A bit of blog

Quick update. This isn't a funny update, so don't get your hopes up.

My writing hasn't gone as planned. There appears to be a critical period of productivity that must be correlated with caffeine. I've noticed that my first latte gives me a boost of energy, focused attention, and elevates my mood. I'm pretty sure that it makes me more attractive. My second latte makes me jittery, a bit paranoid, and I notice that my characters end up behaving very strangely. A-child-rescuing-adults-trapped-in-a-schoolbus kind of strange. Unfortunatley, I'm pretty sure it's not the kind of strange that elicits offers for the movie rights.

I wrote 3 pages and then decided to cut 4. At this rate, I will have unwritten my novel by the time we get back to the states.

Things that don't look like they should be able to kill you but are incredibly deadly

The title pretty much says it all. Australia is a deadly place. I've watched enough nature channel shows at friends' houses and Best Buy to know that Nature often gives you a heads-up when something is about to kick your ass. You know what I'm talking about ... the footage of the scorpion raising its stinger, the poisonous butterfly with the bright orange coloration, the grizzly bear acting in an agitated manner. In each case, Nature is saying, 'One day, a member of your species will understand that snarling and bared teeth and raised hackles is bad. That member will have an opportunity to pass along his or her genes. You are not that member."

You may wonder why I have to watch nature channel shows at Best Buy. I'll just get this out of the way now. You know that one guy in the US who doesn't have cable? That's me.

But back to deadly things. There's another side to this - the things that look harmless but, in fact, are incredibly lethal. This is Nature's way of saying "um, forgot about that one."

A perfect example is the magpie.



Looks harmless. I personally think 'cute' is going a bit far, but bird enthusiasts might comment on the beautiful coloration, the intelligent eyes, the melancholy, warbling cry (at 4:45 IN THE MORNING). They might generally bemoan the misunderstood magpie.

But those bird enthusiasts have never seen this.




This is a public service announcement attempting to educate the public on ways to protect themselves from the Australian equivalent of the pigeon. This sign was posted on a sidewalk that Amy and I have come to regard as the Adelaide equivalent of Cabrini Green, but let me be clear. These Magpie-Larks are everywhere. There is no safe place.

I think this would make a good Michael Bay movie. If you see him, tell him I said so. If you think there's not enough plot there, you've never seen a Michael Bay movie.


Here is another example.

Wine country

Amy saw an ad for a bus trip to the wineries in Barossa Valley during “gourmet weekend.” Seemed like a good idea. We bought tickets Saturday morning and were on our way by nine. Several ‘lads’ sat down in the seats in front of us and, after about thirty minutes, it occurred to me that ‘the wine bus’ might not have been such a good idea. The phrase that keyed me into this was “Och, those Brits can’t hold their liquah.” Reflexively (and unfortunately) I looked forward just in time to see the alleged Brit leaned forward over a bucket, looking wistfully at the bottom. It turns out that bus rides to wineries hold an appeal for a wide range of people, but wine connoisseurs are not among them. I’ll spare you the goriest of the details, but suffice it to say that the bus was warm and aromatic by the time we reached Tanunda.

Once there, one of Amy’s colleagues and her family spent the afternoon wandering the wineries with us. There’s nothing that says Australia like wineries, 55 degree weather, and motorcycles.

I journeyed through the Australian wine country via motorbike with a rider who had been in the Barossa Valley all his life and was therefore very knowledgeable about the area. Certain landmarks triggered a memory that he related while gesturing at the countryside. I found this disconcerting, especially when his other hand was signaling a right turn – but I figured we were in this together. He later told me that he was counting on me to balance the bike. He looked a bit disconcerted when I told him that I couldn’t remember whether to lean in to the turns or lean out against the turn and so decided to lean in and then out.

Seppeltsfield ...

... one of the oldest wineries in the area. After a tasting, I became an immediate and enduring fan of Muscat. If you’ve never had it before, Muscat is a cross between Port and alcoholic honey infused with sugar. It’s the kind of drink that makes it easy to forget that your third glass is actually your sixth.

Then to Gibson Wineries, where we had great Shiraz, killer blue cheese, and listened to a very good jazz band. Then a brisk and information filled ride back to the bus.

