Townsville Photo Gallery

Catching up from last week's trip to Tropical Queensland:

Taking advantage of unlimited kilometers on the rental car, we decided to spend Saturday afternoon exploring the Townsville surrounds. The urban center is actually the composite of two sister cities, Townsville and Thuringowa. The current tourist campaign is "Discover Thuringowa" and most brochures feature inviting photos of a mossy arched stone bridge spanning Little Crystal Creek Falls, a popular swimming spot. Having always wanted to swim beneath a waterfall, we set out for Central Thuringowa.

After much circling through a maze of strip malls and dubious looking housing tracts, we finally realized that Crystal Creek Falls lies just outside the rain forest village of Paluma, 80 km to the North of Central Thuringowa. In the interim, we did discover a hoard of tiny tree frogs along the edge of a rather odiferous reservoir formed by the Ross River.

An abrupt mountain range frames the coast of Northern Queensland's beaches, providing a stunning backdrop and a natural catchment for the abundant tropical rains. Thus, nestled among the tops of these ranges are beautiful pockets of lush rain forest. After an expensive and unappetizing lunch at the only restaurant in Paluma (no wonder Australians are such good picnickers), we hiked 3 km beneath a dense canopy filled with strange bird calls and lined with interpretive signs that might have been written by Mrs Petersons's Kindergarten Class along the ridge to the Witt Lookout and were rewarded with this striking view of Big Crystal Creek winding its way to the Pacific:

Halfway down the twisting mountain road, we stopped at the picnic area beside the mossy rock bridge, which had somehow become known as "my bridge", as if I was obsessed with finding it - which I was - to have a swim in the delicious rock pools beneath Little Crystal Creek Falls. Oddly, the parking lot was just beyond a sign welcoming us to the City of Thuringowa.

I am often simply flabbergasted by the amenities provided to make such amazing places so accessible to the general public in Australia. It is one area where the US almost always falls short, and I often wonder if it is just a matter of sheer numbers of people or if there is some shortcoming in our national personality that makes it impossible to keep clean functional toilet facilities in remote locations. Steep cement staircases lead away from the lavish picnic grounds on either side of my arched bridge. Groups of Tongan families (damn they are big people), teenagers, and gossiping old crones congregated in the cool pools of sparkling water that cascaded over smooth boulders. Young men scampered fearlessly up rock walls and leaped from dizzying heights into the deep green water, so confident in their immortality and in their ability to heal from any injury. As Kevin and I gingerly picked our way through the maze of stone and water, we came to realize just how scarred our spirits still are from his single misstep on a cement staircase in Mexico. We were only too aware of just how far we were from the nearest hospital. We watched the kids hopping from rock to rock with a stab of regret for our own lost days of fearlessness.

But we swallowed our fears and plunged into the wonderfully cool water. It felt like a baptism, a cleansing rebirth of sorts. I tried to swim beneath the plunge of the waterfall, but the force of the down pour matched my strength and pushed me back to the edge of the pool. We rewarded our bravery with a stop at The Frosty Mango for ice cream on the way home.

On Sunday morning, we perused the stalls of the public craft market along the Flinders Street open air mall, where we spent extravagant amounts of money on tropical fruit products. We bought pineapple wine, passion fruit wine, passion fruit butter, and mango wine. And we bought every odd and unusual tropical fruit we could find, including star fruit, dragon fruit, and Jack Fruit. (I don't want to hear any crap about linking to Wikipedia - they had the best pictures and EVERYONE knows that the information presented therein may or may not be wholly accurate and should merely serve as an introduction and a guide for further reading!)

The star fruit and the dragon fruit (both white and red) were slightly disappointing. Their texture was appealing, but they were a little short in the flavor department. But the Jack Fruit was an adventure worthy of a video. The one pictured above is on the small side. It only weighed about ten pounds. Most are about twice the size of your head. The leathery skin holds a fibrous collection of fleshy pods surrounding large slick seeds. The pods have the texture of an onion, but a very strong flavor that is a cross between banana and pineapple - sort of like juicy fruit gum. It had to be removed from the apartment after it was opened, as the smell soon became overwhelming.

I stayed on through Monday and enjoyed a lovely walk along The Strand to the Rock Pool. The Strand is a 3 km pathway along the beachfront, dotted with parks, exercise stations, water fountains, and of course, Anzac memorials. The walk culminates in a gigantic Rock Pool - an enormous enclosure by the ocean's edge filled with filtered sea water and patrolled by lifeguards - once again, serviced by extraordinary toilet and shower facilities.

Aside from being a safe and sheltered swimming enclosure, rock pools serve to protect the public from the swarms of deadly jelly fish that inhabit the waters of Queensland from November to May. There are two particularly nasty species, that according to informational signs along the beaches, if someone should fall victim to their sting, you are to apply vinegar to the site of the trauma, call for medical aid, and immediately begin administering CPR.

My friends and colleagues are a little bewildered by my enchantment with Townsville, though most have never been themselves. I reckon one of the things I like about it is that it is not particularly a tourist center. It is a place where a traveller might stop off for a few days on their way to somewhere else, but it is not in and of itself a vacation destination. Because it is a port town on the edge of the mining world (indeed, there are daily commercial flights departing the airport exclusively to the Century Mine, the Cannington Mine, and The Phosphate Hill Mine), Townsville has a distinct industrial flavor - and after visiting some shops in Central Turingowa, I suspect that there may be a fair amount of toxic mine dust polluting the water supply, as there seemed to be an inordinate number of serious birth defects. It is also a town laden with military bases, which explains the huge numbers of gigantic bars that are packed out until 5 am each weekend. But Townsville boasts some lovely public venues adorned with an abundance of quality street art. Below are two of my favorites.

These 'ant hills' were constructed from found objects collected by local school children.

I'm not sure what this is supposed to be, but to me it looks like a gigantic potato gun.

Whew, that was a long tedious post. If you're still reading - bless your heart! And, you'll be pleased to know we will be returning to Tropical Queensland in thee weeks time over the long Easter weekend, in search of still more pristine waterfalls, untasted exotic fruits, and, perhaps, the elusive platypus.

Party Gras

There is nothing more startling than waking up in your own bed when the last place you recall being is at Hungry Jack’s (aka Burger King) downtown.

“Why did the gays claim Mardi Gras for their own?”

“It’s all about feathers and sequins.”

I followed the trail of my clothes, dropped thoughtfully like bread crumbs, to the living room and was delighted to see my wallet, though I wondered how the contents came to be strewn across the floor.

“How come there are 1000 Dykes on Bikes, but only 15 Boys on Bikes?”

It took me a little longer to find my camera. It was next to the bathtub. I am afraid to see what is on the video card. Did I take a bath? I smell rather clean, considering...

“Are Gays so Catholic that they celebrate Mardi Gras?”

“I’ll wager there are more gay Catholics than you would suspect. Actually, Mardi Gras celebrations here last about 6 weeks. I don’t think they quite grasp the concept of lent – or maybe they do and this is their answer…you know, we missed the Gay Lesbian Pool Party two weeks ago and the Wet and Wild Fashion Show.” Just then, the Gay Catholic Society Float gyrated past. They were all dressed as altar boys.

There is a huge lump on my forehead. I have no idea how it got there.

"The parade brings in 650 million gay tourist dollars to Sydney over the weekend."

"Gay Dollars? So that doesn't include the 20 bucks I just paid to rent a stool?"

The Castro Cotillion drifted across my field of vision, the San Francisco skyline painted down the side. Lots of leather on that float.

"Are you going to the after party? It's being hosted by Cyndi Lauper and Olivia Newton John."

"Uh...I heard it is sold out."

I took several hours of video of the parade, but it shows like the Gay Wear Bitch Project, and I am a little to off-balance to try to edit it into something cohesive. Just imagine lots feathers and sequins.

I'm going back to bed now.

About Australian Seasons

Today is the first day of autumn. I’m sure many of you are somewhat startled by that statement, knowing that the equinox is still three weeks away. As I have mentioned previously, Australia cannot be bothered to follow the laws of physics or astronomy, but once again, they seem to be spot on. (And – courtesy of The Prof - there is a case for their rebelliousness – but I would like to remark that the Romans were wrong about a great many things.) This morning the dark clouds that have covered the sky for the last three months are no where in sight. The air is cool and dry with a crispness that makes you want to shop for new shoes, sweaters, and spiral bound notebooks. The sunlight has the unmistakable golden slant that tells your body to get ready for Sunday afternoons watching ‘the gridiron’. (More than anything else, the lack of a fall football season screws up my celestial body clock.)

