Day 5
November 3, 2011
My hatred of time zones has been well-documented on this blog. For whatever reason, my brain just cannot wrap itself around the concept. Ordinarily, this is not a massive deal, as I have developed several workarounds to allow me to communicate with friends and family around the globe, namely lurking around on gchat until they show up. Not overly sophisticated, but it works. This trip has KILLED me. We have been in a different time zone every day, thanks to Queensland not believing in Daylight Saving, and the maddening half-hour increment time zone changes which is just like....COME ON. The point of the story is that when we woke up on Wednesday morning, we had absolutely no idea what time it was. My watch said one thing, Jamie's another, the car clock a third and both of our cell phones, a fourth and a fifth. This is how we ended up on the road at 4:30 am.
We decided to take advantage of our bright and early start, and detour to the Caiguna Blowhole, a prominent feature in one of our travel brochures. We followed a sign down a dirt road (as usual), bumping along, swerving to avoid the lizards sunning themselves on the dirt. Right away, we noticed this road was slightly...sketchier than the other dirt roads we had previously ventured down. This one quickly devolved into little more than a set of tire tracks through the brush, and we swerved around in the vague direction of the ocean until we unceremoniously dead-ended in front of a thick patch of gum trees, no path in sight. We had come so far, we figured surely the famous blowhole was just through the trees, but as Jamie disappeared into the bush, alarm bells started ringing in my head: Wolf Creek, Peter Falconio, a dingo ate my baby! We had only made it about ten metres into the bush before realizing the car had all but disappeared behind us, with no sign of the alleged blowhole ahead of us. We beat a hasty retreat and vowed to write a strongly worded letter to the Australian Blowhole Commission.
After all the fanfare about the stark beauty of the Nullabor Desert, I'll admit to being...underwhelmed. Perhaps I was desert-fatigued, but the ceaseless scrub and dead kangaroos just didn't seem as majestic as they once had, and I was glad when we stopped in the town of Caiguna to have our "I Crossed the Nullabor" certificates notarized by the local publican (seriously).
A few more hours and we were in Esperence, a small but pretty coastal town with truly spectacular beaches. At a service station outside town, Jamie befriended a trucker who told us we absolutely had to head to a place called Lucky Bay. Being wary of travel tips from strange truckers (Wolf Creek, Peter Falconio, a dingo ate my baby), I reluctantly agreed. I hereby renounce any hesitance or prejudgement once heaped upon travel advice from potential serial killers, because Lucky Bay and the surrounding areas was one of the most beautiful places I have seen in Australia. This time our camera remained functional, so stay tuned for pictures.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Transaustralian Adventure: Part V
Day 4
November 2, 2011
This has probably been my favorite day on trip so far. In our (four page and totally excessive...have I mentioned that?) brochure on Ceduna, it mentioned that we could go and visit a "Wombat and Australian Fauna Rescue Centre." I was immediately intrigued. I have a sort of Australian Wildlife Bucket List going, where I am trying to see all Australian fauna in some sort of "up close" encounter, and up until yesterday, the only animals I was missing were wombats and platypi, so I knew we would have to make a quick stop. We pulled up outside a non-descript house in a residential neighborhood, unsure if our malevolent GPS Karen has yet again led us astray. Then we noticed the baby emu in the front yard. We followed the signs around to the back of the house, were we joined an elderly couple also awaiting their wombat encounter. We met Val (may or may not be her real name...neither of us can remember), the chatty proprietress who led us into a rather non-descript back room, equipped with a fridge, a table, and a couple of large crates from whence came a suspicious thumping. Val spent seemingly ages chatting to us about the trials and tribulations of the amateur wildlife rehabilitator (I was interested, but I wanted to see some wombats, yall), before finally opening the crate and introducing us to Soul, who she cradled in her arms like a giant hairy baby. Wombats have got to be one of the strangest creatures I have ever laid eyes on. They are marsupials, but they sort of look like a giant guinea pig on some serious steroids. Wombats, though not higher off the ground than your average Jack Russell Terrier, are so incredibly solid that hitting one on the road can FLIP YOUR CAR, as the male half of the elderly couple enjoying the wombats with us seemed to macabrely enjoy telling me. Fortunately, Soul looked like he would rather eat my shoelaces than flip my car, so I let him do just that, until he got tired (rough life, bro) and fell asleep under the table. As Val prattled on about internal feuds within the wombat protector community (oh, they exist), I explored the room slightly. When we walked into the room, I had noticed a jacket hanging from the back of the chair with the sleeves and bottom sewn shut. While Val spoke about her rival in the wombat biz, I noticed the jacket start to twitch and suddenly a small head popped out the neck of the jacket. A joey! A tiny orphaned baby kangaroo named Annabelle, to be exact. We met other wombats, including an adorable and incredibly rare baby white wombat, but Annabelle had captured my heart. She nibbled my fingers, she tried to eat my watch, she reached two impossibly delicate arms up and grabbed my hand with tiny claws. If death from a cuteness overload is possible, I definitely came close.
We finally extricated us from Val's Wombatapalooza and hit the road. I wanted to stop in a local Aboriginal settlement to see a rare Giant Wombat, but Jamie was all wombatted out and voted we head to world famous surf spot Cactus Beach instead. As with most of our detours, we headed off down a poorly signed, bumpy dirt road that would hopefully take us where we wanted to go and not to an inbred family of hillbilly cannibals (I've seen the movies ok, I know it can happen). Fortunately, this time we were headed the right direction, and the drive turned out to be absolutely beautiful, past shallow pools rimmed with salt crystals, one of which was a brilliant purple, that stubbornly refused to be photographed. After about 30 km of bouncing down this narrow dirt road, we came to the beach. White sand, clear aquamarine waves rolling in perfect rhythm towards the shore, the whole nine yards. Of course, you'll just have to take my word for it, because obviously the camera ran out of battery the second my foot touched sand. Alas.
The final excitement of the day was entering the Nullabor Desert and seeing the head of the Great Australian Bight. The Bight, or Bite, as I humorously like to call it, is the largest coastal indentation on the continent in Australia. Get it? Because it looks like a bite and it's called the bight? How I laughed. Personally, I thought actually going to see the Bight would be pretty boring, plus I was slightly miffed my Bight/bite jokes weren't going over better, so I was pretty anti this detour, but I was enticed by the promise of seeing whales. When we arrived at the visitors' centre, however, we were informed by the surly man behind the counter that we had missed the whales for the day, and to add insult to injury, we had to pay five dollars for the privilege of walking to the end of the path. Rude. We paid up and went to have a look, and despite the utter lack of whales, I have to say that the Bight far exceeded my (admittedly low) expectations. Sheer cliffs jutted out of crashing waves and the air was salty with spray. Though it pains me to say, it was worth the five dollars.
We crossed the border into Western Australia without much fanfare that afternoon and collapsed into our sleeping bags. Tomorrow, we cross the Nullabor.
November 2, 2011
This has probably been my favorite day on trip so far. In our (four page and totally excessive...have I mentioned that?) brochure on Ceduna, it mentioned that we could go and visit a "Wombat and Australian Fauna Rescue Centre." I was immediately intrigued. I have a sort of Australian Wildlife Bucket List going, where I am trying to see all Australian fauna in some sort of "up close" encounter, and up until yesterday, the only animals I was missing were wombats and platypi, so I knew we would have to make a quick stop. We pulled up outside a non-descript house in a residential neighborhood, unsure if our malevolent GPS Karen has yet again led us astray. Then we noticed the baby emu in the front yard. We followed the signs around to the back of the house, were we joined an elderly couple also awaiting their wombat encounter. We met Val (may or may not be her real name...neither of us can remember), the chatty proprietress who led us into a rather non-descript back room, equipped with a fridge, a table, and a couple of large crates from whence came a suspicious thumping. Val spent seemingly ages chatting to us about the trials and tribulations of the amateur wildlife rehabilitator (I was interested, but I wanted to see some wombats, yall), before finally opening the crate and introducing us to Soul, who she cradled in her arms like a giant hairy baby. Wombats have got to be one of the strangest creatures I have ever laid eyes on. They are marsupials, but they sort of look like a giant guinea pig on some serious steroids. Wombats, though not higher off the ground than your average Jack Russell Terrier, are so incredibly solid that hitting one on the road can FLIP YOUR CAR, as the male half of the elderly couple enjoying the wombats with us seemed to macabrely enjoy telling me. Fortunately, Soul looked like he would rather eat my shoelaces than flip my car, so I let him do just that, until he got tired (rough life, bro) and fell asleep under the table. As Val prattled on about internal feuds within the wombat protector community (oh, they exist), I explored the room slightly. When we walked into the room, I had noticed a jacket hanging from the back of the chair with the sleeves and bottom sewn shut. While Val spoke about her rival in the wombat biz, I noticed the jacket start to twitch and suddenly a small head popped out the neck of the jacket. A joey! A tiny orphaned baby kangaroo named Annabelle, to be exact. We met other wombats, including an adorable and incredibly rare baby white wombat, but Annabelle had captured my heart. She nibbled my fingers, she tried to eat my watch, she reached two impossibly delicate arms up and grabbed my hand with tiny claws. If death from a cuteness overload is possible, I definitely came close.
We finally extricated us from Val's Wombatapalooza and hit the road. I wanted to stop in a local Aboriginal settlement to see a rare Giant Wombat, but Jamie was all wombatted out and voted we head to world famous surf spot Cactus Beach instead. As with most of our detours, we headed off down a poorly signed, bumpy dirt road that would hopefully take us where we wanted to go and not to an inbred family of hillbilly cannibals (I've seen the movies ok, I know it can happen). Fortunately, this time we were headed the right direction, and the drive turned out to be absolutely beautiful, past shallow pools rimmed with salt crystals, one of which was a brilliant purple, that stubbornly refused to be photographed. After about 30 km of bouncing down this narrow dirt road, we came to the beach. White sand, clear aquamarine waves rolling in perfect rhythm towards the shore, the whole nine yards. Of course, you'll just have to take my word for it, because obviously the camera ran out of battery the second my foot touched sand. Alas.
