April 13th
The next morning, we take a dip in Parker's Inlet, which is about as cold as The Bay of Fundy (and for those not in the know, that = very cold, indeed) before cruising down to The Twelve Apostles.
It's a beautiful day and the twisty road elicits giggles from me at nearly every turn -- a nervous reaction, which ultimately makes me laugh more because how silly is it to laugh when you're scared?
In the afternoon, we traverse The Otway Fly, a tree-top walk through the rainforest. It's cool, but the structure is made of metal and with all the people walking on it, the sound is not unlike three dozen shopping trolleys [carts] being crashed through the forest. Not exactly serene, as David points out.
***
That night, a meal at a roadhouse wins out over chocolate and crackers.
"Now you can say you've been to an authentic outback pub."
We have delicious burgers with a pot of beer, and I lose horribly at pool.
***
Our trip until this point has been limited on the music front. I brought my iPod, but David's iTrip is notoriously temperamental and decided not to work from the outset. That left us with the four cds he happened to have in the glove compartment and no radio after the first hour or so outside Melbourne.
But that last night, fast asleep at the campsite near Johanna Beach, I dreamed I got the iTrip to work. I rolled over and in my foggy half-awake haze told David I knew I could get the iPod to work.
A few hours later, I my dream-skills to the test: iSuccess.
***
On the way back, we stop at Mait's Rest and do a short hike through the rainforest, this time without the clamour. We agree it's vastly superior to The Fly.
And koalas! I saw so many koalas. There's one particular curve in the road that has a whole grove of gum trees and koalas hanging out all over. It's a good thing they were well out of reach because I reallyreallyreally wanted to hug one. Viciousness be damned.
***
We stopped at Bells Beach for the very tail-end of the Rip Curl Pro Surf and Music Festival, in time to squint out the final runs, hear the weekend's top winners, and catch a bit of Ash Grunwald's set.
"Now you can say you've been to Bells Beach AND Rip Curl Pro..."
Yup, that's right: no one can say I haven't seen stuff.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Great Ocean Road, pt.1
April 13th
We are at a complete standstill, the line of cars snaking out in front and behind us beyond our line of vision.
"D'you know the book Go, Dogs, Go by Dr. Seuss?" David asks me.
I tell him how it was a big favorite when my brother and I were little. That when I was about four, I memorized the entire thing, including when to turn the pages, so I could "read" it to Josh. (The event was photo-documented by my mom).
"This kind of feels like that book right now."
"Yeah."
We both knew what we were getting into. Friday of the long Easter weekend on The Great Ocean Road. Anyone leaving Melbourne heading along the coast would be on this single-lane road. And until we got past Bells Beach, where the annual RipCurl Pro competition was going on, the road would be packed.
[Go, Dogs, Go was in fact written by P.D. Eastman. Thanks, Errol!]
***
I like hanging out with David a lot. He has the uncanny knack for suggesting exactly what I'm thinking, often a fraction of a second before I'm about to say it. Which made getting our camping groceries for the weekend a breeze.
He also has this habit of saying ridiculous, frequently hilarious things completely straight, without the slightest hint that he isn't being thoroughly serious. It's compounded by the innocent tone of his delivery and the fact that he never -- never -- so much as glances to see if you're buying it. Whether you miss it, go for it, or add to whatever he's said, he doesn't let on for an instant that it's not the ultimate truth. I find it extremely impressive, especially in the times when I play along, only to get caught up in my own gullibility; it takes intense fortitude not to say, "Wait a minute, I know I'm joking, but are you?"
Sometimes, I think he does it just to check if people are actually listening, and not absently agreeing to whatever is being said.
***
We stop at a hardware store near Angelsea to get some shellite [fuel] for David's camp stove. One of the old guys at the cash asks where we're planning to camp. We tell him we aren't sure yet, past Lorne though.
"Just wanted to know where the fire will be coming from."
***
It's quickly getting dark as we set up camp at Parker Hill. We've neglected to bring a lamp or a proper flashlight and are trying to make due with my cell phone and David's pocket flashlight. It's not long before a small child from the site a few meters away comes over to offer one of his family's lanterns.
"Just give it back to us one day."
