There is a dark cloud hanging over Sydney this morning...
I'm not trying to be poetic. There really is a single grey cloud floating over the harbour. The otherwise blue skies look like good flying weather.
I was up most of the night, not so much from excitement as simply wrangling with my intermittent and recurrent insomnia. Of course, I am excited, though at this point I am mostly anxious about the flight and of the landing. No one is coming to pick us up, so dazed and disoriented we will make our way to a hotel in the city via public transport. I would like to state for the record, that we had offers of airport retrieval from friends that live up to 80 miles from the airport, yet my allegedly very best friend in the world couldn't be bothered to take an hour off of work to fetch us from 13 miles away. My feelings are very hurt by this, but I am a big girl and if I can manage to get myself halfway around the planet, I can certainly walk make ti to BART and then walk four blocks through downtown San Francisco with my enormous amounts of luggage with a cranky husband in tow. Well, at least I will earn myself a martyr card to be played later. (Note to self: in the very unlikely event that this friend should ever come to Sydney, be sure to supply her with instructions on how to ride City Rail. Wouldn't want to weigh her down with welcoming hugs and kisses at the airport after such a journey.)
Well, I'd best finish my packing and complete my morning rituals. And see if I can get Kevin out of bed...we leave in an hour and a half.
20 May 2008
19 May 2008
About Australia Post
Australia Post has the brilliant business practice of charging money to NOT provide services. I hope the Postmaster General never gets wind of this scheme. For a mere twenty-six dollars, I can NOT receive mail while I am on vacation.
Australian banks still keep banker’s hours, making it extraordinarily difficult for employed persons to engage in banking activities, like depositing checks. Oh, there ARE express deposit slots – conveniently located inside the lobby of the bank. After several weeks of not being able to make it to my bank between 10 and 4, I called customer service for their mailing address and was advised against sending checks by post (snigger). Instead I was told to go to Australia Post and deposit my checks there. Ever so much more convenient, as the post office is open from 9 to 5.
Similarly, I called my bank to inquire about getting a bank draft (aka a certified check) to pay for some bureaucratic process and was told that such a service would incur a fee if performed by my bank. However, I could go to Australia Post and use my debit card to get a bank check for free.
I went to my bank and tried to mail a parcel, but they just stared at me without humour.
Like the US, Australian mail boxes are filled daily with an inordinate amount of junk mail in the form of store flyers, restaurant menus, and real estate adverts. Unlike the US, junk mail is delivered by private contractors. I daresay that the bulk billing of junk mail by the US Postal Service is the sole reason why they are the only financially solvent government agency. I am utterly confounded that Australia Post continues to let this enormous revenue stream go untapped.
It is a favourite past-time of Australians to secure signs to their mail boxes proclaiming NO JUNK MAIL. I receive much pleasure from depositing my own junk mail into these boxes.
To be fair, there is one completely adorable facet to Australia Post: Postie Bikes.
Australian banks still keep banker’s hours, making it extraordinarily difficult for employed persons to engage in banking activities, like depositing checks. Oh, there ARE express deposit slots – conveniently located inside the lobby of the bank. After several weeks of not being able to make it to my bank between 10 and 4, I called customer service for their mailing address and was advised against sending checks by post (snigger). Instead I was told to go to Australia Post and deposit my checks there. Ever so much more convenient, as the post office is open from 9 to 5.
Similarly, I called my bank to inquire about getting a bank draft (aka a certified check) to pay for some bureaucratic process and was told that such a service would incur a fee if performed by my bank. However, I could go to Australia Post and use my debit card to get a bank check for free.
I went to my bank and tried to mail a parcel, but they just stared at me without humour.
Like the US, Australian mail boxes are filled daily with an inordinate amount of junk mail in the form of store flyers, restaurant menus, and real estate adverts. Unlike the US, junk mail is delivered by private contractors. I daresay that the bulk billing of junk mail by the US Postal Service is the sole reason why they are the only financially solvent government agency. I am utterly confounded that Australia Post continues to let this enormous revenue stream go untapped.
It is a favourite past-time of Australians to secure signs to their mail boxes proclaiming NO JUNK MAIL. I receive much pleasure from depositing my own junk mail into these boxes.
To be fair, there is one completely adorable facet to Australia Post: Postie Bikes.
17 May 2008
T minus 3 Days and Counting
I am positively vibrating with nervous anticipation about our impending return to the US. I suppose I should be channeling that energy into some productive activity like doing laundry or cleaning my bathroom, but as soon as I walk into another room, I forget my intentions then wander around in a daze for a little bit, then I come back to the computer to search for some needed peice of information (such as the duty rates on Australian wine) but as soon as I log onto the internet, I forget what it was I was wondering about and become anxious that I should be doing something more productive.
Wheeee!
Wheeee!
13 May 2008
Sorry?
Last night there was a high speed police chase along a major commuter artery during peak hour. The police shut down portions of Parramatta Road during the 16 km pursuit, completely stuffing up traffic. Approximately 20 police cruisers were involved in the offensive. The suspects were apprehended after smashing their stolen SUV into a smaller car.
According to the evening television news, the driver has been charged with "using a motor vehicle to avoid apprehension." The two passengers of the car have been charged for "being carried in conveyance without the consent of the owner." Isn't that so much more charming than saying "riding in a stolen vehicle"?
According to the morning radio news, the NSW Police Department has issued a formal apology to the citizens of Sydney for having caused any inconvenience during the evening commute. It made me feel warm and fuzzy.
Can you just imagine the LAPD having that press conference?
According to the evening television news, the driver has been charged with "using a motor vehicle to avoid apprehension." The two passengers of the car have been charged for "being carried in conveyance without the consent of the owner." Isn't that so much more charming than saying "riding in a stolen vehicle"?