The final excitement of the day was entering the Nullabor Desert and seeing the head of the Great Australian Bight. The Bight, or Bite, as I humorously like to call it, is the largest coastal indentation on the continent in Australia. Get it? Because it looks like a bite and it's called the bight? How I laughed. Personally, I thought actually going to see the Bight would be pretty boring, plus I was slightly miffed my Bight/bite jokes weren't going over better, so I was pretty anti this detour, but I was enticed by the promise of seeing whales. When we arrived at the visitors' centre, however, we were informed by the surly man behind the counter that we had missed the whales for the day, and to add insult to injury, we had to pay five dollars for the privilege of walking to the end of the path. Rude. We paid up and went to have a look, and despite the utter lack of whales, I have to say that the Bight far exceeded my (admittedly low) expectations. Sheer cliffs jutted out of crashing waves and the air was salty with spray. Though it pains me to say, it was worth the five dollars.
We crossed the border into Western Australia without much fanfare that afternoon and collapsed into our sleeping bags. Tomorrow, we cross the Nullabor.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The Transaustralian Adventure: Part IV
Day 3
November 1, 2011
Day 3 has been fairly uneventful, though it started on a rather disappointing note. One of my favorite uniquely Australian phenomena is the Big Objects series. All around Australia, there are models of normal objects and animals, replicated on a much larger scale for no apparent reason. OK, partially for tourism (I'm told an entire tourist park was run around the Giant Pineapple), but I prefer to think of them like Stonehenge or those South American rocks that slide across the desert, that is to say, quasi-supernatural phenomenon. As soon as we decided to drive to Perth, I started looking up Big Objects along our route. So far we have seen the Big Plane, Big Beer Can, Big Picnic Bench, Big Gulah (like a parrot, but more annoying. It's possible) and the Big Kangaroo. All have been spectacular. Except the Big Plane, which really wasn't much bigger than a real commercial airliner, thought to be fair, it would have to be truly massive to dwarf one of those. It does beg the question, however, why try for a Big Plane in the first place? Why not a Big Biplane? Or a Big Glider? Or even just change the name to the Big Model Airplane (sneaky!)? But I digress. Anyway, imagine my surprise when, as we were leaving Peterborough, I saw a sign for the Big Gum Tree, which wasn't even listed on any of my maps! How exciting! So we trundled off down this dirt road (nearly every road besides the main highway we are driving on is dirt) for a couple hundred metres, only to find a big gum tree. As in a REAL tree, not fashioned whimsically out of fibreglass and painted gaudy colors. Imagine my disgust. You just shouldn't be able to call something Big when it is really only big. Write to your Members of Parliament, Australia!!!
Fortunately, the rest of the day passed without incident. We continued through the rolling hills of South Australia onto our next stop at (according to our brochure) the quaint, charming seaside town of Ceduna. Supposedly the town got it's name from the word Cheedoona, which means "come and rest awhile" in the native Aboriginal language, and it's not that it wasn't charming, but a four page brochure for a town with two streets seems...excessive. Fortunately, our afternoon was planned for us. The Melbourne Cup was on, and, like any good Australians, we were headed to the pub to place our bets on the popular horse race. Unfortunately, because we were running late, Jamie had to hustle to get our bets in in time and he accidentally bet on the wrong race. Improbably, we won 40 dollars. Because, as I mentioned, Ceduna is minuscule, and contrary to what the brochure claimed, there is nothing to do, we decided to take a from the locals and spend the afternoon "getting on the piss." We rounded off the the evening by purchasing oysters from a trailer (it was in the brochure so it's safe?) and retiring to our tent with a movie. Tomorrow, we enter the Nullabor.
November 1, 2011
Day 3 has been fairly uneventful, though it started on a rather disappointing note. One of my favorite uniquely Australian phenomena is the Big Objects series. All around Australia, there are models of normal objects and animals, replicated on a much larger scale for no apparent reason. OK, partially for tourism (I'm told an entire tourist park was run around the Giant Pineapple), but I prefer to think of them like Stonehenge or those South American rocks that slide across the desert, that is to say, quasi-supernatural phenomenon. As soon as we decided to drive to Perth, I started looking up Big Objects along our route. So far we have seen the Big Plane, Big Beer Can, Big Picnic Bench, Big Gulah (like a parrot, but more annoying. It's possible) and the Big Kangaroo. All have been spectacular. Except the Big Plane, which really wasn't much bigger than a real commercial airliner, thought to be fair, it would have to be truly massive to dwarf one of those. It does beg the question, however, why try for a Big Plane in the first place? Why not a Big Biplane? Or a Big Glider? Or even just change the name to the Big Model Airplane (sneaky!)? But I digress. Anyway, imagine my surprise when, as we were leaving Peterborough, I saw a sign for the Big Gum Tree, which wasn't even listed on any of my maps! How exciting! So we trundled off down this dirt road (nearly every road besides the main highway we are driving on is dirt) for a couple hundred metres, only to find a big gum tree. As in a REAL tree, not fashioned whimsically out of fibreglass and painted gaudy colors. Imagine my disgust. You just shouldn't be able to call something Big when it is really only big. Write to your Members of Parliament, Australia!!!
Fortunately, the rest of the day passed without incident. We continued through the rolling hills of South Australia onto our next stop at (according to our brochure) the quaint, charming seaside town of Ceduna. Supposedly the town got it's name from the word Cheedoona, which means "come and rest awhile" in the native Aboriginal language, and it's not that it wasn't charming, but a four page brochure for a town with two streets seems...excessive. Fortunately, our afternoon was planned for us. The Melbourne Cup was on, and, like any good Australians, we were headed to the pub to place our bets on the popular horse race. Unfortunately, because we were running late, Jamie had to hustle to get our bets in in time and he accidentally bet on the wrong race. Improbably, we won 40 dollars. Because, as I mentioned, Ceduna is minuscule, and contrary to what the brochure claimed, there is nothing to do, we decided to take a from the locals and spend the afternoon "getting on the piss." We rounded off the the evening by purchasing oysters from a trailer (it was in the brochure so it's safe?) and retiring to our tent with a movie. Tomorrow, we enter the Nullabor.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Transaustralian Adventure: Part III
Day 2
October 31, 2011
If yesterday was the day of emus and roadkill, today definitely belongs to the goats. Of all the animals I was hoping to see on this trip, goats were not high on the list. Yet there they were, scurrying along the roadside. The novelty of seeing literally hundreds of goats in the middle of Outback soon wore off due to their love of darting into the road just in front of our car, causing me near cardiac incidents, before skittering to safety, leaving me clutching the dashboard and gasping for air. Fortunately, Jamie soon discovered that goats hate the sound of car horns. We would see them lurking in the bushes, planning their next assault, and one well-timed blast of the horn would would send them scurrying for cover. How we laughed (especially Jamie, who seemed to take a sick delight in their terror..). Fortunately, goats weren't the only wildlife experienced, and we also saw tons of (live) kangaroos, including a mother kangaroo hopping across the road with her joey's head peeking out of her pouch.
If anything, the landscape was even more desolate than yesterday. Flat scrub streatched all the way to the horizon, and we went over an hour without seeing another car on the road. We clipped along at 120 km for most of the day, only slowing to pass through the tiny towns that appeared sporadically. In a country the size of the US with a smaller population than the state of California, "remote" takes on a whole new meaning. As beautiful as the landscape is, it is a harsh, rugged beauty. There are signs along the road reminding you that even as you drive through a sea of dead grass and cross parched, empty riverbeds, you are crossing a massive floodplain, with markers along the side of the road showing how high the water can get. Most of the "towns" we've driven through have been little more than a small cluster of houses, a church, a pub and a gas station. In one town, there were men sitting outside the servo in lawn chairs, just watching the cars pass by. As we drove past, one raised his hand to us in greeting.
The major stop of today was in Broken Hill, one of Australia's oldest mining towns. Mining is a massive industry in Australia, and driving a dump truck in one of the larger mines can earn you a six-figure paycheck. For skilled workers, paychecks are nearly unbelievable. The trade-off, of course, is that mining is almost always in remote, inhospitable environments. Broken Hill is no exception, and it has had over 100 years to develop. From the Miner's Memorial, on a hill probably 150 high, we could see the entire town. We poked around a bit, visited the Big Picnic Bench (just what it sounds like), and hit the road.
When we crossed the border into South Australia, the terrain seemed to instantly change. Grass became greener and hills sprouted out of the horizon. We were headed for the strangely named Peterborough (though not as strangely named as our originally-planned stopping place of Yunta, which Jamie kept accidentally calling Yemen and I kept accidentally calling Yalta). We had gone a bit brochure wild in the visitors' centre in Broken Hill, and had gotten about seven brochures on the various remaining stops. I entertained Jamie by reading from the Peterborough brochure as we wound our way through South Australia.
A former bustling stop on the railway, it seems Peterborough (founded by a German migrant as Petersburg but Anglicized due to WWI anti-German sentiment) is facing something of an identity crisis in its post-railroad incarnation. It seems they have decided to reinvent themselves as a tourist town, and the insistent chipperness of the brochure seemed to veil an edge of desperation as it outlined the various (limited) attractions one could enjoy in Peterborough. We could only surmise that tourism in a small town 400 km away from the nearest grocery store wasn't going to be its saving grace, and the utter silence of the town seemed only to support this fact. Nearly ten years after the reinvention, the town still only boasted one small gravelly caravan park.
It's all a bit sad, and it does beg the question: what will these people do? And not just the people of Peterborough but all of the remote Australians. Living remotely in the bush is as Australian as meat pies, but how much longer can it endure when growing channels of communication constantly remind people of what they're missing out on? And yet there is something intoxicating out here, a sense of exclusivity. So few people throughout history have has a chance to travel this part of Australia, and its beauty, though rugged, is spectacular. I have spent nearly all of the time in the car looking out the window at the passing scenery, and the sunrises and sunsets are otherworldly. I'm a pragmatist at heart and I know you can't pay a mortgage with a landscape, or feed your family with a sunset, but I like to think that remote Australia will continue to be inhabited for a while longer.
October 31, 2011
If yesterday was the day of emus and roadkill, today definitely belongs to the goats. Of all the animals I was hoping to see on this trip, goats were not high on the list. Yet there they were, scurrying along the roadside. The novelty of seeing literally hundreds of goats in the middle of Outback soon wore off due to their love of darting into the road just in front of our car, causing me near cardiac incidents, before skittering to safety, leaving me clutching the dashboard and gasping for air. Fortunately, Jamie soon discovered that goats hate the sound of car horns. We would see them lurking in the bushes, planning their next assault, and one well-timed blast of the horn would would send them scurrying for cover. How we laughed (especially Jamie, who seemed to take a sick delight in their terror..). Fortunately, goats weren't the only wildlife experienced, and we also saw tons of (live) kangaroos, including a mother kangaroo hopping across the road with her joey's head peeking out of her pouch.