I hadn’t really visualized the bus trip back. The afternoon bus crowd was noticeably louder and I instantly regretted not drinking more heavily. I didn’t know whether to feel reassured or worried when I heard someone comment that they had “a lot of buckets” at the front. We saw our British friend from the morning. We sat down as far away from him as we could and were immediately patted repeatedly on the heads by completely hammered New Zealanders sitting behind us. They appeared to mistake us for Muppets until we spoke, at which point they were very pleased to be sitting behind Canadians. Amy gave us away by using ‘about’ rather than ‘aboot.’ One of them commented that she “really had to wee” and asked how much longer we had on the bus. I told her it was about an hour but she seemed happier believing her drunken friend who slurred that it was "prolly" twenty minutes. In any event, it wasn’t possible to change her mind.

Australian lexicon

G’day mate. Wasssssaaaaaap. This phrase was used much more frequently by Australians before it was co-opted in 1988 by the writers of Crocodile Dundee II. G’day is making a slow comeback but I intend to overuse it so much that no self-respecting Australian will ever use it again.

Mate. Wide applications. Friend. Good friend. VERY good friend (wink wink nudge nudge). Person that bumped into you on the bus. I have never heard this used as a verb in Australia.

Be there in a tic. Stop being so impatient. What are you … American?

Are you Canadian? I think you’re American because you’re loud and ordered the large latte but I don’t want to offend you by asking in case you’re Canadian.

Power point. Electrical outlet. Not a computer program.

Arvo. Afternoon (e.g. let’s meet in the arvo). You will get strange looks if you ask someone to direct you to the arvo.

How ya going. Wassssaaap.

No worries. Possibly the most versatile phrase in any language, no worries can be used to convey forgiveness, welcome, good humor, indifference, and an adaptable, easy going personality – all at the same time! It can mean ‘you’re welcome,’ ‘any time,’ ‘no problemo,’ ‘sure,’ and ‘hell yeah.’ No worries can also mean ‘don’t worry about that. I’ll tell you when you should worry and then you should REALLY WORRY.”

It is difficult to misuse the phrase, but you should be wary of a few inappropriate situations …

when you hurt someone
when you are being threatened by someone
when you are threatening someone
when reassuring an anxious person
when you are American

It’s not clear how this phrase came into being and the two Australians I asked weren’t able to give a consistent picture. Certainly early on in Australia’s history, there was a lot to worry about; your fellow countrymen were either convicts or security personnel unable to land a better gig and you were traveling to a place where everything is deadly. This hasn’t improved in modern times; pick anything in the states and there’s a good chance that there’s an Australian version that can kill you.

Taken. I’m not talking about the latest Liam Neeson fiasco. ‘Taken’ is the relaxed Australian way of letting you know that a person of interest has been bitten, chomped or devoured by an aquatic creature, as in, ‘a few years ago, this foolish American tourist was taken by a 15 foot whitepointah down at Glenelg.” Or, “a few years ago, these foolish American tourists were camping by the rivah when a huge croc took the smallest of ‘em. It was a rippah!” An alternate form of taken (led gently away) is now used primarily in discussing the taking of small children and German tourists. Apparently, there are so many awful ways to die in Australia that being eaten by a Great White Shark is nothing to get worked up about. Note: A good way to confuse an Australian is to use taken in the Victorian sense (i.e. he was quite taken with her) or the Henry Miller sense (he took her on the divan).

That’ll be 10 dollars, thanks. The Australians are efficient in monetary transactions. Rather than wasting an unnecessary syllable on ‘please,’ they simply skip to the end, assuming total compliance. This can also be used to deter overly quizzical foreigners; for example, an American tourist wasting time by asking "Does this calling card actually have 1300 minutes as advertised instead of the last one I bought which only had … "Yes. That’ll be 10 dollars, thanks."

I reckon. This is an efficient way of saying ‘I have calculated the likelihood of various possibilities and settled on this as the most likely. You may disagree if you wish, but that will simply expose you as the intellectual fraud that you are.’ It implies that you have carefully thought about this in the past and that you have already moved on to other, more interesting topics.

