To Market, To Market

There are few activities that bring me more simple joy than buying fruit and vegetables from growers markets. I trace my love of produce shopping back to the weekend farmer’s market that would spring up outside the BART station when my family moved to San Francisco in the early 70’s. Back then, you simply could not get fresh vegetables in the middle of winter in Ohio, and it seemed so decadent, so hedonistic to buy artichokes or oranges on the street in January. When we moved to San Jose, my mother and I would make weekly sojourns to the Berryessa Flea Market, returning home with armloads of fresh veggies, avocados, sticks of pepperoni, and jars of exotic olives. As much as the actual procurement, I adored the interaction of being in a crowd of shoppers, jostling for position in front of a stack of crisp apples. How well I remember my first encounter with a pale green chile, which I found on the ground. I thought I had scored a small fortune, until I bit into it and wiped my eyes, which flowed like faucets all the way home…

With that knowledge, I often marvel that it took me nearly two years to visit the Sydney Markets, the mother of all produce markets.

Passing beneath the giant fair-ground style entry gates, we joined a parade of cars in chaos, all searching for prime parking around the crowded perimeter of the markets. Averting several Mexican stand-offs, I slipped into a nearby covered parking garage only to find it mysteriously deserted. I felt as if I had won the parking lottery, and we set off towards the enormous warehouse that seemed to be the center of commerce.The main building is about the size of two football fields and was packed from end to end with stalls of growers hawking their goods.



“Lovely, Lovely Beans – on sale for the next half hour – only $2 a kilo. Get you Lovely, Lovely Beans.”

“I got yer freshest Mangoes. Mangoes Here. Only $16 a flat.”

“Garrrrlique. 1$ a bag. Garrrlique”

I was instantly overwhelmed and could only wander aimlessly up and down each aisle, palpating pears, pumpkins, and pomegranates, cooing at the cost of carrots, cantaloupes, and capsicum, salivating over celery, cilantro, and strawberries, awestruck by apples and avocados, and totally repulsed by crates of fava beans.

Unless you operate a restaurant or a produce stand of your own, the best way to tackle the Sydney Markets is with a group of people among which you can divide the bounty into more reasonable portions. While the discounts are deep, they are dependent on quantity.

I have completely underestimated my ability to eat an entire flat of mangoes before they succumb to the voracious appetites of the cloud of fruit flies which now inhabit my kitchen. Turns out I enjoy buying produce a lot more than I actually like preparing it, and now the bottom of my refrigerator is slowly dissolving into a thick slime of lettuce and lovely, lovely beans.

Watch For Me on 'Border Security'

Chris Defourney, Manager
DFS Duty Free Galleria
San Francisco International Airport
C/O 1580 Francisco Street
Torrance, CA 90501
USA

Re: 773178663/ Txn # 1010-840-06858 and 1010-840-06859

The purpose of this letter is to lodge a formal complaint against DFS Duty Free Galleria located at the San Francisco International Terminal and specifically against Mr. Corvado Ruiz, formerly of El Salvador.

On Wednesday, October 8, 2008 at ~ 21:15, I entered the DFS Galleria at the San Francisco International Airport to purchase one carton of cigarettes and one liter bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka as gifts upon my return to Australia. I was approached by Mr. Ruiz who strongly urged me to purchase a second bottle of vodka, since the price was so reasonable. I concurred that the savings were substantial and succumbed to his charming persuasion. Mr. Ruiz, then seeing that I had also selected a carton of cigarettes, further urged me to purchase a second carton. I explained to him that Australia had limitations upon the importation of tobacco and that I could only bring in 250 cigarettes duty free. Mr. Corvado then swore to me that the regulations had been changed as of January 2008 and that Australia had increased their limit to 400 cigarettes. I told him I did not believe that was correct, yet he assured me that was the case and said that if he was lying, I could lodge a formal complaint – and then he showed me his employee badge.

Mr. Ruiz was indeed lying, and I am indeed lodging a formal complaint. Upon entering Australia, I was fined $113.98 AUD and subjected to a humiliating search, during which I was told that it is common practice for duty free shops to blatantly lie to overseas consumers. DFS Duty Free Galleria should be painfully ashamed for employing predatory business practices that are based on deception and coercion. While I recognize that it is ultimately my responsibility to be aware of the restrictions upon importation, I believe that DFS Duty Free also has the responsibility to not deceive their customers with deliberate fabrications just for the sake of a meager $34 sale.

In the future, I will most certainly make such purchases elsewhere, and will further ensure that I alert all travelers to the despicable business practices utilized by DFS Duty Free Galleria.

Respectfully,



Audra A McKinze

74/9 Herbert Street
St. Leonards, NSW 2065
Australia

Cc:

San Francisco International Airport
Department of Concessions and Development
PO Box 8097 San Francisco, CA 94128-8097

BBB of the SouthlandBBB of the Southland (Colton, CA)
315 N. La Cadena Colton, CA 92324-2927
Phone: (909)825-7280Fax: (909)825-6246
Email: info@labbb.org
Web: http://www.labbb.org

Stuffed

A few months ago, I watched a documentary series that discussed stuff and how humans relate to it. The brilliant comedian George Carlin penned a hilarious monologue about stuff. These two performances have been very much in the forefront of my mind over the last several days, and I would not presume to imagine that I could draw observations that are any more pertinent or humorous than those supplied by the experts. Nonetheless, I am compelled to lighten my psychic load by dumping a few conclusions on my audience.

1) Stuff abhors a vacuum.
And by vacuum, I mean the academic definition of empty space as well as the household appliance, the latter particularly when the former is an attic. This is a frightening theorem, considering the size of the Victorian house my mother has lived in for the last 30 years. I had always thought it was a shame that the foundation had been lowered in the 1950's to improve the chances of the house withstanding a major earthquake, but now I am immensely grateful that the basement is not one cubic inch larger than it is, for that cubic inch would be filled with stuff.

2) The stuff of freedom.
Aside from children or ailing parents, mass quantities of stuff is one of the most insidious thieves of personal liberty, especially when it comes time to move house. However, it is amazing the stuff people will take as long as it is free.

3) Other people's stuff.
It is a simple pleasure to sift through the detritus of someone else's life, to handle and ponder mysterious objects, to experience reminiscence at reminders of things that have been misplaced in one's own history. In fact, it is so much fun, that as we began to empty the basement, we recruited several people from the neighborhood who were so enthralled by our activity, that they volunteered the services to help sort and sift the stuff.

All right. Enough stuff.

Except we haven't even opened the garage yet...

Meltdown Averted

Despite the panic of the morning - and the flight being full, and being assigned a center seat next to a woman with whooping cough - the coast to coast journey was surprisingly smooth. In fact, I am now firmly of the opinion that all trans-Pacific flights to California should be rescheduled for a later departure time. Dinner is served at a more reasonable hour and arrival occurs at the civilized time of 5 am (according to the body clock...noon locally), rather than 3 am, which takes an astounding toll on one's sensibilities.

After a quick tour of my mother's adorable new house (more on that later), my first order of business, of course, was to seek out some proper tacos and cheap beer. Under the wings of my cherished friends, I soon found myself in Carnitas heaven with my hand wrapped around a cold Pacifico. Bliss.

Later that night, under the cover of a deliciously warm October night, we ventured out into the streets of San Jose on bicycles in search of more cheap beer and, eventually, more tacos. (My God, does anything taste better than a taco served after the bars have closed?!) I cannot describe how fun it was to be pedaling through familiar neighborhoods, an insider tourist in my own home town. However, in the bars, it was impossible not to draw constant comparisons between American and Australian culture. As charmed as I am by art deco pubs, there is a durable soft-spot in my heart for good old fashioned dive bars, an institution that is entirely absent from the antipodean landscape. And, so it seems, an institution that is rapidly fading from the urban panorama of California as well.

Like the gritty blue-collar pubs of Sydney, most dive bars are being snatched up by swanky young entrepreneurs who recognize the nostalgia and respect that a new generation of drinkers have for seedy old dumps. While they try to preserve that special something that makes a bar a dive, they also install chic lighting, thumping sound systems, hire cool bartenders with bee-hive hairdos and trendy tattoos, and invariably host hip DJs on weekends, additions that are in direct conflict with the fundamental essence of a true dive.