***
The tent is up and it's down to the business of dinner. David lights the element of the camp stove and the flame jumps over to the small fuel tank, which has apparently been leaking and promptly catches fire.
In the moment before I get my brain together enough to hear David telling me to grab the water, all I can think of is hardware store guy wanting to know where the fire would be coming from...
That night, we have a dinner of crackers, chocolate, and wine under a brilliant full moon.
We are at a complete standstill, the line of cars snaking out in front and behind us beyond our line of vision.
"D'you know the book Go, Dogs, Go by Dr. Seuss?" David asks me.
I tell him how it was a big favorite when my brother and I were little. That when I was about four, I memorized the entire thing, including when to turn the pages, so I could "read" it to Josh. (The event was photo-documented by my mom).
"This kind of feels like that book right now."
"Yeah."
We both knew what we were getting into. Friday of the long Easter weekend on The Great Ocean Road. Anyone leaving Melbourne heading along the coast would be on this single-lane road. And until we got past Bells Beach, where the annual RipCurl Pro competition was going on, the road would be packed.
[Go, Dogs, Go was in fact written by P.D. Eastman. Thanks, Errol!]
***
I like hanging out with David a lot. He has the uncanny knack for suggesting exactly what I'm thinking, often a fraction of a second before I'm about to say it. Which made getting our camping groceries for the weekend a breeze.
He also has this habit of saying ridiculous, frequently hilarious things completely straight, without the slightest hint that he isn't being thoroughly serious. It's compounded by the innocent tone of his delivery and the fact that he never -- never -- so much as glances to see if you're buying it. Whether you miss it, go for it, or add to whatever he's said, he doesn't let on for an instant that it's not the ultimate truth. I find it extremely impressive, especially in the times when I play along, only to get caught up in my own gullibility; it takes intense fortitude not to say, "Wait a minute, I know I'm joking, but are you?"
Sometimes, I think he does it just to check if people are actually listening, and not absently agreeing to whatever is being said.
***
We stop at a hardware store near Angelsea to get some shellite [fuel] for David's camp stove. One of the old guys at the cash asks where we're planning to camp. We tell him we aren't sure yet, past Lorne though.
"Just wanted to know where the fire will be coming from."
***
It's quickly getting dark as we set up camp at Parker Hill. We've neglected to bring a lamp or a proper flashlight and are trying to make due with my cell phone and David's pocket flashlight. It's not long before a small child from the site a few meters away comes over to offer one of his family's lanterns.
"Just give it back to us one day."
***
The tent is up and it's down to the business of dinner. David lights the element of the camp stove and the flame jumps over to the small fuel tank, which has apparently been leaking and promptly catches fire.
In the moment before I get my brain together enough to hear David telling me to grab the water, all I can think of is hardware store guy wanting to know where the fire would be coming from...
That night, we have a dinner of crackers, chocolate, and wine under a brilliant full moon.
The Social Research Centre
April 9th
"I can't fake being happy about shit."
Hadyn has said this in reference to work. My giggle perplexes him; after all, he's being serious.
But at $21 an hour for laughably easy work, I can fake happy so well that when I smile, my teeth will sparkle and emit a faint ding like on toothpaste commercials.
This is the first time I've really worked at a call centre (excluding the 5 days at Arts Marketing in Toronto many years ago -- the thought of which still makes me shudder). And to be fair, I haven't been at The Social Research Centre that long. But I'm not selling anything and thus, don't have to endure the endless screams of agony as my soul dies.
In fact, depending on the project, you can almost feel good about the work. My current one isn't terribly earth-shattering: asking kids who've graduated in the last year about work and study.
But it does have its moments of hilarity. And there is a guaranteed dose of apathy with every shift. Sometimes you can even hear the eye rolls! It's awesome.
Talking to the parents is pretty funny, too; it's always brief, mostly to figure out when junior will actually be around long enough to do the interview, but a lot of time, that's all it takes to get a crystal view of the family's dynamic.
I also like that almost all the adults, no matter what their cultural background, say, "No worries." So far, hearing it in a thick Russian accent was tops.
***
The people at SRC are pretty chill and laid back. Victoria, one of the supervisors, adores my accent and has told me several times it doesn't matter what I say, she'll love it and think I'm adorable.
