Nearing the end of my stay here in the Southern Hemisphere. Instead of getting too sentimental about the time I’ve spent here, I find myself looking forward to getting back home. What exactly I’m going to do once I get back, I have no idea. I suppose I have many options, but I have no idea which one to choose. More likely than anything I’ll spend quite a bit of time sitting, procrastinating, and drinking the awesome beer that I’ve missed so much.
Last night I finally made it up to Newcastle to visit some old Internet friends. The three of them formed a band around the time I was here last July, and they gave their first performance as GENTLEMEN. I knew it was going to be epic when they began with a cover of Weezer’s “Hash Pipe” several steps lower than the original and with a noticeably slower tempo. They call it a sludge-metal version, and I can’t disagree with that label. After an intense cover of NIN’s “Piggy,” which lead to the bloody broken fingers of the drummer/lover Jason, it was a night filled with beer and fun and more beer and amazing delicious pizza at about three or four in the morning. I would like to thank Andrew and his lovely lady Kylie for the couch they let me pass out on.
With that I only have two nights left here in Sydney. Not quite sure what I’ll do. The Internet where I’m staying it dead, so I’m not even sure when I’ll be able to post this. I’m sure I’ll have a bit of a going away binge and hope that US customs doesn’t ask too many questions about my red eyes and bags filled of books that I’ve collected while down here.
Edit: about 24 hours left now.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
New Zealand Cronicles Part 3
5/26
Sonofabitch. I should probably wait until tomorrow to write this up, but we’re on a tight schedule here. Besides, I’m too tired to go to sleep right now.
I went on the Franz Josef Glacier walk today. The full day variety. I believe it has a "difficult" difficulty rating. Perhaps I should have paid a little attention to that. It suggested that someone be reasonable fit. I guess I’m reasonably fit since I made it through the day, but goddamn it was tough at points. Walking up step stone and/or ice steps got me winded pretty quickly and it took me until lunch to really catch my breath. Actually had to use my inhaler at one point, mostly out of precaution, but also because I noticed I was wheezing slightly. I continually busted my knuckles on the ice as we were squeezing through tight cracks and crev-asses. I even got stuck once in the narrowest crack. I got through with the help of the guide (his name was Basil and as a result I thought about Fawlty Towers most of the day).
Don’t get me wrong, it was an incredible experience, but I won’t be doing it again soon. Unfortunately I felt like I was sucking wind more than looking around at the amazing ice formations and surrounding rain forest. I think next time I might shell out the dough for a helicopter lift up to the top where there are supposed to be breathtaking ice caves.
Tomorrow I have a short four hour bus ride to Greymouth. I’m relishing in the idea of doing absolutely nothing at all, nothing at all, nothing at all. I don’t feel like doing anything for weeks. I’ll be dead tonight while I sleep.
5/27
I still haven’t caught my breath from yesterday—literally. I’m having some trouble exhaling and from time to time I give an asthmatic cough. I’m curious if all the overexertion yesterday has lead to some illness today, though I hardly feel ill, I just struggle with deep breaths. I’m surprised all my bones and muscles aren’t screaming today, all I feel is a little fatigue, and when I step up or down my legs feel a bit dead. My ass is bruised; I fell on it a few times yesterday during our dissent. The most annoying thing is the rawness of the back of my right hand. I’m missing tiny bits of skin here and there.
Today has proven a bit more eventful than expected, mostly because on the bus ride to Greymouth we stopped in a town that had a small indoor aquarium/zoo which included two Kiwi birds. But before I could see the rare nocturnal flightless birds, I got creeped out by a tank of 20-30 large eels. These guys were huge—and over 100 years old—and a bit too snake-like for my liking. As I was walking toward the Kiwi Room, a man asked me if I wanted to feed the eels. Shit. I have no idea why I said yes. So there I was with two small Middle Eastern boys, their mother, and the old man on a small, wooden platform above the eel tank (the eels were easily six feet long and as thick as my leg). We had to get down on our knees and lean over the water to feed the eels slivers of ox heart (why I asked what we were feeding them, I have no idea), placing the food in their mouths with what looked like salad tongs. The eels’ heads would come about a foot out of the water, their mouths gasping for food they could hardly see (“You gotta place it in their mouths cuz they don’t see so well.”). I’m getting chills just thinking about it again.
Greymouth is located at the mouth of the Grey River (hence, Greymouth). I’m sitting right now on a bench next to the Grey River with the town to my back. The river looks anywhere from 300-500 yards wide and is divided by an island of large rocks, boulders, and bushes. I’m maybe a mile or two from the Tasman Sea, and the sun looks to be setting in about a half hour. It’s setting into some clouds, the first large wispy clouds I’ve seen in a few days. The sun behind the clouds is giving off a bright white blinding light that makes it look like there is a deity up over there starting to peak around the other side of the world.
5/28
Traveled on the scenic train ride from Greymouth to Christchurch. I kinda wish the train left a little earlier than 1:45 because some of the beautiful scenery became quite dark and made taking pictures difficult. The good news is that I still took a bunch of good pictures, and I’ve nearly filled up my camera with pictures from my Australia/NZ trip. I’ve taken almost a thousand pictures since the middle of February which is a hell of a lot more than I expected to take, but I also didn’t plan on visiting NZ where I’ve taken a good 400+ pictures. Far too many to upload.
I had a surprisingly eventful night last night. I roomed with a German guy, a female French winemaker, and a French guy who did not speak much English. We went out for drinks and pool and they asked me several questions about the States and about English and I answered the best I could. We would have stayed out later, but by 11pm, we couldn’t find anything that was open so we went back to the hostel, drink some tea, and went to bed. There were only about six people total staying at The Duke, an awkward, pastel colored building, and it seems as a result of the lack of backpackers, the owner neglected to turn on the heat. We could see our breath in our room. I huddled under two comforters and slept surprisingly well considering the initial discomfort.
5/29
Back in Sydney and not feeling too well. Woke up with a head cold after a bit of drinking with someone from the Internet last night. Flying with a head cold is about the worst thing in the world, and I can’t hear much out of my left ear because it’s all blocked up and nothing will unpop it. Time to get some drugs imo.
It was not only a painful flight, but a bit sad, too. I wish I had more time there, but this just means that I’ll be going back there some day, and I urge all my friends and family and anyone really to take the time to go down there. The sites you’ll see will drop your jaw to the floor and leave it there for the duration of your travels (unless you’re in Christchurch which is very uninteresting). Many foreign currencies go a long way in New Zealand, so it can be a surprisingly cheap vacation, and lemme tell ya, you’ll get your money’s worth and much, much more.
Sonofabitch. I should probably wait until tomorrow to write this up, but we’re on a tight schedule here. Besides, I’m too tired to go to sleep right now.
I went on the Franz Josef Glacier walk today. The full day variety. I believe it has a "difficult" difficulty rating. Perhaps I should have paid a little attention to that. It suggested that someone be reasonable fit. I guess I’m reasonably fit since I made it through the day, but goddamn it was tough at points. Walking up step stone and/or ice steps got me winded pretty quickly and it took me until lunch to really catch my breath. Actually had to use my inhaler at one point, mostly out of precaution, but also because I noticed I was wheezing slightly. I continually busted my knuckles on the ice as we were squeezing through tight cracks and crev-asses. I even got stuck once in the narrowest crack. I got through with the help of the guide (his name was Basil and as a result I thought about Fawlty Towers most of the day).
Don’t get me wrong, it was an incredible experience, but I won’t be doing it again soon. Unfortunately I felt like I was sucking wind more than looking around at the amazing ice formations and surrounding rain forest. I think next time I might shell out the dough for a helicopter lift up to the top where there are supposed to be breathtaking ice caves.
Tomorrow I have a short four hour bus ride to Greymouth. I’m relishing in the idea of doing absolutely nothing at all, nothing at all, nothing at all. I don’t feel like doing anything for weeks. I’ll be dead tonight while I sleep.
5/27
I still haven’t caught my breath from yesterday—literally. I’m having some trouble exhaling and from time to time I give an asthmatic cough. I’m curious if all the overexertion yesterday has lead to some illness today, though I hardly feel ill, I just struggle with deep breaths. I’m surprised all my bones and muscles aren’t screaming today, all I feel is a little fatigue, and when I step up or down my legs feel a bit dead. My ass is bruised; I fell on it a few times yesterday during our dissent. The most annoying thing is the rawness of the back of my right hand. I’m missing tiny bits of skin here and there.
Today has proven a bit more eventful than expected, mostly because on the bus ride to Greymouth we stopped in a town that had a small indoor aquarium/zoo which included two Kiwi birds. But before I could see the rare nocturnal flightless birds, I got creeped out by a tank of 20-30 large eels. These guys were huge—and over 100 years old—and a bit too snake-like for my liking. As I was walking toward the Kiwi Room, a man asked me if I wanted to feed the eels. Shit. I have no idea why I said yes. So there I was with two small Middle Eastern boys, their mother, and the old man on a small, wooden platform above the eel tank (the eels were easily six feet long and as thick as my leg). We had to get down on our knees and lean over the water to feed the eels slivers of ox heart (why I asked what we were feeding them, I have no idea), placing the food in their mouths with what looked like salad tongs. The eels’ heads would come about a foot out of the water, their mouths gasping for food they could hardly see (“You gotta place it in their mouths cuz they don’t see so well.”). I’m getting chills just thinking about it again.
Greymouth is located at the mouth of the Grey River (hence, Greymouth). I’m sitting right now on a bench next to the Grey River with the town to my back. The river looks anywhere from 300-500 yards wide and is divided by an island of large rocks, boulders, and bushes. I’m maybe a mile or two from the Tasman Sea, and the sun looks to be setting in about a half hour. It’s setting into some clouds, the first large wispy clouds I’ve seen in a few days. The sun behind the clouds is giving off a bright white blinding light that makes it look like there is a deity up over there starting to peak around the other side of the world.
5/28
Traveled on the scenic train ride from Greymouth to Christchurch. I kinda wish the train left a little earlier than 1:45 because some of the beautiful scenery became quite dark and made taking pictures difficult. The good news is that I still took a bunch of good pictures, and I’ve nearly filled up my camera with pictures from my Australia/NZ trip. I’ve taken almost a thousand pictures since the middle of February which is a hell of a lot more than I expected to take, but I also didn’t plan on visiting NZ where I’ve taken a good 400+ pictures. Far too many to upload.
I had a surprisingly eventful night last night. I roomed with a German guy, a female French winemaker, and a French guy who did not speak much English. We went out for drinks and pool and they asked me several questions about the States and about English and I answered the best I could. We would have stayed out later, but by 11pm, we couldn’t find anything that was open so we went back to the hostel, drink some tea, and went to bed. There were only about six people total staying at The Duke, an awkward, pastel colored building, and it seems as a result of the lack of backpackers, the owner neglected to turn on the heat. We could see our breath in our room. I huddled under two comforters and slept surprisingly well considering the initial discomfort.
5/29
Back in Sydney and not feeling too well. Woke up with a head cold after a bit of drinking with someone from the Internet last night. Flying with a head cold is about the worst thing in the world, and I can’t hear much out of my left ear because it’s all blocked up and nothing will unpop it. Time to get some drugs imo.
It was not only a painful flight, but a bit sad, too. I wish I had more time there, but this just means that I’ll be going back there some day, and I urge all my friends and family and anyone really to take the time to go down there. The sites you’ll see will drop your jaw to the floor and leave it there for the duration of your travels (unless you’re in Christchurch which is very uninteresting). Many foreign currencies go a long way in New Zealand, so it can be a surprisingly cheap vacation, and lemme tell ya, you’ll get your money’s worth and much, much more.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
New Zealand Cronicles Part 2
5/23
Took a bus from Queenstown to Dunedin. A rainy, gloomy day and that made the scenery slightly less exhilarating, but I never thought I’d enjoy long bus rides as much as I have. After I arrived I needed to figure out what I was going to do between Monday and Friday. My first option was heading to the north to the Marlborough wine region and doing a winery tour. The problem with this plan, however, is that I am traveling by myself and I would need other people up there to be interested in winery tours, which apparently isn’t the case this time of year. Plan B: Franz Josef Glacier walk. The problem with this plan means that I’ll have to leave Dunedin tomorrow and not Monday as I had planned. Since I was determined to do one of my two plans, I opted to leave tomorrow from Dunedin to go back to Queenstown, so I can get up to Franz Josef Monday, do the walk Tuesday, travel to Greymouth Wednesday, and take a scenic train ride from Greymouth to Christchurch where I fly back to Sydney Friday. I got a bit frustrated figuring that all out. A lot of this backtracking and day after day of bus rides could have been avoided if I had done a little planning beforehand. But I’m lazy and put shit off all the time (hence, the Australia trip). Will I ever learn? Unlikely.
5/24
So apparently the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten are in Dunedin (duh-NEED-in), NZ at a place called Capers on George Street. It was one large blueberry pancake folded over and stuffed with a variety of fruit (including bananas, which I’m allergic to and hate, but was good in the context of the pancake) and cream, topped with a blueberry sauce and maple syrup. If you’re ever in Dunedin, go to Capers and order the gourmet pancakes.
I woke up feeling really good, having amazingly slept through the night uninterrupted in a hostel. I awoke to the guy in the bed next to mine presumably touching himself and assuming that no one else was awake in the room at 7:30. Well, I was. Of course, maybe he wasn’t doing anything, but I was not in the mood to investigate.
I felt pretty tired and lifeless last night—probably from a combination of stressful planning and later beer consumption. I also had a conversation with what I’d call a hillbilly Kiwi.
“Hey, brew, you from Scandinavia?”
“Nope just let me talk a little more and you’ll figure it out.”
“Canadian!”
“No, little south of there.”
“A goddamn Yank! You’re a goddamn Yank!”
“That I am.”
Around this time he pulled out a cigarette and started smoking in the bar—which is illegal here.
“Oon a gen?”
“What?”
“Uh gen. You oon uh gen?”
“Oh, no, never even touched a gun.”
“Thet all you goddamn Yanks ooned em.”
“They’re not for me.”
Around this time he pulled out a bowl and packed it right there in the bar and offered it to me.
“This like bars in the states?”
“Yes, you can easily find bars like this.” Meaning Yes, we have dive bars, too.
“Coo coo.” And he kept on smoking.
As I had somewhat predicted a couple days ago, the batteries in my camera died this morning. For once, though, I came prepared. I’m not surprised they went dead because of all the damn pictures I’ve been snapping. Ideally I’d like to reach out and grab the mountains and shove them in my pocket and sneak them over to Chicagoland. Might be a bit difficult getting past security, but the effort would be wholly worth it. But instead I take pictures like the tourist I am. It’s just a futile effort, but about the only other thing I can do is look up and gape like a fool—I suppose I do that a lot anyway.
I made a silly life decision about an hour ago. Should I ever have a child, I’m going to name it Brown Patrick Brown so that s/he can follow in the footsteps of Ford Madox Ford, William Carlos Williams, and Bond James Bond. I suppose that would put a lot of pressure on little Pat—we’d call it Pat regardless of gender. Me and the mother would raise it androgynously, treating it as a female on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and as a male Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Resting, of course, on Sunday. This way the child will have a more objective look at gender and society as a whole. This—combined with my literary talents and the mother’s distinction as the grand dutchess of Newark, NJ, Esq., politician, obituary writer, gardener, and amateur boxer. Perhaps I’ve pigeonholed my future wife a bit, but I can be flexible. She doesn’t need to write obituaries. That’s a bit morbid anyway.
I’ve been having a very good hair day today, but I’ve been covering it up with a warm hat—not because I’m cold, but because I’m trying to be stylish and slightly less metal. I think this is the longest my hair has ever been. I last got it cut on December 1 and that was more of a trim really. Perhaps this is a sign that I need to buy an Ibanez and Metal Zone distortion pedal and play in drop H. My love of flannel will need to be suppressed, though, as Kurt Cobain died fifteen years ago and he was never metal anyway.
