MJW does Ostraya

2009-09-28T18:09:00.002-04:00

There was this night that I sat along the tip of the continent with two people I loved dearly. Bright reds, greens, blues, and whites exploded overhead and I heard far more American accents than I had for the past 4 months. We couldn't have planned a celebration abroad any better, and yet we found ourselves missing home.

Almost 3 months later, I miss our alternate home nearly as much.

I think more than anything, I simply miss parts of that way of life. Waking up at 8 am to a quiet apartment, making tea and eating toast, parmesan, kiwi, or whatever struck us at the moment. Trips to Cotton On, buying $9.99 t-shirts and sweaters. Wandering through Central Station, which we grew to know so well. Beautiful Bondi Market. Lingering in the bookshop, scouting for $7 classics. Taking the Opera House for granted. Singing "Forever Reign" and being utterly swept away by God. Seeing Brooke Ligertwood at city campus in a uber long t-shirt and leggings. Sitting around with Dave and Bec, watching Master Chef. Stunt driving with Russia. Those early, early days in Sydney where we spent 75% of our time at the beach.

This era has past, for even if I return, it will be so different. I look back at that life with a controlled longing, and an attitude of gratitude that can overwhelm.

It was the best of times, even during the hardest moments.

2009-08-10T21:41:00.001-04:00

I woke up this morning and I had 3 emails that each contained a little slice of heaven. I laughed over comments on pictures and according to Mel, it was like we took happy pills. I wish every one of you woke up on Monday as happy as I did today.

I arrived back in the States roughly 10 days ago, and there are times that I’ve had difficulty adjusting. Those difficulties tend to revolve around the extremely opposite mindsets of Australia and America. I’ve grown to cherish the Aussie mindset, so mind you, being back in this rushing, busy, competitive society has effectively rattled my mind.

But I find that these frustrations and limitations have taken a backseat to the utter pleasure I have found in the people for which I returned to this city. Some of those people left this city during my absence, and others left long before my departure. I haven’t seen everyone that I want to see by any means yet, but I have absolutely been lavished with the brilliance of my friends’ company.

And so, life is good.

Here are a few things I’ve learned or remembered about the States or myself or random things in the past 10 days:

Everything is bigger in the States. Everyone says it, everyone laughs at it, but it’s true. Macca’s small in Australia is the size of a kiddie drink in America and the large is equivalent to the States Medium. There is no such thing as a 32 oz drink in Australia - it might as well be labeled a bucket.
American internet is freaking fast! And unlimited!
We waste a ton of condiments. Only Macca’s gives you free ketchup in Australia, and even then it’s like trying to pry a steak from a Pitt Bull’s mouth to get more than 2.
America has the best shopping, hands down. Cheap, trendy clothing or high quality expensive clothing. Options, options, options! I struggle with hating infinite options in many categories (see: career path), but too many stores is not one of them.
Walmart, Target, and Payless are actually CHEAP.
$2.50 movie theatres exist. And they are the bomb! Even normal movies, at $10, seem cheap.
Zoolander is my favorite Ben Stiller movie.
People respond positively to politeness laden with happiness and laced with genuine interest in what they have to say. Obviously. I love it. This is true in America AND Australia.
Leslie can go an entire day at work without turning left. She is not always an ambi-turner.
Random calls from Hillsong on a phone number I got 24 hours before (meaning that they had to work to get my digits) make my day!
Jet lag from Fiji is horrific. I think I finally adjusted in the last 3 days or so. Maybe part of it is not getting enough sleep in general. Heh.
Nashville is in the central time zone. If you tell your Nashville friends that you are leaving at 9:30am, they assume central time, even if you meant eastern. And none of you think about it until you’re 70 miles south of Chattanooga and they are 200 miles north.
Going through boxes you packed 4 months ago is a bit like Christmas. Old clothes become new!
Shiatsu massage by Sonny is the best. Better than Swedish or Deep Tissue. For reals.
DO NOT drive down the left side of a street. And if you do, in the middle of downtown Orlando on a Friday night, be certain that your best friend is NOT following you. Else you might both get a ticket/die. And remind Mel frequently that Orange Ave is a one way street heading south. Thank God for frantically waving pedestrians who care.
Top Gun rocks.
Gary owns Gigli. Wait, I think he sold it. Point is, he paid for it.
Pizza + Red Wine + Kate’s Porch + Awesome people = best Sunday night back in America yet.
God’s wisdom is something mysterious that goes deep into the interior of his purposes. You won’t find it lying around on the surface. 1Cor2:7
If you’re away from Status for 5 months, you won’t recognize people before the service. It’s because everyone you know knows that nobody shows up early. Right on time, or late. We should change this!
Chickfila is just as good, just as tasty, and just as unhealthy as I remembered. My arch nemesis.
Myers Briggs and superhero talk are bound to resurface at least once on Kate’s porch.
Apparently, I never get to survive a movie on my own. This is crap. “I’m not jealous.”
The Lodge has an 80s night. And nobody but us dances. Apparently, I am a fake-80s fan.
The Greek Corner is delish. Now, they just need hummus.
Vintage sales by Kate + Dana + Jamie + etc. I don’t even need to add an adjective to this sentence; it stands alone.
I’m on the search for a quality cappy in the States. So far, no good. Starbucks and Seattle’s best taste a bit burnt. Who knows of a good mom & pop coffee shop?

Mel’s dad told me, the day that we flew back into Orlando, that these blogs are kind of like Seinfeld - writing about things that are utterly pointless to everyone not involved. The sad thing is that his tone indicated that it was no where as entertaining as Seinfeld.

136 days

2009-08-05T18:00:00.001-04:00

Our life for the past five months.

Almost Home

2009-07-29T00:40:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, 28/7/09, 10pm: our Air Pacific flight departs from Nadi, Fiji. Sadly, it is not empty, like the 747 we flew to Fiji back in March. We are rather cramped in row 47. Happily, there is a very cute guy sitting across the aisle. Think Jake Gyllenhall meets Adam Levine from Maroon 5. Mel tells me later, as we’re in customs at LAX, that he might be a celebrity, but she’s not sure. But back on the plane, she is ‘extraverted sensing’ and she gleans all sorts of information 3rd handedly. He’s from Seattle, he’s eating candy (we nickname him Chunky, Pudge’s soulmate), he’s reading a thin book, he’s very friendly (he instigates conversation with both the elderly couple to his right and the girl between him and Mel), and he’s a vegetarian. And I wish he was in 47C.

We finally have dinner (a chicken sandwich) around midnight Fiji time, and we pop sleeping pills. I cover my eyes with the sleeping mask Air Pac kindly provided me with, and don’t wake up until they serve breakfast roughly 6 hours later. I watch an episode of Flight of the Conchords, Season I, and we get ready to meet America.

I told Nathan a while back that I thought I’d have culture shock when we landed in America, after 4+ months abroad.

And culture shock we had.

We prance off the plane just in front of Chunky (gentleman that he appears to be, he insists we exit first), and are immediately greeted by the chaos that is labeled LAX. It’s 1pm PST, but our brains are thinking it’s something more like 8am. The loudspeaker is positively screaming our flight/baggage information and the noise pollution is overwhelming. Nobody greets us with a “Bula” or a “G’day” or even a smile. We get on the walking sidewalk, momentarily forgetting to stay right, instead of our now learned left tendency. We hear the American accent everywhere. We keep talking in the Aussie accent, because we miss it so, so, so much.

We stand in line for passport control, and I’m fantastically pleased with the speedy and efficient passport service. What took 30 minutes in Fiji takes 10-15 in LA. People in line chat a bit, but for the most part are quiet and keeping to themselves. We make it through customs successfully, losing Chunky as his single, but stuffed, backpack arrives far before our massive 4 tanks/suitcases arrive.

We re-check our bags, and head to United to check in. We hike about half a mile around to another terminal. Along the way, we wander through a cloud of cigarette smoke, and I’m caught off guard. I had forgotten about this American/Euro custom. Surely, some Aussies smoke, but I haven’t walked into cigarette smoke once the entire 4 months I’ve been there, because it’s not as prevalent. I believe the reason for its rarity is the extremely graphic advertising the National Government shows everywhere. I step off the lift and notice a man talking to himself, and I’m reminded of America’s need to constantly be on the phone, to be hands-free, etc. I also haven’t seen a single bluetooth since I’ve been in Australia. I’m sure they are there, but I’ve not witnessed even one. Only in America do we look like we’re talking to ourselves. I stifle a giggle and wander on.
I think of our friend Christian’s perspective of America, based on TV, people, the world: “It’s dangerous and Americans are fat.” During our time in Australia, I rarely found myself being extremely aware, because its not necessary there. Crime rates are fairly low, at least in the areas we spent time in. However, these stereotypes of America from the Aussies have rubbed off on me, because I find myself being ultra aware of my surroundings, people, and my passport/money.

Mel and I find ourselves lunching at a restaurant in the International Terminal after we’ve checked in for our domestic flight, which is a mere 7 hours away (ugh.) We are thrilled to drink unsweetened tea (brewed tea is fantastic!) as we leisurely feast on spaghetti and a caesar salad. As we’re figuring out the bill separations, we almost walk out without tipping - oops. We are so used to the tip being included as part of the bill that we trip over our old habit.

I also notice that I keep trying to figure out the exchange rate, another old habit, even though I’m using American money now. Mel hands me a $20 and two quarters, and the quarters feel like play money, compared to the heavy Australian and Fijian coins. I see a Bank of America ATM, and it seems oddly out of place.

Things are measured in inches again, distances denoted by miles. The date format is different, and I find myself still using the Euro/Aussie format. The domestic terminal houses flights to cities I haven’t thought of in months. Mel’s old American cell phone works, while our Aussie phones are rendered useless at least for a while. Hulu now works again (I celebrate with a tweet of happiness) since our connection is from an American server. We watch some SNL, the Alice in Wonderland trailer, and a few other brilliant bits online.

Along the shuttle ride back to our terminal, Mel and I quietly notice and chat about the difference in people. It seems that LA is almost the polar opposite of Australia in so many ways, but primarily the mindset. In this city, people are reserved with each other, mostly avoiding eye contact, keeping their iPods on, and ultimately being focused on the internal rather than what is happening around them. This is far different from Australia and Fiji, where everyone along your path throws a quick witty comment or a smile followed by a big hello.

Just as we notice this, a man who works for the airport boards the back of the bus as if he’s inspecting or surveying the driver as he works. He greets us, “Hello girls!” and offers us gum. We chat with him a bit, and then Mel nudges me as a new passenger arrives with Swiss luggage that matches mine. I engage him in conversation with this bit of shared experience, and we end up talking for about 15 minutes until he reaches his terminal. He’s going to Melbourne in December, we are happy to hear. These two people have made us realize that WE need to be the change that we want to see in America. We can’t react to people and how people are, but rather we must engage with people if we want to have those conversations.

After making it back to our terminal and through security for the second time, we head to our gate. Mel takes a quick nap as I ramble on and listen to a few friends online. I soon need to charge my computer, so I shake Mel awake and I tell her where I’m going as I give her the rest of her bags.

I walk away from her, only to turn around as I near a power outlet because my cord still has the Aussie adapter on it. As I near her, she opens her eyes and says, “I knew you were coming for the power adapter. I’ve been hearing Prabaker’s (one of the Indians from Shantaram, which I’ve given her to read) voice in my head saying random phrases in an Indian accent, and all of the sudden, he said, ‘Your friend, she very very much needs your power cord.‘ and then you walked up.”

I swear to you, this has been happening to us very frequently the past few days. I have a theory that we are both so used to being around each other, that we’re now able to read each other’s phermones and sometimes know what the other person is thinking before she says it. It’s creepy, and kind of cool.

I think about our next flight, and I’m struck by the oddity of it. We left Fiji at 10pm on Tuesday night. We arrived into LA at 1pm on Tuesday afternoon, ‘time-traveling’ 9 hours backwards. Our flight to Orlando leaves at exactly the same time we left Fiji - 10pm on Tuesday night. It’s kind of cool. We lost our St. Patty’s day back in March, when we flew from LA to Fiji, so we’re having a very, very long and complicatedly-timed Tuesday. I’ve never been so disoriented about what time it is, particularly since my computer clock is still on Fijian time. Hopefully when we go 3 hours further into the future, it will be less confusing.

Finally, we are only about 6 hours away from home. I told Mel that part of coming back wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I’m very happy to be home. But I still believe that part of my heart is back in Sydney, and one day, I’m gonna get it back for good.

And thus ends yet another era of my life. It’s odd, how my mind divides my life into different sections: college, New York, Florida with Brad, Florida after Brad, traveling in Australia w/ MJW, living in Australia with Mel, and now, back to Orlando.

The future is so blurry and I don’t know what it looks like. I am welcoming back Orlando with open arms, hoping to find and/or stay within contentment while I am led to be in this city. It’s a challenge, leaving a country and a people you’ve grown to love without truly knowing if you’ll make it back. It matters not how much I plan, for plans often turn out far different than originally arranged.

Welcome Home.

Things I learnt whilst in Fiji

2009-07-27T20:14:00.001-04:00

Bula means hello. All Fijians will greet you with this word, and it’s a two-way greeting. It sounds like BU-Lahhhh.

Matamanoa is a couples-only island. If you are part of a same-sex friendship, visiting this island is certain to cause gossip amongst the staff.

Kava is a traditional drink to the Fiji islands. It makes your tongue numb, even upon drinking one coconut-half-cup full. It tastes a bit like muddy water. It’s technically a painkiller, as well as anesthetic.

Green coconuts are simply ‘immature’ coconuts. Brown ones are more mature. Coconut milk is actually clear. It can substitute for water if you are without it, in the Fijian bush, apparently. The interior of a green coconut is sweet and a bit slimy, though not in a gross way. The interior of a brown coconut is what is included in candy, cakes, pies, etc in American, though it’s far more sweet in our desserts. The brown coconut is a workout for the jaws.

Ben is a commonly adopted English name for men on Fijian islands. We met at least 5 on the small Matamanoa Island.

Losing your Einstein Bobblehead doll from your suitcase on the boat taking you to your remote island is likely to result in hilarity. See Mel’s blog.

Apparently, Sundays result in more fish being on the reef. Or so says Ben #2 of Matamanoa Island, aka Bobblehead, due to his involvement in the previous statement.

If a Fijian asks you if someone is pissed, it means drunk, not angry.

Jellyfish still bite, even in Fiji.

Matamanoa is apparently the island that all Italian couples come to when booking holidays in Fiji. “Italy versus the world!”`

Denarau is beautiful, when it comes to the resorts and the rooms. But you must, absolutely MUST, go to an island to experience Fiji.

Staying on Matamanoa is a bit like Adult Camp. There is an activities board. Everyone knows your name (not only the people working at the camp, but also the other guests). There is no privacy, at least when it comes to your name, where you’re from, etc. There are set times for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The #2 choir in all of Fiji is composed of the staff of Matamanoa. And they have beautiful voices. I love the “goodbye” song, but I hate the “goodbye”. Oh, life.

Kayaking in the ocean is entirely different than Kayaking in a lake.

The Milky Way is best seen from the dark, dark side of the island. We’ve seen stars in Bermagui, the Outback, and here, and I’m tempted to denote this island as the best. Shooting stars are rather frequent from this location, since the surroundings are so dark that you cannot be biased by unnatural light.

If 3 Fijians pull ashore to your island in utter darkness, they are likely picking up one or more of the staff from their long workday. They already know the path by heart, so light is apparently unnecessary.

If you are staying on Matamanoa Island, mail only goes out once a week, and by helicopter.

The helipad is a dock, right on the ocean. We thought it was a lost Dharma station.

If the boat you are taking back to the mainland is running late due to choppy water, you will make up lost time by bounding across the waves, frequently going airborne.

Life in Fiji can often feel like a musical, particularly at dinner time when the men serenade you with songs.

Shantaram is fantastic.

The infinity pool is infinitely cold.

When the parasailing instructors say they will ‘dip’ you in the water, they mean they will dunk you, at least to the waist, in the ocean. Beautiful.

New Zealanders find America to be ‘vibrant’. We think it’s a nice way of saying busy and loud. Ha!

Fijians and Aussies know flashlights as torches.

Bon fires on the beach, protected by the rocks from the raging ocean, in Fiji are unparalleled.

No tipping is allowed at resorts in Fiji. Instead, you can contribute to their Staff Christmas Fund. We figure their Christmas parties are massive, because they are so nice that you want to throw money at them.

The massive size of our luggage is irrelevant here because the porters insist on retrieving your luggage anywhere you stay.

Melissa has eaten so much seafood she might turn into a Squid. I told her I’d still be her friend, but I wouldn’t hang out with her as much. She said she wouldn’t eat ME if I turned into chocolate (well, maybe a nibblie or two...), but I don’t know if I believe it.

The forecast of “rain” means there may or may not be a few white clouds in the sky. It might also mean that a small rain cloud will drop a few sprinkles on you before blowing completely over the tiny island you are staying on.

Fiji hospitality is unmatched, at least in the places I have been. I wish everyone was able to seemingly appreciate their work as much as they do.

It’s creepy to hear scary stories about Fijian spiritual beliefs when you are surrounded by crashing waves, a dying bonfire, and what appear to be stone altars.

Finding Our Island

2009-07-27T01:08:00.001-04:00

"Do you think we should call someone to bring our luggage down? It's almost 11," I ask Jeanne. It's our second day in Fiji and we are leaving the Radisson at the main hotel for one of the smaller islands to the west. One thing I love about Fiji: all the men eagerly carry your bags and absolutely refuse tips. Apparently you can contribute if you feel strongly enough, but all contributions go directly into the staff Christmas fund.

Like the efficiency-disciple that I am under Jeanne's keen tutelage, I have helped her formulate a plan for the day: Check out is at 11, and we've scheduled pedicures at noon before our boat departs at 3:15 to take us to one of the Manamuca islands. We forego breakfast and decide to just eat lunch somewhere between 11 and noon.

"Sure, do you mind calling the concierge? Concieeeerge." Jeanne has this endearing habit of saying things either in French or with a French accent every now and then.

"Nope." I phone the front desk. "Do you mind sending someone to help with our bags? Thanks."

Two minutes later, we hear a tentative knocking and a "Bula!" outside of our door. That was fast.

I open the door and a large, smiling Fijian man greets me with "Bula! Do you need help with your bags?"

He confidently piles all of our bags together on the trolley, and cheerfully strolls us down into the elevator. He gestures us to go in before him into the elevator. I thought he would follow us in with the trolley and our suitcases, but then the elevator door begins to slide shut. "Wait! Wait!" Jeanne and I fumble around with the elevator doors, as there is no clear arrow or "Open Door" button. The doors slides back home and he is looking at us with a puzzled look on his face.

"Do you want to come in with us?" Jeanne asks him.

He hesitates. "Are you sure? Is there room?"

"Yes, yes, plenty of room!" His face brightens.

We ride down the elevator together, and he begins to lead us to the lobby in a cheerful, casual stroll. He introduces himself as Livai. He tells us that we need to go to Samoa, where his wife is from. He stops in the middle of the hallway. He says that in Samoa, there is this a crazy place where you spit down into this long dark hole and, then your spit explodes when it hits the bottom.

"Wow, that sounds crazy."

"Yes. Crazy thing," agrees Livai. "Which island are you going to?"

"Matamanoa."

"Ahh, Matamanoa. You must try the coconut there. Best coconut in the world."

He takes our baggage to storage and our laptop bags to reception. "It's safer there," Livai assures us. "I will give you my address later, that way you can come visit me."

We say goodbye to Livai, and he tells us he will see us in a little bit, when we return to pick up our luggage. Next objective: lunch.

We take the long, winding path around the pools and restaurants by the beach. "I like how they call the rooms here 'garden views.' In the States, I'm pretty sure it's a euphemism for a standard room," I say to Jeanne. "You might as well call them 'landscape views."

Jeanne laughs. "Yeah, it's to make the people without a "beach-view" or a "pool view" feel better." This is probably true, but I'm starting to think I prefer to think of it as simply drawing attention to what's actually around us, rather than lamenting what's not there.

We approach the buffet. It's closed. We check the pizza place. Closed. We picked a grand time to eat lunch. Finally, one of the waiters directs us to the one menu in the whole resort that actually serves food between 11 a.m. and noon.

We sit down to lunch, a club sandwich with fries, then decide to kill some time by sitting by the water and read more of our books, Shantaram and The Idiot.

"If you could travel anywhere in the world next, where would you go?" I ask Jeanne. Terrible. We have just spent four months in Australia, are currently in Fiji and are still planning our next getaway. We joked earlier about how we are not going to be able to get a job anywhere, not when we have huge three or four-month chunks of time each year that we spend traveling.

"Honestly, Australia is still at the top of my list!"

With a pang, I know what she means. "Mine, too."

"Good thing we're going next year," she smiles. "But no, seriously, Egypt is still at the top of my list. What about you?"

"Maybe parts of Europe? There's still so much I haven't seen," I say, thinking of Italy and Greece. "I definitely want to see Greece. And New Zealand. But I'm not sure."

We discuss the Caribbean. How despite living in Florida, neither of us has actually been there, and how it's so close that because we COULD go there anytime we want. South America. Costa Rica. Brazil. I see a South American/Central American trip in our future. I wish I could take Jeanne to Africa, particularly Tanzania. Jeanne remarks how Australia feels like a second home, and she wishes she could simply pick up all of our friends and move them to Sydney.

After some more plotting, it's almost noon. Pedicure time.

We arrive at Harmony Retreat, a shaded oasis in the middle of the resort. After checking in, we are soon ushered into an thatched hut, where two smiling ladies greet us with tubs of hot, soapy water for our feet. "Bula!"

By now, we are used to this greeting and we say "Bula!" in return.

This is exactly what you think getting a pedicure in Fiji would be like: you're in a hut, surrounded by flowers and foliage, and calm, soothing music that sounds like a movie soundtrack but with panflutes is playing from the background.

Jeanne chooses a bright, classy reddish pink color. I opt for something different than my usual light pink or purple. "I want the color of Fijian waters in my feet," I tell Jeanne, picking a bluish green.

One pedicure and a few chapters of Shantaram/The Idiot later, we find ourselves at Port Denarau, the main departure point on the main island to the outer lying islands.

We check in with the boarding crew and soon board our ship. We climb all the way to the top deck. Nobody is up here.

"Look, we're following Yella." I see where Jeanne is pointing as our ship pulls away from the dock. Our ship follows closely behind another large yellow ship. When Jeanne says "Yellow" it sounds like "Yella." I comment how it's lucky for us, in case Yella hits a rock and sinks, we can avoid danger and sail around them.

"You're ridiculous," Jeanne tells me. She tells me that a lot.

Soon we are out in open ocean, streaming away from Port Denarau and toward the first island, Matamanoa.

We are no longer following the yellow boat. Our path diverges when Port Denarau is far behind us.

"Goodbye, Yella!" Jeanne yells at the boat.

It's only an hour or so ride, so Jeanne pulls out Shantaram once more. I want to listen to my iPod. I think about turning on Hillsong, but since we've been binging on Hillsong music, I decide to give them a rest, and instead opt for shuffling my playlist.

First, Josh Pyke serenades me with his "New Year's Song":

And there are many ones that one can divide a life and I've got mine
I was flying home and I saw the sunset from the sky
I saw the dark come spinning down upon the land
And I thought about the distance we all cover and it made me sad

And as the old year took a bow and joined the setting sun
It comes around like a refrain
And we all sing along and think of things we should have done
til one year when the new year never came

Little comfort, little comfort I'm afraid you're not enough
I've had some learning, but unwelcome and unkind
And it's seems there's but one story told then reworked all throughout time...

Phil Wickham comes on. I've never paid much attention to this song before, but out here, in the remote middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a ship, sailing to a remote island, the song suddenly makes a bit more sense: Your love is deeper than any ocean/Higher than the heavens reach/Beyond the stars in the sky/Jesus Your love has no bounds.

Then, Ben Folds with his lilting piano and soft, insistent lyrics: I must give the impression that I have the answers to everything/You were so disappointed to see me unravel so easily/But it's only changed only everything I know/Even if the things that seem still are still changing... La da la da la da da da da da la da la da

Jeanne must have thought that I was sleeping, because I move slightly and she immediately asks me if I am awake. She promptly asks me for some of the sour rainbow licorice I have tucked away in my purse. We think about busting out some Tim Tams. Jeanne has a good point though: "It kind of seems like a waste to have a Tim Tam without the Slam."

It's okay though, because our ship is pulling offshore from the first island. It's a small stretch of white sandy beach lined with palm trees. There is one wooden building surrounded by large white umbrellas. It looks like a resort. "Is that our island?" I ask Jeanne. "This is OUR island," I growl at Jeanne, like Mr. Friendly from LOST.

"It must be."

I realize the first obvious thing: they're no dock, no pier. I see a tiny boat motoring toward us from the island. Oh. So THAT's how we're getting to the island.

We step into the tiny boat, where they've already loaded our ginormous luggage. Jeanne at first sits next to our luggage and I am sitting across from her. Then she realizes it might be better to evenly distribute the weight so as not to tip the boat. She sits next to me. Prays that our boat doesn't tip over, an account of our epic-sized baggage. Our luggages are so large, we've nicknamed them. Jeanne's is "The Tank" since I'm pretty sure it's a retired military vehicle. And mine is "the Pumpkin," on account of its large, orange qualities. I often wish it would transform into a carriage so we wouldn't have to pay to take all of this public transportation.

"Good-bye! Good-bye," our boathand shouts cheerfully as we pull away from our cruise ship in our tiny boat. He is holding a small plastic Einstein bobblehead. The ones that come in the McDonalds Happy Meals. And Einstein is waving good-bye to the cruise ship passengers. Huh, I think. I've got one of those too. How cute.

"Good-bye!" Tiny Einstein shouts.

The boathand is waving Einstein around, as if it's the Fiji flag and it's Independence Day. He mumbles something about Einstein having fallen from one of the suitcases.

"Oh, it's Einy!" Jeanne laughs.

A shot of recognition through me. "No, it's Albi!."

While we were visiting Bondi Beach, Jeanne's mom bought each of us tiny Einstein bobbleheads from McDonald's (Macca's, as the Aussies say), since we both were tickled at how darn cute these little guys were in the Night at the Museum 2 movie. Jeanne named hers Einy, and I named mine Albi.

Of all the things to fall out of my suitcase.

I sheepishly laugh, stuff Albi back into The Pumpkin.

As we pull onshore, we are instructed to take our shoes off. No problem.

We jump off of the boat and are greeted by a smiling Fiji lady with a guitar strapped to her back. "Bula!" she smiles.

"Bula!"

She gracefully lays a seashell necklace on each of our necks and says, "Follow me." We notice a handful of other tourists sitting on the pool deck, watching both us and our boat interestedly, as if this is the most exciting thing that's happened to them all day. She tells us to enjoy our welcome drinks--tall glasses of pink and white sweet frostiness, topped with fresh pineapple--and that she will brief us as soon as we are checked in.

Soon, we are surrounded by a half dozen Fijians that are singing a welcome song, something lovely about how happy they are that we are here, and that hopefully this is an island where all our wishes come true. I hope they've pre-ordered a Joel and a Sawyer, for Jeanne's and my sake.

After we settle into our little bungalow villa, we realize the sun is almost setting so we stroll around the beach, seeing if we can walk around the perimeter of the island before the sun sets in 10 minutes. It's that small.

"You know the best thing about this island?" Jeanne asks me, grinning. "No shoes."

We make our way onto the beach, stepping over pieces of coral and rocks. We sit on a rock, and look out toward the sun.

Somehow, we got on the topic of honeymoons. "My poor husband. The more traveling I do, the more picky I'll be," laughs Jeanne. "I don't know where my husband is going to take me that I haven't already been."