She cracks me up: today as I was leaving, she wished me a good Easter and warned me to be careful of Jesus because he comes out around this time of year.
***
Ultimately, I don't know how long I'll stick it out at SRC. With repetitive jobs I've had in the past, the work dreams typically start in after a few months. The summer I was painting houses, for the last two weeks I'd paint all day and then dream I was painting all night.
My first SRC dream came after only 8 shifts. Whew.
"I can't fake being happy about shit."
Hadyn has said this in reference to work. My giggle perplexes him; after all, he's being serious.
But at $21 an hour for laughably easy work, I can fake happy so well that when I smile, my teeth will sparkle and emit a faint ding like on toothpaste commercials.
This is the first time I've really worked at a call centre (excluding the 5 days at Arts Marketing in Toronto many years ago -- the thought of which still makes me shudder). And to be fair, I haven't been at The Social Research Centre that long. But I'm not selling anything and thus, don't have to endure the endless screams of agony as my soul dies.
In fact, depending on the project, you can almost feel good about the work. My current one isn't terribly earth-shattering: asking kids who've graduated in the last year about work and study.
But it does have its moments of hilarity. And there is a guaranteed dose of apathy with every shift. Sometimes you can even hear the eye rolls! It's awesome.
Talking to the parents is pretty funny, too; it's always brief, mostly to figure out when junior will actually be around long enough to do the interview, but a lot of time, that's all it takes to get a crystal view of the family's dynamic.
I also like that almost all the adults, no matter what their cultural background, say, "No worries." So far, hearing it in a thick Russian accent was tops.
***
The people at SRC are pretty chill and laid back. Victoria, one of the supervisors, adores my accent and has told me several times it doesn't matter what I say, she'll love it and think I'm adorable.
She cracks me up: today as I was leaving, she wished me a good Easter and warned me to be careful of Jesus because he comes out around this time of year.
***
Ultimately, I don't know how long I'll stick it out at SRC. With repetitive jobs I've had in the past, the work dreams typically start in after a few months. The summer I was painting houses, for the last two weeks I'd paint all day and then dream I was painting all night.
My first SRC dream came after only 8 shifts. Whew.
Lawn Bowling
April 4th
It's 4:30 on a glorious Saturday afternoon. We've just finished work and are trying to come up with a plan of action. The previous night, however, had been debaucherous and run well into the early hours. On top of that, my body is feeling yesterday's tumble.
At this point, even the idea of action is ambitious.
Hadyn's suggestion of lawn bowling is met with approval, which likely would have been enthusiastic had energy for enthusiasm been available. It was not.
This is my first time lawn bowling. Definitely enjoyable and with a few more attempts, I'll certainly be ready to live it up in my senior years.
***
The best overheard advice, courtesy of the players next to us:
This pearl came complete with actions.
Beautiful.
It's 4:30 on a glorious Saturday afternoon. We've just finished work and are trying to come up with a plan of action. The previous night, however, had been debaucherous and run well into the early hours. On top of that, my body is feeling yesterday's tumble.
At this point, even the idea of action is ambitious.
Hadyn's suggestion of lawn bowling is met with approval, which likely would have been enthusiastic had energy for enthusiasm been available. It was not.
This is my first time lawn bowling. Definitely enjoyable and with a few more attempts, I'll certainly be ready to live it up in my senior years.
***
The best overheard advice, courtesy of the players next to us:
Roll it like you're rolling you grandma.
This pearl came complete with actions.
Beautiful.
The Bike
April 3rd
Early Friday, I head off to find a local bike shop. The back wheel is a bit warped and I'm hoping the spoke tension can be fixed up before it causes too much damage. Plus, the brakes are badly in need of tightening and I don't know how to adjust brakes on a road bike as I've only ever had mountain bikes or hybrids.
I choose Commuter Cycles because their website claims they're for the everyday cyclist. And they loan you a bike while your ride is being fixed. Sold.
I bring my borrowed steed over to the mechanic and ask about the wheel. Nope, too old to adjust, he reports after a short glance. Could get a new one, but we don't have any in stock.
"It'd be about $80." He gives the bike a quick once-over, "And, uh, I don't really think it'd be worth it on this one."