5/25
Took an eight hour bus ride from Queenstown to Franz Josef today. It’s amazing how enjoyable an eight hour bus ride can be. I’ve never taken so many pictures from a bus. Many of them turned out surprisingly well considering they were taken from inside a bus. We traveled along the west central coast of the south island. It’s almost all rain forest if it’s not mountain and in many cases it's both. It became a bright, sunny day with hardly a cloud in the sky.
Other than the bus ride I didn’t do much. I checked into the glacier walk office, so I’m all ready to go for tomorrow morning. Don’t really know what to expect other than awesomeness.
Took a bus from Queenstown to Dunedin. A rainy, gloomy day and that made the scenery slightly less exhilarating, but I never thought I’d enjoy long bus rides as much as I have. After I arrived I needed to figure out what I was going to do between Monday and Friday. My first option was heading to the north to the Marlborough wine region and doing a winery tour. The problem with this plan, however, is that I am traveling by myself and I would need other people up there to be interested in winery tours, which apparently isn’t the case this time of year. Plan B: Franz Josef Glacier walk. The problem with this plan means that I’ll have to leave Dunedin tomorrow and not Monday as I had planned. Since I was determined to do one of my two plans, I opted to leave tomorrow from Dunedin to go back to Queenstown, so I can get up to Franz Josef Monday, do the walk Tuesday, travel to Greymouth Wednesday, and take a scenic train ride from Greymouth to Christchurch where I fly back to Sydney Friday. I got a bit frustrated figuring that all out. A lot of this backtracking and day after day of bus rides could have been avoided if I had done a little planning beforehand. But I’m lazy and put shit off all the time (hence, the Australia trip). Will I ever learn? Unlikely.
5/24
So apparently the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten are in Dunedin (duh-NEED-in), NZ at a place called Capers on George Street. It was one large blueberry pancake folded over and stuffed with a variety of fruit (including bananas, which I’m allergic to and hate, but was good in the context of the pancake) and cream, topped with a blueberry sauce and maple syrup. If you’re ever in Dunedin, go to Capers and order the gourmet pancakes.
I woke up feeling really good, having amazingly slept through the night uninterrupted in a hostel. I awoke to the guy in the bed next to mine presumably touching himself and assuming that no one else was awake in the room at 7:30. Well, I was. Of course, maybe he wasn’t doing anything, but I was not in the mood to investigate.
I felt pretty tired and lifeless last night—probably from a combination of stressful planning and later beer consumption. I also had a conversation with what I’d call a hillbilly Kiwi.
“Hey, brew, you from Scandinavia?”
“Nope just let me talk a little more and you’ll figure it out.”
“Canadian!”
“No, little south of there.”
“A goddamn Yank! You’re a goddamn Yank!”
“That I am.”
Around this time he pulled out a cigarette and started smoking in the bar—which is illegal here.
“Oon a gen?”
“What?”
“Uh gen. You oon uh gen?”
“Oh, no, never even touched a gun.”
“Thet all you goddamn Yanks ooned em.”
“They’re not for me.”
Around this time he pulled out a bowl and packed it right there in the bar and offered it to me.
“This like bars in the states?”
“Yes, you can easily find bars like this.” Meaning Yes, we have dive bars, too.
“Coo coo.” And he kept on smoking.
As I had somewhat predicted a couple days ago, the batteries in my camera died this morning. For once, though, I came prepared. I’m not surprised they went dead because of all the damn pictures I’ve been snapping. Ideally I’d like to reach out and grab the mountains and shove them in my pocket and sneak them over to Chicagoland. Might be a bit difficult getting past security, but the effort would be wholly worth it. But instead I take pictures like the tourist I am. It’s just a futile effort, but about the only other thing I can do is look up and gape like a fool—I suppose I do that a lot anyway.
I made a silly life decision about an hour ago. Should I ever have a child, I’m going to name it Brown Patrick Brown so that s/he can follow in the footsteps of Ford Madox Ford, William Carlos Williams, and Bond James Bond. I suppose that would put a lot of pressure on little Pat—we’d call it Pat regardless of gender. Me and the mother would raise it androgynously, treating it as a female on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and as a male Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Resting, of course, on Sunday. This way the child will have a more objective look at gender and society as a whole. This—combined with my literary talents and the mother’s distinction as the grand dutchess of Newark, NJ, Esq., politician, obituary writer, gardener, and amateur boxer. Perhaps I’ve pigeonholed my future wife a bit, but I can be flexible. She doesn’t need to write obituaries. That’s a bit morbid anyway.
I’ve been having a very good hair day today, but I’ve been covering it up with a warm hat—not because I’m cold, but because I’m trying to be stylish and slightly less metal. I think this is the longest my hair has ever been. I last got it cut on December 1 and that was more of a trim really. Perhaps this is a sign that I need to buy an Ibanez and Metal Zone distortion pedal and play in drop H. My love of flannel will need to be suppressed, though, as Kurt Cobain died fifteen years ago and he was never metal anyway.
5/25
Took an eight hour bus ride from Queenstown to Franz Josef today. It’s amazing how enjoyable an eight hour bus ride can be. I’ve never taken so many pictures from a bus. Many of them turned out surprisingly well considering they were taken from inside a bus. We traveled along the west central coast of the south island. It’s almost all rain forest if it’s not mountain and in many cases it's both. It became a bright, sunny day with hardly a cloud in the sky.
Other than the bus ride I didn’t do much. I checked into the glacier walk office, so I’m all ready to go for tomorrow morning. Don’t really know what to expect other than awesomeness.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
New Zealand Cronicles Part 1
5/20
So tired, so very tired from the long, long day. Christchurch is a flatter city than I expected, but it wore me out today, toting my backpack all over—to Starbucks, to the travel information center, to the department store, to the art museum, to an Irish pub. It must be the backpack I’m not longer used to carrying that lit my back on fire. It’s only 7pm and I’m exhausted. I haven’t even begun my travels within NZ, and I feel worn out. My dinner tonight will be sleep. I’ll eat dreams and wake up before the sun comes up. I slept for about twelve hours last night. I woke from time to time and listened to the sheets of rain pelting the window of the dorm room, and I felt happy and warm on the top bunk, hidden and protected from—from what I’m not sure. Maybe the unpredictable weather patterns. Or maybe protected from having to make any decisions about anything and having no worries, no pressing matters at the moment, no existential crises, no obligations, no weight on my back.
5/21
There is some stupid scenery, just retarded, ridiculous scenery on the trip from Christchurch to Queenstown. I took a bus called the Atomic Shuttle. I now know why it’s named atomic. It’s because the bus does 120kph+ on two lane highways that twist and wind through mountains. A stretch of about 10 miles had some snow spattering the road and the scenery was an immaculate white that blended smoothly with the solid grey-white clouds. Is it a cloud? Is it a mountaintop? These are good questions and I thankfully spent more time considering these questions than the more dubious How is our little bus staying on the road?
The passage from Cromwell to Frankton (not to be confused with sprankton n. a disease you get from chewing too much) was particularly Lord of the Ringsy. Bluffs, cliffs, river rapids, waterfalls, rocky snow covered peaks, green-yellow-brown mountainsides, one-lane bridges, wineries, vineyards, bungee platforms—I felt like I was in fiction.
And to think this is just the start. I don’t know if my jaw can take it. I don’t know if my camera can take it. I don’t know if my pen can take it. If a picture is worth a thousand words, how many words can are your our visions worth?
Click click click I take pictures out of the bus window and take even more here in Queenstown, but why? Nevermind the overcast, drizzly weather, that doesn’t matter, the scenery is still ridiculous—why bother trying to capture this? In the end I’m already convinced no amount of words and no number of pictures can capture these scenes. I think I’m starting to understand these people who tell me that New Zealand is just something you need to see. And lemme tell ya, you must.
5/21 (li'l later)
Oh god oh god, I finally found some great beer. It was in NZ all along! It was hiding. Sonofabitch! Well, I’ve found it and I’m consuming! Delicious!
5/22
As much of the bullshit I spewed yesterday about not having words to describe what I’ve seen, I have even fewer words today. Here are some pictures. They’re stupid. This is all stupid. Don’t look at them, just hop on a plan and get to NZ as fast as you can.
Reminder: to see the whole picture, you need to click on it.
So tired, so very tired from the long, long day. Christchurch is a flatter city than I expected, but it wore me out today, toting my backpack all over—to Starbucks, to the travel information center, to the department store, to the art museum, to an Irish pub. It must be the backpack I’m not longer used to carrying that lit my back on fire. It’s only 7pm and I’m exhausted. I haven’t even begun my travels within NZ, and I feel worn out. My dinner tonight will be sleep. I’ll eat dreams and wake up before the sun comes up. I slept for about twelve hours last night. I woke from time to time and listened to the sheets of rain pelting the window of the dorm room, and I felt happy and warm on the top bunk, hidden and protected from—from what I’m not sure. Maybe the unpredictable weather patterns. Or maybe protected from having to make any decisions about anything and having no worries, no pressing matters at the moment, no existential crises, no obligations, no weight on my back.
5/21
There is some stupid scenery, just retarded, ridiculous scenery on the trip from Christchurch to Queenstown. I took a bus called the Atomic Shuttle. I now know why it’s named atomic. It’s because the bus does 120kph+ on two lane highways that twist and wind through mountains. A stretch of about 10 miles had some snow spattering the road and the scenery was an immaculate white that blended smoothly with the solid grey-white clouds. Is it a cloud? Is it a mountaintop? These are good questions and I thankfully spent more time considering these questions than the more dubious How is our little bus staying on the road?
The passage from Cromwell to Frankton (not to be confused with sprankton n. a disease you get from chewing too much) was particularly Lord of the Ringsy. Bluffs, cliffs, river rapids, waterfalls, rocky snow covered peaks, green-yellow-brown mountainsides, one-lane bridges, wineries, vineyards, bungee platforms—I felt like I was in fiction.
And to think this is just the start. I don’t know if my jaw can take it. I don’t know if my camera can take it. I don’t know if my pen can take it. If a picture is worth a thousand words, how many words can are your our visions worth?
Click click click I take pictures out of the bus window and take even more here in Queenstown, but why? Nevermind the overcast, drizzly weather, that doesn’t matter, the scenery is still ridiculous—why bother trying to capture this? In the end I’m already convinced no amount of words and no number of pictures can capture these scenes. I think I’m starting to understand these people who tell me that New Zealand is just something you need to see. And lemme tell ya, you must.
5/21 (li'l later)
Oh god oh god, I finally found some great beer. It was in NZ all along! It was hiding. Sonofabitch! Well, I’ve found it and I’m consuming! Delicious!
5/22
As much of the bullshit I spewed yesterday about not having words to describe what I’ve seen, I have even fewer words today. Here are some pictures. They’re stupid. This is all stupid. Don’t look at them, just hop on a plan and get to NZ as fast as you can.
Reminder: to see the whole picture, you need to click on it.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
How to Sound a Little Ungrateful
I was feeling thirsty so I decided to take a short walk to the heart of Chinatown to a bottle shop that has a decent beer selection (for Australia). On my way I passed a homeless man I’ve seen a number of times (who I may have even seen on my previous trip here last July) who is presumably mute because he walks around holding a piece of paper up with words written on it to passersby, presumably asking for money. Each previous time I had ignored his paper and just kept on walking.
When I had first arrived in Sydney back in February, I had gotten into the habit of giving change to those who asked me. But I then considered that I was giving away a lot of one dollar and two dollar coins and that those coins (the gold) really added up. Then I decided to put all my gold in my left pocket and all my silver in my right pocket and only give beggars some of my silver. This made me feel cheap so I just ended up ignoring a vast majority of the beggars. I do feel bad about this especially because almost all of them are incredibly polite and nice and the few that I’ve gotten to talk to have been interesting if not fascinating.
Perhaps I’m just a product of capitalism and this leads to me not wanting to give my money away. Perhaps it’s my reaction to not having any kind of income at the moment. I’ve never been rich, but I’ve never been poor. I’ve never had to beg. I’ve never had to worry about having enough food or water. I’m reminded of a book I’ve never read. George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. Orwell purposely lived a life of poverty in the poorest areas of the respective cities and wrote a book about his experience. I could never do that. I don’t think so anyway. I’m too used to the ordinary comforts of life, and far too lazy to really challenge myself. It’s been a challenge enough not having a TV for the last couple months. But when I pass by the beggars I see, I feel a twinge of guilt and hope that someone else gives them some loose change. The guilt quickly passes a block or two down the street and I go back to thinking about whatever I was thinking about before I was asked for some change.
So, anyway, today I decided to look at this homeless man’s note. I wish I could have copied it down because it made absolutely no sense. The first line was something like “THECOMMEDPEOPLETIXTOKTIXTOK.” There were a few more lines like this and then a message written at the bottom of paper in a noticeably different hand, “Give this man change money please.” I looked up at the man. He was on the old side with a thick beard that was mostly grey and dirty, a face like leather, and large sad pleading eyes. I could not say no to this guy and I reached in my left pocket and pulled out a few gold coins for him (pretty much all it could buy him was a can of Coke). After he held the coins in his hand, the man reached up to his beard stroking it and smiled slightly, mostly with his eyes—he was clearly complimenting me on my own beard. I almost laughed out loud, smiled, and returned the gesture, happily stroking my own beard to compliment his. I then turned around and silently walked off.
When I had first arrived in Sydney back in February, I had gotten into the habit of giving change to those who asked me. But I then considered that I was giving away a lot of one dollar and two dollar coins and that those coins (the gold) really added up. Then I decided to put all my gold in my left pocket and all my silver in my right pocket and only give beggars some of my silver. This made me feel cheap so I just ended up ignoring a vast majority of the beggars. I do feel bad about this especially because almost all of them are incredibly polite and nice and the few that I’ve gotten to talk to have been interesting if not fascinating.
Perhaps I’m just a product of capitalism and this leads to me not wanting to give my money away. Perhaps it’s my reaction to not having any kind of income at the moment. I’ve never been rich, but I’ve never been poor. I’ve never had to beg. I’ve never had to worry about having enough food or water. I’m reminded of a book I’ve never read. George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. Orwell purposely lived a life of poverty in the poorest areas of the respective cities and wrote a book about his experience. I could never do that. I don’t think so anyway. I’m too used to the ordinary comforts of life, and far too lazy to really challenge myself. It’s been a challenge enough not having a TV for the last couple months. But when I pass by the beggars I see, I feel a twinge of guilt and hope that someone else gives them some loose change. The guilt quickly passes a block or two down the street and I go back to thinking about whatever I was thinking about before I was asked for some change.
So, anyway, today I decided to look at this homeless man’s note. I wish I could have copied it down because it made absolutely no sense. The first line was something like “THECOMMEDPEOPLETIXTOKTIXTOK.” There were a few more lines like this and then a message written at the bottom of paper in a noticeably different hand, “Give this man change money please.” I looked up at the man. He was on the old side with a thick beard that was mostly grey and dirty, a face like leather, and large sad pleading eyes. I could not say no to this guy and I reached in my left pocket and pulled out a few gold coins for him (pretty much all it could buy him was a can of Coke). After he held the coins in his hand, the man reached up to his beard stroking it and smiled slightly, mostly with his eyes—he was clearly complimenting me on my own beard. I almost laughed out loud, smiled, and returned the gesture, happily stroking my own beard to compliment his. I then turned around and silently walked off.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Koolewong
Earlier this week I spent of couple of nights in Koolewong. COO-lee-wong is a distant suburb to the north of Sydney located more or less in the middle of a national park. I hesitate to call it a suburb because it didn’t look like any suburb I’m familiar with, but if most of the residents there commute to Sydney and back (about a 75 minute train ride) to work, then I suppose that’s at least part of the definition of a suburb.