Race Walking

As I wrote earlier, the Australians cover every Olympic event in which one of their own competes. With horror, we realized that several Australians were competing in race walking. I’m not sure what the opposite of endorphins are, but I’m absolutely positive that my body is swimming with them while enduring national televised coverage of fifty race walkers strutting in a circle. Are they considered a gaggle? A clump?

The only thing worse is race walking in slo mo. Swimming in slo mo? I get it. The Matrix in slo mo? Absolutely! Race walking …

Amy and I did our own version of the race walk this weekend. A new world record was established (I'm pretty sure that no one has established a faster time from our doorstep to North Glenelg Beach - approximately 14k). That's what we set out to do and that's what we did.

Amy set a blistering pace and tried to distract me with questions about my writing. I kept my responses monosyllabic to conserve energy. The weather was exactly what we've grown to love here in Adelaide; 53, rainy and windy with enough patches of sunlight to fool you into thinking that it can't be overcast forever. The walk gave us the chance to see the underbelly of Adelaide. I'm not saying it's seedy. I'm just not saying anything.

The Australians appear to be at least a decade ahead of us in 'loo' technology.

There was a fully automated restroom in a park, complete with auto flush, auto soap, auto wash, and auto dry. Space for a bidet. And nothing says classy like soft elevator music and a recording of a deferential woman's voice informing you that the door will open in no less than eight minutes. Apparently a safety feature in case you've passed out.

As the day wore on, we realized a few other important things; google maps is not kidding when it notes that the "walking routes" may lack sidewalks, Autralians regard 55 as the dead of winter and dress accordingly, Adelaide drivers speed up when they see you crossing the street, and the city of Adelaide has decided to randomly distribute street signs (appearing to believe that if you don't know where you are you're probably the kind of person who deserves to be lost).

As you can see, it was a photo finish with my final time one one hundredths faster than hers.

Sweet victory ...

... and bitter defeat.

Amy lodged a protest, stating that she "didn't know we were racing" and "thought we were just going for a walk to be together." After due consideration, these protests were rejected on the basis that I distinctly muttered "let's race" while she was in the bathroom.

Critics might agree with Amy, possibly noting that the course from our doorstop to Glenelg beach is arbitrary and irrelevant. I understand that perspective, but ultimately, I think we can all agree that race walking itself is sort of arbitrary and irrelevant. Apologies to all the fast walkers out there.

Blog This

When I started this blog, I wrote that I would occasionally blog about blogging and today is a perfect opportunity to do this, primarily because I have nothing else to write about.

I’ve noticed something a little troubling about the blogging experience.

I was walking along King William Street to join Amy at the Central Market ...

when I realized, in some dark, out of the way place in my mind, that I was blogging my walk to the market. It was a lot like a narration. Small observations about the people, the culture, the Magpies on King William Street (this actually will be a blog subject) were immediately posted to and then deleted from my mental blog. The central problem (and the reason for immediate deletion) was that there simply isn’t that much going on. I don’t necessarily think you need to be subjected to the mundane details of my daily life such as what time I woke up (9:14), what I had for breakfast (mug of latte), where I had it (Scuzzi), or what I’m wearing right now …

If I did, my walk to the Central Market would read like this (actual excerpt)

Crossed Tynte street
Stopped at the light at Archer St
Thought about post-modernism, but only as a joke for the blog
Still stopped at the light at Archer St
Thought about the types of people who make jokes about post-modernism
Still stopped at the light! What the …
No cars … decided to walk across Archer St
Yelled at by an old woman in a walker for not waiting for the green walk symbol
(wait for the LIGHT!!!)

In itself, the narration would probably not be that big a deal. I could simply reframe it as “composing on the run.” However, a bit later I realized I was narrating my narration which was both confusing and tiring and made me wonder why I haven’t taken up drinking more seriously now that I’m in Australia. I don’t think you need to be a psychologist to recognize that this is not what we call a “good sign” in the business.

Those optimistic aussies

Amy and I were in London for the 2004 Olympics. It was there, in our Frognal Lane flat, that we were treated to the eloquent but fatalistic coverage of their athletes. “Disappointing finish, there.” “Another disappointment.” “Yet another disappointing afternoon.” They tried to mix it up a bit, I think, with phrases like ‘fantastic disappointment’ but that was just confusing. After they lost America, I think it has pretty much been downhill for the Brits and, based upon the 2004 Olympics, they know it.