According to the morning radio news, the NSW Police Department has issued a formal apology to the citizens of Sydney for having caused any inconvenience during the evening commute. It made me feel warm and fuzzy.
Can you just imagine the LAPD having that press conference?
08 May 2008
Morning Visitor
I awoke as the first rays of dawn came streaming in through the wall of glass that is the North side of our bedroom. The red-gold light spilling in from the East cast an unmistakable silhouette across the closet doors. I bolted out of bed and grabbed my camera. It didn't even flinch as I pulled open the door and crept out onto the balcony. It eyed me with curiosity as I walked slowly towards it until it was no more than an arms length away. I felt a distinct vibration of arrogance as it cocked its head and posed for me. I reckon with a beak like that, a kookaburra really doesn't need to fear much.
06 May 2008
Hearfelt Thanks
Thanks everyone who voted for my sister in the Pin-up girl competition.
She won!
And the big prize?
Bragging Rights.
Thanks again. My mum is very proud (though she still grumbles about the tatoos.)
She won!
And the big prize?
Bragging Rights.
Thanks again. My mum is very proud (though she still grumbles about the tatoos.)
03 May 2008
Pussification
Whilst flipping through the channels this morning, we could not resist a brief pause upon hearing the voices of two American announcers. I am certainly no fan of NASCAR Racing, but Saturday morning programming selections are rather limited with the next most interesting program being the Greek News Hour. And so we watched for a few laps, if only to hear the soothing buzz of high octane engines wasting precious resources while soldiers over seas die to procure futures of crude oil.
One of the first things I noticed is that when the announcers cut to a commercial break, the Australian feed simply continued showing the race without commentary (to which Kevin remarked “Great! They found a way to make NASCAR even more boring?”). I cannot decide if Australia has not fully grasped the economic implications of having paid commercial airtime for 3 out of every 5 minutes of a sports broadcast, or if their reverence for athletic competition supersedes greed. Either way, it is a decidedly civilized tradition. American football games are typically shown here without all of the annoying commercial breaks, like immediately after a change of possession and whenever a time out is called. For a live broadcast, the cameras just keep showing the action on the sidelines; for a re-broadcast, an entire game may be viewed in under two hours! Rugby League games consist of two 40 minute halves, with zero commercial interruptions during play. Truly, it is a far more civilized approach to televised sports.
The second thing I noticed about NASCAR was the unusual and unlikely sponsors of the cars. Mind you, having already stated that I am not a NASCAR fan, I was still quite surprised to discover the complete and total pussification of the sport with regard to the complete and total absence of sponsors representing the alcohol and tobacco industries. It seems NASCAR has gone the way of Las Vegas in bending over to court the family-friendly politically-correct dollar. I suppose it was inevitable, maybe even wholesome. Nonetheless, I find it disturbing to see race cars sponsored my Quick Cuts, Clorox Bleach, and HAAS Avocados from Mexico (who new a breed of avocado had so much extra cash.) I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before there will be cars with hoods adorned by nauseating ads for Huggies, Kotex, and Monistat.
And since I’m having a rant, why the hell are there race cars sponsored by all the branches of the US Armed Forces, including the US Border Patrol? I understand that those particular government agencies have some sort of a budget for public relations and recruitment, but I think there needs to be a serious congressional review of their budgets if they are able to spend one million dollars for prime placement of their message on the hood of a race car. Am I the only one who thinks that may constitute a gross misuse of tax revenue?
And who the fuck thinks, “Hey, The US Army hasn’t won a race all season! I think I’ll sign up to have my balls shot off in Iraq!”
One of the first things I noticed is that when the announcers cut to a commercial break, the Australian feed simply continued showing the race without commentary (to which Kevin remarked “Great! They found a way to make NASCAR even more boring?”). I cannot decide if Australia has not fully grasped the economic implications of having paid commercial airtime for 3 out of every 5 minutes of a sports broadcast, or if their reverence for athletic competition supersedes greed. Either way, it is a decidedly civilized tradition. American football games are typically shown here without all of the annoying commercial breaks, like immediately after a change of possession and whenever a time out is called. For a live broadcast, the cameras just keep showing the action on the sidelines; for a re-broadcast, an entire game may be viewed in under two hours! Rugby League games consist of two 40 minute halves, with zero commercial interruptions during play. Truly, it is a far more civilized approach to televised sports.
The second thing I noticed about NASCAR was the unusual and unlikely sponsors of the cars. Mind you, having already stated that I am not a NASCAR fan, I was still quite surprised to discover the complete and total pussification of the sport with regard to the complete and total absence of sponsors representing the alcohol and tobacco industries. It seems NASCAR has gone the way of Las Vegas in bending over to court the family-friendly politically-correct dollar. I suppose it was inevitable, maybe even wholesome. Nonetheless, I find it disturbing to see race cars sponsored my Quick Cuts, Clorox Bleach, and HAAS Avocados from Mexico (who new a breed of avocado had so much extra cash.) I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before there will be cars with hoods adorned by nauseating ads for Huggies, Kotex, and Monistat.
And since I’m having a rant, why the hell are there race cars sponsored by all the branches of the US Armed Forces, including the US Border Patrol? I understand that those particular government agencies have some sort of a budget for public relations and recruitment, but I think there needs to be a serious congressional review of their budgets if they are able to spend one million dollars for prime placement of their message on the hood of a race car. Am I the only one who thinks that may constitute a gross misuse of tax revenue?
And who the fuck thinks, “Hey, The US Army hasn’t won a race all season! I think I’ll sign up to have my balls shot off in Iraq!”