Koolewong lies next to Brisbane Water, which is an inlet, something like a bay and means that the water is salty but nearly still. I’m still confused as to what a Water really is, and after looking on GoogleMaps, the official name of this body of water really seems to be Brisbane Water (even though it’s not remotely close to Brisbane). Being the former Geography Bee champ that I am, I was never taught what a Water is. I think the Aussies are just making shit up.
I was welcomed to Koolewong by an internet turned irl friend Josh and his family. Josh, who leads a life of whimsy and adventure, suggested we climb a hill in the Brisbane Water National Park, conveniently located right behind his house. It was a bit more arduous of a hike than I’m used to (I’m pretty sure at one point we were climbing up something steeper than a 45 degree incline and I had to go back down on my ass for fear of falling and rolling to my death), but it was highly rewarding. The scenery was stunning. The rain held off, and we could see towering clouds towering over the really big hills/really small mountains that were covered in thick, deep green. The rolling verdant hills seemed to go on forever into the hazy horizon. I almost thought I was looking onto a rainforest, and I’m sure had the rain come I would have felt like I was (and had the rains come, we would have likely been stuck on top of the hill).
I’d like to take the time here in my blog to publicly thank Josh and his generous parents for welcoming this stranger from a distant land into their home (and cooking me homemade meals!).
Here we see a wild Kyle looking all too indifferent to his beautiful surroundings, looking all too metal for his own good, his decade old Radiohead shirt contradicting the metal hair, the gathering storm clouds perhaps insinuating that nothing good can come out of this caption:
Koolewong lies next to Brisbane Water, which is an inlet, something like a bay and means that the water is salty but nearly still. I’m still confused as to what a Water really is, and after looking on GoogleMaps, the official name of this body of water really seems to be Brisbane Water (even though it’s not remotely close to Brisbane). Being the former Geography Bee champ that I am, I was never taught what a Water is. I think the Aussies are just making shit up.
I was welcomed to Koolewong by an internet turned irl friend Josh and his family. Josh, who leads a life of whimsy and adventure, suggested we climb a hill in the Brisbane Water National Park, conveniently located right behind his house. It was a bit more arduous of a hike than I’m used to (I’m pretty sure at one point we were climbing up something steeper than a 45 degree incline and I had to go back down on my ass for fear of falling and rolling to my death), but it was highly rewarding. The scenery was stunning. The rain held off, and we could see towering clouds towering over the really big hills/really small mountains that were covered in thick, deep green. The rolling verdant hills seemed to go on forever into the hazy horizon. I almost thought I was looking onto a rainforest, and I’m sure had the rain come I would have felt like I was (and had the rains come, we would have likely been stuck on top of the hill).
I’d like to take the time here in my blog to publicly thank Josh and his generous parents for welcoming this stranger from a distant land into their home (and cooking me homemade meals!).
Here we see a wild Kyle looking all too indifferent to his beautiful surroundings, looking all too metal for his own good, his decade old Radiohead shirt contradicting the metal hair, the gathering storm clouds perhaps insinuating that nothing good can come out of this caption:
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Ten Days of Nothingness
Wrote this blog a few days ago:
I just ordered another beer. This is one more than I planned on drinking during today’s happy hour. But oh well, it’s here now. Can’t turn back now. Gotta drink it. Paid for it, gotta drink it now.
So I figured that I’d open up Word and write out a little ditty, type up something because, yes, I do realize that it’s been a little while since I last wrote about anything in here, and no, it’s not because I’ve been so busy doing things that I just haven’t found the time to write up the exciting account(s) of my exciting activities. No, mostly I’ve just sequestered myself in my little hole above a bar and stayed out of the rain. I haven’t even been reading or writing as much as I like, and that makes me wonder just what the hell have I been doing.
I went to Manly on Monday. I think it was Monday. Knowing how much I enjoy alliterating, I’d think that I’d like going to Manly on Mondays. So I went to Manly on Monday. I had heard that Manly has a nice beach and is popular with surfers and beach-goers. I am neither a surfer nor a beach-goer so I went to Manly. I found Manly to be aesthetically pleasing. Note the pictures at the bottom of this blog.
I took a ferry over to Manly. I hadn’t ridden on a ferry since I was about eight years old and on the first of my family’s four family vacations to Toronto. We rode a ferry on Lake Ontario to a little amusement park out on an island in the lake. I don’t remember any details of that ferry ride. This ferry ride was pleasant. I was surprised how smooth the ride was. I enjoyed the gentle up and down rocking of the sea. It felt like I was on a gentle teeter-totter. I wondered whether or not I would enjoy sailing in general. I have never considered sailing as a possible pastime that I might enjoy.
On this ferry there were a surprising number of beautiful people. They seemed all about my age or a little younger. They were dressed fashionable, Europeanly. They wore scarves and loose sweaters and tight jeans or leggings. They had clean, shinny, healthy hair. Many wore large sunglasses even though we were sitting on the shaded side of the ferry. On the ferry ride back to Circular Quay, I only saw families. Families on holiday taking the 25 minute ferry ride back to Circular Quay, back to their Sydney hotel rooms. They—the beautiful people and the families—all looked happy.
This is some pretty flowery language I’ve been using, but it’s my artistic way of showing just how little I’ve been doing.
It occurred to me sometime last week that I had somewhat planned on maybe working while here in Sydney. Doing what I have no idea. What do I do? Good question. My novels always stall at the 30k word mark, and it has happened yet again. I hope I can dig up some inspiration to write another 30k words or so. I know I have the material.
I’ve been trying to rekindle my relationship with poker. Not with the best results. So I’m left in a pool of self-doubt. That’s a bit hyperbolic.
Miscellaneous: I was reminded that I saved the day in Perth a while ago back when I was in Perth. I met up with someone from the Internet. He was a cool dude. A small dude, but a cool dude nonetheless. He bought a Rolling Stones shirt from a highly attractive female that I would advise he hit (sexually). After he bought this shirt we were walking down the main stretch of the mall in downtown Perth really hitting it off with conversations about music you have never heard of before when a disgruntled, fucked up guy comes up to my new friend and takes his bag with said shirt. What the fuck? someone yelled. My friend reached for the bag and grabbed it. The strange, fucked up dude looked like he was ready to start throwing down. My adrenaline raced and I started getting ready to throw down—keep in mind I’ve never thrown down before; I only get down. I was bigger than the fucked up thief and I put my weight on the balls of my feet. I think I even clenched my fists. I’m sure I did. Just at the pinnacle of excitement an undercover cop comes by and takes care of the situation. The wind is let out of the balloon. My heart still races and my adrenaline is still up, but there is no where for it to go. We go off and buy a coke.
There is a man who lives somewhere around Abercrombie Street who can often be seen walking his two pet goats and small dog. The first time I saw this man walking his goats and small dog, it was nearly dark out and I thought that one of his dogs was eating a bush. As I walked closer, I noticed that it was a goat. One of the goats was wearing a sweater. I hope to talk to this man one day.
I just ordered another beer. This is one more than I planned on drinking during today’s happy hour. But oh well, it’s here now. Can’t turn back now. Gotta drink it. Paid for it, gotta drink it now.
So I figured that I’d open up Word and write out a little ditty, type up something because, yes, I do realize that it’s been a little while since I last wrote about anything in here, and no, it’s not because I’ve been so busy doing things that I just haven’t found the time to write up the exciting account(s) of my exciting activities. No, mostly I’ve just sequestered myself in my little hole above a bar and stayed out of the rain. I haven’t even been reading or writing as much as I like, and that makes me wonder just what the hell have I been doing.
I went to Manly on Monday. I think it was Monday. Knowing how much I enjoy alliterating, I’d think that I’d like going to Manly on Mondays. So I went to Manly on Monday. I had heard that Manly has a nice beach and is popular with surfers and beach-goers. I am neither a surfer nor a beach-goer so I went to Manly. I found Manly to be aesthetically pleasing. Note the pictures at the bottom of this blog.
I took a ferry over to Manly. I hadn’t ridden on a ferry since I was about eight years old and on the first of my family’s four family vacations to Toronto. We rode a ferry on Lake Ontario to a little amusement park out on an island in the lake. I don’t remember any details of that ferry ride. This ferry ride was pleasant. I was surprised how smooth the ride was. I enjoyed the gentle up and down rocking of the sea. It felt like I was on a gentle teeter-totter. I wondered whether or not I would enjoy sailing in general. I have never considered sailing as a possible pastime that I might enjoy.
On this ferry there were a surprising number of beautiful people. They seemed all about my age or a little younger. They were dressed fashionable, Europeanly. They wore scarves and loose sweaters and tight jeans or leggings. They had clean, shinny, healthy hair. Many wore large sunglasses even though we were sitting on the shaded side of the ferry. On the ferry ride back to Circular Quay, I only saw families. Families on holiday taking the 25 minute ferry ride back to Circular Quay, back to their Sydney hotel rooms. They—the beautiful people and the families—all looked happy.
This is some pretty flowery language I’ve been using, but it’s my artistic way of showing just how little I’ve been doing.
It occurred to me sometime last week that I had somewhat planned on maybe working while here in Sydney. Doing what I have no idea. What do I do? Good question. My novels always stall at the 30k word mark, and it has happened yet again. I hope I can dig up some inspiration to write another 30k words or so. I know I have the material.
I’ve been trying to rekindle my relationship with poker. Not with the best results. So I’m left in a pool of self-doubt. That’s a bit hyperbolic.
Miscellaneous: I was reminded that I saved the day in Perth a while ago back when I was in Perth. I met up with someone from the Internet. He was a cool dude. A small dude, but a cool dude nonetheless. He bought a Rolling Stones shirt from a highly attractive female that I would advise he hit (sexually). After he bought this shirt we were walking down the main stretch of the mall in downtown Perth really hitting it off with conversations about music you have never heard of before when a disgruntled, fucked up guy comes up to my new friend and takes his bag with said shirt. What the fuck? someone yelled. My friend reached for the bag and grabbed it. The strange, fucked up dude looked like he was ready to start throwing down. My adrenaline raced and I started getting ready to throw down—keep in mind I’ve never thrown down before; I only get down. I was bigger than the fucked up thief and I put my weight on the balls of my feet. I think I even clenched my fists. I’m sure I did. Just at the pinnacle of excitement an undercover cop comes by and takes care of the situation. The wind is let out of the balloon. My heart still races and my adrenaline is still up, but there is no where for it to go. We go off and buy a coke.
There is a man who lives somewhere around Abercrombie Street who can often be seen walking his two pet goats and small dog. The first time I saw this man walking his goats and small dog, it was nearly dark out and I thought that one of his dogs was eating a bush. As I walked closer, I noticed that it was a goat. One of the goats was wearing a sweater. I hope to talk to this man one day.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Kyle Talks About the Weather
It seems—at least in the case of Western culture, the only culture that I have any real experience with—that when strangers or acquaintances or even best of friends and family try to start or continue conversation, there is a point of inevitable silence which introduces a degree of unrest and uncertainty and discomfort that can cause nervous habits to appear out of thin air like nail biting, excessive blinking, tracing invisible marks on tables with a finger, desperate attempts to avoid eye contact, and tiny fake coughs that sound like you’re trying to clear your throat but all you’re really doing is making the other party anticipate you saying something but you don’t say anything and as a result the silence continues until someone finally, inevitably brings up the weather. It really does not matter whether it’s your bff or a homeless man sharing a park bench with you, the weather is something that we have all experienced and it’s something we experience every day and it provides excellent fodder for light, meaningless conversation. And this phenomenon takes place between the closest of friends, too, because it is hardly humanly possible to only ever talk about serious matters like analytic philosophy, continental philosophy, Romantic literature, transcendentalism, ecocriticism, post-modernism, post-structuralism (when talking about post-structuralism, it usually involves people talking about things they really don’t know about in order to appear smarter than they really are), art, politics, religion, and bands that you’ve been listening to that no one else has even heard of yet. Sometimes you need a break from the serious. Sometimes you just aren’t drunk enough. Sometimes you need to talk about the weather.
“Crazy weather we’ve been having lately.”
“Yeah, it’s like it can’t make up its mind.”
“I’d buy an umbrella, but then it’d stop raining.”
“Sound logic, Kyle.”
-or-
“Beautiful weather we’re having.”
“Oh, it’s so lovely! A perfect time to sit in the park and read a book and relax and listen to the birds fucking.”
The weather in Sydney today has been erratic. I wake up and it’s sunny. I go out and it rains. I get some coffee; it’s sunny. I walk to a park; it rains. I get some dinner at a café and sit outside because it’s the only available seat, and it’s sunny and cloudy and really windy and it rains and pours and stops and starts and blows my menu away into the street.
After eating my bean nachos and drinking a whole pitcher of water, I wander over to gleebooks because it’s close and it’s a good bookstore. I look around on the first floor a bit and head upstairs where they have some used fiction. When I get up there and start leafing through books I’ve been considering buying for about two weeks, it starts to violently pour. I guess I should settle in here, I think, and wait for the rain to stop before I go outside. Maybe I should buy an umbrella.
So I’m sitting on this little stepping stool leafing through The Satanic Verses trying to decided if I want to buy it and telling myself I don’t have enough room and that I’m only about a quarter of the way through DeLillo’s Underworld and that I should really finish that before I start on another thick book. There’s also a biography on Anton Chekhov that I’m considering as a break from my constant consumption of fiction. While I’m leafing through other books by authors I’ve never heard of there is a loud crash. It came from the roof. I look over and it’s raining in the bookstore. Just a small section of the bookstore is raining, but it isn’t everyday you see it rain at all inside bookstores. It was only me, another man, and a woman behind the counter in the upstairs portion of gleebooks. I almost laughed as I saw the rain come pouring in, but I thought that it wasn’t too funny that it was raining in a bookstore and thought it might be rude to laugh at the misfortune of the store. Fortunately for the books, it was raining where there weren’t any. I just smiled like an idiot instead of laughing like a fool as the woman and man moved a few tables to ensure that none of the books would get wet should the hole in the skylight grow larger.
All of the indoor rain made me have to pee, so I just sat tight on the stool until the rain finally let up so I could leave the store and find an establishment with a toilet for my convenience. As I was leaving I heard the woman on the phone suggest that they get someone with a tarp to try to cover the hole, and it made me wonder how easy it’d be to get on the roof of the bookstore.
“Crazy weather we’ve been having lately.”
“Yeah, it’s like it can’t make up its mind.”
“I’d buy an umbrella, but then it’d stop raining.”
“Sound logic, Kyle.”
-or-
“Beautiful weather we’re having.”
“Oh, it’s so lovely! A perfect time to sit in the park and read a book and relax and listen to the birds fucking.”
The weather in Sydney today has been erratic. I wake up and it’s sunny. I go out and it rains. I get some coffee; it’s sunny. I walk to a park; it rains. I get some dinner at a café and sit outside because it’s the only available seat, and it’s sunny and cloudy and really windy and it rains and pours and stops and starts and blows my menu away into the street.
After eating my bean nachos and drinking a whole pitcher of water, I wander over to gleebooks because it’s close and it’s a good bookstore. I look around on the first floor a bit and head upstairs where they have some used fiction. When I get up there and start leafing through books I’ve been considering buying for about two weeks, it starts to violently pour. I guess I should settle in here, I think, and wait for the rain to stop before I go outside. Maybe I should buy an umbrella.
So I’m sitting on this little stepping stool leafing through The Satanic Verses trying to decided if I want to buy it and telling myself I don’t have enough room and that I’m only about a quarter of the way through DeLillo’s Underworld and that I should really finish that before I start on another thick book. There’s also a biography on Anton Chekhov that I’m considering as a break from my constant consumption of fiction. While I’m leafing through other books by authors I’ve never heard of there is a loud crash. It came from the roof. I look over and it’s raining in the bookstore. Just a small section of the bookstore is raining, but it isn’t everyday you see it rain at all inside bookstores. It was only me, another man, and a woman behind the counter in the upstairs portion of gleebooks. I almost laughed as I saw the rain come pouring in, but I thought that it wasn’t too funny that it was raining in a bookstore and thought it might be rude to laugh at the misfortune of the store. Fortunately for the books, it was raining where there weren’t any. I just smiled like an idiot instead of laughing like a fool as the woman and man moved a few tables to ensure that none of the books would get wet should the hole in the skylight grow larger.