The Aussies have a different take. It is worth noting that they cover every event in which an Aussie is competing (even if such events are not coverage worthy). As a result, we have been privy to in depth (painfully, agonizingly deep) coverage of rowing; twos, skulls, fours, eights. The Aussies were there and so were we, every oarstroke. Men’s field hockey? We were there for their ‘legendary’ battle against the Canadians. And what can you say about the Canadian guys who make up a field hockey team? Overprotective mother? Had pneumonia as a child? Couldn’t get the hang of skating? Even Judo doesn’t play well on television.

But back to the Aussies’ take. They have an indefatigable optimism. Lost the event you were favored to win? Gallant. Hopelessly outmatched against a superior opponent? Plucky. Fast but clumsy? Rippah!

I’ve been thinking about this and I have a pretty good explanation for the Aussies’ optimism. This country was founded by convicts and prison guards. They were placed on great floating prisons called hulks, forced to sail three months across dangerous waters, sleeping in rope hammocks inches away from 59 other sweating, incontinent, sea-sick convicts. This is the definition of a low point. After that, it can only get better. Got bronze in the 200 butterfly? Well, at least you’re not rowing to a desert continent for stealing six pence of bread. So that’s something.

Aussie pride is also evident in their colorful name choices for their teams. The Olyroos (men's soccer). The Boomers (men's basketball). The Kookaburras (men's field hockey). The Hockeyroos (WOmen's FIELD hockey). The Opals (women's basketball). In America, it might be the Microsoft Buffalos or the McDonald's Tatankas, so it's probably best to keep it the way it is.

Finally, anyone wanting an official Olympic jersey just needs to send $3990.00 - you too can be the proud owner of a silver, signed jacket in a display case. It’s Australian dollars, so it isn’t as much as you think.

If you don’t have this offer in the states, I can get you one. Email me for shipping and handling charges.

Footy

Have you ever wanted to spend halftime at a Patriots football game standing on the middle of the field only ten feet away from Tom Brady and yelling “It’s a freaking dime defense you moron! Quit throwing into double coverage!!!”? If so, you’re in the wrong country.

You need footy.

Amy and I began our education on the beloved Australian sport one evening on the tele. To the untrained eye, footy is a chaotic mess that appears to be an amalgam of soccer, rugby, American football, and mud-wrestling. Eleven muddy men with calves the size of a fifth grade child’s torso desperately chuck, kick, and wrestle a leather oval towards the opposing goal while another eleven men attempt to smother the first eleven men with their armpits. The umpires run alongside blowing their whistles with the desperation of cocaine addicted rats pressing a bar. The whistles appear random and play almost never stops after a whistle is blown.

The umpires, we were told, have some issues. Specifically, they have a pathological need for attention, an inflated sense of self-importance, and a dictatorial sense of justice. In another country, they would either end up as cult leaders, American Idol contestants, or presidential candidates. I felt a deep and abiding sense of pity for them until learning that they can make up to $200,000 a year. That’s right, $200k to wear very tight white shorts (think 70s after school special), to blow your whistle whenever the hell you feel like it, and to be bitterly despised by every Aussie in a 20 mile radius with a blood alcohol level of .20 and a few hours to kill. It’s a life.

Footy on the tele is nothing compared to the real thing, especially Adelaide footy. Amy and I became immediate converts to the mighty Sturt Double Blues, one of the local teams.

Two hours in an intermittent downpour (occasional hail) in our equivalent of March watching twenty two small figures in tank tops slamming each other repeatedly into the mud – that’s Australia.

An unexpected bonus is the intermission between quarters. That’s when both teams huddle on the middle of the field for a motivational talk and whoever feels like it can come onto the field to listen to the coaches scream at the players.

This is also the moment when you can really demonstrate your knowledge of the game. Standing only ten feet away from the huddle, you have the opportunity to tell number 7

that his play is really “piss poor” – the ten feet giving you enough of a head start that you have a reasonable chance of making it to the safety of the stands. I’m not saying that’s what I did. I’m just saying I thought about it.

The fans are remarkable as well. One of them, a man in his fifties dressed in a black raincoat, apparently has four players on Sturt with restraining orders against him for what I’ll call unwelcome invitations. Repeated unwelcome invitations.

