We walked through Hyde Park to get to the Botanical Gardens, which were gorgeous, and from there it was an easy walk to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. The bridge was nothing spectacular, just...a bridge, but I suppose as bridges go it was a very nice one. I really like the Opera House, though. Nick and Kelsey both remarked that it was smaller than they had imagined it, but I really hadn't thought about the scale of it before. I love getting close to it and looking at the intricately tiled roof, and peering through the windows at the people enjoying their food at the gorgeous, but certainly overpriced adjoining restaurant.
From there we headed back to our hostel to rest up a little before venturing out for dinner and then enjoying a nice box of wine on the cockroach-infested roof of the hostel, while people on the luxury hotel balconies above us flicked cigarette butts at us.
Saturday we woke up and checked out of our hostel and headed to the home of a friend of Kelsey's, who had miraculously responded to a panicked facebook message we had sent the day before, asking for somewhere to store our luggage. After a stop off there we headed to historic Bondi Beach for lunch and a near-drowning incident before starting the night's festivities. We got back a little later than we wanted to and so were death-marched by Kelsey the several blocks (it felt like a hundred) to where the parade would go through.
A (self-proclaimed) veteran of the San Francisco Pride Day festivities, I was expecting to feel some sort of familiarity at Sydney's celebration. Other than being less than shocked when some of the BDSM floats came around, I don't think that Pride Days are something that someone becomes accustomed to. The number of people, costumes, and floats, the sheer time and energy that go into creating something so utterly frothy and full of frivolity is truly amazing. We spent the entire night wandering the streets of Sydney, simply swept up by the atmosphere.
We eventually headed "home" to pick up our luggage, caught a cab to the airport and somehow headed back to Melbourne. I spent all of Sunday in something of a stupor, exhausted to the point of insanity, but it was a truly wonderful experience, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Well, much as the poor little mouse's comfortable dwelling was rent asunder by forces out of his control, our plans for our Sydney vacation didn't quite go according to plan.
We decided to head up to Sydney for Mardi Gras, the epic weekend of partying that traditionally occurs prior to the Christian tradition of Lent, which marks the time of reflection and self-denial prior to Easter. In Sydney however, the hedonism is brought to a new level through a combination of traditional Mardi Gras festivities with those associated with Pride Days showing support for the GLBT community. Basically, just an excuse to make the parties bigger, better, and even more fabulous. Nick, Kelsey and I decided to fly up on Wednesday night, stay with friends of mine (Thanks again Eliott and Torey!) for two days and then move on to stay with a friend of Nick for our final two nights, before flying out at 6:30 am on Sunday (yes, you read that correctly. in the morning).
We arrived in Coogee late Wednesday night and while Nick and Kelsey went to see what the city had to offer, I went down to the local bar with Eliott, where we ran into some GW people and Nikita and I took a toolish DG picture. The next day, after waking up early to conduct a rather important job interview in a sketchy internet cafe surrounded by strangers who now know all the valuable skills I would bring to a leadership position, we headed down to GORGEOUS Coogee beach, which the boys are lucky enough to live literally a block away from, and spent the day lying out on the sand. Ok well Kelsey and I lay out, Nick gave us twenty minutes, then retreated to the shade to read his science fiction novel. After a relaxing day, the boys headed off to a booze cruise and Nick and Kelsey and I hit the town. After an extra long goon pregame session which may or may not have featured a Britney Spears music video retrospective and Nick reenacting some choice cheerleading moves, we headed out to Oxford Street to see what the Mardi Gras crowd had to offer us.
The giddy mood was palpable and there were rainbow flags and revelers everywhere. We looked around for a little and then headed into the first club. It is at this point, gentle readers, that I must address a personal shortcoming of mine that emerged this weekend. I cannot keep up with the music at a gay bar. No one who knows me would ever use the word "coordinated" or "peppy" to describe me, and I am afraid both of these things were required. The music was at least three times faster than anything I have experienced and after bouncing myself around uncomfortable for a few songs, I finally settled for a rapid shuffle-step combo that somewhat mimicked my fellow party goers, who seemed unfazed by the machine-gun style bassline. After hitting up some more places and trying out some new pickup lines (What time is it? was met with mixed success), we headed home.
The next morning we woke up ready to head to our next crashpad in Bondi. Unfortunately, our crashpad was not ready for us, ie, our host had not been able to move in and could not provide accomodation, as she had none to offer. Undeterred, we packed up our belongings and headed down the hill to the local Macca's (that's McDonalds for you Yanks) to utilize their free wireless to plan our next move. The knowledge that we were homeless in a strange city on a strange continent should perhaps have been met with some consternation, but I'll admit to feeling some excitement. In my nearly two weeks in Australia, countless things have gone wrong. In fact, its safe to say that exactly nothing has gone exactly according to plan or been in any way shape or form what I expected. However, this powerlessness over my surroundings has been somewhat liberating. If I miss a tram that I desperately needed to get me somewhere by a certain time, no amount of complaining or stress is going to make it reverse and retrieve me. If I want to pout about it, I definitely can (and sometimes do), but the knowledge that there's nothing to do but wait has provided me with a surprising amount of relaxation.