Normally, I am invigorated by the first day of fall, and I welcome the relief from summer’s oppressive heat, looking forward to cozy evenings spent making stew, curling up on the couch under a Mexican blanket, and staring at women’s boots with a covetous hunger that borders on psychopathic obsession. But this year, there was no oppressive heat from which to be relieved. In fact, this was the coldest – and certainly the wettest – summer I have ever experienced in my life. Allegedly (BK, I am reporting hearsay and have not verified the facts in the statement I am about to make), there were only 2 days over 30 degrees (86 F). In February, (I did check this statistic) the mean temperature in Sydney was a stifling 24.9 (76 F) degrees and we had 448 mm (17 inches) of rain. Neither of those points truly warrant complaint, but neither fit with my definition of summer, considering ‘back home’ the average summer temperature is 94 F (34 C) with 0 inches (0 mm) of rainfall.

But blogs about weather are boring. Hopefully tomorrow, I will be writing a blog about tonight’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade. But wait, you might be thinking, wasn’t Mardi Gras three weeks ago, and doesn’t it usually fall on a Tuesday?

Allow me to reiterate: Australia cannot be bothered by a calendar based on reasonable and predictable celestial phenomena.

Ticket to Townsville

There was a famous person waiting to board my flight to Townsville last Friday.

“Who?” You might reasonably ask..

I have no idea. Even if this person weren’t famous, I would have spent every spare moment stealing glances at his amazing physique: shoulders wide enough to land a jet, arms that could launch rockets, and skin so dark you could see through time. I only gathered that he was famous because every other bloke in the waiting area was also staring at him. Or maybe we all just had similar taste in men. But when the entire starting line-up of the Brisbane Broncos exited through the gate and came up to shake his hand, I reckoned that he must be a big shot rugby player and not a junior member of parliament. However, by then, I was more distracted by the notion that the plane I was about to board had just been vacated by 32 testosterone laden athletes who had probably left the cabin smelling like a gym locker AND drunk all the beer.

I’m no particular fan of Sir Richard Branson (is being rich the only criteria for knighthood these days? Don’t you have to save a damsel in distress, slay a dragon, or take down a windmill with a toothbrush or something?), but I do like the cheeky attitude of Virgin Airlines – nay, of all the subsidiaries of the Virgin empire. If the cocky drawl of the recorded operators servicing their mobile phone, credit cards, or flight reservations desk isn’t enough to win my heart, the décor of their airplanes certainly is:



I especially like how in Australia, they don't tell you to 'fasten your seatbelt' they tell you to make sure it is 'done up'...

My poor quizzical readers, by now you must be asking “But wait, didn’t you just go to Townsville the weekend before last?”

Yes. I did.

However, the astute reader will recall that Kevin was in Townsville during my last post. He is currently servicing a major zinc-mining operation that grosses over 600 million dollars per year and is owned by one (Korean) man. Being wealthy and impatient, this client wants Kevin’s undivided attention for several weeks at a time. Kevin had the imagination and forethought to agree to extended travel time with the proviso that the client pay for my airfare to come up for the weekend. I like to imagine that the client liked to imagine that he was flying in entertainment for the benefit of his contracted guest. AND, I was perfectly happy to vacate the apartment for several days in the firm belief that my unwanted house guest would get bored without me and fly out the window in search of other entertainment.

I so want to regale you with all of the wonderful details of this most recent trip – of stories about our glorious hike through the rainforest near Paluma, of swimming beneath a roaring waterfall at Little Crystal Creek, of our visit to The Frosty Mango, of the way the sunlight danced on the receding tide at Balgal Beach, of the taste of Jack Fruit, Dragon Fruit, and some other fruit whose name I cannot remember, of the unusual number of children with birth defects at Hungry Jack’s and the Supa IGA, of the noise that seagulls make when they are fighting over soggy chips, of the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 pm before they are packed out with young livers and how that is different to the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 am when they are packed out with old livers, of the urgent flight of the swallows above the Ross River as the setting sun back lights Castle Crag, of the price of socks, and of the flavour of red spot prawns, of the sound of prop-job cargo planes vanishing into dark puffy cloud banks across a grey bay, of children laughing in public fountains along The Strand, of smiling puppies and sea eagles that watch you back with equal fascination, of heat, and humidity, and drought, and rain, and worry, and hope, and fear, and resolution, and doubt, and wearing a bikini at forty…

But, it is late. I am tired. And my Korean noodles are getting cold on the stove.

(Note to self: write a blog entry about the inadequacies of Top Ramen compared to the glories of instant Korean noodles.)

Eeeze No Mouse

One of my favourite childhood anecdotes occurred during a trip to Nassau with my mother. We were out for dinner at some tropical restaurant, and I needed to go to the bathroom. Being the fiercely independent child that I was, I insisted on going alone. I returned with the force of a recently fired cannon ball, shrieking at having seen a gigantic mouse atop the toilet. The waiter, in an attempt to both calm me and to assure the other guests of the cleanliness of his establishment came over and said, “Oh no leetle girl. Eeeze no mouse. Eeeze cock-A-roach!”

Now, it might sound odd, that a grown woman (and a biologist at that) who is fascinated by animal carcasses smeared across road beds and likewise charmed by even the most putrid of slithering animals should be so unreasonably mortified by the existence of cockroaches - but I am. Perhaps my intense phobia stems from the traumatic events of that otherwise blissful island vacation. Or maybe it developed during those long nights spent on the roach-riddled couch at my now-father’s wretched little apartment in Toledo (which, by the way, was the scene of another of my favourite childhood anecdotes which I will save for the occasion when I need to introduce a topic regarding exploding bottles of liquid Styrofoam and the ensuing haircuts required as a result thereof.) I won’t dismiss the possibility that my rigid disregard for the frightful insects matured that night I ate mushrooms at Mike Griffin’s house. Well, a phobia is, by definition, an irrational fear, thus I will squander no further effort on a justification for my emotions. Regardless of the root causes, the fact remains that I am extremely unsettled by the sudden and unexpected sight of a cockroach.

Now, one might make a good argument for the case that seeing a cockroach in Sydney in the summer should not be an unexpected event. Indeed, I myself have made public statements regarding the fact that cockroaches are an undeniable part of the native fauna of Australia, and that they are not necessarily an indicator of squalid poverty or poor domestic hygiene. Nonetheless, whenever I chance upon some shiny brown carapace with wriggly antenna waving at me in eager defiance as it scuttles across the halls of the Blackburn Building and vanishes beneath some misplaced piece of equipment, I cannot resist the impulse to pull my elbows close to my body and flap my hands at the wrists whilst high-stepping through the corridors in a spastic ballet accompanied by some rather unpleasant vocalizations.

Thus, with that background information, I invite you to imagine the turmoil that ensued when I, in a state of gentle repose, relaxing upon my sofa, drinking a cold beer, and watching illegally obtained episodes of South Park, observed a small dark form scurry into my peripheral vision. As my frontal cortex rapidly sorted through possible explanations for this brown blur (lizard, mouse, cock…) the wretched creature crawled across MY FOOT, at which moment my reptilian brainstem reclaimed control over my body with the vengeance of a postal worker that has been passed over for promotion for forty years. With an agility I’d never imagined possible outside of a French circus, my puny muscles launched my awkward frame across the room in a spray of golden bubbles and imaginative curses. It took a full forty-five seconds of sputtering in circles before my cortex regained control of my corpuscles and suggested to my reluctant hands to collect a shoe, but of course, by this time the little bastard had wriggled out of sight.

The situation might not have been so traumatic if Kevin were here to laugh at me, or better yet, to hunt down and kill the beast himself (a duty that I distinctly recall being stated in our wedding vows explicitly), but he is over 2,000 kilometers away in Townsville. So I am left alone, to prance gingerly through the apartment, rounding corners on tip-toe, and jumping at every little shadow that shimmies in the corner of my eye. I will change the sheets and shake out the doona (aka comforter), but I doubt that sleep will fall easily upon my worried mind. I already pity myself for the unavoidable occasion when I am awakened in the middle of the night by the pitter-patter of six sticky feet across my face.

That just may be the day I buy my ticket home.

23%

“Some amazing things just happened to my mouth.” Said Kevin.