My Australian friends are invariably uncomprehending of the concept of a 'dive', and I often find myself unable to adequately provide an accurate description. More than just cheap drinks, a cast of local derelicts, and a collection of tacky alcohol-related paraphernalia, a dive bar typically encompasses a blend of familiarity and desperation, of comfort and wretchedness. Regardless of the methodical yuppification of the best dive bars of San Jose, one critical facet endures.

In Australia, spirits are strictly measured by the smallest shot glass in existence. Happy Hour commonly involves a modest discount on one brand of drink and typically lasts ONE hour only, usually between 5-6. At Jack's, happy hour means $3.00 beers, $1 discounts on all other drinks, AND it lasts from 4-9pm. That is five very happy hours for the price of one. And then, from 10-midnight, there was another drink special: 'shots' of Jack Daniels for just $4...only the shots were free-poured into a glass the size of a coffee mug. Furthermore, the 'Jack Girl' (snigger) was on site, distributing stickers, patches, t-shirts and bandanas to anyone who bothered to simply ask for one, with the idea, of course, that one would then purchase a shot of JD. I felt no such obligation, but I absolutely love my new t-shirt!

And then we went to a great German bar hosting Oktoberfest, where I finnagled a free apple strudel and drank a beer bigger than my head.

Bliss.

Then I fell over.

Did that cat follow me from Australia?

Meltdown Pending

I wasn't especially anxious about my trip back to California. I has a nice massage last night, didn't drink too much, and had a very good night's sleep. I woke up mildly excited, yet calm in knowing exaactly what lay ahead: have some coffee, finish up the laundry, pack my one little bag, take a shower, slip on my stretchy travelling costume, have some lunch, hop a train, go to California. Just before boarding the train, I opened my phone to send Kevin a goodbye text, only to receive a barrage of messages from Qantas telling me my flight was delayed.

And then I spun into a panic.

My phone battery died.

I left my charger at work.

Since the age of portable phones, I can no longer remember a phone number to save my life (except for 279-8091).

My internet connection crashed.

When it finally blinked on for a moment, I instantly forgot all of my passwords.

My lunch ceased to digest.

I don't mind schedule disruptions, but with the troubles that Qantas has been having of late, coupled with my very active imagination, my mind went bonkers with frightening scenarios as to WHY the flight is delayed!

But now it is time to go.

I think I'll have me a Rum and Ginger Beer at the airport.

279-8091

In the age of portable communications and high speed cable internet, land lines are becoming increasingly obsolete. Indeed, Kevin and I do not have one here in Australia, although we do have three mobile phones, one cell phone, and a Skype account.

A phone number seems an odd entity to serve as a repository for sentimentality, yet I was choked with emotion when, several months ago, my mother disconnected the service she had had for over 30 years. The musical chimes of those digits still echo loudly in my head, and although I have not been at the end of that dial tone for over two decades, all of my childhood friends still know that number by heart. More than just an electrical connection to the outside world, over the years, it seemed to take on a personality of its own. Having moved to California from Ohio with roommates, the phone was listed under the name of 'D. O’Rourke', and my mother had never seen any reason to update this information after Delphine moved out. Somewhere in the world there is a very naughty man named Dan O’Rourke, and for many years, we could gamble that any calls received during the dinner hour were from bill collectors or private detectives. Those calls became a running gag in our household, and curiously, I find myself missing them.

It was like some critical part of my past had been severed, lost, disconnected, and I feel more than a little foolish for it. But that is nothing compared to the self-centered blubbering that is about to unfold.

On October 1st, my mother is moving out of the house she has rented for 29 years. So great is my distress over this disengagement, that I am compelled, under the guise of ‘helping,’ to travel to California to wallow in the memories that are stored at 1166 Hester Ave.

In reality, it is nothing but a happy occasion. My mother is finally fulfilling the dream of homeownership, postponed for decades as she raised and educated three children and supported a fair share of deadbeats along the way. Yet, I get overcome with emotion when I think about returning from Australia to find her life transplanted into new environs without having been a part of the transition, as if I might otherwise never ‘belong’ there. I do not like to imagine returning to San Jose and driving by my childhood home inhabited by strangers without having been able to walk through the empty rooms saying goodbye to ghosts.

My mother is delighted by the prospect of throwing out much of her old life and starting fresh in a new place. I can certainly appreciate that – I have done it more times than I can count, and perhaps that is part of why I am so distraught. That constancy, that romantic notion of ‘home’, a place that I could always go back to, has provided me with a degree of stability in my nomadic life. Now all that will be gone, and I am a little scared of how that will impact my perception of my place in the world.

Or maybe I am just feeling the strain of the incredible distance. Australia is very far away from the rest of the world, a notion that I neglected to give proper consideration before moving here.

Or maybe I am just getting old. And tired.

Or maybe, I just needed a good excuse to eat a proper burrito.

ATTENTION!

If any of my dead beat friends have been toying with the possibility of coming to visit me in Australia - where you will have free accommodations (with stunning views), free airport pick-up, not to mention free use of a car, free food, and many, many free rounds of beer - I just wanted to bring to your attention, the fact that round trip flights from San Francisco are currently at an all time low...


Oh, and the exchange rate just dropped below 80 cents, so it is like Australia is having a 20% discount sale on everything!

Yes, He Did His Research

I have recently finished reading John Burdett’s trilogy of crime novels starring Part-time Pimp/Full-time Buddhist, Detective Jitpleecheep. In addition to startling endings showcasing incredibly gruesome acts of retribution, each novel features a detailed description of a Traditional Thai Massage (2nd floor only – 3rd floor is no place for an honest Buddhist Cop.) Last night, in the interest of investigating Burdett’s literary integrity, Kevin and I, went to the store-front Thai Massage parlor across the street. No, we did NOT get Happy Endings, but I must confess that I was rather distracted wondering if it was on the menu and by the possibility that it might be happening in the room next door.

We were greeted warmly, albeit incoherently by two small women dressed in colorful pantaloons. They showed us up stairs to a pleasant room with two large flat tables, gave us each a cup of cool fruity tea, tossed two brown linen squares at us, made a few confusing gestures, and left. After some bewildered muttering, we settled in to our brown baggy pants and awaited their return.

The massage began pleasantly enough, with a warm towel placed over my feet and some gentle acupressure. Within minutes, Giny had climbed up onto the table and was crawling up the backs of my legs. She shoved her knees into the backs of my thighs and jammed her elbows deep into my lower back. I made a mental regarding potential treatment of kidney stones. She did a few handstands on my back, her body weight entirely disproportionate to her size, but she wasn’t going to take any crap from the knotty monsters that live beneath my shoulder blades. Digging in deep with her lethal elbows, I felt my muscles crunch and melt beneath the grinding pressure.

She turned me over and began manipulating my legs. Thai massage may not be suitable for the elderly, as I felt sure that had my diet been more calcium deficient, she surely would have snapped my femur, if not my entire pelvis. Sitting between my feet and grabbing onto my bended knees, she pulverized the backs of my thighs with her powerful feet. She kneaded and twisted the muscles around my knees until my legs felt like two doughy baguettes.

I was hoisted into a sitting position for some neck and shoulder abuse. Locking my hands behind my head, she thrust her knees into my back and contorted my spine with a series of stirring motions, bending me backwards over her thighs. Finally she released me back onto the mat, placed a warm towel over my eyes, and said “Thank You” as she left the room.

Thank Me??

Kevin sat up and looked at me with a somewhat dazed expression. Gingerly, we placed out tenderized bodies back into our clothes and went down stairs. A warm cup of tea awaited us.

“You have some sore tomorrow,” said Giny as she pointed to her shoulders.

“No, I will have some sore for three days.” Truly, I am surprised that my arms are turgid enough to even hold my hands above the keyboard.

I can’t wait to go back.

Why is it...

