I have a problem with books. I love them intensely. A deep yearning for all books, a compulsive addiction.
Years ago, I decided to stop acquiring books. Very difficult at first, gradually I've come to terms with my choice. Besides, there's always the library.
So when Tristan called asking me to pick up a book for his auntie while I was in the city, I though nothing of it.
But it was in the fiction section, under "c" and right beside Copeland. Douglas and I have been apart for far too long! And Dahl, right on the next shelf. A collection of Fitzgerald's short stories. I love short stories! Oh wait, didn't Owen say I absolutely had to check out Aline Kominsky-Crumb's graphic novels? Yes, he did!
A few minutes ogling the shelf of Penguin Classics in their ever-so appealing orange and white covers. Past Sci-Fi & Fantasy. Well, not quite: Philip K. Dick on the top and why has it been so long since I've read anything by him?! Wow, someone turned The Master & Margarita -- one of my favorites -- into a graphic novel; it's not very well done. But the graphic novel edition of Metamorphosis looks grand! What a good idea...
***
About an hour later, I rouse out of a paper-&-ink-induced stupor, on the floor surrounded by small piles of books and graphic novels. I stagger to my feet, complete my seemingly straightforward task, and stumble hazy and disoriented into the thick heat of Adelaide.
Right: Adelaide. Australia... I should endeavor to experience real life.
***
Down the crowded walkway, my brain fondly, obsessively, revisits the words, the covers, the bindings, the smell....
Addiction is addition is addiction.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Overheard in Adelaide
Pink-haired woman pushing stroller, under her breath to no one in particular:
I haven't heard that term since elementary school!
Sorry, primary school.
There are too many Guidos in this town.
I haven't heard that term since elementary school!
Sorry, primary school.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Ghostpartol vs Cat-Rabbit
February 21st
Today is the last chance I'll get to check out "While You Sleep," an exhibit of work by ghostpatrol, a fantastic graffiti artist/illustrator. I first came across his stuff on Wooster Collective, but didn't realize he's from Melbourne.
The Gorker Gallery is a fairly new space out in Fitzroy. The previous night had bled well into the early hours of this morning, and I'm feeling like a bit of a zombie, yet considerably agitated at the same time. I can't seem to figure out what's bothering me and drag my feet until the last possible moment before heading out.
The train system in Melbourne is somewhat tricky to maneuver. There are multiple lines linked through the same stations. You can catch trains for several different lines from the same platform, some even going in opposite directions (I can't quite grasp how that works). It's about as hard to explain in writing as it is to figure out in person, evidently.
So I get to the station and I wait. And wait. Between train, tram, and walking in the wrong direction ("continue along Smith" suggests going in the same direction, not doubling back, thanks all the same MetroLink), I make it to the gallery at 6:45pm. They close at 7pm.
But it's a small place, more like an open garage, so it was enough time (although I could have stayed much longer, given the change). The concept is ultra-cool: Cat-Rabbit makes these gorgeous felted-doll creations and made 3-dimensional replications of ghostpatrol's illustrations. The artists' works were installed together. Leaves blown in form the street were strewn over the warehouse floor. The guys who run the place told me they were contemplating actively bringing more in, since it seemed to suit the exhibit to perfectly. Everything about it set me completely at ease.
Should I ever do something crazy like get a couch, next on the list will be some of ghostpatrol's prints, no question.
Today is the last chance I'll get to check out "While You Sleep," an exhibit of work by ghostpatrol, a fantastic graffiti artist/illustrator. I first came across his stuff on Wooster Collective, but didn't realize he's from Melbourne.
The Gorker Gallery is a fairly new space out in Fitzroy. The previous night had bled well into the early hours of this morning, and I'm feeling like a bit of a zombie, yet considerably agitated at the same time. I can't seem to figure out what's bothering me and drag my feet until the last possible moment before heading out.
The train system in Melbourne is somewhat tricky to maneuver. There are multiple lines linked through the same stations. You can catch trains for several different lines from the same platform, some even going in opposite directions (I can't quite grasp how that works). It's about as hard to explain in writing as it is to figure out in person, evidently.
So I get to the station and I wait. And wait. Between train, tram, and walking in the wrong direction ("continue along Smith" suggests going in the same direction, not doubling back, thanks all the same MetroLink), I make it to the gallery at 6:45pm. They close at 7pm.
But it's a small place, more like an open garage, so it was enough time (although I could have stayed much longer, given the change). The concept is ultra-cool: Cat-Rabbit makes these gorgeous felted-doll creations and made 3-dimensional replications of ghostpatrol's illustrations. The artists' works were installed together. Leaves blown in form the street were strewn over the warehouse floor. The guys who run the place told me they were contemplating actively bringing more in, since it seemed to suit the exhibit to perfectly. Everything about it set me completely at ease.
Should I ever do something crazy like get a couch, next on the list will be some of ghostpatrol's prints, no question.
Adelaide and Train Ticket Wisdom
February 27th
I've spent the afternoon staring out at the kite surfers on the ocean, writing away, drinking tea and eating fresh figs, while the boys are off doing sound check for their show tonight.
We've been staying at Michael's mum's, a gorgeous house right on the water. Each day has started out with a morning swim. I haven't eaten this well for almost two months.
The consensus: I must have been very good at some point in my life.
***
Tristan and I made the 8-hour drive from Melbourne to Adelaide on Wednesday. It was cool and rainy when we left in the morning, but within no time on the road, it was blisteringly hot. No air
-conditioning. We both changed clothing when we stopped at the South Australia border. And then again when we made it to Adelaide.
But other than the heat, it was a great journey.
And I got to do a good portion of the driving, first time on the left-side, which wasn't nearly as problematic as shifting with my left-hand (finding 2nd was surprisingly tricky the first couple times).
Tristan was highly amused each time I hit the windshield wipers instead of the turning indicator -- I was too, for that matter.
***
Whenever I mentioned that I was headed to Adelaide, people seemed horrified, without exception. At first, I assumed they were being overly dramatic. After all, I know some very cool people from Adelaide. It's the capital of South Australia, and hosts tons of festivals, including a massive fringe (which is what brings me here).
But again and again, people out-rightly said, "Don't go to Adelaide."
***
We stopped briefly at Mount Lofty for a panoramic view of Adelaide. Looked just as a city should.
By the time Tristan and I got into the city [Canadian "into the city," not Australian "downtown"], it was late enough that we headed directly to Michael's mum's place -- which is about 30 minutes outside of the CBD [Central Business District, synonymous with in the city], ditched our stuff, changed again, and met the boys at a pub near the house.
When we woke up the next morning, we walked through the backyard, across the street, and into the ocean for a swim. And by this point I'm thinking, how bad could Adelaide possibly be?
Over coffee -- I had a short black, which is a single espresso and expect to be bouncing off the walls for the next 4 hours -- the boys give me rough directions for getting to and around the city. Naturally, my map of Adelaide is safely tucked away with the rest of my things in Melbourne.
They drop me off at the train station, wish me luck, and tell me to call if I got stuck. [Did I mention that I lurv that I finally have a mobile?! It's true.]
***
I'm now on the train, marveling at the fortune-cookie inspired proverbs printed on the back of my ticket:
1) To find friendship, offer friendship
2) You'll never get rid of a bad temper by losing it.
If the transit tickets are any indication, good or bad, Adelaide is certainly it's own place.
I've spent the afternoon staring out at the kite surfers on the ocean, writing away, drinking tea and eating fresh figs, while the boys are off doing sound check for their show tonight.
We've been staying at Michael's mum's, a gorgeous house right on the water. Each day has started out with a morning swim. I haven't eaten this well for almost two months.
The consensus: I must have been very good at some point in my life.
***
Tristan and I made the 8-hour drive from Melbourne to Adelaide on Wednesday. It was cool and rainy when we left in the morning, but within no time on the road, it was blisteringly hot. No air
-conditioning. We both changed clothing when we stopped at the South Australia border. And then again when we made it to Adelaide.
But other than the heat, it was a great journey.
And I got to do a good portion of the driving, first time on the left-side, which wasn't nearly as problematic as shifting with my left-hand (finding 2nd was surprisingly tricky the first couple times).
Tristan was highly amused each time I hit the windshield wipers instead of the turning indicator -- I was too, for that matter.
***
Whenever I mentioned that I was headed to Adelaide, people seemed horrified, without exception. At first, I assumed they were being overly dramatic. After all, I know some very cool people from Adelaide. It's the capital of South Australia, and hosts tons of festivals, including a massive fringe (which is what brings me here).
But again and again, people out-rightly said, "Don't go to Adelaide."
***
We stopped briefly at Mount Lofty for a panoramic view of Adelaide. Looked just as a city should.
By the time Tristan and I got into the city [Canadian "into the city," not Australian "downtown"], it was late enough that we headed directly to Michael's mum's place -- which is about 30 minutes outside of the CBD [Central Business District, synonymous with in the city], ditched our stuff, changed again, and met the boys at a pub near the house.
When we woke up the next morning, we walked through the backyard, across the street, and into the ocean for a swim. And by this point I'm thinking, how bad could Adelaide possibly be?