Wait, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Did you know that 23% of all men suffer from excessive wind? I know that because there was a framed sign in the bathroom at the pub that said so. That was all it said. There was no further information nor suggestions for products to relieve such an affliction nor a number for a government hotline. Just a simple statement of fact. A fact with which, by the way, I take serious umbrage. For one thing, I have no doubt the statistic approaches 110%, and secondly, I disagree that they are the ones who suffer. Indeed, I think they rather enjoy it.

But that was before the amazing things happened to Kevin’s mouth. And my mouth. These amazing things came courtesy of the food artisans at the Spicy Sichuan Restaurant. It’s the type of restaurant I might have been reluctant to try on my own, because I would not have had a clue what to order, even though each menu item featured colourful photographs. Fortunately, we were there at the urging of the graduate students in my lab, who deftly, and enthusiastically, ploughed through the menu in an animated exchange with the waiter that involved much nodding and gesturing.

I’m still not quite sure what I ate, but it was amazing. There was some fish stuff. And some pork stuff with garlic – or was it garlic stuff with pork? I believe that is more accurate. There was my favourite dish of green beans with more pork stuff. There were stuffed dumplings and more fish stuff. And there was eggplant, which I generally dislike with an intensity reserved for purveyors of genocide, but which on this occasion tempted me to lick my bowl. The magical blend of garlic, spice, and peppers transported us all to a higher plane of existence, where vocabulary became obsolete and conversation limited to the making of yummy sounds.

However, my favourite part of the restaurant experience was the little shrine in the women’s toilet burning fragrant incense. No doubt because 23% of all women…

Never Ready

This morning, I dismissed the little voice in side my head that said I should carry my camera with me today. So I don’t have a picture of the inexplicable crowd that swarmed the St Leonards train station.

Or of the incredibly helpful marquee on the front of the #435 bus that read “TERMINATES – All Stops”.

Or of the amazingly filthy man sitting on the marble steps of Energy Australia telling an animated story to a constable. He looked like he had been dragged beneath the under carriage of a train…or maybe like a cat that had been sleeping on a greasy engine block.

I don’t have a picture of the burned out car with smashed windows that has been sitting in the gravel lot in front of the brick wall painted with a mural of a giant smirking skull, but was today filled with colourful balloons.

I don’t have a picture of the fire at the Broadway shops or the massive traffic back up along the main artery leading from the heart of the city into the Western suburbs.

I don’t have a picture of the torrential downpour that soaked me to the skin the minute I stepped out of the door of the Blackburn Building (which, by the way, had a fire alarm today.)

But I especially don’t have a picture of the wonderful little boy stomping happily through puddles, who reminded me that it is fun to walk in the rain.

Ode to the Lane Cove Library

One of the advantages of commuting by public transport is that I have an extra 7.5 hours per week to dedicate to reading, Thus I am averaging about a book a week. Not exactly ravenous, but not too shabby, considering the number of people who don’t read at all – or who will no longer read now that the Harry Potter adventures are all wrapped up.

Despite having been raised by a devout Librarian, I somehow picked up the naughty habit of buying books. Mostly, because I enjoy writing in them and giving them to people, but also because since I moved away from home, Mom can no longer erase my overdue fines. Aside from the occasional find at St Vincent dePaul’s, buying books in Australia is preposterous. Books here are outrageously expensive. Outrageously. Even used books are excessive. I had myself a little rant at Dymock’s where the clerk calmly explained that the reason books were so expensive is that Australia had to pay exorbitant fees to the bloody American Publishing houses. How does that explain the 128 page paperback, written by Australian authors and published in Sydney that just cost me $30?? (Editor's Note: Derogatory comment regarding Australia's convict heritage has been thoughtfully deleted.)

And so, I have developed a very close relationship with the Lane Cove Library. Although their collection is typically lacking any book I am actively seeking (hence the aggravation at Dymock’s), I can always find something amusing to read. And they have an exquisite collection of DVD’s, including old classics, heaps of Aussie movies, and the entire 182 seasons of M*A*S*H. (Mind you, M*A*S*H was a great show, but I am still a little baffled by its lingering popularity here. I suspect they like it because every once in a while a brave and stalwart digger makes an appearance on the show, always in a favourable light.)

The Lane Cove Library is run by a prototypical library staff: 30% genuinely helpful professional bibliophiles, 30% crotchety old farts with fat ankles, 20% social misfits without people skills who are very annoyed that you are disturbing their perfectly ordered world by moving their books around and asking questions. Since we moved to St Leonards from the Village of Lane Cove, visiting the library has become a bit of an event for us. Lately, we have been walking the hilly 2.5 Km, then stopping in at the butcher’s to collect something for dinner, or having lunch at my favourite place for Portuguese chicken burgers.

But my favourite time to visit the library is when it is pissing down rain – which it has done for about 25 out of the last 30 days. This is not because the prospect of curling up with a good book or an old movie on a rainy afternoon is so appealing…nor is it because the library is located in a cozy brick building. It is because when it rains, the roof leaks like a sprinkler. I find this infinitely amusing for some reason that can only be a defect in my moral character. (Editor's Note: A derogatory comment regarding Australian building standards has been deleted.) The floor becomes a maze of buckets catching small waterfalls. The carpet beneath the rear wall has sprouted a thick shag of white fungus. The stacks are draped with large plastic sheets. I think it is very fun to climb under the tarps and browse through the fiction titles in solitude. It's like being in a dark smelly tent with all my favourite authors telling me bed time stories.

Yesterday, upon check out, I was handed a slip of paper explaining the relocation of half the collection to temporary quarters during construction of a new library. What is odd is that the new library is going to be in an entirely different location from the current one, so I cannot comprehend why half the collection is being temporarily relocated elsewhere and half will remain where it is. My questions were answered by an angry stare from an employee clearly in the 20th percentile, so I collected my books and departed in a state of mild bewilderment that has become all too familiar to me since moving to Australia.

Burn Blackburn, Burn

Without fail, the fire alarm in the building where I work goes off every week, except for the time when there really was a fire on the sixth floor. Then it never went off. I am forever optimistic that, maybe this time, it will actually burn to the ground, and then the University could build a proper research building with functional plumbing, proper ventilation, and adequate electrical outlets. But it is always a boring old false alarm.

Except for today. Today, the building got hit by lightning. It was the loudest sound I ever felt, and of course, the fire alarm went off immediately. Eyewitnesses outside reported seeing a large yellow fireball in the vicinity of the roof. Unfortunately, the building is adequately grounded, thus it did not burn to the ground. We didn't even lose power. There was a minor explosion in a flourescent light fixture, which has filled the hallways with the dramatic smell of ozone.

The best part about fire alarms, aside from the fresh air, is the firemen. I like to sit on the brick wall across from the main entrance and wait for the firemen to pull up in their cute little miniature firetrucks. Perhaps "cosmopolitan" is a better term, but compared to the American behemoths, they look like little toy firetrucks. I don't know how the firmen can muster such enthusiasm on a weekly basis, hopping out of the cabs in all earnestness, full of gusto. Maybe like me, they are eternal optimists and belive that this will be the week when the building is really, truly on fire.

Which is ridiculous, because if it were, there wouldn't be any alarms.

Super Bowl in the Tropics

I stepped out of the dry sterile air of the plane and into the wet heat of Townsville in summer, like walking into a French whore’s g-string, except it smelled like frangipani and sea water and only cost ninety-nine dollars to get there.

Logistical difficulties with Kevin’s work travel schedule forced us to spend Super Bowl Monday in the tropics. BooHoo. Sydney’s weather has been total shithouse for the last few weeks, and I welcomed the sweltering seaside humidity. It’s not like the exhaust stained humidity of the city that clings to your eyeballs and pools in the bottom of your lungs. It’s fresh and cleansing, like being in a pretty bathtub for three days, except for the drunk aboriginals.

Townsville seems to be falling down and building up at the same time. The skyline is dotted with several cranes constructing large hotels and giant warehouses along the port, yet every other storefront along the main drag is gutted and boarded up. The parklands of The Strand are maintained with meticulous splendour, the massive fig and macadamia nut trees filled with black cockatoos and honey eaters. The brick walkways of The Flinders Street Mall are dusty and jumbled, the benches filled with black men with skinny legs and shaggy white manes drinking beer.

Castle Crag looms majestically above Townsville, staring out across the bay at Magnetic Island, perhaps longingly. After World War II, an American Corps of Army Engineers offered to dismantle the giant rock cliff to build a bridge to the island. I think they were just looking for a good excuse to stay. Townsville wisely declined. And so Maggie maintains an aura of remote mystique, even though it is only 25 minutes away by ferry and infested with luxury vacation homes and dirty back-packers.