"Yeah, I mean, Fiji might have been one of those places I would've liked to go on my honeymoon. But now I've already been here. Scratch that off the list."

"Now Tahiti sounds exotic."

"Or Samoa."

"You know you're spoiled when Fiji no longer sounds exotic," we laugh.

Although it's true what my mom said," interjects Jeanne. "When you're on your honeymoon, the most important thing is that you're with your husband. The place doesn't matter so much."

As if on cue, a couple walks down the stone steps leading down toward the beach, greets us and asked us if we just arrived to the island today. This island is so small, the other resort guests know when you're new. Ethan Rom from Lost wouldn't have lasted a day.

We watch the sunset over Fiji. I try to dwell on how surreal this moment is, trying to stare at the water and the sun.

Maybe I shouldn't have stared too hard at the sun, because now I feel like I can't see.

"The sun burned my eyes out," Jeanne says.

We walk back and promptly get lost trying to find our bungalow. Guess the island isn't THAT small. I feel like we should send Sayid up the mountain with his transceiver to triangulate our position so we can go back to our room to change into jeans (with the sun gone, the air feels much cooler) before we head to dinner.

After a grand total of a minute of being lost, we find our room and get dressed and stop at the bar first, ordering half a carafe of white wine. The bartender smiles and pours us each half a glass of white wine. We stare, puzzled at the glasses. "I thought we ordered half a carafe of wine." Jeanne looks at me and shrugs and we take our glasses to to the deck to enjoy the view of the darkened water and sand before us.

After a few moments of silence, Jeanne remarks. "Where's Walter when you need him? We need him to talk about how we would, I don't know, escape this island if we needed to."

"Well, how would you escape the island?" We attempt to hold a candle to Walter's imaginative and random musings, but fail slightly. Or at least long enough for each of us to drink a glass of wine, the sand in our Fijian hourglass.

"I wish we had more wine."

"I thought a half carafe came with more than just two glasses."

"Well, we can always order more wine."

We trudge back to the bar, sad that we got scammed on our half carafe of wine. We are stopped by one of the waitresses who asks us if we are having dinner yet. It's 7 o'clock.

"I think we are going to order some more wine first." We head to the bar, trying to figure out what the next drink will be.

We see the bartender and she smiles at us. "Laaaadies," her voice rings out in a singsongy voice as she holds our gleaming carafe half-full of white wine. It's enough for a glass and a half each.

White wine, it is.

MJ, Meet Fiji. Fiji, get ready for MJ.

2009-07-21T07:19:00.000-04:00

Wake up: 8am. Shower, repack, put the Tim Tams (yes, all 5 boxes) into a paper bag to smuggle into Fiji. Check, double-check, and triple-check the apartment before we leave, before we officially lock ourselves out.

Stop and get gas for the rental. Drive to the pump on the wrong side of the car. Drive to the wrong pump on the right side of the car. Pull up, aligning the correct pump with the correct side and the gas tank. "3rd time's a charm!", Mel laughs at me.

Turn in the rental car. Check in all 4 bags, carry on 5 more. You'd think, after mailing 4 boxes to the States, that we'd have less luggage. The lady who checks us in chides us for not printing out our e-ticket itineraries, saying she cannot let us check in until we do. "I have it on my laptop, will that work?" "Yes, I suppose so." We both thank God, once again, that we brought our brilliant Macs along.

We go talk to Elizabeth, the nice Air Pacific lady, who promises to seat us together. "You wanna meet two nice boys? I just sat two boys together in row 64. I asked them, 'why do you want to sit together? You should be sitting with two pretty girls!' You two check them out and re-arrange seats." We laugh and certainly agree to do so.

Go through border control/customs. Next, security. So many steps to get out of Sydney!

Of course, Mel gets "randomly searched". Right. She tries to hide from me, but hears my loud laugh as I see her behind the glass partition. She always gets 'randomly searched.' It's only happened to me once. It's because I'm white. They've forgotten the Irish are just as dangerous.

We head down to the gate, gate 32. We're early, despite the 3 checkpoints we had to maneuver. We sit down for a minute and watch "What Happens on Tour" from the "I Heart Revolution" Hillsong DVD that Mel bought at our last church service. We laugh and laugh at the goofiness of Jad, JD, Joel, Phil and the other people on the United We Stand tour. I tell Mel that if we were famous, people would definitely think we are as funny as these guys - basically, they are just video blogging like we always do, being silly. I find them entertaining. We laugh and make comments for a good 15 minutes. As we leave to walk around, Mel whispers, "That guy over there has been laughing at us for the past 15 minutes." "He probably knows these guys, and is thinking we're ridiculous." "Maybe they will be on our flight." "Maybe they'll be in row 64. I already know what line I'll use. Excuse me, but you're in my seat, Jad. Yours is right here (as I hand him my own boarding pass.)"

Mel rolls her eyes at me - a common occurrence.

But alas, as we board the plane a bit later, no Hillsong boys. The boys in 64 are a bit young for us, I think. We settle in and sit on the plane for another hour. "We've had to load an extra 1000 litres of fuel, because there are thunderstorms in Fiji. We're all set to jet, but we've just got to recalculate the balance of the plane."

Mel falls asleep, and "In the Skin of a Lion" falls out of her hand, jerking her awake. I, reading Shantaram, laugh at the sequence of events I see out of the corner of my eye. "Fall asleep?" "Yeah. The book woke me up, just like Salvatore Dali's keys." "Did you have any dreams?" "Um, I think so? I thought we'd have been in the air by now."

Sooner or later, we take off. I have found myself lately more engrossed with watching people and thinking about them instead of reading or being in my own mind. The guy next to me, across the aisle, is an Indian man. I later peer across the aisle to see his customs form, and find out he's actually a resident of Australia. He's got a hat on with the American flag and an eagle, and it says USA on the back. I catch him looking at me every now and then, but I never talk to him. I wish I had.

There are also two kids in the row behind him, who have apparently never been on a flight. There are a TON of kids on this flight! Anyway, as we take off, the little girl is chanting "I'm scared, I'm scared!" as her mom replies "Hold my finger." Both the little boy and the little girl have massive grips on their mom and dad's fingers. "How cute", I say to Mel.

We eat dinner, have bourbon and cokes, and then they come around with tea. I look at Mel. "Tim Tam Slams". She holds my entire tray of food, balancing her own tray and both of our tea cups as well, as I scoot out of my seat and retrieve the half-finished tray of Caramel Tim Tams from the luggage compartment above. We celebrate our imminent arrival in Fiji with 3 Tim Tam Slams each, and we marvel over the fact that they are far better with tea than hot chocolate.

As we land, it seems as if every Fijian who works at the airport lines the outdoor walkway to the inside. "I feel like a celebrity", I say to Mel. She nods her agreement. We hit our first queue of the Fijian Airport: the passport control queue. It takes forever. Luckily, 'the tank' and 'the pumpkin' and all of our other checked bags arrive quickly thereafter. We hit our second queue: the customs declaration line. We successfully make it through, and a man sends us to our taxi, to bring us to the Radisson at Denerau on the main island of Fiji.

The lady in the customs line had told me to make sure that the taxi driver charges us per the meter, instead of a flat rate. The taxi driver refuses, saying that the hotel is outside of the meter zone. Our bags are already neatly packed in the back, so what can we do? I mumble a few comments under my breath (I so hate feeling like I'm being taken advantage of), and then simmer down once I realize he's charging us only $25 in Fijian dollars - a mere $12.50 USD. It reminds me of part of the book I'm reading (Shantaram) where he says that he pays $6 a day for the hotel when he knows he can get it for $4, because it helps the deskman to feed his family. If he only paid $4, the hotel owner would be the only one who made money, and the deskman barely survives on his salary. I'm a spoiled American.

We are heading towards our hotel, down a dark road. I look out the window, entranced by the beautiful stars. It's very, very dark, and I can see them well. It reminds me of being along the southern coast of Australia (between Sydney and Melbourne) in Bermagui and also of being in the Outback. I love it. Suddenly, we make a sharp right turn down a deserted dirt road. My cautious side is a bit suspicious, and I think of a book I read by Jeffery Deaver about a serial killer/taxi driver who removed all the locks on his door before killing his airport victims in Hell's Kitchen. I instinctively look to check the locks, but I can't see anything. I shake off this ridiculous notion and feel easier when I see a sign on the side of the road with the word "Denerau" written on it.

We pass a car only about every two minutes, and we keep passing Denerau signs. We are in the middle of nowhere, on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific. We pass farms of banana trees on both sides. There is a small wooden structure that looks like a bus stop. Suddenly, we pass a black man in a bright white shirt, standing at the end of this driveway, looking for someone or something. I think to myself, "Good thing he's wearing white, or nobody would see him.", and we pass another car.

We get to the gates of Denerau - I had no idea it was a gated resort area - and we pass through easily because we're in a taxi. Mel and I laugh out loud as we drive past 3 native Fijian men who yell through the cracked windows, "BULA! ULA-ULA-ULA!" which means welcome (and maybe goodbye, also). The taxi driver laughs, too.

We pass the Westin, The Sofitel, and other random hotels. Mel says later she was thinking, "I hope the Radisson is as nice as these." We pull into our hotel, which seems pretty rad from the driveway. The lobby is all open-air (just like Hawaii) and they greet us warmly as we check in. The man who insisted on pulling our luggage out of the car and up the stairs rejoins us with a smile to accompany us to our room. "Is this the first Fijian face you've seen?" He asks. I have to ask him to repeat it at least twice because his voice is soft, his accent lilting, and he's a bit far from me. "Yes, I think it is." But Mel corrects me and tells him that our flight attendants were Fijian. He smiles. "On holiday? Done with school? Finished working?", he fires questions at us. "Kind of", I say. Mel replies, "We've been on holiday in Australia for quite a while now. We're taking a last holiday before we head back to the States." "You'll love Fiji!" He exclaims.

He leaves our luggage on the second floor as he escorts us up the stairs to our hotel room. He pulls out the key, opens the door with a flourish and insists we hurry in. "If anything is not perfect, if anything is missing, please tell me." He says, as he rushes back down the stairs to bring up our luggage. "Oh my gosh. LOOK at the SIZE of that bed!" I say to Mel. "Look at the bathroom!" "The Chaise! "The balcony!" "The TV!" We go back and forth for a while. You'd think we've never seen a nice hotel before. We stayed at the Novatel in Cairns with my mom when she came to Australia, and we thought we hit the lottery back then. But we had no idea.

Our concierge smiles at us as we beam towards him, "This place is lovely!" "Thank you. Now, come on, I want to show you the restaurants. You must be sure to see the entertainment - it is starting now. It's only on Tuesday and Friday, and you will not be here on Friday." He takes us to one of the five pools and says, "Follow the footpath." We almost walk right into the show itself, then backtrack to the far side to avoid disturbing such beauty. We order a Margharita pizza and go to watch men twirl fire. They are all between the ages of 18 and 24, I'd guess, and they are fantastic. We stand there a while, forgetting entirely about our pizza. Eventually we wind back to pick it up and head back to our glorious balcony to eat it. Somewhere near the fourth pool, I look at Mel and joke, "Australia-who?" She laughs, in reference to a joke I made about America the first time we were in Cairns.

We eventually locate the ice machine for our Cokes - it simply must be here for Americans - and gorge ourselves on lovely $10 pizza.

After we finish, we head back into our room and I say "How the heck do you turn this fan off? It sounds like it's about to lift off our room!" Mel and I play with all of the buttons, but no luck. I keep trying to forget it, but it's driving me crazy.

I ring the front desk and ask the receptionist this question.

"Do you see the switch to the left of your bed? What room number are you in?" He asks, as if he's going to come personally show me. "Oh, never mind, I see what button you mean!" I laugh loudly into the receiver and he chuckles back. I can sense this is not the first time he's gotten this question from a tourist.

"If you want to turn of the light, just give us a call back. Haha! Good night ma'am."

finding the window

2009-07-20T01:40:00.001-04:00

Jeanne and I went out to our sundrenched terrace to bask in Sydney sunshine and to drown our sorrows in a bottle of freshly brewed sweet tea. The knowledge that we are leaving Sydney in less than 24 hours brought about some kind of emotional cloud.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. This is depressing me." We sit in silence for a few more minutes. Jeanne gets up to grab the rest of our sweet tea, our drug of choice for the afternoon.

"I want to write down goals for when I am back in Orlando," says Jeanne.

"What kind of goals?" I have in my head attainable goals such as: 1) eat a Chick-Fila sandwich and 2) go see a $2.50 movie at the Colonial Promenade.

"All kinds of goals. Running. I was thinking of running. I have to run a 5K in a month!"

"Ha. I haven't RUN a 5K in a month."

Goals. I think of one. "I want to be more Australian."

This, I remember, is something that I want to be a part of my life. Being in Australia has changed my perspective on life. Being a part of the Hillsong community has transformed my attitude toward my friends and community back home. But I can't let myself off the hook. I remember how only a few weeks ago, I was lamenting the terrible weather, the lack of deep friendships in Sydney, and the lack of employment opportunities.

"Two weeks ago, I was feeling miserable about Sydney. Today, I have all these warm and fuzzy feelings about Sydney because we've just had the most beautiful weekend we've ever had in this city. My feelings toward this city are clearly fickle. But the reality is, that there are so many reasons why we need to be back in Orlando."

"It wouldn't make sense for me to stay through March. Yes, we would have been here for a year, but it would have been with such a temporary mindset. I mean I guess I could have found work in a restaurant or a cafe, but it contributes nothing to what I want my purpose to be or how my attitude has shifted . It would have been enough to make money to travel and to come back home. But leaving now, I can immediately get a job that has something more directly to do with what my purpose is.

"The window in which we are leaving is perfect. If we had left when Walter left, we would have missed all of what's happened in the past two months with Hillsong and appreciating Sydney."

"We would have appreciated Sydney, but not enough to draw us back in the future," Jeanne says, processing with me.

"Right. And if we had stayed even until Mim had come, it would have been a bad situation. We would have been wanting to come home, we would be running out of money, and not happy once she got here. The window of leaving, the timing of us leaving now is perfect."

"It was long enough for us to appreciate it, but short enough for us not to become complacent," Jeanne says, like a wise, Hindu guru.

"That was very profound, Jeanne."

We smile.

And just like that, the cloud lifts.

Things I learnt my last week in Sydney...

2009-07-19T09:37:00.000-04:00

- Having a car would have changed my entire interaction with this city. We rented one for our last 4 days and didn't stay home at all this weekend. Even if the weather is rough, a car makes it easier to tolerate.

- Bondi Beach, particularly the Sunday Market, is a great place for fashionable men. "Goodbye, Bondi, You've been sexy."

- Saying the previous quote out loud results in Sydney, your ex-lover, strutting half-dressed men with surfboards past your window. No lie.

- A God Encounter, as defined by Brian Houston, is a collision with the Unexpected. Yes, indeed.

- If you shun Sydney, in an attempt to return to your roots, it will lavish you with a final glorious weekend of beautiful sunshine, warm temperatures, fantastic worship/messages, and natural beauty - both surroundings and mankind. "I feel like Sydney is trying to seduce me."

- If I were a character from The Idiot, I would be Aglaya. A stubborn and haughty young woman who loves both carefully and carelessly at the same time. She deeply loves the beautifully good Myshkin, but fails to conquer her own insecurities.

- The Northern Head of the Sydney Harbour, in Manly Beach, is a great date/make out spot. I do not know this from experience :) The Southern Head, in Watson's Bay, is more beautiful. And, according to Mel, possibly the final shot in Mission Impossible 2.

- My left hand is far less 'simple' than I made it out to be. Ellie calls her dominant hand her 'clever' hand, so I labeled my left hand my 'simpleton' hand. He's rebelled by straining my left thumb. I now realize how much I need my left hand.

- Aussies are my favorite, culturally. They understand how to live life to the fullest, they are very relaxed and un-stressed about life as a whole, they understand what it is to be unselfish in community (at least those I know), they embrace markets to the fullest, and they have the most fantastic beach culture I've witnessed.

- The Sartorialist continues to be my favorite blog/photographer. His photos inspire me to move to another foreign country, preferably Italy or Brazil. Maybe France... maybe.

- Hugh Jackman (sometimes accidentally referred to as Hugh Jackson when my mind is on another) was, apparently, just a phase. I hate it when Walter is right.

- Bruce, the vegetarian shark from Finding Nemo, sounds suspiciously like Brian Houston from Hillsong. I've never noticed the Shark say "Good on ya, Mate!" until now, when I know what it means!

- Valkyrie came very close to succeeding. I wonder what the world would be like if it did?

- Getting to the IMAX 45 minutes before Harry Potter does not make a difference. Next time, show up at midnight.

- Fiji has a ton of islands. Trying to find a rad place to stay in Fiji is difficult.

- Hillsong has previously considered 3 cities for its American Campus: Miami, LA, and Orlando. I'm voting for Orlando. And then, I'd like to figure out how to steal Brooke Fraser, Joel Houston and Jad Smiley-Guy.

- Romans 11 in the Message reveals a whole different side to the word envy. "Now, they're wondering what they walked out on!"

- Depression and Loneliness are a plague in our world.

- Mel is better at blow-drying my bangs than I am.

- Paddy's Market - the cheap souvenir place - is almost identical to Tokyo. Or what I think Tokyo would be like, given that they have the population of America on a tiny island.

- Tim Tam Slams are far better with tea instead of hot chocolate. And the dark chocolate Tim Tams are the best. Tim Tam Slam Seduction is what they should call them.

- It costs $20 to get to the Hills Hillsong Campus from the city. And it was worth every dollar tonight.

- Master Chef is Australia's new craze. It sucks you in, even if you only watch the final 40 minutes of the season finale.

- Tear Down the Walls does not have a DVD recording. I looked everywhere.

- MJ is pretty sure that Hillsong hired stylists at some point between their older DVDs and their newer ones. "Joel, put the flannel down. Back away from the flannel."

- If you ever unintentionally lose a bet, so that now you have to buy your best friend dinner, arrange said dinner in Fiji, where the food is imported and clearly not all its cracked up to be.

- When something MJ has been talking about comes up in the church message of the week (or day), don't be surprised. Just laugh and appreciate the Confirmation.

- Blockbuster at Rockdale Plaza has more stolen DVDs than anyone. Don't start watching a series unless you check with the cashier to make sure all DVDs are accounted for. And then do a double check yourself.

- The concept of living presently (and thankfully) is a pivotal lesson to understand. I get depressed when I think that every moment that I have cherished - in which I have had a wonderful conversation with someone, in which I have laughed until I cried, in which I have wondered if my reality was real life - is now in the past and unaccessible to my physical self. I suppose this is why I have thousands of photos.

- The version of "Your Name High" on A_CROSS// The_EARTH is a lot more fun. They either yell "What!" or "Hiya!" in the chorus. And we got lucky enough to hear it tonight! "What!"

- Sydney does not have any radio stations that are static-y enough to please the iTrip. Finicky thing.

- Sometimes a question is not a question, but a statement to get you to listen. To hear with your spirit, maybe.

- MJ is going to annoy everyone with the way we say a word, and then repeat that word in an Aussie accent. "Shark." "SHAHK!" "Arden." "AHDEN!"

- All the Aussies I've been attracted to wear horrible 80's sunglasses. I suppose I can get past that, though.

- India is a fascinating place, as portrayed by Shantaram.

- There is no way to live a city you love without having your heart break. Even if you've already booked a ticket to come back in a year.

If you have made it this far, I applaud you! This stuff is very funny and interesting to me, but it's my life :)

time, the arrow.

2009-07-17T21:08:00.005-04:00

Jeanne once wrote: "If time is an arrow, we dance along a razor-thin line of uncertainty."

Mellow conversation over medium-rare filet mignon and Shiraz Cabernet. It's a frigid night in Sydney. We spent an afternoon wandering along the cliffs and beaches of Clovelley, Coogee and Maroubra, the eastern beaches of Sydney. By the shoreline, we found a narrow pathway between a tidal pool and a concrete wall, and Jeanne urges me to run alongside with her before another onslaught of waves comes to drench us. "Come on, it won't get us here!" she shouts at me cheerfully, as if the ocean is a writhing, seething monster that we can cleverly outthink and escape from.

Standing upon cliffs overlooking the ocean often makes me feel awestruck and peaceful, but now with the wind whipping around my heels, I feel unstable and unsteady. I do not trust the edge, and feel as though the wind would topple me over the edge without a thought.

And time is the same. Often, I marvel and wonder at its passing, but tonight I am wary to look out over the edge.

And now we are sitting at our dining room table, feeling melancholy and reflective.

"I was thinking about this lately. But. It seems that life is just a series of moments that disappear as soon as they're experienced. We waste so much time looking to the past or looking toward the future. We so rarely actually live in the present." Jeanne looks at me. "I want to enjoy being in Sydney NOW."

I look around and try to remember this moment. The table we sit at, the chill in the air from the screen door that was previously slid open. The last embers of warmth from the gas grill on the porch have dispersed, swallowed up by the wintry air. The mood of contemplation that seems to settle around us like a blanket while we recover from the biting cold. The inevitably of moments slipping away, the present becoming the past, the moment its existence is acknowledged and understood.

The other night, Jeanne said something about Walter being here feeling like three lifetimes ago.

I know what she means.

Here, in Australia, the phases and times keep shifting. First, Walter was here, then he wasn't. With us, the three of us were driving from city to city, checking into the next hostel, splitting meals, seeing the next sight--and then he was gone, and we found ourselves back in the same city where we had started. We lived under cold and rain near Maroubra Beach. I learned how to light a gas stove, and a baby would wake us every morning with her tiny cries and tiny hugs, and we could always count on Russia for a visit. The scenery changed again, and we live in a bright, sundrenched room and plan meals and drink wine. We don our boots and coats, and we sit on trains and wander through familiar streets.. The Russian doesn't come around as much, giving way to a friendly Egyptian and Italian.

Four months ago, this church was merely an event. Now, it is a living, breathing mass of a memory of warmth and friendly introductions, shared meals and conversation, time spent and help freely given, pounding drums and piercing electric guitars elevate the room, while truth is sung and declared by a crowd of worshippers. Yes, the lights are brightly colored, but the words resonate and lift my soul, for they ring true when I see kindness and sacrifice manifested in people's actions and hearts. I see the shift occurring, a shift that now seems to pivotal and clear.

But even this feeling and its vibrancy shall pass.

A few days from now, we'll be in Fiji and Australia will have seemed like a dream. And a week from then, we'll be back in Orlando. And once the dust settles from our triumphant return, we'll settle back into a routine and the thrill of being back home will pass and there will just be nothing to tether me to the past.

And who knows what will unfold upon our return.

"With so much uncertainty, life becomes that much more frightening, and that much more interesting."

"What do you mean exactly?"

"I just mean that every time we've been in this place of uncertainty, not knowing where we were going to live, even up to a month ago, not knowing we'd be back in Orlando so soon, there's always been this unknown. It's scary, but it makes life that much more interesting or exciting."

I look around the room, I look at Jeanne. I will myself to memorize how fragile this moment is. I hold it within the palm of my hand, tuck it away for later.

Mini Purple Sharpies

2009-07-16T05:03:00.001-04:00

In the invisible, swirling spirits and realities surround my deeply oblivious body. But here on the streets of Sydney, all that is visible lies in front of me, clamouring for the attention of my senses. I stride away from Paddy’s Market in my red double breasted jacket, my peacock-eyed scarf, my tall black boots, and my ever-necessary black sunnies. Oh sunnies of mine, you keep the world from staring into my soul. Most days I applaud you for this highly dangerous task, but every so often, I want to rip you off of my face and stare into the eyes of Medusa herself. I’m not afraid of her reported powers.

Alas, today is a day of hiding, and I’m clapping on the inside. Loudly, vibrantly.

As Central station looms on my visible horizon, I begin to notice people around me. This part of town - Chinatown - actually feels more similar to Japan, specifically Tokyo. Or at least what I expect Tokyo to be. The crowd is pulsating, humming, pushing, pulling in all directions. It’s chaos, disorder to the highest degree. There is no emergence, no pattern to the comings and goings of those caught up in the tangle, the web of humanity. The multitudes continue to throb, surging towards their daily supplies. I do my best to shake off the American who lives at my core, who thrives in large personal space and quiet. Oh, she’s screeching rebelliously against such close quarters.

But soon enough, I walk away from Chinatown, leaving its bustle to its own citizens, and I enter the semi-quiet, easygoing, Australian Central Station. Mel is a few steps ahead of me, soon falling a few steps behind, doing her own tango with the Aussies and foreigners who traipse amongst the trains that are quickly arriving and departing. I lose sight of her quite a few times, mostly due to my distraction with the people around me. I see a lady pull 3 coins from her pocket, totaling $4, and I imagine that she’s traveling back to Bondi Junction, maybe to buy that pair of heeled boots that she’s been admiring for quite some time. It’s gonna take more than $4, or at least that’s what I read as I intently stare into her face. I stroll past two backpackers who are standing at the entry stalls of the intercity trains, debating which track their train is departing from. The pony-tailed guy is pointing at the roughly sketched train-maps sprawled above the stalls, and both are ignorant of how they are annoying other passengers trying to inch by.

I carefully step onto the down escalator, ever nervous about missing the step and rolling down 50+ escalator-stairs. As I walk through Central station, I imagine myself in that movie scene (there are so many) where the protagonist in the bright red coat is stopped in the midst of a busy place, people flowing around her. It is one of those elapsed-time scenes that are intended to imply how busy life is, how rarely we stop to think, and how alone we can feel. Sometimes, I think they also use these scenes to show how someone is waiting for something that never comes.

And so all of those story-morals probably apply to me today as I slowly stroll through Central, listening to my iBuds with my ears and listening to the people with my eyes. I see a guy my age hiding behind his sunnies, and I swear he’s staring at me. I’m glad he’s got them on, because I don’t want to know his soul right now. I have pieces of souls floating within my own soul, and I already feel quite overwhelmed by those (oh yes, in a good way.) Maybe another time, another place, Mr. Sunnies.

I sit on the ledge of the escalator - 8 minutes until the Sutherland train, going to Rockdale, arrives. In the meantime, I change my song and lose myself in thoughts. 7 minutes later - an early train! - I climb aboard the train and sit across from Mel. I pull my reporter’s memo pad from my purse (which is now far too heavy with today’s purchases) and begin to write in purple ink. I love this Sharpie, this mini-purple Sharpie. Some days I wish I was a purple or maroon mini-Sharpie. I wouldn’t feel less superior to the bigger sharpies - I could go where no Sharpie has gone before as a mini! The click-Sharpies, though, are an entirely different story. But I suppose we all need something to keep our pride in check, hey?

I’ve had thoughts in my head that I wanted to transcribe to paper the entire walk to the train, but what instead comes out of nowhere is Russian Literature. I ask myself this question: Of the three Russian novels that I’ve read (Anna Karenina, The Idiot, and Crime and Punishment), to whom do I relate to the most? Who would I be, if I were cast as one of those characters based on my own character? I find myself furiously writing about who I am not, and when I surface for air, I am staring absentmindedly out the train window at the concrete, trees, people, and air passing me by.

I’m suddenly thinking of how I feel like I’m in one of those foreign films... the protagonist is staring out the window, considering her writing - its vulnerability, its imperfections. I even hear a voice-over (in French or Italian, of course) in my head echoing my thoughts. I smile at my silliness and wish my life were a movie, or at least a reality show.

I head back to my question and my notepad. I’ve often thought that the Russians are rather extreme in their characters who are burdened by self-loathing, who are bent on self-destruction. What I realized in writing down how I relate to the Russian characters is that the only reason I am not lost in these ideas is Christ.

I love Jesus.