After a bit of searching, we found three rooms in a hostel for Friday night, and decided that Saturday night would just be sleepless, as our flight out was at 6:30 the next morning. We checked in to our new room and met our 12 new roommates, who created us with a series of nods and grunts. After shoving our bags into a locker, we headed out to explore the city. Well, Nick and Kelsey had been before, and had seen all the sights, but they indulged me and dutifully tramped around to the tourist spots with me, obligingly posing for pictures every four steps. I'm happy to report that I enjoyed the sights of Sydney much more than I though I would. For some reason, I thought it would be unbearably humid and somewhat oppressive, full of towering skyscrapers. While it was full of skyscrapers, and could have been more temperate, the city itself is beautiful, with plenty of open green space. We walked through Hyde Park to get to the Botanical Gardens, which were gorgeous, and from there it was an easy walk to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. The bridge was nothing spectacular, just...a bridge, but I suppose as bridges go it was a very nice one. I really like the Opera House, though. Nick and Kelsey both remarked that it was smaller than they had imagined it, but I really hadn't thought about the scale of it before. I love getting close to it and looking at the intricately tiled roof, and peering through the windows at the people enjoying their food at the gorgeous, but certainly overpriced adjoining restaurant.
From there we headed back to our hostel to rest up a little before venturing out for dinner and then enjoying a nice box of wine on the cockroach-infested roof of the hostel, while people on the luxury hotel balconies above us flicked cigarette butts at us.
Saturday we woke up and checked out of our hostel and headed to the home of a friend of Kelsey's, who had miraculously responded to a panicked facebook message we had sent the day before, asking for somewhere to store our luggage. After a stop off there we headed to historic Bondi Beach for lunch and a near-drowning incident before starting the night's festivities. We got back a little later than we wanted to and so were death-marched by Kelsey the several blocks (it felt like a hundred) to where the parade would go through.
A (self-proclaimed) veteran of the San Francisco Pride Day festivities, I was expecting to feel some sort of familiarity at Sydney's celebration. Other than being less than shocked when some of the BDSM floats came around, I don't think that Pride Days are something that someone becomes accustomed to. The number of people, costumes, and floats, the sheer time and energy that go into creating something so utterly frothy and full of frivolity is truly amazing. We spent the entire night wandering the streets of Sydney, simply swept up by the atmosphere.
We eventually headed "home" to pick up our luggage, caught a cab to the airport and somehow headed back to Melbourne. I spent all of Sunday in something of a stupor, exhausted to the point of insanity, but it was a truly wonderful experience, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
In which I reflect upon the duality of things
Having just celebrated my one week anniversary of being in Australia, I feel somewhat qualified to give my initial findings on the good and bad of the country thus far.
The good:
The Fitness
This past week and a half in Australia has been one of the most physically strenuous periods of my life. Between lugging two 50-pound suitcases up and down two flights of stairs (three times), two surfing lessons, countless hikes, and trekking all around the greater Melbourne area trying to locate contact solution (Really? No contacts in Australia? Fine), I am working muscles that I'm fairly certain I didn't have before Australia. As one girl remarked during a three hour hike essentially up the side of a mountain "I feel like we're constantly on the Last Chance Workout from Biggest Loser." On the bright side, I am getting RIPPED, and if "vegetarian option" continues to mean rice, I will be returning home jacked AND skinny.
The Wildlife
As everyone has seen on Animal Planet, Australia has some seriously cool wildlife. One thing that I missed from endless viewings of the Crocodile Hunter, however, is the sheer abundance of some of these animals. Since my arrival, I have seen probably 20 kangaroos, about 4 koalas, and one terrified echidna we cornered by the side of the road and photographed as it tried futilely to bury itself in the dirt. In the WILD. Not in a zoo or even a reserve but just straight chillin. Additionally, kookaburras, parrots, cockatoos and countless other exotic looking birds live on campus here at La Trobe and can be constantly spotted in the trees around campus.
Sledging
"sledging" is an Australian term that simply means "to be rude towards any and all people one may encounter and have this be entirely socially acceptable." Basically "sledging" means you can make fun of anyone, anywhere based on anything and have it dismissed by saying loudly "Aw, I'm just takin' the piss!" in your best Aussie twang. Race, sexuality, weight, looks; everything is fair game in this twisted psychological warzone known as joking in Australia. Most of you will be unsurprised to hear that I have developed an affinity, as well as a natural gift, for sledging. Just hope it works its way out of my system by July.
Jorts
Many of you know what a dear place jorts (jean shorts, for the unenlightened) hold in my heart. Simply put, I love them. I love the texture, I love the inappropriate skimpiness of them, I love the redneck je ne sais quoi they add to every outfit. Well, gentle readers, I am THRILLED to report that Aussies share my affinity for cropped denim. Men wear jorts, women wear jorts, children wear jorts. I was even fortunate enough the other day to catch a sprightly old man rocking a tasteful pair, cutoff just above the knee. I stroll around all day gazing happily at the sea of denim covered derrieres, content in the knowledge that I have found my people.
The Bad:
The Wildlife
Remember what I was saying about the beautiful parrots, cockatoos, and kookaburras earlier? Well, beauty is only skin (or feather) deep and these little monsters regularly make horrific screeching noises at 5 in the morning when some of us may still be attempting to get some beauty rest. Being awoken to the screeches of what sounds like an epic interspecies battle (or, in the case of the kookaburra, maniacal, AJ McLean at the beginning of "Larger Than Life" laughter)is not the most restful thing I have ever experienced. Also, the bugs seem to operate by a "bigger is better" sort of philosophy and they all come equipped with some sort of sonar that allows them to aim directly for ears, eyes, nostrils, or partially open mouths that are midsentence.