...that lighting a campfire of seasoned wood requires a bundle of kindling, an entire Sydney Morning Herald, and generous amounts of lighter fluid...

...yet one misplaced cigarette butt can instantly ignite a soggy coffee table on a rain-swept patio?

Whose Clock??

Because none of my 'real' friends will come visit me in Australia, I often invite complete strangers off the Internet to come stay with us. Last weekend we hosted Paula and her 8-year old daughter Vanessa, who were visiting Sydney from Toronto.

Whenever we are around children, Kevin scrutinizes my every move looking for signs of hormonal sea changes or evidence of regret for the most defining decision of my reproductive life. If I so much as coo at a baby, he often sulks violently, waiting for the backlash of remorse and maternal yearning that he believes will inevitably overtake my otherwise appeased disposition. I've grown tired of reassuring him that he has had no influence whatsoever over my very personal choice regarding motherhood and am more than a little offended that he should think me so weak-willed in the first place. It's not like negotiating over which car to buy, where one is more apt to yield to the desires of the other, particularly in the face of one's own indifference - and shame on any one who has agreed to parenthood under such circumstances...Danny...in fact, I think he negotiated a child FOR a new car...or was it merely a dirt bike?

If you don't know me, and possibly even if you do, there is no way you will be able to visualize the expression of worried disbelief upon my face when The Baron of Bomburst turned to me as we were reading in bed and said "Gee, it's kind of nice having a little girl around. I really like her. It makes me feel nice to listen to her talk. We've never really been around children much. Maybe we should spend more time with them?"

Word of the Day: Flabbergasted.

The Octopus

One of my favorite aspects of living in the world class city that is Sydney is the accessibility of artists who would otherwise never cross cultural my radar. Last night, I saw one of the most challenging performances I have ever witnessed, and by that I mean it was difficult for me, as a member of the audience, to experience. By the end of the show I was emotionally exhausted, my sensory perception strained to the edge of my tolerance.

Grant Collins is billed as a ‘one man percussion orchestra”, a phrase that completely understates the spatial-temporal complexity of his music. I don’t usually think of drums as ‘musical’ instruments – in my mind they are more like the skeletal framework that supports a harmonic structure. However, under the command of his remarkable neural network, the 80+ pieces of his drum kit produce the range and interwoven subtlety of a full symphony.

In between songs, cheeky, energetic and perhaps a bit scattered, he attempted to explain the science and methodologies behind his performances. I was quite excited to hear him discussing neuronal plasticity and hippocampal pathways, but I was completely unable to comprehend what it meant to play a rhythm in 9/16. I did understand that he is able to control each of his limbs in a different time – such that one foot plays 2, the other plays 3, while one arm does 5 and the other 7, but when I tried to observe that knowledge during his performance, my mind spun out of control as each limb blurred into an independent cacophony of movement.

It often requires all of my mental capacity to get each my limbs to do the same thing at the same time.

Cultural Immersion Experiment 3.2.1

When I was a little girl - when we first got cable television - my mother once roused me from a deep sleep in the middle of the night to witness the strangest sport she had ever seen on some obscure channel. Mesmerized by the violent athletic fortitude of the participants, owing in large part to the size and definition of their thighs, we struggled to comprehend the play. It was like football – the objective seemed to be to get an egg shaped ball through some goal posts. It was like soccer – occasionally there was kicking. But it was also like basketball – every once in awhile the players would dribble the ball as they ran across a humongous grass oval. It was like nothing we had ever seen.

It was Australian Rules Football.

As part of my cultural immersion, I accepted Richard and Kate’s invitation to attend an AFL game between the Sydney Swans and the Geelong Cats (though still wary of their backyard – and their home brew - I declined their offer of pre-drinks at their house). Unfortunately, no one in our party had a particularly keen grasp of the game itself, thus was of little help in enlightening me to the subtleties of play.

“It’s rather like a game of hot-potato,” explained Richard.

“Who are the guys in the green shirts?”

“I have no idea. Yay! Go Swans!”

Without the distraction of actually having to follow the game, I was free to absorb random details instead:

ANZ Stadium serves the BEST (if not only) hot dogs in all of Australia.

In general, Australian parents (and grand-parents) are quite appreciative of having total strangers correct their children’s (and grand-children’s) bad behaviour.

In as many days, I have been to two toilet stalls in which previous occupants have flicked remarkable boogers onto the stalls. I felt compelled to participate, but my own efforts were paltry by comparison and not at all worthy of flicking. This certainly represents a sport which would boost Australia’s gold medal tally, although Mexico would provide some fierce competition.

It never occurred to me that I might need a Sony Playstation…that is, until I saw a subdued black-and-white banner held between two men at center field during half-time. It read “Sony Playstation”.

Roaming beer vendors are a good thing. How has Australia overlooked this source of revenue? There is something to be said for having a below-poverty-level working class.

Toward the end of the game, the most confusing message flashed repeatedly across the JumboTron. It read:

Kick to Kick
NO
Kick to Kick
Do Not Enter Arena

Aren’t we already in the Arena? (Further explanations (or postulations) as to the actual meaning of that bulletin are most welcome in the comments section which follows.

Australian Police Officers – although extremely polite and infinitely approachable – are seldom in possession of useful information, such as the location of the nearest toilet facility.

Trains are a wonderful form of transportation, especially while intoxicated, and especially when you happen to catch the one train that goes directly from Olympic Park to St Leonards.



And now, for your viewing pleasure (and no doubt violating multiple copyright laws), I present the following montage:

Addendum

Kevin came in 29820th with an official time of 113 minutes 56 seconds.

Although these photos may suggest otherwise, he assures me he was having fun:

http://city2surf.sunherald.com.au/results08video.php?intbib=27029

"Oooh, a rrrace. I hope I win!"

Four years ago, almost to the day, I was making frantic preparations to retrieve my wheelchair-bound husband from a night in the hospital as he underwent major surgery to repair the botched job done on his broken leg by the butcher of La Paz. (Note to self: avoid Mexican hospitals at all costs.) It was a very dark time in our lives, and we had genuine concerns as to whether he would ever be able to walk again.

Today, Kevin ran in the City 2 Surf Race, Sydney’s version of the Bay to Breakers, only not quite as silly. The participants lined up in Central Sydney to tackle the gruelling 14.4 (8.9 miles) course ending at Bondi Beach. Unable to run a city block even if I was being chased, I watched the beginning of the race on television from my ugly but comfortable couch. Unfortunately, I was unable to pick him out from the 70,000+ crowd. But I did see Batman and Spiderman…and Tah Man.

With a non-stop AccaDacca soundtrack piped through his ear buds, Kevin finished the race in a respectable 2 hours 15 minutes (official time and finishing photo pending) – which is less time than it took me to get to the finish line thanks to the brilliant planning by Shitty Rail who decided to perform ‘track work’ on two of the major metropolitan train lines. (As far as I can tell, ‘track work’ involves a bunch of guys in orange vests standing around shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes – though on the upside, ‘track work’ means not awakening to the 4:47 am train.)

But I digress…


The point of this tirade is to express my tremendous pride, joy, and gratitude at Kevin’s accomplishment. (Note to self: send a thank you card to Dr Verhoog.)

Good on Ya, Kev!

Now if you will excuse me, the women’s gymnastics are on…(OK, so I lied about ignoring the Olympics…I reckon Australian sport fever is infectious after all.)


PS - For the more internet savvy among my blog audience, you can save the html located here then load it into Google Earth to see the race course in greater detail. Note that Km 6-8 is known as ‘heart break hill’ – and with good cause. Luckily, at the base of the hill there was a rooftop band playing “It’s a Long Way to the Top.” How good is that?


(Oh, and bonus points to anyone who knows the source of the quote for the title of this entry.)

Murder in Beijing

"Chinese police insist that it was a random attack."

Isn't that just what makes it so bloody terrifying? Personally, I would find it more comforting to know that he had been the leader of an international drug cartel or that the violence was the result of a passion fueled desire for revenge.