And upon realizing this, I cut those characters a bit more slack. I lament, in writing, momentarily how I am not as gracious, naive, caring, or honest as Prince Myshkin (aka the Idiot). And then, I realize I am a combination of Kostya (Anna Karenina) and Aglaya (The Idiot).

And I’m happy by this revelation, although I want to be more like other characters. It also makes me excited to read Brothers Karamazov when I finish Shantaram, to see if I relate to any of those characters.

God, please make me more like Myshkin. I want to see the good in people. I suppose the correct thing to say would be please make me more like Christ.

And so, I disembark the train, happily alone amongst 50 or so people.

Oh introvert, how I’ve missed you so. And dearest Sydney, I have convinced my heart that I will leave you with no regret - I will not regret our sudden departure. I hope deeply, incessantly, that our paths will cross again, that my children will know you on an intimate level. You are so beautiful, most notably in your citizens. But in the next 4 days, I will love you like you’ve never been loved before.

I am a passionate and sincere lover, dear Sydney. Be prepared to be left longing for me. Oh, be prepared.

oh, how her affections have turned.

2009-07-15T09:08:00.003-04:00

Thursday night, while walking home from Hillsong Conference, Jeanne and I are slowly lagging behind Christian and Giovanni. Our Egyptian and Italian our fully engrossed in a conversation several meters in front of us. They are probably talking about finance or uni assignments.

Jeanne pulls out her "bag tag," a makeshift label that includes her name and phone number. At Conference, all the volunteers could leave their jackets and purses or bags in a room. Our personal belongings were labeled with our names and phone numbers.

"How funny would that be if you just handed these out to some random person walking down the street? It's like a pre-made way to just give someone your phone number," I laugh.

"No way, man. I gotta hand this out to somebody who is WORTHY," Jeanne smiles. "Like Joel Houston."

"You should just hand that out to the next hot guy you see."

"I think I will."

"We should play this game for the remaining time we have in Australia. Keep this ready in case you see Joel."

"Or Hugh Jackson."

I stop dead in my tracks. "Hugh WHO?"

"Jackman. Hugh Jackman," Jeanne tries to recover, but the damage is done. It's finally happened.

"Hugh JACKSON? You have name of another man on your lips! Joel's made you forget Hugh Jackman!" I am stunned.

This is only the beginning of the waning of Jeanne's affections for Hugh Jackman.

At Hillsong Church, for all of its amazing atmosphere of faith and worship and community, there is a slight celebrity culture that's been inadvertently fostered, due to the popularity of worship leaders like Joel Houston and Brooke Fraser. I would like to preface this by saying there are far more attractive looking guys here in Sydney, Australia than in Orlando in general. And many of them happen to be in church.

And yes, some of them are leading worship.

While we were walking home from the grocery store today, I told Jeanne that I liked Smiley Guy that Leads Worship better than Joel. Or at least I thought he was cuter. I think his name is Jad. I'm not sure. But anyway, I thought he was cute from that video blog they put up during the Hillsong United tour.

Don't get me wrong. Joel's a good-looking dude. And occasionally even looks hot. He also just occasionally looks like a caveman. Or a lumberjack.

"Didn't you say you would never date someone who wears flannel?" I ask Jeanne, referring to Joel's occasional lumberjack look. "I distinctly remember you saying once you would never date a guy that wears flannel."

"I would if it were Joel Houston."

"I can't believe it. You would make an exception to the flannel rule. For Joel."

"He's worth it." Jeanne's got that mischievous half-smile/half-smirk she gets when she gets some kind of delicious idea in her head. Unbelievable.

"I think Joel seems like a cool guy. And I love the lyrics he writes and his heart and personality that comes through onstage. But I wouldn't date him, necessarily," I say.

Jeanne looks at me like I'm crazy. And, then: "Girl, you are crazy."

I revise, slightly backtracking, "Well I'm not saying I would turn Joel DOWN. I just like Smiley Guy better."

"You'd BETTER not turn Joel down. I would kick your ass if you turned him down. I mean, I'd probably kick your ass if you didn't turn him down. But I'm MORE likely to kick your ass if you DID turn him town. It ain't gonna get better than Joel Houston. That's perfection!" Jeanne declares.

Later that night, we are in our kitchen, making chicken parmesan. Once again, we have severely over-estimated the amount of meat necessary to feed a small number of people. We have "chicken for days," as Jeanne likes to say. Or enough to feed a small army. (Not Costa Rica's army though, since they apparently do not have an army, according to Walter).

"Jeanne. Look at all this chicken. We have enough to feed ourselves, our future husbands. And our future kids." I stand, gaping at the array of chicken parmesan before us.

"Hmm, let me see. There's Joel's chicken. And my chicken. And our children's chicken."

"What about Hugh Jackman's chicken?" I have to keep reminding Jeanne of her former passion. It's an uphill climb. "So in one parallel universe, you are married to Hugh Jackman. And that's his chicken. In the other parallel universe, you are married to Joel Houston. And that's his parmesan chicken."

"And in another parallel universe, polygamy is allowed. And I have Hugh Jackman AND Joel Houston."

I used to think we needed Walter to carry on with these kinds of conversations.

Tonight, I am not so sure.

Top Eight Reasons

2009-07-14T04:11:00.001-04:00

I've realized that some of my quirks and behavior and instincts have been shaped by this dear friend I have been spending most of my days and weeks with here in Australia. Here I present to you: The Top 8 Reasons I Know I Have Been Hanging Out Way Too Much With Jeanne Cannon.

Reasons I Know I Have Been Hanging out with Jeanne Way Too Much:

1) I now pronounce "insurance" as "IN-surance." Not "inSUrance."

2) I have developed a mild, occasional Southern accent.

3) I regularly snack on chunks of Parmesan cheese. I did not know this was even possible before hanging out with Jeanne.

4) I can now support justification for spending $396 dollars on shoes. And not just any shoes. Manolo Blahniks. (See, I told you).

5) I can now mind control Jeanne to bring me water whenever I'm thirsty without saying a word. I think our thirst glands can mysteriously communicate somehow.

6) When Jeanne tells me about a dream she had the other night, I immediately ask, "Oh, what were we doing?", automatically assuming I was with her in a dream. And it is usually a correct assumption.

7) We can have an entire conversation and not say anything and know exactly what the other one means. Like Rusty and Danny from Ocean's Eleven, i.e. "What do you think about..." "But if we..." "That might be too..." "Yeah, you're right."

8) My instinctual response to everything now is to wonder what Hugh Jackman would do if he were here.

The things we do for church.

2009-07-12T08:01:00.005-04:00

This morning, Jeanne and I resolved to go to the Hills campus for church, rather than the City campus of Hillsong Church, which is actually much closer to where we currently live. The Hills campus is a beautiful, 3,000-seat capacity building, but it's tucked away in the Western suburbs, a 40 minute drive from our humble suburb in Sydney.

We scouted out how much of a trek this would be using solely public transportation. We were chagrined to realize it would take a total of 2 and a half hours, if you count the moment we step outside of our front door and make the 10-minute hike it takes to get to the train station from our house.

According to the website, this is what we would have to do to make it to the church by 11 a.m.:

Sunday 11am Service
Getting to church from City via Parramatta Station

Train departs from Central station – 9:21am or 9:36am (intercity platforms 4-15)
Train arrives at Parramatta station – 9:52am or 10:07am
Hillsong bus departs from Parramatta station – 10:15am [outside of Max Brenner Café West side of train station]
Hillsong bus arrives at church – 10:45am

So in this order: walk, train, Hillsong bus, arrive at church.

Unfortunately, we arrived at Central Station to realize the trains for the particular line we needed were completely shut down for the weekend due to trackwork. So we actually had to catch a train to another station, catch a replacement bus in order to catch the original bus to take us to church.

Even with the unexpected detours, we miraculously made it in time, with about 11 minutes to spare.

The service was led by Darlene Zschech and Israel Houghton, and Jentzen Franklin spoke. Suffice it to say, the morning was completely worth the trip out there.

But I certainly am looking forward to having a car once again:)

How we start our Sunday mornings

2009-06-27T18:54:00.004-04:00

Mel and I were talking this morning, actually about very serious Spiritual stuff, when I said "Jesus loves MJ!" I wanted to make this my status, but I realized that my status always starts with "Jeanne", and so I said Jesus needs status updates!

Mel went on to create (mentally) a Jesus twitter account, with the following tweets:
User Name: Jesus Christ
Location: Everywhere

- Jesus Christ just got scolded for hanging out at the temple. Don't they know this is my Father's House?

- Jesus Christ just walked on water! Woohoo! Twit pic: www.twitpic.com/3djf4

- Jesus Christ just turned water into wine. Sorry if you didn't get the Facebook wedding invite. LOL!

- Jesus Christ: Party at Simon's Sunday pm, open invite! All are welcome!

- Jesus Christ just threw out more demons. Props to God!

- Jesus Christ just hung out with Moses and Elijah. Peter freaked. Dudes were happy to see me again.

After 3 days of no tweet activity, suddenly, his "followers" see:

- Jesus Christ just rose from the dead! What a sonny day!

- Jesus Christ is ascending to heaven right now. BRB!

Water-Prismatic-Illusion

2009-06-21T22:16:00.000-04:00

Monday morning. Less than 24 hours until my mom sets foot on Australian soil, and I am heading out for a run.

I pull on my black track pants, white Hanes t-shirt, navy blue hoodie (which is getting smaller and smaller due to the wash) and my nikes. My nikes used to be neon green and white, but since our combined 19 Kilometer hikes in the Outback, they are now tinted slightly orange. I bid Mel goodbye, as she gets ready to catch the CBD train to the city and head outside.

A quick glance at the clay pavers outside shows that it's been raining this morning and it's fairly cloudy now. I throw up a quick prayer that it won't rain while I'm out, and hit the pavement.

All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus.

Britney's silly lyrics ring in my ears as I set my pace to one of my favorite tunes by her. She's not bad to run to, I think. I run down Garnet towards Bay Street, which then heads to the beach. I suppose it would be more accurate to describe Brighton-le-Sands as a bay.

Why does love always feel like a battlefield, a battlefield/You better go an get your armour.

I mentally thank Drew for sending me this recommendation, as it's another great song to run to. I don't love Jordin Sparks, but it's pretty decent. I run past the bus stop and there are about 10 people gathered, waiting to hitch a ride into the city. Yesterday was technically the first day of winter in Australia, and thankfully, the days are getting longer now! These people are dressed appropriately for Sydney's winter: layers, layers and more layers. A run under an umbrella that an elderly lady is holding in my way, as the sidewalk is far too narrow to run around her. She smiles at me and I smile back.

Right as I near the 'downtown' of Brighton-le-Sands, where the cafes, boutiques, and coffee shops start, it starts sprinkling. I dodge in and out of the raindrops beneath the covered sidewalk and the streets, and I start calculating my route in my head. I'm not sure how far I want to run in the rain. Sprinkles aren't bad, but Sydney is quite schizo in it's weather, so one can never be sure whether sprinkles will turn into a downpour. I'm already quite hot in my hoodie, so I decide to run until it gets unbearable. I'm only at the first mile of three, anyway. It's a mile back home, so I might as well run a bit farther.

I wait at the longest light ever, where Bay Street meets General Holmes Drive. This is one street I haven't figured out how to jay walk yet, since the lights and arrows go at all kinds of crazy times. I rest from my run as the sprinkles continue. Finally, the light changes and I run to the boardwalk, which runs parallel to the bay.

Just dance, gonna be okay...

As I run away from the city, Lady Gaga is ringing in my ears. As appropriate, this song always makes me want to dance. The rain is very slight now, and the sun is coming out. I run along the morning traffic and I notice half of a rainbow over the sand just in front of me. Suddenly, I am chasing this rainbow. I want to run beneath it! I then notice that it is a complete rainbow, passing from the sand, over the road, and beyond to an area I cannot see. I run and I run and I run, but it's always just out of reach. I thank God for Him, for the rainbow, for His love. The rainbow puts me in an even better mood than I'm already in, which is hard to conceive.

At my 1.5 mile marker, I surrender to my humanity and give up on running beneath the rainbow. I am still curious about what that water-prismatic-illusion looks like from directly beneath, but I could be pursuing this rainbow for many kilometers.

If I could bottle up the sea breeze/I would take it over to your house/And pour it loose through your garden.

I desperately wish it was the summer.

I turn back, running down the asphalt path for bikers and runners, seeing nobody along the way. It is rather enjoyable to run alone this morning, though part of me does miss Mel. There is something about being solo which makes you appreciate your surroundings much more. There are no waves to crash upon the shore, so the sounds are purely man-made this morning. I finally pass three guys who are heading into work, running between them as they obstruct the running path entirely. I smile at them, happy with life.

"I want to get away/I want to fly away/Yeah, yeah."

I run down the ramp to the beach, gearing up for the hardest part of the run. I laugh aloud at the song playing, as a plane is taking off from the airport just across the bay. I love irony, I love coincidence like this. I run after the plane, challenged by its speed. My mind envisions an explosion of the plane, the horror of seeing it, being thrown back onto the sand by the sight, the sound and the reality of it. It's even more repulsive since my mom is currently flying towards me in Australia. I am grateful that this morbid vision is only in my head, but I wonder why I imagine such odd things.

The city looms in front of me, about 20 kilometers away, hazy in the early morning rainshine. I am careful to avoid the green John Deere tractor that is combing the beach, and I head to the part just by the water. I hurdle over the net, which I assume is either for jellyfish or sharks, thrust forward by my magnificent and powerful legs.

I realize about halfway down the beach that the non-combed area is packed down due to the rain, so I run up the beach a few meters to the softer sand. What is the point of running on the beach if you aren't using your core to stabilize? The tractor has gone back to it's post now, as the driver has completed his rounds. I give it a final effort and then find myself standing on the far edge of the boardwalk. I rest for a minute, watching the beach workers storing the tractor and preparing for the rest of the cleanup.

I don't wanna be a maybe, Baby let me drive you crazy, I wanna be your dandelion

The sun is coming out more fully and I stand watching the runway at Kingsford Smith Airport. I am entranced by the landing and the take-offs of the many planes. There is a Qantas 747 on the runway, and I keep hoping to see it take off. The smaller jets commence take off far sooner than the large ones, and I want to see the 747 make it just to the end of the runway before pulling up its wheels and turning on its thrusters. Exhilaration.

But alas, it's not meant to be. It's apparently, even after 5 minutes, still 2nd in line for take off, pushed even farther back by the incoming planes. And so, I wave adieu to the 747, wishing its travelers a safe journey.

I run back through Brighton-le-Sands, which is less busy now that rush hour is a bit farther behind us. I weave in and out of the elderly people who wander through downtown, purchasing a bit of fruit, a newspaper, or coffee. I look longingly at the only convenience store to house A&W root beer in Sydney, but keep running because my money is at home.

Yesterday I had a dream I could fly through the sky/Then I woke up in a sweat, not dead yet but on the ground/I'm up in Johnson City Tennessee/Looking for the wind in me/Lord fly me over Pontchartrain/Back to the land of sugar cane and summer rain.

As I wait at yet another light (how these lights slow down my run!), listening to my favorite song from my favorite movie (Love Song for Bobby Long), I watch two kids in a double-decker stroller across the busy road. Their grandfather (I assume) is decked out in a yellow Nike shirt and black track pants, looking as impatient as I at these slow, slow crossing signals. The boy in front is actually the only one I can see, but I think there's a little girl in the back. He looks to be 2 or 3, decked out in a red gap shirt, blue jeans, with an army green truck on his lap. I think that his parents must have been to the States, as there is certainly no Gap store in Australia. I watch as he babbles on to his inattentive grandfather about the truck that is speeding by in front of him. The green man FINALLY flashes across from me, and I start my run back up again, passing them on the way over. I momentarily wonder how grandpa plans to get the kids in their non-boat stroller over the river of water that I just hurdled, but I don't look back to find out.

Someone tell me how I feel/Its silly wrong but vivid right/Oh, kiss me like a the final meal/Yeah, kiss me like we die tonight.

I am THRILLED that my current favorite song by Elbow has randomly popped up in my shuffle at the end of my run. I pass Garnet street, and turn left down Aboukir, extremely happy to notice that there are simply no more clouds in the sky to rain down upon us in Sydney. A blue sky on the second official day of winter: I can't complain. This has been a great run.

As Elbow notes, farther along in the song, "Oh, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day."

Indeed.

Chip Food and Staff

2009-05-31T18:50:00.008-04:00

While Jeanne and I were on the bus, heading to the vintage market at Bondi Beach (lots of cool jewelry, clothes and used books), I received a text from our Russian friend Alexey, inviting us to meet him in Chinatown after church at 3 o'clock. The text read: "Lots of markets. Chip food and staff:)"

"Chip food and staff? What does that mean?" I asked Jeanne, laughing.

"He's saying 'cheap food and stuff' I think."

"Or maybe he's saying chip food, like chips, and staff. Maybe he's going to Chinatown and eating french fries with some of the staff from Hillsong."

"Or maybe he's eating cheap food WITH the staff."

We go back and forth, chuckling over Alexey's lovely Russian-accented text. We remember that he's not so much a fan of facebook or chatting on Skype because he's not nearly as good with writing English as he is speaking.

We text him back, and tell him we'd meet him in Chinatown after we were finished at the market. A few bracelets, one journal, and two used books later, Jeanne and I were finished with the market and on a train, heading for downtown Sydney to meet up with Alexey.

As we exit the train station through a long corridor that dumps us out on George Street, we see Alexey, smiling and waiting for us up ahead. One thing I am surprised to find that I like about Russian/European culture is how friends greet one another: an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

Alexey greets us and immediately begins leading us throughout the city, first stopping by Paddy's Market, a bustling, confusing maze of stalls and kiosks of everything from boomerangs to baseball caps. "I need to find some pants here," he says. "In the first year I live here, I come here once a week." We turned a corner, and descended a flight of stairs to the fruit and vegetable market in Chinatown. Hundreds of people milled around, while dozens of Chinese grocers yell prices at each other, and piles and piles of colorful fresh fruit and vegetables are stacked everywhere, at dirt cheap prices.

As we're trying navigate our way through the chaotic hubbub, Alexey turns around, a lone, happy statue in the midst of a loud, pulsating, crushing mob with a grin on his face and exudes, "I love this place. It is like Moscow!"

He ricochets from stall to stall, full of fruits and vegetables that I do not recognize. "So many weird things here. I do not know what this is," he says.

"What is that?" Jeanne asks, pointing to a bright green, bulging fruit that looks like a bullfrog that swallowed a burrito from Chipotle.

"This," says Alexey, grabbing the bullfrog fruit. "This? No clue." He tosses it back into the box.

We wander through Paddy's Market some more (Alexey is still searching for some pants), then wander upstairs to Haymarket Plaza, which is more of a mall. Dressed in his light pink button-down shirt, gray slacks and black jacket, Alexey clearly takes his clothing very seriously. He gushes over a shirt as he's purchasing it, saying it is "Good quality. Best price. And all made in Australia." He points out his favorite stores to get clothes and where he gets suits.

He takes us through the food court, where Jeanne and I split a fountain Coke (these are somewhat rare in Australia) and I get a spring roll. Jeanne suddenly gasps, "This would be a good time to settle this." She turns to Alexey, "Alexey, is Russia in Europe or Asia?"

"Europe."

Jeanne smiles in triumph, settling a long-standing debate we've had over this very question: whether the land mass of Russia is considered Europe or Asia, and whether or not Filipinos are considered Asian.

I make a face at her. She replies, laughing, "I already conceded that you're Asian. What more do you want from me?"

Back out on the street walking toward Chinatown, Alexey calls out encouragement to a young skateboarder trying to jump down a short flight of stairs. "Good! Go!"

He turns to us and continues: "The Asians and black people are going to take over the world. The whole world will be dark. No more white people."

"What about the Irish? The Irish will still be around," Jeanne insists.

Quoting the film In Bruges, I reply, "But we have the Vietnamese!"

As if to prove his point, Alexey asks, "Have you ever seen a blue-eyed Chinese person?"

"Yes," says Jeanne, not wanting to admit an Irish defeat. "They're genetically altered."

"Or have blue contact lenses," I added.

After passing through Chinatown where Alexey points out his favorite pseudo-Russian restaurant, we wander over to Darling Harbour, a beautifully-lit section of Sydney that sits directly on the wharf. Alexey treat us to ice cream, and it tastes delicious despite the freezing cold.

Alexey is an endless reel of information and interest. He talks to us about salsa dancing, incredulous that neither of us have either been salsa dancing. "You should know salsa. You are from a Spanish country!" Alexey believes the U.S. is a Spanish country.

He asks us if we've heard about Korean sauna, saying it's better (meaning hotter) than American saunas, but not nearly as good as Russian saunas. "Russian saunas," he said, "will melt your face off. You must start at a lower level, like, an American sauna."

"It is the BEST, when you have a guy, like beat you on the back with the branches of this plant, and then they turn up the steam really, really hot, and you feel like you're gonna die. That is the best. I love it."

"Alexey, that sounds like torture. Some countries do that when they are torturing and interrogating suspects."

"Well, I stick needles in people for a job. What do you expect?" Alexey is a massage therapist and also performs acupuncture. "You know, acupuncture used to be torture. The Chinese used it for torture. They put needle in skin, so the person doesn't pass out. Doesn't lose consciousness when they are being tortured. Then they discover, "Oh, if I put needle here, it is good for health." He shrugs. "It's all about your health."

Jeanne and I have contemplated trying out acupuncture some time. Seeing our faces, he assures us, "Don't worry, I will stick needles in you girls. No problem."

Later that night, after church at Hillsong (during the sermon, Alexey turns to me and whispers "When woman speaker, boys fall asleep."), he invited us home for dinner. As we are walking to his car, Jeanne asks, "How tall are you, Alexey? Two meters?"

"Yeah, yeah. Meters." He shakes his head at us in our ignorance.

"Maybe they measure in decimeters."

"Or centimeters."

"Or millimeters. Jeanne is 168,000 millimeters tall."

"CENTIMETERS, girls. Centimeters," Alexey looks at us in exasperation. "Come on."

As we walk through his front door, we wave hi to Petrovich the bird, and Alexey gives us each a pair of Russian slippers to wear around his apartment. The meal is absolutely delicious. It's a chicken and tomato stew that's been slow-cooking for about 16 hours, with slices of cob bread, pieces of chocolate with almonds, a glass of port.

He explains, "I have to cook the chicken before it dies."

To Alexey, vegetables or meat spoiling means it "dies." I laugh though, trying to picture Alexey chasing a live chicken around his apartment, trying to catch it and cook it.

Jeanne and I sit there, over steaming bowls of delicious chicken stew (perfect for a cold, rainy night) and agree that this is the best meal we've had in a really long time.

I sigh and mumble to Jeanne, "This is comfort food. This is like something my mom would make."

Alexey couldn't hear me, and says, "Sorry?"

"This is comfort food."

He shrugs, not comprehending, and waits for me to explain.

"This is comfort food. That means..." I search for a way to explain the phrase. "That means that it feels like home."

He suddenly smiles, holding his hand over his heart, and he bows his head slightly. "That is good."

Later, that evening, he is driving us home. With his Russian disco music blaring on the stereo, Alexey asks us, "So will the soup make the book?"

We laugh at this comment. Yes, the chicken and tomato soup/comfort food will definitely make it into the book.

Thanks to our new Russian friend, his hospitality and his dead chicken stew, Sydney is starting to feel like home.

kansas

2009-05-31T11:08:00.002-04:00

goodbyes are so barbarian. one minute, you're with someone, their laughter pounding your ear drums, their smell tickling the inside of your nose, and then next minute they're gone, ripped apart from the physical space you once shared. for me, the shock of such separation is like the slice of a deep, sharp blade; i don't even know i've been cut right away, but then the pain comes, pulsating, growing larger throughout the rest of my body, causing me to grab hold of the cut, put pressure on it, try to make the bleeding stop, make it go away.

i've left the land of oz and have returned to the land of origin. all the funny voices, all the funny roads, all the funny creatures...gone with the click of my heels. my funny friends, who braved the haunted forest, walked the rusted rocks, flew through the crisp air...gone with the chant of home, appearing now as old faces all too familiar but not quite the same.

i've traveled through time and found myself right back where i started, left with the knowledge of all that has occurred and the decision to change, to be better, to maybe do it a little different.

Alexey the Russian

2009-05-30T01:45:00.003-04:00

It's 8pm on the first Friday we've officially lived in Sydney. Winter is supposed to be 2 days away, but I think it arrived early this year. The day brought freezing weather (okay, probably in the 40s) and tons of rain. This city is schizo when it comes to its weather personality. All day it varied between drizzle, blue skies, downpours, and sunshine. It's near impossible to dress appropriately without carrying around a huge bag to put your 10 layers in.

Alexey, the Russian, waits outside in his car for us. Mel and I gather our jackets, scarves, etc and run out to his hatchback in the cold rain. We're currently staying with Sarah, a friend of Mel's friend, Chalis, for 2 weeks. We have entertained the idea of (and would greatly enjoy) living with the Russian, but at the moment, his current flatmate is still living in his flat and searching for a new apartment. Apartment hunting in Sydney is not like Orlando - it's a vicious game of 15 minute inspection times, falsely advertised units, and high rents. Needless to say, it's unknown when Alexey's flatmate will officially move out. So until then, we are trying to find either another temporary place to stay (until Alexey's other room is open) or find a more permanent place of our own closer to the city.

We make small talk about the cold weather and Sydney and life. I try to impress Alexey with the story of meeting Will Farrell at the World Premiere of Land of the Lost, but his response to "Will Farrell was there" was "What is that?" Mel and I laugh and wave the story off.

So tonight, the Russian is taking us to meet his friends Rebecca and David, who live in a 3 bedroom flat in Rockdale, which is about 20-30 minutes outside of the CBD (Central Business District, or downtown). This is the same city we'd live in if we live with Alexey. Alexey is very entertaining, and quite straightforward. There is an obvious culture difference which I absolutely love, and it is that Alexey will say things that I'm not sure Americans can get away with, at least in America. A great example of this is something we laugh over which he says to Rebecca at her house (she's just over 3 months pregnant): "Look, if you stop working for a while after you have your baby, you become dumb. You stay with kids all day. They are annoying." (Please re-read this aloud in your best Russian accent.) I constantly find myself either appreciating or laughing at him for these types of comments.

We show up and meet Rebecca and David, who host a Hillsong Connect group at their home that Alexey and several others attend. We chat about favorite movies, the States, Russian and Chinese dumplings, and our potential staying at their place. Their place is the nicest apartment we've been in thus far - it's more like something you'd see in the States. It would be a great place to live, temporarily.

Alexey is a good friend of these two, and he quickly makes himself at home when we are visiting at their place. Mel and I chat about it today, and she says it's like something from a sitcom. She compares him to the ever-lovable Kramer, who barges into Seinfeld's house repeatedly unannounced, rummaging through his stuff, etc. (I should interject, in case Ah-lex-ee, as he beautifully pronounces his name, reads this later, that he's clearly not being rude or intrusive - they don't seem to mind one bit.)

He slices up an apple as the rest of us sit in the living room, coming around to offer it to us. He lays on their couch, looking very comfortable as he mentions he is hungry. David and Rebecca kindly offer us the pasta they have leftover from two nights ago, and David casually mentions that Alexey ate this same dish at their place last night. David sets off to making us fresh hot chocolate (have I mentioned these Aussies truly know how to treat their potential flatmates?), and Alexey says, "David is going to serve you some wine." David looks up at Alexey's statement, and in turn start to rummage through the fridge to find an open bottle of local Riesling. Alexey grabs 3 wine glasses and starts pouring for us. David and Rebecca turn down the wine, and David questions whether we still want our hot chocolate, which he is in the process of making. We nod and think that pasta, wine and hot chocolate are a combination that the Italians should have come up with, but haven't. Mel polishes off her glass rather quickly due to the steaming hot pasta, and he immediately replenishes her glass with another, as if he is the host.