01 May 2008
Happy Hour
There was a period in Australian history where pubs only served beer between 5 and 6 pm, the intention being to discourage drunkenness and facilitate evening meals of family togetherness. The result, however, was that for one hour each day, pubs were chocka-block with men guzzling beer in order to get as drunk as possible before driving home. No greater creativity is applied by mankind than in finding loopholes around inconvenient laws. In this case, the men would save their empty glasses accumulated throughout the hour and race to get them filled at 5:59, giving rise to the colourful phrase “The Six O’Clock Swill.”
One consequence of this ill-conceived public policy was the proliferation of pubs and hotels. Fortunately, this occurred during one of the more pleasant periods in Australian architectural design, so that today, nearly every intersection in the city and in many suburbs is adorned with one to four beautiful art deco style buildings, with curved windows and ornately tiled exteriors. What I find amazing is that, given the small population of Australia in the early years of the 20th century, so many publicans could squeeze adequate profits out of one good hour to remain viable. This says something profound about Australia’s love affair with beer, which saves me from having to actually say it myself.
The legacy of the Six O’Clock Swill is a bountiful selection of conveniently spaced pubs most suitable for crawling across town in any direction. One is never more than a short city block from the next beer. Most of the old pubs have been renovated or “gentrified”. Swanky furniture and mood lighting have replaced wooden stools and rickety ceiling fans, but the exoskeletons sugges the grandeur of the bygone era. 
One consequence of this ill-conceived public policy was the proliferation of pubs and hotels. Fortunately, this occurred during one of the more pleasant periods in Australian architectural design, so that today, nearly every intersection in the city and in many suburbs is adorned with one to four beautiful art deco style buildings, with curved windows and ornately tiled exteriors. What I find amazing is that, given the small population of Australia in the early years of the 20th century, so many publicans could squeeze adequate profits out of one good hour to remain viable. This says something profound about Australia’s love affair with beer, which saves me from having to actually say it myself.
The legacy of the Six O’Clock Swill is a bountiful selection of conveniently spaced pubs most suitable for crawling across town in any direction. One is never more than a short city block from the next beer. Most of the old pubs have been renovated or “gentrified”. Swanky furniture and mood lighting have replaced wooden stools and rickety ceiling fans, but the exoskeletons sugges the grandeur of the bygone era.
Some of the pubs retain their original interiors, clinging to the hope that shabby will become chic, or more likely, for lack of funds in the face of impending destruction. This is especially true along a desolate stretch of Parramatta Road in front of the old Foster’s Group Brewery (earmarked for major re-development), where shabby has completely yielded to decrepit. If you ever want to get rid of a tattered old sofa, simply drop it in front of The Abercrombie or The Claire Hotel and they will give it a loving home within their dark and musty interiors.
However, these daggy pubs do have some of entertaining graffiti:
However, these daggy pubs do have some of entertaining graffiti:
27 April 2008
Shamless Begging
My sister Chloe wants to be a May's Naughty Knitter Bad Girl Pin-Up...Please stop by and vote for her: http://freakknitter.typepad.com/knit_girls/vote.html
I think she wins a hank of yarn and some good publicity for her store.
Thanks!
I think she wins a hank of yarn and some good publicity for her store.
Thanks!
24 April 2008
ANZAC Day (and Some Tangents)
Today is ANZAC Day, which marks Australia's victorious defeat at the hands of the Turks after a minor navigational miscalculation landed them upon the fateful shores of Gallipoli during World War I. After spending the morning in somber reflection and respectful remembrance, Australia further commemorates the occasion by eating cookies, gambling on coin tosses, and drinking huge amounts of beer. Huge amounts of beer.
This our third ANZAC Day in Australia, which gives us the odd sensation of having some personal history here. Our first ANZAC Day (during our two month scouting mission prior to our relocation) was spent in the neighboring state of Victoria, birthplace of Australian Rules Football. In Victoria, the highlight of ANZAC Day is the annual rivalry between The Collingwood Magpies and The Essendon Bombers. For whatever reason, Aussie Rules Football is largely ignored in New South Wales (and the rest of the country for that matter) where Rugby League is the preferred sport.
Which brings to mind one of those peculiar differences in language that frequently results in much sniggering at the expense of Americans. Although the US is certainly cognizant of multiple connotations of "root", it is typically the word of choice when one wishes to express one's enthusiastic support for a particular sporting franchise. However, employing such phrases as "I root for The Rabbitohs" takes athletic dedication to an entirely new level.
And since I have completely lost the point I was intending to make with this article, allow me to conclude with another piece of linguistic advice. If the sealant in your bathroom needs replacing, be sure to ask your apartment manager to fix the 'silicone', because you will get some mighty funny looks when you barge into his office complaining about the caulk in your bathtub.
This our third ANZAC Day in Australia, which gives us the odd sensation of having some personal history here. Our first ANZAC Day (during our two month scouting mission prior to our relocation) was spent in the neighboring state of Victoria, birthplace of Australian Rules Football. In Victoria, the highlight of ANZAC Day is the annual rivalry between The Collingwood Magpies and The Essendon Bombers. For whatever reason, Aussie Rules Football is largely ignored in New South Wales (and the rest of the country for that matter) where Rugby League is the preferred sport.
Which brings to mind one of those peculiar differences in language that frequently results in much sniggering at the expense of Americans. Although the US is certainly cognizant of multiple connotations of "root", it is typically the word of choice when one wishes to express one's enthusiastic support for a particular sporting franchise. However, employing such phrases as "I root for The Rabbitohs" takes athletic dedication to an entirely new level.