If anything, the landscape was even more desolate than yesterday. Flat scrub streatched all the way to the horizon, and we went over an hour without seeing another car on the road. We clipped along at 120 km for most of the day, only slowing to pass through the tiny towns that appeared sporadically. In a country the size of the US with a smaller population than the state of California, "remote" takes on a whole new meaning. As beautiful as the landscape is, it is a harsh, rugged beauty. There are signs along the road reminding you that even as you drive through a sea of dead grass and cross parched, empty riverbeds, you are crossing a massive floodplain, with markers along the side of the road showing how high the water can get. Most of the "towns" we've driven through have been little more than a small cluster of houses, a church, a pub and a gas station. In one town, there were men sitting outside the servo in lawn chairs, just watching the cars pass by. As we drove past, one raised his hand to us in greeting.
The major stop of today was in Broken Hill, one of Australia's oldest mining towns. Mining is a massive industry in Australia, and driving a dump truck in one of the larger mines can earn you a six-figure paycheck. For skilled workers, paychecks are nearly unbelievable. The trade-off, of course, is that mining is almost always in remote, inhospitable environments. Broken Hill is no exception, and it has had over 100 years to develop. From the Miner's Memorial, on a hill probably 150 high, we could see the entire town. We poked around a bit, visited the Big Picnic Bench (just what it sounds like), and hit the road.
When we crossed the border into South Australia, the terrain seemed to instantly change. Grass became greener and hills sprouted out of the horizon. We were headed for the strangely named Peterborough (though not as strangely named as our originally-planned stopping place of Yunta, which Jamie kept accidentally calling Yemen and I kept accidentally calling Yalta). We had gone a bit brochure wild in the visitors' centre in Broken Hill, and had gotten about seven brochures on the various remaining stops. I entertained Jamie by reading from the Peterborough brochure as we wound our way through South Australia.
A former bustling stop on the railway, it seems Peterborough (founded by a German migrant as Petersburg but Anglicized due to WWI anti-German sentiment) is facing something of an identity crisis in its post-railroad incarnation. It seems they have decided to reinvent themselves as a tourist town, and the insistent chipperness of the brochure seemed to veil an edge of desperation as it outlined the various (limited) attractions one could enjoy in Peterborough. We could only surmise that tourism in a small town 400 km away from the nearest grocery store wasn't going to be its saving grace, and the utter silence of the town seemed only to support this fact. Nearly ten years after the reinvention, the town still only boasted one small gravelly caravan park.
It's all a bit sad, and it does beg the question: what will these people do? And not just the people of Peterborough but all of the remote Australians. Living remotely in the bush is as Australian as meat pies, but how much longer can it endure when growing channels of communication constantly remind people of what they're missing out on? And yet there is something intoxicating out here, a sense of exclusivity. So few people throughout history have has a chance to travel this part of Australia, and its beauty, though rugged, is spectacular. I have spent nearly all of the time in the car looking out the window at the passing scenery, and the sunrises and sunsets are otherworldly. I'm a pragmatist at heart and I know you can't pay a mortgage with a landscape, or feed your family with a sunset, but I like to think that remote Australia will continue to be inhabited for a while longer.
The Transaustralian Adventure: Part II
Day 1
October 30, 2011
Though we left approximately two hours and two days later than we planned, our (somewhat grueling) schedule still has us getting to Perth next Saturday, so it's all good.
We started the drive from Jamie's parents' house just outside Brisbane. From there, we went inland through Toowoomba (foggy) and crossed the state border from Queensland to New South Wales at Goondawindi (non-descript) where we began to head Southwest into the Outback to our stopping point for the night in Bourke.
As we drove, it became readily apparent just how remote we were getting. Green grass and busy highways with clean edges and shining guardrails gave way to scraggly trees, scrub brush and that deep brick red-colored earth so characteristic of the Outback. Heat waves shimmered ahead of us and emus casually trotted beside the road. My meltdown at Jamie for not stopping at the emu farm in Goondawindi became slightly ridiculous as one large emu, seemingly inspired by the recent Australian release of Fast Five, attempted to race our car. Bet you they don't let the farm emus do that. However, impressive though it was, a large and very stupid bird running at full speed along a highway did nothing to lessen my fear of running over an Australian animal. In addition to (live) emu, kangaroo, lizards and birds, we saw dead kangaroos, birds, rabbits, lizards, snakes and one very sad (and very dead) fox.
It seems this Australian highway is a veritable killing field for Australian fauna and I live in fear of killing anything larger than the bugs who kamikaze themselves into our windscreen. We narrowly avoided participating in what appeared to be a magpie suicide pact, and Jamie avoided killing what must have been the world's bravest lizard who refused to move from his comfortable spot dead in the middle of the road, forcing Jamie to run directly over it, allowing it to pass unscathed between our tires. I actually performed a similar feat a couple hours later with a snake, but the more I think about it, I'm pretty sure mine was already dead so....less impressive.
Well, I hate to leave you with tales of flattened animals, but I am exhausted. Tomorrow, Broken Hill.
October 30, 2011
Though we left approximately two hours and two days later than we planned, our (somewhat grueling) schedule still has us getting to Perth next Saturday, so it's all good.
We started the drive from Jamie's parents' house just outside Brisbane. From there, we went inland through Toowoomba (foggy) and crossed the state border from Queensland to New South Wales at Goondawindi (non-descript) where we began to head Southwest into the Outback to our stopping point for the night in Bourke.
As we drove, it became readily apparent just how remote we were getting. Green grass and busy highways with clean edges and shining guardrails gave way to scraggly trees, scrub brush and that deep brick red-colored earth so characteristic of the Outback. Heat waves shimmered ahead of us and emus casually trotted beside the road. My meltdown at Jamie for not stopping at the emu farm in Goondawindi became slightly ridiculous as one large emu, seemingly inspired by the recent Australian release of Fast Five, attempted to race our car. Bet you they don't let the farm emus do that. However, impressive though it was, a large and very stupid bird running at full speed along a highway did nothing to lessen my fear of running over an Australian animal. In addition to (live) emu, kangaroo, lizards and birds, we saw dead kangaroos, birds, rabbits, lizards, snakes and one very sad (and very dead) fox.
It seems this Australian highway is a veritable killing field for Australian fauna and I live in fear of killing anything larger than the bugs who kamikaze themselves into our windscreen. We narrowly avoided participating in what appeared to be a magpie suicide pact, and Jamie avoided killing what must have been the world's bravest lizard who refused to move from his comfortable spot dead in the middle of the road, forcing Jamie to run directly over it, allowing it to pass unscathed between our tires. I actually performed a similar feat a couple hours later with a snake, but the more I think about it, I'm pretty sure mine was already dead so....less impressive.
Well, I hate to leave you with tales of flattened animals, but I am exhausted. Tomorrow, Broken Hill.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Transaustralian Adventure: Part I
I realize it's been a hot second since I've done any updating, and for that I offer a half-hearted, non-committal apology. Yes, the intention of this blog was to keep everyone up to speed on my Australian adventure, but sometimes adventurous things just aren't happening. So unless you want to hear about that time Jamie and I went to the grocery store and...bought things, then you're out of luck.
Fortunately, the adventure drought has ended with a veritable flood of adventure, a deluge of excitement, a monsoon of FUN. To get everyone up to speed, Jamie and I have moved to Perth. And not just moved, we have driven to Perth. Time for everyone to get out their globes, atlases and Google maps. Put your finger on Brisbane. Now drag to way over to Perth. If you aren't suitably impressed, use your fingers to gauge the distance between Perth and Brisbane, and then move your now claw-like hand to the United States for a better understanding of just how far we are driving. Impressive, no? 5,000 kilometres, 7 days and hopefully no running over of indigenous Australian animals later, we will be in Perth.
I kept a small travel journal throughout the trip and will be transcribing it onto my blog in installments to build excitement/give me something to do in the two weeks of unemployment before I head back to the good ol' US of A for Thanksgiving.
Day 0
October 29, 2011
Despite living the hectic, nomadic life of a college student for the past four years, during which I moved a staggering ten times, I have never gotten the hang of moving, and in fact, I am beginning to think it may not even be something you can "get the hang of." On paper, it seems so simple. Clothing and other possessions are moved from their current locations into boxes and suitcases, which are then transported to their (and your) new home. In reality, for me at least, it usually involves sweat, tears, profanity (in fairness, most major events in my life involve that unholy trinity) and at least one existential crisis wherein I ponder the need for so many possessions, man. Invariably, all these things occurred, but we did eventually manage to get everything (tightly) packed away into the back of Jamie's station wagon.
Tune in tomorrow for our first day on the road.......
Fortunately, the adventure drought has ended with a veritable flood of adventure, a deluge of excitement, a monsoon of FUN. To get everyone up to speed, Jamie and I have moved to Perth. And not just moved, we have driven to Perth. Time for everyone to get out their globes, atlases and Google maps. Put your finger on Brisbane. Now drag to way over to Perth. If you aren't suitably impressed, use your fingers to gauge the distance between Perth and Brisbane, and then move your now claw-like hand to the United States for a better understanding of just how far we are driving. Impressive, no? 5,000 kilometres, 7 days and hopefully no running over of indigenous Australian animals later, we will be in Perth.
I kept a small travel journal throughout the trip and will be transcribing it onto my blog in installments to build excitement/give me something to do in the two weeks of unemployment before I head back to the good ol' US of A for Thanksgiving.
Day 0
October 29, 2011
Despite living the hectic, nomadic life of a college student for the past four years, during which I moved a staggering ten times, I have never gotten the hang of moving, and in fact, I am beginning to think it may not even be something you can "get the hang of." On paper, it seems so simple. Clothing and other possessions are moved from their current locations into boxes and suitcases, which are then transported to their (and your) new home. In reality, for me at least, it usually involves sweat, tears, profanity (in fairness, most major events in my life involve that unholy trinity) and at least one existential crisis wherein I ponder the need for so many possessions, man. Invariably, all these things occurred, but we did eventually manage to get everything (tightly) packed away into the back of Jamie's station wagon.
Tune in tomorrow for our first day on the road.......
Monday, September 12, 2011
Endless Winter
In 1966 a movie was made that followed two surfers around the world as they veered between the northern and southern hemispheres, chasing the perfect wave. They mused on the concept that if someone had enough time and money they could roam between the hemispheres and experience an “endless summer.” Well, I’m here to tell you that it can been done. Not the endless summer of course, because that actually sounds fun, but the cold, dark alternative: an endless winter. Yes, dear readers, in my movements between America and Australia over the last two years, I have experienced four winters in a row, and haven’t seen a complete summer since 2009.