Unfortunately, the Double Blues lost by 40 points. If that sounds bad it’s because it is.

Daggy

On to Adelaide. Advance press for the city wasn’t great. It had been described as a “sleepy” town in the sort of way you might describe an unattractive and socially awkward cousin as “nice,” “has a great personality,” or “not contagious.” In the months before I left, my brother was chatting online with someone from Australia and he mentioned that I would be living in Adelaide. There was apparently a long pause and the Aussie wrote … “Adelaide? Why?” That seems to sum up the country’s attitude towards the city; it’s a fine place to fly over but why on earth would you live there?! Too boring.

Upon arrival, we were almost immediately informed of its checkered past. Adelaide is apparently the ‘go to’ place for serial killers in this part of the world, as a quick Google search will give you the pithy nickname “Adelaide – City of Corpses.” Sort of wish I’d done that Google search earlier. Notably, Adelaide is also known as the City of Churches. I’m not saying there’s a connection there, I’m just stating facts. The Snowtown Serial Murders (aka the Barrel Murders) are a local favorite - as the name implies, these murders involved barrels, acid, and a social security fraud scheme. In another, the three Beaumont children were abducted, suspicions centering on a wealthy but eccentric young man. These murders were never solved (and are therefore almost certainly fodder for the next CSI Miami with the signature Caruso acting - sunglasses removed melodramatically and husky, terse dialogue given by profile. My next blog will probably be ihatecaruso, though it’s likely that name has already been used). Upon learning of the roster of murders, I found it hard to think of Adelaide as a “sleepy” town, unless you’re using sleepy in that Stephen King, Castle Rock kind of way.


Adelaide is also known for its parks





and Don Bradman


If you don't know the name Don Bradman, I feel nothing but pity for you because it means you haven't followed cricket religiously for the past century and therefore have absolutely no idea of a good way to spend 36 hours on a weekend (average game length) and probably think 'wicket' is the name of an Ewok. Suffice it to say that, after his death, they retired both his number and his name. It is now illegal to be named Don Bradman in Australia.

We rented a place in North Adelaide, which is apparently a good place to live. This is our little slice of home.





Neil, Amy’s host at Flinders, informed us that prior visitors have chosen to live at Glenelg beach, which is a “daggy” place. Daggy means shabby or untidy. However, it also refers to the dung that becomes embedded in the fur around the business end of a sheep. This is apparently an unfortunate situation both for the sheep and the farmer, who has to shave the “affected area” to prevent bowflies from setting up camp. Just thought you should know, since I intend to use daggy at every possible opportunity once I return home.

There are no visual aids for daggy. I encourage you to visit your local farmer if you have questions.

Surfer's Paradise

Bondi Beach.

In the summer months, Bondi Beach is apparently incredibly beautiful and incredibly packed, as thousands of swimmers and surfers vie for less than a mile of beach. It must be quite a sight. For pictures of this I would refer you to the Bondi Beach website because we witnessed the winter swimmers and surfers, which can only be described as hardcore and slightly deranged. There is a 2 mile walk along cliffs from Bondi beach to Bronte beach that is exceptional and highly recommended.

One final note about Sydney ... Amy was elated to find evidence that the Bradfield clan was influential in the area (though her elation was tempered by the fact that Australia was founded by convicts - I think her feeling is that the Bradfields came to Sydney well after the convict era). A certain J. Bradfield was instrumental in the erection of the famous harbor bridge.

J. Bradfield was apparently rewarded for his efforts with a plaque and designation of a space known as Bradfield Plaza. It hardly mattered that the real estate for the plaza was not what you'd call "prime," what was important was that the plaza was associated with (or, more aptly, placed under) the bridge. Amy was quick to point out that there was no sign of a Douglass Plaza, Douglass Park, or Douglass Park Bench. My point is (and always has been) that we would have fared far better if our ancestor (the Earl William Douglas) had not been foully murdered at Stirling Castle by King James.

On Blogging

Having trouble uploading photos. It's your loss, really, as you won't be able to use a photo of me in front of the sydney opera house, me at Bondi Beach or me in front of the Hyde Barracks as your wallpaper.

My default tech solution of slamming my computer repeatedly on the desk appears ineffective.