I do not feel there is any reason for me to recap the play-by-play drama of the main event, since I am reasonably sure that most of my reading audience was among the 140 million people that tuned into the Super Bowl at some point, and if you weren’t watching the gripping second half, then you obviously don’t care about it anyway and wouldn’t want to suffer through my bombastic narrative. As per usual, I came very close to getting kicked out of the Cowboy’s League Club. What can I say, I got excited. And I had been drinking beer since 9 am. Swearing in public is frowned upon with an amazing intolerance here. But Christ, it was the Fucking Super Bowl and I was in a Rugby League Club! I pulled myself together and managed to direct my angst inward during the last few minutes of the game:



I took advantage of the occasion to revel in the glory of the anniversary of the most exciting sport’s bet I have ever made, retelling the tale to anyone who would listen. Our gains were appreciably more modest this year, though we did double our money and cover our drinks with a Giant’s win and Eli’s nomination to MVP, and if Plaxico Burress hadn’t been triple covered on the first drive, we would have paid for dinner too.

The Doctrine of Fashionism

Sydney certainly believes itself to be a city steeped in high fashion. Except for the occasional freak coincidence, my own wardrobe has consistently been at odds with the fashion industry throughout my entire life. Therefore, I am not really in a position to judge whether or not Sydneysiders dress in the height of modern fashion. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that Australia’s geographical isolation from the rest of civilization, coupled with their unique self image, has resulted in some very regrettable wardrobe decisions among Sydney’s clothes conscious.

The current trend for women is all about baby doll dresses. Loose flowing gowns cinched tight across the nipple line and cropped as close to the bottom of the buttocks as a breezeless day will allow. The result is a complete obliteration of any hint of the female form. Breasts look flattened and all other curves become invisible. This look does however place an extraordinary emphasis on the lower extremities. Many Australian women have a distinct body-type: long lean bodies and short strong legs (I am curious to know what set of genetic crossbreeds gave rise to this particular shape.) Thus the baby doll dress helps balance out their proportions. However, the overall effect is that Saturday night in the city resembles a giant pyjama party in high heels.

Note: This look is not truly complete unless you are pigeon toed.

The fashion for men is slightly less ridiculous, except for the shoes and quite possibly the hair, oh and the sunglasses. When walking through the central business district, I often get the feeling I have stumbled into a Tyler Durden look-alike convention. I actually find this look rather attractive, if not only because of the menatal associations to Brad Pitt. I don’t particularly mind the just-rolled-out-of-bed look for men’s hair, except I know that in fact they had it professionally styled and spent more than a few minutes in the mirror with some products making sure the left side was smooshed just so. But this look falls apart for me when it comes to the shoes. Most popular are ridiculously long, square-toed Italian loafers – preferably so long that the toes actually curl up, giving the effect of a pair of Persian Ali Baba slippers. This gives the Australian male a peculiar gait in order to avoid tripping, and narrow stair cases necessitate a slightly angled ascent in order to ensure the balls of the foot actually hit the risers.

When it comes to sunglasses, I am fairly certain that this unfortunate trend has indeed swept the globe, but I am hopeful that it is already dying out elsewhere. Now mind you, there was a time when I was quite smitten with Jackie-O sunglasses, but as usual, it was more for the comic relief factor than for style or practicality. Designers have taken the Jackie-O concept to new extremes, but the key to this fashion accessory is to sport a sincere expression of disaffected boredom and impatience. The overall effect is an entire city of indolent insects travelling by public transport.

One last note about footwear: I know that flip-flops (aka thongs) have risen to new heights of acceptable fashion throughout the United States and are probably here to stay because of their complete functionality and affordability. I support this trend fully and thank the powers of the universe that this trend did not persist during the seventies when the thick-soled rainbow striped version briefly made the scene. Still, I cannot visualize any major city in the US where flip-flops are such an integral part of daily business wear. Again, I suspect this has much to do with Australia’s unique self-image and also with Sydney’s close association with the beach, such that everyone like to constantly give the impression that, at any moment, they might just bugger off to go surfing.

So tell me dear readers, is the rest of the world really dressing like this?

Dear Colleagues (Part 2)

Thank you for your overwhelming support in my efforts to restore the tea room refrigerator to an acceptable level of bio-safety. I appreciate your appreciation.

I have made another executive decision in favour of general-use condiments. In an effort to reduce redundancy of common condiments, such as butter/margarine, chilli sauce, fruit preserves, etc, I encourage people to share these relatively inexpensive items with their colleagues. Henceforth all un-labelled items may be considered available for general use. Please try to reserve the upper shelves for general-use items.

Despite what my husband says about me, I do not enjoy micromanaging other people’s behaviour, thus am reluctant to institute a roster system for maintenance of inventory and regular cleaning. Instead, I choose to believe (perhaps naively) that the selfless actions of mature people, acting in good faith, will balance themselves out - even if some people cannot figure out where tea bags come from…but I will save that rant for my next project.

Again, thank you. And don’t forget:


PLEASE

DATE & LABEL YOUR FOOD

Straya Day, 2008

This year, we decided to forgo the national day of public drunkenness that is Australia Day in favour of a more relaxed weekend of relatively private drunkenness. Had it not been for the unfortunate demise of Trevor Drayton in an unplanned winery explosion, we would not have been researching his family history on line and would not have followed the link to the Eagle Reach Wilderness Resort. Thus, we most likely would have had a repeat of last year’s hands-and-knees-crawl through the rancid albeit historic pubs of The Rocks. Instead, we spent the long weeKEND in blissful communion with nature atop a mountain ridge overlooking an idyllic valley that alternately cured and worsened my homesickness in regular 15 minute intervals.

Spending some quality time in a quiet A-frame lodge, listening to a symphony of insects, birds, and breezes while relaxing upon an expansive wooden deck illuminated a surprising revelation: The discomfort of my adjustment to life in Australia has less to do with living in a foreign land than with having moved from the peaceful solitude of the bush to the constant noisy grind of the hustle and bustle of city life.

City life comes with many distinct advantages such as convenient and diverse take-away food, serviceable public transport, and easy access to a variety of culturally enriching venues, which, although they often cause me to frown, also provoke thoughtful reflection and spirited discourse. But nothing soothes my soul like clean open vistas, air spiced with trees and wildflowers, while communing with (read: feeding junk food to) abundant native fauna.

Our first night, we had dinner at the TreeHops Restaurant, which boasted the culinary talents of Stephen Hitchings, Sir Richard Branson’s former personal chef. I’m not entirely sure if listing one’s former employment, particularly with an eccentric such as Sir Richard, is an endorsement of one’s talents or illustrative of one's shortcomings – after all, if it was such a good gig, why are you now working in the remote wilderness, and if it was a such lousy gig that it would drive you into the remote wilderness, why are you bragging about it? Regardless, the food was delicious and paired perfectly with a local 2006 Chambourcin, which had distinct barnyard characteristics and an unmistakable finish of pig manure (it’s not for everyone). We were distressed to learn the vineyard had recently been purchased by a wealthy woman with a love of horses who had immediately desisted all farming and wine making activities upon the property. We made a mental note to purchase a souvenir bottle to take home with us.


After a dark and peaceful sleep that was not bookended by the sound of inbound trains at 1:37 am and 4:47 am, we indulged in a hot breakfast before joining the guided walk through a unique pocket of rainforest beneath a canopy of noxious vines and obnoxious birds. Invigorated by the steep but short circuit, we opted to tackle the more strenuous Moonabung Trail. Several sweaty kilometres later, we were moping over the prospects of the return hike to our car when we encountered another couple coming the other way who informed us we were a mere fifteen minutes from the reception lodge and the bounty of free bicycle hires therein. The bicycles were total crap, but that was of no concern as we glided all the way down the road to the carpark. With feelings of triumph, we had earned a bottle of wine, a soak in the private hot tub on the rear deck of our cabin, and a couple of massages at the on-site spa.