In addition to discovering exactly how pale I can become (answer: very), I have also developed a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder, the phenomenon that causes depression after prolonged exposure to winter, with the appropriate acronym SAD. There is something incredibly sad (or SAD) about experiencing darkness between 5 and 6 pm for two years and looking longingly at flimsy sundresses that haven’t seen the light of day since the previous decade. My legs are becoming allergic to denim. But rest assured, from now on the only denim touching my legs will be my beloved jorts, as we are two weeks into spring here in Queensland!! And herein lies the true dilemma: I’m scared for summer in Queensland. Much as a starving person must be introduced to food slowly so their stomach doesn’t explode (not 100% sure that’s what happens if they eat too much, but go with it), I feel that I should be reintroduced to warmth and sun gradually, perhaps experiencing a summer in Sweden or Germany or somewhere foggy and still slightly depressing. I don’t know if I am ready for summer in tropical Queensland, an area that is already becoming so hot that by the time I arrive to work at 8 am after a twenty minute bike ride I am dripping in sweat (gross, but necessary to understand the experience). Even worse, anyone that I choose to share my worries with does absolutely nothing to allay my fears, saying things like, “Well as long as you have air conditioning” (we do not) or, “Well as long as you don’t have hair that fros up when a drop of moisture hits the air” (I do) or, “Well as long as you love the sensation of marinating in your own sweat” (I most certainly do not).
But I suppose that is all part of the experience of living in a new country. An experience, I have discovered, in which I am always slightly disoriented. Australia is on the twenty-four hour clock, the metric system and uses Celsius instead of Fahrenheit. Basically this means I am never entirely sure what time it is, what the weather is like, or where I am, an experience similar to always having just gotten off a spinning carnival ride. Or being an infant. Technically, all I have to do is apply a few quick conversions, and really, if the ENTIRE AMERICAN ARMY can use a 24 hour clock, so can I, though Jamie has been oddly resistant to my fun new habit of barking out, “Dinner is at 1900 hours.” But conversions are hard, y’all, and it’s difficult to quickly double numbers and add 30 (the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit), or the reverse! They say you are truly fluent in a foreign language when you begin to dream in it. Well, I may not be learning a foreign language, but I think I will know I am adjusted when I start dreaming in the metric system. And those will be some boring dreams.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Abbrevs
I have always had a place in my heart for abbreviations, or, as I prefer to call them, abbrevs. Sometimes, I feel that words take too damn long to say, and you need to shorten them to keep your speech on its A game. Def, probs, and maybs are much more streamlined than definitely, probably and maybe, and allow conversation to be more aerodynamic. Like how cyclists wear spandex to decrease wind resistance. Abbreviations = verbal spandex, if you will.
Yet the Australians have taken abbreviations to new and previously unforeseen heights. If a word is over two syllables, it’s too long for an Australian, or, because that word is FAR too long, an Aussie. Even their quintessential greeting, G’day, is an abbreviation of “Good Day to You Sir, I Trust the Livestock Are All Well? And How Is Your Lovely Wife? Not Been Carried Off By a Kangaroo Yet, I Hope.” Or something like that, anyway.
Let’s start with nicknames. Every Australian male has a nickname. If one does not readily present itself, he will receive a prefab nickname, following a couple easy templates.
1. Add “o.” Nick becomes Nicko, Tim becomes Timbo and so on.
2. Add “azzer.” This one is slightly inexplicable, but Gary becomes Gazzer, Darren becomes Dazzer, and so on. I like to call this nickname formulation the “Santa’s Reindeer Formula” because I think that “On, Gazzer! On, Dazzer!” has a fun sort of ring to it.
3. You will receive a nickname regarding some aspect of your appearance or character. It may range from the obvious, “Ranga” (as in orangutan) for a red-headed person, to the more obscure. For instance, I heard of a guy whose nickname was “Scoop” because on his first day at a new job, he thought a dustpan was called a scoop.
Jamie’s nickname, for those of you who may be wondering, is “Tits”, a bastardized abbreviation of his last name. Because he has a little brother who shares many of the name friends, occasionally he becomes “Big Tits.” So for those of you who may be putting two and two together, yes, that means someday, I may have the dubious honor of becoming “Mrs. Tits.” Fingers crossed, everyone!
But the Australian obsession with abbrevs doesn’t stop at proper nouns. Breakfast is brekkie, afternoons are arvos, gas stations are servos, and of course, as everyone knows, you never throw another shrimp on the barbeque, you throw it on the barbie!
Cookies are bikkies, chickens are chooks, and we continue ad nauseum until you realize you can fake it by dropping the last syllable and adding “y” or “o.”
But therein lies the true mystique of Australian slang. All of these abbrevs are rather, well, cutesy. If they weren’t being barked at you by a tanned, 6 foot tall man with arms as big around as your torso, you might confuse them for baby talk. And for a country who ran an entire tourism campaign on the slogan: “Australia: Where the Bloody Hell Are You?” this may seem slightly off. But in my opinion, it is the very bloke-y-ness of Australia that allows it to get away with all the strange abbreviations. There is something just strange enough about calling a tradesmen a tradie, a carpenter a chippie or an electrician a sparkie when you know that they are big strapping men who could probably kill you on their smoke-o (smoking break) and be back to work by 10:15. Frankly, I think the fact that Australia is populated largely by tall, muscular, tanned individuals gives them the right to call things pretty much whatever the hell they want.
And with that, I’ll leave with the true master of the abbrevs, Tom Haverford.
Yet the Australians have taken abbreviations to new and previously unforeseen heights. If a word is over two syllables, it’s too long for an Australian, or, because that word is FAR too long, an Aussie. Even their quintessential greeting, G’day, is an abbreviation of “Good Day to You Sir, I Trust the Livestock Are All Well? And How Is Your Lovely Wife? Not Been Carried Off By a Kangaroo Yet, I Hope.” Or something like that, anyway.
Let’s start with nicknames. Every Australian male has a nickname. If one does not readily present itself, he will receive a prefab nickname, following a couple easy templates.
1. Add “o.” Nick becomes Nicko, Tim becomes Timbo and so on.
2. Add “azzer.” This one is slightly inexplicable, but Gary becomes Gazzer, Darren becomes Dazzer, and so on. I like to call this nickname formulation the “Santa’s Reindeer Formula” because I think that “On, Gazzer! On, Dazzer!” has a fun sort of ring to it.
3. You will receive a nickname regarding some aspect of your appearance or character. It may range from the obvious, “Ranga” (as in orangutan) for a red-headed person, to the more obscure. For instance, I heard of a guy whose nickname was “Scoop” because on his first day at a new job, he thought a dustpan was called a scoop.
Jamie’s nickname, for those of you who may be wondering, is “Tits”, a bastardized abbreviation of his last name. Because he has a little brother who shares many of the name friends, occasionally he becomes “Big Tits.” So for those of you who may be putting two and two together, yes, that means someday, I may have the dubious honor of becoming “Mrs. Tits.” Fingers crossed, everyone!
But the Australian obsession with abbrevs doesn’t stop at proper nouns. Breakfast is brekkie, afternoons are arvos, gas stations are servos, and of course, as everyone knows, you never throw another shrimp on the barbeque, you throw it on the barbie!
Not Like That
Cookies are bikkies, chickens are chooks, and we continue ad nauseum until you realize you can fake it by dropping the last syllable and adding “y” or “o.”
But therein lies the true mystique of Australian slang. All of these abbrevs are rather, well, cutesy. If they weren’t being barked at you by a tanned, 6 foot tall man with arms as big around as your torso, you might confuse them for baby talk. And for a country who ran an entire tourism campaign on the slogan: “Australia: Where the Bloody Hell Are You?” this may seem slightly off. But in my opinion, it is the very bloke-y-ness of Australia that allows it to get away with all the strange abbreviations. There is something just strange enough about calling a tradesmen a tradie, a carpenter a chippie or an electrician a sparkie when you know that they are big strapping men who could probably kill you on their smoke-o (smoking break) and be back to work by 10:15. Frankly, I think the fact that Australia is populated largely by tall, muscular, tanned individuals gives them the right to call things pretty much whatever the hell they want.
And with that, I’ll leave with the true master of the abbrevs, Tom Haverford.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Avada Kedavra, Childhood
It's been a week for milestones here in Australia. Last Wednesday, I turned 22. On the same day, the final installment of the Harry Potter movies was released in Australia, though its taken me til tonight to see it. Both of these events, though exciting, are bittersweet, as, to me, they mark the definitive end of childhood. Overly negative and melodramatic, you say? Well, hear me out. The 22nd birthday is a tricky one. All birthdays prior are fun. You look forward to them. All your friends come. There's cake. When the cake begins to wear thin, you get privileges. Voting. Drinking. Not being able to have sex with people under 18 (that one didn't really affect me). But 22 is the death knell of fun birthdays. From here on out, its all work, taxes and drudgery until you are mercifully released by death's sweet embrace. Here come the birthdays you dread. The ones you are forced to spend chuckling through gritted teeth at friends who say things like "How's it feel to be over the hill?" or (worse) encourage you to "Act your shoe size, not your age." Shudder.
Further encouraging my doom and gloom prophecies is the release of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2," the final installment of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Last year, I was introduced by a friend (credit where credit is due: Brett) to the idea that the timing of the Harry Potter franchise seems to mirror our path to adulthood. It all began in fourth grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Pickett, began reading a book to my class. "Its big in England," she told us, as though that would be an irresistible lure to a classroom full of Ritalin-addled eight-year olds. It must have worked, however, because we dutifully sat and listened to the adventures of Harry, Ron and Her-mee-own (as Mrs. Pickett, and the rest of us, assumed it was pronounced. Sorry we have normal names in America, J.K Rowling) as they searched for the Sorcerer's stone. We got hooked, and somehow, so did the rest of world. I read the books dutifully until the final installment, which came out the summer I graduated highschool, just one month before I left California for the East Coast. Now, the final movie has come out the summer after I graduated college. Much like my erstwhile carefree existence, Harry Potter is over.