And since I have completely lost the point I was intending to make with this article, allow me to conclude with another piece of linguistic advice. If the sealant in your bathroom needs replacing, be sure to ask your apartment manager to fix the 'silicone', because you will get some mighty funny looks when you barge into his office complaining about the caulk in your bathtub.
17 April 2008
How Very Australian
Overheard in a crowded restaurant:
"Are you drinking drinking with lunch?"
"Oh, no! I'm just having wine."
"Are you drinking drinking with lunch?"
"Oh, no! I'm just having wine."
The Joys of Public Transport #3
I like to ride on busses that have large advertisements pasted over the side windows. The ads are sheets of plastic with zillions of small holes in them. From the street they appear seamless. From inside the bus, one is aware of the holes even as one’s brain fills in the small little gaps and completes the scene that is unfurling beyond the window. Thus, as I watch twin schizophrenic brothers pissing on each other’s feet outside the Greater Union Cinema, I appear only as an enormous fizzy bottle of Sprite…of course, that may be how I look to them on any given day...
I especially like riding behind these adverts on rainy days, like today. When the tiny holes are filled with water, the world is a blur of color and shape.
On these days, I imagine that I am a myopic honey bee, on my way to work.
I especially like riding behind these adverts on rainy days, like today. When the tiny holes are filled with water, the world is a blur of color and shape.
On these days, I imagine that I am a myopic honey bee, on my way to work.
11 April 2008
Well I Been Down So Very Damn Long
Spending large sums of money always makes me anxious, but my heart was absolutely pounding out of my chest as I hit the "pay now" button to purchase two round trip tickets to San Francisco. Perhaps my palpitations had less to do with the $4,000 than the mix of nervous excitement at the thought of going home after 1 and 1/2 years in Australia.
I am thrilled by the prospects of visiting with my family and friends, petting The Cow, saying 'hello' to all my 'stuff' so hastily abandoned, eating buckets of Mexican food, and seeing some of my favorite places, smelling some of my favorite smells, and hearing some of my favorite sounds.
But I am also a little frightened.
My anticipation is already straining under the weight of unavoidable scrutiny as I must reconcile my memories against reality. As I experience frustration and annoyance with life in Australia, I invariably romanticize life ‘back home’. This visit is sure to be wrought with emotion and tension as one by one my fantasies either blossom or fade in the face of actuality.
Will nostalgia propel my destiny back to the homeland?
Or, will disillusionment reshape my outlook on this antipodean life?
Most likely, there will be a little of both, and I shall be eternally adrift on the shifting sea of unstable convictions, where the direction of my life is determined by the currents of happenstance and the winds of whimsy.
Stay tuned to find out.
I am thrilled by the prospects of visiting with my family and friends, petting The Cow, saying 'hello' to all my 'stuff' so hastily abandoned, eating buckets of Mexican food, and seeing some of my favorite places, smelling some of my favorite smells, and hearing some of my favorite sounds.
But I am also a little frightened.
My anticipation is already straining under the weight of unavoidable scrutiny as I must reconcile my memories against reality. As I experience frustration and annoyance with life in Australia, I invariably romanticize life ‘back home’. This visit is sure to be wrought with emotion and tension as one by one my fantasies either blossom or fade in the face of actuality.
Will nostalgia propel my destiny back to the homeland?
Or, will disillusionment reshape my outlook on this antipodean life?
Most likely, there will be a little of both, and I shall be eternally adrift on the shifting sea of unstable convictions, where the direction of my life is determined by the currents of happenstance and the winds of whimsy.
Stay tuned to find out.
07 April 2008
Small Pleasures
I feel I have been a little hard on Australia lately, so I thought I would make ammends by way of a list of things I really, really really, like. In no particular order:
1. Rainbow Lorikeets
I have about 20 hours of video of lorikeets eating. Their cheerful twittering makes me feel happy in a way that nothing else does. My mom sent me cherries for Christmas and I couldn't resist sharing them. I like to share. And lorikeets like to eat. Indeed, they get quite bitchy on the mornings when I neglect to put out bird seed or leftover bread soaked in honey (I know, it's a no-no...I probably shouldn't eat it either). When I move back to the states, I want to breed rainbow lorikeets.
2. Fruit Markets
Every little neighborhood has at least one well stocked fruit market, usually between a bakery and a butchery. I think this is a far superior way to shop for sustenance than driving to a mega-market, fighting for parking, buying two weeks worth of groceries, then ending up with a cart full of imitation processed food that doesn't quite fit together into any sort of meal plan. And they are pretty, too.
3. Monks in the City
I wonder if he is listening to something spiritually uplifting, or if he is rockin' out to Guns 'n' Roses...Sometimes Franciscan Friars get on my bus. They look like big bottles of Frangelico, only they don't smell quite as good.
4. The Gore Hill Cemetery
I'm always a little surprised at how many cemeteries here are wild and and unkempt, but this one is my favorite. It is filled with gigantic spiders that spin enormous webs across the walkways - just above head height. How do they know how tall a pedestrian will be? 1917 was a very tough year to be an Australian of any age, but especially a young man.
5. Geckos
OK, so geckos aren't uniquely Australian, but they still make me very happy, especially when I see them eating mosquitoes and hear them making kissing noises.
6. The State Library
Aside from this irresistible statue of a drooling pig, I like the library because it has a cat for a mascot. Trim is the first cat to circumnavigate Australia by ship. He was the first mate of Captain Mitchell, the namesake of a gorgeous building with stain glass windows and marble floors that makes you want to tiptoe and whisper.
7. Aussie BBQs
I don't especially care for snags, but the sheer volume of meat, coupled with competitive enthusiasm feeds the legend that is the Aussie Barbie. There really ought to be a national team. They would easily win the world cup with fried onions alone.