Fair enough. How 'bout the brakes?
"Nope, can't tighten them without having them drag on the wheels."
Not at all??
Shakes his head.
He proceeds to point out all the structural problems in the frame, how the bike really won't last much longer. Can he recommend a decent place to pick up a used bike? No, there aren't any in the city [what?!] and tells me most used bikes end up being around $300+ because of the work put back into them.
This is not helpful.
Sigh. Fine.
"Well, I guess I should buy a little grease for my chain, " I say reaching over for one of the bottles on the counter.
"Um, yeah, I'm not going to sell that to you. The chain's beyond any help that stuff'll do. I'll just put some grease on it now."
"Um... thanks?"
I get on my bike and head back to the house, feeling sorry for the old dear and the inferiority complex the mechanic has undoubtedly given it.
***
A few hours later, I'm biking back from the Queen Victoria Markets in a torrential downpour, laden to capacity with produce. I have just gone through a puddle so deep I was pedaling underwater, my chain completely submerged (so much for the grease, Mr. Bicycle Repairman), not wanting to stop for fear of a crocodile attack [a problem in Darwin during the flooding in February, perhaps an unnecessary concern in Melbourne].
I'm thoroughly soaked and my previously lackluster brakes are utterly useless in their soggy state. There will be no yielding on my part through the round-about from Peel to Royal and opt for a collision with the curb over an otherwise imminent one with a taxi.
And it's over the handlebars and onto the cement, my fall softened ever-so marginally by another immense puddle.
(A week and a half later, the bruises on my legs are still visible.)
***
On the upside, I discovered my bag has impressive water-retention properties, requiring it to be emptied over the sink.
Okay, maybe claiming that fact as an upside is pushing it just a little...
Early Friday, I head off to find a local bike shop. The back wheel is a bit warped and I'm hoping the spoke tension can be fixed up before it causes too much damage. Plus, the brakes are badly in need of tightening and I don't know how to adjust brakes on a road bike as I've only ever had mountain bikes or hybrids.
I choose Commuter Cycles because their website claims they're for the everyday cyclist. And they loan you a bike while your ride is being fixed. Sold.
I bring my borrowed steed over to the mechanic and ask about the wheel. Nope, too old to adjust, he reports after a short glance. Could get a new one, but we don't have any in stock.
"It'd be about $80." He gives the bike a quick once-over, "And, uh, I don't really think it'd be worth it on this one."
Fair enough. How 'bout the brakes?
"Nope, can't tighten them without having them drag on the wheels."
Not at all??
Shakes his head.
He proceeds to point out all the structural problems in the frame, how the bike really won't last much longer. Can he recommend a decent place to pick up a used bike? No, there aren't any in the city [what?!] and tells me most used bikes end up being around $300+ because of the work put back into them.
This is not helpful.
Sigh. Fine.
"Well, I guess I should buy a little grease for my chain, " I say reaching over for one of the bottles on the counter.
"Um, yeah, I'm not going to sell that to you. The chain's beyond any help that stuff'll do. I'll just put some grease on it now."
"Um... thanks?"
I get on my bike and head back to the house, feeling sorry for the old dear and the inferiority complex the mechanic has undoubtedly given it.
***
A few hours later, I'm biking back from the Queen Victoria Markets in a torrential downpour, laden to capacity with produce. I have just gone through a puddle so deep I was pedaling underwater, my chain completely submerged (so much for the grease, Mr. Bicycle Repairman), not wanting to stop for fear of a crocodile attack [a problem in Darwin during the flooding in February, perhaps an unnecessary concern in Melbourne].
I'm thoroughly soaked and my previously lackluster brakes are utterly useless in their soggy state. There will be no yielding on my part through the round-about from Peel to Royal and opt for a collision with the curb over an otherwise imminent one with a taxi.
And it's over the handlebars and onto the cement, my fall softened ever-so marginally by another immense puddle.
(A week and a half later, the bruises on my legs are still visible.)
***
On the upside, I discovered my bag has impressive water-retention properties, requiring it to be emptied over the sink.
Okay, maybe claiming that fact as an upside is pushing it just a little...
Coffee in the City
Iain runs through his to-do list for the day:
1) Get coffee.