A Reluctant Spectator

It was ever so much easier to ignore the Olympics in America than in this upside down nation of sport fanatics. I had no idea just how much insipid cynicism had crept into my psyche until I succumbed to the hype and watched the sumptuous opening ceremonies in Beijing, reacquainting me with a gawping child of the 70’s, so enamored of Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci that she embarked on a short-lived career in gymnastics – which is the reason why at 40 I can still put my hands flat on the floor in a forward bend (although my ever-expanding beer gut is daily threatening that particular pastime.)

Aside from the sheer entertainment, the opening ceremonies served as a painful reminder of how much the structure of world has changed since I took geography in college. I was more than a little dismayed at the number of countries of whose existence I was completely unaware. Watching the parade of athletes also revealed much about the social climate of the participating nations. The cheer received by Iraq was heart warming, but the lack of female athletes from Arab countries in general was disturbing. The smiles of the competitors from war-torn African nations were encouraging, even if the numbers of participants from each team was disparate.

I still plan to ignore as much of the actual sporting events as possible, which means I am going to have to bury my head in the sand for the next two weeks. I am however, most intrigued by the socio-political dialogue initiated by this year’s venue. It has opened up fascinating discussions of communism, religious oppression, globalism, pollution, censorship, and conformity. China is clearly a world leader in at least five of those categories, particularly the latter - as illustrated by the mesmerizing synchronicity of the opening spectacle. Having suffered the abuses of a maniacal marching band director in high school, I can only wonder at the daily beatings that must have been required to achieve such precision among Beijing’s enormous color guard.

Band directors and gymnastic coaches must be cut from the same cloth as sadistic dictators.

Swear to God

If Barack Obama loses the presidential election by the number of people who write in Paris Hilton, I am never coming back.

Don't scoff. I know damn well there is a large proportion of the American public just stupid enough to do it.

Is Mystery

I woke up this morning to find my bed filled with dirt. Not just dirty, mind you, but filled with a salad of dried leaves, twigs, and detritus. Curious.

Still half asleep, I rolled over onto my side and was shocked into alertness by intense pain emanating from my right hip and elbow. Unusual.

I rolled onto my other side only to discover reciprocal wounds plus additional contusions on my left shoulder, wrist, and knee. Interesting.

I got up to go to the toilet, but my left leg buckled under my weight, knee and ankle groaning with severe sprains. Ow.


I must ring Kate and Richard to see if they are owed an apology…

A Subtle Distinction

In addition to numerous regional teams, many sporting leagues in Australia, such as soccer (aka ‘footy’) and rugby (aka ‘footy’), are also represented by national teams which frequently meet teams from other countries to compete for various bits of tableware donated by deceased royals, or in the case of cricket (aka ‘boring’), the ashes of the deceased royals themselves. Of all the international competitions, perhaps none are more anticipated than when Australia faces off with their brethren across the Tasman Sea. Perhaps the significance of this rivalry is borne of the mere proximity of New Zealand, or maybe it has something to do with their lack of ingenuity in designing a flag. Australia’s relationship with New Zealand is akin to America’s relationship with Canada – it’s like having an annoying neighbour who always borrows your hedgetrimmers or your army without saying please or thank you.

Quite secondary to the actual outcome of the game is the time-honoured ceremony which commences the contest. Before play begins, both teams face each other at center field, where the Australians, in a stunning display of civility and patience, calmly stand still while the Kiwis perform a traditional Maori war chant in which the All Blacks describe in gruesome detail of their plans to feast upon the innards of their opponents while cleansing their backsides in fountains of Aussie blood.

The Australians respond by asking the Kiwis if they might like to go dancing.


Of course, with a final score of 34-19, there just may be something to be said for waltzing...

Just About Full-Up

On Friday morning, at Milson's Point, two incongruously old pilgrims boarded the train wearing loud Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts beneath their tell-tale red and orange back-packs. As they descended the stairs into my carriage, they spoke - loudly:

"GOOOOOOD MORNING EVERYBODY!! WE'RE FROM CALIFORNIA!

HOW ARE WE ALL DOING ON THIS FINE AND GLORIOUS MORNING? ISN'T IT JUST AN ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL MORNING? THE SUN IS SHINING. WHAT A BLESSING TO BE ALIVE TO GET TO EXPERIENCE THIS WONDERFUL MORNING."

The passengers responded with the stoic silence that unfailingly characterizes the morning commute. The pilgrims were not offended in the least:

"GEE THERE ARE A BUNCH OF GLOOMY GUSSES ON THIS TRAIN! GUESS EVERYONE NEEDS TO RUN TO THEIR COFFEE POTS AS SOON AS THEY GET TO WORK. NOT ME. I'M LIKE THIS NATURALLY EVERY MORNING. I AM HIGH ON LIFE! YESSIR, I FEEL SO FORTUNATE JUST TO BE ALIVE AND TO GET TO EXPERIENCE THIS MIRACLE OF A MORNING. YOU KNOW, A LOT OF PEOPLE WEREN'T SO LUCKY TO WAKE UP THIS MORNING."

The train eased onto the harbour bridge as the commuters shifted uncomfortably around this intrusion into their morning quiet-time, helpless captives.

"WOW, YOU PEOPLE ARE SO LUCKY TO GET TO RIDE ACROSS THIS BEAUTIFUL BRIDGE ON THIS GLORIOUS MORNING, WITH THE SUN SHINING ON THE WATER, AND YOU AREN'T EVEN PAYING ATTENTION - WHY THAT LADY, THE ONE WITH THE GLASSES ON HER HAT AND THE RED HAIR, JUST HAS HER NOSE PRESSED INTO THAT BOOK, NOT EVEN NOTICING WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING IT IS. YESSIR, WE SURE HAVE BEEN ENJOYING OUR VISIT HERE. YOU AUSTRALIANS HAVE BEEN JUST GREAT. HEY!! LET'S HAVE A BIG CHEER."

A small groan swept through the cabin.

"EVERYBODY READY? AUSSIE, AUSSIE AUSSIE..."

Silence.

"OH COME ON NOW, YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT ON THIS GLORIOUS MORNING. LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN - AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE..."

'oi...........oi...........oi' was spoken in flat unenthusiastic unison by the passengers, like a reluctant child forced to give an apology to the bully that started the fight.

"HAHAHA - NOW WASN'T THAT FUN? DON'T YOU JUST FEEL ALIVE? WE'RE GOING TO THE OPERA HOUSE TODAY. OH WE HAVE BEEN HAVING SO MUCH FUN!! EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE SOME FUN EVERYDAY OF THIS MIRACLE OF A LIFE. DON'T WANT TO WASTE YOUR PRECIOUS TIME HERE ON EARTH WITH YOUR NOSE PRESSED INTO YOUR BOOK, LIKE THAT LADY WITH THE RED HAIR AND THE GLASSES ON HER HAT."

I'd had enough. I turned around and firmly said:

"I am also from California, and every day I strive to combat the stereotype of the obnoxious American, and in the space of one short bridge crossing, you have just unravelled all of my good work."

Their glorious smiles pinched slightly as the carriage burst into commiserative laughter.

Super Holy Thursday, Batman!

My lab mate, Amelia - in her best American accent, relayed an amusing anecdote regarding one of my native countrymen in Rome, who upon taking a picture of The Pope and declared, loudly of course, "Oh, yeah! There's the money shot. I got the money shot." She was supposed to accompany me down to the CBD to see his papalness, but ducked out at the last minute with some flimsy excuse about her sister-in-law having a baby. Really, I don't see how she was supposed to help with that, other than by supporting her parents and running interference with the Italian in-laws, but, whatever.

The city streets were eerily devoid of pilgrims as I hopped a bus toward Circular Quay, which was fine by me as I have pretty much had my fill of them. Armed with a map of the planned motorcade route, I soon caught up to the cheery crowds of flag-swinging, hymn-singing revelers. The award for 'most enthusiastic' clearly belongs to the Italians, who could be heard yelling 'Ciao! Bella! Ciao!' to every passing group of female pilgrims, all of whom responded with flattered giggles of rapture. Surveying my map, I quickly developed a plan.