8. Pharlap's Heart
So revered is the antipodean counterpart to Sea Biscuit that various parts of his remains are on display in museums all across the country.
9. Tattoos That You Have To Pretend Not To Be Staring At
There isn't really much else to say about this, except for the obvious comments about the effects of aging on a woman's thighs and the unfortunate consequences that will have on these otherwise immortal pin-up girls. Mom - if Chloe gets one or more of these, it is not my fault.
10. Graphic Warning Signs
One can only hope that this is a precautionary measure and not the result of an unfortunate incident involving a soggy free fall onto the jagged rocks below. More demented minds might hope otherwise...
11. Beer
03 April 2008
By Request
Dedicated reader Darcie made a cultural inquiry as to the offensiveness of the euphemism 'beaver' in regards to female genitalia. Lest you worry about what odd thoughts occupy the mind of my dear friend, know that her curiosity was prompted by the following commercial recently yanked from the airwaves here in Australia, and now making quite a stir in the blogosphere:
My extensive research (I asked three Australian women and one Chinese man) yielded the conclusive conclusion that Audra has the uncanny ability to embarrass the crap out of Chinese men. However, the women were agreed that in no way were they offended by the term 'beaver', though it is not a term they employ in their daily vocabulary (perhaps because there are no beavers in Australia?). Indeed, as far as I can gather from the blog chatter, the only thing offensive about this commercial is the Americanization of Australian advertising - though I cannot imagine an American tampon commercial referring to feminine anatomy as "down there", much less comparing it to a small river dwelling rodent renowned for its ability to fell trees with its teeth. (Please note the tremendous restraint I am applying in avoiding any tongue in cheek remarks about damming the flow. If you are disappointed by my reticence, I suggest this.)
In truth, Australians are offended by very little, apart from the Americanization of their culture, particularly through the influence of television and movies. The disdain for American advertising is exemplified by a recent commercial in which a team of bank directors have hired an American ad agency to promote their home loans. The American agency comes up with a garish and obnoxious campaign which visibly nauseates the bank directors and clearly pins the blame for rising interests rates here on the US. (Australians love to blame the US for every little thing that goes wrong with the world and the economy. As if there was no such thing as predatory lending here...and that is not even considering that ALL mortgages are variable rate to some degree - currently ~9.4% following 12 consecutive rate hikes. Oh, and home mortgage interest is not a tax deduction. But I digress.) In the end, the bank opts for a plainly spoken under-statement about the quality of their home loans.
Oddly, Australians vocally welcome other immigrants to bring their traditions to the cultural potluck. They are keen to attend festivals hosted by Africans, Indians, Italians, Chinese, and others, but any attempt to recognize the pleasures associated with Halloween or the Fourth of July are met with harsh criticism. (OK, you know I am joking about the Fourth of July, right? I hope?) The Australian media loves to ramble on about how the American media (in the broadest sense of the word, not just news outlets) has contaminated so many facets of Australian culture that the nation is losing its uniquely Australian identity as evidenced by 1) drastic changes in vocabulary - particularly lamented is the decline in the use of colorful Australian colloquialisms such as "A bit more choke and you would have started", 2) diminishment of the Australian accent - blamed wholly on movies and The Simpsons (I think there is a Simpsons Channel on Foxtel), and 3) results of a recent poll that showed a surprising number of young people believe that in an emergency they should dial 911 (here, it is triple zero).
In NO way am I attempting to defend the drivel churned out by American movie studios or the rancid television shows that play to the lowest common denominators of society (BTW, since living here, I have realized that many of my least favorite TV shows are actually rip offs of crappy British shows, but when Australia rips them off, they tend to overlook that fact.) I am the first to admit that the US does not show well in our exported media, but here they make it sound as if there is some evil American machine with an agenda to assimilate their very being. Turn off your bloody televisions, ya wankers. You don't have to watch it!
This seething dislike for American culture clearly stems from the Tall Poppy Syndrome so inherent to Australian values, and perhaps the one facet of their culture that will not, can not be dissolved by American influences. I don't think Australians appreciate how much America really, really likes them. Ask any American and they are sure to express their desire to visit Australia. We are absolutely charmed by you. I am formulating an analogy of our countries based on two brothers - the older one who defied his parents strict rules and left home at 18, struck out into the world to become a free and wild success while the younger one stayed home and cared for the frail aging parents, and who, although successful in his own right, actively cultivates resentment for the carefree recklessness of his older brother. (For a wonderful and more detailed treatment of this fascinating subject, I recommend The United States vs Australia.)
As a follow-up question to my elaborate survey, I enquired about the existence of a uniquely Australian euphemism for female genitalia. But I reckon it is pretty difficult to come up with a clever ad campaign for tampons based on the Map of Tasmania.
My extensive research (I asked three Australian women and one Chinese man) yielded the conclusive conclusion that Audra has the uncanny ability to embarrass the crap out of Chinese men. However, the women were agreed that in no way were they offended by the term 'beaver', though it is not a term they employ in their daily vocabulary (perhaps because there are no beavers in Australia?). Indeed, as far as I can gather from the blog chatter, the only thing offensive about this commercial is the Americanization of Australian advertising - though I cannot imagine an American tampon commercial referring to feminine anatomy as "down there", much less comparing it to a small river dwelling rodent renowned for its ability to fell trees with its teeth. (Please note the tremendous restraint I am applying in avoiding any tongue in cheek remarks about damming the flow. If you are disappointed by my reticence, I suggest this.)