All of the indoor rain made me have to pee, so I just sat tight on the stool until the rain finally let up so I could leave the store and find an establishment with a toilet for my convenience. As I was leaving I heard the woman on the phone suggest that they get someone with a tarp to try to cover the hole, and it made me wonder how easy it’d be to get on the roof of the bookstore.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Kyle's Easter Sunday
I woke up about 1pm today—Easter—thinking that I may as well not sleep the day away. I had been up to about 6am reading and writing and feeling incredibly creative. There is creative craziness in being a little sleep deprived. I like it.
I noticed that a note had been slide under my door sometime between 6am and 1pm. The first words said “LAST Notice” and I was worried that I was being kicked out of my room. Shit, I like it here, and I don’t want to leave yet.
I read on, though:
LAST Notice
12/04/09
Due to early morning bad remarks and threats made towards me, I’m informing you to keep your own door. Due to my LAVO –orders from 4 years ago given out to Royal stalkers. No further notice will be given. If you don’t keep to yourself, 100 commonwealth police will approach you. You already have a permit AND –order not to approach me. Don’t breech the order. My royal guards are watching you! You are wanted for Copyright of my Royal Palace reputation and Services. I will Summond (sic) you with 100—police cars if you try anything. Keep to yourself, stranger. Don’t talk to me, don’t follow me or I, will call my police to collect you!
The Psychiatric Doctor. Dr. Catherine.
Minister of Correction Propriety.
Englands Palace Propriety.
Telstra Propriety 1975.
Rogue Traders.
With my sleepy, blinking eyes, I felt a bit anxious at first. This person is fucked up and might kill me. But then I chuckled to myself and took my morning piss. Since I had to pay for my week’s accommodation today, I decided to go downstairs, pay, and show them this letter and see if I should be alarmed or something.
“Oh, yeah, she does that,” the girl at the bar shook her head and smirked a bit, “Yeah, I lived up there last year, and I got a letter like this, too. I think each new person who moves in gets one of these. She’s harmless, though. Like she’s never done anything. She’s just lost a bit upstairs. I’ll let Alana know, though, and she can have another talk with her. I apologize for this, though. I really am sorry.”
I assured her there was no need to apologize and that I got a kick out of it. Quite the present left by the Easter bunny.
It’s a humid day today, and it looks like it’s going to rain. It feels like it’s going to rain, but I still went for a walk to Glebe, ate some pizza, had an iced coffee and found a place that sells A&W root beer. This is the first time I’ve seen root beer in Australia. It was made in the US and was made with high-fructose corn syrup. It was delicious.
I found a park bench not far from Glebe Point Road, sat down with my can of A&W, and read some A Farewell to Arms. Ah, I thought, it’s been a while since I injected myself with some Hemingway.
After reading maybe a chapter and a half, I saw a man approaching me out of the corner of my eye, a man who I knew would ask me for money.
“Excuse me, sir, do you have any change to spare.”
I’m easily convinced sometimes, and dug a dollar coin out of my pocket.
“What’s that book you’re reading?” he asked.
“A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway, “ I said.
“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty famous?”
“He is.”
“Where is he from?”
“The US, born around Chicago.”
“Where are you from?”
“The US, born around Chicago, too.”
“Oh, really?” He widened his eyes and rubbed some sparse whiskers on his chin.
“I’m Frank. What’s your name?”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle, have you ever met an Aboriginal?”
“Yeah, I’ve met a few.” I might have smiled at this point. He smiled. He looked about 60, but he carried himself with energy and spoke more eloquently than I had expected.
“You like it here?”
“I do. Especially Sydney. I really love Sydney.”
“That’s good. That’s good. It’s a great city,” he motioned his hand towards the skyline off in the distance.
“What do you do?”
“Not much of anything really. I’m trying to write a book. I’m maybe half way done.” I hate telling people things like this. I don’t know what I do.
“Oh, like Hemingway?” He nodded his head in acknowledgement.
I smiled, “I hope so.”
He thanked me for the change I spared. We shook hands, and he said goodbye.
I noticed that a note had been slide under my door sometime between 6am and 1pm. The first words said “LAST Notice” and I was worried that I was being kicked out of my room. Shit, I like it here, and I don’t want to leave yet.
I read on, though:
LAST Notice
12/04/09
Due to early morning bad remarks and threats made towards me, I’m informing you to keep your own door. Due to my LAVO –orders from 4 years ago given out to Royal stalkers. No further notice will be given. If you don’t keep to yourself, 100 commonwealth police will approach you. You already have a permit AND –order not to approach me. Don’t breech the order. My royal guards are watching you! You are wanted for Copyright of my Royal Palace reputation and Services. I will Summond (sic) you with 100—police cars if you try anything. Keep to yourself, stranger. Don’t talk to me, don’t follow me or I, will call my police to collect you!
The Psychiatric Doctor. Dr. Catherine.
Minister of Correction Propriety.
Englands Palace Propriety.
Telstra Propriety 1975.
Rogue Traders.
With my sleepy, blinking eyes, I felt a bit anxious at first. This person is fucked up and might kill me. But then I chuckled to myself and took my morning piss. Since I had to pay for my week’s accommodation today, I decided to go downstairs, pay, and show them this letter and see if I should be alarmed or something.
“Oh, yeah, she does that,” the girl at the bar shook her head and smirked a bit, “Yeah, I lived up there last year, and I got a letter like this, too. I think each new person who moves in gets one of these. She’s harmless, though. Like she’s never done anything. She’s just lost a bit upstairs. I’ll let Alana know, though, and she can have another talk with her. I apologize for this, though. I really am sorry.”
I assured her there was no need to apologize and that I got a kick out of it. Quite the present left by the Easter bunny.
It’s a humid day today, and it looks like it’s going to rain. It feels like it’s going to rain, but I still went for a walk to Glebe, ate some pizza, had an iced coffee and found a place that sells A&W root beer. This is the first time I’ve seen root beer in Australia. It was made in the US and was made with high-fructose corn syrup. It was delicious.
I found a park bench not far from Glebe Point Road, sat down with my can of A&W, and read some A Farewell to Arms. Ah, I thought, it’s been a while since I injected myself with some Hemingway.
After reading maybe a chapter and a half, I saw a man approaching me out of the corner of my eye, a man who I knew would ask me for money.
“Excuse me, sir, do you have any change to spare.”
I’m easily convinced sometimes, and dug a dollar coin out of my pocket.
“What’s that book you’re reading?” he asked.
“A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway, “ I said.
“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty famous?”
“He is.”
“Where is he from?”
“The US, born around Chicago.”
“Where are you from?”
“The US, born around Chicago, too.”
“Oh, really?” He widened his eyes and rubbed some sparse whiskers on his chin.
“I’m Frank. What’s your name?”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle, have you ever met an Aboriginal?”
“Yeah, I’ve met a few.” I might have smiled at this point. He smiled. He looked about 60, but he carried himself with energy and spoke more eloquently than I had expected.
“You like it here?”
“I do. Especially Sydney. I really love Sydney.”
“That’s good. That’s good. It’s a great city,” he motioned his hand towards the skyline off in the distance.
“What do you do?”
“Not much of anything really. I’m trying to write a book. I’m maybe half way done.” I hate telling people things like this. I don’t know what I do.
“Oh, like Hemingway?” He nodded his head in acknowledgement.
I smiled, “I hope so.”
He thanked me for the change I spared. We shook hands, and he said goodbye.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Bit of Sentimental
I was just sitting here reading Underworld by Don DeLillo, and I’m only thirty or so pages into the massive 827 page epic, but these first thirty pages or so have been about baseball, specifically the game where Bobby Thompson hit his famous walk-off home run back in 1954.
Now all this white wine I’ve been consuming (shrimp counts are low, but I just tried sushi—raw fish—for the first time ever; it’s not shrimp but you gotta work with what you got) and this talk of baseball and me knowing that baseball season has just started up again in the states, it all gets me a bit sentimental. I’m well aware that half the people who read this don’t care about or know anything about baseball and I know that half know some about baseball and there are a few who love it with a passion of an infinite number of burning suns the way I do, so I’ll try to keep this short. I don’t like talking about sports around people who don’t care.
But I will say this: I miss it.
As for where I am, as I am often asked online, I am back in Sydney and if you are FaceBook friends with me you’ll be well aware that I’m living ABOVE A BAR, and I caps lock that phrase because I feel a little bit like Hemingway in Paris in the 20s or Miller in Paris in the 30s. I feel a bit of romance here. It ain’t nothing special if you see my room. It’s got a single bed, a small desk, a small table, and a wardrobe to put my clothes in, there’s a shared bathroom and shower, a shared fridge that I was advised not to use, a coin operated washer and drier, and a shared microwave. When you first come in the door through a back alley behind Bar Broadway, you smell rotten beer and wine bottles that better be recycled soon, and as you walk up the 3 flights of stairs that fermenting garbage smell morphs into the smell of Asian food. I keep my windows open for now as the nights have been cool and pleasant, and you get a front row seat to all of the cars racing up and down Broadway. It’s a hypnotic sound that I find soothing, and it helps put me to sleep. That and the wine.
I wish I could articulate it better. I feel I should have the right words for it, but I just dart all around it. Perhaps I’m just being too sentimental again, but Sydney is a great city, and I feel at home here, almost as much at home as I feel at home. Maybe it’s the people, they’re so kind and helpful here. Maybe it’s the weather, it don’t snow here. Maybe it’s the parks and the cafes and the coffee and the wine, the good food and the smiling faces of friends. I don’t know. I just dance around the possible explanations. I’m here for a while longer, though, so there is plenty of time for me to find the right words.
Now all this white wine I’ve been consuming (shrimp counts are low, but I just tried sushi—raw fish—for the first time ever; it’s not shrimp but you gotta work with what you got) and this talk of baseball and me knowing that baseball season has just started up again in the states, it all gets me a bit sentimental. I’m well aware that half the people who read this don’t care about or know anything about baseball and I know that half know some about baseball and there are a few who love it with a passion of an infinite number of burning suns the way I do, so I’ll try to keep this short. I don’t like talking about sports around people who don’t care.
But I will say this: I miss it.
As for where I am, as I am often asked online, I am back in Sydney and if you are FaceBook friends with me you’ll be well aware that I’m living ABOVE A BAR, and I caps lock that phrase because I feel a little bit like Hemingway in Paris in the 20s or Miller in Paris in the 30s. I feel a bit of romance here. It ain’t nothing special if you see my room. It’s got a single bed, a small desk, a small table, and a wardrobe to put my clothes in, there’s a shared bathroom and shower, a shared fridge that I was advised not to use, a coin operated washer and drier, and a shared microwave. When you first come in the door through a back alley behind Bar Broadway, you smell rotten beer and wine bottles that better be recycled soon, and as you walk up the 3 flights of stairs that fermenting garbage smell morphs into the smell of Asian food. I keep my windows open for now as the nights have been cool and pleasant, and you get a front row seat to all of the cars racing up and down Broadway. It’s a hypnotic sound that I find soothing, and it helps put me to sleep. That and the wine.
I wish I could articulate it better. I feel I should have the right words for it, but I just dart all around it. Perhaps I’m just being too sentimental again, but Sydney is a great city, and I feel at home here, almost as much at home as I feel at home. Maybe it’s the people, they’re so kind and helpful here. Maybe it’s the weather, it don’t snow here. Maybe it’s the parks and the cafes and the coffee and the wine, the good food and the smiling faces of friends. I don’t know. I just dance around the possible explanations. I’m here for a while longer, though, so there is plenty of time for me to find the right words.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Wine Time
I think I will always remember Melbourne as the City of Free Hats. I received two free hats while playing poker at the Crown, one a Jim Bean hat signed by Mr. Hock and the other a Grand Prix of Australia hat from 2007 that was left under my seat.
Yesterday I won my third hat, a cowboy hat from a Yarra Valley winery. I finally went on a wine tour, finally enjoyed some of the delicious wine and forested low mountains of Victoria. Soon after the tour began, I slowly became famous on the ride up to the first of four wineries by guessing that kerosene was a common descriptor of Rieslings. Everyone else didn’t believe me, but the guide smiled and said, “We have an expert on board!” I was sitting at the back of the small tour bus, and I felt all the heads turn around and look inquisitively at this bearded curiosity.
I solidified my fame by guessing the correct grape variety of the “mystery wine,” mostly because everyone else had guessed all of the red wine varieties they had heard of and I just chucked up Sangiovese without really knowing for certain whether it was right or not. The guide, named Orson “like Orson Welles,” smiled again and put this cowboy hat on my head, “You won yourself a hat!”
After that I was asked a number of questions about wine throughout the day. People from Canada, Switzerland, China, the US, and Perth all wanted to know where I learned so much about wine.
“I only took a class a few years ago. I’ve forgotten a lot of it.”
“That’s one more class than I’ve ever taken,” stated a blunt woman from Canada.
It was an enormously enjoyable day out in rural Victoria. The sun beat down on the half harvested vines, and I did my best to find shade and take pictures of the low mountains that surrounded the valley. Some of these hills and mountains bore the scars of the fires that burned not two months ago. I don’t think I would have noticed at first because a lot of the burned land had already recovered enough to look reasonably green, but Orson pointed out the scars—and also his house—where he had lost a shed and where the flames lapped only six meters from his front door. He and all of his neighbors had to evacuate, and he considered himself lucky that he still had not just his life, but his home as well.
“I don’t want to bring down the fun at all, but this is just what happened, and to understand what this region has been through, you need to know just how bad these fires were and how helpless all the residents here were to the power that were the towering flames. I lost a shed, but fortunately that was all. I was one of the lucky ones.”
The bus grew guiltily silent, and Orson smiled and said, “But now the tours have started back up, and we’re all happy to be getting back to our normal lives and showing you wonderful people the great wines that we make here in the Yarra Valley. You’re going to have a great day today, you’re going to try up to 60 different types of wine, and you’ll all get feeling real good by the end of the day. Enough of the sad shit, let’s play a game!”
Yesterday I won my third hat, a cowboy hat from a Yarra Valley winery. I finally went on a wine tour, finally enjoyed some of the delicious wine and forested low mountains of Victoria. Soon after the tour began, I slowly became famous on the ride up to the first of four wineries by guessing that kerosene was a common descriptor of Rieslings. Everyone else didn’t believe me, but the guide smiled and said, “We have an expert on board!” I was sitting at the back of the small tour bus, and I felt all the heads turn around and look inquisitively at this bearded curiosity.
I solidified my fame by guessing the correct grape variety of the “mystery wine,” mostly because everyone else had guessed all of the red wine varieties they had heard of and I just chucked up Sangiovese without really knowing for certain whether it was right or not. The guide, named Orson “like Orson Welles,” smiled again and put this cowboy hat on my head, “You won yourself a hat!”
After that I was asked a number of questions about wine throughout the day. People from Canada, Switzerland, China, the US, and Perth all wanted to know where I learned so much about wine.“I only took a class a few years ago. I’ve forgotten a lot of it.”
“That’s one more class than I’ve ever taken,” stated a blunt woman from Canada.
It was an enormously enjoyable day out in rural Victoria. The sun beat down on the half harvested vines, and I did my best to find shade and take pictures of the low mountains that surrounded the valley. Some of these hills and mountains bore the scars of the fires that burned not two months ago. I don’t think I would have noticed at first because a lot of the burned land had already recovered enough to look reasonably green, but Orson pointed out the scars—and also his house—where he had lost a shed and where the flames lapped only six meters from his front door. He and all of his neighbors had to evacuate, and he considered himself lucky that he still had not just his life, but his home as well.