Maybe mussels?!

Sydney. A great latte and we were off, wandering around the Royal Botanical Gardens. We noticed that many of the “townies” were dressed in goretex coats with wool gloves and hats. Apparently, anything below 60 degrees is cause for bitter complaining. While Amy was in the gift shop, I happened to look up and saw a remarkable sight. Thousands of bats, each about the size of a bulldog with a wingspan of 3’, were hanging from tree branches. Occasionally, a bat would launch itself unsteadily from its branch, causing nearby bats to screech unhappily. It was a little bit like a Bram Stoker and Hitchcock matinee (Amy’s worst nightmare is a flying rat). All things considered, she handled it pretty well and with minimal screaming. We were later informed that there are estimated to be 20,000 bats.




The Sydney Opera house was remarkable. Depending on your perspective, it either mirrors the sails of the boats on the harbor, glowing softly in the evening, or looks a bit like horseshoe crabs doing headstands. Sydneysiders tend not to be impressed with the latter perspective.



We bought tickets for a modern dress version of Don Giovanni – our seats were the equivalent of the Everest death zone but we were upgraded by about seven rows just before performance. Purists might scoff at the modern dress but Giovanni’s asocial ways were reflected perfectly by his ghetto hat cocked right. I thought the dance remix was a bit over the top but Snoop Dogg’s surprise cameo as himself brought some levity to an otherwise downer of an ending.

Worst meal thus far was entirely my fault but hey, lessons learned … a) when considering a Korean Fusion restaurant, you should ask yourself “fused with what?!” b) when your wife turns to you in a worried tone of voice and says “Squid? Are you sure?” you should under no circumstances shrug and say “Definitely! Yes.” c) If you decide to ignore your wife, you should be very attentive to the description of the seafood with noodles and be worried when the waiter says “squid, prawn … and maybe mussels.” MAYBE mussels? d) You should make every attempt to avoid looking at your seafood soup with noodles and being reminded of the violent end of 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea despite the fact that the squid tentacles are bobbing in a lifelike way every time your wife shakes the table; e) Cass beer, a tasty rendition of Miller Lite, does not take the bite out of the squid broth.

For the record, I intended to eat the entire meal. However, I was unprepared for the entire squid to be in the bowl. My wife’s expression did not help matters. If disgust is a continuum, she was in a different dimension. I managed to eat about an inch of the broth and noodles before deciding that I didn’t care that much about US-Korean relations.

The first 31 ... er 37 hours

Sitting on the bus from Portland to Boston, I realized I simply would not be able to make the 31 hour trip to Sydney readable. This wasn’t self-deprecation so much as a recognition that sitting next to the same person in small metal tubes traveling at high velocities for long periods of time is brutal no matter who you are. Even the Dali Llama would end up flogging Jerry Seinfeld with his sandals for one too many “observations.”

Our trip started out well enough. National Treasure (ironically named) was shown on the bus and I accidentally discovered that if you watch the movie without sound a) Nicholas Cage doesn’t look like a bad actor, b) it is mildly interesting to watch the actors try to solve inscrutable puzzles like opening a secret desk, and c) you can pretend that it was written by the Coen brothers. Listening to even 15 seconds of dialogue completely ruins these perceptions.

Ticketing and security took about 20 minutes. Then the problems started – 3 hour delay in Boston (2 hours on the tarmac) making us an hour late for our flight to Sydney (which luckily was hours late as well – how many times have you been able to say that!). Unfortunately, mechanical problems on the plane to Sydney caused a 3 hour delay (if you own Qantas stock – SELL). Finally seated on our flight, we were fully prepared to “enjoy” our 14 hour flight, complimentary alcoholic beverage of our choice, and Tylenol PM.

A few other things useful to know; Tylenol PM is not the equivalent of Ambien; vegetarian meals are served first; Fargo is good even after 35 hours of traveling; you should never point out to the person sitting next to you that you don’t have 2 hours left ... you have 8; if you watch Cloverfield during extreme turbulence you can make out what the actors are doing, and middle seats should be reserved for convicts of the most horrible crimes and airline execs.

We landed in Sydney and ran to the bathroom to see if the drain drains backward. Then we went to Wagamama.