In truth, Australians are offended by very little, apart from the Americanization of their culture, particularly through the influence of television and movies. The disdain for American advertising is exemplified by a recent commercial in which a team of bank directors have hired an American ad agency to promote their home loans. The American agency comes up with a garish and obnoxious campaign which visibly nauseates the bank directors and clearly pins the blame for rising interests rates here on the US. (Australians love to blame the US for every little thing that goes wrong with the world and the economy. As if there was no such thing as predatory lending here...and that is not even considering that ALL mortgages are variable rate to some degree - currently ~9.4% following 12 consecutive rate hikes. Oh, and home mortgage interest is not a tax deduction. But I digress.) In the end, the bank opts for a plainly spoken under-statement about the quality of their home loans.
Oddly, Australians vocally welcome other immigrants to bring their traditions to the cultural potluck. They are keen to attend festivals hosted by Africans, Indians, Italians, Chinese, and others, but any attempt to recognize the pleasures associated with Halloween or the Fourth of July are met with harsh criticism. (OK, you know I am joking about the Fourth of July, right? I hope?) The Australian media loves to ramble on about how the American media (in the broadest sense of the word, not just news outlets) has contaminated so many facets of Australian culture that the nation is losing its uniquely Australian identity as evidenced by 1) drastic changes in vocabulary - particularly lamented is the decline in the use of colorful Australian colloquialisms such as "A bit more choke and you would have started", 2) diminishment of the Australian accent - blamed wholly on movies and The Simpsons (I think there is a Simpsons Channel on Foxtel), and 3) results of a recent poll that showed a surprising number of young people believe that in an emergency they should dial 911 (here, it is triple zero).
In NO way am I attempting to defend the drivel churned out by American movie studios or the rancid television shows that play to the lowest common denominators of society (BTW, since living here, I have realized that many of my least favorite TV shows are actually rip offs of crappy British shows, but when Australia rips them off, they tend to overlook that fact.) I am the first to admit that the US does not show well in our exported media, but here they make it sound as if there is some evil American machine with an agenda to assimilate their very being. Turn off your bloody televisions, ya wankers. You don't have to watch it!
This seething dislike for American culture clearly stems from the Tall Poppy Syndrome so inherent to Australian values, and perhaps the one facet of their culture that will not, can not be dissolved by American influences. I don't think Australians appreciate how much America really, really likes them. Ask any American and they are sure to express their desire to visit Australia. We are absolutely charmed by you. I am formulating an analogy of our countries based on two brothers - the older one who defied his parents strict rules and left home at 18, struck out into the world to become a free and wild success while the younger one stayed home and cared for the frail aging parents, and who, although successful in his own right, actively cultivates resentment for the carefree recklessness of his older brother. (For a wonderful and more detailed treatment of this fascinating subject, I recommend The United States vs Australia.)
As a follow-up question to my elaborate survey, I enquired about the existence of a uniquely Australian euphemism for female genitalia. But I reckon it is pretty difficult to come up with a clever ad campaign for tampons based on the Map of Tasmania.
31 March 2008
Nougat
1:30 am
Awakened by the sound of chatter, I rolled over and opened a bleary eye to my husband. In a very clear voice he said:
"You know everyone is always taking about the nougat."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know, the nougat. The creamy white stuff, with the pistachios. The nougat."
"Are you awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake, and I'm talking about the nougat. Nougat. NEW-GAT."
"What about the nougat?"
"You know, they have those GI Joe's now...made out of nougat."
"You are NOT awake."
"What do you know? YOU grew up in one of those pretty nougat gardens."
"Kevin, wake up and go back to sleep."
"Nougat..."
"Ugh."
Awakened by the sound of chatter, I rolled over and opened a bleary eye to my husband. In a very clear voice he said:
"You know everyone is always taking about the nougat."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know, the nougat. The creamy white stuff, with the pistachios. The nougat."
"Are you awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake, and I'm talking about the nougat. Nougat. NEW-GAT."
"What about the nougat?"
"You know, they have those GI Joe's now...made out of nougat."
"You are NOT awake."
"What do you know? YOU grew up in one of those pretty nougat gardens."
"Kevin, wake up and go back to sleep."
"Nougat..."
"Ugh."
25 March 2008
Easter in Australia
No other holiday brings Christians out of the closet like Easter. Not even Christmas. After all, Christmas is merely a birthday, whereas Easter is a shot at forgiveness, redemption, and a one way ticket to Heaven – certainly worth the price of a two hour church service once a year.
In Australia, Easter is the one time of year where you can find cinnamon in baked goods. I never realized how much I took cinnamon for granted, but it is not a flavouring widely used here. When I compare cultural notes with Australians who have travelled in the US, there is almost always an exchange about the relative abundance versus absence of cinnamon (usually followed by an intensely emotional discussion of the merits versus the horrors of pairing peanut butter with chocolate – this from people who think spreading a bitter tarry film of rancid dead yeast in between two pieces of white bread constitutes a sandwich.) However, at Easter, the bakeries are filled with the delicious aroma of cinnamon wafting from trays of hot cross buns.
According to my extensive research (none), no one really knows the story of hot cross buns, of why they have a cross on top, or why they are typically only eaten on Good Friday. I am inclined to believe there is a pagan origin to this tradition, but I don’t want any of you sending me links to Wikipedia in support of this. (As an aside, I would like to point out this article and make a footnote reminder to revisit the topic of political correctness, which Australians seem to think was invented by Americans for the sole purpose of annoying them – and despite their blustering, it will happen here eventually.)
As part of our cultural immersion experience, Kevin and I bought a package of hot cross buns – but really only because we discovered the existence of fruitless buns (i.e. no ‘sultanas’ aka raisins) and also because we happened to be in Queensland and heard that Coles was giving away free bullets with every pack. (‘Pulled from the shelves’ my ass, but they were marked down considerably!) I would like to report that they were awesome, but they were just fluffy dinner rolls with a hint of finely ground cinnamon, and the cross was some weird sort of dough and not the gooey sweet icing we had expected. However, any food that serves as a vehicle for melted butter is O.K. in my book.