The Brooklyn Hotel has a spectacular bank of bar stool lined windows facing directly onto George Street along the papal passage. I staked out a comfortable location and quickly established a beer barrier between me and the pilgrims outside, liquid protection from mutual annoyance. The bar staff had been unaware of the fortuitousness of their location and scrambled to accommodate the unexpected crowds that soon filled the pub.

The motorcade was expected to pass at approximately four o'clock. By 3:45, the pub was buzzing with eager anticipation. By 4:00, everyone began to crowd near the windows. By 4:15, the wise cracks started cracking. More rounds were ordered. By 4:30, people began taking hurried but unavoidable trips to the toilet. More rounds were ordered. By 4:45, a feeling of drunken camaraderie engulfed the pub. More rounds were ordered. At 5:00, flashing blue and red lights were seen on the approach leading out of The Rocks. Everyone hoisted their camera, mobile phones, or their drinks in salute as the Popemobile came into view around a curve. A slightly irreverent cheer erupted as the motorcade roared past at speeds which would normally earn a motorist a rather hefty fine on this portion of George Street. And then it was over.

I had debated long and hard whether I should take a movie or a still shot. Worried that a movie might be too shaky and blurry, I opted for one good still shot.

The Money Shot:

I burst into hysterical laughter when I reviewed the image. All that hype, all that anticipation, all that beer. Actually, I rather like my abstract bit of papal photography. I think it nicely captures the dynamic nature of the event. However, I doubt I will be able to sell it to any tabloid newspapers.

This Morning

On my way to work, a young pilgrim family decked out in Australian Flags gathered on the sidewalk. The mum looked right at me and nudged her toddler, directing his attention toward my bus. He began stamping his feet excitedly and waved at me with enthusiasm. Slightly befuddled, I waved back and smiled. As we pulled away from the stop, I caught a reflection of the advert on the side of the bus. Fucking Kung Fu Panda.

I'm off now to see if I can see the Pope.

High Anxiety

I've been in a state of heightened worry all day long. Much of it has to do with stewing over all of the awful predictions I listened to last night, but it certainly did not help any to wake to morning news images of people lined up outside of IndyMac Bank crying over their lost funds. Perhaps no other visual seems to hearken a decade of financial turmoil than people desperate to retrieve money from a failing bank. Checking my own retirement account balance only worsened my disposition.

Although some students won a law suit repealing the 'no annoying Catholics' law, the editorial pages were filled with rants about the papal stance on procreation that only increased my own annoyance.

I spent the afternoon sitting on the most savagely uncomfortable bench listening to scientific talks of which I understood very little, staying awake by counting the "ums" of the speakers. (Kudos to the Black Knight who clocked in with a mere 26 - a model of poise and self control compared to the 129 and 178 of the other two speakers.) During the talks, I developed a rather robust and audible case of lactose intolerance, cringing with discomfort at each riotous complaint of my intestines.

I decided to leave work early. My ill mood conspired to drain away any amusement I might have found with the gibbering groups of incessantly cheerful pilgrims singing and dancing all up and down George Street. However, I managed to cheer myself considerably by farting on them on my way to the train station, secure in the knowledge that I would not incur a hefty fine for doing so.

We Interrupt WYD08 for This Nihilistic Message

I learned a new word to tonight, and I am just dying to use it.

This evening, I attended a symposium as part of the opening ceremonies for the University of Sydney Institute for Sustainable Solutions (warning: very boring hyperlink - better if you don't go there). The institute fosters a results driven collaboration among researchers from the fields of health, engineering, chemistry, agriculture, and economic policy to try to solve the world’s problems by ending poverty, feeding the populace, and halting climate change. They have 25 million dollars. Oh, and while they are at it, they are going to rid Australia of Cane Toads, too.

I pretty much knew I was a nihilist before I entered The Great Hall, I just didn’t have a tidy label for it. The environmental cynic that lives inside my brain normally keeps me away from crowds of hopeful idealists discussing the future of the planet. My general opinion that ‘we are already totally fucked’ is not very popular amongst people who truly believe that buying compact fluorescent light bulbs will save the Great Barrier Reef. I made an exception on this occasion, because I am an open minded nihilist who likes to constantly challenge my beliefs with new information.

And there was free booze.

And I really wanted an excuse to belong inside of one of the most beautiful buildings on campus.

One of the speakers claimed that there are three reactions to apocalyptic information: nihilism (eat, drink and be merry - for tomorrow we die), fundamentalism (nothing ever really changes), and activism (let's hand out flyers downtown!). According to the speaker, only activism is rooted in hope. I just don’t see how anyone can look at charts filled with alarming data and graphs of dire exponential curves and experience anything other than total despair.

The keynote address was given by Dr Jeffrey Sachs, a visiting scholar from a similar institute in the US. Although his talk dealt primarily with the economics of planetary sustainability, I still came away with the conclusion that we are already totally fucked. In fact, his talk was so alarming that a man in the row next to me had a heart attack half way through. Luckily, the audience was filled with health professionals, so there was a cardiologist on hand to give him immediate attention.

Eventually, Dr Sachs got around to the upbeat conclusion of his talk. In order to build a sustainable planet, we need only do three things. 1) Eliminate extreme poverty, 2) Control the population of the planet - and by 'planet' he meant 'Africa', and 3) Find a way to live harmoniously while we use our collective knowledge to build a global ethic that will allow for real progress. Indeed, he claimed, and I tend to agree, that WAR is our biggest obstacle to social advancement because it detracts time and resources from our common interests.

Some of his graphics reminded me of a talk I gave to my eighth grade class about the population dynamics of the planet. I reckon that was the last time I ever felt so passionately about the future, passionate enough to resort to activism. It was then that I decided not to have children. And if there were one agenda that I could really put my energy behind, it would be to try to undermine the shameful papal agenda of denying birth control to impoverished women. I truly believe that stemming the tidal wave of human reproduction is the most effective weapon that can be used against our dismal prospects.

I may be a nihilist, but I am a hopeful nihilist.

Monday - A Long Slow Inhale

George Street was decked out with brightly colored banners and the sidewalks looked at though they had been spit shined. A flock of penguins waddled down Bathurst towards Hyde Park. (I saw them on the news later – turns out they are from Tennessee.) A crowd of students wearing painfully orange hats with matching backpacks clustered in front of St Patricks. An entourage marched up the street behind a large French flag. In front of Central Station, an assembly snuggled beneath blue fleece ponchos with matching binis, ‘Italia’ stitched across the back in bold white letters. The out of town visitors are easily identified by the bulky plastic ‘pilgrim passports’ dangling from their necks, but you can pick them out from their carefree beatific smiles. Not even the dark and threatening skies could dampen their spirits.

Just after lunch, a campus-wide e-mail informed us that the University had approved a last minute route change that would bring the Cross and Iron Walk processional right through the middle of the University, culminating just behind my building (thus cutting off my usual exit). I grabbed my camera and stepped out into a brilliantly warm and sunny afternoon. Evidently, someone had called in some favors in the weather department. A faint smell of frankincense wafted across the cricket ovals as fire alarms suspisciously erupted simultaneously from several buildings.

But there was not a pilgrim in sight. I did, however find a wretched little possum on the brink of death. How fortuitous that a pathologist from the school of veterinary medicine was passing by at just that moment. With a quick diagnosis of late stage something-or-other dermatitis, he grabbed the poor beast by the tail and whisked him away to be euthanized.

Returning home, the traffic on Parramatta Road was noticeably lighter than usual, and the buses were shockingly empty. I made it to Town Hall Station in record time. The platforms for the North Shore were nearly deserted. Evidently, a lot of people heeded the government warnings and decided to stay away from the city.

What am I doing here? Oh yeah – keeping an eye out for important graffiti messages:

Me too.

The Day That Lasts A Week

Ever since our arrival in Sydney, over 18 months ago, there has been a giant billboard in front of St Mary’s Cathedral featuring a huge red digital display counting down to World Youth Day. Next week that counter hits zero as hundreds of thousands of young Catholic pilgrims from all over the world descend upon the city in search of religious ecstasy.

