The Time of Our Lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year!

And

Happy 18th Anniversary, Darling.

Video Experiment in Progress...

About Australian Diminutives

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

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

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


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

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


Merry Christmas.


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

New Australian Visa Options

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

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

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

Cheers.

A Happy Night Out

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

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

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

More About Australian Toilets

A comment from the previous post:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or just go wash the dishes.

About Australian Toilets

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry folks.

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

VrWg3

In Like a Lion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep Singing, Abdi

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

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

"I was singing in my language."

"Are you homesick? Too?"

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

"Did you move here during the war?"

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

"You live here?"

"Yes."

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

I hope so.

"Keep singing, Abdi."

Nature Call

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

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




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

Achey Breaky

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

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

40 Rocks

Editor’s Note: I am the first to confess that angry rants, pathetic whingeing, or a good horror story make for superior literary content than do sappy gushing descriptions of bliss-laden events (because, really, laughing at the misery of others somehow raises our estimations of our own experiences) - but I’ve had a damn good week, and therefore feel I deserve a little self-indulgent boasting. If accounts of saccharine happiness gross you out, just skim over the following text and click on the pictures instead. I promise to regain my edge during the upcoming holiday season.




Friday, November 16, 2007

Rrrrring. Rrrrring.

(Actually, my mobile phone plays “Every Breath You Take”, but I’ve taken creative liberties for narrative purposes.)

“Hello, Baaaaaabeeee!” Looking up to the 18th floor of our building, I see Kevin waving from the balcony. “What? You just couldn’t wait till I made it up the elevator to say ‘Hi’ ”.

I wave back.

“Hey. Um, I had to pee really bad when I got home from work, and I left my laptop in the trunk. Can you pick it up for me on your way up?”

“Goofball. Sure thing.”

“See ya in a bit.”

After a brief detour to the trash bins in search of discarded treasure (nothing but a couple of high quality packing boxes…may come in handy), approaching the rear of the car, suspicion suddenly rising – come to think of it, he sounded a little strained, maybe even smug…heyyyy, my birthday is next Wednesday…and I’ve been asking for a new camera.

I open the trunk and smile the deepest, warmest smile I’ve smiled by his making in a long while. Maybe not since the time he hid a series of clues in plastic Easter Eggs that eventually lead me to a generous gift certificate from Nordstrom. There, in the trunk, is a beautifully wrapped parcel, just the right size to be a Pentax Optio S10 with video capability, and a rather apropos card.

I won’t need to remember…the next time you do something stupid, honey, I will have captured it in living color (with audio!) and will be sharing it with the world through the magic of the internet.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Saturated with sleep, I groggily make my way into the kitchen in search of coffee.

“It’s ready to go.” He says. I turn on the burner and shuffle to the computer to post my birthday blog. I feel him lingering, smugly again, in my periphery as I log-on to the internet when a bright yellow bundle catches my eye. He has remembered the not-so-subtle hints I dropped about a fabulous scent I recently encountered during a hens night last week. There on the table, is a very large bag from Jo Malone. And, it is very heavy, clearly containing far more than the 30 ml of Pomegranate Noir Cologne I had hoped for…The deep warm smile returns as he gloats impatiently in his bathrobe. I untie the ribbons to find beautifully fragrant boxes containing body crème, bath oil, a magnificently scented candle, and the previously mentioned cologne.

“You must have made the sales girl’s day.” As I remember his feeble excuses last Saturday – since when does he ever go into the office on a weekend?

I head to work, feeling spoiled, but smelling fabulous.

Amelia takes a call from Silvana – “Audra, there is a big delivery next door. Can you help me carry it over?”

“Sure thing.” Does my naiveté know no limits?

“Hey, Silvana…where’s this big delivery?”

“It’s in the tea room.” (That’s Australian for ‘break room”.)

But the tea room is filled with my colleagues from the Department of Pharmacology, surrounding a gorgeous blackberry cheesecake, all aflame with seven candles…seven? Sure, why not. Again, I am overcome with emotion at being fussed over. I endure the obligatory ‘Birthday Song’ followed by three resounding rounds of ‘Hip, Hip, Hooray,’ and I feel officially indoctrinated into Australian society.