Over coffee -- I had a short black, which is a single espresso and expect to be bouncing off the walls for the next 4 hours -- the boys give me rough directions for getting to and around the city. Naturally, my map of Adelaide is safely tucked away with the rest of my things in Melbourne.
They drop me off at the train station, wish me luck, and tell me to call if I got stuck. [Did I mention that I lurv that I finally have a mobile?! It's true.]
***
I'm now on the train, marveling at the fortune-cookie inspired proverbs printed on the back of my ticket:
1) To find friendship, offer friendship
2) You'll never get rid of a bad temper by losing it.
If the transit tickets are any indication, good or bad, Adelaide is certainly it's own place.
My New Filing System is Unstoppable
I'm not much one for writing down quotations (I greatly prefer capturing the things people say in the every-day), so for the following three to have made it into my book at various points is relatively significant.
Personally, I like the through-lines, despite the large gaps of time between encountering them.
Personally, I like the through-lines, despite the large gaps of time between encountering them.
Time, of course, topples everyone in its path equally... But the thrashing we receive is one of frightful gentleness. Few of us even realize that we are being beaten.
A 'Poor Aunt' Story, Murakami
There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing. And some things folks do is nice and some ain't so nice, but that's as far as any man got a right to say.
Jim Casy, The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
Our being human made us tragic and comic both... The gods both laughed and wept.
I Know This Much is True, Wally Lamb
Ode to a Notebook
Many of you have seen it: my ratty, colorful little spiral notebook. My replacement for the one lost on the TTC, procured at a discount shop on Rideau. The same place I picked up my beloved pair of $3 sunglasses, presently held together with a toothpick.
What I love so much about this little book is that it has sections delineated by bright plastic dividers, allowing for my make-shift day-planner (now home to directions, phone number, and transit routes spanning 3 countries and 2 continents) to live beside my scrawly writing-notes section, without overlap or cross-contamination. Far superior to toting around multiple notebooks, which is what I used to do, inevitably neglecting the catch-all one for the organizational one when heading out for the day.
But alas! all good things must come to an end.
Next in line: a sophisticated Moleskin notebook -- the same used by Picasso, Hemingway, and Chatwin, announces their slogan -- purchased on sale in Toronto in August. Still in its plastic packaging.
Delicious thick, blank fold-out pages await. No more lines, no more spirals, no flimsy paper that can't support the ink of finer felt-tipped pens that make scrawling that much more pleasurable. How glorious!
And yet, I find myself flipping back and forth through Old Faithful, scribbling in my tiniest penmanship in margins, at all kinds of angles, on any available real estate. Starting a new book is always difficult, particularly if the one in question is delightfully decadent.
Perhaps that's all it is.
At any rate, my hunts for writing space have facilitated a revisiting of forgotten notes, jotted down hastily in an attempt to avoid the "what are you writing" queries from those around.
I intend to post some of them, in tribute to my notebook friend and to ease through the transition period.
[Ease through the transition period?! Sometimes, I am so weird.]
So, for those of you who wondered to yourself or aloud what I was scribbling all those times, to those of you I never quite gave a direct answer -- I am the Queen of Deflection, am I not? -- I suppose this will give you some sense of it.
[I'll do my best to date them, so this carnet doesn't become a chronological nightmare.]
What I love so much about this little book is that it has sections delineated by bright plastic dividers, allowing for my make-shift day-planner (now home to directions, phone number, and transit routes spanning 3 countries and 2 continents) to live beside my scrawly writing-notes section, without overlap or cross-contamination. Far superior to toting around multiple notebooks, which is what I used to do, inevitably neglecting the catch-all one for the organizational one when heading out for the day.
But alas! all good things must come to an end.
Next in line: a sophisticated Moleskin notebook -- the same used by Picasso, Hemingway, and Chatwin, announces their slogan -- purchased on sale in Toronto in August. Still in its plastic packaging.
Delicious thick, blank fold-out pages await. No more lines, no more spirals, no flimsy paper that can't support the ink of finer felt-tipped pens that make scrawling that much more pleasurable. How glorious!
And yet, I find myself flipping back and forth through Old Faithful, scribbling in my tiniest penmanship in margins, at all kinds of angles, on any available real estate. Starting a new book is always difficult, particularly if the one in question is delightfully decadent.
Perhaps that's all it is.
At any rate, my hunts for writing space have facilitated a revisiting of forgotten notes, jotted down hastily in an attempt to avoid the "what are you writing" queries from those around.
I intend to post some of them, in tribute to my notebook friend and to ease through the transition period.
[Ease through the transition period?! Sometimes, I am so weird.]
So, for those of you who wondered to yourself or aloud what I was scribbling all those times, to those of you I never quite gave a direct answer -- I am the Queen of Deflection, am I not? -- I suppose this will give you some sense of it.
[I'll do my best to date them, so this carnet doesn't become a chronological nightmare.]
Rad to the Power of Sick
The following eBay posting was read to me by an Aussie. The accent is really needed for its full glory to shine through.
I tried reading it aloud to a friend and could barely make it through the laughter and subsequent tears. And it certainly wasn't the same with my hard vowels and sharp consonants.
This is what I find myself surrounded by.
I think it's top notch.
[Here's the link, in case you need the pictures]
I tried reading it aloud to a friend and could barely make it through the laughter and subsequent tears. And it certainly wasn't the same with my hard vowels and sharp consonants.
This is a max wicked sick BMX. It's a Reliance Boomerang and it's done heaps of maximum extreme stunts. I have mostly done stunts on this bike since forever. Once I did a boom gnarly stunt trick on it and a girl got pregnant just by watching my extremeness to the maxxxx.
Some details about sickmax BMX: Comes with everything you see including: TOPS AS SUSPENSION REAR FORKS!! 2 x wheels 1 x seat I will even thrown my sick BMXing name for FREE - Wicked Styx. Has minor surface rust on handlebars and front forks (easily removed). More rust on rear forks (as shown in pics). Tyres hold air but are pretty old. Basically, it's an old BMX, but it's radness is still 100% in tact.
Tricks I have done on this BMX: Endos - 234. Sick Wheelies - 687. Skids - 143,000. Bunny Hops - 2 (Bunny Hops are gay and my brother dared me to do them, which I did because I'm Rad to the power of Sick). Flipouts - 28.
Basically if you buy this bike you will instantly become a member to every club that was ever invented, worldwide, because you will be awesome. Pick up from Richmond in Melbourne. Throw your hands in the air like you just don't mind.
This is what I find myself surrounded by.
I think it's top notch.
[Here's the link, in case you need the pictures]
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Ali vs The Spider
My first week, I hear Sally say from the other room, "Hmm, I don't like the look of that one."
I went to investigate and found her looking at a modestly-sized, glossy black spider.
"What do you mean 'don't like the look of it'? Is it poisonous?!"
"...no. No, I don't think so. I just don't like the look of him."
And with that, she got the bug spray.
Thursday
As Sally's leaving, I hear from the alcove/hallway outside the apartment, "Don't like the look of that one."
But this is not a medium-sized spider. No. This is a hairy, grey leviathan with rage in his eyes.
I'm up on my spider trivia, though. Likely a Huntsman. Although big and ugly, they're not lethal. They are, however, not attractive and certainly not lovable.
This is not the kind of spider to write anything in a web in an attempt to save a porcine friend.
No, this spider undoubtedly subsists entirely off bacon sandwiches. He's just that kind of mean.
I was in and out of the house several times throughout the afternoon, giving him as wide a berth as possible in the narrow hallway. By early evening, I turned the light on, thinking that would move him along. Didn't budge.
It's now past midnight and I'm looking at him br
azenly sitting there. Maybe he's dead? So I find a little twig and toss it toward him. The reaction? He ever so slightly pulls in two of his legs. That's it.
"Oh, come on!" Maybe vibrations will scare him off, I think. So I get pretty close to him and do a quick shuffle-stomping -- keep in mind I'm wearing sandals -- and he runs... toward me. I scream my highest-pitched, girliest shriek, leap in a flailing manner over him, and unlock the door in milliseconds.
***
But now that's it. I have officially made a mortal enemy. I saw it in his eyes. He's lying in wait for me, no doubt, laughing in his spidery-way every time I scurry-hop past.
I went to investigate and found her looking at a modestly-sized, glossy black spider.
"What do you mean 'don't like the look of it'? Is it poisonous?!"
"...no. No, I don't think so. I just don't like the look of him."
And with that, she got the bug spray.
Thursday
As Sally's leaving, I hear from the alcove/hallway outside the apartment, "Don't like the look of that one."
But this is not a medium-sized spider. No. This is a hairy, grey leviathan with rage in his eyes.
I'm up on my spider trivia, though. Likely a Huntsman. Although big and ugly, they're not lethal. They are, however, not attractive and certainly not lovable.
This is not the kind of spider to write anything in a web in an attempt to save a porcine friend.
No, this spider undoubtedly subsists entirely off bacon sandwiches. He's just that kind of mean.
I was in and out of the house several times throughout the afternoon, giving him as wide a berth as possible in the narrow hallway. By early evening, I turned the light on, thinking that would move him along. Didn't budge.
It's now past midnight and I'm looking at him br
azenly sitting there. Maybe he's dead? So I find a little twig and toss it toward him. The reaction? He ever so slightly pulls in two of his legs. That's it.