“I don’t want to bring down the fun at all, but this is just what happened, and to understand what this region has been through, you need to know just how bad these fires were and how helpless all the residents here were to the power that were the towering flames. I lost a shed, but fortunately that was all. I was one of the lucky ones.”
The bus grew guiltily silent, and Orson smiled and said, “But now the tours have started back up, and we’re all happy to be getting back to our normal lives and showing you wonderful people the great wines that we make here in the Yarra Valley. You’re going to have a great day today, you’re going to try up to 60 different types of wine, and you’ll all get feeling real good by the end of the day. Enough of the sad shit, let’s play a game!”
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Hostel World
“I don’t want you to be beard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I do not want you to be beard. The shower there it is so hot and so cold.”
“The shower?” I was confused by Richard, an Iranian who grew up in New Zealand, was trying to tell me.
“This place is shit. The only shower is the blue door upstairs. That one is okay. I just warning you. I do not want you to be beard.”
Oh, he doesn’t want me to be burned. Okay, I got it, and I agreed with him, “Yes, this place is shit. The water wasn’t running a few hours ago.”
“It’s shit. Been here two months. I want to leave but it’s too cheap. Try to get job. Get one here there, but it’s cheap here.”
“It’s certainly cheap.”
When I arrived in Melbourne last Wednesday, I was sleep deprived and in a bad mood. My mood was made worst by the worst hostel I have yet to experience. It was only my fifth hostel, so it isn’t a large sample size, but at least give me some running water. Make it look like you’re making an effort at cleanliness. The staff was kind, but there were never more than two working even at peak check in/check out time.
As I settled in about midnight to finally go to sleep after a good thirty-six hours without any, I was kept awake by jack hammering. What the fuck. It is midnight. Why is anyone jack hammering? Why can this not wait until the morning? After spending another hour as a zombie, the jack hammering relented, and I was finally able to pass out.
In the middle of the night I woke up and had to pee. When I reached the bathroom, I noticed someone was showering. An odd time to shower, but I can’t say I haven’t showered at odd hours before. Then my blinking, heavy eyes noticed a trail of red leading from a toilet to the shower stall in use. I looked into the stall and saw the entire toilet splattered with this red liquid. My first thought was, holy shit, someone had a baby. These were unisex bathrooms, so I suppose I assumed the worst first. Then I considered some kind of menstrual explosion. Then I sniffed the air in the unventilated bathroom. I smelled wine, red wine. Goon.
I felt some mild empathy for the person who would have to clean up the mess and went about my business. As I finished, I heard rhythmic wet slapping. Ah now the girl who had the explosion of goon out of her mouth is getting shower sexed.
My impression of Melbourne has improved since that first day, but I will be the first to admit I have not done much. The most notable experience was attending the practice day for the Australian Grand Prix. Since then I have spent every (five) night at the Crown Casino. I’ve rekindled my relationship with poker, and as always, it’s been a rollercoaster. I could make further comment, but I’m sure my thoughts will change in twenty-four hours.
In a bit of a twist of irony, the Grand Prix lead me to stay in a hotel the last two nights instead of the packed hostels. The hotel was the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in. There was a kitchenette (microwave, toast, oven, electric range, glassware, plates), a dining table, a couch, two arm chairs, queen sized bed (in a different room), large closet, and a good sized bathroom. Far too much room just for myself. You can rest assured that I stood on as much of the furniture as possible.
“Excuse me?”
“I do not want you to be beard. The shower there it is so hot and so cold.”
“The shower?” I was confused by Richard, an Iranian who grew up in New Zealand, was trying to tell me.
“This place is shit. The only shower is the blue door upstairs. That one is okay. I just warning you. I do not want you to be beard.”
Oh, he doesn’t want me to be burned. Okay, I got it, and I agreed with him, “Yes, this place is shit. The water wasn’t running a few hours ago.”
“It’s shit. Been here two months. I want to leave but it’s too cheap. Try to get job. Get one here there, but it’s cheap here.”
“It’s certainly cheap.”
When I arrived in Melbourne last Wednesday, I was sleep deprived and in a bad mood. My mood was made worst by the worst hostel I have yet to experience. It was only my fifth hostel, so it isn’t a large sample size, but at least give me some running water. Make it look like you’re making an effort at cleanliness. The staff was kind, but there were never more than two working even at peak check in/check out time.
As I settled in about midnight to finally go to sleep after a good thirty-six hours without any, I was kept awake by jack hammering. What the fuck. It is midnight. Why is anyone jack hammering? Why can this not wait until the morning? After spending another hour as a zombie, the jack hammering relented, and I was finally able to pass out.
In the middle of the night I woke up and had to pee. When I reached the bathroom, I noticed someone was showering. An odd time to shower, but I can’t say I haven’t showered at odd hours before. Then my blinking, heavy eyes noticed a trail of red leading from a toilet to the shower stall in use. I looked into the stall and saw the entire toilet splattered with this red liquid. My first thought was, holy shit, someone had a baby. These were unisex bathrooms, so I suppose I assumed the worst first. Then I considered some kind of menstrual explosion. Then I sniffed the air in the unventilated bathroom. I smelled wine, red wine. Goon.
I felt some mild empathy for the person who would have to clean up the mess and went about my business. As I finished, I heard rhythmic wet slapping. Ah now the girl who had the explosion of goon out of her mouth is getting shower sexed.
My impression of Melbourne has improved since that first day, but I will be the first to admit I have not done much. The most notable experience was attending the practice day for the Australian Grand Prix. Since then I have spent every (five) night at the Crown Casino. I’ve rekindled my relationship with poker, and as always, it’s been a rollercoaster. I could make further comment, but I’m sure my thoughts will change in twenty-four hours.
In a bit of a twist of irony, the Grand Prix lead me to stay in a hotel the last two nights instead of the packed hostels. The hotel was the nicest hotel I have ever stayed in. There was a kitchenette (microwave, toast, oven, electric range, glassware, plates), a dining table, a couch, two arm chairs, queen sized bed (in a different room), large closet, and a good sized bathroom. Far too much room just for myself. You can rest assured that I stood on as much of the furniture as possible.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Doctor, The Dancer, and Kyle
I was sitting on the balcony of the YHA in Adelaide trying to finish This Side of Paradise, and I was fighting off the thump-thump-thump-thump 4/4 of the club next door, the smokers below on the sidewalk blabbering intoxicated phrases, and a couple of guys playing various hair metal of the 80s. Guns ‘N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine” came on their playlist, and that song always reminds me of my mom. She has often told me that when I was a small, she would hold me and sing the song to me. Regardless of whatever prostitute the song was written for, I’ve always preferred the meaning behind my mom’s version.
I’ve been in Adelaide for four full days, and I only have one full day left before I leave early Wednesday morning for Melbourne. Adelaide has been my busiest times in Australia, and I owe the excitement to friends I’ve made via the Internet. I’ve experienced some nature: the beach. I’ve experienced some aesthetically pleasing scenery whizzing past me: endless rolling vineyards and low mountains/large hills yellowed with dried vegetation. Some culture: Australians performing Hamlet. Some funny: comedians. Some not so funny: the same comedians. Some music: I don’t remember the band names, but I think I drunkenly shook the hand and complimented a guy who was not in either band for putting on a great show. Some drinking: beer, wine, more beer, some more wine, and even a Red Bull and vodka (they gave me the whole can of Red Bull!). I’ve gone over 12 hours without a drink, and I’m feeling shaky.
To keep this blog from just being The Drunken Adventures of Kyle in Australia, I will attempt to account a mostly sober moment consisting of a doctor, a dancer, and me. I say mostly sober because I started out rather drunk.
I just returned to the YHA. I went straight to the kitchen to get myself hydrated. As I was chugging the water, I was asked by a slim, middle aged man who had just appeared next to me at the sink, “Can’t sleep either?”
“Actually I just got in.”
“Oh. I just can’t sleep in my room. Too warm and too noisy. I never sleep well in these hostels.”
“I was sweating more than I was sleeping last night.”
He made himself some tea, complained about a lack of milk, and moved to a couch. I wasn’t sure if I was invited to join him, but I followed him anyway. There we exchanged some more small talk. He was from Melbourne; I told him Chicago. He soon picked up a newspaper and started reading. I can take a hint, but I was feeling competitive.
“Oh, I should go get my book in my room. I won’t be sleeping for a while.” I tore off to my room and likely made a lot of noise while everyone else in the six-person dorm was trying to sleep.
I bounded back to the couch and started to read competitively. I was going to beat this hotshot at his own game. I was going to read for longer and with better comprehension. I had the degree in English. This was virtually my job.
Within an hour we drifted back into conversation. It was about 3am and we talked until he had to leave at 5:30 for a flight to Melbourne. The conversation lasted many cups of tea and numerous topics. He seemed to warm up to me quickly—I was sobering up—and as a result he tried to drive into my head that any thinking person should try to give meaning to their life. He said that it was good that I was young, traveling, bright, and had a good head on my shoulders, but that I needed to live day to day with an eye to the future. He talked about the decaying environment and the billions of people barely surviving poverty.
“If you get to my age and you haven’t been doing something that betters the world, if you just do a repetitive, mindless job, you’ll kick yourself. With the head on your shoulders, it’d be a waste. You can find something that not only you like to do, but something that helps people and will for years after you’re not here.”
“That’s kinda why I’m here. Not really sure what else I’d do. I have many interests, and I can’t see myself settling down with just one.”
“You can have hobbies and interests, that’s fine, but you also need one thing that you can concentrate on.” I wasn’t too sure that I agreed with this point, but I didn’t argue it. He continued, “It’s why I spend Monday through Thursday five hours west of here helping out people who can’t otherwise find assistance. Then I travel home to Melbourne on the weekends to see my sons. On Thursday nights I often find myself here, waiting for an early flight home.”
About 5am a woman walks in and joins our conversation. She is English, and her name is Bailey, and she is a dancer. She just got back from dancing. The doctor and her start a conversation about her travels around Australia. I’m not really included in the conversation, but I take the chance to make some observations. Bailey looks like a stripper. She has the clothes and the body and the hideously aged face. Her body could have been 25; her face could have been 40. Despite the British accent, she had a pleasant, if not thoughtful voice, soothing and sweet. Her eyes and mouth were too large for her small head, and it looked like she applied her makeup in layers.
In between occasional glances at her chest—they’re probably fake, but at least she didn’t get them supersized; they’re proportional to her body, so I’ll give her some credit there—I heard the doctor say, “You’re heading to Melbourne in a week? If you need a car, a real beater, I can give you one. Here’s my address, just look me up when you get there. The car is shit, but it goes.”
Bailey had a baffled look on her face. I was certainly confused and thought that maybe I should have been paying attention to their conversation as it seemed to have been far more interesting than that speculation on the naturalness of Bailey’s breasts.
The doctor had to leave to catch his flight, and left me alone with Bailey. She turned to me and said, “That was rather kind. Can you believe that?”
I chuckled a bit, “I can not. For as long as I was talking to him, I wish he had offered me a car.”
“It’s weird, you know. I don’t know how I feel about this. He seemed really kind, but I don’t know about going to his house. You know, it’s just odd.”
“That it is.”
We exchanged some more pleasant conversation. She went out of her way to tell me that she had a private room. That made me consider whether or not she was more than just a stripper. Would I pay for it? I don’t think it’d be worth much at all with her. Maybe from behind it’d be pretty good. Did she just want someone to hold for the night? Oh, Kyle, your mind races in all too human ways.
Any sort of companionship, at least with me, did not prove to be evident, and I felt an alarming amount of relief. She seemed hopeful to see me again, but I have not. I’m not exactly heartbroken.
I wandered off to bed and found that the resident bogan was up and ready for the day. A fascinating intersection of personalities, these hostels.
I’ve been in Adelaide for four full days, and I only have one full day left before I leave early Wednesday morning for Melbourne. Adelaide has been my busiest times in Australia, and I owe the excitement to friends I’ve made via the Internet. I’ve experienced some nature: the beach. I’ve experienced some aesthetically pleasing scenery whizzing past me: endless rolling vineyards and low mountains/large hills yellowed with dried vegetation. Some culture: Australians performing Hamlet. Some funny: comedians. Some not so funny: the same comedians. Some music: I don’t remember the band names, but I think I drunkenly shook the hand and complimented a guy who was not in either band for putting on a great show. Some drinking: beer, wine, more beer, some more wine, and even a Red Bull and vodka (they gave me the whole can of Red Bull!). I’ve gone over 12 hours without a drink, and I’m feeling shaky.
To keep this blog from just being The Drunken Adventures of Kyle in Australia, I will attempt to account a mostly sober moment consisting of a doctor, a dancer, and me. I say mostly sober because I started out rather drunk.
I just returned to the YHA. I went straight to the kitchen to get myself hydrated. As I was chugging the water, I was asked by a slim, middle aged man who had just appeared next to me at the sink, “Can’t sleep either?”
“Actually I just got in.”
“Oh. I just can’t sleep in my room. Too warm and too noisy. I never sleep well in these hostels.”
“I was sweating more than I was sleeping last night.”
He made himself some tea, complained about a lack of milk, and moved to a couch. I wasn’t sure if I was invited to join him, but I followed him anyway. There we exchanged some more small talk. He was from Melbourne; I told him Chicago. He soon picked up a newspaper and started reading. I can take a hint, but I was feeling competitive.
“Oh, I should go get my book in my room. I won’t be sleeping for a while.” I tore off to my room and likely made a lot of noise while everyone else in the six-person dorm was trying to sleep.
I bounded back to the couch and started to read competitively. I was going to beat this hotshot at his own game. I was going to read for longer and with better comprehension. I had the degree in English. This was virtually my job.
Within an hour we drifted back into conversation. It was about 3am and we talked until he had to leave at 5:30 for a flight to Melbourne. The conversation lasted many cups of tea and numerous topics. He seemed to warm up to me quickly—I was sobering up—and as a result he tried to drive into my head that any thinking person should try to give meaning to their life. He said that it was good that I was young, traveling, bright, and had a good head on my shoulders, but that I needed to live day to day with an eye to the future. He talked about the decaying environment and the billions of people barely surviving poverty.
“If you get to my age and you haven’t been doing something that betters the world, if you just do a repetitive, mindless job, you’ll kick yourself. With the head on your shoulders, it’d be a waste. You can find something that not only you like to do, but something that helps people and will for years after you’re not here.”
“That’s kinda why I’m here. Not really sure what else I’d do. I have many interests, and I can’t see myself settling down with just one.”
“You can have hobbies and interests, that’s fine, but you also need one thing that you can concentrate on.” I wasn’t too sure that I agreed with this point, but I didn’t argue it. He continued, “It’s why I spend Monday through Thursday five hours west of here helping out people who can’t otherwise find assistance. Then I travel home to Melbourne on the weekends to see my sons. On Thursday nights I often find myself here, waiting for an early flight home.”
About 5am a woman walks in and joins our conversation. She is English, and her name is Bailey, and she is a dancer. She just got back from dancing. The doctor and her start a conversation about her travels around Australia. I’m not really included in the conversation, but I take the chance to make some observations. Bailey looks like a stripper. She has the clothes and the body and the hideously aged face. Her body could have been 25; her face could have been 40. Despite the British accent, she had a pleasant, if not thoughtful voice, soothing and sweet. Her eyes and mouth were too large for her small head, and it looked like she applied her makeup in layers.
In between occasional glances at her chest—they’re probably fake, but at least she didn’t get them supersized; they’re proportional to her body, so I’ll give her some credit there—I heard the doctor say, “You’re heading to Melbourne in a week? If you need a car, a real beater, I can give you one. Here’s my address, just look me up when you get there. The car is shit, but it goes.”