Returning home, I am greeted by a generous bouquet of orchids, thistles, and several other flowers whose taxonomy I could only guess. There is also a box of Lindor chocolates. I glance at Kevin, but he immediately shakes his head in denial. The card attached to the flowers bears a very moving sentiment from my mother; the card on the chocolates, an apology from the delivery company for being a day late. But how did they come to be in my apartment? Ah, the kitchen sink is fixed at last. It must have been the doing of our handyman. But it doesn’t end there! For once, hand written envelopes out number menus for local restaurants in the day's mail delivery. I have not been entirely forgotten though I am a world away from those I love (except, of course for that particular best friend who has NEVER posted me birthday salutations, or salutations of any other kind, for that matter...) My heart is absolutely reeling from all the attention!

Later that evening, after having my favourite Thai restaurant bring me a heaping order of Kaffir Lime Pork, we retired to the balcony with a glass of wine. A fierce storm was brewing all around edges of the city, lightning strikes like dramatic birthday candles in all directions. I counted to 40, and then fell into bed, overstimulated and exhausted.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

The celebrations are still in full swing. Following coffee and meat pies (my Aussie breakfast of choice), we drive the long two hours to the Hunter Valley, a peaceful wine region north of Sydney. Kevin has booked two nights at a luxury resort, complete with a day-long spa package. Once more, a storm rages as we relax into tandem Lomi Lomi massages, the thunder drowning out the gurgling of my stomach. We nap deeply during luxurious pedicures and then head out for dinner. We just missed Brian Ferry at the bar, his concert having been cancelled due to rain – the big pussy! I was never much of a fan anyway. For dinner, I had pork belly with cracklin’. In Mexico, this would be called chicharrones. I used to pay 2 pesos for a bag full bigger (and better) than what came on my elegantly dressed plate for $38AUD. I reckon I was paying for atmosphere…The clouds cleared just in time for rising of the full moon. We do not hit any kangaroos on the way back to the resort, and we sleep soundly to a chorus of horny frogs.

The next day is spent shopping for wine and eating a leisurely lunch overlooking lush green vineyards to the strains of Christmas Carols. And believe me; ‘strain’ is an appropriate word. Songs about Santa Claus are plausible, but as the sun pokes through white puffy clouds and steams the valley floor, songs like White Christmas and Winter Wonderland send me into paroxysms of laughter.



This is going to be a really weird Christmas!

And should supply me with just the edge I need to recover from all this bliss.

Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving to all my mates and family up over. I am thankful for many things, but first and foremost is the love and support I get from every one of you! You keep me afloat.

In case you aren't sure: No, there is no Thanksgiving in Australia, primarily, I think because the turkeys here are scrawny little scavengers and I reckon it never ocurred to anyone to import the big fat domestic types that will be adorning so many American tables today. Seriously, turkey is a scarce commodity.

But I am being silly.

The real reason they don't celebrate Thanksgiving is that women would have to get up at 2 in the morning in order to have dinner together in time for the Dallas game, which would be at 8:15 am here. Hmmm. I wonder if it will even be on here. Is the pub is open yet? I just may have to take one of my 20 vacation days...or maybe one of my 10 sick days (another reason to give thanks).

From another yank blog:

"Why doesn't Australia celebrate Thanksgiving? Well the short snarky version I generally give folks "back home" is that ummmm, there weren't any pilgrims nor were there any starving Indians to trade with when James Cooke sailed around mapping the coast. Aboriginals, yes. Indians, no. Hence, no Turkey Day."

Has history been re-written AGAIN since I was in elementary school?? Sometimes, I feel the need to apologize on behalf of America. I promise never to use the word 'snarky' ever again - if I ever did.


Of course, the holiday season exacerbates any feelings of homesickness I am currently experiencing, and indeed I find myself longing to be lounging around a cozy-warm living room, patting a full belly, and watching football. (3 games this year! How sweet is that!!) However, I know I am being sappy and sentimental, since I don't especially like the Thanksgiving menu, and even if I were home, I would probably have runn off to Mexico for a shrimp, lobster, and Corona feast. Great, now I'm homesick for Mexico...mmmmm, cheap Corona! ($21 a six pack last night - I had to pass.)


So, no big food-centric holiday to celebrate the harvest - nevermind that it is spring, and the major harvest is mangoes - now that would be amenu I could get behind. However, there is a big drinking holiday this weekend (Who am I kidding, ALL holidays in Australia are drinking holidays!) Of course, I am talking about the federal election. Almost as important as which party will be elected is which election party you will be attending. (For a more technical treatment of the election issues and dynamics, visit my neuroscientist buddy in Brisbane.)

My Aussie friends are aghast when I tell them that in Mexico, all sales of alcohol are banned for several days surrounding federal elections.