The Prices
17 dollars for the cheapest bath towel at Target, 34 dollars for a poor quality frying pan, and 13 dollars for a small bottle of sunscreen. That is all. I get that Australia is a pretty remote continent, but unless you are transporting things by cart and pony, there is no reason bath towels and sunscreen need to be treated as such precious commodities.
Kitten-sized spiders aside, I am having a wonderful time in Australia, and am incredibly excited for the rest of my semester here. I will continue updating the blog, but I am having some trouble uploading pictures to Facebook, so just sit tight while I grapple with my entirely dubious internet situation.
The good:
The Fitness
This past week and a half in Australia has been one of the most physically strenuous periods of my life. Between lugging two 50-pound suitcases up and down two flights of stairs (three times), two surfing lessons, countless hikes, and trekking all around the greater Melbourne area trying to locate contact solution (Really? No contacts in Australia? Fine), I am working muscles that I'm fairly certain I didn't have before Australia. As one girl remarked during a three hour hike essentially up the side of a mountain "I feel like we're constantly on the Last Chance Workout from Biggest Loser." On the bright side, I am getting RIPPED, and if "vegetarian option" continues to mean rice, I will be returning home jacked AND skinny.
The Wildlife
As everyone has seen on Animal Planet, Australia has some seriously cool wildlife. One thing that I missed from endless viewings of the Crocodile Hunter, however, is the sheer abundance of some of these animals. Since my arrival, I have seen probably 20 kangaroos, about 4 koalas, and one terrified echidna we cornered by the side of the road and photographed as it tried futilely to bury itself in the dirt. In the WILD. Not in a zoo or even a reserve but just straight chillin. Additionally, kookaburras, parrots, cockatoos and countless other exotic looking birds live on campus here at La Trobe and can be constantly spotted in the trees around campus.
Sledging
"sledging" is an Australian term that simply means "to be rude towards any and all people one may encounter and have this be entirely socially acceptable." Basically "sledging" means you can make fun of anyone, anywhere based on anything and have it dismissed by saying loudly "Aw, I'm just takin' the piss!" in your best Aussie twang. Race, sexuality, weight, looks; everything is fair game in this twisted psychological warzone known as joking in Australia. Most of you will be unsurprised to hear that I have developed an affinity, as well as a natural gift, for sledging. Just hope it works its way out of my system by July.
Jorts
Many of you know what a dear place jorts (jean shorts, for the unenlightened) hold in my heart. Simply put, I love them. I love the texture, I love the inappropriate skimpiness of them, I love the redneck je ne sais quoi they add to every outfit. Well, gentle readers, I am THRILLED to report that Aussies share my affinity for cropped denim. Men wear jorts, women wear jorts, children wear jorts. I was even fortunate enough the other day to catch a sprightly old man rocking a tasteful pair, cutoff just above the knee. I stroll around all day gazing happily at the sea of denim covered derrieres, content in the knowledge that I have found my people.
The Bad:
The Wildlife
Remember what I was saying about the beautiful parrots, cockatoos, and kookaburras earlier? Well, beauty is only skin (or feather) deep and these little monsters regularly make horrific screeching noises at 5 in the morning when some of us may still be attempting to get some beauty rest. Being awoken to the screeches of what sounds like an epic interspecies battle (or, in the case of the kookaburra, maniacal, AJ McLean at the beginning of "Larger Than Life" laughter)is not the most restful thing I have ever experienced. Also, the bugs seem to operate by a "bigger is better" sort of philosophy and they all come equipped with some sort of sonar that allows them to aim directly for ears, eyes, nostrils, or partially open mouths that are midsentence.
The Prices
17 dollars for the cheapest bath towel at Target, 34 dollars for a poor quality frying pan, and 13 dollars for a small bottle of sunscreen. That is all. I get that Australia is a pretty remote continent, but unless you are transporting things by cart and pony, there is no reason bath towels and sunscreen need to be treated as such precious commodities.
Kitten-sized spiders aside, I am having a wonderful time in Australia, and am incredibly excited for the rest of my semester here. I will continue updating the blog, but I am having some trouble uploading pictures to Facebook, so just sit tight while I grapple with my entirely dubious internet situation.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
In which I arrive in Melbourne
It’s a good thing I practiced my nomadic lifestyle in LA a couple weeks ago, because Australia so far has really put me to the test. Since arriving on Tuesday, I haven’t spent more than one night in one place and it’s looking like that pattern will continue until Sunday, when I move into my permanent housing at La Trobe.
The flight was long of course, but not unbearable. After passing a seven hour layover in LAX (Thank you, Father, for taking any opportunity to save a buck or two), I finally boarded the most enormous plane I have ever seen for the nearly 14 hour flight to Melbourne. Fortunately, the plane had individual tv’s for all the seats, even those of us banished to Row 83, and I watched “Million Dollar Baby” (excellent), “The September Issue” (entertaining), the first five minutes of “No Country for Old Men” (a compressed-air killing machine? No thank you), and two episodes of the British “The Office” which was, as always, excruciatingly, uncomfortably hilarious. Despite two Tylenol PM’s and a lot of fervent hoping, I wasn’t able to sleep for more than a few hours, and so I arrived in Melbourne with the slightly cracked out feeling one achieves whilst running on very little sleep and a lot of anxiety.
