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:

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.

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!

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.

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.