“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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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