"Oh, come on!" Maybe vibrations will scare him off, I think. So I get pretty close to him and do a quick shuffle-stomping -- keep in mind I'm wearing sandals -- and he runs... toward me. I scream my highest-pitched, girliest shriek, leap in a flailing manner over him, and unlock the door in milliseconds.
***
But now that's it. I have officially made a mortal enemy. I saw it in his eyes. He's lying in wait for me, no doubt, laughing in his spidery-way every time I scurry-hop past.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Pint on Punt
Dave is staying at the hostel above a pub, Pint on Punt. Now that's a serious business strategy, is it not? It's karaoke night and the place is packed. Jacqueline and I are signed up to do "Paradise By the Dashboard Light," but it's not looking like we'll get in for at least an hour.
I'm standing near a young guy who is the spitting image of my cousin Mat, right down to the dimples. He seems to know all the words to every song. His friend looks considerably ill at ease.
The next group up starts "Summer Nights." Cousin Mat grabs my elbow and I am instantly Sandy. Despite watching Grease upwards of two hundred times between the ages of 13 and 16, I occasionally consult the screen for lyrics. Mat doesn't waiver once.
Up next: "I Feel Like a Woman." Oh, Shania!
Mat launches into the song. He even has moves.
His friend leans over to me, "And this is where it starts to go terribly wrong..."
***
There are so many characters here:
Moz, who was seriously arguing that sirloin is so named because the cut of meat was so good, it was knighted: Sir Loin. [At first, I thought he was kidding. No.] He also has a phobia of tomato sauce (Aussie speak for ketchup) and hates Queen. How can you hate Queen?!
James, who went to school with Moz but has a very proper British accent. He pretends not to understand a word Moz says.
Josie, Dave's travel buddy, a pint-sized drummer who's constantly tormenting him and enjoys scandalizing him with stories about boys ("Oh now, Josie, don't say that! No, you don't mean it. Go on, girl.")
Aiden, who everyone has taken to calling Elijah, due to his similarity in appearance to Elijah Wood. Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins, mind you. He's been in Australia for 2 months. Two months of hostel living. He tells me in hushed tones, "You may think I'm the worst Irish person ever, but at this point, I'm sick of drinking."
***
Whenever people ask where I'm from, I go broad and start with Canada.
"Oh, where in Canada?"
The East Coast.
After that, the two most common responses are:
1) "Like, Vancouver."
2) "Ah, Québec!"
I'm standing near a young guy who is the spitting image of my cousin Mat, right down to the dimples. He seems to know all the words to every song. His friend looks considerably ill at ease.
The next group up starts "Summer Nights." Cousin Mat grabs my elbow and I am instantly Sandy. Despite watching Grease upwards of two hundred times between the ages of 13 and 16, I occasionally consult the screen for lyrics. Mat doesn't waiver once.
Up next: "I Feel Like a Woman." Oh, Shania!
Mat launches into the song. He even has moves.
His friend leans over to me, "And this is where it starts to go terribly wrong..."
***
There are so many characters here:
Moz, who was seriously arguing that sirloin is so named because the cut of meat was so good, it was knighted: Sir Loin. [At first, I thought he was kidding. No.] He also has a phobia of tomato sauce (Aussie speak for ketchup) and hates Queen. How can you hate Queen?!
James, who went to school with Moz but has a very proper British accent. He pretends not to understand a word Moz says.
Josie, Dave's travel buddy, a pint-sized drummer who's constantly tormenting him and enjoys scandalizing him with stories about boys ("Oh now, Josie, don't say that! No, you don't mean it. Go on, girl.")
Aiden, who everyone has taken to calling Elijah, due to his similarity in appearance to Elijah Wood. Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins, mind you. He's been in Australia for 2 months. Two months of hostel living. He tells me in hushed tones, "You may think I'm the worst Irish person ever, but at this point, I'm sick of drinking."
***
Whenever people ask where I'm from, I go broad and start with Canada.
"Oh, where in Canada?"
The East Coast.
After that, the two most common responses are:
1) "Like, Vancouver."
2) "Ah, Québec!"
On a Sidewalk in Melbourne
I run into people.
I know it happens to everyone, that there are millions of small-world stories, that travellers are particularly prone to bump into each other again and again. Sally ran into a friend she hadn't seen in years in a square in Berlin; they now work together. That kind of thing.
All this I know.
And yet, it still seems to happen to me a lot. There are the what-are-the-chances fun ones.
Twice over three days in L.A.
Or in Toronto: with the exception of this past November, every single time I've been to Toronto since moving away (at least twice a year over the past 4), at some point I run into Serena and Antonio [separately, mind you -- as far as I know, they've never met].
My last night in the city on one such visit, I was slightly disappointed that I hadn't had a chance encounter with Antonio (having bumped into Serena on Queen West), only to get on the packed subway at 2am and sit directly across from him.
Come to think of it, though, that sort of fits: we first met in New Brunswick when I was 12, through mutual friends his family was visiting. About 10 years later, I'm living in Toronto and having a pint with some friends. Antonio is the server and he puts it together.
I'm the first to admit I'm completely baby-faced and haven't changed all that much, but still, it was a dark patio. And I was a decade older. What are the chances, right?
[Side note: I end up getting a job at the same bar not a month later.]
But I digress.
Then there are the serendipitous, perfect-timing ones. Like biking past Dan in Nepean almost a year after the first and (until that point) only time we'd met, only to learn that one of his housemates had recently moved out, while I was having a hideous time trying to find a room.
[For the a more detailed account, please consult entries from September-October 2007.]
***
February 18th
Wednesday afternoon, I'm walking down Chapel Street in St. Kilda and who should be coming toward me but Dianne and Jacqueline, the two Scottish girls from Fiji.
I thought they were in New Zealand for 6 weeks and then heading to Queensland. They didn't know I was in Melbourne.
We make plans to meet in the evening. Their intention is to stay in the city and they're on the hunt for work. I have mini-reveries the rest of the day about how great it would be to get a place all together.
When we meet up later, that's the very first thing they suggest.
What are the chances?
Guess Melbourne wants me to stick around a bit longer.
I know it happens to everyone, that there are millions of small-world stories, that travellers are particularly prone to bump into each other again and again. Sally ran into a friend she hadn't seen in years in a square in Berlin; they now work together. That kind of thing.
All this I know.
And yet, it still seems to happen to me a lot. There are the what-are-the-chances fun ones.
Twice over three days in L.A.
Or in Toronto: with the exception of this past November, every single time I've been to Toronto since moving away (at least twice a year over the past 4), at some point I run into Serena and Antonio [separately, mind you -- as far as I know, they've never met].
My last night in the city on one such visit, I was slightly disappointed that I hadn't had a chance encounter with Antonio (having bumped into Serena on Queen West), only to get on the packed subway at 2am and sit directly across from him.
Come to think of it, though, that sort of fits: we first met in New Brunswick when I was 12, through mutual friends his family was visiting. About 10 years later, I'm living in Toronto and having a pint with some friends. Antonio is the server and he puts it together.
I'm the first to admit I'm completely baby-faced and haven't changed all that much, but still, it was a dark patio. And I was a decade older. What are the chances, right?
[Side note: I end up getting a job at the same bar not a month later.]
But I digress.
Then there are the serendipitous, perfect-timing ones. Like biking past Dan in Nepean almost a year after the first and (until that point) only time we'd met, only to learn that one of his housemates had recently moved out, while I was having a hideous time trying to find a room.
[For the a more detailed account, please consult entries from September-October 2007.]
***
February 18th
Wednesday afternoon, I'm walking down Chapel Street in St. Kilda and who should be coming toward me but Dianne and Jacqueline, the two Scottish girls from Fiji.
I thought they were in New Zealand for 6 weeks and then heading to Queensland. They didn't know I was in Melbourne.
We make plans to meet in the evening. Their intention is to stay in the city and they're on the hunt for work. I have mini-reveries the rest of the day about how great it would be to get a place all together.
When we meet up later, that's the very first thing they suggest.
What are the chances?
Guess Melbourne wants me to stick around a bit longer.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Drinks with Sally
Saturday night, and we're back in the city to hear Momenta and sell CDs (double the number have been brought this time).
Sally and I go off for a drink while they're setting up. She orders champagne, "bubbles" as she calls it. I tease her a bit, especially with it being Valentine's Day, but she explains it's super common in Australia; you can get champagne at all the bars. She couldn't believe how expensive it had been in Canada.
Her glass of champagne was a dollar and a half less than my bottle of beer.
"The most bubbles I've ever had was three bottles. I wasn't sick, but I cried... I don't even know what about. Probably because I had three bottles."
Sally and I go off for a drink while they're setting up. She orders champagne, "bubbles" as she calls it. I tease her a bit, especially with it being Valentine's Day, but she explains it's super common in Australia; you can get champagne at all the bars. She couldn't believe how expensive it had been in Canada.
Her glass of champagne was a dollar and a half less than my bottle of beer.
"The most bubbles I've ever had was three bottles. I wasn't sick, but I cried... I don't even know what about. Probably because I had three bottles."