World Youth Day kicks off on Monday when over 200,000 pilgrims are expected to pass through Sydney International Airport and somehow find the schools, churches, and families that will be hosting them during their stay. On Tuesday and Wednesday they will be criss-crossing the city on public transportation to attend various masses and catechisms. On Thursday, the city will ascend into utter chaos for the arrival of The Pope across the Harbour via Boat-a-Cade and his exodus through the Central Business District via Motorcade. On Friday, the entire foreshore will be transformed into a modern-day Jerusalem for a re-enactment of the Stations of the Cross. Saturday features a pilgrimage walk (registered pilgrims only) across the Harbour Bridge, through the streets of downtown ending at Royal Randwick Racetrack for an all night mass. On Sunday there will be a papal fly-over (what, it’s not a plane-a-cade?) followed by another motorcade, and a final mass before everyone says tearful good-byes and goes home.

I am beyond trying to reconcile why a 7 day festival is called World Youth Day other than to simply ask what was so objectionable about the moniker ‘World Youth Week’?

The event is expected to be a bigger draw than the 2000 Olympics and the Government has issued strongly worded advisories for residents to avoid the CBD on Thursday and Friday. Unfortunately, they did not give the city a day off like they did when George Bush came to town, which either says something about the popularity of Catholicism in Australia or something else too unpleasant to ponder. Furthermore, unlike when George Bush came to town, the government has not released 2,000 inmates to clear bed space for the anticipated arrests of demonstrators. However, they have warned the populace that $5,000 fines will be issued to anyone caught annoying Catholics, causing inconvenience to pilgrims, or wearing offensive t-shirts. I am not making this up. Thus far, this new legislation has not seemed to deter the plans of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence to distribute condoms among the pilgrims. (I wonder how many virginities will be lost during the sleep out under the stars...)

This issue prompted me to the discovery that although Australia places a high value on Freedom of Speech, it is not a legal right of the people or of the press. Indeed, according to my (Australian) sources, there is no legal contract that guarantees the rights of individuals. It has occurred to me that, for all of the shortcomings of the United States, I have perhaps drastically over-looked the monumental significance of the Bill of Rights. Nevermore.

As of this writing, I am completely undecided as to whether I should take a few days off and avoid the spiritual mayhem or if I should immerse myself amongst the pious, if for no other reason than the experience would undoubtedly provide for some excellent blog material. I must confess, I am quite intrigued by the promise of the spectacle of Pontius Pilate washing his hands on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, and it is not everyday that one gets to see the Popemobile. Besides, I just know, that in spite of the financial risks, there are going to be some fabulous collectible t-shirts for sale…

It is pronounced 'bee-en-ALL-ee'

...wasn't even one of my guesses.

Today, Kevin and I attended another event associated with the 2008 Sydney Biennale. Every morning, I walk out on to my balcony and gaze out over Sydney Harbour to admire the view of Cockatoo Island.



I have long heard that it is one of the more fascinating locations around Sydney, but for some reason I have never bothered to figure out how to get there. As part of the Biennale, Sydney is offering free ferry rides to the island. So rare is it to get something for nothing here, that I was obligated to take advantage of the opportunity.



Now part of the Harbour Trust, Cockatoo Island has historically been home to a prison and a girl's reformatory (not simultaneously), but has mostly served as a ship-building yard, an activity which ceased in 1983. The latter function has left the island covered with a fabulous collection of enormous cranes and fascinating industrial buildings. As part of the festival, artists were permitted to create installments within the various unused structures on the island.



A woman on the ferry told me that the artists faced an enormous challenge in trying to compete with the natural intrigue of the venue itself. She was so right.



If I were a better photographer, I would never run out of amazing material on Cockatoo Island. As it was, I still managed to get a few lucky shots. Look carefully, and you can spot me and Kevin in the picture below.








Fans of my previous (and now temporarily defunct) website may recall that, in addition to roadkill, I love to take pictures of bizarre restrooms. There was no shortage of wonderfully icky toilet situations on the island. Granted, these have been out of service for over 20 years, but it is difficult to imagine that they were ever pleasant places to take repose.






Aside from being filled with all sorts of large and fascinating pieces of ship-building machinery, the old warehouses and workshops were decorated with a collection of curious signs and warnings.

You may have noticed that I have not included one photograph of any of the art installments. This is because they were all either terribly disturbing or just plain stupid (except for a room-sized camera obscura and a nifty spinning disc upon which cartoons were projected in skewed dimensions, only to be perfectly reflected by a silver cylinder in the middle of the wheel - but neither of these artworks were suitable photographic subjects.) Either my mind is just too scientific to appreciate fine art, or a video of a man stitching fish line into another man's face as he bleeds and whimpers is NOT art. Regardless, I have decided that I do not like video art in a gallery setting. If I want to see a movie, I will go to the theater.

Indeed, my favorite piece of art wasn't art at all...I have no idea of the original purpose of these large chunks of metal, but aren't they just gorgeous?

Brilliant!

In the Central Business District, paramedics use BMW motorcycles as a first responder unit.

And when you hear that siren, you pay attention!

Feeling Crook

Warning: This article contains intimate digestive details. If you have a delicate constitution, you may want to pass on this entry. I know some of you are going to read it despite my warning and will probably never look at me in quite the same way again. Just be happy I have not included any pictures.



I normally have a stalwart digestive system. I typically eat anything and everything and with one notable exception in Mexico, rarely suffer ill consequences. Of course, I personally do not consider outrageous flatulence to be an ill consequence. I find farting to be more of an endlessly entertaining by-product of digestion.

However, last Sunday afternoon my lower intestines were suddenly seized by the most outrageous pain I have ever experienced (with one notable exception in Mexico). The entire lining of my digestive tract was ablaze. It felt like rodents had climbed up my ass and made a nest inside my transverse colon. By nightfall I was in tears.

“You probably just need to take a big shit,” said my husband, clearly all awash with sympathy.

I followed his advice the next morning, but experienced no relief from my agony. My entire abdomen was tender and it hurt to the touch. The simple act of walking sent spasms of pain through my gut with each footfall. I called in sick to work and spent the next two days in bed.

Come Wednesday, I was still feeling quite delicate, but I was bored to tears (Australian day time television is a horror show) and now my back was sore from lying down, so I decided to go to work anyway. For the next few days, I limped around the lab with a distinctive slouch in an effort to cushion my internal organs against the pain that still gripped my digestive tract, prompting my boss to inquire as to whether I might have a giardia infection. I dismissed the idea, since I had not been drinking from any mountain streams lately and because I did not have diarrhea – in my mind two inseparable prerequisites for a giardia infestation diagnosis.

But then, an extraordinary thing happened. I took a shit. Nothing extraordinary about that. What was extraordinary was the color. Because of my adventurous eating habits, I have produced a veritable rainbow of excrement, my personal favourite being a brilliant atomic red after eating some chili-lime-peanuts in Mexico (note: this was not related to the ‘notable exception’ mentioned above), made especially memorable because it was produced al fresco in an arroyo during a camping trip. However, I have never before fabricated a turd that was such an intense shade of yellow. The color was so striking, that it immediately sent me to the Internet in search of answers.

Now, I know the Internet is home to numerous unfathomable obsessions, and I fully expected to come across plenty of shit-fetish websites. What I did NOT expect to find on the Internet was a thoughtful and intellectual community of people who like to engage in outrageously humorous discussions of one of the human body’s most basic functions. Which brings me to the real purpose of this article: I would like to introduce you to my new favourite web-site.

http://www.poopreport.com/

This site is certainly not for everyone, but if you enjoy hearing gruesome details about excremental misadventures, then you will certainly find this site entertaining. If you’ve ever bragged about the quantity or quality of your own movements (mom), then you just might find a few humbling anecdotes amongst the links. And if you love really bad puns, you will not be disappointed.

After wasting the better part of two working days goofing around on my new favourite website, I eventually learned that yellow poop has two primary causes. One is a harmless condition called Gilbert’s Syndrome involving the improper breakdown of red blood cells. I also learned that yellow poop (especially if it is greasy and floaty, ahem) is a classic symptom of a giradia infection! Further research on giardia uncovered the fact that one may not have any or all of the symptoms and that it can be contracted from other sources besides contaminated mountain streams, such as swimming pools or Sydney Water.