But, I digress. I did not mean to write another article about hot cross buns. I meant to write an article about the bizarre liquor laws on Good Friday.
Australian society – and I say this with heartfelt respect and admiration – is extremely alcohol oriented. And lest I be accused by my Australian readers of being a judgemental American, I back up this statement with the fact that every news broadcast for the last month has featured a headline (headline!) story discussing the role of alcohol in Australian society. I have performed exhaustive field research on this subject, and hope to complete my thesis by the end of the year, but for the present, I will share my observations about drinking on Good Friday.
First of all, I must point out that liquor stores are open on EASTER SUNDAY, but are closed on GOOD FRIDAY.
Most businesses are closed on Good Friday, which is an official public holiday (along with Easter Monday, but that is another topic.) All bars are closed, however many pubs open in the evening. Last year, in New South Wales, we were informed that every purchase of alcohol must be accompanied with a food purchase (although this may have been a rule peculiar to the particular movie theater we were in at the time - oh, by the way, you can drink in movie theaters here). This year in Queensland, we were issued a meal ticket with a time stamp before entering the pub. We were allowed to drink for one hour before being required to order a meal. We could then drink for one hour after ordering our meal. After two hours, we were required to leave the premises. Managers checked our tickets every fifteen minutes to make sure we ordered our dinner and then promptly gave us the boot. The streets were jammed with displaced half-drunk tourists who didn’t know what to do with the rest of their Friday night.
On Easter Sunday, it was business as usual for the pubs and bars.
I reckon it makes some sort of sense that Sunday should be a day of celebration, since Christ came back from the dead to save us and all, but it seems if ever there was a time when a Christian needed a drink it would be on the occasion marking the atrocities perpetrated against one’s saviour. But apparently, Good Friday is a somber day that is meant to be suffered in sober contemplation of one’s sins, preferably on a full stomach.
So, why is it called “Good” Friday?
In Australia, Easter is the one time of year where you can find cinnamon in baked goods. I never realized how much I took cinnamon for granted, but it is not a flavouring widely used here. When I compare cultural notes with Australians who have travelled in the US, there is almost always an exchange about the relative abundance versus absence of cinnamon (usually followed by an intensely emotional discussion of the merits versus the horrors of pairing peanut butter with chocolate – this from people who think spreading a bitter tarry film of rancid dead yeast in between two pieces of white bread constitutes a sandwich.) However, at Easter, the bakeries are filled with the delicious aroma of cinnamon wafting from trays of hot cross buns.
According to my extensive research (none), no one really knows the story of hot cross buns, of why they have a cross on top, or why they are typically only eaten on Good Friday. I am inclined to believe there is a pagan origin to this tradition, but I don’t want any of you sending me links to Wikipedia in support of this. (As an aside, I would like to point out this article and make a footnote reminder to revisit the topic of political correctness, which Australians seem to think was invented by Americans for the sole purpose of annoying them – and despite their blustering, it will happen here eventually.)
As part of our cultural immersion experience, Kevin and I bought a package of hot cross buns – but really only because we discovered the existence of fruitless buns (i.e. no ‘sultanas’ aka raisins) and also because we happened to be in Queensland and heard that Coles was giving away free bullets with every pack. (‘Pulled from the shelves’ my ass, but they were marked down considerably!) I would like to report that they were awesome, but they were just fluffy dinner rolls with a hint of finely ground cinnamon, and the cross was some weird sort of dough and not the gooey sweet icing we had expected. However, any food that serves as a vehicle for melted butter is O.K. in my book.
But, I digress. I did not mean to write another article about hot cross buns. I meant to write an article about the bizarre liquor laws on Good Friday.
Australian society – and I say this with heartfelt respect and admiration – is extremely alcohol oriented. And lest I be accused by my Australian readers of being a judgemental American, I back up this statement with the fact that every news broadcast for the last month has featured a headline (headline!) story discussing the role of alcohol in Australian society. I have performed exhaustive field research on this subject, and hope to complete my thesis by the end of the year, but for the present, I will share my observations about drinking on Good Friday.
First of all, I must point out that liquor stores are open on EASTER SUNDAY, but are closed on GOOD FRIDAY.
Most businesses are closed on Good Friday, which is an official public holiday (along with Easter Monday, but that is another topic.) All bars are closed, however many pubs open in the evening. Last year, in New South Wales, we were informed that every purchase of alcohol must be accompanied with a food purchase (although this may have been a rule peculiar to the particular movie theater we were in at the time - oh, by the way, you can drink in movie theaters here). This year in Queensland, we were issued a meal ticket with a time stamp before entering the pub. We were allowed to drink for one hour before being required to order a meal. We could then drink for one hour after ordering our meal. After two hours, we were required to leave the premises. Managers checked our tickets every fifteen minutes to make sure we ordered our dinner and then promptly gave us the boot. The streets were jammed with displaced half-drunk tourists who didn’t know what to do with the rest of their Friday night.
On Easter Sunday, it was business as usual for the pubs and bars.
I reckon it makes some sort of sense that Sunday should be a day of celebration, since Christ came back from the dead to save us and all, but it seems if ever there was a time when a Christian needed a drink it would be on the occasion marking the atrocities perpetrated against one’s saviour. But apparently, Good Friday is a somber day that is meant to be suffered in sober contemplation of one’s sins, preferably on a full stomach.
So, why is it called “Good” Friday?