Somewhere on Fitzroy
I'm speaking with an Irish guy named Dave on Sally's mobile. He's also recently arrived in Australia and essentially in the same boat: hardly knows anyone, doesn't have much in the way of plans.
We're trying to organize a way to meet up tomorrow. I'm being thoroughly chastised for not having a phone. Don't have one yet, I keep saying.
"I've only been here 5 days!"
"I got here two weeks ago and I have one."
[I never know how to respond to this argumentation tactic.]
He tells me to meet him somewhere on Fitzroy Street. "Where?"
"There are lots of good cafés along Fitzroy."
"I know, but where? What cross street?"
"Just on Fitzroy."
Fitzroy is not a small street. Moncton, think Main. Ottawa, think Elgin. Toronto, think... um, Harbord? Hey Toronto, d'you realize you have an inordinate number of long streets? It's true!
We settle on me calling him from a payphone somewhere on Fitzroy at around 11:30am.
"You really need to get yourself a mobile."
Yes, thank you.
***
Sally had been trying to help set up a meeting point, hearing only my side of the conversation.
"So, who is this guy?!"
"He's Irish."
"Oh."
Apparently, that answered everything.
***
We met the next day and wandered around the beach and St. Kilda, an area I'm becoming increasingly familiar with. Had cake for lunch from one of the little Euro-style shops. It was really good to talk to a fellow traveller; it's been a surprisingly long week.
We're trying to organize a way to meet up tomorrow. I'm being thoroughly chastised for not having a phone. Don't have one yet, I keep saying.
"I've only been here 5 days!"
"I got here two weeks ago and I have one."
[I never know how to respond to this argumentation tactic.]
He tells me to meet him somewhere on Fitzroy Street. "Where?"
"There are lots of good cafés along Fitzroy."
"I know, but where? What cross street?"
"Just on Fitzroy."
Fitzroy is not a small street. Moncton, think Main. Ottawa, think Elgin. Toronto, think... um, Harbord? Hey Toronto, d'you realize you have an inordinate number of long streets? It's true!
We settle on me calling him from a payphone somewhere on Fitzroy at around 11:30am.
"You really need to get yourself a mobile."
Yes, thank you.
***
Sally had been trying to help set up a meeting point, hearing only my side of the conversation.
"So, who is this guy?!"
"He's Irish."
"Oh."
Apparently, that answered everything.
***
We met the next day and wandered around the beach and St. Kilda, an area I'm becoming increasingly familiar with. Had cake for lunch from one of the little Euro-style shops. It was really good to talk to a fellow traveller; it's been a surprisingly long week.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Friday Night in the City, pt.2
Momenta
The Hunt for Red Shoes is not what had ultimately brought us into the city. But first, a moment for a little Aussie clarification:
"Into the the city?" you may ask, "I thought you were in Melbourne."
I am. Let me explain:
I'm staying in East St. Kilda, which is referred to as a suburb, even though it's more in line with what we'd call a district, neighborhood, or borough.
"The city" is downtown.
Referencing "downtown" in Australia will elicit blank expressions or a rousing chorus of Petula Clark's 1964 hit.
And don't bother with cell phone (mobile), subway/metro (train), or streetcar (tram). You put groceries in a trolley and hire movies, not rent them.
That's not even touching on Aussie slang, which could be the subject of an year-long university course.
Sorry, I mean uni.
***
Sally and I had gone into the city because Tristan and his band, Momenta, were busking. They released their EP last Friday and had been out busking the two prior weekends to promote it and the show, with much success.
And when Tristan said they were busking, I thought he meant, you know... busking.
No, no.
We met the boys down on Swanston Street and they were fully set up with amps and everything. Turns out, before their first attempt at this, they had searched all around the city for some sort of battery system. It took them ages to find something suitable because, as they were told again and again, no one really does what they were looking to do. Which was essentially a full two-set show on the sidewalk in the downtown -- sorry, in the city -- of Melbourne.
By the time we arrived, they had already moved everything down a little because a shop owner didn't want them playing in front of his store. And what was his shop? Yup, a music store.
[He was clearly a bit of a dink: As I'm over looking at an of Montreal poster on the door -- they're playing in Melbourne! -- he bustles passed me and snarks, "What?" I tell him I'm checking out their concert dates. Audible huff. "You have to call early; it's probably sold out." Another huff, turn on heel, storms down street. "Have a good weekend...?"]
And then they start playing. And oh man, are they fantastic! They describe their music as stadium dance pop anthems -- how could you not love it?!
Check them out!
As they're playing, a crowd gradually starts to form. Friends and acquaintances come up and give them hugs and high-fives mid-song (ah, the difference lights, stage, and a roof make in terms of formality). One man stands between the keyboard and drums to have his picture taken... while they're playing! Hilarious.
People start dancing. I get to witness the Melbourne Shuffle first-hand. So rad.
They brought 100 CDs and end up selling them all two thirds of the way through the second set. 30-40 more could have gone, no question.
Last time they were busking, a taxi pulled up and after a minute or two, someone jumped out to buy 3 CDs: one for each of the passengers, and one for the driver.
The Hunt for Red Shoes is not what had ultimately brought us into the city. But first, a moment for a little Aussie clarification:
"Into the the city?" you may ask, "I thought you were in Melbourne."
I am. Let me explain:
I'm staying in East St. Kilda, which is referred to as a suburb, even though it's more in line with what we'd call a district, neighborhood, or borough.
"The city" is downtown.
Referencing "downtown" in Australia will elicit blank expressions or a rousing chorus of Petula Clark's 1964 hit.
And don't bother with cell phone (mobile), subway/metro (train), or streetcar (tram). You put groceries in a trolley and hire movies, not rent them.
That's not even touching on Aussie slang, which could be the subject of an year-long university course.
Sorry, I mean uni.
***
Sally and I had gone into the city because Tristan and his band, Momenta, were busking. They released their EP last Friday and had been out busking the two prior weekends to promote it and the show, with much success.
And when Tristan said they were busking, I thought he meant, you know... busking.
No, no.
We met the boys down on Swanston Street and they were fully set up with amps and everything. Turns out, before their first attempt at this, they had searched all around the city for some sort of battery system. It took them ages to find something suitable because, as they were told again and again, no one really does what they were looking to do. Which was essentially a full two-set show on the sidewalk in the downtown -- sorry, in the city -- of Melbourne.
By the time we arrived, they had already moved everything down a little because a shop owner didn't want them playing in front of his store. And what was his shop? Yup, a music store.
[He was clearly a bit of a dink: As I'm over looking at an of Montreal poster on the door -- they're playing in Melbourne! -- he bustles passed me and snarks, "What?" I tell him I'm checking out their concert dates. Audible huff. "You have to call early; it's probably sold out." Another huff, turn on heel, storms down street. "Have a good weekend...?"]
And then they start playing. And oh man, are they fantastic! They describe their music as stadium dance pop anthems -- how could you not love it?!
Check them out!
As they're playing, a crowd gradually starts to form. Friends and acquaintances come up and give them hugs and high-fives mid-song (ah, the difference lights, stage, and a roof make in terms of formality). One man stands between the keyboard and drums to have his picture taken... while they're playing! Hilarious.
People start dancing. I get to witness the Melbourne Shuffle first-hand. So rad.
They brought 100 CDs and end up selling them all two thirds of the way through the second set. 30-40 more could have gone, no question.
Last time they were busking, a taxi pulled up and after a minute or two, someone jumped out to buy 3 CDs: one for each of the passengers, and one for the driver.
Friday Night in The City, pt.1
The Hunt For Shoes
Sally's brother is getting married next weekend and she is one of the bridesmaids. She needs shoes, red shoes to match her dress. Which is in Adelaide. Simple enough, right?
"But it's not fire-engine red; it's more of a rose-red..."
Like a deeper red? More crimson or burgundy?
"No... like rose-red... you know?"
No, I have no idea.
Which ultimately was fine for me because it meant that I could go through the stores and pick up absolutely anything that was remotely in the red spectrum and ask, "How about this?" [As you may recall from a previous post, that is my favorite technique as a shopping assistant. I don't think I'm all that helpful, truthfully.]
The problem came down to a few things:
1) Sally does not want red shoes.
2) Her mother wants her to have red shoes (the bride doesn't care).
2.a) Her mother is paying for the shoes.
3) Sally knows exactly what style of shoes she wants. That does not, however, mean they exist. Anywhere.
I followed her around, repeating variations of "They don't have to be red," "You could always get them dyed," "Just try them on," "I know they're not red," and "What color is the dress again?"
The result: zero shoe success.
Personal shopping assistant has been removed from my list of potential job options.
Sally's brother is getting married next weekend and she is one of the bridesmaids. She needs shoes, red shoes to match her dress. Which is in Adelaide. Simple enough, right?
"But it's not fire-engine red; it's more of a rose-red..."
Like a deeper red? More crimson or burgundy?
"No... like rose-red... you know?"
No, I have no idea.
Which ultimately was fine for me because it meant that I could go through the stores and pick up absolutely anything that was remotely in the red spectrum and ask, "How about this?" [As you may recall from a previous post, that is my favorite technique as a shopping assistant. I don't think I'm all that helpful, truthfully.]
The problem came down to a few things:
1) Sally does not want red shoes.