As much as I enjoy discussing pooping issues, I am absolutely appalled at the idea of producing the stool sample required for an official diagnosis of giardiasis. According to the CDC, the infection may run its course in 2 to 6 weeks, and that one of the side effects can be dramatic weight loss of up to 10% of one’s body weight – which just so happens to be the amount of weight I gained last month eating super burritos and bacon while in America.

Hmmm, poop in a bag and take antibiotics or suffer a few cramps and lose weight?

I’ll have to ask my new on-line community what they think…meanwhile, I have been slouching around the house singing “Oh, Giardia!” to the tune of the Canadian national anthem.

20 Years On

It was twenty years ago today (well, in America anyway) that two worlds collided over a microfilm reader in the periodicals department of the San Jose Main Library (before it was the Martin Luther Chavez Library or whatever politically conscientious name it now has). It is weird, looking back now, to think about the future that was about to grow out of that hormone-fueled encounter. It has been one hell of a journey so far, with doings and goings beyond my imagining. Good Lord, what will the next 20 years bring?

More frequent trips to the emergency room, no doubt...

Happy Anniversary, Darling.

2008 Sydney Bitch Fest

I've long heard stories about the enormous colony of giant fruit bats (also known as flying foxes) that spend their days roosting in the tree tops of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, but I've never gone looking for them - though I have seen them in the evenings when they take flight en masse and head off to raid the night flowering plans of neighboring suburbs. The spectacle is truly amazing as the twilight is blotted out by thousands of lumbering silhouettes gliding slowly towards the horizon. It seems that a creature so large should have to flap its wings quite rapidly to remain airborne, yet these rodents of the night sky seem to drift along with the smallest of efforts.


Indeed, I still was not looking for them last Sunday as I crossed the gardens on my way to the Art Gallery of New South Wales to take in some of the exhibits on display as part of the 2008 Biennale of Sydney (if anyone can offer a hint as to how to pronounce 'biennale', I would be most appreciative - it rattles around in my brain in a most uncomfortable fashion). Australian capitols frequently indulge in city-wide themed art festivals involving a variety of venues and mediums. "Billed this year as a celebration of the defiant spirit...The theme of the 16th Biennale, Revolutions – Forms That Turn, suggests the impulse to revolt, a desire for change, and seeing the world differently." Seeing the world differently is one of my favorite past-times, so despite the warnings from my 'frown radar', we headed down to the city.


My facial muscles quickly descended into a deep frown as I viewed a video installment of a woman beating a bicycle with a club in her apartment. I was kind of smitten with a big white button that, when pushed, rang a series of very loud and very harsh bells distributed throughout the gallery. However, I can't say that either exhibit really challenged my perception of the world. I did really like the collection of chalk drawings on the outside of the gallery, though. This one was my favorite:





Oh yeah, the bats...

So, as we crossed the gardens and descended into a deep grove of trees, I heard the unmistakable chatter of a gazillion fruit bats. I swear, they must be the bitchiest species on the planet. The following video does not strive to capture the magnitude of the colony, as it would have quickly become a boring survey of tree after tree filled with bitchy brown ornaments. I did, however, attempt to demonstrate the crabby exchanges between individuals that seem to serve as entertainment through the long day. The god-awful honking in the background came from a palm tree filled with ibises. (I have a video of them also - available on request - but it did not come out very good and besides, they are really ugly birds!)

Crossing Over

As the bus rounded the corner in front of Central Station, I spotted the most glamorous looking woman standing in the chill morning sun. She was wearing black high-heeled leather boots and black slacks. Her long legs vanished beneath a stylish cream colored knitted cloak. Her long brown hair curled gracefully around her neck from beneath a cream colored knitted beret. She turned to look down George Street. She was a he.

I have to say, Sydney has some of the best-dressed transvestites I have ever encountered.

Jiggity-Jig

I would need to take the next week off from work in order to compose any sort of cohesive narrative of the last week of my US visit. Returning to San Jose is always a whirlwind experience, and since unforseen circumstances abridged the duration of that leg of our journey, I felt like I was squishing a 7 day schedule into a 76 hour time slot. Many conversations were cut short; many important things left unsaid.

I feel the need to summarize the experiences of my first trip back home in 1.5 years, to somehow draw a few poignant conclusions that would either justify all of my life’s decisions or ignite a shining beacon that points the way towards my destiny. But if I am learning one thing about life (my life anyway), it is that I should make good friends with uncertainty, doubt, and ambiguity as they will be my constant companions on this earthly trek. I am tempted to say that I simply need more time to process the jumble of emotions experienced over the last month, but I know that in reality, I will never quite ‘figure it out’, because feelings don’t obey the rules of reason.

So, instead, here is a jumble of random conclusions and observations that is in no way meant to be comprehensive or definitive:

1) I am absolutely bored to death with conversations about the price of gasoline.

2) Cats are disloyal sluts who will sell out 13 years of care and affection for a little bit of canned tuna.

3) With the exception of using the windshield wipers to indicate a turn, my brain adapts easily to driving on either side of the road. Being a pedestrian is an entirely different matter.

4) The food in America is delicious – as evidenced by the fact that, once again, none of my clothes fit. But I did have 30 days of remarkably wonderful bowel movements.

5) People who barf on airplanes suck.

6) Nothing cures a crying jag like fearing for one’s life, for example, when an airplane nearly rattles itself apart shortly after take-off.

7) Roberta’s tacos al pastor still rock my word (See #4 above).

8) Sniffer beagles seem to really enjoy their work, but what happens when they get too old? Does Australia provide a nice retirement plan, or are they adopted out, and if so, would they always be peeing on your groceries?

9) Intensive research abroad has reinforced my conclusions regarding Australian toilets (see #4 above.)

10) I nearly wept when I removed my perfectly unwrinkled jeans from my clothes dryer.

11) Political campaigns that last 1.5 years are a preposterous waste of time, money, and valuable brain space. My adoration of the Australian election system has been rekindled.

12) Travelling from winter to summer is invigorating, but returning to winter is a complete shock to the system.

13) Americans are egocentric, gullible, and crass – but they are also very creative, which means the above terms can be construed to indicate that Americans are also confident, open-hearted, and do not readily submit to frivolous rules of etiquette and social convention. I was surprised that I was not more irritated by them (as I often am here, oddly). It was an amazing relief to instinctively know the proper way of behaving. Here, I feel that I am constantly making some sort of embarrassing guffaw that only reinforces the generally ill opinion of Americans held by many Australians.


We got back to our apartment early this morning and the door slammed behind me with a woosh of finality. I knew the trip would go by quickly, but looking back, it feels strange that a month full of intense impressions and emotions can fit into a place as tiny as my brain. After a little nap, we took the train downtown for lunch. Slightly dazed by fatigue, I was contemplating my definition of home and considering all the places I have lived that still feel like home to me. I wasn’t sure if returning to Sydney felt like ‘coming home’ or merely like ‘coming back’. Then, in the middle of the lunch time crowds, I felt a quick tug at my elbow. It was my friend, Valerie.

“Hey! Hi. How was your trip? Welcome home.”

Green Things

I am currently staying at a green hotel just outside the Napa Valley. Actually, it is beige, mostly. How did the simple word ‘green’ come to represent such a complicated movement? In my poorly organized mind, I always give the credit to Kermit the Frog and his enduring mantra, but then sometimes I just think it is all a bunch of marketing hoopla. Nothing detracts from the fundamental value of a good concept like marketing hoopla. Granted, good ideas need to be disseminated to the masses, but how can you trust a system that makes people believe that cookies are for breakfast and invading sovereign nations is acceptable foreign policy?

I can feel your curiosity burning through my (complimentary!) wireless connection…you are dying to know what makes a hotel green…Well, the most distinguishing feature is the six large LCD monitors in the lobby which show the current water and electricity usage of the property as well as an estimation of CO2 generation. One is forced to ponder if that includes the heat output of said monitors. Another critical component of managing a green hotel is to replace all the in-room bibles with copies of “An Inconvenient Truth.”