Rebecca goes to bed and we head back into the living room and wrap up the evening with a viewing of the YouTube video of Matrix Pingpong. Alexey drives us back to Maroubra Beach, and shows us the infamous Maroubra Beach rock pool (you have no idea how rad these things are...) and we end the evening by setting an alarm (the first time in MONTHS!) to wake up Saturday morning to go apartment hunting, yet again.

Since finishing Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, I've wanted to meet a Russian named Alexey (both the husband and the lover are named such in the book). Australia has assisted me in this endeavor of mine, and I've now realized the goal of meeting a Russian named Alexey. And he is rad.

Lanky and Three Wishes: a conversation by MJW

2009-05-20T10:30:00.008-04:00

"Man, Ima have to stop eating this shit if I'm gonna have my Hugh Jackman body," said Walter gruffly, tossing the remains of his quarter pounder with cheese and french fry box.

Since being on this trip, Walter has firmly resolved to eat healthier and get into shape upon his return to the states. He cites Hugh Jackman as Wolverine as his recent inspiration for this newfound desire for discipline.

"That man went for 18 months without pizza and beer to get in shape. Four percent body fat," Jeanne said, shaking her head.

"I mean, I'm sure he could get away with eating pizza or beer every now and then," said Walter, grasping for a loophole.

"Not when he's building that body mass," Jeanne shot back.

"Yeah, maybe not building, but after he got to the ideal weight, I'm sure could sneak a pizza or two while he's maintaining it."

I look back and forth between Jeanne and Walter. We've arrived in Sydney after a grueling seven hour drive down the Pacific Highway. The terrain coming into the northern side of Sydney resembled the Pacific Northwest Coast, under a grey cover of rainclouds and a intermittent showers. The highway wound around cliffs and low-lying mountains, dipping lower into the landscape. We are sitting at McDonalds, having yet another absurd conversation, this time about Hugh Jackman's body type.

"I would say he's lanky," Walter was saying.

Jeanne shoots him an incredulous you-must-be-crazy look. "No way. I'd say he's long and lean. Not lanky."

"Lanky does not imply thinness," Walter states.

"Yes, it does," Jeanne insists. I nod in agreement. "Lanky by definition means thin."

"No, it doesn't. It has something to do with bone structure."

"You can't be both fat and lanky," I say. "Name one person who is both fat and lanky."

"Orson Welles."

"I don't know what that man looks like."

"Well, then I can't help you."

"I'm trying to think of someone in Hollywood who is lanky," says Jeanne. "But I can't think of anybody. Our friend Brooks. Do you know Brooks?" Jeanne asks Walt. Walt shakes his head no, and for the first time, it dawns on me: here sits Walt, who has so much become a part of my life and routine and comfortability over the past two and a half months, I can't conceive of this person not knowing Brooks, who seems like he was from another era of my life, before Australia and before traveling.

I met Brooks more than a year ago, through Jeanne. He's about 6'5'', and in typical emo fashion, his thin frame is always decked out in skinny jeans and V-neck shirts, with hair styled with enough hair product to match. He and Jeanne used to have occasional and impromptu Scrabble tournaments. I didn't really know Brooks all that well, but anybody who can pose a significant threat to Jeanne's Scrabble-playing abilities can't be all that bad.

But yes, Brooks is definitely the epitome of lankiness.

But Walt doesn't know Brooks.

Jeanne and I try to come up with another example.

"See," Walt interjects. "Jim Carrey is lanky."

"No, he's not lanky," disagrees Jeanne.

"Oh yeah! He even says that in Liar, Liar," I remember. "About 6'3'', large teeth, kinda gangly," Walter and I both quote the movie and laugh.

"Brooks is Lanky. Jim Carrey is lanky. But Hugh Jackman is not lanky," I say.

"Hugh Jackman is not lanky," echoes Jeanne.

"Hugh Jackman IS lanky," counters Walt.

I often silently wish that the real Hugh Jackman knew how many pointless conversations we have at his expense. In fact, it is one of my greatest wishes that one day at a cafe or restaurant, as we are having yet another Hugh Jackman discussion, that the real Hugh Jackman would casually turn around and introduce himself. We ARE in Australia, after all. I imagine that little scenario would happen something like this:

Mel: "I heard that 30 percent of Australians follow the Jedi faith."
Walt: "What! 30 percent? That can't be right."
Mel: "That's what that Lonely Planet book said."
Jeanne: "That's right, I remember reading that somewhere in the book."
Walt: "30 percent? Maybe 30 percent believe in the Force or something, but I doubt that 30 percent of Australians actually, genuinely adhere to the Jedi faith."
Mel: "What if Hugh Jackman were an actual Jedi knight? Jeanne, would you date Hugh Jackman if he followed the Jedi faith?
Jeanne: "Umm...I'd have to think about that a lot. Seriously."
Hugh Jackman: (he turns around, fully-garbed in a Jedi knight hood, with his light saber swinging by his side) Excuse me, guys. I couldn't help but overhear... But may the Force be with you.

I truly wish this would happen.

I would not, however, waste three of my hypothetical wishes from my hypothetical genie on this wish.

Walter, Jeanne and I have also discussed the implications of making three wishes. We on the back verandah of Ellie's parents house, drinking our morning tea under Gold Coast sunshine.

"Obviously, you couldn't wish for more wishes," I said.

"Yeah, that's like a given, in the genie-wishing world," Jeanne said.

"Like in Aladdin. You can't make people fall in love with you or wish for more wishes, etc., etc." said Walt.

"What would you wish for?"

Jeanne doesn't skip a beat. "I would wish that I was Hugh Jackman's wife."

"How funny would that be if you got your wish, you woke up the next morning in Hugh Jackman's bed, and you were married, but he had no idea who you were?" I laugh.

"That would NOT happen."

"But how do you know?"

"I would just wake up and me being Hugh Jackman's wife would be a new reality."

"Oh, like an alternate reality. Like in Lost."

"Yeah, an alternate reality. Not that he would wake up and I'm some random woman in his bed that he happens to be married to. Clearly."

"Can you imagine how creepy that would be?" Walt exclaims. "Hugh Jackman would wake up and be startled to death and Jeanne would just be standing there, smiling at him. She'd sit down on the arm chair reach out, shut the lamp off beside her, with her silhouette in the darkened room."

"You're making me sound like a creep!"

"It could happen," Walter shrugs.

Jeanne is insistent. "My genie would KNOW."

"I guess you'd have to be pretty specific when making the wish," I pointed out. "Let me be Hugh Jackman's wife and that we've known each other for awhile, and I'm not a complete stranger and that he wouldn't be freaked out..."

"I would just trust my genie," says Jeanne. "Also, I'll make a 12 page legal document clearly outlining every detail in fine print of the wish when I'm wishing, just to make sure. No loopholes."

"I think I'd wish for an infinite amount of wealth," Walt thinks out loud.

"What do you mean exactly by an infinite amount of wealth?"

"Well, exactly what I mean. An infinite amount. Every time I withdraw, it'd magically replenish itself. That way, I could take care of my family, maybe hand out a million dollars here and there. Just so I wouldn't have to worry about money for the rest of my life. I could take care of my sisters, help out friends when they needed it," Walt muses. "Yeah, it'd be great to just hand out a million dollars to friends every now and then."

"You would cause the value of the dollar to decline, therefore causing the American economy to crash. If there was a constant influx of cash from you pumping into the economy, you would render cash obsolete within a matter of years. You would bring about the destruction of the world's economy as we know it," Jeanne declares.

"You would basically bring about the apocalypse," I added.

"I would not ruin the economy. I would not cause the apocalypse!"

"You would, eventually," Jeanne insists.

"What if Walt's wealth was in gold?" I ask. "Not in cash. Or a magical ATM deposit?"

"It wouldn't matter. Walter having that infinite amount of gold would still cause hyperinflation eventually."

"It probably wouldn't be a good idea to have infinite wealth."

"Right. Infinite wealth would ruin the economy."

"Wait a second. We were talking about wishes here. How come you're allowed to be Hugh Jackman's wife without any stipulations? But here I am wishing for infinite wealth, and we think through the global implications of what my wish would mean. It's MY wish," says Walt indignantly.

"I'm just telling you like it is," Jeanne shrugs. "You'd ruin the economy. You would. Okay, so I would want to be Hugh Jackman's wife AND I'd want the ability to teleport. Get me some Chick-Fila and some sweet tea right now. Mel, what would you wish for? You didn't say."

"I'd definitely want to teleport, too." I say slowly. "But I don't think I would ask for anything else that would make my life easier or improve my quality of life. I think I'd want something just unique and fun. Like a pet pegasus!" I exclaim. "Yep, I would definitely want a pet pegasus. Because no one else would have one and it would just be fun to have."

That settles that.

Tonight, we're back in the hostel room. Walt is on his bunk bed, drawing some comic book characters he's invented, some rogue rat who's lost his memory somehow and now flies smuggler cargo ships throughout the universe like Han Solo. Jeanne is curled up on the bed, reading Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dosteovsky.

Suddenly, she sits up and with a smile on her face, she retrieves her Macbook.

I already know what she's doing.

She pulls up the Merriam-Webster Dictionary application and types in: "LANKY."

Definition? "Ungracefully tall and thin."

Yes, thin.

We laugh in triumph and tell Walter how wrong he was. He relents, for once.

Jeanne closes her Macbook and stows it away, and with a smile on her lips, she goes back to reading her book.

I smile, and go back to typing on my laptop.

Byron Bay

2009-05-17T09:05:00.000-04:00

"What time is it?"
"9:28am"
"What day is it?"
"I dunno...."

And thus starts our Sunday morning, May 17, 2009.

We are currently staying in Byron Bay, New South Wales. We arrived here yesterday after staying at the Lambert Mansion in the Gold Coast for an amazing 4 days - 4 days of feasts, games, and absolutely phenomenal company with Ellie, Jordan, Anne, Kevin, Sai and Jason. It was great.

Byron Bay was reportedly the favorite place in Australia of a couple of our friends, so we were looking forward to spending time there. We had heard it was a really hippy town, although the Aussies have told us now that Nimbin is the 'bed of vice' that we heard Byron Bay to be.

Anyway, back to this morning. We typically have toast and tea - courtesy of Woolworth's - at our hotel or hostel when we wake up. However, we had recently been the unfortunate victims of a BBQ sauce explosion over all of our food, and so , we had no personal bread to toast, or tea to brew.

So, we walked about 200 metres to the cafe directly behind our hotel, Sentori. We sat at a table surrounded by couch cushions on 2 sides, and picked up the local newspapers. We quickly ordered an omelette (for MW) and toast with jam (for me), along with British Breakfast tea.

A (hot) guy sits down directly in my line of sight - we make eye contact. I smile, half-heartedly, as I'm involved in some random ordering decision. Despite the multi-tasking, I take in his ear-length brunette hair, his black hat, his beautiful face, his arm tat, his trendy rings, his Aussie clothing, and his horrible, horrible 80s style sunglasses. Other than those, he's gorgeous.

We order; Mel and i make random conversation as Walt dives into various sections of the regional newspaper. Far from our conversation yesterday (about what we would logically and emotionally do with 3 wishes should we be granted such by a benevolent genie), we discuss LOST theories (we watched the finale, finally, last night! Who is Esau?!) Gwyneth Paltrow, Rugby derelicts, and 'does Stephen Speilberg have to honor the wish of a dead parent leaving their child to him as his godchild?'.

In between these ridiculous conversations, which are slanted by our 'American accent' (as Ellie says), Mel is keeping track of the number of times the hot Aussie looks at me. She casually throws in a 'nine' or 'twelve' every now and then, and each time, I look at her incredulously, trying to figure out what that number means in the middle of the current convo.

But no guts, and no glory, he leaves in his Range Rover without approaching our table (though he potentially gazes from behind those hideous 80s sunnies while saying goodbye to all of his friends at the nearby table), and we bid him adieu.

This town has a good amount of good looking dudes, I comment to Mel.

We order more Earl Grey tea and hang out for another hour or so at this cafe.

After a quick trip to the hotel and the showers, we drive up to the lighthouse at Cape Byron, and trek our way down several trails to the Eastern-most point of the Australian Mainland. We take photos, a boring video blog, and then walk down to the beach below - Main Beach.

We stroll along the cool waters, dipping our toes in and traipsing across the rocks which jut out from the white sand of the beach. Mel runs to retrieve her flops from a rock (we're walking back a different way) and Walt and I stare into the sunny, glittering Pacific Ocean in front of us. We note the surfers (we deemed them 'surfer ants' from far above at the lighthouse) and watch them catch a few waves. A good looking runner with a clear-cut 6 pack runs by for the second time (I smile at him and consider doing the "ECS" move, but shut it down for pride's sake.) I ask Walt, "If there were speakers in the sky, and you could choose whatever song you wanted to capture this moment, what would it be? Mine would be "Beautiful Day" by U2." He thinks for a moment and responds with a song we've recently jammed to: "How far we've come" by Matchbox 20. When Mel catches back up, her response is the very song we left playing in the rental car, "Your Sex is on Fire" by the Kings of Leon.

"What a great compliment that might be from a guy", she repeats, as to a previous conversation we had. I laugh and say, "I've been thinking about if he meant that his ex-girlfriend has the clap... and he said that in retribution." We laugh about that for a few strides, while enjoying the absolutely perfect day.

We take the wrong street and end up walking quite a bit out of the way, then venture back to find the up-hill climb back to the lighthouse. After 20 minutes of hiking, we make it back to the top. I stare at the green-blue sea along the way back, hoping to catch sight of a stray humpback whale (they are supposed to be here in June and July). No luck.

We eat lunch at the Blue Olive - a deli along the main strip of Byron Bay - and then stride down the streets of this hippie town. We stop in several stores along the trek, admiring hats, knit jackets, and various other wares along the way. No silverwares, though. Mel and I enter a store labeled "Cupcake" and I buy a pair of bad ass tan heeled boots for $99 (dear boots of mine, stored in Atlanta, how I miss you so!) We next happen upon a thrift store and I find a rad dress (too expensive) and a rad scarf (perfect). I sigh in appreciation and we wander down the streets a bit farther.

We end up at "Sharky's Tattoo Shop" where Mel has finally (FINALLY!) decided to get her nose pierced. According to her, she's been thinking of getting it done for the past few years, but has only recently decided to actually do it. And today is THE day. So we stop into this tattoo shop (after a bit of searching), and she selects a multi-colored stone (the light pink was unavailable, to her dismay) and he punches a needle through her right nostril. Her eyes tear up, but she swears it didn't hurt. She pays her money and walks out the door with a brilliant stone twinkling like a star in the brilliant blue night.

We head back to the hotel after stops at Woolie's for breakfast tomorrow AM. We grab our Macs (Hughey J, Jazzy H, and MJ - their names) and I shriek with absolute joy as I read my mom's email that she is planning to visit in June. I find a good friend of mine online and chat up about random nothingness, as usual. Whether it's convenience or coincidence, anytime the conversation gets juicy, he has to go. Mel and I run back to the kitchen to chop up the Turkish bread and Tasty cheese for a late dinner, to accompany the box Cabernet we purchased at the bottle shop (please note: box wine does not equal white trash in Oz, or so I'm told). She and I sit down and have a serious conversation regarding several men who have been on our mind as of late. We are eventually joined by Walt, and we immerse ourselves in such a deep conversation that looking back, I cannot remotely remember the entrancing line that began the journey.

And yet, I'm incredibly grateful for this very one, for these two beautiful souls by my side.

I can't believe Walt leaves in 6 days.

How bizarre.

We round out the evening with this blog as they read their respective books before bed. We hope that tomorrow will find us reaching for the sunrise over this Eastern-most point of Oz at 6:20am.

a message for you

2009-05-17T08:20:00.000-04:00

hi.

a much-needed win.

2009-05-13T10:06:00.007-04:00

Finally, a win.

Tonight, Jeanne, Walt and I went to the Jupiter Casino in Gold Coast, after a day wandering through Surfers Paradise and enjoying some long-awaited Starbucks drinks.

I'll have to admit, while my previous blackjack/casino experiences (all three of them; read this for a complete recap) had been quite enjoyable, Mel has become weary of losing money.

Lady Fortune smiled at me once at the Hard Rock slot machine in Vegas, but that sweet victory in a casino has become a distant memory, more than two months later.

As a result, I really was hesitant about playing anymore blackjack at all. Having been defeated overall by the Harrah's, the New York, New York of Vegas and most recently, the Treasury in Brisbane, it looked as if my run of blackjack playing was drawing to an end. Playing with Walt and Jeanne is always a good time no matter what, but I was tired of losing money.

And I looked upon tonight as the night that would make or break if I would ever play blackjack ever again, forever determining my blackjack destiny.

Jordan and Ellie came with us to the casino, although they opted not to play. We spent a good while hanging around Walt and Jeanne at the $10 table, while I was doing my best to explain to Ellie and Jordan the basic rules/strategy of the game that I had picked up from two wonderful tutors: Jeanne and Google.

About an hour or so in, a spot at the table opened up, and Walt and Jeanne, smiling sideways at me, pointed this fact out with their sly, eyebrow lifts that ENTJs are famous for.

They are hard to resist.

Taking a deep breath, and understanding that tonight was to forever determine my blackjack destiny, I slid onto that empty chair and put my money down. The dealer Sharron (a.k.a. Shazzo) was the most pleasant dealer we've encountered in Oz so far. She seemed to genuinely be happy for us when we're winning. Dealers don't work off of tips in Australia, so there's not necessarily an incentive to be charming or engaging or even interesting when you're a dealer. So it's was a breath of fresh air to have a dealer with a pleasant personality.

There was an older gentleman from Sydney sitting to Jeanne's left that was good-spirited and also seemed to be doing well at the table. Jeanne explained to him that she was saving up to buy an iPhone. We have been trying to convince Walt and now him that it would be a good idea for them to buy iPhones.

Jeanne vowed that if she won $700 tonight it would go directly to buy an unlocked iPhone, able to be used anywhere in the world, a worthwhile plan should she not end up in the States even after Australia. Jeanne's won at least $700 at blackjack several times in the past, so it wasn't a pie-in-the-sky fantasy.

Ellie cleverly suggested that she name the iPhone BlackJack, should Jeanne's winnings tonight contribute to (or buy) an iPhone. I expounded on this and suggested HughBlackJackman.

Jeanne was sold.

Anyway, surprisingly enough, my chip stack started to grow. And multiply. Like loaves and fishes. It really helped that every time (meaning three times) I doubled my bet on 11 ("always double down on 11," according to movie Swingers and Walter), I miraculously got 21.

By the end of the night, I was $65 richer, a necessary pick-me-up after all the recent melancholia and homesickness.

And as Ellie, Jordan, Walt and Jeanne started to leave and head toward the cashier, the man from Sydney chucked me a $5 chip and said "Give this to Jeanne and tell her it's for the iPhone."

Add on a lovely evening complete with a glass of port, some homemade cake by Ellie's mom, a lovely chat with Ellie's dad about our favorite show Lost, and even a quick Wii-tennis match with Walt, and Voila...

It's a good night;)

I like this Gold Coast.

books and falling from the sky

2009-05-02T23:42:00.000-04:00

We are at Airlie Beach, on the northern coast of Queensland in Australia.

We're staying at Backpackers by the Bay, a small, laid-back hostel that seems perfectly fitted for this breezy, tropical weather. It sits on a hilltop that overlooks Boathaven Bay, a curved shore that hugs the blue and green water which is dotted with dozens of sailboats.

There are stencils of tiny blue fish and sharks sponged around the room. Our sliding glass door is open to bring in the afternoon breeze and I can see a clothesline from the top of my bunk bed. Shirts dancing in the wind.

Walter is reading the English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. I bought this book for Jeanne for her 28th birthday while we were in Adelaide. First she read it, then I read it, now Walt's reading it. The first book of this trip that MJW is reading.

We attempted to watch the film. Jeanne, formerly excited about the movie, was utterly disappointed with the film, calling it a "bastardization of the novel."

That book was like a fine meal that lasted over the course of several days. The words by themselves were compelling to read. Michael Ondaatje has taught me to slow my pace in reading, to allow my mind to slow to the speed of the author's pen. Difficult in my Instant Message, blog-skimming, web-surfing mind, but it's well worth the extra time.

The English Patient is a feast for the senses. So many beautiful passages. There is a stark eloquence to it and I love all the main characters.

On the lower bunk, Jeanne is reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. I hear a gasp below me and an barely imperceptible "Oh my God" escape from the bunk below me. I lean over the bunk and look at her quizzically.

"He just had sex with her!" she said incredulously.

"Are you doing okay down there?" I've not read Lolita but I know the intensity of the subject matter.

"Yeah."

I return to my book. I am reading Oscar Wilde's De Profundis. Barely 12 pages in but I already love Oscar more than I did when I read all of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

With the breeze, the quiet, and the sudden realization that I can once again use my eyes. And I am grateful.

I remember last week's stay in Cairns.

Cairns initially was not kind to me, but that was mostly my contact lens' fault. I strongly advise against sleeping with your contact lens in your eye, should you ever find yourself on an overnight Greyhound bus trip from the middle of the Outback to the northern coast of Australia...

Just sayin.'

Cairns--originally MJW's El Dorado--was this gleaming haven of our deepest Aussie longings come true: it housed our lofty dreams of skydiving, scuba diving, snorkeling, beaches galore, whitewater rafting.

Unfortunately, that was before bacteria attacked my eye, rendering me incapacitated for a few days. This infection necessitated daily trips to the hospital--I became very closely acquainted with the resident ophthalmologist in Cairns Base Hospital.

Finally though, after Walt and Jeanne's endless patience with my perpetual state of waiting in hotel rooms, hospital waiting rooms, and everything else, Cairns began to unfold to us in all its glory.

Exhibit A: MJW go skydiving. We opted--almost spontaneously--to go skydiving over the city on Wednesday afternoon. I had an 11 a.m. appointment at the hospital, I explained to our tourism booking agent downstairs at the hospital. She told us that we could go that afternoon immediately, or we could wait until Friday morning for a jump over the beach, which was a good 2 hours away.

While jumping over the beach sounded fantastically cool, I was certain I would lose my nerve if we didn't decide to go immediately. The three of us were watching the video overhead that showed happy, crazy people jumping out of airplanes left and right.

Jeanne and I trade information, trying to make a decision about plans.
"We should book the 4:30." "But what about going on Friday? That way we can wait and not rush. Plus doing it over the beach rather than the city sounds way cooler" "But the weather's supposed to be rainy." "Oh good point." "Let's do the 4:30." "How about we do the 3:00 in case you get out of your appointment early enough." "That sounds good."

We ramble on, then make an executive decision. Meanwhile, Walt is sitting in his chair, suddenly very (and uncharacteristically) quiet.

I ask him about this later. He told me he was silently hoping we'd go on Friday instead of today. I laugh at him. I'm just as scared as he is.

An appointment and lunch and phone call later, a dingy white bus pulls up in front of our hostel and a bright eyed, toothy Aussie greets us. "Going skydiving today?"

"Yep, that's us!"

They whirl us just a block down the street to the skydiving office. They pair us up with our skydiving guides and we begin to get suited up. My partner is Jason, a slightly hyper dude with a long braid. All three of us opted for the DVD/handicam option, so our guides are documenting every step of our skydiving adventure.

Suddenly, we're in a plane and we take off and I realize: there's only one way off of this plane. And it's an open door on the side of the plane that says "EXIT."

Walt and Jeanne and I freak out, squeal, smile, laugh nervously and wholeheartedly soak up every second of our ascent.

Jeanne goes first. She's got her arms crossed and her head braced back. She and GJ suddenly just roll and fall out of the plane. Jeanne disappeared. My best friend just fell out of a freakin' airplane, I realize. I look at out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse, but she's long gone.

Before I know it, it's Walt's turn. He's already slid up to the edge of the plane. One, two, he's gone.

I am the last one. Suddenly, I'm sliding to the edge. Jason asks me if I'm ready. He counts, and suddenly we just roll out of the plane, easily and lightly. As we're falling, I'm trying to scream, but I quickly realize when I do that I can't breathe. So I stick with trying to smile and keep my mouth closed at the same time and fully wrap my mind around the reality that I am freefalling through the sky.

Falling is not quite what I imagined it to be. Nothing like a roller coaster.

I'm pretty sure I gulped down part of a cloud on the way down.

Jason taps my arm about a half a dozen times before I realize it's okay to stop clutching my own shoulders and let my arms out, Superman style. I can't believe how much fun this is. Not scary at all once you're falling.

The chute opens and we are jerked back and suddenly we're spinning and I can see all of Cairns, blue and green and shining in the sun.

I smile and I think, this is the city I've been missing, holed up in a hotel room all week. I give a shout out to Chris Slankard in my handi-cam ("Yes, Chris, Mel is in the sky," a tribute to our endless Scattergories debating. Jason lets me grab a hold of chute and lets me steer for a bit. And he tricks me into violently spinning.

"Well, hopefully we don't crash into that powerline."

WHAT? I see Jeanne and Walter below me, turning lazily in the wind with their parachutes. I see the field where they descend. I glide into the field, nice and easy.

I remember one of the guides asking an exuberant Walter (he picks up Jeanne, then me, spins us each around in his excitement) if he would do this ever again.

"I'd do it again right NOW," he says gleefully.

All three of us are glad we got DVDs of our trips, because the moment of freefalling was over too quickly.

I realize, after a week of simply eating, waiting in a hospital room, not sure if I would see out of my right eye again, and being generally frustrated and homesick, that I'm happy to be alive again.

And I like this Cairns.

ERs and phone cards

2009-04-27T05:09:00.001-04:00

“Back to the hospital today, eh?” I asked Mel, focusing on the nutella-covered toast in my hand.

“Yeah, 12pm appointment. Hopefully it won’t be as long today as yesterday.” She responds.

Instead of trekking the mile, as we did 3 times yesterday, we opt for a cheap cap. “GBH” I tell the driver, and he looks at me quizzically. “CBH” Mel corrects me. “The base hospital?” asks the driver, and our response is an in unison “yes”.

I never do get names right.

We arrive at the hospital and head up to the first floor, where Mel checks in, taking a number from an automated machine. “I feel like I’m at a deli”, she exclaims.

I head downstairs with a 500 minute calling card that she obtained yesterday, and has graciously offered to let me use in the meantime. I find a bank of pay phones (my gosh, how long has it been since I’ve used a legit pay phone?) and try to figure out how to work this calling card. I sigh inwardly as I realize that I only have a $2 coin, which means I’ll be losing $1.50 because it doesn’t return change.

Later, I’ll realize it was worth every nickel of that $2 coin. (Oz doesn’t have pennies.)

I punch in the familiar number, hearing the phone ring 4 times, and the answering machine pick up. Doing a mental calculation in my head, I figure it can’t be much past 10:30pm on Sunday night, so I roll my eyes at her call screening. I know she’s sitting on the sofa with the TV volume turned down to see if the caller left a message.

“Pick up, it’s me. Helllllo? Pick up!” I say in my much-hated recording voice.

“Hello?” I hear her say, clearly unsure who is on my end of the phone.  “Heeeeeeeeeeeey!” I say emphatically, incredibly overjoyed that at this connection. I still hear my southern accent, despite the fact that we’ve been in Australia for a month and a half.

“Who is this?”

“Your daughter! Who else?”

“Jeannie! Is that you?”
 And thus begins a 20 minute phone call to my mom and brother, followed up with a brief 10 minute phone call to my sister.
 How it heals my heart, my heart which has been so homesick as of late. These voices! I haven’t heard these voices, unless you count the pathetic Skype attempts, in far too long. The voices that persisted throughout my childhood, into my teenage years, and now my twenties. These voices that I undoubtedly wish to continue far into my future, lavishing hope and joy and love into my life on a frequent basis.