Exhaustion from the previous day’s exertions pre-empted the next day’s plans for kayaking. No drama after an inspection of the lagoon revealed it to be not much bigger than an Olympic sized swimming pool, though it was covered with lovely water lilies and served as home to a large goose, who had been quite a nuisance to paddlers prior to the mysterious disappearance of his girlfriend. Instead, we opted for a country drive through the rolling green hills of the Allyn River Valley on a route which just so happened to include a couple of boutique wineries - and also a lavender farm (which may be the most overrated scent of modern day history) where we sampled a concoction called “Driver Reviver”…who wouldn’t become suddenly alert after being spritzed in the face with a potion distinctly reminiscent of the odour of cat piss. The highlight of the drive was a visit to the friendly owner/operators of the Camyr Allyn Vineyard, who upon hearing of our infatuation with the now obsolete Chambourcin, immediately got on the phone to their newest neighbour and helped her “unload” a case of the reviled liquid for a mere $100. Considering we spent $39 a bottle at TreeHops – and were prepared to spend it again – we were quite delighted with our good fortune. So delighted, that we felt obligated to buy some of their own delicious wine.

After a brief pit stop at the local olive farm (heh), we returned to our tranquil ridge-top lodge to complete the corruption of the dietary habits of large Australian marsupials and to further contemplate our past, present, and future positions in life. As that turned out to be way too heavy, we decided to try our hand at yabbie fishing instead.

For $5, we purchased a yabbie fishing kit consisting of a length of string, some frozen red meat, and some rather optimistic recipe suggestions. The staff advised us that the trick to successful yabbie fishing was to ‘flick’ the yabbies out of the pond and that this could be facilitated by tying the string to a “random stick or odd branch”. I opted for a random stick. They neglected to mention how I was supposed to keep the bait away from the ravenous long-necked turtles and swarms of hungry minnows, but it did not take me long to perfect my technique - much to the dismay of the two blokes on the other shore who had been trying in earnest to catch dinner for several hours. We suggested they try using an odd branch, and indeed their success rate improved dramatically. They soon caught their second yabbie of the day, and then left shortly after I flicked my fifth yabbie out of the pond…though in retrospect it might have had something to do with the inordinate amount of shrieking and giggling that accompanied each catch.





On Monday, always searching for a road less travelled, we followed a winding and circuitous return route to Sydney. Oddly, the road was extremely well travelled, considering the fact that we were really in the middle of nowhere. As we traversed a mountain pass into the insignificant town of Wollombi (pronounced ‘Wollombi’), we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the chaos and congestion of a small town market day. Many rural communities have monthly markets, which are apparently a more significant social event than I ever would have imagined. With the promise of goofy antiques, local produce, and grilled onions atop fried sausage sandwiches (with coleslaw for a mere $3.50, proceeds benefiting the Wollombi Rotary Club), we braved the stifling mid-day heat and meandered through the crowds.

As nap time beckoned, we returned to the road but opted for the less travelled ‘Old Pacific Highway’, an endeavour that proved immensely satisfying as the road twisted across the traffic jams of the F3 Motorway. (Which was closed for five miserable hours the next morning following the explosion of a truck.)

Overall the weekend was tremendously fun, as evidenced by the number of bruises, bites, and scrapes with which I returned home. And, I will forever cherish the memory of Kevin making out with a Macropus robustus robustus...

Dear Colleagues,

I was so mortified by the horrific odour emanating from the refrigerator in the tea room this morning that I was loathe to place my lunch inside lest it become infiltrated by the stench. Thus, in my disgust, I went on a rampage of purging the offending appliance of shrivelled apples, mouldy bread, and numerous takeaway containers filled with frothy unidentifiable substances. If any of those items were your intended lunch, come see me and we can have a little chat about gastroenteritis.

The refirigerator (and freezer) still contain several dubious food items and the smell is not much improved. Therefore , I am VOLUNTEERING to provide a thorough scrubbing of the interior. In exchange for my efforts, I am making an executive decision:

Effective February 1st: ALL food, beverage, and condiment items stored within the refrigerator MUST be clearly labelled with a name and date or they will be discarded (or eaten) on a periodic basis with no warning or due compensation.

If you would like to discuss this policy, please come talk to me. I am open to negotiation. However, being that we are all reasonably educated and mature adults, not to mention scientists – to whom dating and initialling should be second nature by now – I do not see that there should be any objections to implementing a system that will foster a more pleasant, if not hygienic, kitchen facility for us all.

Sincerely,


Audra McKinze

Yanks Down Under

Minutes of the Sydney Yanks Down Under Meet-Up
Chapter 457

Saturday, 19 January, 2008 17:30

James Squire Brewhouse
Darling Harbour

In Attendance:

Audra – Always happy to be in a brewery.
Devona – Got a job. Congratulations!
Jonathon – Can build serviceable furniture from empty takeaway containers.
Kevin – Didn’t yell at a single taxi all night.
Mike – Doesn’t want to hear how expensive anything is.
Natasha – Heiress to the Vernor’s Ginger Ale Empire – the paparazzi were annoying.
Saji – His accent is going to throw Australia for a loop.
Tracey – Not on the board, but a Yank Down Under nonetheless.
Val – Has an excellent collection of airline blankets.

1) Meeting called to order
2) Motion to order drinks
3) Introductions: place of origin, employment status, time in Australia
4) Floor opened for general discussion.
a. 14 hour flights
b. Apartment hunting
c. Customer service
d. Ikea
e. Gastronomy
f. Taxes
g. Superannuation
h. Vasectomies
i. Merits of public transport
j. The Cricket (Saji broke the consensus, so if you are looking for someone to go to a test with you, contact him directly.)
k. Reasons for the Australian skills shortage
l. Money transfers
m. International freight
n. Cruise liners
o. Australia Day activities
p. The blessing that is Dan Murphy’s
q. Cross examination of techniques for public urination
r. Spelling and syntax
s. Visa subclasses
t. Travel within Australia
u. Medical insurance
v. Doggy blow jobs

5) Motion to order more drinks
6) Motion to order several racks of ribs
7) Tracey and Natasha departed to make enchiladas for their Aussie boyfriends. Motion carried that Tracey and Natasha will soon make enchiladas for the rest of us.
8) Motion to order more drinks.
9) Meeting relocated to Cockle Bay for performance of Water Fools.



Sorry – bear with me for a moment while I break into a rant: Modern art in general and performance art in particular invariably causes me to frown. I suppose that the purpose of such art is indeed to encourage people to examine the deeper meaning of existence and the human experience while reflecting on the evolution of social themes, but why can’t it ever make any fucking sense!? Perhaps I am trying to over-intellectualize what is meant to be a purely sensory experience, but the imagery becomes a splinter in my brain. I know the artist is trying to communicate some great universal truth, and I feel it is a personal shortcoming because I simply cannot understand the language of a naked crone with sagging breasts and gazelle antlers spinning in circles in a fiery canoe while another lady pushes a baby carriage with a child and an alien in tow past a large floating bed tethered to a tree with sheets as another woman rides on top of a hamster exercise wheel until her head explodes. What are you trying to tell me?? MY head is about to explode!

10) Meeting relocated to Scruffy Murphy’s
11) Motion to order more drinks
12) Meeting relocated to Hungry Jacks.
a. Resolved: Hungry Jacks has the best cheeseburgers in Australia, not only because they have real pickles, but they taste great.
13) Meeting relocated to North Shore Line via Town Hall.
a. In transit entertainment courtesy of NSW Police
14) Saji departed North Sydney
a. Resolved: Saji to post pictures because my photography skills are seriously lacking.
15) Meeting relocated to St Leonards tavern
16) Motion to order more drinks
17) Motion to order more drinks
18) Meeting Adjourned

Next Meeting tentatively scheduled for Sunday, 24 February - Location TBD

Certifiable

We first encountered the concept of ‘certified copies’ when we were gathering materials for our visa application to Australia. The Department of Immigration and Citizenship requested ‘certified copies’ of crucial documents such as diplomas, transcripts, passports, birth certificates, and our marriage license. After some research, we learned that a certified copy is simply a photocopy bearing the signature of someone officious who can verify that it is indeed a copy of the original. We figured the US equivalent could only be a notary public. After much blinking and frowning and circular argumentation, the notary public refused to certify a photocopy of the original, because she had no way to verify the authenticity of the original. This seemed painfully reasonable to me. However, it did not solve our dilemma with the Australian Government. Eventually, we just ordered originals from all the various bureaucratic agencies and submitted those.

Although our visa was granted without any complications, we still have frequent occasions to supply the Australian Government with various certified copies in support of various bureaucratic pursuits, such as Medicare Levy Exemption Certificates, Notification of Passport Renewals, and It Has Been Six Weeks Since You Filed Some Sort of Paperwork Submissions. For an activity that is clearly ubiquitous, the general population maintains an amazing level of ignorance as to its execution. Asking around, I have been told several blatant lies. The most believable of these lies being that I can get such copies at the Post Office, because the Post Office does everything BUT handle mail (note to self: write blog entry on the overextended services of the Australian Post and be sure to mention the cute little Postie Bikes used to deliver mail, and the fact that they won’t pick up mail from your mailbox, and that junk mail services are sub-contracted.)