After waiting at the baggage carousel and passing through customs dragging two large suitcases, a guitar, and a tote bag, I finally managed to find the group that I was supposed to meet up with to take us to the hotel we’d be staying in until our dorms were ready. “Hotel,” however, is a bit of a misleading term. It implies that one has taken a vacation and hopes to pass some time in relative comfort before heading back to the daily grind. “Hostel” seems more appropriate to me, the kind of place where you can imagine someone snatching you in the hallway and taking you to a basement somewhere where rich businessmen pay for the privilege of gouging out your eyeballs. The Miami has no elevators, meaning we dragged all of our luggage up two flights of stairs before arriving in our tiny rooms, bathrooms not included because they are located down the hall, along with showers that will either chill you to the bone or potentially scald off an upper layer of flesh, depending on your preference. After passing a surprisingly restful night in my closet-sized room, I dragged all my bags down the two flights of stairs and out to the bus where we would be heading for an orientation trip down the Great Ocean Road.
The Great Ocean Road is a bit of a deceptive name, because at least the stretch that we drove was located about a mile off the coast. Nevertheless, it features some pretty spectacular landscapes, and definitely helped impress upon me the vast beauty of Australia. In some ways the landscape reminds me of California in the summer; large flat golden fields dotted with deep green trees, but Australia is much more variable; equally prone to large flat expanses as to dense, tangled forests of gnarled trees. I spent most of the hour long drive with my nose firmly pressed to the window glass, trying vainly to spot a kangaroo, saltwater crocodile, platypus, or some other hallmark of Australia, only to be presented with sheep, sheep, and still more sheep. We arrived at our camp pretty early in the day and ate a quick lunch before heading out for our first activity, a surf lesson.
Despite the occasional lie I tell to impressionable non-Californians, I have never surfed before, and I was definitely psyched to give it a try, if a bit apprehensive about my lack of upper body strength and general coordination. After struggling into wetsuits, we headed down to the beach where a grizzled old Aussie drew complex diagrams in the sand with his toes and we stared blankly at him. About five minutes into that, he instructed us to lay on our boards in the sand and put us through a dizzyingly fast sequence of commands that left the majority of us thrashing around on our surfboards like a conference of epileptics, after which he looked at us approvingly and told us to get into the water.
Surfing is incredibly difficult and tiring, but it was a completely amazing experience. Despite spending the majority of the time flipping off my board into the surf and coming up with saltwater pouring out of every orifice in my face, the .4 seconds I managed to stand up on my board gave me such a rush that I gladly allowed myself to be continuously piledrived into the ocean floor so hard I suspect I will be finding sand in the various nooks and crannies of my body for days to come.
Salty and bedraggled, we headed back to our camp, ordinarily used as a Scout Camp, who, judging by the paraphenalia littered about the grounds, are fond of kilts and woodworking arts and crafts projects. We slept in tiny cabins that slept 12 people piled into tiny bunk beds presumably meant for boys of a scouting age. It was in this cabin that I first encountered what I suspect will be my nemesis for my time in Australia.
Despite hearing tales that a “huge” spider had been found in one of the other cabins, we all went to bed with relative ease, being completely exhausted from our surfing adventure. I was awoken in the morning by a slight scuffle that turned out to be one of my fellow campers vaulting from her top bunk onto the floor. We all sat up, startled, as she mutely pointed to the window right above her bed, where, perched daintily atop the lace curtain, sat a brown spider approximately the size of the palm of my hand. As a group, we all silently packed our belongings, keeping one eye on the beast, and vacated the cabin, never to return again. I hope our spider friend is content with his new lodgings.
After breakfast we proceeded to a low ropes course facilitated by a trio of Aussies who seemed perfectly content to allow us to come dangerously close to death with only a quick “Better look out there,” as we dangled precariously over whatever new torturous exercise they devised. It was a lot of fun to be out in “the bush” and staying active, and after lunch, we hiked down the hill and got as close to the beach as we could, before being stopped by the cliffs. Everything is completely gorgeous and I’ve been really excited by how eager everyone is to get outside and go exploring just to see what we can see. On one such exploration, we stumbled upon two kangaroos just chilling in the bush, grazing. We snapped a bunch of pictures before our squeals of excitement got to be too much for them, and they hopped away.
All in all, Australia has been great so far. Tomorrow morning I head off on another orientation trip, this time for my specific University, not just IES students, and I will get to try my hand at surfing again…despite the fact that my muscles still haven’t healed from my last adventures. Wish me luck!
The flight was long of course, but not unbearable. After passing a seven hour layover in LAX (Thank you, Father, for taking any opportunity to save a buck or two), I finally boarded the most enormous plane I have ever seen for the nearly 14 hour flight to Melbourne. Fortunately, the plane had individual tv’s for all the seats, even those of us banished to Row 83, and I watched “Million Dollar Baby” (excellent), “The September Issue” (entertaining), the first five minutes of “No Country for Old Men” (a compressed-air killing machine? No thank you), and two episodes of the British “The Office” which was, as always, excruciatingly, uncomfortably hilarious. Despite two Tylenol PM’s and a lot of fervent hoping, I wasn’t able to sleep for more than a few hours, and so I arrived in Melbourne with the slightly cracked out feeling one achieves whilst running on very little sleep and a lot of anxiety.