But I'm not all doom and gloom. I am very grateful for the past 22 years. I have been surrounded by family and friends throughout, and have had more blessings showered upon me than I can count. And I am grateful for Harry Potter. Though I'll admit, my loyalty has wavered (I never saw the fifth movie, and I thought the sixth was DUMB), I knew I would watch the final installment. And just before the credits rolled, I shed a single tear (read: sobbed like a colicky baby who's just been dropped). I am grateful for the story that was told and for all the kids who barely read who suddenly found a love of reading, even if only for seven books. I am grateful that the heroes of the book are not cool, but smart, giving hope to every nerd (for the record, I prefer the term "bookish"), and that the moral of the story is to stand up for your friends and yourself, and to always at least try to do the right thing. Though none of us may ever battle a noseless megalomaniac for control of a magical wizarding world, we will all face times when we are forced to choose between the right way and, if not the wrong way, the easy way.
But Ellen, you say, this might not be the end. There could be "Harry Potter: the Later Years" or a PREQUEL! And at the rate Hollywood is going, there will absolutely be a reboot of Harry Potter in about five years, starring Jaden Smith. I suppose I could hold out hope for more Pottermania, just as I could begin my Botox treatments next week, or keep wearing my Abercrombie and Fitch jorts well into my thirties. But just as neither of these choices would be advisable, neither is more Harry Potter. Good things are good because they are precious. We cherish them because they will be gone soon. I am grateful for the carefree childhood I had, but though it pains me to say it, I'm sure adulthood has SOME fun times in store. It can't all just be death and taxes, right?? (SHUT IT, Benjamin Franklin)
So to close it all off, go see Harry Potter, and thanks for the birthday wishes!!! P.S. If you didn't wish me a happy birthday, you're dead to me. Kidding. Ish.
Further encouraging my doom and gloom prophecies is the release of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2," the final installment of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Last year, I was introduced by a friend (credit where credit is due: Brett) to the idea that the timing of the Harry Potter franchise seems to mirror our path to adulthood. It all began in fourth grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Pickett, began reading a book to my class. "Its big in England," she told us, as though that would be an irresistible lure to a classroom full of Ritalin-addled eight-year olds. It must have worked, however, because we dutifully sat and listened to the adventures of Harry, Ron and Her-mee-own (as Mrs. Pickett, and the rest of us, assumed it was pronounced. Sorry we have normal names in America, J.K Rowling) as they searched for the Sorcerer's stone. We got hooked, and somehow, so did the rest of world. I read the books dutifully until the final installment, which came out the summer I graduated highschool, just one month before I left California for the East Coast. Now, the final movie has come out the summer after I graduated college. Much like my erstwhile carefree existence, Harry Potter is over.
But I'm not all doom and gloom. I am very grateful for the past 22 years. I have been surrounded by family and friends throughout, and have had more blessings showered upon me than I can count. And I am grateful for Harry Potter. Though I'll admit, my loyalty has wavered (I never saw the fifth movie, and I thought the sixth was DUMB), I knew I would watch the final installment. And just before the credits rolled, I shed a single tear (read: sobbed like a colicky baby who's just been dropped). I am grateful for the story that was told and for all the kids who barely read who suddenly found a love of reading, even if only for seven books. I am grateful that the heroes of the book are not cool, but smart, giving hope to every nerd (for the record, I prefer the term "bookish"), and that the moral of the story is to stand up for your friends and yourself, and to always at least try to do the right thing. Though none of us may ever battle a noseless megalomaniac for control of a magical wizarding world, we will all face times when we are forced to choose between the right way and, if not the wrong way, the easy way.
But Ellen, you say, this might not be the end. There could be "Harry Potter: the Later Years" or a PREQUEL! And at the rate Hollywood is going, there will absolutely be a reboot of Harry Potter in about five years, starring Jaden Smith. I suppose I could hold out hope for more Pottermania, just as I could begin my Botox treatments next week, or keep wearing my Abercrombie and Fitch jorts well into my thirties. But just as neither of these choices would be advisable, neither is more Harry Potter. Good things are good because they are precious. We cherish them because they will be gone soon. I am grateful for the carefree childhood I had, but though it pains me to say it, I'm sure adulthood has SOME fun times in store. It can't all just be death and taxes, right?? (SHUT IT, Benjamin Franklin)
So to close it all off, go see Harry Potter, and thanks for the birthday wishes!!! P.S. If you didn't wish me a happy birthday, you're dead to me. Kidding. Ish.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
A Farewell to Bus
For the past two and a half weeks, I have been taking the bus to work. Ordinarily, this would be no big thing; public transportation in Australia is very good, and the Gold Coast has a great bus system. However, the distance between my job and our apartment (a drive of about 15 minutes) inexplicably takes almost an hour on the bus and involves not only a transfer but a fair bit of walking between the two bus stations. Also, it is timed inconveniently enough so that I often end up to running to catch one bus and waiting up to twenty minutes for the next one. To top it all off, I invariably arrive at work at least 25 minutes early, a phenomenon I am hoping my employers chalk up to dedication and not creepiness. In short I don’t think I could have picked a less desirable mode of transport had I tried, and buying a bike last weekend was a very exciting move towards emancipation from the bus.
Unfortunately, the day after we bought the bike, Jamie had to go back to Kingaroy (the peanut capitol of Australia, also a runner-up for the “Worst Place I Have Ever Been” prize) for four days to finish up some work up there and after that I have been sick (isn’t it SO. FUN. that I get to have TWO flu and cold seasons in ONE year?????) on and off, so the stars have not aligned and I have been forced to bus it day after day, my shiny new bike leaning forlornly against our couch. But, God willing, tomorrow will be the day and I will sail off to work, simultaneously reducing my carbon footprint and tightening my butt, reveling in my newfound freedom and the absolute lack of creepy bus drivers calling me “doll.”
But it is not without a tinge of sadness that I bid adieu to the bus. For one, I shall miss my Bus Friends, the people who travel with me, every morning and evening, day in and day out, stalwart companions on the road of life. Interactions with Bus Friends vary from simple greetings to prolonged conversations, but generally, buses are similar to fight clubs, in that you just. Don’t. Talk. Yet I will miss all of them in their own special ways. The toothless 70 year old man with the Phil Spector haircut who wears Shapeups, the woman who talks incessantly on her phone the whole ride, the man who gets on and off the bus at exactly the same stops as myself (including transfers) every day, yet has thus far refused any of my earnest attempts at conversation (actually, I won’t miss him, he seems like kind of a dick…), but to all my bus friends, I bid a fond adieu.
Wish me luck as I hurtle along the highways on my trusty metal steed, praying that the pedals don’t fall off (one did last weekend) and that I don’t sweat through my work clothes on the journey, alienating potential friends among my coworkers…
Unfortunately, the day after we bought the bike, Jamie had to go back to Kingaroy (the peanut capitol of Australia, also a runner-up for the “Worst Place I Have Ever Been” prize) for four days to finish up some work up there and after that I have been sick (isn’t it SO. FUN. that I get to have TWO flu and cold seasons in ONE year?????) on and off, so the stars have not aligned and I have been forced to bus it day after day, my shiny new bike leaning forlornly against our couch. But, God willing, tomorrow will be the day and I will sail off to work, simultaneously reducing my carbon footprint and tightening my butt, reveling in my newfound freedom and the absolute lack of creepy bus drivers calling me “doll.”
But it is not without a tinge of sadness that I bid adieu to the bus. For one, I shall miss my Bus Friends, the people who travel with me, every morning and evening, day in and day out, stalwart companions on the road of life. Interactions with Bus Friends vary from simple greetings to prolonged conversations, but generally, buses are similar to fight clubs, in that you just. Don’t. Talk. Yet I will miss all of them in their own special ways. The toothless 70 year old man with the Phil Spector haircut who wears Shapeups, the woman who talks incessantly on her phone the whole ride, the man who gets on and off the bus at exactly the same stops as myself (including transfers) every day, yet has thus far refused any of my earnest attempts at conversation (actually, I won’t miss him, he seems like kind of a dick…), but to all my bus friends, I bid a fond adieu.
Wish me luck as I hurtle along the highways on my trusty metal steed, praying that the pedals don’t fall off (one did last weekend) and that I don’t sweat through my work clothes on the journey, alienating potential friends among my coworkers…
Monday, June 27, 2011
Kevin
My second week of work has begun, with all the stress and anxiety that comes with a new job, but also with all the excitement and novelty. I am loving going to work every day, and every time I feel a pang of nostalgia for my lazy days of unemployment, I remind myself how dangerously close to becoming an insane reclusive shut-in I came. Though I miss Dr. Phil and the ladies of The Circle (the less annoying Australian version of The View), I am happy to be taking another step on my way towards assimilation.
I am working at a great company doing customer service, which means that I get to call up confused shop-owners all over Australia and TROUBLESHOOT THEIR ELECTRONICS for them (not kidding). You know when you call tech support and you get directed to “Kevin” in Mumbai and you begin to get the distinct impression that Kevin, though a very nice chap, may not have been christened “Kevin” at birth, but he is doing such a bang-up job with his carefully practiced American slang that you feel sorry enough for him not to scream at him when he fails to do anything productive to drag you out of the torturous technical predicament you have put yourself in? Well, I am the Kevin of Australia. Here is my fictional rendering of a daily phone call:
This goes on until somehow miraculously we have fixed the problem or (as I am beginning to suspect happens frequently) the Confused Shopowner feigns a technical breakthrough to get me out of their life forever, at which point I fight back my tears of inadequacy and, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, chirp, “Ok have a great day, CHEERS!”
In all seriousness, however, I love my job, the work I’m doing, and the people I work with, and I am doing everything in my power to conquer the learning curve, a natural part of every new job. Working with people truly is my passion, and I am loving getting to speak with all different people from all over Australia and it is a true testament to the friendliness of Australians that no one has screamed at me yet.
I am working at a great company doing customer service, which means that I get to call up confused shop-owners all over Australia and TROUBLESHOOT THEIR ELECTRONICS for them (not kidding). You know when you call tech support and you get directed to “Kevin” in Mumbai and you begin to get the distinct impression that Kevin, though a very nice chap, may not have been christened “Kevin” at birth, but he is doing such a bang-up job with his carefully practiced American slang that you feel sorry enough for him not to scream at him when he fails to do anything productive to drag you out of the torturous technical predicament you have put yourself in? Well, I am the Kevin of Australia. Here is my fictional rendering of a daily phone call:
Me: Hi, how ya goin? This is Ellen calling from [company name redacted so they don’t realize how incompetent I am} and I understand you’re having some trouble with your system.
Confused Shopowner: [suspiciously]Erm, gidday. Hi. What? Yes, I suppose I am…
Me: [feigning confidence] Well, I’m here to talk you through your issue. Can you go through the following steps with me: [reads verbatim from “Troubleshooting Guide” on my desk]
Confused Shopowner: Sorry, what?