The skeptical cynic in me wants to poke fun at the whole green scene because of the silly extremes to which people stray in order to feel better about their very existence – like mandating the use of compact fluorescent light bulbs without establishing an infrastructure to recycle the 5 mg of mercury contained within each bulb which is trickling into the groundwater beneath landfills as I type. However, another (less exercised) portion of my personality wants to embrace and celebrate the notions of environmental sustainability, social responsibility, and ecologically friendly business practices.

So, I take comfort in drinking Fair Trade Certified Organic coffee that was brewed in a plastic drip pot. I am happy to reuse my towels after my 20 minute shower. I smile at the efficiency of the solatubes in the hallways that replace electric light during the day as I slide my card-key into an electronic lock. I feel pleased knowing the room was constructed with low volatile organic paints and sealants as I drink beer and eat too much pizza. I admire the graceful swans gliding across the frog-filled lagoon of recycled water – even as I toss greasy Fritos into the water…because everyone knows swans love Fritos…

However, my amusements have limits. I must question the informational value of assigning an earthy-sounding name to each room, particularly since that name is embossed onto plastic placard beneath each room number. We are staying in the muskrat room. I am not especially pleased with the thought of paying a premium rate to share my vacation amenities with large odiferous rodents, but it turns out that the only sign of the critters is an informational card featuring a picture of the planet.
Did you know that muskrats can remain underwater for up to 20 minutes and can swim forwards and backwards?

Printed on recycled paper with soy-ink, of course…

Two Sides of a Coin

A crisp morning breeze stirred the branches of the mighty oak out side my balcony window, as I snuggled down deeper into my blankets. A choir of chipper birdsong erupted out of the fading darkness. I smiled and let the various calls of this avian oratorio draw my imagination out into the gentle glory of the newly dawning day. I thought forward onto my day with gratitude, optimism, and anticipation as my imagination drifted from chirp to whistle to twitter.

SLAM! went the sliding glass door. "Damn noisy birds. Up so early. All that racket driving into my brain like a million little needles. Why do they have to get up so early and make so much noise when I am trying to sleep? Christ, I swear it quieter in St Leonards."


Is this an example of complementarity or incompatibility?

A Case for Beer

Aside from religion, politics, and sports, perhaps no other topic polarizes nations more than beer. For the most part, I consider myself to be an impartial observer (UN appointed) in the battle of brewed beverages. I have never tasted a beer that I would classify as objectionable, unless you count that time when I didn't realize the can had been used as an ashtray or possibly that garlic beer…

I know that American beer suffers a lot of harsh criticism throughout the civilized beer-drinking world, and I will not deny that descriptors such as 'weak', 'piss-water', and 'so lacking in character that one must drink it ice cold so that it freezes the taste buds off of one's tongue' are accurate and occasionally amusing.

In defense of American beer, people often employ terms like 'crisp', 'refreshing', and 'perfect for drinking all day long while watching rich sober people drive around in a circle for large sums of prize money'.

I don't really want to argue the relative merits of any particular brand or method of intoxication. Diplomat that I am I see and appreciate all sides to any argument. I think this may be an example of how prejudice and attachment to familiar tastes might serve as an obstacle to the enjoyment of a perfectly wonderful experience (mind you, this works both ways, as know plenty of Yankers who have strong opinions about European style beer despite having never sampled it). However, after extensive personal research, I must concur that there is something decidedly wonderful about drinking a cold, light beer under a hot summer sun…er, make that 12 cold beers.

There is also something decidedly wonderful about being able to buy 30 beers for $13.99.

Wild Life Survey - Morning Update

When I got out up there was a large fuzzy spider floating in my bedside glass of water. I am grateful that for once I did not awaken in the middle of the night with a throat-crushing thirst. Wriggle-and-jiggle-and-tickle inside her indeed!

I had a cup of coffee with wild turkey...no, not the whiskey. Three adult hens escorted their very recently hatched flock of baby turkeys through the front yard, teaching them to scratch for acorns and look so cute that Robert throws turkey chow into the yard every morning. What is the term for a baby turkey? Is it a turkelet? Please let it be turkelet...

There is a large window in the shower. This morning I bathed with a small herd of deer grazing in the side yard. A young buck with a broked-off antler stared at me as he chewed up some bushes. In fact, he stared at me so intently that I began to feel uncomfortable and felt compelled to draw the curtain for the sake of my personal modesty.

The Vacation Within

We never did much exploration of the local surrounds while we lived in Shingletown, (if you are really bored, check out the forum discussions at the bottom of that link...yikes, that worst of Americana on display!) Primarily because the homestead is darn pleasant, we found it unnecessary and uncomfortable to ever leave it. For years I have been itching to visit the quaint coastal town of Trinidad. With the power of the internet (and available credit) at my fingertips, I booked us a cozy cabin and away we drove down the curvy highway following the Trinity River westward to the Pacific. We stopped occasionally to evaluate the rapids just listen to the refreshing whoosh of clear running water.



Upon our arrival, I was delighted to discover that our little lodge sat atop a cliff above the Sea Lion Lounge, a collection of rocky islands layered with tons of barking blubber. I reckon if one is annoyed by the sounds of groaning marine mammals, one would certainly not build one's house along Patrick Point Drive, because that party went on all night. Sorry, they were too far away to get a clear picture, but the rocks below were covered with seals and sea lions.







Aside from eating heaps of Mexican food, one of my other objectives for this USA visit was to spend some time in the company of redwood trees. I find these gentle giants of the forest to be completely restorative to my oft-harried mind. This shot didn't come out so well, but I am actually standing in the burnt out middle of an enormous tree that is now surrounded by a fairy ring of youngsters.

It was a rare and glorious sunny day around Eureka Bay, an area notorious for being blanketed in a thick fog. Don't be fooled, though. It was still chilly.

The next morning we drove down to Arcata to peek at a former residence then our the South Jetty to dine at the famous Samoa Cookhouse. Like most restaurants that have their own postcards, the quality of the food was second to their ambience and historical value, although personally, I thought the food was quite good - I normally never eat pancakes and I quite enjoyed every bite.

Don't you just adore the enduring optimisim of the human species? Personally, I don't think I could outrun that wave. Not with a belly full of pancakes anyway.

Home Stuff

My home is no longer my own.

During our stay in Australia, our friends Robert and Holly have been care taking our rancho in Shingletwon, CA (I always make that typo...). They welcomed us home last Friday evening with an extravagant and delicious BBQ dinner party. Overwhelmed with emotion already, I stepped back from the cheerful bustle of the gathering and observed that our friends have slipped very successfully into the life we left behind - in fact, more successfully than we had ever done. They have been able to make their way in this rural community in ways that we never could. They have made friends of our acquaintances. They have made a life where we merely lived.

I walk around my house, still decorated with the artifacts and accoutrements of my life and feel my own personality like an outsider. These objects are familiar, yet they tell a story of person I don't quite know and not at all the same story told by my collection of discarded treasures back in Sydney. Each of these objects comes with a story, a history, a memory, a feeling. I ache with nostalgia as I remember the taste of the dinner in Austin when we got that picture, or the smell of the streets in New Orleans when I bought that skeleton chest, or the angle of the sunlight through the campfire smoke when we bought all those little bobbly-headed turtles from that snot-covered boy in San Felipe and we were so pleased with ourselves because we talked him down 5 pesos before we realized how petty was the accomplishment.

I am proud of the contents of my Sydney apartment because they represent frugality and resistance to conspicuous consumption, but I as I look around at my collection of stuff, I feel a strange arrogance - not for the items themselves nor of my ability to own them, but for the rich tapestry of my personal history that they represent.

But then nothing deflates arrogance like a cat. Not that I expected any sort of of welcome from The Cow, but the slightest hint of acknowledgement would have been nice...she certainly had plenty of acknowledgement for Robert when he opened that can of wet food, which evidently he does every night, which certainly accounts for her reassignation of affection.

Yet further illustrates the many ways in which my home is no longer my own.