My first attempt to get certified copies was rather painless, and in retrospect, possibly illegal. I took photocopies of my passport to the Post Office on campus and asked to have them certified. My request was answered with the blank stare unique to the incomprehension of non-native speakers.

“Copies?”

“Yes, certified copies.”

“Copies, 50 cents.”

“OK, certified copies?”

“OK”. He took my passport and proceeded to photocopy each page, then handed me the stack.

“Don’t you need to certify them?”

“What?”

“Sign them or stamp them or something?”

“You want a stamp?”

“Yes, certified copies.”

“OK. You want stamp, I give stamp.” And he stamped each page with a round decal that said Australia Post and the date. Whatever.

I sent the copies off to the Medicare Office and soon received my exemption certificate. On the next occasion I had requiring certified copies, I went to the St Leonards Post Office, also staffed by non-natives, but each having a distinctly better command of the English language.

“Sorry, we can’t make copies at this office.”

This morning, running late for work and not having much to do once I got there, I thought I would take advantage of the occasion to visit the General Post Office located in a beautiful venetian style building at Martin Place. The not particularly pleasant woman at the counter informed me that Australia Post does not certify copies. I said I had had it done at another office, but she shook her head and adamantly claimed that was not possible.

“The Post can make copies, but we cannot certify them. You can get free certified copies from the Justice of the Peace at the Supreme Court, on King Street at the top of the hill. Next in Line.”

Certifying tourist documents seemed to me a mighty menial job for a high-falootin’ office such as the Supreme Court of New South Wales, but who am I to argue with bureaucratic process. I considered returning to the dodgy campus post office, but this seemed like a fun opportunity to poke around historic buildings with a semblance of purpose, so I marched up the hill.

The Supreme Court building is a cavernous sandstone (what else) structure attached to a cavernous sandstone church located in complex of other cavernous sandstone government buildings from the early years of Sydney's history. The complex sits at the bottom of a replica of London’s Hyde Park called, unimaginatively, Hyde Park. I meandered through the intricately painted arched hallways tiled with black and white marble hexagon, searching in vain for the Justice of the Peace, my curiosity aroused by the numbers of groups of muslim families huddled in anxious consultations with men with slick curly hair in sharp wool suits. What exactly happens in the Supreme Court? Finally, I poked my head inside the Sheriff’s Office (I don’t think the Sheriff in Australia serves the same function as in the States) and asked for directions.

I was sent across the street to a modern high-rise where security officers x-rayed my sushi before sending me to the fifth floor. When my number was called, I approached the lady at the counter. Despite my best attempt at perfect courtesy, I watched a sneer crawl across her face when she detected my foreign accent. She directed me to a small office across the lobby that did not require a number. At this point it occurred to me that I was probably supposed to bring my own copies with me. She confirmed my suspicions with another sneer and said “Well after all, what else are we supposed to certify for you? What did you think?” Since I was no longer in need of her services, I decided to vent the considerable whinge that was building up inside of me, including a childlike display of stomping up and down while flailing my arms about my person just to illustrate the physical dimension of my frustration.

Then I left the building before she could called security.

About Time Off

Depending on my current disposition – degree of homesickness, level of annoyance with Shitty Rail, B.A.C. – I alternate between believing that Australians have an excellent work ethic and thinking that they are a bunch of incredible slackers. But, since I myself am an incredible slacker, I am typically in awe of the structure of Australian vacation time. Not only is my work day technically only 7.5 hours, I earn 4 weeks of vacation per year, plus two weeks of paid holiday leave over the Christmas break (not to mention two weeks of sick time) – and get this – I get paid 17% MORE money to take time off! The logic behind this brilliant piece of union negotiation is that workers who are paid hourly usually earn lots of overtime. As their living expenses generally swell to match their earnings, they can not afford to take their vacation time because their pay checks would be smaller and they wouldn't be able to cover their horse racing bets. In an effort to encourage relaxation (and perhaps give employees more time to spend in the gambling parlours), the government agreed to ‘leave-loading’, so that ordinary workers would actually use their time-off. I am on salary and do not get overtime pay, but for some inexplicable reason, I still get this benefit under my employment contract. Mind you, I am not one to complain about getting extra money, but the logical side of my brain goes into gentle spasms when I really think about this.

However, there is no denying the inherent civility of a two-week Christmas shut-down. And when I say shut-down, I mean the whole country is pretty well shut down. All major business, many retail shops, and numerous small restaurants are completely closed during this period. Only basic services such as grocery stores, public transport, and drinking establishments remain open, and with the exception of transport, even those are closed on Christmas Day, Boxing Day (whatever that is – honestly, no one really knows for sure, or really cares – it’s a day off), and New Years Day. In the States, you can usually find a grocery store that is open until 2 pm on Christmas Day for those last minute essentials (Fuck! I forgot stuffing – can’t have Christmas without stuffing), and there is always a local liquor store run by opportunistic heathens open until the wee hours for your last minute lottery needs, but here you better be prepared or else you go hungry (and thirsty) for two days.

For two weeks, the city was a ghost town. Trains, motorways (they can’t call them Freeways, cuz most of them require a toll), and city streets were all but deserted. A relative hush descended on our neighbourhood – mostly because the de-construction site across the street was closed thus sparing us from the horrors of awaking each morning at 6 am to the sound of jack hammers. Grocery store shelves and coolers became spartan. Even now, the city is calm and quiet since the schools are on holiday until the end of January and most families have fled to the beaches for their summer holidays.

Which brings me to a revelation: A two week shut-down over Christmas is a fine tradition, but a two week shut-down over Christmas, in the middle of summer, while days are long and nights are warm is totally awesome! It rekindled memories of childhood summer vacations that had been buried beneath the burden of steady employment.

To get the most from our break, we cultivated intense periods of boredom (a trick I learned from Joseph Heller - page 17, 2nd paragraph), thus making the two weeks seem as long as possible - with the exception of New Year’s Eve, which, as mentioned previously, passed in about 20 minutes. Our holiday was spent sleeping until noon, going for walks, taking naps, reading books, and staying up late watching movies. Perhaps not the best use of our time in a foreign land, but nonetheless thoroughly restorative while providing the time we needed to reflect on the last year and make new plans for the future.

More on those as they unfold.

The Time of Our Lives

One year ago, we boarded a plane bound for Australia just before midnight. A few hours later we crossed the International Date Line, officially marking the shortest New Year’s I have ever known – until now. Last night seemed like it was only about twenty minutes long, and I couldn’t stretch time no matter how I tried.

At dawn, the parks and reserves of the foreshore were already filling with families and revellers staking out territory for the phenomenal party thrown across Sydney Harbour. Streets were barricaded and expressways closed as 1 million people streamed into the city, searching for the perfect vantage point, preferably one within a serviceable walk of a functional toilet. Indeed, access to reasonable toilet facilities played no small part in our New Year’s Eve plans, and there we could think of no better vantage point for the spectacular Sydney fireworks show than from the top deck of a luxurious cruise ship on the harbour.

At 6 pm, we joined an excited mob and squeezed ourselves sardine style onto a city bound train. At 7:30, we weaved our way through throngs of food stalls, glow stick vendors, and drunks (oof, they’ve got a long way to go) jammed into Circular Quay and escaped into the tranquil civility of Wharf 6, where we were cordially welcomed aboard the Sydney 2000. We grabbed some champagne and headed to the top deck.

Instantly, I became dizzy, spinning and swirling in a vain attempt to take in the scene that was unfolding in all directions around me. A chorus of cheers erupted from the crowd as we set sail. Flash bulbs popped from every balcony. The coves along the foreshore were stuffed with brightly lit boats at anchor. In the distance, a huge cyclone of flying foxes swirled above the city, sending off the occasional arm of migratory bats, like storm bands from a hurricane.

We slipped back to our table for the entrée of lobster and oysters, but our excitement could not be confined indoors, and we were soon back on the top deck, waving to passing boats. Downstairs again for an Intermezzo of melon sherbet, then up to the deck for the 9 o’clock fireworks display, put on for the kids who cannot stay up till midnight. After the show, our boat joined the other commercial charters for a parade of lights around the harbour in an exclusion zone off limits to all other boats. Thus the water was calm and uncrowded, save for the red and blue flashing lights of dozens of police vessels patrolling the edge of the zone. There was a beauty there as well.