2) Her mother wants her to have red shoes (the bride doesn't care).
2.a) Her mother is paying for the shoes.
3) Sally knows exactly what style of shoes she wants. That does not, however, mean they exist. Anywhere.
I followed her around, repeating variations of "They don't have to be red," "You could always get them dyed," "Just try them on," "I know they're not red," and "What color is the dress again?"
The result: zero shoe success.
Personal shopping assistant has been removed from my list of potential job options.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
No Standing, Only Dancing
February 13th
1) I'm well away from the bush fires, but since everyone seems to have heard about it on the other side of the world, you can imagine what it's been like here. Filled out some forms to go volunteer and am waiting to hear back from the various organizations. It's frustrating to read the news, when I'm here not doing much of anything and could so easily be helping.
Tristan just read us the weather forecast: 23 degrees and smoky. Smoky is not an appealing meteorological adjective.
2) Other than the smokiness of today, it's thankfully been rather cool (low 20s; cool by Australian summer standards), but windy until today. The wind is likely worse right now than the desperate lack of rain.
3) Café culture is huge here. There are scads on every street. But the true indicator is McDonald's: a few years back, McDonald's decided to turn things around in Australia, boost their flagging sales by creating a youthful, hip image. Thus, McCafé. A little "café" attached to nearly every McDonald's. I'm not even kidding. I've yet to actually go in (it's just so... weird), but I will let you know if I do.
4) Burger King is branded as Hungry Jack's. Even if the food is exactly the same, I bet it tastes 35 times better at a place called Hungry Jack's. I am such a slave to advertising.
Speaking of which, I chose my bank based solely on commercials viewed on youtube. Commonwealth's were very funny, but NAB had this one for a footy [Aussie Rules Football] outreach program that made me giggle a lot and won out in the end.
5) The title of this post is the name of an exhibit I saw the other day of photography by Rennie Ellis. He started out as a photojournalist but began to focus on day-to-day life and culture in Australia, taking tens of thousands of photos between the 60s and 80s.
There was a section on graffiti, one of which was simply of No Standing, Only Dancing scrawled on a brick wall. Wouldn't you love to see that somewhere?
I'm going to try to get back there before the exhibit closes on the 22nd.
1) I'm well away from the bush fires, but since everyone seems to have heard about it on the other side of the world, you can imagine what it's been like here. Filled out some forms to go volunteer and am waiting to hear back from the various organizations. It's frustrating to read the news, when I'm here not doing much of anything and could so easily be helping.
Tristan just read us the weather forecast: 23 degrees and smoky. Smoky is not an appealing meteorological adjective.
2) Other than the smokiness of today, it's thankfully been rather cool (low 20s; cool by Australian summer standards), but windy until today. The wind is likely worse right now than the desperate lack of rain.
3) Café culture is huge here. There are scads on every street. But the true indicator is McDonald's: a few years back, McDonald's decided to turn things around in Australia, boost their flagging sales by creating a youthful, hip image. Thus, McCafé. A little "café" attached to nearly every McDonald's. I'm not even kidding. I've yet to actually go in (it's just so... weird), but I will let you know if I do.
4) Burger King is branded as Hungry Jack's. Even if the food is exactly the same, I bet it tastes 35 times better at a place called Hungry Jack's. I am such a slave to advertising.
Speaking of which, I chose my bank based solely on commercials viewed on youtube. Commonwealth's were very funny, but NAB had this one for a footy [Aussie Rules Football] outreach program that made me giggle a lot and won out in the end.
5) The title of this post is the name of an exhibit I saw the other day of photography by Rennie Ellis. He started out as a photojournalist but began to focus on day-to-day life and culture in Australia, taking tens of thousands of photos between the 60s and 80s.
There was a section on graffiti, one of which was simply of No Standing, Only Dancing scrawled on a brick wall. Wouldn't you love to see that somewhere?
I'm going to try to get back there before the exhibit closes on the 22nd.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Melbourne
I arrived in Melbourne two nights ago, after travelling about 12,000 miles in just under a month.
Sally and Tristan picked me up at the airport. We met in Toronto almost 5 years ago. Sally has been giving me a crash course in Aussie lingo and they've both been giving me heaps of suggestions of where to go, people I could stay with, places I could work. They're fantastic.
Last night, I heard about a camping spot not too far away. You get a 20% discount if you don't see a platypus while you're there. I had dreams about herds of them, herds of platypus (-es? -ii? No idea).
It hasn't sunk in that I'm here.
At all.
Sally and Tristan picked me up at the airport. We met in Toronto almost 5 years ago. Sally has been giving me a crash course in Aussie lingo and they've both been giving me heaps of suggestions of where to go, people I could stay with, places I could work. They're fantastic.
Last night, I heard about a camping spot not too far away. You get a 20% discount if you don't see a platypus while you're there. I had dreams about herds of them, herds of platypus (-es? -ii? No idea).
It hasn't sunk in that I'm here.
At all.
Oh, Nadi!
February 8th
My friend Brendan warned me about Nadi. The armpit of civilization, he said. Get out of there as soon as possible.
But I had to spend one night there because of the timing between my flight and the ferry. And really, it's not as bad as all that. Nothing to rave about either. The most exciting thing about Nadi was the 50 cent bag of roasted peas and peanuts and what can only be described as sweet turmeric fudge (way better than it sounds). To be fair, it was Sunday and most places were closed.
It's amazing how much work and clean has happened since the flooding just over two weeks ago. And now there's been no water since Friday; a mudslide took out the city's main pipes.
And it's hot. To the point where every Fijian I speak to complains about it. That's hot.
My friend Brendan warned me about Nadi. The armpit of civilization, he said. Get out of there as soon as possible.
But I had to spend one night there because of the timing between my flight and the ferry. And really, it's not as bad as all that. Nothing to rave about either. The most exciting thing about Nadi was the 50 cent bag of roasted peas and peanuts and what can only be described as sweet turmeric fudge (way better than it sounds). To be fair, it was Sunday and most places were closed.
It's amazing how much work and clean has happened since the flooding just over two weeks ago. And now there's been no water since Friday; a mudslide took out the city's main pipes.
And it's hot. To the point where every Fijian I speak to complains about it. That's hot.
Last Day on Naviti
I take an final walk to Turtle Back Outlook after breakfast. The heat is barely tolerable, even this early in the morning. As we get in the smaller boat that will take us to the ferry, I silently kick myself for not taking a swim before leaving. But the water is shallow and everyone was hanging around chatting.
But oh my luck! We leave the island early, get to where we're to meet the ferry and the boys from the island jump in the water. I strip off my shirt and jump in, bra and shorts. It is amazing. The water is azure and everyone is giggling. By far the best swim yet. When it's time to get in, one of the guys hauls in each of the girls, backwards. It looks terribly uncomfortable, so I get myself in. The reaction: "Ah, Canada -- you're strong."
That's right.
But oh my luck! We leave the island early, get to where we're to meet the ferry and the boys from the island jump in the water. I strip off my shirt and jump in, bra and shorts. It is amazing. The water is azure and everyone is giggling. By far the best swim yet. When it's time to get in, one of the guys hauls in each of the girls, backwards. It looks terribly uncomfortable, so I get myself in. The reaction: "Ah, Canada -- you're strong."
That's right.
Practical Advice
Anne, on not wearing underwear the night of her birthday: "I'm not naughty; I'm just practical."
It could have been her Dutch delivery, but I don't think she meant it to be funny.
It could have been her Dutch delivery, but I don't think she meant it to be funny.
The Brits
Gavin: "Would you rather be a crab or a coconut?"
Cath: "Being a coconut would be rubbish! You just hang around a tree your whole life, then get cut down, split open, and filled with rum."
Me: "Doesn't sound like that a bad way to go, really."
***
To Honeymoon Beach with Caroline and Cathy. All the Brits love my accent, of all things! And then from out of nowhere, the girls say I should do voices for cartoons and stuff. I tell them what Pablo had said two weeks ago. They're pleased they've found me a new line of work.
It's a bit of a climb up and down to the beach. The ground is slimy with mud and moss.
Caroline: "Hold up, I'm having a bit of an English moment: there's mud between my toes and I might be sick."
Cath: "Being a coconut would be rubbish! You just hang around a tree your whole life, then get cut down, split open, and filled with rum."
Me: "Doesn't sound like that a bad way to go, really."
***
To Honeymoon Beach with Caroline and Cathy. All the Brits love my accent, of all things! And then from out of nowhere, the girls say I should do voices for cartoons and stuff. I tell them what Pablo had said two weeks ago. They're pleased they've found me a new line of work.
It's a bit of a climb up and down to the beach. The ground is slimy with mud and moss.
Caroline: "Hold up, I'm having a bit of an English moment: there's mud between my toes and I might be sick."
Naviti
After two nights on Kuata, I went to Naviti, one of the bigger islands of the Yasawas. Here I met up with a bunch of other solo travellers. The level of ridiculousness was high.
Jenn and I look very much alike. One of the girls thought we were the same person until she saw us together. Jenn's travels between the islands has been in sync with Tracey and Jamie.
"They're so lovely. They're going to have gorgeous children. I feel so fat around them."
I laugh.