I wander back upstairs into the waiting room to find Walt reading a book. “Hey!” I say to him, “Is Mel in with the doctor?” He responds with a yes, and we start chatting about random topics.

“You are so happy!” He says to me, “It’s contagious!”

I try to explain how the conversation with my family was like a much needed illegal drug - like ecstasy, I suppose - heightening my happiness infinitely, while possibly coming down later with an increased longing for them. As I try to direct the conversation to a new topic, he stops me, saying he wants to hear more about these phone calls.

“Do it. Go call YOUR family! Get some happiness of your own!” I laugh at him.

He tells me that all the phone numbers he knows, except 1, are in his cell phone, back at the hotel. He occasionally looks a bit preoccupied, and I think he’s pondering the phone call I know he wants to make.

Finally, I give him the calling card and he heads downstairs himself, to find his own little piece of earth-bound heaven. Little do I know that about 30 minutes later, I’ll be blessed, even more, with two brief conversations with those that he was able to reach.

I look at Mel as she comes out of the doctor’s office, sunnies on despite the indoor fluorescence. “You really need to call Mim” I tell her, convinced that it will cure her homesick heart to talk to her sister. “I know.”

Later, as we stride down the street towards Macca’s for a late lunch, I wonder aloud, “Why in the heck have we not bought calling cards before?” and vow to try to make more time in the future for calling home when phones are nearby.

Americans, we miss the hell out of you.

Letters Home

2009-04-25T17:50:00.001-04:00

Dear US of A,

I'd like to take this time, early on a Sunday morning, to tell you that I miss you, in all your arrogant glory.

It's taken a while, you see, because your influence is everywhere. Plus, Aussies speak English, so the cultural shock is significantly less. In addition, there are a lot of Aussie traditions, such as a lack of wastefulness, that I find intelligent, globally-minded, and therefore embrace.

You could certainly learn a thing from these laid-back people in regard to philosophies of life.

So, I've missed little things about you, particularly Chickfila's sweet tea and chicken nuggets, but overall, you've been out of my mind for some time.

But here we are.

I miss my haven, my huge, chilly room snuggled in the darkness of a windowless existence.
I miss utter solitude.
I miss being able to find a Starbucks or other coffee shop 50 feet from me at any given time.
I miss high speed wi-fi.
I miss cheap books.
I miss seeing sunrises as I leave the gym at 630 or 7am.
I miss my closet, my seemingly infinite shoes and clothes, my style. These clothes I've brought into Australia are utilitarian! Trendy, they are not.
I miss my Liberty Mutualmobile.
I miss shopping at Forever 21 and Urban: cheap clothing, beautiful clothing.
I miss iPhone, like whoa.

The people, my favorites. I miss them. The good thing is that, thanks to Al Gore, I am able to keep in touch with them on a regular basis. I can't imagine life without the internet. But, I miss quiet conversations in dark bedrooms, or loud and rambunctious ones on back porches. I miss singing around bonfires and eating various foods just to be in the presence of someone important. I miss expressions and tone as conversation is had; I miss hugs and laughs more than anything.

I hope you miss me, dear homeland of mine.

We'll reunite soon enough, I think. Until then, take good care of my loved ones and possessions.

In the meantime, please don't change your breading recipe for the chicken nuggets again, CFA.

Thanks.

Love Eternally,

Jeanne

P/S I should add that this letter was inspired by Carolina's always humourous letters to inanimate objects. Shout out!

Recapping the last 2 weeks...

2009-04-22T23:26:00.003-04:00

It’s Wednesday, 9:05pm, and we are currently in: Darwin.

We have done so much since the last time we blogged, so here is a quick run down for you, our avid readers:

Pictures are at - http://picasaweb.google.com/Jeanners21

The Great Ocean Road:
This is arguably one of the most beautiful scenic drives in Australia. It runs between Melbourne and Adelaide along the Pacific coast. It’s carved into the cliffside/mountainside, through the beautiful fir tree forests. The road is true to its name, in that the ocean is never too far from your gazing eyes.

The only stop we made along the GOR was at the ’12 Apostles.’ Our host, Veronica, in Sydney told us that we should stop there, with the caveat that there are actually only 10 apostles left. Mel’s friend, Chalis, said there were actually only 8, while Lonely Planet (our guidebook, our Bible) said there were 6. We never quite determined exactly how many there were, but they were beautiful.

That evening, we stayed in a city called Mt. Gambier, along the Great Ocean road. We happened upon this town rather randomly, but were extremely delighted to find that it had 4 attractions that were rather incredible:
The Blue Lake: most lakes are blue, so we thought, but this lake proved to be bright azure. There is reportedly no explanation for its color. It reflected the sky more beautifully than the sky itself.
Mount Schank: the volcanic cone crater, which we hiked up numerous stairs to reach.
Tantanoola Cave: a limestone cave filled with stalagmites and stalactites
Umpherston Sinkhole: an old cave which collapsed upon itself, resulting in a beautiful sinkhole. Apparently, they feed opossums there at night, but we didn’t witness (or desire to witness) this. It was really beautiful, with its bright green foliage and two impish chinese boys running and playing hide and seek throughout it.

We arrived into Adelaide the night before Easter, only to find out that the city practically shuts down on Sunday and Easter Monday. We were, however, stoked to finish our Lent fasts, diving into both red meat and desserts as quickly as possible. On Monday, we set out with the intention of finding the renowned local horse race; however, we got lost along the way and instead discovered Hahndorf, a small german town just outside of Adelaide. We spent Easter Monday wandering through this jewel of a town, eating bratwurst, chocolate, and the most amazing cupcakes you’d ever see.

In North Adelaide, we stumbled across a quaint little hotel, Prince’s Hotel. It is an old colonial style house that was converted into a hotel some time ago. We were taken in by its beauty, and the ability to purchase fast, wireless internet. It wasn’t until the first night, when we had to cross the darkened hallway to reach the bathroom, that we got a bit spooked by the size of the house and the fact that we seemed to be the only guests. The hotelier was extremely wonderful, assisting us to no end when Walt misplaced his wallet.

Our last day in Adie was my 28th birthday. We tried and tried to set up sky diving and/or hot air ballooning, but they were just too pricey and too difficult to accomplish. So I settled for the next best thing: spa day. My roots were showing significantly through my Mary Jane red hair, so I set out to find a hairdresser who might dye my hair back to my natural color. She did, and she did it well. She’s no Shelby, but she got the color right and cut it very well. We then headed downtown for a pedicure, which we convinced Walter to join. Vanessa did a fantastic job, and after a month of walking around Australia, my feet felt womanly again.

My birthday night ended with the most delicious and luxurious meal I have ever eaten. We ate at Gaucho’s Argentinean steakhouse. We started with a bottle of cabernet, perfectly ripened black olives, and toasted garlic bread. We split two large filet mignon (one seasoned with garlic, lemon and sea salt; the other with chimichurri sauce and lemon) which were accompanied by fantastically fried potatoes (with sea salt, again). For dessert, we ordered the chocolate menage-trois: flourless chocolate cake, 3 chocolate truffles, and chocolate bavois; our waiter also served us complimentary port to sufficiently finish off the meal. The chocolate truffle was unanimously the best - the ultimate statement - resulting in the quote of the evening: “You see, I could live inside a chocolate truffle.”

It was an incredible way to bring in my 28th year, despite being so far from my beloved family and friends. I have MW to thank for such brilliance. Skydiving and hot air ballooning will come later.

I won’t share with you the horrors we ran into with Groovy Grape, the company which was supposed to usher us into the Outback for our 3 day tour there. Instead, we ended up on a 20 hour Greyhound bus ride to Alice Springs. Our arrival in Alice Springs on the 16th was met by Tony and Becky, who are friends of Ellie’s (Mel’s college roommate) that live there and work at Yirara college (a secondary school for indigenous children, sponsored by the Lutheran church).

We spent the first evening with them, doing all we could to stay awake long enough to eat Macca’s chips and then a pub dinner with them in downtown Alice Springs.

Our 3 day tour left at 6:30 am the next morning from Alice Springs with Jess from the Rock tour. Jess rolled up in a 21 passenger van, filled to the brim with mostly girls, and a trailer behind pulling luggage and swags.

Little did we know what a swag was at that point.

We drove 6 hours to King’s Canyon, where we completed a 7 KM hike through this beautiful creation. The first section of the hike was a killer climb up endless steps with a backpack strapped to our backs. It was worth it, to see the canyon on one side and the gorge on the other. We hiked around this canyon, with Jess pointing out different plants and sites along the way. We arrived at the Garden of Eden, where we would have swam if it had not been overcast and chilly. We opted instead to put our feet into the water, cleaning off our dusty feet. That day, we also saw wild horses, a wild kangaroo, and a wild dingo. We were also momentarily tricked into believing there was such thing as a pygmy koala which lived in the ghost gum tree. Jess soon confessed it was similar to one of the toy koala clips that had lived on our ceiling fans in Orlando for the last 6 months of our time there.

At sunset, we settled down into our joint campsite. If you know me, you’ll know that camping in the bush was not my idea of fun. No toilets?! I couldn’t believe I agreed to this, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. We ate chile con carne, roasted potatoes curry vegetables, bread and had Toohey’s beer by the campfire that night. We put off our bathroom break as long as possible, but as you know, with beer it usually isn’t that long. Mel and I wandered out into the woods with a roll of TP and a flashlight, and about 45 minutes later, after we heard Walt and some of the girls from our trip calling to us, we headed back in. We realized, during the longest bathroom break ever, that we should just stand out in the wilderness, along the road, staring up at the sky (hoping for breaks in the clouds) and conversing over serious matters until we had to go to the bathroom a 2nd, and then 3rd, time. We realized, again, that after drinking beer, those times tend to come quickly.

Eventually, we did make it back to the campfire and we all crashed rather quickly. Sometime in the middle of the night, Mel was gracious enough to wake me up, as the sky had cleared and we were able to see the stars now.

The first time I really saw the stars was in Bermagui, along the coast between Sydney and Melbourne. We were driving along this deserted road, with no light in sight, when we pulled off on this dark forest road for a look at the sky. It was stunning. We heard something in the woods and jumped in the car, stirring up dust as we sped out of there. They say that I was the only one who was scared by the noise, but they got in the car pretty fast, too :) Then, just before we arrived into the town of Bermagui, we stopped again on a deserted bridge and turned off all the lights. The stars are nothing less than stunning when our manmade structures and lights do not block them.

This middle of the night reminder, in the middle of the Outback bush, with no ambient light, was incredible. It was probably 3 or 4 in the morning and we were the only 3 who were awake to witness this grandeur. You can see so many shooting stars that you would never see in the city. They are tiny, they are great, and they are all beautiful.

Sadly for Mel, she realized that by waking me up, she was now obligated to accompany me back into the bush for a mid-night bathroom break. #4. Geez.

...

Because you are tired of reading, and I am tired of writing, I'll continue this recap soon :)

RPats and His Brooding Glossies

2009-04-13T04:14:00.001-04:00

"Gran Torino doesn't start for another hour and a half. Let's go to Borders."

[I should interject here that Gran Torino is a fabulous movie. Truly. Despite the fact that it wins the prize for most racial slurs in one movie. These slurs actually characterize and enhance the movie, despite the understandable shock you might feel until you see it in context...)

We walk into Borders next door, heading straight to the magazines. Little did we know this section would inspire a glorious new creation that we fondly refer to as RPats. Yes, we stole Carolina's nickname for Rob Pattinson, to differentiate our version of him from the Real Rob Pattinson.

Or maybe not.

Me: "Hugh Jackman is on the cover of SEX!"

Walt: Jeanne, I'm pretty sure that's SFX, not sex."

Me: Well, what do they expect me to think when his head looks like it's covering up the bottom of the E! And look at Wolverine! It's a logical jump, you know."

I find two magazines with Hugh Jackman gracing the cover - one as X-Men's Wolverine and another as himself, but still touting the movie, which is set to Premiere in Australia on April 29th. Or maybe the 30th. Either way, you can be certain that we'll be in the midnight showing of the movie, due to Walt's love of all things Xmen and my adoration for Mr. Jackman.

I look to Mel and ask her if she thinks that the GQ that Rob Pattinson debuted on in Carolina's video blog to us ("Oh my gosh!") is still out. I think she sent that video with that magazine at least a month ago.

We get lucky. There is one copy left.

I debate for a while between the Hugh Jackman magazines, since they are both over 10AUD, and end up getting SFX, as well as the RPats GQ. Wally discovers on the way home that it's a Science Fiction Magazine, hence SFX.

I sit on the tram, heading back to the hostel, thumbing through the GQ magazine, blinded by RPats' brooding glossies. The article itself promises to be interesting, as Rpats comes across as oddly-entertaining (and typically drunk?) individual.

Me: "Oh my gosh. No way."

I begin to read aloud, on this midnight tram through downtown Melbourne, to Mel and Walt this incredible story contained within the article.

I promise to God that this story is in the article, and I'm not exaggerating a single bit.

Apparently, Rpats only recently came across a microwave. For the first time, ever. In an LA hotel room, of all places. The article claims that he's been going to grocery stores, constantly and incessantly scanning the shelves for anything microwavable.

OH MY GOSH.

If Rpats were from Africa, or Hells' Kitchen, or the Outback, then I could understand and truly appreciate his admiration for such an invention.

This man is an ACTOR who has grown up in Britain, who has been on many sets, and, I assume, numerous hotel rooms.

And he's never seen a microwave?

There are other ridiculous stories in this article, as well, which only emphasize my opinion that RPats is ridiculously ignorant. Or Ignorantly Ridiculous.

Or a liar. But the article begins by stating that Rpats has no capacity to lie (honestly.)

Pretty soon, we have created our own Rpats, based on this article.

And his personality is very in tune with the microwave story.

Wally is driving us down the Great Ocean Road as we discuss this article further. He describes, in great detail, the voice he pictures RPats having.

There is a character in the movie Australia who is an old drunk guy in the bar of Darwin. One of his lines is "She's no lady, Ivan. She just drove a mob of cattle across the Never Never! She deserves a drink like any man."

(Click that link for a video clip of the character/actor.)

Walt has thus determined that Rpats accent is very similar to this (I think this is what he thinks of when he thinks British), except younger and a bit less drunk.

And as we continue across the great Victorian state, he acclaims (in this accent):
"I've been sewing all my clothing together, in an attempt to make an enormous parachute. I say, Wolvie, How tall is your house?!"

To explain the Wolverine/Jackman reference would waste even more of your precious time - which you won't forgive me for - so just understand that he's talking to Hugh Jackman, but he calls him Wolverine. Despite the fact that Hugh has corrected him multiple times.

Melissa and I rock with laughter, clearly.

As you would, had you heard it.

This quote begins an entire collection, which we are expanding as we speak. Anytime that there is a ridiculous question, topic of conversation, or thought, one of us (usually Walt or Mel) assume the old-timey British accent and make a ridiculous statement. I've noticed that they can tend to revolve around 'new' inventions. New to RPats, that is.

Here is another example:
"I hear that they store sea animals in this wondrous contraption called an "aquarium". I've been thinking of installing one in my attic! Though I don't know where to get the water... But I might have my roof removed and simply collect the rain!"

We've also sent Rpats fishing for koala bears, writing to Nasa for a space pencil to connect the star dots, and pondering the fact that an orange is both a color AND a fruit.

I must admit that I'm a bit concerned at the potential of meeting Rob Pattinson some day. I'm not entirely sure that I WANT to now, because I worry that his accent and his personality will be disappointing.

RPats, welcome to Enlightenment in Australia. Meet MJW.

Manly Beach Video

2009-04-12T21:08:00.003-04:00

While in Sydney, we found the infamous Manly Beach. As mentioned in previous blogs, you will now formally meet both Cap'n Crunch and Colorado...

Guide us, O Hugh.

2009-04-07T21:08:00.000-04:00

We are in Melbourne, staying at Urban Central Backpackers, southwest of the city centre. The weather in Melbourne has been fairly capricious. It started out grey and drizzly yesterday morning, after we stepped off the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. By the end of the day, the weather was crisp and cool and sunny with pretty blue skies.

We drank tea and vanilla chai and ate cheese toasties (the cute Ozzie name for grilled cheese sandwiches) in a small cafe, before trekking to the Ian Potter Museum, a collection of Australian and aboriginal art. I took several photos of paintings and artwork that we found interesting, which I'll try to upload later. We also tried to visit the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, a new, trendy cinema/museum for film.

They had set pieces from the Baz Luhrmann film Australia (which we're kind of obsessed with) and other Australian films, but it cost $15 to view them and we didn't think it was worth it so we passed. But Jeanne did cast one backward, longing glance at the Centre, in hopes that Hugh Jackman might appear in all his Drovah glory. (See Baz Luhrmann's Australia movie for further info).

By the way, we've universally decided that Hugh Jackman is a good omen for our travels in Australia. Any appearance by him--weather in an ad, billboard, or poster--has been followed by an amazing cultural experience.

When we were hopelessly searching for a decent but cheap meal in Cole's Bay, a remote village on the fringe of Freycinet National Park, we were stunned to discover a photo of Hugh splayed on the front cover of a newspaper, with big bold leaders reading: "How I Got My Hot Body." Jeanne's jaw dropped. "I'm so buying that."

And directly behind Hugh, gleaming in the sunset, lay a charming little Italian restaurant.

We ended up eating a beautiful meal there, splitting a gloriously steaming pot of chamomile tea, and the best veggie pizza EVER, complete with onions, mushrooms, green peppers, feta cheese, and of course yummy olives. I'm convinced that the vegetables and fruit in Tasmania are the freshest around.... I was continually amazed at the quality and freshness of the vegetables while we were there. Even a funny old man watched our pizza arrive from the kitchen and he gave us a thumbs up, clearly appreciating our culinary experience as much as we were about to.

The second Hugh Jackman omen was when we arrived in the Melbourne city centre. We've been kind of reserved toward Melbourne, since we loved Sydney so much. But the large, bright flashing advertisement for "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" as we arrived near Federation Square was cause for some excitement. Comic book nerd/enthusiasts Walt and me are thrilled, and future Jeanne Jackman is of course squealing with joy and delight from the backseat.

The third Hugh Jackman omen was when we arrived at our hostel. A large bus was parked in front of the hostel wiith a gargantuan advertisement for "Australia" emblazoned on all sides. A massive Hugh Jackman making out with Nicole Kidman (sorry, Jeanne) greeted us.

Hugh Jackman? A good omen, indeed.

For this hostel is way cooler than any other hostel we've stayed at so far. It's actually a sweet place to hang out. There's a bar downstairs with a lounge area, pool tables, foosball, TVs, an Internet cafe, a kitchen always lively and active. We walked in there and people have their ingredients spread out and it's like Food Network in there.

We are impressed.

They have free BBQs, pizza nights, gyro nights and all kinds of cheap, yummy food options. I am a fan.

This morning, Jeanne and I went downstairs to check out the free breakfast that they provide here. There were stacks of bread for toast, a few canisters of cereal and milk and orange juice. We made some toast and sat at one of the tables. There were bowls with large heapings of butter, marmalade and Nutella.

Nutella is the one food item America unfortunately remains completely unaware of. I first became aware of this foreign breakfast tradition of putting Nutella on toast when I studied abroad in Austria 6 years ago. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread. It goes well with bread, pretzels, strawberries, anything you can think of. It's portable chocolate fondue. And It's basically a thinly veiled excuse to slather chocolate frosting on bread and call it breakfast.

I slathered some butter and marmalade on one slice, then proceeded to lump a whole bunch of nutella on another slice of bread.

As we sat there eating our toast, Jeanne commented, "I can't believe this hasn't caught on in America."

Then we realized that in fast food culture where the portions are twice as big as they should be anyway and where every meal seems to be accompanied by fries and a Coke, this probably would only add to the problem.

I eyed my Nutella toast, and took a huge bite of it.

With a dawn of realization, I realized what I had eaten. Jeanne watched my eyes widen in shock and disgust. I was paralyzed by this awful taste in my mouth.

"What?" Jeanne asked.

"Feh - ee -- eye," I tried to garble out, my mouth full of toast.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"Fesh -- ee -- MY." I said, trying to enunciate. I was afraid that the more I moved my mouth, the more I would taste it.

"I don't understand what you're saying. What?"

"FESH. EE . MY."

"What are you saying?"

Vegemite. That awful, salty yeasty by-product of beer making that for some unknown, godforsaken reason, Aussies love to slather on their toast.

And it was IN MY MOUTH.

Giving up on trying to tell Jeanne what the heck what was going on, I made a mad dash for the kitchen. People were swarming all around me, carrying dishes, taking out trash, toasting more bread. It seemed like I was running the gauntlet, with every obstacle impeding me from reaching my desired goal: the trash can.

Unfortunately, people were hovering around the trash and social etiquette prevented me from barfing into the trash can. I grabbed a paper towel and tried to discreetly remove the awfulness from my mouth.

I refilled my glass of orange juice, desperately trying to swish out the horrific taste from my mouth.

I return to the table, where I heard a snatch of conversation of Jeanne laughing and trying to explain to the British girl next to us what had happened to me. "...she thought it was Nutella." Jeanne later told me the Brit had interpreted what I had been futilely trying to say earlier: "Vegemite."

Australia, I love you. You give us Hugh Jackman as a kind of fortuitous sage, guiding our path to the best of all Australia has to offer.

But you also gave me Vegemite. And dear Vegemite, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways....

I bet if there were a picture of Hugh Jackman on that bowl of Vegemite, it would have magically turned into Nutella.

Hot Jacket Potatoes!

2009-04-05T06:44:00.005-04:00

It's 10am, Saturday morning. We think it's April the 4th, but nobody really knows.

We're currently in Hobart, Tasmania. Tasmania is an isolated little island just south of Melbourne. We took a ferry, overnight, from Port Melbourne. The ferry ride was amazing. We considered asking the Captain if he would turn off the running lights so that we could see the stars without any light whatsoever, but we couldn't find his cabin.

We've been here a few days, in Tazzie, This is our last day in the main city, Hobart, and we are fully planning to make our own little Farmers Market venture overseas, while our friends are fast asleep in the States on Friday night.

We head down to the market, which is located in the Salamanca part of town. It's a breezy day and Hobart cannot decide whether it wants to be warm or cold. Later on, we'll find out that Tazzie/Ozzie is reportedly directly beneath the hole in the ozone layer - this is what a local tells us, so I cannot verify its validity. The sun comes out and I feel like my 3 layers are far too many; the sun goes in and I wish I had my hooded jacket.

We've only got the general direction of the market in mind. Mel and I are walking a few steps behind Walter, trying to figure out the best, and warmest, path to the Market. We get behind a couple, roughly our age, dressed in outfits I might describe as work out clothes. I look at Mel, "They are headed to the market, let's follow them." She gives them a once-over and nods her agreement. At the next corner, though, we run into a few older couples. "Wait, maybe we should follow THEM." She says back to me. I glance over them and insist on following the first couple.

We successfully stalk this couple all the way to the market, and Mel insists that we're going to run into the older couples later. "They just went a different way, I'm sure. This thing is probably enormous."

We'd later find out that she was right: this market is massive.

We walk amongst the first few rows of the market, seeing odd and creepy dolls for sale, whole loaves of bread, silk dresses and much more. Lovely, just lovely, except we want food. Mel and Walt stop at a fudge stand for free samples and I groan inwardly. 8 more days, I tell myself. And I thank Jesus. They saunter down the pathway towards me, our minds refocused on breakfast.

Mel and I have previously discussed whether Ozzie has baked potatoes, because chips (fries) and mashed seem to be the only options at the place we eat. We both see the sign, HOT BAKED SPUDS, at the same time and instantly internally decide that's what we are eating. We head directly towards a happy old man (I swear to you, all these Aussies are so HAPPY. And FRIENDLY!) who is behind the stand. "Are you selling baked potatoes?!" I ask him, grinning ear to ear. He says yes, of course, and so Mel and I decide to split one. We ask for bacon on the side (mind you that their bacon is much more like ham than American Bacon) and so he piles an entire cup down the side of the baked potato. Mel and I are in heaven. "You best be careful, splitting this thing. I've seen people rolling around in the grass, fighting each other for the final bites." I smile back at him and say, "Don't you worry, we'll probably be back." Wally gets in line for a cappucino and Mel and I eat our little bit of American-homemade heaven in the park. Wally walks up with a bratwurst in his hand. So much for the idea of breakfast, I laugh to myself.

We head back towards the market after our eating adventures. I jump in line for a cappucino and Mel orders an afforgato. This is an espresso with a scoop of ice cream thrown on top just for luck. She swears to bring this invention back to the states, whenever we might end up there again. Wally stops at the record stand, as Mel and I head directly back to the olive stand. We meant to make it to the Olive Growers Grove yesterday, but got tied up south of Hobart. We both eat a green olive, which was marinated in nothing less than God's nectar, and close our eyes in intense appreciation. While we both want to buy some of these delectable treats, we remember that we are going to head to the Grove on the way out of town this afternoon, so we abstain for now. We will later be extremely disappointed to find out that they are not open on Saturdays.

We find Walter looking through the Beatles records and then head further south.

"HOT JACKET POTATOES!" I exclaim, reading a sign I see on the side of one of the food trailers. My exclamation sounded like "Holy Crap!" or "Good Golly Miss Molly!" and so Walt and Mel run with it, saying Hot Jacket Potatoes as loud as they can. They deem it Pudgy Cannon's new slogan. "Hot Jacket Potatoes, I'm thirsty!" They crack me up.

We find coconut ice (coconut candy cubes that look like ice cubes) and Fairy Floss (aka Cotton Candy). We walk by the stand for Grandewe Cheesery, only to have the guy behind the stand call out to us, as we met him yesterday. We walk by the Persian food stand and Walter makes eye contact with the cook. "Hey, man, how's it goin?" He yells towards the cook, who recognizes us from dinner and coffee at his diner a few nights before. "We fit in so well here, already knowing the locals..." Walter laughs.

I walk past an Asian guy. He looks like an incredibly wise 30-something year old Chinese guy. His hair is either dreadlocked or dirty, but it's piled into this regal messy bun on top of his head. I nudge Melissa and say, "Oh my Gosh, that is Sonny in a few years." She later finds him on the ground, playing some sort of Chinese musical instrument, and she snaps a picture of him. "Future Sonny." She laughs at me. We're gonna upload that somewhere.

We keep walking and are astounded at the different musicians playing for coins (they have up to $2 coins here) on the sidewalks. There is a 4 string quartet of young 20-somethings; a vibrant group of hippy-trendy 20-somethings playing all sorts of odd things (Mel could probably tell you more), a band that I would deem Mexican from their clothing, but Spanish or Mediterranean from their music; Chinese Future Sonny and his Chinese Pal playing something really awesome; and several other groups. They fascinated us.

We also found the world's smallest pancakes (I think they were about the size of a mini-muffin top). I passed a guy eating raspberries out of a plastic cup with creme on top and I say, mostly to myself, "Did you see that guy's RASPBERRIES." Mel and Walt bellow their laughter as Walter uses his gay (or womanly, as he once tried to call it) voice to say "Did you see that GUY'S RASPBERRIESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS" They carry on for a good 10 feet before they go off on some other random tangent. They crack me up.

Melissa stops at a wool shop and tries on a killer hat. It's only 15 AUD, which is about $10-$12 USD. I convince her it's a worthwhile purchase, since we're at Salamanca market, it's cheap, and she has no idea where her other hat is at the moment.

That's one thing that's driving me crazy. I have 4 bags and they all have 150 pockets, so I'm constantly losing something.

But anyway.

So she buys the wool hat, and later describes her newfound adoration for it.

