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.