"Why??"

"To make sure everyone sobers up enough to go to the polls, and also to help prevent emotions from overflowing when the fixed results come in."

"Savage!"

On Turning 40

I’ve heard a lot of women say that their 40th birthday was their most difficult. Thus far, I am approaching that milestone with as much grace and dignity as I might have hoped…with a few concessions…I bought myself a pair of Chinese Converse Knock-offs and I plan to dye my hair bright red. (Allow me to take a moment to extol the many virtues of cheap Chinese knock-offs. They are most likely made in the same factory, by the same tortured laborers, yet they cost $65 dollars less and I do not have to endure the crisis of collective identity that comes with riding a bandwagon. Cheap Chinese knock-offs always have some silly flaw. My Ju*Hang shoes are stitched over the ankle with the number 80 – Jerry Rice, perhaps? – except over the right foot, it is 08.)

Though I have yet to verbalize the experience in print, turning 30 was extremely difficult for me. It was a tumultuous and emotional period in my life. By contrast, 40 seems a nice number – the first digit hard and sharp, the second soft and round, an appropriate metaphor for my current mental state and evolving physical condition..

Birthdays are a natural time for reflection. Perhaps none more so than 40, which in my (and Maude’s) opinion is indeed the most accurate demarcation of mid-life. This last week, Kevin and I have been indulging in a considerable amount of reflection and reminiscence, and I can say with no uncertainty, that I am incredibly satisfied with the first half of my life. It has been rich and full beyond my imagination. While I have no intention of doing so, I can honestly say I could die tomorrow and not feel short changed.

Now, I know the older of you amongst my blogging audience will scoff at this statement, and I fully reserve the right to revise my opinion as my life draws closer to its end – I am cognizant of human nature. But for now, I take comfort and pride in a life lived daringly, if not drunkenly.

Oh, and for all the kindly people throughout my life who have frequently and gleefully told me “Oh, yeah, you’re skinny now, but just wait until you turn 40. Your metabolism will change and you’ll blimp out just like the rest of us.”

Congratulations.

I hope you choke on your maliciously smug prescience.

About Australian Law Enforcement

Police officers in Australia are called ‘constables’. I think that is just so cute. Such a friendly, neighbourly word, constable is.

New South Wales Law Enforcement is always announcing some new campaign designed to highlight a particular area of concern, especially over holiday periods. For example, over the Easter holidays, the police were targeting seat belt infractions. During the Queen’s Birthday Weekend, they were cracking down on sleepy drivers. Last week, the Sydney Police unveiled Operation Summer Safe: targeting drunken louts and anti-social behaviour.

I just love imagining Constables on patrol reprimanding surly youths for sulking and playing too many computer games, encouraging them to join a book club or take up a sport. I think a term like “anti-social behaviour” gives the police a considerable amount of leeway. I am curious to know the legal definition.

Fortunately, since I have not been in any trouble lately, I don’t have much more to say about Australian Law Enforcement. I did have a couple of constables come to the apartment to take a statement from me after I reported a hit and run that I witnessed. They were tiny. Like little munchkin police. Seriously, the smallest police officers I have ever seen. I guess that’s why there had to be two of them. (Come to think of it, Australian Police always travel in pairs, never solo. That is probably a very good idea if you can afford it.) The lady constable took my statement while the gentleman constable said nothing as he sat on our ugly but comfortable sofa and stared at our flat panel TV. Finally, at the end of the interview he said “Gee, that’s a really nice TV you’ve got there.”

So cute.

The Best Mexican Salsa...

...in Australia comes from a Nepalese restaurant.

Go figure.

The Joys of Public Transport

Girl Sitting next to me: “Stephanie! Hey. Hi.”

Girl Standing next to me: “Oh my God, Angela. Hi. I like, love your earrings.”

Stephanie: “Thanks. I have the flu.”

Angela: “Oh my God, me too. I totally have the flu.”

Stephanie: “Yeah, I was like, totally barfing all night.”

Angela: “Oh my God so was I! I was totally barfing all night, too!”

Stephanie: “Why are you like, going to school today if you like, totally have the flu?”

Angela: “Because, today? In English? We’re watching Pride and Prejudice.”

Stephanie: “Oh my God, I like totally LOVE that movie.”

Angela: “Yeah, I know. I’ve like seen it like ten times.”

Audra, feeling a sudden flush of fever turning to Stephanie: “Would you like my seat?”