"Well, it's true!"
***
At breakfast, upon the 4th consecutive playing of a ridiculously sappy ballad, Anne from Holland says, "It's a nice song though, isn't it?" She doesn't look up from the leftover pancakes I've given her, even though I'm dying of laughter.
***
I'm down at my favorite hammock at the edge of the grounds, when it starts to rain. And then pour. I huddle next to the tree, while the couples watch me from the dry porches of their bures. Jerks.
My dorm is on the other side. I make a dash for the cover of the dining area. Diane and Jacqueline call me from their porch, the closest to the main building. I'm soaked.
Bryan Adams starts belting "Everything I Do." Again. [Shortly after the rain lets up, Jamie and I ask if we can switch the music and discover the problem: their iPod had been shuffling through only 9 songs for the past two days.]
Jacqueline smiles and asks if we remember the slow songs at school dances. She danced with Andy Wallace to this song. He was wearing a white shirt and smelled good.
The girls smoke and I look out over the water, waiting for the rain to let up.
Jenn and I look very much alike. One of the girls thought we were the same person until she saw us together. Jenn's travels between the islands has been in sync with Tracey and Jamie.
"They're so lovely. They're going to have gorgeous children. I feel so fat around them."
I laugh.
"Well, it's true!"
***
At breakfast, upon the 4th consecutive playing of a ridiculously sappy ballad, Anne from Holland says, "It's a nice song though, isn't it?" She doesn't look up from the leftover pancakes I've given her, even though I'm dying of laughter.
***
I'm down at my favorite hammock at the edge of the grounds, when it starts to rain. And then pour. I huddle next to the tree, while the couples watch me from the dry porches of their bures. Jerks.
My dorm is on the other side. I make a dash for the cover of the dining area. Diane and Jacqueline call me from their porch, the closest to the main building. I'm soaked.
Bryan Adams starts belting "Everything I Do." Again. [Shortly after the rain lets up, Jamie and I ask if we can switch the music and discover the problem: their iPod had been shuffling through only 9 songs for the past two days.]
Jacqueline smiles and asks if we remember the slow songs at school dances. She danced with Andy Wallace to this song. He was wearing a white shirt and smelled good.
The girls smoke and I look out over the water, waiting for the rain to let up.
Adventures in Swimming, pt.2
Before leaving Kuata at 10:30am, I head out to take another swim around the bend, this time dragging Peter and James with me, both from the UK. Both guys bring their snorkeling gear. It takes some coaxing to get Peter in, James couldn't be convinced. The tide is high, but the jump (maybe a foot or two) was too much for him.
"Then just climb down. Come on!"
I grab Peter's mask to see how deep the water was where we jumped in, to reassure James. Mask on, under I go. And there is a shark! Swimming exactly where I had jumped in minutes earlier. In a flash, I'm back at the rocks, clinging there like a monkey.
Annoyed that he missed the shark, Peter reclaims his mask and paddles around looking for it.
"So let me get this straight, jumping into water doesn't scare you, but reef sharks do? Even though you were just snorkeling with some yesterday?"
"I knew they would be there yesterday. I wasn't expecting any here."
"Uh-huh."
I borrow James's mask. We swim out further. Peter taps my arm: "Would you want to know if there were sharks around?"
I roll my eyes, "Um, that was subtle."
"There are two right under us." This time, I stay calm.
The boys have trouble walking back over the rocks, but I'm pretty quick, my feet conforming to the surfaces. I'm informed my pace is hurting their masculine pride.
We see three tiny sharks chasing easy other in the shallows.
I see Moses when we get back to the hostel. Tell him there are sharks where we went swimming the other night. Sharks!
Yes, he says, looking at me as though I told him the sky was blue.
Blue!
"Then just climb down. Come on!"
I grab Peter's mask to see how deep the water was where we jumped in, to reassure James. Mask on, under I go. And there is a shark! Swimming exactly where I had jumped in minutes earlier. In a flash, I'm back at the rocks, clinging there like a monkey.
Annoyed that he missed the shark, Peter reclaims his mask and paddles around looking for it.
"So let me get this straight, jumping into water doesn't scare you, but reef sharks do? Even though you were just snorkeling with some yesterday?"
"I knew they would be there yesterday. I wasn't expecting any here."
"Uh-huh."
I borrow James's mask. We swim out further. Peter taps my arm: "Would you want to know if there were sharks around?"
I roll my eyes, "Um, that was subtle."
"There are two right under us." This time, I stay calm.
The boys have trouble walking back over the rocks, but I'm pretty quick, my feet conforming to the surfaces. I'm informed my pace is hurting their masculine pride.
We see three tiny sharks chasing easy other in the shallows.
I see Moses when we get back to the hostel. Tell him there are sharks where we went swimming the other night. Sharks!
Yes, he says, looking at me as though I told him the sky was blue.
Blue!
Adventures in Swimming
February 2nd
Moses accompanies us on a hike to the summit of Kuata. He heads up most of the activities on the island. The view is breathtaking and surreal. The rain holds off until we start back down, light at first, then pouring. I have my bathing suit on, as I'd been intending on going swimming. Moses says it's the perfect time, as we're all soaked, and that he'd join me.
The rain stops and the late afternoon sun breaks through the clouds as we hit the beach. It's bathwater warm and clear blue, but shallow. I ask if we can go out farther. Moses says it's deeper around the bend. We walk along the beach and clamber over some rocks. The volcanic surface is black, slightly slick, and sharp. Not at all easy on the feet.
I come across what looks like two crabs in a tide pool -- one reddish, one green. Moses tells me to touch the green one's body; it's soft. The reddish one is his recently molted shell.
We climb a bit further before Moses kicks off his sandals, drops his walking stick, and jumps in. I follow. The water is very salty. At first, I think that maybe the icy cold of the Atlantic diverts attention from the saline level of the water, but it is much easier to float here. And oh, do my eyes sting! We swim along the black cliffs and lush green mountains.
Moses stops to take a rest at a shallower point. Not much good for me: he's over half a foot taller and the waves are getting bigger. I can touch at the bottom of the swell, only to get a mouthful of sea water with the crest. It's starting to get dark and I'm antsy to head back. We had left before 6pm and have easily been out for 45 minutes, likely more; I don't want to miss dinner.
I turn to head back when THWACK! my left foot slams into something hard. I try to see whether it's rock or coral, but the salt burns and I can't tell. I look at my foot; it's red and bleeding, but the waves make it impossible to tell beyond that. It doesn't hurt at first, but then it starts to sting.
My mind races as I keep swimming. Put papaya or meat tenderizer on cuts from fire coral. Good, there are papaya trees right by the beach. But it doesn't burn or itch, so it's probably not that.
What was it about live coral? Take it out? Or don't take it out. Well, there's a barrel of insight. How can you not remember which it is?! Because I really didn't think I'd be kicking coral regularly, geesh.
This back-and-forth is interrupted by a yelp from Moses, followed by cursing. I swim back. He hit his knee on a big rock, aggravating an old rugby injury, and can't move his foot. I circle, asking if I can help, and fighting not to think about the sharks we were going to see snorkeling tomorrow out on the reef or the rapidly-darkening sky.
Moses tells me I'll have to climb up where we jumped off to grab his stuff and he'll meet me further down. I make it back to the rock face and time it to catch the top of the wave -- 1, 2, 3 -- giving me about a 2ft leg-up. Moses pulls himself out of the water further down and limps along the beach with his walking stick, the whole time lamenting that he wouldn't be able to dance after dinner. Who would teach the guests The Bula Dance?!
But an hour later, there he was, full smiles if only favoring his left leg a little.
***
Exhausted from a day of travel and adventure, I hit the hay hard at 9pm. I wake up in the middle of the night to a dog howling and the pitchest black I've ever experienced. My rickety top bunk sways with every move Sariya makes below, rocking me back to sleep with the crashes of waves.
[My foot is fine, just some nasty scrapes.]
Moses accompanies us on a hike to the summit of Kuata. He heads up most of the activities on the island. The view is breathtaking and surreal. The rain holds off until we start back down, light at first, then pouring. I have my bathing suit on, as I'd been intending on going swimming. Moses says it's the perfect time, as we're all soaked, and that he'd join me.
The rain stops and the late afternoon sun breaks through the clouds as we hit the beach. It's bathwater warm and clear blue, but shallow. I ask if we can go out farther. Moses says it's deeper around the bend. We walk along the beach and clamber over some rocks. The volcanic surface is black, slightly slick, and sharp. Not at all easy on the feet.
I come across what looks like two crabs in a tide pool -- one reddish, one green. Moses tells me to touch the green one's body; it's soft. The reddish one is his recently molted shell.
We climb a bit further before Moses kicks off his sandals, drops his walking stick, and jumps in. I follow. The water is very salty. At first, I think that maybe the icy cold of the Atlantic diverts attention from the saline level of the water, but it is much easier to float here. And oh, do my eyes sting! We swim along the black cliffs and lush green mountains.
Moses stops to take a rest at a shallower point. Not much good for me: he's over half a foot taller and the waves are getting bigger. I can touch at the bottom of the swell, only to get a mouthful of sea water with the crest. It's starting to get dark and I'm antsy to head back. We had left before 6pm and have easily been out for 45 minutes, likely more; I don't want to miss dinner.