After waiting at the baggage carousel and passing through customs dragging two large suitcases, a guitar, and a tote bag, I finally managed to find the group that I was supposed to meet up with to take us to the hotel we’d be staying in until our dorms were ready. “Hotel,” however, is a bit of a misleading term. It implies that one has taken a vacation and hopes to pass some time in relative comfort before heading back to the daily grind. “Hostel” seems more appropriate to me, the kind of place where you can imagine someone snatching you in the hallway and taking you to a basement somewhere where rich businessmen pay for the privilege of gouging out your eyeballs. The Miami has no elevators, meaning we dragged all of our luggage up two flights of stairs before arriving in our tiny rooms, bathrooms not included because they are located down the hall, along with showers that will either chill you to the bone or potentially scald off an upper layer of flesh, depending on your preference. After passing a surprisingly restful night in my closet-sized room, I dragged all my bags down the two flights of stairs and out to the bus where we would be heading for an orientation trip down the Great Ocean Road.
The Great Ocean Road is a bit of a deceptive name, because at least the stretch that we drove was located about a mile off the coast. Nevertheless, it features some pretty spectacular landscapes, and definitely helped impress upon me the vast beauty of Australia. In some ways the landscape reminds me of California in the summer; large flat golden fields dotted with deep green trees, but Australia is much more variable; equally prone to large flat expanses as to dense, tangled forests of gnarled trees. I spent most of the hour long drive with my nose firmly pressed to the window glass, trying vainly to spot a kangaroo, saltwater crocodile, platypus, or some other hallmark of Australia, only to be presented with sheep, sheep, and still more sheep. We arrived at our camp pretty early in the day and ate a quick lunch before heading out for our first activity, a surf lesson.
Despite the occasional lie I tell to impressionable non-Californians, I have never surfed before, and I was definitely psyched to give it a try, if a bit apprehensive about my lack of upper body strength and general coordination. After struggling into wetsuits, we headed down to the beach where a grizzled old Aussie drew complex diagrams in the sand with his toes and we stared blankly at him. About five minutes into that, he instructed us to lay on our boards in the sand and put us through a dizzyingly fast sequence of commands that left the majority of us thrashing around on our surfboards like a conference of epileptics, after which he looked at us approvingly and told us to get into the water.
Surfing is incredibly difficult and tiring, but it was a completely amazing experience. Despite spending the majority of the time flipping off my board into the surf and coming up with saltwater pouring out of every orifice in my face, the .4 seconds I managed to stand up on my board gave me such a rush that I gladly allowed myself to be continuously piledrived into the ocean floor so hard I suspect I will be finding sand in the various nooks and crannies of my body for days to come.
Salty and bedraggled, we headed back to our camp, ordinarily used as a Scout Camp, who, judging by the paraphenalia littered about the grounds, are fond of kilts and woodworking arts and crafts projects. We slept in tiny cabins that slept 12 people piled into tiny bunk beds presumably meant for boys of a scouting age. It was in this cabin that I first encountered what I suspect will be my nemesis for my time in Australia.
Despite hearing tales that a “huge” spider had been found in one of the other cabins, we all went to bed with relative ease, being completely exhausted from our surfing adventure. I was awoken in the morning by a slight scuffle that turned out to be one of my fellow campers vaulting from her top bunk onto the floor. We all sat up, startled, as she mutely pointed to the window right above her bed, where, perched daintily atop the lace curtain, sat a brown spider approximately the size of the palm of my hand. As a group, we all silently packed our belongings, keeping one eye on the beast, and vacated the cabin, never to return again. I hope our spider friend is content with his new lodgings.
After breakfast we proceeded to a low ropes course facilitated by a trio of Aussies who seemed perfectly content to allow us to come dangerously close to death with only a quick “Better look out there,” as we dangled precariously over whatever new torturous exercise they devised. It was a lot of fun to be out in “the bush” and staying active, and after lunch, we hiked down the hill and got as close to the beach as we could, before being stopped by the cliffs. Everything is completely gorgeous and I’ve been really excited by how eager everyone is to get outside and go exploring just to see what we can see. On one such exploration, we stumbled upon two kangaroos just chilling in the bush, grazing. We snapped a bunch of pictures before our squeals of excitement got to be too much for them, and they hopped away.
All in all, Australia has been great so far. Tomorrow morning I head off on another orientation trip, this time for my specific University, not just IES students, and I will get to try my hand at surfing again…despite the fact that my muscles still haven’t healed from my last adventures. Wish me luck!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
In which I guess I'll see you guys later
There is a scene in Garden State where Zach Braff pops an ecstasy pill and says "I guess I'll see you guys later" to his fellow partygoers as the scene dissolves into a fast-forwarded game of spin the bottle and melancholy indie music plays. In a way, I can identify with Andrew Largeman at that moment as I sit here in SFO waiting for my plane to take off(Ok waiting for my plane to arrive, as I got here two hours early just in case anything horrible happened...because I am a truly relaxed traveler): I have no idea what's about to happen to me, but I'm pretty sure shit's about to get realllll weird.
Friday, January 29, 2010
In which I am temporarily nomadic
Sick of sitting around the house, abandoned by friends who are "in school" or "working" or "leading respectable lives" and globetrotting parents, I decided if the mountain would not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain, and headed to LA to visit those who had abandoned me. I would be making three stops: Los Angles, UCLA, and Pomona College in five days.