Me: [repeats exactly what I just read]
CS: I’m sorry I still don’t understand.
Me: [repeats exactly what I just read]
This goes on until somehow miraculously we have fixed the problem or (as I am beginning to suspect happens frequently) the Confused Shopowner feigns a technical breakthrough to get me out of their life forever, at which point I fight back my tears of inadequacy and, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, chirp, “Ok have a great day, CHEERS!”
In all seriousness, however, I love my job, the work I’m doing, and the people I work with, and I am doing everything in my power to conquer the learning curve, a natural part of every new job. Working with people truly is my passion, and I am loving getting to speak with all different people from all over Australia and it is a true testament to the friendliness of Australians that no one has screamed at me yet.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Employment (Finally), and Musings on Emigrating
The wait is over! Everyone can breathe a MASSIVE sigh of relief, because a wonderful company decided to take a chance on an inexperienced foreigner (hooray for outsourcing!...or something). I had my first day of WORK today, and so far so good! The people are nice, the building is colorful, and the work is plentiful and engaging, what more can anyone ask for? Well...millions of dollars and 10 weeks of paid vacation wouldn't go unappreciated but I fear I would be hedging my bets if I fought for it at this stage.
Anywhooo, this newfound influx of human interaction (several conversations with people who AREN'T Jamie?? Surely, you're joking) has got me thinking about what it is like to be a stranger in a strange land. After all, chronicling my experiences in this foreign land was the impetus for this blog. In short, Australia is wonderful. While it can be very difficult and isolating at times and I have found myself much more homesick at times than i expected, I am so constantly grateful for this INCREDIBLE opportunity to experience a life entirely different from anything I have known. And the Australian people, despite their strange haircuts and penchant for male hotpants, could not be more wonderful. Jamie's friends and family are obviously glorious, but it is the kindness of strangers that I am constantly amazed by. "How ya going?"s from strangers on my walks, the random dogwalker who, seeing me standing dumbfounded by the side of the road, asked if I was lost and guided me where I needed to go, and the kind woman at the convenience store across the street who never fails to ask how my day was.
Being American in Australia is mostly a ton of fun. I, like many, love talking about myself, and a different nationality is a great conversation starter which involves strangers asking me many things about my favorite topic, me. However, sometimes being different becomes tiresome, especially when confronted by and of three types of people. I have named them the Interrogators, the Translators, and the Skeptics.
Interrogators, upon learning of my differing nationality, proceed to ask a series of bizarre and/or difficult questions about my country of origin. They may start innocuously enough, but eventually I will have to concede that should the President, the Vice President and Speaker of the House all become incapacitated, I actually don't know who would become President of the United States (yes I do, its called an EXAMPLE, people), or that I actually have not the foggiest idea where Kansas is (I really don't). I am constantly shocked by how much Australians know about esoteric American practices and very thankful for my political science degree, which allows me to fend off the majority of the questions. What is truly bad about the Interrogator however, is that he/she is not asking to gain information. They are asking solely to prove that you don't know something about your native land, and they do, and they will rub your nose in it FOREVER. I was in a cab recently with a driver who was so convinced that Donald Trump was running for President of the United States in 2012 that, even though I vigorously protested it, I actually went home and googled it, just to be sure.
Translators are a different breed altogether. Instead of trying to trip you up, they are trying to help you, but in such an obnoxious way that you almost wish they were attempting to convince you that George Bush killed Osama bin Laden by punching him in the face. Translators insist that there is no way that you could possibly span the massive gulf between Australian and American English and insist on helping you through everything. This has the double effect of making every sentence twice as long and twice as exasperating. A typical sentence from a translator might sound like this "Yes, Ellen, well I was just getting ready to get some groceries from Coles -hmm what would that be for you...Safeway?- when my mate -sorry, I mean my friend- rang -oops called me to tell me he was bringing over fish and chip -oh God, do you have fish and chips in America???? well, its like if a hamburger was made out of a fish but didn't have a bun and......" and so on and so on until I am fighting to keep my frozen smile plastered to my face, nodding along dutifully as they explain that a kangaroo is like a deer that hops around and carries its fawn in its stomach.
But of all the scourges of my immigrant lifestyle, none are more abhorrent to me than the Skeptics. Skeptics, like the Translators, are fascinated by the differences between Americans and Australians, and concern themselves primarily with lingual disparities, though their interest comes from a much darker place. Pahhhsta? Errrrrbs?? Proooooduce???? Aaaaadvertizzzzments?????? Accents provide endless comedic fodder for the skeptics and they simply cannot grasp the concept that two people speaking the same language can say words so very differently. Being in proximity to a Skeptic is a bit like living with a small, mean-spirited echo, and often causes my eyes to get stuck in the "rolled" position.
But all in all, Skeptics, Translators and Interrogators are a vast minority here in Australia and the majority of the people are kind and friendly, and as long as they keep asking me about me, I don't forsee any problems.
And finally, I want to thank everyone for reading (or just Dan Kinney 695 times...)! I'm fueled mostly by intense narcissism and watching the view count rise definitely gives me the warm fuzzies, so thanks everyone!
Anywhooo, this newfound influx of human interaction (several conversations with people who AREN'T Jamie?? Surely, you're joking) has got me thinking about what it is like to be a stranger in a strange land. After all, chronicling my experiences in this foreign land was the impetus for this blog. In short, Australia is wonderful. While it can be very difficult and isolating at times and I have found myself much more homesick at times than i expected, I am so constantly grateful for this INCREDIBLE opportunity to experience a life entirely different from anything I have known. And the Australian people, despite their strange haircuts and penchant for male hotpants, could not be more wonderful. Jamie's friends and family are obviously glorious, but it is the kindness of strangers that I am constantly amazed by. "How ya going?"s from strangers on my walks, the random dogwalker who, seeing me standing dumbfounded by the side of the road, asked if I was lost and guided me where I needed to go, and the kind woman at the convenience store across the street who never fails to ask how my day was.
Being American in Australia is mostly a ton of fun. I, like many, love talking about myself, and a different nationality is a great conversation starter which involves strangers asking me many things about my favorite topic, me. However, sometimes being different becomes tiresome, especially when confronted by and of three types of people. I have named them the Interrogators, the Translators, and the Skeptics.
Interrogators, upon learning of my differing nationality, proceed to ask a series of bizarre and/or difficult questions about my country of origin. They may start innocuously enough, but eventually I will have to concede that should the President, the Vice President and Speaker of the House all become incapacitated, I actually don't know who would become President of the United States (yes I do, its called an EXAMPLE, people), or that I actually have not the foggiest idea where Kansas is (I really don't). I am constantly shocked by how much Australians know about esoteric American practices and very thankful for my political science degree, which allows me to fend off the majority of the questions. What is truly bad about the Interrogator however, is that he/she is not asking to gain information. They are asking solely to prove that you don't know something about your native land, and they do, and they will rub your nose in it FOREVER. I was in a cab recently with a driver who was so convinced that Donald Trump was running for President of the United States in 2012 that, even though I vigorously protested it, I actually went home and googled it, just to be sure.
Translators are a different breed altogether. Instead of trying to trip you up, they are trying to help you, but in such an obnoxious way that you almost wish they were attempting to convince you that George Bush killed Osama bin Laden by punching him in the face. Translators insist that there is no way that you could possibly span the massive gulf between Australian and American English and insist on helping you through everything. This has the double effect of making every sentence twice as long and twice as exasperating. A typical sentence from a translator might sound like this "Yes, Ellen, well I was just getting ready to get some groceries from Coles -hmm what would that be for you...Safeway?- when my mate -sorry, I mean my friend- rang -oops called me to tell me he was bringing over fish and chip -oh God, do you have fish and chips in America???? well, its like if a hamburger was made out of a fish but didn't have a bun and......" and so on and so on until I am fighting to keep my frozen smile plastered to my face, nodding along dutifully as they explain that a kangaroo is like a deer that hops around and carries its fawn in its stomach.
But of all the scourges of my immigrant lifestyle, none are more abhorrent to me than the Skeptics. Skeptics, like the Translators, are fascinated by the differences between Americans and Australians, and concern themselves primarily with lingual disparities, though their interest comes from a much darker place. Pahhhsta? Errrrrbs?? Proooooduce???? Aaaaadvertizzzzments?????? Accents provide endless comedic fodder for the skeptics and they simply cannot grasp the concept that two people speaking the same language can say words so very differently. Being in proximity to a Skeptic is a bit like living with a small, mean-spirited echo, and often causes my eyes to get stuck in the "rolled" position.
But all in all, Skeptics, Translators and Interrogators are a vast minority here in Australia and the majority of the people are kind and friendly, and as long as they keep asking me about me, I don't forsee any problems.
And finally, I want to thank everyone for reading (or just Dan Kinney 695 times...)! I'm fueled mostly by intense narcissism and watching the view count rise definitely gives me the warm fuzzies, so thanks everyone!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Hobbies or, Entertaining the Unemployed
So I am currently unemployed, a situation that is...less than ideal given my personality. I am, for lack of better words, batshit insane, and the more that I have to occupy my time, the better everyone off everyone (read: Jamie) will be. For a while, I think it was fun for him, because all my attention was focused on him, but quickly it became unbearable because…all of my attention was focused on him. What he’s doing, what he’s eating, and what he’s looking at quickly became what WE’RE doing, what WE’RE eating, and what WE’RE looking at, a rather stifling phenomenon to say the least. I would call him to tell him who was on The View that day, what Dr. Phil was talking about, or ask him for the ninth time what he wants for dinner (“Oh pasta? When you said that earlier, I thought you sounded a little uncertain so I just figured I would call you incessantly to quadruple check. So, still pasta? Ok well, we’ll see when I call you in five, byeeeeee!”). Clearly this scenario is unsustainable for all parties involved, as I will soon go crazy and Jamie will soon murder me.
So I have decided, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. I shall look to the Aussies for hobbies and supplement my seemingly never-ending job hunt with my fun new Australian hobbies!!
Hobby #1
Walking on the beach
A huge advantage to my life in Australia is our proximity to the beach. Two blocks and we’re there and I have been joining the large numbers of (ok mostly retired) Australians who generally stroll the beach in the mornings. There are few things more peaceful than strolling leisurely down the beach, cool from the morning breeze, in the company of septuagenarians. Additionally, I am trying (so far unsuccessfully) to strike up friendships with some of them so that I can boost my Australian friend count into the double digits/above 1, but thus far I am content to stroll solo.