2) Try the tram route from here to work.
3) Find a place for tomorrow night.
"Sounds easy enough."
I don't have anything on for the day and decide to tag along. The tram route trial is quickly ticked off the list. We run into Iain's friend Chad shortly after getting to the city. He joins our party and, after hearing the list, suggests Iain add "Get drunk."
"Can it be on wine spritzers?"
Pause.
"Yes, but you may want to have that as a separate item."
Groan. "But then I'll have 5 things to do today!"
"You've already crossed off one and we can go get coffee now. That's two down."
"... Fine."
***
Chad and Iain are both English and are fairly certain their accents will leave all the Aussie ladies swooning in their wake. They insist it's proved highly successful so far.
As we walk through the city, they exaggerate their accents and throw in as much British slang as possible, stealing sidelong glances to see whether it's having the desired effect.
***
Chad and I are talking about teaching English as a second language. Earlier, Iain had been regaling us with tales of the roughness of Waterford, where he's from. And now, "Yeah, I taught English in Waterford: 'Please, try it with me, please. OK... Now, thank you. No, put the knife away. In English, we say thank you. Gooood.' That kind of stuff."
***
After setting up a room for the rest of the week:
"Man, what was the 4th thing I had to do today?"
"Iain, are you serious?"
Blank stare.
"It was 'Get drunk.' Possible on wine spritzers."
"Oh yeah..."
"You honestly would have forgotten to do that had it not been on your list?!"
Slight shoulder shrug.
"Wow, that could be a sign, you think?"
***
At Section 8, we meet up with a few of Iain's friend he last saw in Perth. One of them tells us how it was 38 degrees on Iain's first day in Australia and, a true hipster, he still insisted on wearing his beanie [toque] and skinny jeans.
"I'm English; it was to prove a point."
1) Get coffee.
2) Try the tram route from here to work.
3) Find a place for tomorrow night.
"Sounds easy enough."
I don't have anything on for the day and decide to tag along. The tram route trial is quickly ticked off the list. We run into Iain's friend Chad shortly after getting to the city. He joins our party and, after hearing the list, suggests Iain add "Get drunk."
"Can it be on wine spritzers?"
Pause.
"Yes, but you may want to have that as a separate item."
Groan. "But then I'll have 5 things to do today!"
"You've already crossed off one and we can go get coffee now. That's two down."
"... Fine."
***
Chad and Iain are both English and are fairly certain their accents will leave all the Aussie ladies swooning in their wake. They insist it's proved highly successful so far.
As we walk through the city, they exaggerate their accents and throw in as much British slang as possible, stealing sidelong glances to see whether it's having the desired effect.
***
Chad and I are talking about teaching English as a second language. Earlier, Iain had been regaling us with tales of the roughness of Waterford, where he's from. And now, "Yeah, I taught English in Waterford: 'Please, try it with me, please. OK... Now, thank you. No, put the knife away. In English, we say thank you. Gooood.' That kind of stuff."
***
After setting up a room for the rest of the week:
"Man, what was the 4th thing I had to do today?"
"Iain, are you serious?"
Blank stare.
"It was 'Get drunk.' Possible on wine spritzers."
"Oh yeah..."
"You honestly would have forgotten to do that had it not been on your list?!"
Slight shoulder shrug.
"Wow, that could be a sign, you think?"
***
At Section 8, we meet up with a few of Iain's friend he last saw in Perth. One of them tells us how it was 38 degrees on Iain's first day in Australia and, a true hipster, he still insisted on wearing his beanie [toque] and skinny jeans.
"I'm English; it was to prove a point."
Farewell to Wellington
March 31st
Iain is staying with me for my last two nights at 74 Wellington. He's coming to Melbourne to work at The Comedy Festival and he's broke after nearly a month in Adelaide for the Fringe. Besides, it's Grand Prix weekend, so even if he could find a place at a hostel, the rates are at least double the usual.
I have given him fair warning about the state and conditions of Wellington. He assures me it doesn't matter.
"Dude, saying it's dodgy is being generous. It's dirty and haunted and possibly possum-infested."
"Fine."
"I'm serious. There's not even a back door."
"You mean, like, only one exit?"
"No, there's a doorway. Just no door."