16 March 2008
Revisionist History
Today marks the anniversary of the day when the Irish loaded all their snakes onto convict ships and sent them to the new colony of Australia. Without snakes, the tiny emerald isle was soon over run with killer gerbils, so everyone came to Australia to get them back. But the snakes had slithered off to the outback to eat bilbys and other small marsupials, and the Irish people soon became very thirsty and hungry, but they couldn't find a Guinness or a decent meat pie anywhere. They had no choice but to open a pub. On every corner. To celebrate, they declared a national day of public drunkenness, but named it after Saint Patrick to lend credibility to the event.
Indeed, on my way to work, the patios of Paddy Maguire's and Scruffy Murphy's were already overflowing with sloppy louts sporting green and orange jester hats or giant foam shamrocks.
Come to think of it, what the hell am I doing at work?
Indeed, on my way to work, the patios of Paddy Maguire's and Scruffy Murphy's were already overflowing with sloppy louts sporting green and orange jester hats or giant foam shamrocks.
Come to think of it, what the hell am I doing at work?
15 March 2008
A Bad Ending to a Good Day
Splish! Splish! Splish! Splish!
Each step leaves a foot-shaped puddle of water that quickly reabsorbs into the hall carpet as I shuffle tired and grumpy into the kitchen to make coffee. I don’t think I ever fully appreciated the functionality of a bath tub overflow drain. Until now.
However, I do have a new appreciation for the genius of elevated floors, as the sight of water cascading down the sloped tiles that form the transition from bathroom to bedroom is indeed a beautiful sight, even if it did launch me into a complete frenzy of futile behaviors involving towels and a squeegee.
In the wake of last night’s flood, one might suppose I would have made peace with the unlikeable drain in my bathroom floor. Unfortunately, I keep it covered with a bath mat. While this does prevent the intermittent discharge of disagreeable odors, it renders it completely useless as an escape route for the 30+ minutes of forgotten bathwater that breached the confines of the bathtub while I was immersed in the ‘absolute final last director’s cut, and I really mean it this time, unless I run out of money or think of something else I can do to ruin an otherwise perfectly lovable movie’ version of Bladerunner.
Sydney is a particularly moldy city. Fortunately, the humidity of summer has eased somewhat in the last few weeks, so I am disproportionately hopeful that the bottoms of the closets will dry out before a thick growth of mildew takes root.
Note to self: Don’t store toilet paper on the floor.
On the lighter side, Kevin and I discovered yesterday that we can walk to the beach! Granted, it is a 6.5 km 2 hour walk, but doable nonetheless. We might have done it quicker, but Military Road is lined with myriad interesting shops and restaurants, all of which required my scrutiny.
Balmoral Beach is a clean and quiet cove on Middle Head (not to be confused with North Head or South Head) in Sydney Harbour. This suits me well, as I can pretend I am swimming in the ocean only there are no dangerous waves or undertows. We picnicked on a low stone wall beneath a giant fig tree.
Nothing creates a feeling of belonging so much as running into someone you know in a remote location. As Kevin and I discussed the astronomical odds of seeing our friend Gerry on that beach, we did instead encounter one of his associates from work. Perhaps not unexpected, as he is known to frequently patrol that particular stretch of beach in search of accommodating skank, using his young children as bait.
Fortunately, a convenient bus route connects Balmoral Beach to our neighbourhood, thus sparing us the 6 km return walk. Regardless, I was in desperate need of a bath by the time we made it home…
Each step leaves a foot-shaped puddle of water that quickly reabsorbs into the hall carpet as I shuffle tired and grumpy into the kitchen to make coffee. I don’t think I ever fully appreciated the functionality of a bath tub overflow drain. Until now.
However, I do have a new appreciation for the genius of elevated floors, as the sight of water cascading down the sloped tiles that form the transition from bathroom to bedroom is indeed a beautiful sight, even if it did launch me into a complete frenzy of futile behaviors involving towels and a squeegee.
In the wake of last night’s flood, one might suppose I would have made peace with the unlikeable drain in my bathroom floor. Unfortunately, I keep it covered with a bath mat. While this does prevent the intermittent discharge of disagreeable odors, it renders it completely useless as an escape route for the 30+ minutes of forgotten bathwater that breached the confines of the bathtub while I was immersed in the ‘absolute final last director’s cut, and I really mean it this time, unless I run out of money or think of something else I can do to ruin an otherwise perfectly lovable movie’ version of Bladerunner.
Sydney is a particularly moldy city. Fortunately, the humidity of summer has eased somewhat in the last few weeks, so I am disproportionately hopeful that the bottoms of the closets will dry out before a thick growth of mildew takes root.
Note to self: Don’t store toilet paper on the floor.
On the lighter side, Kevin and I discovered yesterday that we can walk to the beach! Granted, it is a 6.5 km 2 hour walk, but doable nonetheless. We might have done it quicker, but Military Road is lined with myriad interesting shops and restaurants, all of which required my scrutiny.
Balmoral Beach is a clean and quiet cove on Middle Head (not to be confused with North Head or South Head) in Sydney Harbour. This suits me well, as I can pretend I am swimming in the ocean only there are no dangerous waves or undertows. We picnicked on a low stone wall beneath a giant fig tree.
Nothing creates a feeling of belonging so much as running into someone you know in a remote location. As Kevin and I discussed the astronomical odds of seeing our friend Gerry on that beach, we did instead encounter one of his associates from work. Perhaps not unexpected, as he is known to frequently patrol that particular stretch of beach in search of accommodating skank, using his young children as bait.
Fortunately, a convenient bus route connects Balmoral Beach to our neighbourhood, thus sparing us the 6 km return walk. Regardless, I was in desperate need of a bath by the time we made it home…
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