Day 1
It was with great regret that I left my beloved 1991 Volvo station wagon behind. My father put his foot down and was adamant that in order to drive 6 hour stretches, it was imperative that I have working headlights and be able to drive over 70 miles per hour without the aid of a steep downhill or a strong tailwind. Parents can be so controlling. So I set off in his car instead, stocked heavily with snacks and water bottles. The drive to LA is long, but for the most part very pretty. Rolling hills stretch skyward on either side of long stretches of highway and there was very little traffic. It wasn't until I merged onto I-5 that I realized why this drive can be a bit tedious. For almost 200 hundred miles, everything is flat and smells strongly of poop, grace à Cow-shwitz, the enormous feed lots that supply beef to (by the smell of it) the entire world. Driving past cows shoulder to shoulder (do cows have shoulders?) as far as the eye can see with little to no shelter is a sobering reminder of the flawed food industry we would rather not think about. Rant over.
Regardless, I made great time on 5, silently thanking my father for forcing his car upon me, and after driving through a surprisingly snowy Grapevine, I found myself in Los Angeles, about to reach my first stop. I was visiting a family friend my mother has known since junior high. Over the years, Robin has become a second mother to me, and I try to come down and visit her a couple times a year. I got to her house around 7, we had a quiet dinner, watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and went to bed.
Day 2
Robin works as a prop stylist on photoshoots for print ads and magazines, and she happened to have a job the next day, which she graciously allowed me to sit in on. We went to the photographer's studio, where they would be shooting the spring drink collections for a popular chain of coffee shops in Los Angeles. A staggering amount of work went into creating four different pictures, and Robin, the food stylist, the photographer, and his two assistants moved around in a flurry of artistic activity while I desperately tried to stay out of everyone's way with mixed success. As Robin, all five feet and 90 pounds of her, floated gracefully around the studio adjusting slices of fruit, I clomped around behind her like a hillbilly experiencing city livin' for the first time. They discussed lighting and the arrangement of the pomegranate seeds strewn around the table, while I nibbled a donut and tried not to somehow destroy everything they were working on. Once, while Robin and the representative from the coffee company were picking which of six identical glasses to put the drink into, I made the mistake of weighing in. "This one seems summery," I ventured. They both looked at me as though I had set fire to the table. "Its insulated" the rep said, looking at me as though I had just told her with great fervor that I enjoy the taste of human flesh. I decided everyone seemed to like it better when I just lurked over their shoulders, and vowed to do nothing but that for the rest of my time on set.
Minus the cup debacle, everyone could not have been more friendly, and seemed amused by how fascinated I was by everything, which to them was perfectly ordinary. I gushed over every new photo taken, even the ones that everyone else agreed were terrible, and I oohed and aahed over every new arrangement of peach slices or leaves or some combination of the two. At the end of the day, everyone thanked me profusely for "all my help," the grownup equivalent I suppose of giving me a sticker for being "such a trooper." Nevertheless, I walked away feeling very accomplished
Day 3
I left Robin's and went to see two of my good guy friends from high school, Brett and Luc, huge fratstars at UCLA. We passed a lovely afternoon together watching Sports Center and (for about three minutes before I put the kibosh on it) a very inspirational film about an interesting quid pro quo agreement established between the mother of a bully and his victim from the fraternity's online porn account. Then we parted ways so I could go to dinner with the one and only Stef "Koi Tillywater" Singer, Parker, and Goodman. We had a wonderful dinner together, though unfortunately my schemes to get them to come out afterwords to the bars were squelched by the working world. After dinner, Brett and Luc came to get me and we headed out to the bars in Westwood, forming the prelude of my horrific morning the next day.
Let me begin my account of the bars by issuing a formal retraction of the snide comments I've made about people who go to UCLA. I have made assumptions that they are twatty, and for that I am ashamed (also, sorry to Brett and Luc that I have been making these comments, they obviously did not apply to you). There came a point in the night when Brett was busy macking on assorted sorostitutes and Luc was called away to deal with some unforseen (but actually very forseen)circumstances, and I was left partially my own devices at a crowded bar in which I knew virtually no one. This could have spelled disaster, if not for the aggressive friendliness of my fellow revelers . I felt like an infant in some sort of experiment in collective living, constantly babysat by an intricate revolving door of conversationalists. After a while I was feeling like a true Bruin. Whenever anyone looked at me quizzically, I played my trump card: "I went to high school with Brett and Luc" and they would nod knowingly. So consider this my formal apology, UCLAians. You are not twats, far from it in fact. And that, is high praise indeed.
At the end of the night, Brett and I went home and fell asleep watching ESPN. A fitting end to a fratty day.
Day 4
I woke up several times during the night in a panic over where I was. When I remembered I was in a fraternity house at UCLA I briefly panicked again, before remembering this was exactly the plan. In the morning, I blissfully experienced that half hour period where you imagine that you have escaped your hangover just before it hits your like a freight train and you wish you were dead. The fraternity was having burgers for lunch. Brett had two burgers. I had one fry and vomited. Luc arrived sometime during this fiasco and he and Brett sat on the couch hashing out the details of the night before while I sat rigidly, clutching my head, where my brain was apparently trying to claw its way out. Finally I decided to just gut it out and make the forty five minute drive to Pomona. I bid farewell to the boys, (Brett helpfully cautioned me not to get pulled over because "you'd probably still get a DUI") and shakily got in the car. About a block away from UCLA, I vomited into my hand at a red light, casually tossed it out the window and solidly refused to make eye contact with any other drivers. Classy to a fault.
