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.
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