Hobby #2
Sports
Before you burst out laughing in disbelief, I should clarify. I am not playing sports, which would surely result in horrific, body-shattering injury, but merely watching them, a much safer alternative. The sports culture in Australia is absolutely huge, doesn’t require much prior knowledge, and involves copious drinking, ipso facto, I’m in. Australians tend to eschew traditional sports for the more obscure kind, or when those prove too mainstream, they simply make up their own. The general rule of thumb is the more violent the better, with the possible exception of cricket, which possesses approximately the same capacity for violence as a game of bingo in an old folks’ home on a particularly slow Tuesday afternoon.
Footy is popular all around the country, though what you mean by “footy” varies abundantly. In Victoria, footy refers to Aussie Rules Football, or AFL, a combination of basketball, Quidditch and getting the shit kicked out of you. Everywhere else in Australia, footy refers to rugby, but whether you are referring to Rugby League or Rugby Union, two different versions of what appears (to me) to be entirely the same game, is anyone’s guess. Rugby (for the purposes of my blog/my life, we will pretend Rugby League and Rugby Union are identical) is my personal favorite Australian game because it features a valuable part of Australian culture: men in short shorts. Watching a rugby game exposes the viewer to more male thigh than a Chippendales show, and any game in which the players must avoid not only horrific injury but also exposing their testicles is a game for me.
Cricket barely even warrants a mention because, though beloved to many Australians, and once played by my significant other, I cannot possibly begin to fathom why anyone would want to spend literally hours of their precious life watching men stand around paddling one another in white suits. Actually, that description makes it sound fun, which only further hammers home the point that I simply do not understand cricket at all, because there is simply Nothing. Fun. About. Cricket.
Hobby #3
Gambling
Gambling is not only legal in Australia but wildly popular. As in, there are slot machines in EVERY. BAR. This is fun because it allows Aussies to combine alcohol with gambling, a surefire recipe for success- oh wait, no, that’s not right. Well bless their crooked little hearts, at any rate, because the Pokies (what an adorable name for a machine which I am sure has destroyed many a family) are incredibly fun. There is nothing better than a cold beer and the knowledge that you are wasting all your money in as sure a way as if you were literally setting it on fire. Unfortunately, no one has figured out a way to make lighting money on fire fun, so I’ll stick with the Pokies thankyouverymuch.
If the pokies prove a bit tame for you, however, you can also bet on dogs, horses (adorably called ponies) or horses racing whilst pulling carts (which I’m sure has an equally adorable name that is currently slipping my mind). I thought this was a bit stupid until I won 40 dollars betting on the improbably named Spunky Monkey. The high that you feel when you realize you have won money seemingly from nothing (not actually the case, as I had to place 20 dollars on Spunky Monkey in order to be registered, and for every 5 dollars I win on the Pokies, I have inevitably spent more than that) is unparalleled, and probably a good reason why gambling addiction is a huge problem in Australia. However, I will continue to view gambling as a legitimate means of employment until my savings account is entirely devoid of funds. Just kidding, Mom and Dad, but it is “a ripper of a time” (boom, Australian language. See? My hobby experiment is making me more Australian by the second).
So that’s what I’m up to these days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go walk on the beach wearing short shorts, placing bets on the ponies and not caring at all about cricket.
So I have decided, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. I shall look to the Aussies for hobbies and supplement my seemingly never-ending job hunt with my fun new Australian hobbies!!
Hobby #1
Walking on the beach
A huge advantage to my life in Australia is our proximity to the beach. Two blocks and we’re there and I have been joining the large numbers of (ok mostly retired) Australians who generally stroll the beach in the mornings. There are few things more peaceful than strolling leisurely down the beach, cool from the morning breeze, in the company of septuagenarians. Additionally, I am trying (so far unsuccessfully) to strike up friendships with some of them so that I can boost my Australian friend count into the double digits/above 1, but thus far I am content to stroll solo.
Hobby #2
Sports
Before you burst out laughing in disbelief, I should clarify. I am not playing sports, which would surely result in horrific, body-shattering injury, but merely watching them, a much safer alternative. The sports culture in Australia is absolutely huge, doesn’t require much prior knowledge, and involves copious drinking, ipso facto, I’m in. Australians tend to eschew traditional sports for the more obscure kind, or when those prove too mainstream, they simply make up their own. The general rule of thumb is the more violent the better, with the possible exception of cricket, which possesses approximately the same capacity for violence as a game of bingo in an old folks’ home on a particularly slow Tuesday afternoon.
Footy is popular all around the country, though what you mean by “footy” varies abundantly. In Victoria, footy refers to Aussie Rules Football, or AFL, a combination of basketball, Quidditch and getting the shit kicked out of you. Everywhere else in Australia, footy refers to rugby, but whether you are referring to Rugby League or Rugby Union, two different versions of what appears (to me) to be entirely the same game, is anyone’s guess. Rugby (for the purposes of my blog/my life, we will pretend Rugby League and Rugby Union are identical) is my personal favorite Australian game because it features a valuable part of Australian culture: men in short shorts. Watching a rugby game exposes the viewer to more male thigh than a Chippendales show, and any game in which the players must avoid not only horrific injury but also exposing their testicles is a game for me.
Cricket barely even warrants a mention because, though beloved to many Australians, and once played by my significant other, I cannot possibly begin to fathom why anyone would want to spend literally hours of their precious life watching men stand around paddling one another in white suits. Actually, that description makes it sound fun, which only further hammers home the point that I simply do not understand cricket at all, because there is simply Nothing. Fun. About. Cricket.
Hobby #3
Gambling
Gambling is not only legal in Australia but wildly popular. As in, there are slot machines in EVERY. BAR. This is fun because it allows Aussies to combine alcohol with gambling, a surefire recipe for success- oh wait, no, that’s not right. Well bless their crooked little hearts, at any rate, because the Pokies (what an adorable name for a machine which I am sure has destroyed many a family) are incredibly fun. There is nothing better than a cold beer and the knowledge that you are wasting all your money in as sure a way as if you were literally setting it on fire. Unfortunately, no one has figured out a way to make lighting money on fire fun, so I’ll stick with the Pokies thankyouverymuch.
If the pokies prove a bit tame for you, however, you can also bet on dogs, horses (adorably called ponies) or horses racing whilst pulling carts (which I’m sure has an equally adorable name that is currently slipping my mind). I thought this was a bit stupid until I won 40 dollars betting on the improbably named Spunky Monkey. The high that you feel when you realize you have won money seemingly from nothing (not actually the case, as I had to place 20 dollars on Spunky Monkey in order to be registered, and for every 5 dollars I win on the Pokies, I have inevitably spent more than that) is unparalleled, and probably a good reason why gambling addiction is a huge problem in Australia. However, I will continue to view gambling as a legitimate means of employment until my savings account is entirely devoid of funds. Just kidding, Mom and Dad, but it is “a ripper of a time” (boom, Australian language. See? My hobby experiment is making me more Australian by the second).
So that’s what I’m up to these days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go walk on the beach wearing short shorts, placing bets on the ponies and not caring at all about cricket.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Bienvenidos a Miami
Well it’s day 5 in Australia and Jamie and I are settling into our new apartment, located in the amusingly-named Gold Coast town of Miami, which has allowed us to play Will Smith’s seminal ode to the sun-drenched Florida metropolis on endless repeat, a surefire recipe for domestic bliss. We are getting close to being completely moved into our place, though there are still a few small hiccups such as the nearly full suitcase of my clothing that resides in the middle of the living room, or the two enormous surfboards propped precariously behind the kitchen table. Unfortunately, our 2 room (not to be confused with 2 bedroom) apartment suffers from a distinct lack of bells and whistles, such as microwave, dishwasher, or more than 8 channels on the television. I suppose I should have been tipped off on the properties potential shortcomings when the only words Jamie would use to describe it were such vague euphemisms as “tidy” or “cozy,” but such is the blind optimism of the naïve. What our apartment lacks in space or amenities however, it more than makes up for in charm and location, location, location. We are approximately two blocks from one of the most gorgeous beaches in Australia and, more importantly in Jamie’s eyes, juuust up the road from a truly fantastic coffee shop.
However, finding ourselves lacking such essentials as a trash can and hangers (among approximately 7439069 other things), we decided that our shopping list was more than our little neighborhood stores could handle and ventured into suburban Robina, home to larger department stores and what I shall henceforth be referring to as the Mega Mall of Death. I know that we Americans pride ourselves on many things, among which are obesity, a wide range of accents varying greatly in their annoyingness, and unprecedented military might, but I fear we have lost our title as the world’s foremost connoisseurs of malls. I’m sure some Midwesterners would beg to differ, and I’ll admit to never sampling the ambrosia and nectar that is the Mall of America, but I MUST say, the Australians do not mess around with their malls.
The Journey through the Mega Mall of Death (henceforth referred to for brevity’s sake as the MMD) began innocuously enough as Jamie and I parked on the top level of a large parking structure. We made our way to the escalator (who has escalators in parking garages? That should have been our first tip), which was actually a tilted moving sidewalk to allow people to bring their carts to the top of the parking garage. As we began our slow descent into the roiling hellmouth that was the MMD, we began to feel the sinuous tentacles of fear encircling our hearts. “Quite a lot of people,” Jamie remarked, in the trademark Australian understatement that would cause one to remark “That hurts a bit” to the giant crocodile gnawing off one’s leg. In Jamie’s defense, there were QUITE a lot of people, roaming the MMD seemingly aimlessly, never seeming to enter or exit the multitude of brightly lit storefronts apparently engaged in a competition to see who can play the worst music at the loudest volumes.
Our small party soon began to devolve into panic as we dodged the shuffling hordes, in search of a directory or perhaps a gun with only two bullets in it. We soon located a TOUCHSCREEN directory (see what I mean? Step your game up, America) which informed us the store we were looking for was on Level 3. After wandering around in search of some means of moving from level to level, we realized by seeing daylight through the single skylight in the entire mall that we were already on Level 3. Once safely ensconced within our chosen department store, we relaxed slightly. The voodoo magic that bewitched all other MMD patrons into thinking that they actually wanted to remain in this structure rather than run screaming for the exits apparently forbade them from entering any retail establishments and Jamie and I were able to complete our shopping relatively peacefully.