"The bottom half of that guy's face is hot." She says to me out of the side of her mouth. I look at her like she's crazy - I'm pretty sure that's the oddest thing she's ever said, and she says many, many random things. "What! The bottom half?" "Well, he has on sunglasses." I look at her and explain that it's completely find to add the disclaimer... "That guy is hot. I can't see his face because of his glasses, but he seems hot." She laughs and we take off back towards the beginning of the market. We pass yet another book stand and start browsing. Mellie wants to find Grapes of Wrath; Walt and I just browse for anything good. I've talked Mel out of other books already because she asked me not to let her add any weight/reading material until she's finished some of the others.

But then.

I see Sidney Sheldon, IF TOMORROW COMES, which is my favorite book by him. It used to be my favorite fiction book entirely, because it's such a great story. I insist she buys it - it's only $2AUD. She agrees, but tells me that she will be duct taping the front cover. It has terrible 80s-style photography and illustration on the front.

I'm sure there are a few more stops along the way, that I'm forgetting, but these were the highlights of Salamanca.

Best market I've ever been to.

And apparently, contains the hottest guy in Hobart, at least from the bottom of his face.

It's a Beautiful Day

2009-04-03T02:29:00.000-04:00

We bought this set of CDs, #1 Hits in Australia, somewhere along the Southern Coast on the way to Melbourne. We stopped for the restrooms and to get a ginger beer (similar to ginger ale in the states) at a tiny little gas station in the middle of nowhere because my stomach was feeling a bit queasy from all the hairpin turns.

Walt picks up the CD set and shows it to me. "Should we get this? I'm getting tired of the iPods." I glance over the CD titles and immediately consent. The titles include 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00s songs, and random things I would never believe could ever hit #1. But I saw Beautiful Day by U2 and I knew we had to get it.

This is the same set of CDs that got Walt a 300AUD speeding ticket, by the way.

We're playing this song, Beautiful Day, as we drive out south of Hobart, Tasmania this morning. We're driving on the left side of the road on the edge of a steep cliff, overlooking the bay in Hobart. The weather is a bit cloudy and a bit chilly. But it's a beautiful day in my head.

This song makes me happy every time I hear it.

I would marry Bono for this song. He's pretty awesome anyway.

It consistently reminds me that even when my life isn't as great as it is now - read: happily unemployed, traversing the Ozzie lands with two amazing people, and generally having the time of my life - life is beautiful. In its own twisted and warped way, the hardest, most difficult times have an inner beauty that you can't appreciate until you have passed through.

Today? It's a beautiful day.

The heart is a bloom
Shoots up through the stony ground
There's no room
No space to rent in this town

You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere

You thought you'd found a friend
To take you out of this place
Someone you could lend a hand
In return for grace

It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

You're on the road
But you've got no destination
You're in the mud
In the maze of her imagination

You love this town
Even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over
And it's been all over you

It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
It's a beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Teach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

See the world in green and blue
See China right in front of you
See the canyons broken by cloud
See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
See the Bedouin fires at night
See the oil fields at first light
And see the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out

It was a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
Beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Reach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now
Don't need it now
Was a beautiful day

warning: listening to bon jovi makes you break the law.

2009-03-31T06:20:00.004-04:00

"dammit dammit dammit"

is what i'm thinking as i fly down princes highway at the speed of light (130 km). i've just passed a policeman, who was coming the opposite direction.

i take my foot of the gas and promptly apply it to the brake. "what's the speed limit again?"

"i don't know," mj says (not at the same time. that would be weird).

i saw his tail lights flash in my rearview mirror. he was slowing down.

"he's gone" says mj (well, just one of them, but i don't remember who.)

---

"dammit dammit dammit"

is what i'm thinking as the police car gets bigger and bigger in every mirror i see.

"his lights aren't flashing," jeanne says.

---

"dammit dammit dammit"

is what i'm thinking as i see flashes of red and blue light in the rearview mirror. in a way, i'm relieved that i don't have to keep wondering if he's going to pull me over or not (LIE).

as he approaches the car, i put my hands on the wheel. i saw on tv somewhere that this tells the policeman that i'm not armed. this doesn't stop me from asking mel "i put my hands on the wheel right?" to break up the awkwardness.

i put down the driver side window to talk to the policeman. except that the driver's side window is on the right-hand side, not the left.

hi, i'm walter, and i'm a dumb american.

hi walter.

so i put the window back up and put down the real driver's side window.

"good afternoon, sir," says officer aussie, putting his hand on the hood of the car.

"hi" i say, in my idiot speech.

"you guys victorian, tourin' or what?"

"we're tourists," i say as if it ain't bloody obvious.

"where ya from?"

"we're from florida," i say. i've always been embarrassed to about that, but i'm sure now that florida's more embarrassed that i'm from there than i am.

"they got speed limits and signs in florida?"

"hahaha, yeah they do." i'm sure glad gary's not here to see this moment. i tell the officer that when we passed him, we weren't sure how fast the speed limit was.

"speed limit's 100 km/hr. i clocked you at 130 km/hr."

i say nothing here. i being to wonder if my abnormally large feet is factor in my speeding. i decide to look this up later (LIE).

"happened to me in great britain. unfortunately it's gonna be a paper ticket," he says apologetically. this throws me off guard. he's easily the nicest policeman i've ever encountered. he doesn't throw his weight around. he isn't condescending. he's just doing his job. i respect that.

when we goes back to the car there is a moment of silence.

"it was the bon jovi," says mel. we had just stopped at a gas station and purchased a two disc CD of top 40 hits. the first track was a bon jovi song.

"it's my life," i say in defense. yuk yuk.

jeanne then tells us about how she got pulled over all the time in georgia. she said it was the speed traps.

"ever get a ticket?" i ask.

she shakes her head.

"i got pulled over once, but not for speeding," mel says.

"what was it for?" i ask.

"for not having my headlights on."

"were they broken?"

"no."

if you want to know more about THAT story, you can apparently read it in a book somewhere.

"did you get a ticket?" i ask.

mel shakes her head no.

"damn," i say. "i wish i was a hot chick so that i would never get tickets."

when the policeman comes back to the window, he's got the paper ticket in his hand.

when the policeman gets back to the window, he tells me the amount of the ticket is $300.00 (this translates to roughly two hundred american dollars).

"don't worry about the demerits (points), we don't give demerits to tourists."

"so i can pay for that online?"

"yeah, you can pay it if you like or you can put it in yer scrapbook."

wait, what did he say?

"my job is to make people drive a little slowah on the road, is all. please don't let it stop from you from tourin'."

we said goodbye and he walked back.

"did he just say that i didn't have to pay for it?"

"i think so," said mj (but not at the same time. that would be weird).

"i think he liked you", jeanne said.

jeanne's thought is nice but i know better. i'm driving with two hot chics.

hot chics? no ticket.

Our trip carries on...

2009-03-29T22:33:00.000-04:00

We leave Sydney today.

This best known Australian city has been our home for the past week and a half. We've become well acquainted with the transportation system, sat under its many trees, appreciated its beautiful beaches (and people), traversed its rocky terrain, and partook in its multicultural restaurant scene.

Familiarity has not bred contempt.

In fact, the comfortability of this knowledge and experience will be missed.

Sadly, we never got to see the 'Man fields' up close and personal.

We DID, however, watch an Australian Rugby game on TV. Our host tells us Australian Rugby is a mix of Rugby and football. I love football, but this was far more entertaining and moved much more quickly. Furthermore, it seems to require a more advanced and honed skill set, as tackling is not an option and there is no protective gear. The men are in incredible shape - all of them. We have yet to determine the multitude of rules.

We are setting out, in about an hour, to head towards the airport to pick up our first rental car. We toyed with the idea of buying a car, but the logistics of that just haven't meshed yet. We'll probably end up doing that once we hit Cairns (pronounced cans) and the Great Barrier Reef.

I'm terrified of the idea of driving on the left side of the road, while positioned on the right side of the car. Today is our first experience with that. Luckily, we're picking up the car at the airport, and not heading into Sydney traffic. Left turns become tight turns, while right turns become wide. Round-abouts now flow clockwise, to the left, instead of counterclockwise, to the right.

We were watching Tommy Boy the other day and Mel commented - he's driving on the wrong side of the road! Her mind has already adjusted to the left side of the road being the correct side.

Mine, however, has not. When I first arrived, cars on the left just looked off. That was simple, because I could definitively tell you which side of the road you were supposed to drive on, simply because it was the opposite of what I knew.

But now.

Now, I'm just confused about which side of the road to drive on. Nothing seems correct anymore. Because I can't even tell you which side is wrong, figuring out which side is right becomes all the more complicated.

[Disclaimer: the word wrong simply means opposite from American standards. Neither is right or wrong, but rather what I am used to. I don't expect Aussies to conform to any other standard, it's just the simplest way to describe to you my perceptions.]

The other day, we were walking out of McDonalds (through which the drive-through flows in an opposite direction around the building as well). A lady ran past us, and banged on the hatch of the car to our right. It drew our attention (she was trying to give the passengers a bag they had forgotten) and my first connection was with the driver. He was a young boy, probably 7 or so.

Split second confusion.

Split second recognition.

He was the front passenger, driver on the other side.

It happened again later that day. We were on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street. A fire truck comes blaring by. Mel and I both catch the driver reading a newspaper and immediately wonder how he is driving. Of course, he wasn't. But the mind was very disoriented.

Adventures in driving, day 1.
=====
We picked up the car.

Let me interject that our cab driver, an Asian-Australian, was very interesting. He kept referring to the rental car companies as 'dictators' because they are a private company. "They're not democracies, like the public companies." He said.

He made me laugh a lot, though I'm not sure whether it was at him or with him.

I'm now writing, and surprised to be alive, at a McDonald's somewhere south of Wollongong. Driving in Australia is even worse than I thought it would be.

I honestly thought it might not be as bad as I thought; however, it's worse.

For example, I didn't consider depth perception. I'm sitting in the front seat with Walter, who has opted to drive first. And I'm scared out of my mind. I keep thinking he is going to hit the cars that are around us.

Walt is a good driver; however, he brakes a lot differently than I do. We're flying down the side of a mountain going 140 and I'm trying not to freak out.

That's 140 KM/H, not 140 Mi/H. But it still feels really fast.

Walt goes into a story about how his dad drives like an aggressive madman, claiming that he, himself, is tame compared to this.

Thank God I never have to drive with his dad. Ever. I would probably have a heart attack.

Also, I think the lanes are smaller. Walt swears it's our minds, not reality, but I don't think a SUV would fit in one of these lanes without crashing into the other cars.

We also got lost on the way out of Sydney. Luckily, we had a tiny little map with tiny little red lines on it.

We will likely be investing in GPS rather soon.

Do GPS have scenic routes within? Here's crossing my fingers.

We're carrying on South for another few hundred miles today. We have three days to get down to Melbourne, which should be plenty of time.

I miss having high speed wireless to share our video blogs with you guys.

Cheers!

How we met Hugh Jackman.

2009-03-28T05:02:00.004-04:00

Aussie men are dangerous.

Literally.

The streets of Kingsford, a suburb of Sydney.

We are crossing the street. The green man is not blinking, but we cross anyway. We are jaywalking. I scurry across, following closely behind Jeanne and Walt. Both are gliding toward the opposite end of the street.

Suddenly, I see in the distance, cars barreling down the street. Walt stops in the median. I stop in the median. Jeanne keeps gliding. Right into traffic.

"Jeanne! Jeanne!"

I see Jeanne turn around, a wide, unconscious grin on her face. I see a beautiful man with long hair flowing behind him in the wind, his white shirt glowing in the sun, him passing me, passing her. I see life in slow motion.

My instincts kick in, adrenaline rush and I reach out my hand to stop Jeanne from walking directly into oncoming cars. My mind flash forwards to a possible parallel future and I see Jeanne completely mowed down in the middle of the street by a barrage of cars. I see my best friend lying mangled in the streets of Kingsford. I see ambulance sirens, a stretcher, and our Aussie trip definitively cut short.

I imagine a long, twisted string of spider web shooting from my hands, wrapping around Jeanne and pulling her back, thrusting her in the opposite direction, out of harm's way. She flails her arms, windmilling wildly in the wind and falls backward, slamming upon the cement. Knocked out.

I am by her side. Walt and I crowd above her, anxious and waiting to see if she is okay. We try to revive her. The glowing, white-shirted man rushes over, concerned at this fallen red-haired beauty.

Jeanne finally comes to and finds herself staring up into the eyes of a strangely familiar face. It's Hugh Jackman.

"Hugh?" Jeanne says weakly.

And that is how we meet Hugh Jackman.

Okay, maybe that's not exactly what happened.

Spiderwebs did not shoot from my wrists. Hugh Jackman did not show up.

However.

Everything else pretty much happened.

In a moment of adrenaline and a fear of Jeanne's death that was most certainly seconds away from happening, I did panic and call out.

"Jeanne! Jeanne!"

And she turns around, grinning from ear to ear, clearly distracted by this man, completely oblivious that she was about to walk directly into the pathway of a dozen or so speeding cars.

Momentarily distracted myself at this man's hotness, I also hesitated. What am I doing?! My friend is about to die!

I snap back to reality and reach out to grab her.

Later in a local pub, over steak and fish and chips, Cokes and our first exposure to Australian football in a local pub, we laugh about the whole thing.

I laugh because all I remember is the way she turned around and the way she grinned. And I know exactly what she was looking at. I was looking, too.

And if we hadn't jaywalked, the view would have lasted longer.

Next time, we wait for the green blinking man.

Rule # 7: No more jaywalking.

2009-03-26T20:43:00.002-04:00

"Everything in life sucks." Walter exclaims loudly as we sit in the middle of McDonalds eating lunch.

Mel and I both look at Walter with our eyes rolling in our mind and she calls him melodramatic.

Our internet access has been frustrating, to be certain, but everything in life sucks? Dear God, our life is AWESOME right now. In every aspect. Oh, well, except for the internet.

I raise my eyebrow at Walt as he's recording a video message, explaining why we are sucking so bad at video chatting, etc.

This McDonalds has a 50MB upload/download limit, but it's free. However, it's too slow to upload any of these videos we've been video blogging for our avid fans. And too slow to download LOST from the illegal website we used last week. Video blogs? Minute, compared to missing LOST. But to be fair, I didn't think we'd be able to be caught up with the States in regard to LOST, because Aussieland is 3-4 weeks behind.

So here we sit in McDonalds - so close to civility, but so far away.

We miss you guys. And promise to upload video blogs (a whole barrage of them - you'll be sick of us when we get them all uploaded!) as soon as we get a worthwhile connection...

precious...

2009-03-24T07:36:00.004-04:00

a day of Manliness

2009-03-24T07:23:00.000-04:00

There is a magical beach in Sydney, Australia known as Manly Beach. (We thought of Precious Manly an infinite amount of times today...)

Walt, Jeanne and I traveled by ferry across the Sydney Harbour to Manly Beach today.

Upon arrival, we stepped off of the ferry and found ourselves surrounded by all-things Manly. Everywhere we looked we saw signs for Manly Paradise Hotel, Manly Italian Restaurant, Manly Souvenir Gift Shop, Manly Bank. This main drag of Manliness guided our footsteps to the shores of Manly Beach, a stretch of white sand and surf, lined by fir trees and rocks that dwarfed Bondi Beach in size.

Even more glorious and manly was the actual men on the beach. We wondered if this Manly Beach would live up to its name.

And it did.

Oh indeed, it did.

Jeanne and I came up with nicknames for each hot man we saw today, and we shall chronicle our sightings for you as follows:

The first sighting of the day was Colorado.

Oh, Colorado.

Our encounter with Colorado began as a debate with Walt as to how high the surfing waves were. Unfortunately, the intensity of the swells today prevented the casual beachgoer from swimming in the shark-infested waters of Manly Beach. As a result, the only people allowed in the surf were actual surfers. Manly surfers.

I first noticed Colorado as he sat on his surfing board, facing the water, although I didn't really pay that much attention to him. Walt, Jeanne and I began to debate the height of the waves. Walt guessed 5-6 feet, while I conjectured 7-8 feet. Jeanne settled around 5 to 6. Jeanne decided to ask this man sitting on the surf board to settle the debate. She strode on over to Colorado and engaged him in conversation. Walt and I stood from a distance. Walt commented, "That man's dreams just came true."

After about 15 minutes of conversation, Jeanne returned to where we were camped on the beach and explained to us that the waves were 2 meters (or 6 feet tall), valuable intel gleaned from her conversation with this bloke from Colorado. Hence the name Colorado. His actual name was Josh, but that is not important to this story.

Colorado later informed us of the joys of the Australian agricultural industry and Jeanne and I immediately to hatch plans to harvest cabbage at some point.

The second sighting of the day occurred when Jeanne and I were coming back from the public restrooms located by the street. She had nudged me and said the standard something-along-the-lines of "Whoa, check out that hot guy."

"Where?" I didn't see where she was pointing. A moment passes. I saw.

"Ohhhhhh."

We later described him as a cross between David Beckham, Sawyer from LOST and a young Sean Penn from Fast Times from Ridgemont High. It was all about the long blonde hair pulled back by a ponytail. And the shades.

He and his friends started doing a lot of crunches on the sand. So we dubbed him "Crunch," a.k.a. "Captain Crunch."

Captain Crunch sure looked great playing volleyball.

And walking. And running.

Those were the main highlights of our afternoon. We also dubbed one guy Spot, due to the spot of sunscreen he failed to spread evenly on his back. Jeanne kept daring me (in her typical"Do it, do it, do it" fashion) to go help him rub that sunscreen in. The poor guy just left his blanket with this white splotch on his back. He disappeared for an hour and returned with his buddy. I thought, "Surely his friend would tell him about the sunscreen on his back." No dice. I dubbed his friend "Judas," since he failed to do his friend a solid and inform him that he looked ridiculous.

We also saw Zebra, a guy with black and white striped pants. He was too far away to tell of his Manliness, but he did do a funny little dance whilst playing volleyball.

Anyway, we--(we meaning at least Jeanne and I)--came away from our Manly Beach experience totally satisfied.

We ended the evening with drinks at the Old Manly Boathouse, and an amazing ferry boat ride back to Sydney. As the sunset faded into night, we passed the edge of the earth, with Manly Beach to our backs, and a front row seat to the brilliant vista of the Sydney nighttime skyline, Opera House and Harbour Bridge included.

It's been a good day.

15/10

2009-03-23T08:10:00.000-04:00

so i failed the blog fast and this is how we ended up in an australian chinese restaurant on my bill. to my right, pudge: the only white person in the room. from the way she talks about it, i assume this never happened to her in georgia. to my far left, beaves, the asian in residence, acronym'd AIR, as in "headed". yuk yuk.

in my seat is me and i, of course, have eaten too much chinese food. i have not once eaten chinese food and not felt full afterwards. chinese proverbs tell you to eat until your 8/10 full. kiss my butt, china, you know that's impossible with the food you put out. or, at least, the food your other-countried selves put out.

this is going to sound ignorant of me (surprise), but i find chinese culture so completely alien that when i hear them speak to each other i never assume they're saying anything completely banal like "oh, susie's still inside picking up the check, she'll be out in a minute." i always assume they're unveiling the secrets of the universe in terms only they can understand, like "oh, susie remains hidden in the jade temple, awaiting the fire from the dragon sky. tonight the seven suns will rise in the water mountain, and all shall rule where none shall live." y'know, something like that.

pudge and beaves stare at me. "you ARE ignorant," they tell me with their eyes.

yes, yes i am. i'm also 11/10 full. china's full, too. of rubbish (that's non-american english for 'trash'. rubbish. it's on all the trash cans here. i look at those trash cans and i think instead of putting horrible movies in there, not actual trash. 'ever after'? rubbish. throw it in the can. done and done).

when we're 15/10 full, i grab the check. the cashier has an australian accent. he's chinese. i'm weirded out. i'm ignorant.

i exit and it hits me. "no fortune cookies," i say to jeanne and mel.

"yeah, that's an american chinese food thing" they say.

hi, i'm walter, and i'm a dumb american.

hi walter.

"Do it, Do it, Do it"

2009-03-23T05:07:00.000-04:00

Sydney.

Quite possibly the greatest city on Earth, with the exception of it being so incredibly far from the East Coast of the US.

The best way to explain Sydney is as follows: the big city/international feel of Manhattan + the trendiness of Seattle + the cleanliness and outdoorsy-ness of San Francisco.

I adore it, already. The weather has been rather warm - much warmer than we expected. It's been between 75 & 85 degrees on a regular basis. All of us lament not bringing more shorts/sundresses. Veronica - our host - tells us that for about a week in the summer it gets to around 112 degrees.

That is flipping hot.

I haven't even told you the worst part about that: Australia does not have central air conditioning.

But despite the hot summer weather (which won't be around for a good 6 months), I'm enthralled with this city.

We have been down to Circular Quay (pronounced Circular Key) several times to see the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. We've toured the Royal Botanical Gardens, Hyde Park, and Tumbalong Park . We strolled across the Bridge. We've been to Bondi beach, which you've already read about. Today, we went to Sydney Wildlife World, which is in Darling Harbour along the water. SWW contains numerous venomous spiders and snakes. It also contains the cutest freaking Koalas I've ever seen (granted, they are also the only ones I've ever seen). We met Charlie and Ella. They sleep about 20 hours a day, because they have so little energy from eating food with such little nutritional value. They'd wake up every now and then. We paid an extra $20 (between the 3 of us) to go into the Koala area, pet one on the butt (no, really) and take a picture with them.

I wanted to steal one, but Melissa wouldn't let me.

Koalas take me back to my childhood. I couldn't begin to tell you how my brother, John, and I got obsessed with Koalas, but we did. I distinctly remember having a stuffed Koala named Joey. John had one named Ben and a second one later, but I don't remember his name. I had an earlier Koala, too, but I also don't remember his name. They were ALWAYS boys. We also had statues from zoos that were koalas. Mel gave me a koala clip that lived on my ceiling fan as encouragement to save money to do this whole Aussieland trip. I was so happy to finally meet a real Koala up close. Highlight of my day, I think.

The kangas were really adorable too. Oddly enough, to me, they were laying down on their sides like cows, chilling and sleeping in the shade. Walter commented that maybe this is why we've been sleeping so much here: 'everything in Australia sleeps a lot.' It's true - we have been going to bed much earlier than we expected. But when you're out walking around in downtown Sydney for 8-10 hours, the last thing you want to do upon arriving home is go back out again. So we hibernate for the evening.

We also saw a few other random Aussie animals. The spider/kanga guy liked me. I like Australian men.

In addition, we have spent every single day thus far in a park of some sort, which has been so relaxing. We've taken books every day, but today is the first day any of us bothered to read. And we only read for probably 10 minutes. There's just so much to absorb, to discuss.

Melissa and Walter like to climb trees. I forgot not to wear a dress for only this reason, so I end up taunting them from below, trying to get them to jump 10 feet from their branch to the ground. In all seriousness, I used to do this when I was 10 years old (from the top of the monkey bars) and I don't get why they are so scared.

"Are you going to pay my medical bills if I break my ankle?" Mel asks me. I nod convincingly, replying, "Your travel insurance covers that!" She looks freaked out, and I keep saying, "Do it. Do it. Do it." She then asks if I'll feel bad if she breaks her ankle, and I tell her, "Nope. It's your decision, your action. I'm not making you jump." She looks indignant as she chooses the safer way down. I call Walt "ENTWuss" and he calls me the devil on his shoulder.

When they get down, Mel agrees that the tree wasn't really that far off of the ground. Walt keeps up his charade of it being a silly decision.

ENTWuss.

We stroll back down Elizabeth Street - which we've also been down each and every day we've spent downtown - towards the Starbucks, scouting out a bathroom along the way. Australia, like Europe, is very different about their public bathrooms. They just don't have them. I suppose it has something to do with being a large city or having a large homeless population (which I should interject I haven't seen if they do exist). It's odd to us. We already know the Starbucks doesn't have a bathroom, because we've tried that once already. So we're walking down the street when we spot a 'toilet' kiosk along the edge of Hyde Park.

You have to pay 50 cents to use this toilet. Mel throws her 50 cent piece towards the slot and the door opens from right to left very slowly. We all peer in to check out the inside and the door then slides back into place with Mel inside.

"I feel like I've just been to the future." Mel comments as she comes out. The toilet flushes and the floor washes itself as the door opens. The sink has a soap/water/dryer output in the same piece.

Weird. But cool.

On to Starbucks, where a cappucino is tasty, and a long black is the closest thing to American Coffee/Cafe Americano. We sit on the patio area of Elizabeth street, watching the passer-bys. Random conversations ensue, as usual.

As we walk back down Elizabeth St to catch the bus back to Kingsford, we spot a shirtless Aussie guy playing football in the park with his friends. Mel nudges me and we stop to try to take a picture... because everyone keeps asking us to do so. It's funny, the awkwardness of trying to capture an attractive guy on digital for your friends without being obvious. Mel and I sit down and fake-self-portrait it. Walt is standing in front, watching us,, and I sense his eyes rolling behind his mirrored aviators. We are cracking up, because the picture we take is a horrible attempt. Walt grabs the camera from Mel, pretends to take a photo of us, and somewhat zooms in on Shirtless Guy. Mel and I continue to laugh hysterically as he snaps the photo for us.

Good sport.

So we have captured one cute Aussie on film. And he's not the cutest we've seen. Or even the guy with the best abs, although his abs were pretty rad.

When we were walking down the sidewalk at Bondi, we strode past a guy doing reverse crunches on the bench of the workout area alongside the sidewalk.

I've never seen a legit 8-pack in real life, until now. Even Walt appreciated the guy's physique. I'm fairly certain the guy's career involved maintaining his perfect 8-pack.

From cute Aussies to church.

We went to Hillsong yesterday for the 11am service. It was NOT what I was expecting. We caught a bus to Central Station, where a Hillsong Courtesy Bus came by and took us to the church itself. We were about 15 minutes late, because we didn't plan the bus schedule thing very well. We pull up to the church, which is the city campus, and it's considerably smaller than I expected. We rush inside and take some of the last available seats, near one of the cameramen.

We arrive in time to sing the last song before the speaker comes on. I fall in love with the song; I've always loved Hillsong's style of music. To be honest, most of their songs have the same structure, but there's just something very genuine about it. There must be 10 people on stage singing and playing instruments, plus a group towards the back that acts as a choir. The song isn't released yet - in fact I think they might be recording it next weekend. More on that later.

The speaker is Hillsong's main pastor, Brian Houston, is extremely engaging as he presents James and the 'word' sermon in a slightly new light. He's a funny guy and his accent keeps me on my toes while listening. He calls people who twitter twits (which I find extremely funny) and he speaks of how it can be so easy to read a beautiful blog while completely disregarding the spirit of the person who wrote it.

I found this part to be thought-provoking. If the words are beautiful, but the spirit is angry or bitter, what does that say to be reading it? It set my mind into motion and I'm still considering his point.

We lucked out, because Hillsong is going to be recording their album next Sunday night at the Sydney Entertainment Center. We had been planning to leave Sydney on Saturday, but thought the experience of being part of Hillsong's next album was too much to miss. Therefore, we are staying an extra two nights. I'm STOKED about being there for the worship, with the added benefit of being on the recording itself. Like I said, I adore Hillsong's music!

I suppose this is a good stopping place for now. We are going to go to Manly Beach tomorrow - shout out to Presh Batmanly! One thing I did NOT expect was to be tan after 6 days in Sydney. I'm gonna work on that some more tomorrow, even though the darkest part of my tan came from simply walking around the city.

Off to eat some Asian food - see? I'm growing already!

- JC

Smalls.

2009-03-21T05:19:00.003-04:00

We call him Wally, Smally, Smalls, Walt, and very, very rarely, Walter. Usually when we're telling someone else about him.