The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, and within about an hour I arrived at Pomona, greeted by Erin who rightfully assumed I would be driving around aimlessly, hopelessly lost, and was waiting to lead me to parking. Pomona has got to be the most idyllic campus I have ever laid eyes on. The weather is beautiful (60 and sunny for my entire visit), the campus is gorgeous (if only about 500 square feet), the dining hall looks like Hogwarts, and the school serves you free alcohol. The only downside: the disturbing amount of gingers....Seriously, its like there's a tractor beam somewhere on campus. While the twins were in class, I slept off the rest of my hangover, and awoke somewhat ready for the debauchery ahead of me. We started the night off wondering whether we should drink at dinner. I was solidly in the "against" camp, but was outvoted, and being the slave to peer pressure that I am, dutifully mixed vodka into my Fanta (remember what I was saying about being classy? I wasn't lying). Post dinner, we hit the Claremont/Pomona basketball game, aka the sporting event of the season, where I was introduced to Donald, the twentysomething freshmen with a British accent of questionable origin. I use the term "introduced" loosely, as Donald was on the court, playing basketball, and Erin, Emily and I were watching from the stands... After the game (Pomona won, GO SAGEHENS!) we headed back to the room to prepared for Pub. Every Wednesday night, Pomonans go to an on-campus bar, where they get in for free and the alcohol is provided by the University. Its a win-win. We spent the night there, merrily fistpumping the night away, enjoying the occasional Donald sighting, before heading to a suite where one of the residents had taken advantage of the high ceilings and constructed a second floor out of plywood, plexiglass, and (one assumes) willpower and balls. According to the twins the university deemed it "structurally sound" but I wasn't taking any chances, and kept my feet firmly planted on solid, building code-compliant ground.
Day 5
Due to the magic of Pomona, I woke up well-rested and hangover-free. One final breakfast and I bid a fond farewell to Pomona and the twins and got in the car one last time for a relatively quick, and thankfully vomit-free drive home.
Thank you to Robin, Brett, Luc, Erin and Emily for letting me stay with you. I truly have such wonderful friends and this trip only solidified that notion. The people you have chosen to surround yourselves are all wonderful, and they with welcomed me with such open arms simply because I was a friend of yours. I am so blessed to have you in my life, and I will miss all of you so so much while I am gone, but I'm so grateful to have gotten to sit in on your lives very briefly.
With that, Lathrop out.
Day 1
It was with great regret that I left my beloved 1991 Volvo station wagon behind. My father put his foot down and was adamant that in order to drive 6 hour stretches, it was imperative that I have working headlights and be able to drive over 70 miles per hour without the aid of a steep downhill or a strong tailwind. Parents can be so controlling. So I set off in his car instead, stocked heavily with snacks and water bottles. The drive to LA is long, but for the most part very pretty. Rolling hills stretch skyward on either side of long stretches of highway and there was very little traffic. It wasn't until I merged onto I-5 that I realized why this drive can be a bit tedious. For almost 200 hundred miles, everything is flat and smells strongly of poop, grace à Cow-shwitz, the enormous feed lots that supply beef to (by the smell of it) the entire world. Driving past cows shoulder to shoulder (do cows have shoulders?) as far as the eye can see with little to no shelter is a sobering reminder of the flawed food industry we would rather not think about. Rant over.
Regardless, I made great time on 5, silently thanking my father for forcing his car upon me, and after driving through a surprisingly snowy Grapevine, I found myself in Los Angeles, about to reach my first stop. I was visiting a family friend my mother has known since junior high. Over the years, Robin has become a second mother to me, and I try to come down and visit her a couple times a year. I got to her house around 7, we had a quiet dinner, watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and went to bed.
Day 2
Robin works as a prop stylist on photoshoots for print ads and magazines, and she happened to have a job the next day, which she graciously allowed me to sit in on. We went to the photographer's studio, where they would be shooting the spring drink collections for a popular chain of coffee shops in Los Angeles. A staggering amount of work went into creating four different pictures, and Robin, the food stylist, the photographer, and his two assistants moved around in a flurry of artistic activity while I desperately tried to stay out of everyone's way with mixed success. As Robin, all five feet and 90 pounds of her, floated gracefully around the studio adjusting slices of fruit, I clomped around behind her like a hillbilly experiencing city livin' for the first time. They discussed lighting and the arrangement of the pomegranate seeds strewn around the table, while I nibbled a donut and tried not to somehow destroy everything they were working on. Once, while Robin and the representative from the coffee company were picking which of six identical glasses to put the drink into, I made the mistake of weighing in. "This one seems summery," I ventured. They both looked at me as though I had set fire to the table. "Its insulated" the rep said, looking at me as though I had just told her with great fervor that I enjoy the taste of human flesh. I decided everyone seemed to like it better when I just lurked over their shoulders, and vowed to do nothing but that for the rest of my time on set.