After the delicious main course, (I used to make fun of my Aunt Bette for the excruciating detail she would relate when describing enjoyable meals she’d had on various vacations, and I vowed I would never do that. However, as I get older, I have come to appreciate the increasing sensory pleasures of the palette, perhaps because they swell as other pleasures recede. Nonetheless, I won’t torture you with sumptuous descriptions of grilled beef fillets with red onion jam or duck confit with dark cherry sauce.) time slowed down a little, and we were able to savour the atmosphere of the evening. With so many stimuli competing for our attention, it was hard to remain focused on any one pleasure for very long, and we were soon doing laps around the decks trying to imprint as many sensations on our psyche as possible.

At last, the captain parked the boat sideways to the bridge at the far end of the exclusion zone, the lights of all the other boats beautifully framed between the city lights of either shore. Perfect. Just before midnight, the sky erupted with light, sound, and colour from every direction, the flaming bridge at centrepiece. Thunderous explosions drowned out the appreciative cheers of the crowds. Horns and whistles sounded from all directions and the surface of the water became a shimmering reflection of the rainbow ballet of sparkling flares. From the tops of skyscrapers, fountains of flames contributed to the swelling crescendo of the blazing symphony. Then, climax: The deck of the bridge transformed into a brilliant white waterfall of flame, spilling into the sizzling water of Sydney Harbour.

Then it was done. Like a giant balloon that had finally run out of the pressure necessary to keep it sputtering and farting around the room in a manner that never fails to entertain all but the most severe old cranks. Nothing to do now but revel in our insufficient memory and gloat as we joined one million other people in a race for a train home.

Actually, getting out of the city was no where near as difficult as I had been lead to believe. Our boat docked at 1 am, and most of the crowds at Circular Quay had already dissipated, leaving behind a wake of garbage so impressive, that we lingered to discuss the beast that had left behind such chaos. By the time we made our way through the cheerful drunken stragglers, up George to Wynyard Station, the crush of people was less than a typical workday commute and we were able to step directly onto a train that took us right to our front door.

We sat on our balcony, gazing out across the harbour and tried once more in vain to slow time, to make this night last forever. Soon I was overcome with the beautiful fatigue borne of busy excitement and I succumbed to exhaustion at 3:30.

At 6:00 am, I awoke to the sound of hoots and hollers coming from a balcony on the next building as a group of drunks greeted the rising sun. They had squeezed every last minute out of the night.

But through the magic of photography, this night can last forever...and when I get around to editing the videos, you'll see what I mean.

Happy New Year!

And

Happy 18th Anniversary, Darling.

Video Experiment in Progress...

About Australian Diminutives

The distinctive accent and colorful vernacular make the Australian way of speaking one of the most charming dialects in the world. This may be especially true in America, where an Australian accent is the surest form of salesmanship (and possibly foreplay), in everything from tourism to magazine subscriptions (which I cancelled as soon as I got home and came to my senses.) Take, if you will this example I heard in a (terrible, but linguistically entertaining) movie today:

Ratbag Pommy: “I just love the dingo lingo! Hey cobber, say something in Australian.”

Cobber: “Fuck off ya drongo. I wouldn’t piss in yer ear if yer brain was on fire.”


Perhaps one of the most amusing, if not equally frustrating, habits of the Australian tongue is the tendency to shorten words that are otherwise cumbersome, containing too many annoying consonants and syllables that might exhaust ones lips and detract from more important oral activities, such as drinking beer. Thus, ‘breakfast’ becomes ‘brekkie’; ‘sunglasses’ are ‘sunnies’; ‘flip-flops’ are ‘flippies’ (although, being shorter and containing fewer syllables, ‘thongs’ is still widely favored, context usually providing clarification. ‘McDonald’s’ is ‘Maccas’ (pronounced ‘Mackers’) and ‘afternoon’ is, inexplicably, ‘arvo’. I’ll leave it to my readers to put all of those together in a sentence.

With the exception of ‘arvo’, (which I find painful to hear, much more so to pronounce) I have adopted many of these diminutives into my daily speech, not so much because I am charmed by them, as because, I too am inherently lazy and need to free up more time for drinking beer. However, I draw the line at one particular abridgement. In fact, I am so offended by it that I loathe to even write it. I refuse to wish you all a “Happy Chrissy.”


Merry Christmas.


(Post Script: A Google search of the word 'cobber' yielded a hit at a website called, of all things 'AustralianBeers.com'. The entry lamented the decline of Australia's colorful vernacular and proceeded to blame it on America. Blaming America for every Australian cultural defect is a common past-time, which I will undoubtedly address at some point in the future. But for now, let's just leave it at "No one is fucking forcing you! If you, as a people, collectively choose to adopt American culture, there must be something to it!" Living abroad has, of late, infused me with a new found sense of patriotism.)

New Australian Visa Options

Effective October 31, 2007, the United and States and Australia have entered into a reciprocal agreement for working holiday visas. These visas are designed for young people (up to age 31 - Chloe, you still have time!) who would like to supplement their travel with casual work. The visa allows you to stay and work in Australia for up to 12 months, and there are lots of job opportunities for casual work - mostly restaurant - especially in fun tourist areas. The only restrictions for US citizens are enrollment or graduation from college (aka post-sceondary institution.)

If any of my young friends (or my brother) or friends children are interested, you have a place to stay to start your travels in Sydney...

For more information, see: http://www.immi.gov.au/visitors/working-holiday/462/pdf/fact_1_whv_us.pdf

Cheers.

A Happy Night Out

CW Stoneking makes me believe in collective reincarnation. There can be no doubt that within his skinny white body resides the souls of the founding fathers of back porch blues. Close your eyes while he is performing on stage, and you can smell the alleys and side streets of New Orleans, feel Mississippi mud ooze between your toes, and taste fried catfish and collard greens.

When I first heard him, he and his primitive horn orchestra were live in the studios of Triple J radio. The deep and gravely voice that stammered and stuttered through the interview did not prepare me for what a marvellous showman he would be live on stage. He introduced each song with a short story punctuated with charm and humor (or, if you prefer, humour). The stories became increasingly outrageous as he progressed through his set, beginning with a believable yarn about the first blues song he heard on one of his daddy’s cassettes to a tall tale about arriving on the shores of Africa in a life raft, having used his banjo to paddle across the Atlantic. I couldn’t help but wonder if he invented the stories first, and then penned a song to fit.

We stuck around after the show to get autographs. I fully expected him to just shuffle through the line of people waiting, but he had a protracted conversation with each of his fans, and he was just as amusing and charming as he was on-stage. He and his wife were also married in Reno. He loves San Francisco. He was Cleopatra in a previous life.

More About Australian Toilets

A comment from the previous post:

We are now into the century of water shortages / wars, so let's hear it for the great Australian invention of the dual-flush toilet!http://www.powerhousemuseum.com/australia_innovates/?behaviour=view_article&Section_id=1040&article_id=10044

"In 1956 Charles Rothauser, a Hungarian immigrant, renamed his plastics company "Caroma" and began manufacturing bathroom products, including the world's first one-piece plastic toilet cistern (the cistern is the water tank above the toilet that stores the flush)."

In 1994 the company completely redesigned the toilet in stylish porcelain in a modern 'organic shape'. Its 6 and 3 litre dual flush cistern and matching bowl halved the amount of water normally flushed away. "This combination of style and environmental awareness attracted attention in the tough European sanitaryware market and exports began soon after. The product is now shipped to more than 30 countries worldwide."

Thank you for the excellent segue. I have been meaning to comment on the dual-flush toilet in greater detail, so this seems a fine opportunity. (But first, a crack about the European sanitaryware market, not to be confused with the North American sanitarywear market.)

I was quite enamored with the dual-flush toilet upon my arrival in Australia, slightly perplexed initially as the first one I encountered featured two stainless steel buttons mounted on the wall, one featuring a raised full circle, the other a raised semi-circle, but I soon put it together. I pressed the button for the half flush and watched my toilet paper gently tumble in the now pale yellow water. So I pressed it again with the same result, and then opted for the full flush.