Bailey had a baffled look on her face. I was certainly confused and thought that maybe I should have been paying attention to their conversation as it seemed to have been far more interesting than that speculation on the naturalness of Bailey’s breasts.
The doctor had to leave to catch his flight, and left me alone with Bailey. She turned to me and said, “That was rather kind. Can you believe that?”
I chuckled a bit, “I can not. For as long as I was talking to him, I wish he had offered me a car.”
“It’s weird, you know. I don’t know how I feel about this. He seemed really kind, but I don’t know about going to his house. You know, it’s just odd.”
“That it is.”
We exchanged some more pleasant conversation. She went out of her way to tell me that she had a private room. That made me consider whether or not she was more than just a stripper. Would I pay for it? I don’t think it’d be worth much at all with her. Maybe from behind it’d be pretty good. Did she just want someone to hold for the night? Oh, Kyle, your mind races in all too human ways.
Any sort of companionship, at least with me, did not prove to be evident, and I felt an alarming amount of relief. She seemed hopeful to see me again, but I have not. I’m not exactly heartbroken.
I wandered off to bed and found that the resident bogan was up and ready for the day. A fascinating intersection of personalities, these hostels.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Month Down Under
I’m fast approaching the one month mark here in Australia, and I wish I had more exciting tales to tell. Arguably my most exciting moment came on my way over, fainting on the Qantas flight. I could make up some exciting adventures like how I tried unsuccessfully to resurrect the long dead corpse of Steve Irwin, but even I know when I’m getting a bit too fanciful.
There have been smaller incidents like seeing HORSE the band in a distant suburb of Sydney, admiring Marshall’s cranberry cotton briefs, finding myself in an executive board room on the 45th floor of Australia Square (oddly a circular building), discovering a male masturbatory device in the shower at the Perth YHA, bowling with someone in Perth that I had met weeks before on a train in Sydney (who had lived in Lafayette, Indiana for three months and was familiar with one of my favorite professors at Purdue), and getting (white) goon thrown in my face by a young, impolite Scottish girl who I swear I did not touch or leer at very much at all.
My reasons for coming to Australia, previously discussed in “What am I doing here?” were not to find excitement. I suppose I’m more doing something a bit odd and not too common so that I can brag about it later, while not needing to get any vaccinations or worry about terrorism the way we Americans like to worry about terrorism. I am safe on this English-speaking continent. Of course there are a number of more deadly things on this continent than most, but I’ve yet to even see a koala bear.
Now I’ll admit that being all alone in a hotel room halfway around the world with slow, often pricey Internet and only a handful of TV stations to choose from can be a little lonely, if not completely and utterly boring. And to be candid, when it is in the early hours of the morning and when there is no one looking, I tend to experiment with things I don’t normally do and things I would never consider doing in the presence of another human soul. I stack furniture. Usually against the door. It’s not that I’m particularly afraid of a burglar or rogue housekeeper. It’s more that I’m really just that bored and all the bottle shops have been long closed.
Drinking is something the Aussies do well, though not always of the quality of alcoholic beverages that I prefer, but they do drink a lot and drink a lot often and I have been happy to join them under the tables of their establishments and stumbling around parks and throwing my silver at what may or may not be more fucking birds. One of my favorite pastimes is finding a pub with free Internet and going there during happy hour and sitting down at a table or on a couch and doing very much a similar thing as I would have done at home—just on the other side of the world.
I would like to assure you that while I may not consider this “excitement,” I do consider it a good time. As I have previously written, I am fortunate enough to know some great, generous and friendly people here, and any time spent among friends and people you care about is bound to produce a multitude of good, even great, times. It’s a simple concept, if not cheesy. No matter where in the world you are, friends can provide all of your excitement or happiness or contentedness—choose whichever abstract noun you want. (I prefer happiness.)
There have been smaller incidents like seeing HORSE the band in a distant suburb of Sydney, admiring Marshall’s cranberry cotton briefs, finding myself in an executive board room on the 45th floor of Australia Square (oddly a circular building), discovering a male masturbatory device in the shower at the Perth YHA, bowling with someone in Perth that I had met weeks before on a train in Sydney (who had lived in Lafayette, Indiana for three months and was familiar with one of my favorite professors at Purdue), and getting (white) goon thrown in my face by a young, impolite Scottish girl who I swear I did not touch or leer at very much at all.
My reasons for coming to Australia, previously discussed in “What am I doing here?” were not to find excitement. I suppose I’m more doing something a bit odd and not too common so that I can brag about it later, while not needing to get any vaccinations or worry about terrorism the way we Americans like to worry about terrorism. I am safe on this English-speaking continent. Of course there are a number of more deadly things on this continent than most, but I’ve yet to even see a koala bear.
Now I’ll admit that being all alone in a hotel room halfway around the world with slow, often pricey Internet and only a handful of TV stations to choose from can be a little lonely, if not completely and utterly boring. And to be candid, when it is in the early hours of the morning and when there is no one looking, I tend to experiment with things I don’t normally do and things I would never consider doing in the presence of another human soul. I stack furniture. Usually against the door. It’s not that I’m particularly afraid of a burglar or rogue housekeeper. It’s more that I’m really just that bored and all the bottle shops have been long closed.
Drinking is something the Aussies do well, though not always of the quality of alcoholic beverages that I prefer, but they do drink a lot and drink a lot often and I have been happy to join them under the tables of their establishments and stumbling around parks and throwing my silver at what may or may not be more fucking birds. One of my favorite pastimes is finding a pub with free Internet and going there during happy hour and sitting down at a table or on a couch and doing very much a similar thing as I would have done at home—just on the other side of the world.
I would like to assure you that while I may not consider this “excitement,” I do consider it a good time. As I have previously written, I am fortunate enough to know some great, generous and friendly people here, and any time spent among friends and people you care about is bound to produce a multitude of good, even great, times. It’s a simple concept, if not cheesy. No matter where in the world you are, friends can provide all of your excitement or happiness or contentedness—choose whichever abstract noun you want. (I prefer happiness.)
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Irish and the Ill
The YHA in Perth (city) is filled with Irish. It being the Lord’s Day, I assume they have been on their best behavior. Only a few were shouting to the bartender and only a handful sat on the deck next to the café listening to various minor hits from the 90s, like The Prodigy’s “Fire Starter.” The rest were either playing pool or lounging around the reading room with their big, thick pulpy books. But it’s only 9:45pm, and it seems that most are going to bed: no more music, no more shouting to the bartender, no more clicking of the billiard balls. The only few that remain are yawning and staring blankly at the open pages of a book. Each one just drifted off like a leprechaun needing to wake up before sunrise to prepare his rainbows for the new day.
There was only one wee lass that I could see, and she was sitting at one of the four comfy leather chairs next to me. The more I looked at her, the more ugly she grew. When I first sat down, I had made sure no one was sitting there. She looked up, smiled kindly, and said it wasn’t. I thought to myself that it was a nice face; I hadn’t seen a feminine face in quite a while. But with my occasional curious glances in her direction, I grew dismayed. Oh, too many freckles—some can be cute, but she’s got the Irish splotch going on. Actually, eh, her nose looks funny; it’s twisted nearly forty-five degrees. Everything looks asymmetrical. More of a belly than I first thought, too. Her legs short and stumpy, and those toes—I’m not even going there.
And so I went from fantasies like these:
“Oh, hey what are you reading?”
“The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Me neither, but it’s won the Booker Prize.”
“What’s that?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ve got a double ensuite to myself, want to find my pot of gold?”
“I’d love to.”
To the reality of when she stood up:
“Oh, fuck, she’s a lot older than I thought, too.”
All in all it was a nauseating day. I slept a few restless hours, checked out of the Royal Hotel (which despite its name isn’t royal, but I had a reasonably quaint room where I found free Internet), hauled my broken suitcase two blocks with a broken wheel to drop it off at the YHA, got a cappuccino and a large apple muffin, consistently felt more and more ill, dragged myself to a nearby park, and laid on a bench under a shady tree for well over an hour. For a while I suspected I was going to pass out again like on the plane, but instead I was in a mindless, immobile state, hardly able to open my eyes to glimpse passersby and merely danced around any actual sleep. Eventually I mustered the energy to sit up and find a toilet, but I went through the day like a zombie—snacking on some brains here, munching on some brains there.
What I find more irritating now than any of this is that I feel more awake and energized than I did all day. I had struggled to stay awake at 7, but I told myself to last two more hours. Now it’s well past 10 and I’m ready for a party or at least a drink or two. Instead, as is my habit, I’ll find myself wandering around Perth and the halls of this YHA until the early hours of the morning because no matter what continent I’m on, I’ll never be able to sleep like a normy.
There was only one wee lass that I could see, and she was sitting at one of the four comfy leather chairs next to me. The more I looked at her, the more ugly she grew. When I first sat down, I had made sure no one was sitting there. She looked up, smiled kindly, and said it wasn’t. I thought to myself that it was a nice face; I hadn’t seen a feminine face in quite a while. But with my occasional curious glances in her direction, I grew dismayed. Oh, too many freckles—some can be cute, but she’s got the Irish splotch going on. Actually, eh, her nose looks funny; it’s twisted nearly forty-five degrees. Everything looks asymmetrical. More of a belly than I first thought, too. Her legs short and stumpy, and those toes—I’m not even going there.
And so I went from fantasies like these:
“Oh, hey what are you reading?”
“The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Me neither, but it’s won the Booker Prize.”
“What’s that?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ve got a double ensuite to myself, want to find my pot of gold?”
“I’d love to.”
To the reality of when she stood up:
“Oh, fuck, she’s a lot older than I thought, too.”
All in all it was a nauseating day. I slept a few restless hours, checked out of the Royal Hotel (which despite its name isn’t royal, but I had a reasonably quaint room where I found free Internet), hauled my broken suitcase two blocks with a broken wheel to drop it off at the YHA, got a cappuccino and a large apple muffin, consistently felt more and more ill, dragged myself to a nearby park, and laid on a bench under a shady tree for well over an hour. For a while I suspected I was going to pass out again like on the plane, but instead I was in a mindless, immobile state, hardly able to open my eyes to glimpse passersby and merely danced around any actual sleep. Eventually I mustered the energy to sit up and find a toilet, but I went through the day like a zombie—snacking on some brains here, munching on some brains there.
What I find more irritating now than any of this is that I feel more awake and energized than I did all day. I had struggled to stay awake at 7, but I told myself to last two more hours. Now it’s well past 10 and I’m ready for a party or at least a drink or two. Instead, as is my habit, I’ll find myself wandering around Perth and the halls of this YHA until the early hours of the morning because no matter what continent I’m on, I’ll never be able to sleep like a normy.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The Most Isolated City in the World
I’m going to begin with a little geography lesson. Despite being Kahler Middle School’s Geography Bee Champion in consecutive years, I still went a long time before knowing exactly where Perth is located. It’s all the way over on the west cost of Australia. Here’s a picture:
Now, Perth is labeled the most isolated city in the world because it is a city of over 1.5 million surrounded by next to nothing. Here I have colored in all of the nothing that surrounds Perth:
I took my first long wander around the streets of Perth today. I climbed up to Kings Park and had a romp around the botanical gardens. I saw a wedding party taking pictures with scenic backgrounds, and I saw a bachelorette party cruising around the park in a stretch Hummer waiving around a giant inflatable penis. Unfortunately I only captured a picture of the Perth cityscape:
While strolling around the park, I found several war monuments. Some of them memorializing victims of World War II. Others honoring those who founded Perth. That’s when I came upon an interesting memorial with the story behind Perth and how it came to be. I didn't bring my notebook along, so I’ll have to do the best I can from memory.
The area on the Swan River where Perth is now located was first seen by white person eyes around 1700 by a Dutch sea captain. It wasn’t until 1829 that the city itself was founded by the British, and they gave a humorous account of how they gained control of the Swan River. Apparently the Dutch had started several communities around western Australia, mating with the Aboriginals and eating a lot of Kangaroo Paw, a mildly hallucinogenic flower, and a combination of the two is thought to have lead to those Dutch settlers believing that the incoming British were out-of-this-world life forms. When seeing the British were coming, a majority of the Dutch settlers ran off into the sea, many never to be seen again, though it is said that if you sail off of the west coast of Australia just after sunset at the point where you can no longer see land, you can see the ghostly apparitions of these lost Dutch souls.
The Aboriginals weren’t too happy about losing their Dutch playmates, so they retaliated against the British presence, leading to fighting throughout the 1830s. As a result of the fighting, this phallus shaped monument was erected:
As for what I’ve been doing in Perth, I’ve been having a good time. Today was an educational day, and a day of planning. I’ll be leaving for Adelaide on the 18th, so that gives me a good ten days to explore more of this beautiful city, where the sky seems even more infinite than it normally does, seemingly never producing a single cloud, and pouring down upon me more cancer filled death rays than I've ever experienced. I hope to continue meeting up with awesome people from the Internet and slowly learning that Australia does have good beer, you just have to really look for it. And you can't expect to find a thick Russian Imperial Stout that pours like motor oil because, hey, it just doesn't get cold enough on this continent.
Yesterday, while wandering the streets of Fremantle, I was lucky enough to catch the Death Star disappear into the Indian Ocean. The sight made me wonder how far west one needs to travel before he or she is considered to be east. It was an aesthetically pleasing moment, where the muscles in your shoulders relax a bit and the muscles of your heart twitter a bit as the day falls asleep. The air was cooling off, aided by a fresh ocean breeze, and various flocks of humans and birds stared off at the edge of the world.
Now, Perth is labeled the most isolated city in the world because it is a city of over 1.5 million surrounded by next to nothing. Here I have colored in all of the nothing that surrounds Perth:
I took my first long wander around the streets of Perth today. I climbed up to Kings Park and had a romp around the botanical gardens. I saw a wedding party taking pictures with scenic backgrounds, and I saw a bachelorette party cruising around the park in a stretch Hummer waiving around a giant inflatable penis. Unfortunately I only captured a picture of the Perth cityscape:
While strolling around the park, I found several war monuments. Some of them memorializing victims of World War II. Others honoring those who founded Perth. That’s when I came upon an interesting memorial with the story behind Perth and how it came to be. I didn't bring my notebook along, so I’ll have to do the best I can from memory.
The area on the Swan River where Perth is now located was first seen by white person eyes around 1700 by a Dutch sea captain. It wasn’t until 1829 that the city itself was founded by the British, and they gave a humorous account of how they gained control of the Swan River. Apparently the Dutch had started several communities around western Australia, mating with the Aboriginals and eating a lot of Kangaroo Paw, a mildly hallucinogenic flower, and a combination of the two is thought to have lead to those Dutch settlers believing that the incoming British were out-of-this-world life forms. When seeing the British were coming, a majority of the Dutch settlers ran off into the sea, many never to be seen again, though it is said that if you sail off of the west coast of Australia just after sunset at the point where you can no longer see land, you can see the ghostly apparitions of these lost Dutch souls.
The Aboriginals weren’t too happy about losing their Dutch playmates, so they retaliated against the British presence, leading to fighting throughout the 1830s. As a result of the fighting, this phallus shaped monument was erected:
As for what I’ve been doing in Perth, I’ve been having a good time. Today was an educational day, and a day of planning. I’ll be leaving for Adelaide on the 18th, so that gives me a good ten days to explore more of this beautiful city, where the sky seems even more infinite than it normally does, seemingly never producing a single cloud, and pouring down upon me more cancer filled death rays than I've ever experienced. I hope to continue meeting up with awesome people from the Internet and slowly learning that Australia does have good beer, you just have to really look for it. And you can't expect to find a thick Russian Imperial Stout that pours like motor oil because, hey, it just doesn't get cold enough on this continent.