He told me a story of how his dad, Walt Sr. (AKA Richard Alpert in some circles), punched a guy in the face once for calling him Wally. But you can tell that deep down, he loves that we've nicknamed him. He is the king of nicknames, I tell him. He warns us that if anyone else starts to call him Smally or Smalls, he's not going to take it from them. It's our nickname for him - nobody else's.

So I'm warning you now. He had a mean gleam in his eye.

The first time I met Walt was the night we went to see Wanted. The movie was horrible, save a few really cool scenes and Angelina Jolie's character's dedication. 6 of us crammed into Gui's Explorer, with someone being stuck in the backseat. Gui's new friend, Walt, shows up to the movie late, and is down a few rows. I'm sitting beside Gui, and he and Walter are tossing comments back and forth down the stairs during the movie.

We walk out to the parking lot, and decide to go back to the house to chill out for a bit. Walt pulls up behind Gui's car to see what the plan is and to follow Gui back to our house. I size him up through the driver's side window, then graciously invite myself into his car so that I don't have to cram into the trunk of Gui's car.

It was only a 10 minute car ride from the movies to our house, if that. I had never even set eyes on Walt before this night, but in that 10 minutes, we had an INTENSE conversation.

I got out of the car wondering what happened and how that developed so quickly. I was kind of shocked by it, I think.

Fast forward several months later, to Walt's birthday in October. Walt and I were associates through Status and he was in our Praxis, so we saw each other regularly. Even so, we didn't really know each other very well.

I found out at Praxis that his birthday was the following night - Friday night. I asked him what he was doing and he gave some nonchalant answer like, "Just something casual, maybe with the family."

Problem? I love birthdays. His plan sounded boring. I love celebrating birthdays. A LOT. (See: Kristin Wiig in surprise birthday video SNL skit). I talked him into going 80s dancing at Backbooth instead. 1) We love dancing. 2) We love 80s dancing. 3) We love birthdays. 4) Why not? 5) Photo Booth.

'Nuff said.

He needed a bit of prodding, but he came out the next night, with his familial entourage.

I don't know if you know Walt's family, but they are pretty rad. Especially at 80s night. They know all the words to every 80s song, even obscure ones. I asked him about it once and his response? "Misspent youth."

Thus began my friendship with Walt. He still teases me sometime about being the 'random girl who threw him an awesome birthday party' and I laugh about it. It just made sense to me.

Fast Forward to Australia.

Walt accompanying us on this trip was entirely unexpected and supremely impromptu. The kid booked his ticket long before he had a visa, or even a passport, and only 2 days after we jokingly proposed the idea to him over steak.

Little did we know that rule #5 would become: When in doubt, eat steak.

Melissa and I did a few 'trial run' short trips within the US to determine our compatibility before traveling abroad for up to a year in a foreign country. DC, Seattle, and NYC showed us that we could get along beautifully for short periods of time.

We didn't have time to do this with Smalls, so lucky for us, he's a great travel companion.

I feel that I should add a tiny snippet of our going away party here: Before we left, we spoke to Precious Batmanly (aka Gary, Walt's best friend) and Richard Alpert (aka Walt Sr, Walt's Dad) about what we needed to know about Walter before we left the states. They gave us great advice on Fences and Eyebrows; without this information, we would be much further behind than we are now.

Walt is very unique. He has this engaging, and sometimes ridiculous, bubbly personality. It's huge, this character of his. He is constantly joking around and nicknaming and quoting movies (he and Mel can do this for hours on end). However, you can have an utterly serious, intense, thought-provoking conversation with him about anything from Quantum Physics to Marriage to Cynicism to Relationships. He said earlier today, that without the 20% of sincere, heartfelt conversation, the remaining 80% would be exhausting.

Strange how that works.

We've only been together for about 2 weeks (maybe a week and a half?) but I feel like we've been good friends forever. It's an odd combination, the three of us, and sometimes everybody gets on my damn nerves. Even me. But with enough music, reflection, reading, or quiet, I return to my deep appreciation of these two souls.

I guess, too, that having two people who can see through me rather easily, one of which is very like me internally and the other who is simply intuitive, is unnerving. Vulnerability was never my strong suit, despite my common claim to be extremely open and have a short fence (shrubs?). Sometimes, I want to hide things from even myself, so it's difficult to be challenged in such a manner.

As this trip progresses, I wonder how our friendships also will. I pray and hope that they strengthen, turning into deeper levels of appreciation, intimacy, and understanding, while maintaining their ease and flexibility. But I'm also realistic in realizing that we are all people and we are all going to have issues with each other. I get on their nerves and they get on mine. I want to be alone sometimes and so do they.

But Smalls, Pudge, and Beaves are sticking to rule #6: Always stay friends, no matter what.

Thanks, pretty eye guy; we appreciate your wisdom.

Stay tuned for the next installment: Why Melissa is Amazing.

look around, tell me what you seeeeeyeeyeyeeyeyee

2009-03-20T16:43:00.002-04:00

looking around the bus, the realization disheartens me: there are more hot guys in this city than hot chicks.

"kate said the australian women she saw in europe were some of the most beautiful women ever."

"yeah, well, that's the problem, i think: they all leave here and go to europe."

as i say this, we pass what must be a soccer field (it's "football, you idiot"/"i'm still american, shut up!"/"you shut up, you're ugly."/"what?"/"yeah, sorry, that was uncalled for."). on this football field are about thirty or so dudes, huddled together, shirtless, glistening.

"there goes the man field," mel says, referring to a joke i made a couple days ago and am still fond of. even though it's a joke, it may be true: they might really grow men on some kind of plantation, cause they are dead sexy. this, of course, is not the point. i don't mind a bunch of hot dudes, i'm just big on balance. (BALANCE...CHECKING! (for you, precious. oh, sorry, i mean gary. nah, i like precious better)).

"jeanne told me that there are some hot dudes here and i expect her to be sending me some pictures" says carolina over im chat. sheesh. at this rate, her account will be shut down due to the influx of picture mails. what do i have to send precious? what treasures do i get to capture on film for him to savor while he sits in his fortress of solitude?

bats. i send him bats.

"at work, they called precious batman."

"they called him precious batman?"

"no, just batman."

"precious batmanly." when i'm ready to have kids, i'm going to invent a time machine, go back to 1986, kidnap 3 year old melissa, and bring her back to the present for me to raise. actually, lemme go back and get 5 year old jeanne, too, and i'll build a treehouse for them and give them lemonade, cause i'm convinced they'd be the cutest two kids ever. pudge and beaves, forevah. forevah-evah. (forevah-evah.)

i'd love to see them in some kind of children's fantasy flic, like the never-ending story. this is perfect, because the sydney opera house reminds me A LOT of the empress' castle in the never-ending story 2. i suppose that would make me the annoying bird, who drops one of his feathers in the water to show pudge and beaves that it's acid. this is fine with me, all to allow for the possibility that the two of them could go on these kinds of adventures.

pudge: this place is so beautiful. i want a hamburger.

beaves: FALCOR!

(enter FALCOR, creepy lizard dog. they hop on him and whisk away, disappearing as a rainbow into the sky.)

SCENE

on the rocks

2009-03-19T15:49:00.003-04:00

It's 6:30 a.m. and my first full day in Sydney. The sun is just barely up but my mind is wide awake. I creep out of bed, trying not to wake Walt and Jeanne and head for the dining room. The forecast had predicted clouds for the day, but the sky looks completely clear.

I catch up online, chatting with a few friends and answering emails before Walt and Jeanne soon join me. We eat peanut butter toast and fruit and begin to plan our day.

We set our sights on Bondi Beach, 30 minutes (or so we thought) outside of town. This trek ended up taking a bit longer, since we initially took the bus in the wrong direction. Due to this happy accident, however, we discover an enormous shopping mall complete with a Target and K-Mart.

A few hours later, we have navigated the Sydney public transportation system and arrived at Bondi Beach. I look at the sky above and the sand and think, "This is my life."

Walt, Jeanne and I spread our sheet and towel upon the sand. The air is warm and the breeze is perfect. Veronica warned us to stay between the red and yellow flags if we swim in the water. Something about lifeguards paying attention to that section and that you swim elsewhere at your own peril. She also casually mentioned that although people usually don't die from shark attacks, they've been known to lose an arm or leg.

No big deal.

Bondi Beach is a small crescent shaped beach which tapers off into short cliffs on both ends, where we can see foamy water breaking at the base. It's a regular tourist/backpacker stop and the streets are lined with surf shops, hostels and restaurants. The cliffs on both ends look inviting and the three of us vow to explore them later.

Twenty minutes later, Jeanne and I take a stroll down to the water to test out the temperature. It's frigid. We walk a bit further and watch a beginning surf school attempt to master the waves. Many of them fail awkwardly but I can't laugh, since I would be the same.

We return to our blanket. Jeanne puts on her headphones and I dive into this book that my friend Josh lent me. It's called "An Invitation to Discipline" and it's about the process of spiritual formation. There's one chapter in it that explores our Myers-Briggs personalities and our tendency to gravitate to particular forms of spiritual disciplines and neglect others. I'm reading the section about prayer and it makes me think. I breathe deeply and begin to pray. I also begin to fall asleep.

Somewhere in the midst of this, Walt declared he was going to brave the freezing water. He returns, smiling and shiny from his dive into the water. I soon summon the courage and dive in myself a few minutes later. The cold water is shocking for 3 seconds, then refreshing. The Pacific Ocean is saltier than I was expecting.

After a couple of hours, we decide to explore those cliffs on the northern side of the beach. As we round the bend we discover the cliffs actually mask an entire tidal pool that wraps around the shore. Years of incoming and receding tides have carved out a weird, beautiful landscape, covered in barnacles, shells, moss and deep pockets and crevices filled with crabs, fish and other creatures.

We begin to walk, hopping from rock to rock, careful not to trip and fall on the slippery surface. We don't say much to each other. It feels like we have discovered a new planet. Silence seems fitting.

Jeanne seems lost in thought and lyrics as she pads on ahead, silently and agilely negotiating the slippery and rocky tidal pool. She's as sure-footed as a deer. Walt seems as awe-filled at me at the secret beauty we stumbled upon.

I spy a monstrous rock in the distance, jutting majestically into the sky like a proud peacock. With a nod and smile from Walt, I set off to conquer this miniature mountain.

The waves crash and foam around me, spilling over barnacled, mossy rocks, daring me to succeed or be swept away. I circle the rock, finding a lower ledge that seems a bit more surmountable. I grip the edges, finding a handhold and thrust my weight up. I lacerate my leg upon the rock--a gash about six inches long--but I don't care. I've scaled a 250 ton rock that's been perched on Bondi Beach since some monstrous gale swept it upon the shore 97 years ago. Walt is video blogging this moment and I smile triumphantly at him and the camera.

Walt soon follows suit and once again laughs maniacally, claiming the ocean is his. Although I don't see it, he claims the waves crashed up spectacularly, accenting his bellow with natural sound effects.

We stand and stare at the blueish white foam that relentlessly swirls and crashes again and again upon the rocks. Watching Jeanne disappear into the landscape ahead of me and watching the waves crash, I hear a song begin to form in my head. I write the lyrics down. Walt and I stare at the waves some more. It's entrancing.

We look off in the distance and cannot see Jeanne anymore. It is as if the cliffs have swallowed her up. Walt sees her, and suddenly she appears, perched at the top of the rocky cliffs, like a lone Greek goddess on to of Mount Olympus. How the heck did she get up there, I wonder.

Walt leads the way and we scramble upon the rocks, up and up, winding past more rock formations and caves. We circle around, trying to find our way up to the high place where Jeanne is sitting. Walt goes up the difficult way, scrambling up a steep rock face as easily as Spiderman. I opt the roundabout way and soon join them. The three of us sit, high above the rocks and the waves and stare out into the ocean. I feel very small.

I look around me and see broken beer bottles, abandoned blankets and other traces of other people who have come here before us, scaled and scrambled upon the same rocks. We are not the first travelers to sit here and stare across the sea, nor will we be the last.

But as we sit there, laughing and joking and contemplating and wondering out loud as the sun disappears behind us, I like to think that--like each incoming, persistent wave crashing upon the rocky shore--maybe we've changed the landscape a little, just by being there.

Fiji and arrival into Sydney

2009-03-18T01:52:00.001-04:00

It's 6:39 am, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. We arrived into Nadi Fiji's international airport about an hour ago on Air Pacific.

The flight we just disembarked was PHENOMENAL. We found a one way ticket to Sydney through Fiji last September for $755.00. I think we both wondered how legit this airline, Air Pacific, could be when Qantas (the Australian airline) was charging upwards of $1000 for a one way. But we, on a whim, booked the tickets and decided to deal with whatever awaited us in the distant future.

We boarded the airline, row 54, and settled in. The plane was scheduled to depart around 11:30pm PST, and we had gotten up around 8 am that morning, so we were all approaching exhaustion. Add to that the frustrating ordeals the previous hours had contained, and we were definitely ready for a long night's sleep. As we were waiting for the remaining passengers to board, the flight attendant walked by and said: The flight is rather empty tonight, so in about 15-20 minutes, feel free to spread out a bit.

We claimed our rows immediately - all of us successfully securing a 3 person row to ourselves. With those rows came 3-4 pillows and blankets. We popped sleeping pills - just in case - and settled into a long sleep. I think we all slept for 8-9 hours. We woke up to breakfast - fruit filled pancakes and sausage for me; Omelets and sausage for Mel & Walt - and soon arrived into Nadi.

We walked directly out onto an elevated sidewalk and into darkness accompanied by massive heat and humidity. To be fair, it was only 76 degrees, but the humidity made it feel more like 90. Especially considering I was wearing my fur-hooded jacket.

Walter got attacked by the bugs that were previously attacking the light. I've never heard anyone hurl so many curse words at a bug, but it was fairly entertaining.

"That's one fuzzy bug."

We made it through the transit area successfully and are now waiting at Gate 5 for our flight to Sydney in about 2 hours or so. We scored free internet - again thanks to Air Pacific - and sat watching the sun come up over this beautiful land.

I was surprised to look out into the sunrise and see that the land is quite lush and green. I realize, now that I think about it, that I shouldn't have been. All of these islands which were formed by volcanic action are extremely fertile. However, I had in my mind an idea of beaches and sand and deserts. I often don't think things through, I suppose.

So the sun is rising over the green mountains in the distance, casting beautiful whites, pinks, and slight blues over the sky and land beneath it. I tried to capture it through the window with my camera, but it's a lame attempt at best.
===
We got on a plane headed to Sydney about 3 hours after we landed in Fiji. This flight, which was only about 4.5 hours long, seemed infinitely longer than the first 11 hour flight. This seems to be because we slept most of the first flight. We all seem to find ourselves lost in our own books, thoughts, or music on this flight. Finally, we come in over the Pacific and land at Sydney's International Airport.

We stand in line at customs and I admire the native Aussie men. So much to look at. Customs is an absolute breeze, especially compared to the US. The man who is looking over my card asks me a series of questions, ending in: Did you bring any chills from Fiji? I smile my biggest smile and ask in my naive accent: What are chills? Chills, like a chill necklace or bracelet. I smile and shake my head at him. (He means shells, by the way.) I love the accents, but clearly I can't understand it all. Gosh I love the accents.

I ask a cute security guard if I can stand there and wait for Mel and Walt. Of course I can, he tells me. More eye candy as we head out to catch the train.

As soon as I grab my bags and start towards the train, I regret bringing 50 pounds of luggage + a carry on + a laptop bag. If we don't get a car soon, I'm definitely shedding this suitcase. We make our way to the train that heads from the airport down to Circular Quay, which is where Veronica works. Veronica is hosting us while we are in Sydney; she is a friend of Melissa's friend Chalis. The train system is so simple and in just minutes we've arrived at Circular Quay. This is the area of Sydney that overlooks the Harbor/Opera House.

We head straight for Veronica's office, because we've got too many bags to deal with. After about 10 blocks of misery, we make it up the elevator. As we're getting off, we run into a blonde lady who looks like she might know us. "Are you...?" She begins. We nod and ask if she is Veronica - indeed she is. She tells us that she's not feeling well, so she's planning to take us back to her place instead of finishing the day out at work. We grab a bus from Circular Quay down to Kingsford - the area she lives in. As we get off the bus, the smells of the many Asian restaurants overcome us. We are hungry. We couldn't even tell you what time it was the last time we had a meal, because we've crossed way too many time and date zones. We don't even really know what time it is here. We drag our suitcases upstairs (luckily, they have an elevator) and drop them in our home for the next week or so.

Veronica is originally from Canada. She met Melissa's friend Chalis through Bible College. I think they went to Hillsong, but I'm not sure. So Veronica met and married an Australian and she has been living here for the past 5 years. She loves it. She is very sweet and soon takes us out for Thai food. We eat Stir Fry Chicken w/ Garlic sauce and Fried Rice with Tofu. It's pretty tasty, if I do say so myself.

It's almost 5pm as I'm typing now. We are sitting in our makeshift room, which houses a full futon and a twin bunk bed. Smally Wally, as we've nicknamed him, gets the top bunk and Mel and I are going to share the bottom futon. The room is crammed, but it almost makes it feel a bit more like home. We've got very limited internet, because there are no unlocked wireless networks around and Veronica only has 1 hard line. We do a pretty good job at sharing, I think.

Items of note:
- While we were riding the bus from Circular Quay to Kingsford, I didn't notice until about halfway through that we were driving on the left side of the road. Initially, it just seemed like a one-way street. Once I noticed, I was very uneasy for a bit. It will definitely take a bit to get used to this idea, especially if we get a car.
- Veronica affirms that we should try to get a car. She tells us that if we stop by hostel bulletin boards, we should be able to find a good deal from backpackers trying to sell one.
- Veronica also affirms that a cell phone will be a smart idea. I'm pretty sure we're gonna buy a pre-paid with an Aussie number so that we will have the capability to call locally.
- At one point, Mel referenced recent weather as being '50 - 60'. Veronica asked us to convert that to Celsius, but we didn't know the exact number. I think it's somewhere around 20, but I'm not sure. I note that we are going to have to work on this idea, becoming used to the metric system.
- I checked the weather yesterday for this town they call Sydney. Tomorrow is supposed to be around 80. I think we're going to go to the world famous Bondi (pronounced Bond-I) Beach! I'm pretty stoked about this, because I've heard it is amazing. I think it's about a 15-20 minute bus ride.
- The public transportation system here seems amazing. Veronica has told us we can go anywhere from Bondi Beach (pretty far south) to the Blue Mountains (pretty far north) on the metro system. Until we get a car, this is brilliant!

I suppose that is about all the new details for now. My immediate impression of Sydney is that it is amazing. The areas we have been in have been very clean and urban. Hyde Park, as seen from the bus, is beautiful. We drove past a field of males playing football and Mel says to Walter, "Look, there's a whole field of men! Can you appreciate that?" Walter commented, "Oh my gosh, men! They just grow in the field! You can buy man seeds at the store and grow your own men!" I think he might be on to something. There are a ton of hot guys here, I can't even lie. Although the hottest one I saw so far did have a fauxhawk. He would have been much hotter without that... but I can't hate. It's a beautiful city thus far.

- Jeanne

why i hate l.a.

2009-03-18T01:15:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was probably the most stressful day of this trip so far.

I think I just have to resign myself to the fact that I AM scatterbrained, and quit denying this trait of mine every time I do something irresponsible or inane. I tend to be defensive, and chalk up these so-called "isolated incidents" as exceptions to the rule.

Sigh.

This is my long, convoluted way of saying that I lost my debit card.

Yep.

I still am not sure what happened to it. The last time I used it was Saturday night, when I used it to withdraw some money by Big Wang's at West Hollywood. Jeanne swears she used the ATM after me, so there's no way I could have left my card in the machine, but I'm thinking that's probably what happened to it.

Ah well.

Also, I've decided that whatever shape or form hell takes on, it must somewhat resemble L.A.

L.A. is this breeding ground for animosity and unhappiness. The traffic is every bit as horrendous as people claim and there's just way too much concrete, glass and litter for anybody to be truly happy here.

After we dropped off Tiffany at the airport, Walt, Jeanne and I took a detour for breakfast at IHOP before continuing on to Manhattan Beach. This place I have deemed to be the one bright spot on this L.A. trip. There were several streets lined with upscale shops and eateries. A beach pier stretches into the Pacific blue, and there was even a tiny aquarium at the end of it, which we explored. The water was freezing cold, but the sand was actually warm and slightly therapeutic to walk on.

We debated about driving to Malibu Canyon--I would have loved to drive on the Pacific Coast highway for a bit--but we decided there was simply not enough time to drive all the way out there, and then still make it back in time to do laundry and pack before our 11:30 p.m. Monday night flight.

After we were done with Manhattan Beach, we decided to head back to the apartment. Jeanne and I wanted to run, so we ran through the L.A. ghetto around Sunset Boulevard to Hollywood, back down Normandy and then back to Santa Monica Boulevard. I realized that the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack makes me want to run faster than is normal for a human being, so it took everything within my willpower to slow down. When that last song gets going, I just want to sing "Jai hoooooooo" and go and break the sound barrier. Jeanne has to shout at me to slow down. She's absolutely right because there's no way I could maintain that pace for 3 whole miles.

The run was a little rough because of the heat, but that's mostly just because I'm a pansy. The constant crossing streets and waiting for lights to change forced us to take frequent breaks anyway.

After a three mile-ish run, Jeanne needed to ship her refurbished iPod back to Amazon, so we tried to hunt down a Post Office. I mapquested the nearest Post Office. It told us 300 Los Angeles Street. The directions told us it was an easy 13 minutes away.

However, in L.A., you must take the estimated Mapquest time and multiply it by 3 to get an accurate estimate. Or 30.

We get off the exit and only see gargantuan Police Headquarters, City Hall and federal buildings tower before us. Where was the Post Office?

We asked bystander waiting for a bus if she knew where the Post Office was. She wasn't sure but she said she was sure there was one in the federal building across the street. This large, windowless, imposing structure with no parking lot next to it? Yes, that one.

At this point, it was 4:15p.m. and the post office closes at 4:30. There was definitely no time for parking. Unfortunately, I can't drive a stick, so Jeanne asked if I would mind jumping out of the car and mail the iPod for her while she circled the street. I don't mind, so I jump out of the car and start jogging in the wrong direction. I found myself in front of the Police HQ before I realized I was in front of the wrong building.

I'm sure at this point it was 4:20 and there was no time for dilly dallying so I start sprinting. There's a security guard in front. Great. I have to go through security now in order to mail the package.

I put my bag through the X-ray scanner.

One guard pulls out my Canon Powershot from my purse. "Is this your camera?"

Who else could it belong to? "Yes."

"I'm sorry you can't bring this in the building."

Fine. I didn't want to take a picture of the post office anyway, Slim. "Okay. Can I leave it with you then?"

"No."

What? I'm standing there in my workout clothes, a sweaty mess in my jogging shoes. Do I look like a terrorist to you? "Can I please just leave this with you? I only need 5 minutes to go and mail a package."

"Where do you need to go?"

To mail something? Seriously? "The post office. It really should only take five minutes. Can I please leave my camera with you."

Finally, he nods his head. "Just be quick about it."

"Thank you." I make a mad dash for the post office, hoping against hope it's still open and that there is no line. There isn't. I purchase a box and insurance, scribble down the address, pay, and then send the box off into the U.S. Postal Service. 2 minutes to spare.

On my way out, all three guards give me a hard time as they hand me my camera. I don't mind.

Jeanne picks me up and we navigate the hell of L.A. traffic as we look for a Target. Wonder of wonders, there is actually free parking in the Target parking lot for the first hour.

As we round the bend looking for electronics, I see a bald Asian man pushing a cart through Target. Masuka! From Dexter. I'd bet my life on it. Erm. Maybe not.

"Hey, aren't you that guy from that show?" I stutter. Mel's finest moment of eloquence and wit.

"Yes, from Dexter," he replies. Jeanne and I gush about how much we love the show. We probably should have told him how much we hated Season 3. But we're polite. He asks us our names and shakes our hands. Then he goes on his way.

Meeting Masuka in Target and Manhattan Beach are definitely one of L.A.'s rare bright spots.

Jeanne buys her iPod from Target and we head back home. We decide to pump some extra gas to refill Sydney's Ford Focus which she has been kind enough to lend to us. It is at this point as I am attempting to purchase gas when I realize I no longer have my debit card. Oh no.

Jeanne, kind soul that she is, after refilling the tank for me, graciously suggests that I find that Filipino food that I've been craving all week. We're staying near the historic Filipino section of town and there are many Filipino restaurants and grocery stores in this area. Despite the fact that crazy L.A. drivers and traffic are stressing us both beyond belief and making us both edgy, Jeanne senses that rice will make the Asian girl feel better, and insists that we stop to pick up some Filipino food.

I pick up a whole mess of rice and pancit (Filipino noodles) and siopao (meat pastry) for a cool $3.25 in a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that reminds me of my grandma's kitchen back in New York.

Twenty minutes later, I'm happily polishing off the rice, noodles and siopao. Jeanne knows how food does wonders for me when I'm hangry (hungry + angry) and I'm grateful for her presence of mind to stop for food. I'm still anxious over canceling my card, figuring out where to send the replacement card, how the heck I'm going to survive the next 2-3 weeks without any immediate access to cash, do my laundry and pack in under 3 hours when I leave America for probably up to a year.

I sigh and take a deep breath.

I do hate L.A, but I'm on my way to Australia. And I'm pretty okay with that:)

San Francisco

2009-03-14T21:03:00.003-04:00

It's official: we all three have fallen in love with San Fran.

Susie, whom I've already raved about, is a fantastic host. On Thursday morning, now that Leslie and Tiff have tacked on to our trip, we get up and go down to Chrissy Park. This is a park along the bay, which has a stunning view of both the GG Bridge and Alcatraz. Mel and I do a 2 mile run while Les, Tiff and Walt take a stroll towards the bridge. We eat along the water and then decide to walk the 4200 feet across the GG Bridge.

The bridge is currently being painted, so there are people in carts constantly zooming by us. Walter gets hit by a biker who is whizzing by, and turns around to apologize. "I'm sorry, man!", he says, as he throws his hands up in the air. Apparently, the biker mistakes his hand gesture as one of malice and yells something degrading back at Walt. From here on out, Mel and Tiff are his alert system for bikers. I think Walt just gets wrapped up in the conversations and forgets to look ahead.

Les and I beat the three of them across by about 10 minutes, so we sit on an overlook with a beautiful view and wait for them. We then head over to the headlands, which is across the Sausalito side of the bridge. We can see the Pacific from this view. As we walk through the tunnel, we come out the far side and Susie tells us that this is the battery. What she means by this is that there used to be a large gun (similar to that on a tank) that was housed in this tunnel to protect the West Coast during WWII. This fascinates me.

We head back to the house after a few minutes of this peace and calm. After showering and getting ready, we head out to explore downtown San Francisco. We hit up the Fisherman's Wharf for clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl (or chili, for those of us who aren't fond of seafood), and Pier 39 for the California Sea Lions. We then take a cable car - my favorite experience of this city! - from the pier area down to Union Square. We all jump on the right side of the cable car ("Do NOT call it a trolley, Susie tells us, Only tourists call it a trolley!"), on the step that has vertical rails to hang on to. I see the jealousy in the other riders' eyes as they watch the 5 of us giggle with glee. We carry on a conversation with the two people we are standing in front of: they are from upstate NY. When we are lucky enough to travel downhill on the cable car, it really feels like a roller coaster! It is SO much fun. We sing the Ricearoni theme song and Walt and Tiff get through at least part of the Full House theme song. The trip lasts about 15-20 minutes.