At 3 L per half flush and 6 L per full flush, I spent 9 L (=2.4 US gallons = 0.5 buckets) of water to rid the world of 300 mL of pee. By contrast, a typical low-flow toilet in the US uses 1.6 gallons per flush (= 6L = 136 jiggers = 0.02 hogsheads - WTF is a 'hogshead'?? BK, get on this - I am too lazy to google it myself) and can usually manage a full load in a single flush - except on those frustrating occasions when one produces a particularly buoyant turd that stubbornly clings to life on the surface, circling and circling (counter-clockwise, mind you) but refuses to pass into the next plane of fecal existence.

Really, the difference between the overall effectiveness of Australian and American toilets is negligible, and I have no intention of turning this into a battle of perceived superiority. And, since nothing creates alliances more so than ridiculing a common adversary, let's all have a good laugh about German toilets.

Still, I was very impressed with Australia's conscientious efforts towards water conservation, as I walked to the sink, turned on the taps and was dowsed with a high pressure blast of water reminiscent of fire hose effluent. Surely, I thought this must be an anomaly. The flow restrictor must have fallen out, but this same scenario has repeated itself in nearly every bathroom I have visited - and considering the inadequacy of my bladder, my love of beer, and my post-evacuatory hygiene habits, that is a respectable sampling.

At home, my kitchen faucet is no different. Each time I rinse a dish, I am sprayed with soapy water from the waist up. On the plus side, the kitchen remains relatively clean, since the basin must be wiped down frequently to prevent flooding of the apartment below.

However, there is a flow restrictor in my bathtub. Let me repeat that, in case you missed it...There is a flow restrictor in my bathtub! I guess the idea is, that after 30 minutes, when there is still merely a puddle of now-cold water in the bottom of the tub, one will give up and take a shower.

Or just go wash the dishes.

About Australian Toilets

Perhaps it is a sorry testament to the degree of curiosity that many Americans have for lands beyond their borders, but the most frequent question I receive from folks back home is “So, do the toilets really spin clock-wise there?”

Aside from the fact that many people don’t actually say ‘clock-wise’, not being entirely sure of the direction of the Coriolis Effect in their own hemisphere, the short answer is:

“No.”

The toilets in Australia are so decidedly different that they don’t spin at all. Indeed, most toilets I have encountered flush straight down, due undoubtedly to the fact that Australia seemingly feels the need to distinguish themselves from the rest of the civilised world in small but insignificant ways. Lest you accuse me of Australia bashing, allow me to make my case for at least one advantage of the good old American Standard.

In their defence, the architecture of Australian toilets does discourage unfortunate blockage from bountiful excretory events (Dad!) through the relatively straightforward design of their porcelain p-trap system, particularly in light of the sparse amount of water that inhabits the bowl. I have yet to see a plunger among the accoutrement of an Aussie restroom. (Unfortunately, this meagre water supply does necessitate the presence of a toilet brush in every bathroom.) An added benefit to this system is that there is hardly any ‘back splash’ upon release of any deposition which might otherwise provide an instantaneous, if not entirely unhygienic, bidet-like effect. (Oh, like you don’t know what I am talking about!)

However, because of the deep and wide opening to the sewer pipe, said depositions immediately slide into a cavernous ceramic conduit, rendering them completely inaccessible for review. Mind you, I am not implying that I spend an inordinate amount of time studying my efforts, but a brief survey of ones fecal constructions can provide conspicuous clues regarding the status of one’s overall health and well being…In Australia, one might go for years with undiagnosed colonic ulcers, only to be denied an insurance claim upon returning from an overseas visit.

And of course, there are those rare but satisfying occasions when the gods of peristalsis are smiling upon you, and you just want to spend a few moments admiring the 22" replica of your entire lower digestive tract.

Just be happy there are no photographic accompaniments to this entry.

Didn’t I promise to regain my edginess after my birthday??

Which leads me to a digression…does anyone else have a mirror positioned directly across from their porcelain throne?

Screw You Adam, and Your Home Typing Business That You Seem to Run From the Airport...

Sorry folks.

Sore optimist that I am believed I might be able to hide this blog from ass-sucking spammers, but alas, NO. Thanks to one rotten apple, you (well, all three of you that regularly read and/or comment on my blog -besides the shitheel Adam and his anal intrusive Home Typing Business) must now fill out the cryptic 'word verification' to post comments on my blog. Sorry. Personally, I despise word verification, since there is decidedly something wrong with my spatial vision and I never get it right the first time around...

VrWg3

In Like a Lion

In the context of hemispheric seasonal juxtaposition, I reckon that particular turn of phrase would more appropriately be applied to the month of September, but there is no denying the ferocity of the first part of December. Sydney has been experiencing ten solid days of outrageous storm squalls. A calm sunny cloudless morning suddenly turns dark as night while violent winds rent the sky releasing a torrent of raindrops the size of hedgehogs beneath a blinding display of lightning accompanied by thunder claps sharper and louder than a used car salesman’s suit.

Usually, a long stretch of gloomy weather would make me feel likewise. However, on the rare occasions when the clouds part, the sun is a flaming blowtorch, searing my flesh and converting the surface of the earth to a steaming pressure cooker. The air takes on the consistency of soggy molten lead and every surface instantly sprouts a thin layer of aggressive mildew. No, I cannot curse the clouds today. They are benevolent guardians shielding me from solar incineration and muggy intoxication.

I also cannot complain about the rain, since Australia has been experiencing a horrendous ten-year drought. In the last week, over 150 mm of rain has fallen on parts of Sydney. Sadly, I just cannot seem to convert mm of rain into units that I can get my head around. Yes, I know how to do the mental math and say “Well that is about 6 or 7 inches,” but the fact that it was first reported in millimetres just fucks with me. I can’t explain it. Unfortunately, rain falling on Sydney is about as beneficial to the water reserves as rain falling in Santa Monica. But, it would be a good time to be in lawnmower sales.

As I was prowling around one of my favourite websites (and BK: I was perfectly aware of the BOM. Any liberties I take with accuracy and completeness are generally for the intention of entertainment, although sometimes done out of sheer laziness. I used to feel obligated to educate the world, but now I don’t even believe in most facts.) I found myself wandering down a quirky thread of links. Political correctness has a distinctly Australian flavour here and most frequently involves ensuring that everyone takes the Aboriginal people seriously. Oddly, attempts to illustrate the value of indigenous knowledge and culture invariably cause me irritable frustration and kind of piss me off in general. I don’t have the energy to get into all of the reasons right now, but being raised by a fervent proponent of the freedom of information, I take issue with Aboriginal notions of knowledge ownership.

Still, I applaud this effort at sharing, and confess that I have heard network weather forecasts that are about as insightful.

Perhaps here one might say, “In like Wantangka, out like Yurluurrp.”

That is, if you think you could say it at all…

Keep Singing, Abdi

Descending the stairs from St Leonards Station to Herbert Street, my street, I am walking behind a man. He is singing softly as he walks. A quiet, exotic sound.

"Keep singing." I say. "Louder. Let it out. Louder."

"I was singing in my language."

"Are you homesick? Too?"

We strike up a breif conversation along the way. I am from California. His sister moved to California. She is a doctor. Very rich, now. He is from Ethiopia, been here 11 years.

"Did you move here during the war?"

"Yes...during...because of the war." I notice the scar across his eye, but we are in front of my building now. So much I want to know about his life. There is so much to share between random people.

"You live here?"

"Yes."

"I work there, at the hospital. Maybe we will see each other, again?"

I hope so.

"Keep singing, Abdi."

Nature Call

Because of the Australian propensity to interchange 'er' sounds and 'ah' sounds, it took me quite some time to distinguish the names of two ubiquitous bird species. The Common Myna and the very appropriately named Noisy Miner. The latter is a native Australian species, while the former is yet another example of a species introduced with the high hopes of affecting bio control that has instead run amok and decimated the existing ecological balance (note: this is a recurring theme throughout this island continent.)

But this is not meant to be a biology lesson, merely an introduction to this really amusing, if not cinematographically lacking, video I shot last weekend in the Hunter Valley:




I have yet to learn how to distinguish kangaroos from wallabies, and indeed, the difference may be entirely arbitrary. Therefore, ignore the babbling speculation in the soundtrack of this next clip, (apparently there is no such species as a 'black-footed kangaroo' and these are almost certainly not 'black-footed rock wallabies', but it would not be the first time I have elected to assign my own nomenclature to my personal field observations) and instead focus on the goofy gracefulness of the largest of Australian marsupials:

Achey Breaky

This morning's Yahoo headlines read "Cheney has irregular heartbeat".

I was shocked to learn he had a heart at all!