Yesterday, while wandering the streets of Fremantle, I was lucky enough to catch the Death Star disappear into the Indian Ocean. The sight made me wonder how far west one needs to travel before he or she is considered to be east. It was an aesthetically pleasing moment, where the muscles in your shoulders relax a bit and the muscles of your heart twitter a bit as the day falls asleep. The air was cooling off, aided by a fresh ocean breeze, and various flocks of humans and birds stared off at the edge of the world.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Borders And My Soapbox
I’m going to stand on my soapbox for a moment now. It’s something my mother taught me. When you stand on top of something—like a soapbox—you feel more superior to those around you, it’s easier to gain people’s attention, to gain control of a situation, it offers a different view of your audience, and it’s arguably a better view—you can see everyone’s attentive or bored faces or you can choose to speak over the heads of everyone in the room while you stare at an exit sign.
I’ve been wandering a bit in both place and thought, and one constant is a feeling of restlessness. Perhaps it’s been the hotel hopping the last couple of weeks, I don’t know, but I pace the hotel rooms like a caged animal and I stroll along the streets of Sydney and its suburbs with no particular destination, just looking in this shop window, looking at this Italian restaurant’s menu, looking into this bar and considering a drink. I feel like a person without borders or confinement and the only thing that ever stops me from doing anything is a propensity for laziness and that ever-common fear of the unknown.
Borders themselves I’ve been pondering. I’m not sure why I never thought of it before, but they are silly. I’d use a harsher word if I were angrier; I’m really just baffled. So much of our lives is determined by these invisible but real geopolitical boundaries. It’s a wonder that the first time I looked at a satellite picture of Earth that I didn’t wonder why none of the countries were colored their respective color: pink for the former British Empire, green for France, burnt orange for Mexico, yellow for the USA. And if country borders aren’t silly enough, almost all of the nations that I’m aware of are divided into various states, provinces, territories, cantons. On a map of the 50 states, each is designated one of about five different colors—I remember Alaska was always green, Indiana always pink. And if these state boundaries aren’t silly enough, you have counties or parishes. Then you break that down into townships and then into cities, towns, or villages, along with a myriad of unincorporated areas with the mailing address of (often) the nearest post office. These latter examples are my experiences within American borders.
While I’m up on this soapbox, I’m going to pretend that I know what I’m talking about. These borders create nationalism and its various forms that I am not comfortable with. Maybe it’s not borders—maybe it’s religion and the kaleidoscope of personalities—but they seem to create more problems than help. I’m being selfish here because they create problems for me. I need a passport. I need reasons for crossing borders. I need to fill out an occupation for immigration and customs people. If I want to stay for longer than a few months, I need to give governments more money for longer visas or pass citizenship tests or prove that I really do love this man or woman. This all makes me uncomfortable. I want to go where I want when I want.
Now I don’t have a problem with homes and feeling at home in one location and feeling an affinity for that place. I know that as long as my family lives in Dyer, I’ll always feel a pleasant nostalgia when thinking about that place. Complain about how boring and suburban it is, but it is home and was home for the first large fraction of my life. And should I settle somewhere for a lengthy stay, years and years, it’ll be because it appeals to my interests and my aesthetics and my needs and hopefully my heart. Then that place will also be home for me with pleasant and unpleasant memories alike—hopefully more of the former—stuff that only time can build in one’s mind and emotions.
It’s more elements like aesthetics and smiling faces and helpful souls that interest me, not blind nationalism and a vomit-inducing sense of patriotism. Surely where you grow up shapes you in one way or another, but I see little reason to fight over such things. It’s much more fascinating to discuss and share your experiences with strangers than to take a knife to them. Sometimes I think that I’m more of a peace-loving hippie than people who are labeled peace-loving hippies. Surely conflict is fun to watch in TV and movies and to read in books, but let’s keep the battles to silly intangable things like love.
My reason for this soapbox and this blog is because I want to share my thoughts with similar-thinking people, and sadly you are geographically dispersed all over the world. The world may be smaller today than 100 years ago—in terms of getting from place to place much faster—but it’s still huge. The rapidly growing population of over six billion people is overwhelming. There must be thousands and thousands of people out there that I have yet to meet who I will thoroughly enjoy the company of, but many of them I will never meet. It makes you wonder why we hole ourselves away in our little comfort zone where it’s warm and safe and comfortably familiar.
I’ve been wandering a bit in both place and thought, and one constant is a feeling of restlessness. Perhaps it’s been the hotel hopping the last couple of weeks, I don’t know, but I pace the hotel rooms like a caged animal and I stroll along the streets of Sydney and its suburbs with no particular destination, just looking in this shop window, looking at this Italian restaurant’s menu, looking into this bar and considering a drink. I feel like a person without borders or confinement and the only thing that ever stops me from doing anything is a propensity for laziness and that ever-common fear of the unknown.
Borders themselves I’ve been pondering. I’m not sure why I never thought of it before, but they are silly. I’d use a harsher word if I were angrier; I’m really just baffled. So much of our lives is determined by these invisible but real geopolitical boundaries. It’s a wonder that the first time I looked at a satellite picture of Earth that I didn’t wonder why none of the countries were colored their respective color: pink for the former British Empire, green for France, burnt orange for Mexico, yellow for the USA. And if country borders aren’t silly enough, almost all of the nations that I’m aware of are divided into various states, provinces, territories, cantons. On a map of the 50 states, each is designated one of about five different colors—I remember Alaska was always green, Indiana always pink. And if these state boundaries aren’t silly enough, you have counties or parishes. Then you break that down into townships and then into cities, towns, or villages, along with a myriad of unincorporated areas with the mailing address of (often) the nearest post office. These latter examples are my experiences within American borders.
While I’m up on this soapbox, I’m going to pretend that I know what I’m talking about. These borders create nationalism and its various forms that I am not comfortable with. Maybe it’s not borders—maybe it’s religion and the kaleidoscope of personalities—but they seem to create more problems than help. I’m being selfish here because they create problems for me. I need a passport. I need reasons for crossing borders. I need to fill out an occupation for immigration and customs people. If I want to stay for longer than a few months, I need to give governments more money for longer visas or pass citizenship tests or prove that I really do love this man or woman. This all makes me uncomfortable. I want to go where I want when I want.
Now I don’t have a problem with homes and feeling at home in one location and feeling an affinity for that place. I know that as long as my family lives in Dyer, I’ll always feel a pleasant nostalgia when thinking about that place. Complain about how boring and suburban it is, but it is home and was home for the first large fraction of my life. And should I settle somewhere for a lengthy stay, years and years, it’ll be because it appeals to my interests and my aesthetics and my needs and hopefully my heart. Then that place will also be home for me with pleasant and unpleasant memories alike—hopefully more of the former—stuff that only time can build in one’s mind and emotions.
It’s more elements like aesthetics and smiling faces and helpful souls that interest me, not blind nationalism and a vomit-inducing sense of patriotism. Surely where you grow up shapes you in one way or another, but I see little reason to fight over such things. It’s much more fascinating to discuss and share your experiences with strangers than to take a knife to them. Sometimes I think that I’m more of a peace-loving hippie than people who are labeled peace-loving hippies. Surely conflict is fun to watch in TV and movies and to read in books, but let’s keep the battles to silly intangable things like love.
My reason for this soapbox and this blog is because I want to share my thoughts with similar-thinking people, and sadly you are geographically dispersed all over the world. The world may be smaller today than 100 years ago—in terms of getting from place to place much faster—but it’s still huge. The rapidly growing population of over six billion people is overwhelming. There must be thousands and thousands of people out there that I have yet to meet who I will thoroughly enjoy the company of, but many of them I will never meet. It makes you wonder why we hole ourselves away in our little comfort zone where it’s warm and safe and comfortably familiar.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
City of Milfs
I’m not quite sure why I see it, why I notice it so much. Maybe it’s because I moved from winter to summer, from girls bundled up and making me use the full power of my imagination to girls in flimsy summer dresses with their arms and legs and chests glistening in the death rays of the Australian sun. Maybe it’s something in my own biological clock that makes me notice all of these babies and my unconscious is trying to tell me to reproduce and create dozens of babies, my own babies, enough to create a Kyle Army that will take over the world one beard at a time. Maybe I just hate babies so I notice each one that I see—but I don’t mind babies so much as long as I don’t have to take one home with me.
On my way back from lunch today, I was stuck on the sidewalk behind a young woman who was walking particularly slow. I didn’t mind so much because she had quality assets that I could numbingly stare at until I reached the hotel. After following her for a few blocks, she turned down a street and I saw her pushing a stroller. Another one! I thought to myself.
A week ago I was strolling around the Broadway Mall, keeping cool and considering lunch. I settled on a smoothie and sat down to look at my fellow shoppers, everyone seemingly having somewhere to go, walking and eating with a purpose. I just plopped down at a table and spread my observational ooze. A family sat down at the opposite end of the long table where I had settled. After about a dozen glances in that direction, I picked up a stroller, two young looking parents, and a middle-aged set of parents. I gathered that the young baby boy had these barely 20-something parents and 40-something grandparents. The younger parents were cute and smiling, and I genuinely wanted to regurgitate my smoothie.
They are everywhere, these parents, these young budding families, or these seemingly single mothers walking in the warm afternoon with their little baby girl or their little baby boy. I feel that so many of them are younger than I am, and I feel that so many of them have tied themselves to a babbling, burping, barfing, crying, crawling, dirt collecting stake. They are in it for a good eighteen years and probably longer.
For the last decade or more, I’ve had textbooks and the evening news drill into my head that families were becoming smaller and smaller and couples were having children later and later in their lives—if at all. But that was in America. Is Australia really this much different? Is it just Sydney? Is it just a fluke of my observations? I’ve yet to ask any of my Aussie friends about this phenomena. Marshall, though, offered a guess, “I think they get tax breaks. And they only have like a tenth of our population. Nothing wrong with more babies and more population.”
“But it’s just a shame, Marshall. You know what these babies do? They stretch everything out. The stomach, the vagina, the breasts. They all get stretched out. Sure, they are in good-looking shape, I’m surprised really, but their poor tummies were stretched so far, too far. And even if they have a cesarean, there’s a scar on the tummy. I love the stomach so much Marshall, from under the breasts to above the pubes. They don’t have to be wafer thin or perfectly flat, but I really don’t want a hideous scar desecrating such a beautiful thing. If she has a child, fine, that’s not something I’ll complain about unless she wants me involved, but their bodies just aren’t as young as they look.”
“Oh, come on Kyle, you know you’d still hit it. Twice.”
“In all of your dualistic wisdom, you’re right. Maybe three times.”
On my way back from lunch today, I was stuck on the sidewalk behind a young woman who was walking particularly slow. I didn’t mind so much because she had quality assets that I could numbingly stare at until I reached the hotel. After following her for a few blocks, she turned down a street and I saw her pushing a stroller. Another one! I thought to myself.
A week ago I was strolling around the Broadway Mall, keeping cool and considering lunch. I settled on a smoothie and sat down to look at my fellow shoppers, everyone seemingly having somewhere to go, walking and eating with a purpose. I just plopped down at a table and spread my observational ooze. A family sat down at the opposite end of the long table where I had settled. After about a dozen glances in that direction, I picked up a stroller, two young looking parents, and a middle-aged set of parents. I gathered that the young baby boy had these barely 20-something parents and 40-something grandparents. The younger parents were cute and smiling, and I genuinely wanted to regurgitate my smoothie.
They are everywhere, these parents, these young budding families, or these seemingly single mothers walking in the warm afternoon with their little baby girl or their little baby boy. I feel that so many of them are younger than I am, and I feel that so many of them have tied themselves to a babbling, burping, barfing, crying, crawling, dirt collecting stake. They are in it for a good eighteen years and probably longer.
For the last decade or more, I’ve had textbooks and the evening news drill into my head that families were becoming smaller and smaller and couples were having children later and later in their lives—if at all. But that was in America. Is Australia really this much different? Is it just Sydney? Is it just a fluke of my observations? I’ve yet to ask any of my Aussie friends about this phenomena. Marshall, though, offered a guess, “I think they get tax breaks. And they only have like a tenth of our population. Nothing wrong with more babies and more population.”
“But it’s just a shame, Marshall. You know what these babies do? They stretch everything out. The stomach, the vagina, the breasts. They all get stretched out. Sure, they are in good-looking shape, I’m surprised really, but their poor tummies were stretched so far, too far. And even if they have a cesarean, there’s a scar on the tummy. I love the stomach so much Marshall, from under the breasts to above the pubes. They don’t have to be wafer thin or perfectly flat, but I really don’t want a hideous scar desecrating such a beautiful thing. If she has a child, fine, that’s not something I’ll complain about unless she wants me involved, but their bodies just aren’t as young as they look.”
“Oh, come on Kyle, you know you’d still hit it. Twice.”
“In all of your dualistic wisdom, you’re right. Maybe three times.”
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Birds Fucking
Bird are fucking all over the place. All over Victoria Park. All over Hyde Park. All over Sydney. They’re white parrot type looking birds and they make a loud racket while they’re fucking. I haven’t been fucked enough to Wikipedia what kind of birds they are, and I’m not brash enough to ask Aussies on the street what the birds are called. I’m sure they hardly notice the noise if they’ve lived here for long enough. Birds fucking loudly, though, is an entirely new concept to me.
Llamas fucking is a lot different. I’ve often heard the sounds of llamas fucking. Homosexual llamas, actually. In my experience with witnessing homosexual llama activity, there is a dominate male llama and a subordinate, younger, smaller llama that gets fucked. By the way, llamas spit. Especially when one is trying to rape another one.
Imagine brown shag carpeting, a mass of brown shaggy dirty carpeting drunkenly galloping towards another dirty brown galloping piece of shit, spit flying, horns blaring, hormones raging, and one very erect llama penis. It ain’t a horsecock, but it’s unsettling. The shag carpeting races around the fields until the smaller one tires and gets violated.
Now imagine, if you’re ever so brave, that you’re sitting down to a nice cup of coffee at your family’s dinner table. It’s about 8am, and for some reason I’m awake, but I’m having pleasant conversation with my parents, and since it’s a pleasant spring afternoon, the windows are open. Before we can talk about the pleasant weather, the sounds of hell reverberate through our quaint little suburban home. This is what we get for living next to a small farm that keeps llamas. It’s a mini earthquake of pounding and foghorns and violent terrified spitting and pure llama sexual desire that no one should be subjected to in front of their parents.
Now theses birds aren’t quite as ferocious as the llamas, and I’m assuming these birds are mostly heterosexual, but when I’m sitting on a park bench reading Tropic of Cancer, I would rather the birds not fuck right above my heads. I was just beginning to understand why I had enjoyed the novel when I first read it—Henry Miller liberally uses the word cunt—but I even began to comprehend why Randomhouse named it one of the 100 best novels of the 20th century. It’s loose; it’s free; it’s optimistic. Why are we alive? We aren’t alive! It doesn’t matter! I am free to do what I please and I just don’t give a fuck.
But those birds just did not allow me to form any such an opinion while I was sitting on that park bench. I had to form those opinions back at the hotel room, free from fucking birds, free from nature. Those white parrot shaped tropical looking birds fucking and squawking above my head can go fuck themselves rather than each other; I’d prefer just a bit more peace and quiet, but I guess in Sydney at the end of February it’s bird love time. Spring is in the air even though we’re closer to fall in the Southern Hemisphere. All that I'm asking for is a quiet little robin that hops around looking for worms and bugs and seeds.
Llamas fucking is a lot different. I’ve often heard the sounds of llamas fucking. Homosexual llamas, actually. In my experience with witnessing homosexual llama activity, there is a dominate male llama and a subordinate, younger, smaller llama that gets fucked. By the way, llamas spit. Especially when one is trying to rape another one.
Imagine brown shag carpeting, a mass of brown shaggy dirty carpeting drunkenly galloping towards another dirty brown galloping piece of shit, spit flying, horns blaring, hormones raging, and one very erect llama penis. It ain’t a horsecock, but it’s unsettling. The shag carpeting races around the fields until the smaller one tires and gets violated.