As we beat our hasty retreat from the MMD, no small feat as I’m pretty sure that escalators were moving around the mall of their own accord a la Harry Potter, my eye was caught by a small glimmer of hope amidst the misery and hatred of the MMD: POP-TARTS. For a bit of context, allow me to explain that despite the general availability of American products if one is willing to search a bit, Pop-tarts are virtually impossible to obtain in Australia, and thus have taken on an almost mythical significance as the epicenter of American culture. And beyond all rhyme or reason, there seemed to be a kiosk smack in the middle of the MMD with all sorts of American delicacies, from Snickers to Baby Bottle Pops, and of course, the aforementioned Pop-Tarts. Here I confess, I lost all control. The stress of the MMD, coupled with this sudden influx of familiarity caused a circuit in my brain to go haywire. “LOOK,” I bellowed, giddy with the prospects of a Reeses, a box of Pop-Tarts clutched in each hand. “Look at what my people have given you!” I proclaimed to the startled Aussies milling around me. Jamie was frantically pretending to be single on the other side of the kiosk as I rushed around like a madwoman, collecting this and that little trinket, giggling dementedly. Finally, twenty dollars later, Jamie managed to pry me away, and we made our way back to the comforts of our humble abode.
The next morning, recovered from our ordeal, we woke up early (thank you jetlag) and decided to head down to the beach to watch the sunrise. The sky was already shot with tendrils of pink and we hurried so we wouldn’t miss it. The air was cool as we settled onto the sand to watch the light slowly spreading out of the ocean. It was a bit overcast and we realized dejectedly that the clouds were concentrated right over where the run was set to appear over the horizon. We were getting up to leave when all of a sudden the sun appeared behind the mass of clouds, shooting them with gold. The waves continued to crash onto the beach under the filigreed clouds and I realized that I could very easily get used to this.
However, finding ourselves lacking such essentials as a trash can and hangers (among approximately 7439069 other things), we decided that our shopping list was more than our little neighborhood stores could handle and ventured into suburban Robina, home to larger department stores and what I shall henceforth be referring to as the Mega Mall of Death. I know that we Americans pride ourselves on many things, among which are obesity, a wide range of accents varying greatly in their annoyingness, and unprecedented military might, but I fear we have lost our title as the world’s foremost connoisseurs of malls. I’m sure some Midwesterners would beg to differ, and I’ll admit to never sampling the ambrosia and nectar that is the Mall of America, but I MUST say, the Australians do not mess around with their malls.
The Journey through the Mega Mall of Death (henceforth referred to for brevity’s sake as the MMD) began innocuously enough as Jamie and I parked on the top level of a large parking structure. We made our way to the escalator (who has escalators in parking garages? That should have been our first tip), which was actually a tilted moving sidewalk to allow people to bring their carts to the top of the parking garage. As we began our slow descent into the roiling hellmouth that was the MMD, we began to feel the sinuous tentacles of fear encircling our hearts. “Quite a lot of people,” Jamie remarked, in the trademark Australian understatement that would cause one to remark “That hurts a bit” to the giant crocodile gnawing off one’s leg. In Jamie’s defense, there were QUITE a lot of people, roaming the MMD seemingly aimlessly, never seeming to enter or exit the multitude of brightly lit storefronts apparently engaged in a competition to see who can play the worst music at the loudest volumes.
Our small party soon began to devolve into panic as we dodged the shuffling hordes, in search of a directory or perhaps a gun with only two bullets in it. We soon located a TOUCHSCREEN directory (see what I mean? Step your game up, America) which informed us the store we were looking for was on Level 3. After wandering around in search of some means of moving from level to level, we realized by seeing daylight through the single skylight in the entire mall that we were already on Level 3. Once safely ensconced within our chosen department store, we relaxed slightly. The voodoo magic that bewitched all other MMD patrons into thinking that they actually wanted to remain in this structure rather than run screaming for the exits apparently forbade them from entering any retail establishments and Jamie and I were able to complete our shopping relatively peacefully.
As we beat our hasty retreat from the MMD, no small feat as I’m pretty sure that escalators were moving around the mall of their own accord a la Harry Potter, my eye was caught by a small glimmer of hope amidst the misery and hatred of the MMD: POP-TARTS. For a bit of context, allow me to explain that despite the general availability of American products if one is willing to search a bit, Pop-tarts are virtually impossible to obtain in Australia, and thus have taken on an almost mythical significance as the epicenter of American culture. And beyond all rhyme or reason, there seemed to be a kiosk smack in the middle of the MMD with all sorts of American delicacies, from Snickers to Baby Bottle Pops, and of course, the aforementioned Pop-Tarts. Here I confess, I lost all control. The stress of the MMD, coupled with this sudden influx of familiarity caused a circuit in my brain to go haywire. “LOOK,” I bellowed, giddy with the prospects of a Reeses, a box of Pop-Tarts clutched in each hand. “Look at what my people have given you!” I proclaimed to the startled Aussies milling around me. Jamie was frantically pretending to be single on the other side of the kiosk as I rushed around like a madwoman, collecting this and that little trinket, giggling dementedly. Finally, twenty dollars later, Jamie managed to pry me away, and we made our way back to the comforts of our humble abode.
The next morning, recovered from our ordeal, we woke up early (thank you jetlag) and decided to head down to the beach to watch the sunrise. The sky was already shot with tendrils of pink and we hurried so we wouldn’t miss it. The air was cool as we settled onto the sand to watch the light slowly spreading out of the ocean. It was a bit overcast and we realized dejectedly that the clouds were concentrated right over where the run was set to appear over the horizon. We were getting up to leave when all of a sudden the sun appeared behind the mass of clouds, shooting them with gold. The waves continued to crash onto the beach under the filigreed clouds and I realized that I could very easily get used to this.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Relocation Equation
As I sit here in my room, comfortably ensconced beneath my laptop, separated from the door/rest of humanity by all my worldly possessions scattered across my floor, I find myself with some time to ponder, partially/primarily because it allows me to procrastinate from packing. Tomorrow night, I board the plane that will take me to my new life, far away in Australia. I will have no friends (Jamie doesn’t count because he’s my boyfriend and therefore has to hang out with me), no job and no idea how to navigate around or perform basic skills, though to be fair, I have only a vague idea how to do these things in America. The past three weeks have been a veritable whirlwind of change and it is far from over, a prospect that leaves me rather queasy. Suddenly, I am forced to confront all kinds of difficult questions, most notably: so what happens when you pick up and leave? When you move to another country, leaving behind friends and family, to start a new life? For some, I’m sure, it is an exhilarating leap into the great wide open, a delicious unfettered free-fall. These people would relish the opportunity to make a whole new set of friends, because they are the kinds of people who strike up casual conversations with strangers in line at Starbucks. They are not afraid of failure because they recently completed an Ironman in eight hours. They do not feel the cold clutches of anxiety because they have a resting heart rate of 40. These are most likely the types of people who enjoy mountain-biking and wear athletic clothes 24/7. I am not one of “them.” I sneer at these people. I glower at them in line for my tall iced unsweetened green tea, daring them to tell me what nice day it is so I can tell them about the dangers of sunburn. I mock their silly cycling outfits with their clicky shoes, I curse them from the drivers seat as they ride their ergonomic Swedish bicycles four abreast down a narrow road, leaving me sullenly inching along behind them wondering if “premeditated vehicular homicide” is a thing.
I wouldn’t say that I hate new things, only that I generally tend to prefer things I have previously experienced. In this way, Australia sort of fits the bill. I did spend six months there last year studying abroad. But I was in a totally different part of the country and relished the fact that when my time was up I could scurry back into the loving embrace of my American countrymen (but not in a slutty way). That was like Emigration Lite, where you sort of voyage into the unknown and sort of begin a new life but people help you out and you don’t have to pay any bills or really get a job and you can go home to your real life when it stops being fun, ie perfection. This is Emigration Plus (to continue my soft drink analysis) where not only do I move permanently to a new place but I have a goofy accent and am less fit than everyone with no marketable skills and a fear of adventure sports, aka an Australian pariah. Study abroad was like one of those roller coasters that are vaguely nauseating but also totally exhilarating and last only a few minutes, leaving you giddy and flushed. Moving to Australia is like being strapped into a Tilt-a-Whirl by yourself (ok, Jamie is there too, but he was born on the Tilt-a-Whirl and so he enjoys it) whereupon the ride attendant promptly dies, leaving you stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl for the foreseeable future, or at least until you blackout from the g-forces.
Of course, likening the most exciting thing I have done in my entire life to being permanently nauseous and then passing out is slightly unfair. I have Jamie and his wonderful friends and family who will at least pretend to enjoy hanging out with me until I find friends of my own. And of course there is Jamie who I assume is already battening down the proverbial hatches in anticipation of the tornado of anxiety that will touch down in our new apartment in 36 hours. I am excited for this new venture, more excited than I have ever been in my life, but I would be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t scared, too.
So is it possible to flourish outside your comfort zone when you are less Lucy Lawless and more Liz Lemon? I guess we’ll find out.
I wouldn’t say that I hate new things, only that I generally tend to prefer things I have previously experienced. In this way, Australia sort of fits the bill. I did spend six months there last year studying abroad. But I was in a totally different part of the country and relished the fact that when my time was up I could scurry back into the loving embrace of my American countrymen (but not in a slutty way). That was like Emigration Lite, where you sort of voyage into the unknown and sort of begin a new life but people help you out and you don’t have to pay any bills or really get a job and you can go home to your real life when it stops being fun, ie perfection. This is Emigration Plus (to continue my soft drink analysis) where not only do I move permanently to a new place but I have a goofy accent and am less fit than everyone with no marketable skills and a fear of adventure sports, aka an Australian pariah. Study abroad was like one of those roller coasters that are vaguely nauseating but also totally exhilarating and last only a few minutes, leaving you giddy and flushed. Moving to Australia is like being strapped into a Tilt-a-Whirl by yourself (ok, Jamie is there too, but he was born on the Tilt-a-Whirl and so he enjoys it) whereupon the ride attendant promptly dies, leaving you stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl for the foreseeable future, or at least until you blackout from the g-forces.
Of course, likening the most exciting thing I have done in my entire life to being permanently nauseous and then passing out is slightly unfair. I have Jamie and his wonderful friends and family who will at least pretend to enjoy hanging out with me until I find friends of my own. And of course there is Jamie who I assume is already battening down the proverbial hatches in anticipation of the tornado of anxiety that will touch down in our new apartment in 36 hours. I am excited for this new venture, more excited than I have ever been in my life, but I would be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t scared, too.
So is it possible to flourish outside your comfort zone when you are less Lucy Lawless and more Liz Lemon? I guess we’ll find out.
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