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.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Top Eight Reasons
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The things we do for church.
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:)
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:)
Saturday, June 27, 2009
How we start our Sunday mornings
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!
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!
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Water-Prismatic-Illusion
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.
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.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Chip Food and Staff
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.
"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
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.
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