Now imagine, if you’re ever so brave, that you’re sitting down to a nice cup of coffee at your family’s dinner table. It’s about 8am, and for some reason I’m awake, but I’m having pleasant conversation with my parents, and since it’s a pleasant spring afternoon, the windows are open. Before we can talk about the pleasant weather, the sounds of hell reverberate through our quaint little suburban home. This is what we get for living next to a small farm that keeps llamas. It’s a mini earthquake of pounding and foghorns and violent terrified spitting and pure llama sexual desire that no one should be subjected to in front of their parents.
Now theses birds aren’t quite as ferocious as the llamas, and I’m assuming these birds are mostly heterosexual, but when I’m sitting on a park bench reading Tropic of Cancer, I would rather the birds not fuck right above my heads. I was just beginning to understand why I had enjoyed the novel when I first read it—Henry Miller liberally uses the word cunt—but I even began to comprehend why Randomhouse named it one of the 100 best novels of the 20th century. It’s loose; it’s free; it’s optimistic. Why are we alive? We aren’t alive! It doesn’t matter! I am free to do what I please and I just don’t give a fuck.
But those birds just did not allow me to form any such an opinion while I was sitting on that park bench. I had to form those opinions back at the hotel room, free from fucking birds, free from nature. Those white parrot shaped tropical looking birds fucking and squawking above my head can go fuck themselves rather than each other; I’d prefer just a bit more peace and quiet, but I guess in Sydney at the end of February it’s bird love time. Spring is in the air even though we’re closer to fall in the Southern Hemisphere. All that I'm asking for is a quiet little robin that hops around looking for worms and bugs and seeds.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Better Off Canadian
I’ve now been here in Sydney for over a week, and I thought I’d take a bit of time to reflect back at my first week in Australia in a more bullet point fashion.
- The most common thing I’ve done in my first week is hop from hotel to hotel. I am writing from my third hotel room. Tomorrow morning Marshall and I are moving into the fourth hotel room. When we haven’t been changing hotels, I’ve been looking for the next hotel while Marshall is preparing for his year of schooling.
- I’m excited about this new hotel. It’s located pretty much across the street from where I would like to live—the Lansdowne Hotel. I will be there for a week (so will Marshall if his living arrangements fall through), and this will hopefully allow me to relax and settle a bit. Ideally I’d like to get into a bit of a flow in Sydney . This hotel will be the cheapest yet, but it is still a little more AU$ a week than I’d ideally like to be spending. If I end up staying in Sydney and not traveling to other cities right away, I’ll be looking to get a room at a shared house. A private bedroom is all I really ask for.
- As I have already mentioned, I have a lot of change. I don’t think I’ll ever spend all of my change. This morning I tried to use up a lot of the change I had when buying a train ticket, but alas, there is a 10 coin limit for the machine. I really pissed off the machine and had to watch as all of my silver dropped back in the tray to be collected and thrown back in my pocket.
- Another common theme is not going to Star City, Sydney’s only casino. I would often make plans to go there, but when the time came to head on over and check the place out, either something would come up or I wouldn’t feel like going. It’s not like it’s in a bad location or anything. I’m just lazy.
- Surprisingly I have spent a majority of my time here sober. Part of that has to do with the comparatively weaker beers than I am used to and not drinking enough wine. Sadly only last night was I able to keep my white wine count high. Australia knows what they’re doing when it comes to wine, and it certainly packs more punch (economically and alcohololy) for your AU$ than your other choices at the bar.
- I realize now that the title of this blog entry doesn’t really make much sense for what I have typed. In general it comes from the idea that it’s better to pretend you’re a Canadian traveler if you happen to be an American traveler. I really haven’t noticed any anti-American sentiments in my travels, but then again I’ve only traveled to other English speaking countries.
- The other day while Marshall and I were hanging out at a bar. It was noted by a lady that we were “rather quiet for Americans.” I brought this up with a couple of my Aussie friends, and they too acknowledged that I am rather quiet for an American. I know I am perfectly capable of making quite a lot of racket, but I suppose I do refrain the best I can from being an obnoxious asshole, at least when meeting someone for the first time.
- That still doesn’t exactly justify keeping this title for this blog entry, but I do think it has a nice ring to it. No offense to my former neighbors to the north, but I have yet to wish or pretend that I am from their kind nation.
Monday, February 16, 2009
What the Hell Am I Doing?
“Yes, I come from Germany. Years ago that was. Had a wife. She’s no more . . .” An old man named Michael was telling me as I was sitting outside a Subway eating my turkey and ham on Italian herbs and cheese. Instead of getting oil and vinegar on it, I got honey mustard because the idea of putting oil and vinegar on a sandwich doesn’t seem to exist here.
“I speak seven languages. Seven. You go through all these years. Australia. Germany. Everything kaputt. Es kaputt.”
“Seven languages? Wow, I barely know this one.” I had stopped tasting my sandwich and focused all my concentration on trying to hear what Michael was telling me. I had taken German for a good eight years in school, but I had never been good at understanding the spoken language, and those eight years of study are long behind me. The only German word I recognized in his mumbling mess of slurring and spitting was “kaputt.” He used it often.
“Glebe here. 220 a week here. 220. Kaputt. Down on [inexplicable street name] I pay 220 a week. Bathroom. Kitchenette. Bed. Es kaputt.”
“220 seems pretty standard around here if not more.”
“Oh, it’s expensive though. My wife and I in Germany years ago. Come to Australia and . . . why Australia?” Michael gestured out in the distance. “Are you from around here?”
“No, I’m from the states.”
Michael leaned back and looked off at nothing. He was incredibly drunk and rambling, and for every ten words he spoke, I struggled to hear one or two of them. I was getting the impression that he wasn’t understand many of the words I was saying either, but that was okay because I let Michael do all the talking. It seemed to comfort him.
“What do you do here?” That wasn’t the exact why he put it.
“Oh, I don’t know. Travel? I like Glebe here.”
“Eh. 220 a week. It’s expensive here.” Michael mumbled a lot more. “Do you have the time? Must be about quarter to four.”
“It’s 11:15.”
“Quarter to four?”
“No, it’s only 11:15.” Michael’s eyes widened with surprise.
“I could have sworn it was almost four.”
When I was first approached by Michael, I expected him to ask me for money. He was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. They looked old and dirty. It looked like neither he nor his clothes had been cleaned in quite a long time. He came up to me introduce himself as Michael and asked if he could have a seat. I said sure.
I eventually gave up trying to actually hear what he was saying, just nodding and smiling and laughing where it seemed appropriate. I began to try to observe him, and I noticed his fingernails. His fingernails were grotesque. Yellow and black and untrimmed with each nail sporting a different length and shape. Some of them were long and pointed while others looked like they are broken off at random angles. Regardless of what he said about renting in Glebe for 220 a week, I guessed he was homeless.
I finished my sandwich without tasting it. I thought that I should at least get a chance to taste my chocolate chip cookie, so I stood up and wished Michael good luck and to have a nice day. He asked me for 2.50 for some coffee, and because I had collected an incredibly heavy pocket filled with silver (the 50, 20, 10, and 5 cent coins are called silver while I assume that the 1 and 2 dollar coin are considered gold because of their respective appearances), I was happy to oblige Michael and lessen the weight of the silver in my right pocket.
With a lighter pocket, I walked toward Victoria Park next to the University of Sydney campus, found a bench and ate my chocolate chip cookie. I asked myself the question I’ve been asking myself for the last few days, “What the hell am I doing here?”
I am surprised just how overwhelming and intimidating the feeling of nearly infinite freedom can be. It’s certainly not something that I have considered in the past.
“I speak seven languages. Seven. You go through all these years. Australia. Germany. Everything kaputt. Es kaputt.”
“Seven languages? Wow, I barely know this one.” I had stopped tasting my sandwich and focused all my concentration on trying to hear what Michael was telling me. I had taken German for a good eight years in school, but I had never been good at understanding the spoken language, and those eight years of study are long behind me. The only German word I recognized in his mumbling mess of slurring and spitting was “kaputt.” He used it often.
“Glebe here. 220 a week here. 220. Kaputt. Down on [inexplicable street name] I pay 220 a week. Bathroom. Kitchenette. Bed. Es kaputt.”
“220 seems pretty standard around here if not more.”
“Oh, it’s expensive though. My wife and I in Germany years ago. Come to Australia and . . . why Australia?” Michael gestured out in the distance. “Are you from around here?”
“No, I’m from the states.”
Michael leaned back and looked off at nothing. He was incredibly drunk and rambling, and for every ten words he spoke, I struggled to hear one or two of them. I was getting the impression that he wasn’t understand many of the words I was saying either, but that was okay because I let Michael do all the talking. It seemed to comfort him.
“What do you do here?” That wasn’t the exact why he put it.
“Oh, I don’t know. Travel? I like Glebe here.”
“Eh. 220 a week. It’s expensive here.” Michael mumbled a lot more. “Do you have the time? Must be about quarter to four.”
“It’s 11:15.”
“Quarter to four?”
“No, it’s only 11:15.” Michael’s eyes widened with surprise.
“I could have sworn it was almost four.”
When I was first approached by Michael, I expected him to ask me for money. He was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. They looked old and dirty. It looked like neither he nor his clothes had been cleaned in quite a long time. He came up to me introduce himself as Michael and asked if he could have a seat. I said sure.
I eventually gave up trying to actually hear what he was saying, just nodding and smiling and laughing where it seemed appropriate. I began to try to observe him, and I noticed his fingernails. His fingernails were grotesque. Yellow and black and untrimmed with each nail sporting a different length and shape. Some of them were long and pointed while others looked like they are broken off at random angles. Regardless of what he said about renting in Glebe for 220 a week, I guessed he was homeless.
I finished my sandwich without tasting it. I thought that I should at least get a chance to taste my chocolate chip cookie, so I stood up and wished Michael good luck and to have a nice day. He asked me for 2.50 for some coffee, and because I had collected an incredibly heavy pocket filled with silver (the 50, 20, 10, and 5 cent coins are called silver while I assume that the 1 and 2 dollar coin are considered gold because of their respective appearances), I was happy to oblige Michael and lessen the weight of the silver in my right pocket.
With a lighter pocket, I walked toward Victoria Park next to the University of Sydney campus, found a bench and ate my chocolate chip cookie. I asked myself the question I’ve been asking myself for the last few days, “What the hell am I doing here?”
I am surprised just how overwhelming and intimidating the feeling of nearly infinite freedom can be. It’s certainly not something that I have considered in the past.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
It Pays To Be a Doctor on a Plane
I landed in Sydney about 8:00am. I was only feeling slightly like a zombie, and I distinctly lacked the same pure enthusiasm and excitement that I felt when I arrived in Sydney the first time. I mostly just wanted to find my hotel and lay horizontally for the first time in over a day.
It had been a long trip. An hour drive to O’Hare, a four and a half hour flight to San Francisco, a 5+ hour layover, and an adventure filled fourteen hour flight to Sydney. The adventure began about half way into the flight. I had finished watching three episodes of Fawlty Towers and attempted for a long time to drift off to sleep. I’m not quite sure if it was actual sleep or just a lack of conscience, but I awoke with an urgent desire to vomit. Without considering fumbling for the airsick bag, I threw off my seatbelt, jumped up, and ran to the toilets. Since I was the second row up from the back of the plane, I didn’t have far to run, but when I reached the toilets I saw that they were occupied. I turned around and the next thing I know I’m on my back looking up at a number of faces.
“Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“A lot better actually.” Amazingly I had not actually vomited.
“Just sit tight right there, I’m a doctor,” one of the faces said. He was the man who guided me to a sitting position, gave me some juice and cookies, and explained to me that fainting on planes was quite common. Basically a lot of my blood had found its way to my lower legs, and when I stood up quickly I threw my body into a state of confusion. I later learned that he and his wife had been sitting right behind me.
On these trans-pacific flights they stress that it’s a good idea to do some exercises for your lower extremities to keep the blood flowing so that it doesn’t pool. Fourteen hours is a long time to sit in one position, and I have always tried to get up and walk around a bit or use the toilet about every two hours on these marathon flights; however, I had been sitting for a good four hours watching the tiny screen on the back of the headrest of the seat in front of me and doing something like sleeping.
I felt both embarrassed and bad that I worried all these kind Qantas employees and all my fellow travelers at the back of the 747. I was expecting someone to laugh because, hey, I fall down a lot and I’m usually quite awkward looking when I fall, and I understand that it is a humorous thing to witness. But no one laughed and everyone was extremely kind and concerned for my wellbeing. Outside of feeling a bit shaky at first, I felt fine and never had the urge to vomit for the rest of the flight.
The kind doctor, a young looking Canadian, and his American wife were well deserving of the bottle of Dom that Qantas gave them for assisting me through my fainting episode. I felt bad that all I had to thank him with was my words, but he insisted that he was a doctor—a stroke specialist—and that’s what he does, he helps people. I got his email address, and I need to email him soon and thank him again and ask him how he is enjoying Sydney.
I suppose I was able to help him a little bit. I told him that if you buy something in the Duty Free shop before you reach immigration and customs, you are allowed to go to an express line to help expedite the process of being let into Australia. When I was in that express line I saw him a dozen or so people behind me and gave him a wave and a smile and he returned the same gestures.
It had been a long trip. An hour drive to O’Hare, a four and a half hour flight to San Francisco, a 5+ hour layover, and an adventure filled fourteen hour flight to Sydney. The adventure began about half way into the flight. I had finished watching three episodes of Fawlty Towers and attempted for a long time to drift off to sleep. I’m not quite sure if it was actual sleep or just a lack of conscience, but I awoke with an urgent desire to vomit. Without considering fumbling for the airsick bag, I threw off my seatbelt, jumped up, and ran to the toilets. Since I was the second row up from the back of the plane, I didn’t have far to run, but when I reached the toilets I saw that they were occupied. I turned around and the next thing I know I’m on my back looking up at a number of faces.
“Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“A lot better actually.” Amazingly I had not actually vomited.
“Just sit tight right there, I’m a doctor,” one of the faces said. He was the man who guided me to a sitting position, gave me some juice and cookies, and explained to me that fainting on planes was quite common. Basically a lot of my blood had found its way to my lower legs, and when I stood up quickly I threw my body into a state of confusion. I later learned that he and his wife had been sitting right behind me.
On these trans-pacific flights they stress that it’s a good idea to do some exercises for your lower extremities to keep the blood flowing so that it doesn’t pool. Fourteen hours is a long time to sit in one position, and I have always tried to get up and walk around a bit or use the toilet about every two hours on these marathon flights; however, I had been sitting for a good four hours watching the tiny screen on the back of the headrest of the seat in front of me and doing something like sleeping.
I felt both embarrassed and bad that I worried all these kind Qantas employees and all my fellow travelers at the back of the 747. I was expecting someone to laugh because, hey, I fall down a lot and I’m usually quite awkward looking when I fall, and I understand that it is a humorous thing to witness. But no one laughed and everyone was extremely kind and concerned for my wellbeing. Outside of feeling a bit shaky at first, I felt fine and never had the urge to vomit for the rest of the flight.
The kind doctor, a young looking Canadian, and his American wife were well deserving of the bottle of Dom that Qantas gave them for assisting me through my fainting episode. I felt bad that all I had to thank him with was my words, but he insisted that he was a doctor—a stroke specialist—and that’s what he does, he helps people. I got his email address, and I need to email him soon and thank him again and ask him how he is enjoying Sydney.
I suppose I was able to help him a little bit. I told him that if you buy something in the Duty Free shop before you reach immigration and customs, you are allowed to go to an express line to help expedite the process of being let into Australia. When I was in that express line I saw him a dozen or so people behind me and gave him a wave and a smile and he returned the same gestures.
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