We stop in at H&M, Urban, and Forever 21, but few of us bother to buy anything since Mel, Tiff and I have bags exceeding 50 pounds - the airline limit. I kid Tiff because she's come out for only 6 days and her bag is as heavy as my bag for a year. She just nods and laughs. She's the same one who brought 4 bags to Miami when we went to hang out with Marcus for less than 24 hours...

We stroll through Chinatown and head down to Rogue, a local pub that Susie has recommended. Susie meets up with us for dinner around 7, and we all order delicious burgers, except Mel, who has Fish & Chips. We have a game of 'close the door', because the beer garden porch is freezing, but they keep opening the door so that these patrons can get back inside. Finally, when it's my turn to be stealthy, I kick over the bucket and duck back inside, just to have the door shut only halfway. "Fail." I laugh to Leslie and turn back to close it. A cute guy from the porch is about to fully open it back up when I get there, so we compromise at halfway. We get applauded when we leave right at 8pm, because there is a group of about 20 who want to steal our table for trivia. We should have asked them for free beer.

The next morning, we head out to Muir Woods for a 'hike'. Mel keeps calling it a stroll in the woods, which is fairly appropriate. The easy trail, which we start out on, is concrete. Hardly a real trail. We walk through this forest of huge California Redwoods. It's beautiful. We all make jokes about Twilight because the scene is so reminiscent of the forest scenes. "How old are you?" "17." "How long have you been 17?" "A while."

We finally find a route back that involves an actual elevation and hiking trail.

Our next stop is Sonoma, for the winery. We head to Benziger, which is a family owned vineyard. We have a picnic lunch including: Strawberries, Apples, grapes, various cheeses and breads, olive tapenade, wine and chocolate. I love Susie for this idea. I can absolutely classify this lunch in my top lunch category, possibly even at #1. We take a tour of this winery, and find out is a biodynamic vineyard. Susie tells us this is very rare, that it's beyond organic.

As defined by their website:
Biodynamic-is the highest form of organic farming. It goes beyond the elimination of all chemical inputs. It incorporates the environment in and around the vineyard and works with nature to apply the knowledge of life forces to bring about balance and healing in the soil.

For example. they have an insectary. In this area, they plant trees and plants to attract the 'good bugs' that will be predators of the 'bad bugs'. The insects they attract also help to pollinate and other functions that are vital to a good grape crop.

The vineyard as a whole has an attitude to eliminate waste and utilize the environment to its fullest possibility, with efficiency being the goal.

We are all quite taken with this concept of a biodynamic vineyard. We continue down the road to Imagery, a sister vineyard, for a bit more wine tasting. We then head back to Susie's home in downtown San Fran.

Her son, Jonathan, meets us back at her place and we head to a local seafood place, Neti's Crabshack, for dinner. All I can think of is everyones' recent discussion of the Neti Pot, and I'm glad I don't like seafood. Walt and I split the beef brisket, Mel has crab cakes, Tiff ate clam chowder, and Jonathan had fish and chips. We wind up the evening with a hearty theological discussion on the Church's role in Christ's second coming - and walk back to our temporary home.

This is our journey through San Francisco. We have all professed our love and adoration for this city and its beautiful scenery, vibrant outdoor life, weather approaching perfection, neighborly residents, and fabulous eateries. We joke about moving here and sharing a closet (at least 4 of us, to cover the rent). Mr. Lipps tells us that the rent for a 1 bedroom studio in his area (certainly one of the most expensive areas, if not the most expensive) is roughly $2500. We all sigh and realize that we will probably never be lucky enough to call ourselves San Franciscans.

But we can dream.

After all, Australia was once a dream, and now is a reality.

We bid adieu to our favorite city of the trip and fly into LA this afternoon. Tiff was scheduled to fly a United flight mirroring our time frames, but she's stuck at the airport even now (4 hours later) because of mechanical failures.

We are here until Monday night at 11:30pm, when our flight will depart LAX for Fiji and then Sydney.

Part of me reflects on the oddity that we've only been gone for 6 days (this time last week, we were at Carolina's for her birthday, laughing at Mad Gab's ridiculous attempt at phonetics). We went to 4 different states (Nevada, Arizona, California) in our first three days here. It's been a whirlwind trip so far, and it's the very beginning. Relationships are evolving and transforming; conflicts have even arisen already. And yet I find myself sitting in this cozy living room near Sunset Strip, incredibly content and excited about the forthcoming days to be spent in a foreign country.

And so our LA chronicles will begin...

blackjack: Mel's perspective

2009-03-12T00:29:00.006-04:00

So a couple of nights ago, Walter and I tested out the blackjack waters of the Hard Rock Hotel Casino.

I have never been in a casino before in my life, much less had any interest in playing blackjack in real life so this accounted for a very interesting--an intimidating--evening. Walter had never been in a casino before either. Jeanne headed for the blackjack tables fairly early on. She's a seasoned blackjack player and hit the tables early so we left her alone to her own devices.

Walt and I really had no idea how to play blackjack. I mean, I know the point is that you get to 21 but that's about it. We were both nervous about looking stupid or uninformed or amateurish, so we casually strolled through the Hard Rock lobby a good two or three times--"casing the joint"-- before chickening out and grabbing a bite to eat at the 24/7 restaurant. Over a 14'' barbecue chicken pizza, we discussed our possible ways to infiltrated this Vegas casino lifestyle with our pathetic, paltry blackjack knowledge.

Walter suggested we google how to play blackjack. I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him. If I were an ENTJ, I would have given him an intimidating eyebrow lift. But INFP that I am, I just shrug skeptically.

But yes, despite my initial protestations, we sunk to those depths.

After polishing off that pizza, we headed upstairs to our hotel room and swiped some free internet from the hotel across the street to look up basic blackjack strategy. We spent a good 45 minutes absorbing information--when to hit, when to stand, how to double down, when to split--always double down on aces and 8's, but NEVER split on 4, you're generally playing for the dealer to bust, not to necessarily beat him/her--and other basic tips that are forever inscribed in this legendary and sacred Blackjack Book of Secrets.

After 45 minutes of perusing websites and quizzing each other in rapid-fire motion, I finally turn to Walter and say "I think it's time we play at a real table." (Or something along those lines)

We descend into the glittery, pulsating room full of slot machines and card tables, and after strolling through and eyeing the tables once more, I felt ourselves cower again before the intimidation, and Walt suggested we grab a drink at the lounge. I quickly agree and exhale a sigh of relief.

We sit at the bar and order a couple of drinks. We decide to have an unofficial practice run on the little electronic blackjack machines at the bar. After a several good runs of playing and not completely being clueless, we finally decide enough is enough.

Well, until we saw the slot machines and once again chickened out on playing an actual table. I actually find luck at one machine, and after putting in a couple of dollar bills, Lady Fortune smiles upon me and I'm suddenly up $88. I taper off at around $70 total.

Feeling lucky, Walt and I decide that enough is enough. It's time for real blackjack.

We stroll over to a $10 minimum table and try to act like we know what we're doing. Walt promptly loses the first $10 he puts down. We soon realize it's probably better start much higher than the minimum bet. I feel better just watching Walter, alternately reminding him of what Google taught us about blackjack, berating him when he stands on a 9, and hits on a 17, cheering him on when he actually gets a blackjack. Some rambunctious guys come up behind us and join in on the cheering, making us feel like a million bucks.

Although we lose all our money, we have a blast doing it. I only wish Jeanne had been part of our initial teaching process.

But that's okay, because the next evening, we hit up the New York, New York casino, the three of us finally united under a beautiful, heady evening of cranberry vodkas, vodka tonics, dwindling stacks of chips, laughter, inside jokes, sung and spoken song lyrics, a cool-headed guy named D, a Chinese sage dealer Jenny, a nice man from Colorado, a blur of other faces, more laughter, a string of bad luck, cheers and smiles and time tossed about so carefree and casually.

As we stroll down the street, shortly after seeing the Bellagio water fountains splash and sparkle and soar and finally retreat into stillness, I think to myself: I like this Vegas.

Leavin' Las Vegas

2009-03-11T23:09:00.009-04:00

The alarm goes off; I hear it through my earplugs and I groan. Loudly. "Is it really already 4? I swear I just went to sleep." "You did. We've only been asleep 2 hours."

Lucky for us, we packed last night before we headed out to the casinos, so all we have to do is get dressed and check out. We all stumble, zombie-like, towards the lights and then the bathroom. We finally make it downstairs with all 5 bags and 3 Macs and head out into the early morning. I feel like putting on sunglasses, these Vegas lights are so freaking bright.

We get into the taxi and tell the driver that we are heading towards McCarran airport, United Airlines. There's silence as we drive those 15 minutes; I think we might even have fallen asleep.

Sometime last evening, before we left the Hard Rock for the Vegas strip, we saw about 50 random people dressed in 70s attire. We wondered at it for a few minutes, but had no real idea what they were doing, so we forgot.

This morning, one approaches me after we've checked in. "Hey, where are you going?" "Cali" I say to him, barely acknowledging the fact that he's spoken to me. It's 4-freaking-30 am. Leave me alone. "What part of Cali?" He continues to pester me. "San Fran" I reply, trying to give him the hint by my short answers. "Us, too!" Luckily for me, Walter walks up from finalizing his check-in. I look at the guys and cut them off, "See you on the flight."

We make it to the gate and we are deliriously tired, but mildly entertained by these 70s clad 20-somethings.

We proceed to file onto the plane, promptly falling asleep before we even hit the runway.

We come off the plane and our bags get there just as we are walking up. I swear, I think that we are the only people who checked any bags. The 70s crew just went overnight, so they had nothing. But there is nobody standing by the carousel and no other bags in sight. St

range.

Susie, the freaking awesome lady who we are staying with in San Fran, pulls up to the curb and we pile our bags into her Camry. How the heck she got all of them into that trunk, I don't know - it's much bigger than I could have imagined.

We settle into the car, trying not to fall asleep as we talk to her. She's so nice, so friendly, and so hospitable. We drive to Chrissy Park, which has an incredible view of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. We take a few photos and march back to the car, ready to head home to an early morning nap. We stop at a Romanesque affair that was built for the Worlds Fair sometime in the early 1900s. I'm utterly intrigued by the ladies upon the top. There are these box structures, which are surrounded by 4 women each at the corners. The women are peering into the boxes, with their hands at their temples. Walt muses that they appear to be freaking out at whatever they are looking at. I make a mental note to check out this intentional design later. It's fascinating to me.

** I just looked this up, to find out this:

"There were ochre columns, topped by boxes, mixed with pale green ones. The boxes were originally meant to house small trees and hanging vines, but these were not planted for budgetary reasons. At each corner of the boxes stood statues of women looking inwards, sculpted by Ulric Ellerhusen. They were meant to represent the melancholy of life without art. The colonnades stood along the side of the lagoon, as can be seen in the second image, with the reflection of the tranquil water adding a pleasant element."

(http://www.lib.umd.edu/digital/worldsfairs/essay.jsp?pid=umd:1006)

This meaning and symbolism is magnificent. I love it.

We finally make it back to the 3 bed/2 bath apartment that they live in. My mouth hits the floor: this place is GORGEOUS. We walk into the living room and the dining room, which have amazing and sizable windows that look out on both the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, where we are planning to go later today. Susie, sweet as she is, makes us at home and asks us to treat her home as our own. I wish she was my second mom, even though my real mom kicks ass. (That's a shout out to my moms, even though she'll be mad I cursed...)

We all 3 settle down in our new and temporary bedrooms for a 2 hour nap. Susie leaves to pick up Tiff from the airport, and we all take showers.

I hear Tiff a few minutes before I see her. "Thank you, Oh my gosh, thank you so much!" I hear her exclaim. I know, from an experience with heavy luggage and the stairs earlier today, that some random stranger is helping her lug her huge suitcase up the stairs. I run to the door as Susie opens it and give Tiff a huge, heartfelt hug. She's so cute. She's telling me how the man outside winks at her and says, "Chivalry is not dead!" as he pulls her bag up the stairs to the door. What a sweetheart.

We eat delicious bean soup for lunch with Susie. "A 2 hour nap, a shower, and this freaking soup, and I feel like a brand new woman." I say to the crew in the kitchen. Tiff has nicknamed us MWTJ until Leslie arrives, upon which we will morph into MWJLT. She says we can be a sandwich. She makes me smile.

We leave to tour Alcatraz - all of us are stoked to see this infamous prison. Walt and Mel continually quote Sean Connery from "The Rock" regarding Alcatrez, which then transforms into quoting him from Indiana Jones. They are cracking themselves up with their Irish accents. We arrive on the Island and take a tour of the buildings: the warden's home, the guard's locations (we find out some of them live there with their families, which is unbelievable...), the cells, the rec area, etc. The place is absolutely fascinating. Everyone does the audio tour, which tells of Al Capone, "The Birdman" and "Machine Gun" Kelly. Walter laughs that Al Capone was finally brought in for Insurance Evasion, as he was able to avoid being associated with other crimes he was overseeing.

We leave Alcatraz after about 2 hours and head into Ghiradelli Square. I love this place, and immediately remember my sacrifice for Lent: Desserts. It's bittersweet, because it's a tribute, but I adore Ghiradelli and I have to avoid the free samples. But it's worth it, entirely.

I forgot to mention we finally had an In-N-Out Burger near Fisherman's Wharf. The burgers are decent, but the fries are certainly overrated.

We head back to Susie's house and are now sitting around her beautiful and homey living room, chatting about her trip to London, blogging, photos, etc. Tonight is going to be a chill night, because none of us got more than 5 hours of sleep last night. Leslie comes in around 10 tonight and I'm excited to see her.

Tomorrow promises to be fun, seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, and various other San Fran favorites.

- Jeanne

Jeanne's Blackjack night at the Hard Rock

2009-03-10T13:17:00.000-04:00

Today we are in Las Vegas. We arrived here again last night from the Grand Canyon around 7pm. We checked into the Hard Rock hotel, which is just off the strip, and hung out in the gigantic room for a while, trying to recover from the 5 hour drive.

I needed alone time last night, so Mel and Walter went off on their own. I went downstairs to play Blackjack. What I love about blackjack is that if you sit down at the right table, you can have a fantastic time with the other players. I love players who are excited and optimistic. They stand up, or sit down, and they ask for the cards they want. They do it like they are commanding an army, demanding pushups or something: "Come on Dealer! Give me that 4! You know I NEED that 4!" And sometimes the dealer gives them a 4, and sometimes the dealer gives them a 10, but they usually don't lose their optimism. These are my favorite types of people to play with, especially on a hot table. They dance around, yelling for blackjacks and tens like they are preaching on a Sunday morning, inflamed with excitement and obsession. These are the type of people who make you look across the casino at their table and consider leaving your own perch to join their fantasy world, where the house doesn't always win.

So, I sit at a table with 3 guys (I tend to gravitate to these tables, because often they know how to play BJ by 'the book', thereby increasing my own odds of winning. I sit at 'Third base', as they call it, which is the seat directly before the dealer. I also tend to gravitate to this seat or 'First base' (the first chair, always the first hand dealt). What's interesting is that the luck of Third Base is constantly changing as people sit and leave, where First Base is always the first hand dealt. So I sit by this guy, I forget his name, but I'll call him Timmy for kicks. I sit down by Timmy and immediately like him. "What's your name? I'm Timmy." "Jeanne" I reply, "How's this table doing tonight?" So we carry on the intro conversation that's so common at these places. He makes me laugh, even though he's more of a pessimist than an optimist. He's also one of those guys who consistently interacts with the dealer, calling her by name, tipping her, etc. One of the other guys at my table is quiet, so he doesn't talk much. The final guy is a German from Bavaria. This makes for an interesting time when the dealer changes and a Bosnian-American sits down to give us our cards. She talks A LOT more than the last dealer, giving the German a hard time, casting out her opinions on everything from discipline for her stepkids to German-Bosnian relations to how effed up (her words, not mine) America is, despite her adoration for it.

At first, the dealers are consistently taking my money. I'm winning a few hands, so I stick around, but I get down to about $25 out of my original $100 after about 45-60 minutes. But then our table gets a great shoe (8 decks, the place the cards are dealt from) and I go on a roll. A while later, I'm up about $75, and I leave the table as it cools off. I head to another table after wandering around the Hard Rock lobby a bit, and win another $25.

I find a $10 single deck BJ table (my favorite type of black jack) and stand behind it. There are 5 guys at the table, with 1 seat open. I ask one of the guys if I can sit and he nods his approval. I sit after the deck finishes. These guys are AWESOME. They are what I would label biker-rockers. They have long dark hair. One of them has on a cowboy hat - but it's a rocker cowboy hat, not a genuine one. The first thing the one to my left says as I sit down (because I don't look like your stereotypical BJ shark) is "You better know to hit a 16 against a 17." I smile grandly at him, because I adore his no bullshit introduction, and assure him that I know most of the rules, and I ask if I don't. There is an audible sigh of relief as I tell him that and we play the game. Despite the fact that I lose $87 in probably 15 minutes, which is most of my winnings, this is my favorite table of the night. They tell me their favorite parts of Australia (Brisbane being the best, apparently) and wish me goodbye as the dealer takes the last money I am willing to part with.

This is how I end my evening - walking to the cashier's cage with $113. I realize that many people see gambling as wrong (and it certainly can be addictive and destructive), but it's purely entertainment to me. I walked away $13 richer and several hours of enjoyment later, I am happy to head to bed.

NEVER split fours.

2009-03-10T12:53:00.005-04:00

melissa steps out from bathroom and approaches me. "hey walt? i think it's time we go downstairs and play at a real table."

there's no hesitation from me. "let's do it," i say, getting up. we've been sitting on the right side of the room, the side that gets at least a few wireless bars, looking up the rules of black jack on google. jeanne, the only experienced gambler in the pack, has already left to go play sky masterson at one of the tables, leaving mel and i to our own devices, which don't amount to much in black jack. so far we've got a few basic pointers down: always double down on 11 (thanks swingers), never split fours, and the signals for "hit me" or "leave my cards the heck alone, thanks" (you tap on the table for the former and wave your hand in front of the cards for the latter. several rum and cokes later this will become my favorite part of playing the game).

we head down into the belly of the beast, that being the casino, a veritable maze of slot machines, tables, weird old ladies, and bars. we walk around for a bit, trying to find a table with a low buy in cause we be poor. and we be completely inept, too. after a few minutes of this, i turn to mel. she seems less than enthused. earlier we'd discussed being slightly intimidated by this place, by the lack of genuine human interaction for its own sake. these people are only after our money and it makes us slightly nervous. pansies.

'you wanna go somewhere else and grab a drink?' i ask, hands in the pockets of my hoody, which i've worn for the second day in a row. score.

mel sighs a 'yeah' and we head over to a lounge to grab a few drinks, despite the fact that the drinks are free on the casino floor. again, pansies. luckily for us, there are computer gambling games on the surface of the bar, so we decide to try our luck at electronic black jack. y'know, just to get our bearings. i order a jameson on the rocks and mel gets a cranberry and vodka. the bartender pours us drinks, talks too much and then walks away. i set the cranberry and vodka in front of mel.

'drink this fast,' i say, and mel laughs. she knows exactly what i mean. we play for a while, and are surprised by how much fun it is. we have some trouble remembering the strategies that google taught us, but for the most part we're doing okay. okay in the sense that we keep losing our money, but not embarrassingly so. mel's less terrible at it than i am. i give credit to the cranberry and vodka.

four dollars later, we head out to the casino floor. we don't really know what to do, and earlier we'd flirted with the idea of playing the slots. so we decide to go hit on the slot machines.

"don't worry, walt: I'VE got this," mel says, waving her hand in front of me. it's a little while later and lady luck is mel's new bff. after several drinks she's also become mel to the 3rd power: easy, breezy, beautiful cover--wait, sorry. that's a make-up commercial. she's already won 20 dollars at the machine, which means to me she's become a gambling goddess. i'm sure no one else on the floor would care, but i'm absolutely riveted. i've spent a ridiculous amount on the machines already, only to become an audience member for the mel show.

a few slots later. she's up to 80 dollars now. i'm up to 7 rum and cokes, which jeanne has since told me are also named cuba libras, and i've resigned myself to winning nothing. mel slots away about 20 dollars and decides to call it quits. at this point we decide we're in perfect condition to go play one of the black jack tables. "i don't wanna play, though," mel says. "i just want to sit and watch."

we go to a 10 dollar table. we put in 10 dollars. we promptly lose it. we put in another ten dollars. it's a push, which is basically a draw between us and the dealer. solid, we're in for another go. nope, nope, just kidding. we're out again. 10 more. we do a little better. my movements become quicker; i don't want them to see how lost i am. mel provides support, occasionally telling me when to hit or stand. "i like playing this way," she says. pansy. the guy next to me leans over. "never ask the girlfriend," he says. we giggle like we're at chuck-e-cheese. we're both so brown; we must look like honeymooners. brown, drunk, inept honeymooners.

for a second i reflect on the night. "would we have made jeanne proud?" i think to myself. i want her to appear to us, glowing and slightly transparent, like obi wan kenobi, and tell us what to do.

the dealer gives us two fours. we shoot each other a look. this one we remember.

Grand Canyon cont'd

2009-03-09T22:30:00.001-04:00

This morning got up early to watch the sunrise over the Grand Canyon. Despite the fact that Walter confirmed Gary's assertions that he does in fact snore, I somehow had a restful evening.

I will however be using ear plugs tonight, courtesy of Jeanne;)

We hiked down the Bright Angel Trail, descending below differing layers of rock--some fragile and powdery and others porous. Jeanne said the lower layers of rock are called Pre-Cambrian. Walter just said it was "one thousand years of geology," shortly before declaring that it was "his canyon," matching his ENTJ domineering complex with maniacal, diabolical laughter.

Either way, the view was stunning. Scraping powdery snow from the cold (and often muddy) ground, Walt and I had an impromptu snowball fight, and we let Jeanne get caught in the crossfire. This was shortly after snow began to fall.

We took a trail off the official beaten path. We passed a lady perched on a rock under a tree. She was contentedly reading a book. I imagined her an enigmatic sage or oracle, giving us fair warning of dangers ahead on our trail. We finally reached the end of our hike, and sat on a rock that overlooked the canyon.

This trip has been marked with incredible vistas and beautiful colors. Despite how ridiculously cold the air is here--low twenties with a wind chill factor of who knows how much lower--I've enjoyed just being here and soaking in the views. There are many.

We drove 25 miles east of our hotel to the Desert View which includes a replica of an old watchtower and a view of the Painted Desert and Cedar Mountain. We stopped inside a snack bar to take refuge from the cold. Jeanne brilliantly surmised that they should have hot chocolate and indeed they did. We sat and sipped cocoa and watched through the window as people passed by--impish children with funny hair flopping in the wind, smiling old women with erratically colored socks, frazzled Japanese parents chasing after runaway children, pairs of men and women (we imagine them to be best friends of 40+ years), and even crazy Scottish tourists. It's entertaining to imagine people's stories and what relationships and circumstances brought them to the Canyon with the company they keep.

I'm sitting in the car, heading north on route 64, the Grand Canyon at our backs, and the ocean of air still swelling all around. The wind here sounds like an ocean and the canyon is the sea. Jeanne is singing softly under her breath while Walter sleeps in the backseat. Vegas looms before us and we are soon leaving natural beauty for manmade glitz.

To be continued...

the Grand Canyon

2009-03-09T11:37:00.001-04:00

This is our first impression of the Grand Canyon, following a 5 hour drive from Las Vegas...

Sunday, 3/8/09

2009-03-09T10:53:00.002-04:00

Dawn broke over Orlando today, pushing us into a new era and a new perspective. Melissa, Walter and I (MJW, henceforth) flew out of Orlando International today on US Airways at 8:30am. We flew into Las Vegas around 10:30am local time. We grabbed our bags, rented a car from Budget, and headed south on 93.

Just outside of Vegas, we got stuck in traffic headed towards the Hoover Dam. They are building a super highway, which appears almost complete, to avoid the 2 lane highway that winds over the dam itself. Unfortunately, until that superhighway is complete, there is about an hour of traffic for those 4 miles. But it was exciting to drive over such a famous landmark!

Currently, we are about 50 miles away from Flagstaff, Arizona. I believe that the entrance to the Grand Canyon park is about 20 miles from Flagstaff, and our cabin is on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, about 5 minutes past the entrance.

We stopped at Cracker Barrel about 20 miles ago, in search of Southern Sweet Tea and a harmonica. We scored both, surprisingly. Melissa was not able to bring her guitar and her musical roots are itching for something to play, so we got a harmonica to feed her urges. She sits in the front seat blowing randomly through the holes, creating chaos. I believe she’s shooting for “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, in tribute to Australia, the movie.

Walter has now taken the harmonica from Mel, and he’s driving 80 miles an hour down I-40 playing the harmonica with one hand, while the other rests on the steering wheel.

We pass a sign that says, “Slower traffic, keep right.” Mel looks at Walt and deadpans, “Harmonica playing drivers keep right.” We crack up, which is a common theme of the day.

Mel flips on the video camera towards the end of their debut with the harmonica, intending to capture this ridiculousness.

Walt is not much better at Over the Rainbow than Mel, but it’s highly entertaining to watch them both try! I’ve no doubt that they will master this instrument in about a day, and we will begin recording songs on Garage Band. Melissa has to have her music.

I have a feeling that this harmonica will last us through many a day during our travels.

Our intentions tonight are to sit along the edge of the Grand Canyon, have a glass of whiskey, and stare up at the sky, void of ambient light. Mel and I have discussed the fact that she and I have an inane ability to discuss a meaningless topic for 2-3 minutes with humor. What is fascinating is that Walter is even more talented at meaningless hilarity than we are. The three of us together can entertain ourselves for hours, while driving everyone around us insane with silliness. I have a feeling that tonight will be the perfect example of this. No distractions, such as the internet, TV, etc, consistently leads to a fascinating time, provided you are with fun people.

===

About 45 minutes later, we’re still driving down the road, listening to Writhe (new version vs. old.) I ask Walter and Melissa to turn up the heat because my nose is starting to freeze over in the backseat. Walter is decked out in a brown corduroy jacket; Mel is wearing a tan coat with her favorite gray hat. I, on the other hand, have refused to put on my jacket in the car. They say they are comfortable, so I start to put on my jacket. Next thing I hear is Mel yelling at Walter, “ACTS OF SERVICE! ACTS OF SERVICE!” and they start tearing off their jackets, despite their confining seatbelts. I, halfway in my own jacket, start cracking up. This effort is solely the result of our conversations earlier this week when we were talking about love languages and the role of such on our trip. They love me.

Walter and Melissa both have words of affirmation listed high on their lists of love languages, and this is not my tendency. We’ve all agreed to work on pouring out love in the ways that each other best receives. Earlier, on the flight I was (sincerely) affirming Walter in a few things. I tell him that his intense eyebrows have a life of their own (definitely a compliment) and that I find him highly entertaining. My next statement is, “I really want a hamburger.” Now, maybe you don’t find this funny, but we certainly did. Apparently, I came across far less sincere simply because I noticed I had a craving. It’s now a random quote added to Mel’s notebook of quotes for our journey.

Love languages: the best way to show you care. Quote books: the best way to make fun of yourself.

===

Last night was COLD. "This like the Artic!" is what Walter said when we walked outside after the sun went down. We stood along the Southern Rim of the Grand Canyon in the moonlight and had a rock throwing contest. We each picked up a big rock and tossed it down, then listened in silence to the echoing crashes below. My first attempt at this was a FAIL, because my rock didn't make it past the little ledge. But I climbed over the rock fence, to the edge, grabbed the rock and threw it over. I think we stayed out there for about half an hour before it became unbearable. We set out to wake up at sunrise this morning, around 6:20 am.

It was a great night at the Grand Canyon. The beauty of this place is truly indescribable. It still blows my mind that this was created solely by erosion.

Pictures to soon follow.

- Jeanne