I turn to head back when THWACK! my left foot slams into something hard. I try to see whether it's rock or coral, but the salt burns and I can't tell. I look at my foot; it's red and bleeding, but the waves make it impossible to tell beyond that. It doesn't hurt at first, but then it starts to sting.
My mind races as I keep swimming. Put papaya or meat tenderizer on cuts from fire coral. Good, there are papaya trees right by the beach. But it doesn't burn or itch, so it's probably not that.
What was it about live coral? Take it out? Or don't take it out. Well, there's a barrel of insight. How can you not remember which it is?! Because I really didn't think I'd be kicking coral regularly, geesh.
This back-and-forth is interrupted by a yelp from Moses, followed by cursing. I swim back. He hit his knee on a big rock, aggravating an old rugby injury, and can't move his foot. I circle, asking if I can help, and fighting not to think about the sharks we were going to see snorkeling tomorrow out on the reef or the rapidly-darkening sky.
Moses tells me I'll have to climb up where we jumped off to grab his stuff and he'll meet me further down. I make it back to the rock face and time it to catch the top of the wave -- 1, 2, 3 -- giving me about a 2ft leg-up. Moses pulls himself out of the water further down and limps along the beach with his walking stick, the whole time lamenting that he wouldn't be able to dance after dinner. Who would teach the guests The Bula Dance?!
But an hour later, there he was, full smiles if only favoring his left leg a little.
***
Exhausted from a day of travel and adventure, I hit the hay hard at 9pm. I wake up in the middle of the night to a dog howling and the pitchest black I've ever experienced. My rickety top bunk sways with every move Sariya makes below, rocking me back to sleep with the crashes of waves.
[My foot is fine, just some nasty scrapes.]
Kuata
February 2nd
Arrive in Fiji at 5:30am, Feb. 2nd after leaving LA at 10:30pm. On January 31st. No 1st of February, 2009 for me.
Board the ferry that travels between the small islands of the Mamanuca and Yasawa chains. Grab a seat on the top deck in front of a group of Aussie college kids so vapid, I lost brain cells sitting in such close proximity. Thankfully, they're headed to one of the "party" islands.
***
Kuata is a prime example of Fiji, which pretty much means paradise. The hostel/resort set-up is owned and operated by the community and 75% of all the money goes directly back into the village.
In the afternoon, a group of us visit the village and the school. Everyone is warm and welcoming. The school children scramble around us to take have their pictures taken.
Arrive in Fiji at 5:30am, Feb. 2nd after leaving LA at 10:30pm. On January 31st. No 1st of February, 2009 for me.
Board the ferry that travels between the small islands of the Mamanuca and Yasawa chains. Grab a seat on the top deck in front of a group of Aussie college kids so vapid, I lost brain cells sitting in such close proximity. Thankfully, they're headed to one of the "party" islands.
***
Kuata is a prime example of Fiji, which pretty much means paradise. The hostel/resort set-up is owned and operated by the community and 75% of all the money goes directly back into the village.
In the afternoon, a group of us visit the village and the school. Everyone is warm and welcoming. The school children scramble around us to take have their pictures taken.
Can a Leopard Change its Spots?
On the flight to Fiji, the man next to me notices my Canadian passport, starts chatting me up.
"Aren't you glad you're a commonwealth citizen? We're so pleased to have Obama now."
Don't get me wrong, I'm elated Obama is president, excited about the hope it's brought to people (which I think will have as much positive effect as any change he directly brings about). But the world wasn't particularly crazy about Americans before W., had they forgotten?
I can't begrudge Americans their pride too much, but come on! Where were they when Bush was re-elected? When I cried no too loud and left the room in tears, scaring my class of Korean kindergarten kids and the secretary who brought me the news.
"Aren't you glad you're a commonwealth citizen? We're so pleased to have Obama now."
Don't get me wrong, I'm elated Obama is president, excited about the hope it's brought to people (which I think will have as much positive effect as any change he directly brings about). But the world wasn't particularly crazy about Americans before W., had they forgotten?
I can't begrudge Americans their pride too much, but come on! Where were they when Bush was re-elected? When I cried no too loud and left the room in tears, scaring my class of Korean kindergarten kids and the secretary who brought me the news.
Beverly Hills
January 30th
Over breakfast, my roommates convince me to join them on a walking tour of Beverly Hills.
Adam, born and raised in Hollywood, is our guide on what he calls the $7 poor-man's tour. With his wild curly hair, near-translucent complexion and (redundancy alert) ill-fitting polyester pants, he looks as though he's been awake for 36 hours, drinking and smoking the whole time. He heckles people in their cars as they drive by, bargains with the gardeners to let us onto different property.
I take pictures of the people in my group taking pictures of celebrities' front gates.
***
Signs all over:
Elect Barry Brucker, City Councillor.
Talk about a name for politics. I'd vote for him.
Over breakfast, my roommates convince me to join them on a walking tour of Beverly Hills.
Adam, born and raised in Hollywood, is our guide on what he calls the $7 poor-man's tour. With his wild curly hair, near-translucent complexion and (redundancy alert) ill-fitting polyester pants, he looks as though he's been awake for 36 hours, drinking and smoking the whole time. He heckles people in their cars as they drive by, bargains with the gardeners to let us onto different property.
I take pictures of the people in my group taking pictures of celebrities' front gates.
***
Signs all over:
Elect Barry Brucker, City Councillor.
Talk about a name for politics. I'd vote for him.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Serendipity and Chuck Berry, with a side of American Cheese
January 29th
After a bit of a slow start. I get down to the kitchen in time to watch everything being cleaned up post-complimentary pancakes. Luanna from Switzerland notices my late arrival and offers a bagel and cheese slice or, I should say, American cheese. [This marks the 3rd time I've had cheese slices in under two weeks. Before then? Years, maybe]. We discuss our plans for the day: she's going shopping in Malibu, I'm going to check out Santa Monica.
One lengthy bus ride later and I'm strolling along the pier, wondering whether I'd bump into anyone from the hostel, since a few people mentioned heaading here.
Giant pelicans swoop in and out of the water, while an assortment of characters cast fishing lines. My favorite is the man in the captain's hat and black & white striped shirt, with forearm guards and a smoke dangling from the left side of his mouth.
Down on the beach, I saunter along, mulling over my next plan of action, when out of nowhere, Luanna bounds up to me. We go back to her towel where she has been sitting with Julie, an animated Latina in her early 50s.
Julie is waxing on at length about love, giving us both sides of conversations between her and her boyfriend (who maybe kinda-sorta has left her), chain smoking all the while. She whips out her cell to show me texts in Spanish. I do my best, asking for clarification on a few words. She wants my opinion: what should she do? I think, "Probably not take my advice," but don't tell her as much.
Her hot pink fake nails can't be beat.
***
Taryn had told me via e-mail to check out her aunt's store in Santa Monica. It's called Seasons and on Montana Avenue. What kind of shop? No idea. Where on Montana? Beats me. With this information, we trudge up the street. Stop into Starbucks around 6th Ave. to get Luanna a coffee and see if they've heard of Seasons. Nope.
Luanna is itching to get back to Hollywood, so I barter to 14th Ave. We'll head back by then, successful or not.
The music catches our attention first: live drumming. We look to the storefront: Seasons -- A Most Unusual Gift Store.
We go in and I introduce myself to Taryn's aunt (definite family resemblance). Her partner, Buddy Helm, is giving a hand-drumming tutorial, which is being streamed live [check us out on the archives: Jan. 29th ~4pm, justin.tv/buddyhelm].
Back in the day, Buddy was Chuck Berry's drummer. He tells a story about being nervous for the first show. Mr. Berry's response: "Doesn't matter if you play bad, I'm Chuck Berry."
Chuck's words of wisdom: "All you need is a good ending so people know when to clap."
***
A few days later, Saturday, I have brunch in Venice Beach with Dan, my acting teacher from York. As we walk along the beach to Santa Monica, I tell him about bumping into Luanna.
The pier is packed. Dan says usually it's only busy like this in the summer. That's when I run into Kae, one of my hostel roommates.
Dan shakes his head, "I've lived here close to 30 years and this never happens to me. You're here 3 days, and it happens twice."
I smile and shrug. Stuff like that seems to happen all the time.
After a bit of a slow start. I get down to the kitchen in time to watch everything being cleaned up post-complimentary pancakes. Luanna from Switzerland notices my late arrival and offers a bagel and cheese slice or, I should say, American cheese. [This marks the 3rd time I've had cheese slices in under two weeks. Before then? Years, maybe]. We discuss our plans for the day: she's going shopping in Malibu, I'm going to check out Santa Monica.
One lengthy bus ride later and I'm strolling along the pier, wondering whether I'd bump into anyone from the hostel, since a few people mentioned heaading here.
Giant pelicans swoop in and out of the water, while an assortment of characters cast fishing lines. My favorite is the man in the captain's hat and black & white striped shirt, with forearm guards and a smoke dangling from the left side of his mouth.
Down on the beach, I saunter along, mulling over my next plan of action, when out of nowhere, Luanna bounds up to me. We go back to her towel where she has been sitting with Julie, an animated Latina in her early 50s.