Minus the cup debacle, everyone could not have been more friendly, and seemed amused by how fascinated I was by everything, which to them was perfectly ordinary. I gushed over every new photo taken, even the ones that everyone else agreed were terrible, and I oohed and aahed over every new arrangement of peach slices or leaves or some combination of the two. At the end of the day, everyone thanked me profusely for "all my help," the grownup equivalent I suppose of giving me a sticker for being "such a trooper." Nevertheless, I walked away feeling very accomplished
Day 3
I left Robin's and went to see two of my good guy friends from high school, Brett and Luc, huge fratstars at UCLA. We passed a lovely afternoon together watching Sports Center and (for about three minutes before I put the kibosh on it) a very inspirational film about an interesting quid pro quo agreement established between the mother of a bully and his victim from the fraternity's online porn account. Then we parted ways so I could go to dinner with the one and only Stef "Koi Tillywater" Singer, Parker, and Goodman. We had a wonderful dinner together, though unfortunately my schemes to get them to come out afterwords to the bars were squelched by the working world. After dinner, Brett and Luc came to get me and we headed out to the bars in Westwood, forming the prelude of my horrific morning the next day.
Let me begin my account of the bars by issuing a formal retraction of the snide comments I've made about people who go to UCLA. I have made assumptions that they are twatty, and for that I am ashamed (also, sorry to Brett and Luc that I have been making these comments, they obviously did not apply to you). There came a point in the night when Brett was busy macking on assorted sorostitutes and Luc was called away to deal with some unforseen (but actually very forseen)circumstances, and I was left partially my own devices at a crowded bar in which I knew virtually no one. This could have spelled disaster, if not for the aggressive friendliness of my fellow revelers . I felt like an infant in some sort of experiment in collective living, constantly babysat by an intricate revolving door of conversationalists. After a while I was feeling like a true Bruin. Whenever anyone looked at me quizzically, I played my trump card: "I went to high school with Brett and Luc" and they would nod knowingly. So consider this my formal apology, UCLAians. You are not twats, far from it in fact. And that, is high praise indeed.
At the end of the night, Brett and I went home and fell asleep watching ESPN. A fitting end to a fratty day.
Day 4
I woke up several times during the night in a panic over where I was. When I remembered I was in a fraternity house at UCLA I briefly panicked again, before remembering this was exactly the plan. In the morning, I blissfully experienced that half hour period where you imagine that you have escaped your hangover just before it hits your like a freight train and you wish you were dead. The fraternity was having burgers for lunch. Brett had two burgers. I had one fry and vomited. Luc arrived sometime during this fiasco and he and Brett sat on the couch hashing out the details of the night before while I sat rigidly, clutching my head, where my brain was apparently trying to claw its way out. Finally I decided to just gut it out and make the forty five minute drive to Pomona. I bid farewell to the boys, (Brett helpfully cautioned me not to get pulled over because "you'd probably still get a DUI") and shakily got in the car. About a block away from UCLA, I vomited into my hand at a red light, casually tossed it out the window and solidly refused to make eye contact with any other drivers. Classy to a fault.
The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, and within about an hour I arrived at Pomona, greeted by Erin who rightfully assumed I would be driving around aimlessly, hopelessly lost, and was waiting to lead me to parking. Pomona has got to be the most idyllic campus I have ever laid eyes on. The weather is beautiful (60 and sunny for my entire visit), the campus is gorgeous (if only about 500 square feet), the dining hall looks like Hogwarts, and the school serves you free alcohol. The only downside: the disturbing amount of gingers....Seriously, its like there's a tractor beam somewhere on campus. While the twins were in class, I slept off the rest of my hangover, and awoke somewhat ready for the debauchery ahead of me. We started the night off wondering whether we should drink at dinner. I was solidly in the "against" camp, but was outvoted, and being the slave to peer pressure that I am, dutifully mixed vodka into my Fanta (remember what I was saying about being classy? I wasn't lying). Post dinner, we hit the Claremont/Pomona basketball game, aka the sporting event of the season, where I was introduced to Donald, the twentysomething freshmen with a British accent of questionable origin. I use the term "introduced" loosely, as Donald was on the court, playing basketball, and Erin, Emily and I were watching from the stands... After the game (Pomona won, GO SAGEHENS!) we headed back to the room to prepared for Pub. Every Wednesday night, Pomonans go to an on-campus bar, where they get in for free and the alcohol is provided by the University. Its a win-win. We spent the night there, merrily fistpumping the night away, enjoying the occasional Donald sighting, before heading to a suite where one of the residents had taken advantage of the high ceilings and constructed a second floor out of plywood, plexiglass, and (one assumes) willpower and balls. According to the twins the university deemed it "structurally sound" but I wasn't taking any chances, and kept my feet firmly planted on solid, building code-compliant ground.
Day 5
Due to the magic of Pomona, I woke up well-rested and hangover-free. One final breakfast and I bid a fond farewell to Pomona and the twins and got in the car one last time for a relatively quick, and thankfully vomit-free drive home.
Thank you to Robin, Brett, Luc, Erin and Emily for letting me stay with you. I truly have such wonderful friends and this trip only solidified that notion. The people you have chosen to surround yourselves are all wonderful, and they with welcomed me with such open arms simply because I was a friend of yours. I am so blessed to have you in my life, and I will miss all of you so so much while I am gone, but I'm so grateful to have gotten to sit in on your lives very briefly.
With that, Lathrop out.
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