The First Tuesday in November

This morning, the entire train was unified in dutiful contemplation of their ballots. All mobile phone conversations pertained to the critical decisions at hand. Today, Australia, in total solidarity, marched forward to cheer their nominations on toward victory.

Of course, I am referring to the Melbourne Cup.

Described as “The Race That Stops a Nation”, I daresay that in terms of hype and anticipation, the Melbourne Cup rivals, if not surpasses, the Kentucky Derby. For some time, I have been meaning to write about Australia’s obsession with horse racing, gambling, and the wearing of silly hats - indeed, a great number of women here seem to suffer from an Eliza Doolittle Complex.

I was hoping to report from a position of first hand experience. Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted by the (mighty suspicious) arrival of Equine Influenza upon our bonny shores. With swift authority, the government imposed a strict quarantine on horse movement throughout the contry and promptly cancelled most of the qualifying events leading up to today’s preeminent race. (Then the government set up an emergency relief fund for un-employed horse dentists, but that is another subject.) The end result was that only Victorian (Melbourne is in the state of Victoria) horses were able to participate in the Melbourne Cup. The conspiracy theorist in me absolutely whickered.

Nonetheless, in the spirit of cultural participation (not to mention a love of gambling) I embraced the holiday spirit of the event. Following several glasses of bubbly and a catered lunch, I found myself seated in the Bosch Lecture Hall along side my equally enthusiastic colleagues, cheering for randomly selected horses with far more passion than was warranted by my meagre ten dollar buy-in. I must say that Eskimo Queen, Zipping, and Sirmione were total disappointments. I was delighted that Scenic Snot was firmly entrenched at the rear of the pack. (Actually, his name was Scenic Shot, but I took liberties in view of the flu pandemic and his poor showing.) Mahler took an early lead, only to lose in the last few hundred meters of the race as Efficient proved to be appropriately named, having saved his strength for a dramatic come-from-behind win.

The winner of the Melbourne Cup gets over $5 million. Of that, the jockey gets about $350,000. According to the news estimates, Australians wagered over $160 million on the Melbourne Cup Race. (Note that there are only 20 million people in all of Australia.) Efficient paid out at 22:1. The horse got a floral wreath and a free flu shot.

I won $6.

Still, it was more fun than voting.

Fall into Spring

A few days ago, I walked by a dollar store and saw a small display of Halloween costumes and decorations. I was flabbergasted. Halloween is my favourite holiday of the year, and it snuck up on me completely. I felt suddenly displaced, out of whack with the space-time continuum.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, Halloween is not a well regarded holiday in Australia. It seems to be considered the ultimate example of the contamination of Australian culture by American marketing and consumerism. I am among the first to admit a hatred of the marketing machine, and for this reason avoid fabricated Hallmark gift-giving holidays such as Valentine’s Day, Secretary Day, and Mother’s/Father’s Day. And, I concede there is something unsettling in the fact that Halloween is second only to Christmas in consumer dollars spent.

But, Halloween is FU-UN. It is FUN to be ghoulish and macabre (note the proper use of the adjective). It is FUN to dress up and pretend to be someone (or something) else for a day. It is FUN to eat so many Bottlecaps, and Smarties, and miniature Three Musketeers Bars, and Wax Lips, and Pixie Sticks, and Tootsie Rolls, and Junior Mints, and Atomic Fireballs that you shit sugar cubes for a week.

Marketing mania aside, what struck me the most was the simple fact that it doesn’t FEEL like Halloween. Why not, you might reasonably ask? Because it is spring, of course. I get disoriented each time I look at the calendar or catch wind of an NFL score or see a news blip about the World Series then walk outside into warm white sunshine. In the archives of memory and sensation football, Halloween, and the appearance of Christmas decorations are indelibly linked with crisp cool winds, orange slanted sunlight, and the smell of distant wood fires, not with blooming Jacaranda Trees, lengthening days, and the cacophonous din of sexually charged birdsongs.

One of my biggest anxieties about moving to Australia was how I would handle the football jones. Usually, each summer, just before the pre-season, my body begins to physically crave a Sunday spent prostrate on the couch listening to the insouciant chatter of sportscasters punctuated by mindless marketing pitches for beer, cars, and shipping services. Because of the transposed seasonal transitions, that jones never materialized. Nonetheless, when Kevin finally figured out how to “acquire” NFL broadcasts (with the commercials conveniently edited out) I jumped onto the couch with heart-pounding colon-wrenching anticipation…and then I was lulled to sleep by the sweet strains of Al and John, blathering away…