Julie is waxing on at length about love, giving us both sides of conversations between her and her boyfriend (who maybe kinda-sorta has left her), chain smoking all the while. She whips out her cell to show me texts in Spanish. I do my best, asking for clarification on a few words. She wants my opinion: what should she do? I think, "Probably not take my advice," but don't tell her as much.
Her hot pink fake nails can't be beat.
***
Taryn had told me via e-mail to check out her aunt's store in Santa Monica. It's called Seasons and on Montana Avenue. What kind of shop? No idea. Where on Montana? Beats me. With this information, we trudge up the street. Stop into Starbucks around 6th Ave. to get Luanna a coffee and see if they've heard of Seasons. Nope.
Luanna is itching to get back to Hollywood, so I barter to 14th Ave. We'll head back by then, successful or not.
The music catches our attention first: live drumming. We look to the storefront: Seasons -- A Most Unusual Gift Store.
We go in and I introduce myself to Taryn's aunt (definite family resemblance). Her partner, Buddy Helm, is giving a hand-drumming tutorial, which is being streamed live [check us out on the archives: Jan. 29th ~4pm, justin.tv/buddyhelm].
Back in the day, Buddy was Chuck Berry's drummer. He tells a story about being nervous for the first show. Mr. Berry's response: "Doesn't matter if you play bad, I'm Chuck Berry."
Chuck's words of wisdom: "All you need is a good ending so people know when to clap."
***
A few days later, Saturday, I have brunch in Venice Beach with Dan, my acting teacher from York. As we walk along the beach to Santa Monica, I tell him about bumping into Luanna.
The pier is packed. Dan says usually it's only busy like this in the summer. That's when I run into Kae, one of my hostel roommates.
Dan shakes his head, "I've lived here close to 30 years and this never happens to me. You're here 3 days, and it happens twice."
I smile and shrug. Stuff like that seems to happen all the time.
The LA Overview
January 30th
I love LA. Can't put my finger on why -- maybe because I was only expecting to feel lukewarm about it -- but I do.
The hostel is in Hollywood, an area that is deliciously seedy (what does it say about me that I have an affinity toward the dingier areas of cities?). The hostel -- perhaps most? -- is reminiscent of being in residence first year of university. Fast friends, noisy, communal, plenty of boozing, boisterous fun. The majority of the people are from Australia and the UK and many seem to be coming from or going on a similar route to mine.
***
Wednesday night and a big crowd has decided to go out. It's already well past midnight; I try to help Paul -- who's spent time in the US -- explain the concept of last call (which doesn't exist in the UK or Australia). No use.
Hollywood doesn't see much night time action until the weekend, and our flock roams around, poking in and out of bars, but mostly congregates on street corners, debating which direction to head in.
The predominantly male group wants to find girls.
Paul: "Where have you guys gone out around here?"
James: "Last night, we ended up at a gay bar."
Paul: "You went to a gay bar?"
James: "Well, we didn't know it was a gay bar when we got there, now did we?"
***
And the verdict on Pinkberry?
Oh yes! Yes, please.
I love LA. Can't put my finger on why -- maybe because I was only expecting to feel lukewarm about it -- but I do.
The hostel is in Hollywood, an area that is deliciously seedy (what does it say about me that I have an affinity toward the dingier areas of cities?). The hostel -- perhaps most? -- is reminiscent of being in residence first year of university. Fast friends, noisy, communal, plenty of boozing, boisterous fun. The majority of the people are from Australia and the UK and many seem to be coming from or going on a similar route to mine.
***
Wednesday night and a big crowd has decided to go out. It's already well past midnight; I try to help Paul -- who's spent time in the US -- explain the concept of last call (which doesn't exist in the UK or Australia). No use.
Hollywood doesn't see much night time action until the weekend, and our flock roams around, poking in and out of bars, but mostly congregates on street corners, debating which direction to head in.
The predominantly male group wants to find girls.
Paul: "Where have you guys gone out around here?"
James: "Last night, we ended up at a gay bar."
Paul: "You went to a gay bar?"
James: "Well, we didn't know it was a gay bar when we got there, now did we?"
***
And the verdict on Pinkberry?
Oh yes! Yes, please.
Of Losses: Apples, Knives, Shirts
January 28th
Thought I was being all smart packing some snacks for the flight to LA. And what makes a better snack than fruit, right? And, being a good little Canadian, when I got to customs I checked the box that I had fruit and vegetables, because I did. And they took my apple. Which is fine, but the lady just threw it out! Don't they have a lunch room? It was washed and everything (which was part of the issue, as the sticker was off).
As I was packing my carry-on earlier that day, I tossed in my smaller nearly-empty shoulder bag at the last minute. Did a quick mental scan: liquids, implements of destruction? Clear.
I'm so used to toting around a pocket knife, I completely forgot it was in there, only remembered as they were digging around the bottom of my bag. The woman at the security check felt terrible that I was going to lose my knife and told me I could mail it home for about $15.
I'd had this knife since I lost the last one the same way, when I was 18 or so. I'm fairly certain it was a free-gift-with-magazine-subscription, given to me by my folks. However it was procured, I didn't buy it. The knife was so dull that you essentially had to push it through things; on more than one occasion, I used the backside of the blade with enough success that I didn't notice until I was finished. The scissors couldn't even cut paper. The screwdriver was the most useful, but not $15 + half-a-world-away useful.
Ah, but it reminded me of a story.
***
My friend's sister is notoriously absentminded about her possessions, constantly losing things. Whenever she travels, her bag looks like it's exploded within minutes arriving and she leaves a trail of belongings behind her until the moment before she absolutely has to pack.
During one visit home, she began frantically searching for a prized shirt, to no avail. She stormed about and went upstairs, tossing her room with frustrated futility.
Later, walking past the slightly ajar door, my friend saw her sister kneeling on the floor, defeated, shaking her head and murmuring to herself, "So many losses... so many losses."
I don't know why exactly, but it cracks me up every time I think about it. The reminder was definitely worth the confiscation of a lack-luster pocket knife.
Thought I was being all smart packing some snacks for the flight to LA. And what makes a better snack than fruit, right? And, being a good little Canadian, when I got to customs I checked the box that I had fruit and vegetables, because I did. And they took my apple. Which is fine, but the lady just threw it out! Don't they have a lunch room? It was washed and everything (which was part of the issue, as the sticker was off).
As I was packing my carry-on earlier that day, I tossed in my smaller nearly-empty shoulder bag at the last minute. Did a quick mental scan: liquids, implements of destruction? Clear.
I'm so used to toting around a pocket knife, I completely forgot it was in there, only remembered as they were digging around the bottom of my bag. The woman at the security check felt terrible that I was going to lose my knife and told me I could mail it home for about $15.
I'd had this knife since I lost the last one the same way, when I was 18 or so. I'm fairly certain it was a free-gift-with-magazine-subscription, given to me by my folks. However it was procured, I didn't buy it. The knife was so dull that you essentially had to push it through things; on more than one occasion, I used the backside of the blade with enough success that I didn't notice until I was finished. The scissors couldn't even cut paper. The screwdriver was the most useful, but not $15 + half-a-world-away useful.
Ah, but it reminded me of a story.
***
My friend's sister is notoriously absentminded about her possessions, constantly losing things. Whenever she travels, her bag looks like it's exploded within minutes arriving and she leaves a trail of belongings behind her until the moment before she absolutely has to pack.
During one visit home, she began frantically searching for a prized shirt, to no avail. She stormed about and went upstairs, tossing her room with frustrated futility.
Later, walking past the slightly ajar door, my friend saw her sister kneeling on the floor, defeated, shaking her head and murmuring to herself, "So many losses... so many losses."
I don't know why exactly, but it cracks me up every time I think about it. The reminder was definitely worth the confiscation of a lack-luster pocket knife.
The Internet is Neat
Check out the TED talks. You won't be disappointed.
People from all over the world give 18-minute lectures on topics in their field of expertise. The videos are streamed and the subject matter is astoundingly diverse and far-reaching (apparently, a baker speaks about innovations in bread, but I have yet to come across it).
I recommend William McDonough, not because he's a particularly smooth speaker, but because I've harbored a substantial nerd crush on him for about 4 years. And also Seth Godin, as and overall favorite (so far, anyway).
If podcasts are your thing and the bits I heard last night are any indication, check out Moth Shop & RadioLab for fantastic stories.
And for outright foolishness, Human Tetris or The Wall [a Japanese game show].
Samm's assessment: "That looks tough, I'm not gonna lie to you."
People from all over the world give 18-minute lectures on topics in their field of expertise. The videos are streamed and the subject matter is astoundingly diverse and far-reaching (apparently, a baker speaks about innovations in bread, but I have yet to come across it).
I recommend William McDonough, not because he's a particularly smooth speaker, but because I've harbored a substantial nerd crush on him for about 4 years. And also Seth Godin, as and overall favorite (so far, anyway).
If podcasts are your thing and the bits I heard last night are any indication, check out Moth Shop & RadioLab for fantastic stories.
And for outright foolishness, Human Tetris or The Wall [a Japanese game show].
Samm's assessment: "That looks tough, I'm not gonna lie to you."
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