"It'll be fine, fantastic."
"As long as you know what you're walking into..."
Iain's getting in early evening, but I won't be home until after 10pm. I give him directions and instructions on where to leave his stuff:
Later, I get a call.
"There are five couches on the front yard. Five! Did you know that?!"
"Um, yeah."
"The front door was wide open and I passed maybe 6 people, no one looked at me twice! How many people live in this place?"
"26, give or take. Hey man, I told you."
"I know, I know... The cab driver wouldn't even stop out front. When I told him the street number, he said, 'No,' and dropped me off a few houses down."
"Yeah, I'm not really surprised."
***
Oh Wellington! I love you, I hate you, I love to hate you and I probably won't miss you that much, but maybe a little bit.
Definitely maybe a little.
***
Our slumlord Shane takes a key deposit. The amount varies -- I got one of the cheapest rates after talking him down to $40. No one has heard of anyone getting it back. This bothers me, mostly because he's so slimy.
And because $40 goes pretty far these days.
The solution: the two duvets and pillows from room 9 are now mine.
Ill-begotten bedding to keep me toasty through the Melbourne winter.
Iain is staying with me for my last two nights at 74 Wellington. He's coming to Melbourne to work at The Comedy Festival and he's broke after nearly a month in Adelaide for the Fringe. Besides, it's Grand Prix weekend, so even if he could find a place at a hostel, the rates are at least double the usual.
I have given him fair warning about the state and conditions of Wellington. He assures me it doesn't matter.
"Dude, saying it's dodgy is being generous. It's dirty and haunted and possibly possum-infested."
"Fine."
"I'm serious. There's not even a back door."
"You mean, like, only one exit?"
"No, there's a doorway. Just no door."
"It'll be fine, fantastic."
"As long as you know what you're walking into..."
Iain's getting in early evening, but I won't be home until after 10pm. I give him directions and instructions on where to leave his stuff:
In front of my door -- yes, it'll be fine. If on the off chance the front door is locked, just knock. Yes, someone will let you in. Yes, there are always people there. Well, you can get through the gate at the back. Trust me, I'd be surprised if the front door is even closed... I dunno, I think the ghosts get pissed when it's shut or something... No no, only the front part of the house is haunted; my room's in the back. See you soon!
Later, I get a call.
"There are five couches on the front yard. Five! Did you know that?!"
"Um, yeah."
"The front door was wide open and I passed maybe 6 people, no one looked at me twice! How many people live in this place?"
"26, give or take. Hey man, I told you."
"I know, I know... The cab driver wouldn't even stop out front. When I told him the street number, he said, 'No,' and dropped me off a few houses down."
"Yeah, I'm not really surprised."
***
Oh Wellington! I love you, I hate you, I love to hate you and I probably won't miss you that much, but maybe a little bit.
Definitely maybe a little.
***
Our slumlord Shane takes a key deposit. The amount varies -- I got one of the cheapest rates after talking him down to $40. No one has heard of anyone getting it back. This bothers me, mostly because he's so slimy.
And because $40 goes pretty far these days.
The solution: the two duvets and pillows from room 9 are now mine.
Ill-begotten bedding to keep me toasty through the Melbourne winter.
The Police Escort
#32 is the closest tram stop to Wellington. It seems ridiculous to walk in the opposite direction only to wait ages at the traffic lights to cross the intersection. Much easier to hop the barrier and jaywalk.
Over the railing and just as I'm about to make a dash for it, a police car turns the corner. He sees me, standing on the wrong side of the tram barrier, essentially in the middle of the highway, at night no less, and pulls up.
Damn.
Wide eyes and in the sweetest Canadian accent, I throw down the golly-gee-I'm-a-clueless-foreigner card (as jaywalking is clearly acceptable abroad).
"I just got off the tram and ended up over on this side and I'm looking for Wellington, do you know where Wellington is? Oh, there it is! Wow, ok... I'll just, um..." I trail off.
[Note: This is exactly what I said. I know! Terrible. Particularly the bit about ending up on the other side. Yeah right, like magic.]
At this point, there is no possible way he could have bought such an embarassing performance. Man, I wonder how much a jaywalking fine is here...
The officer checks over his left shoulder and puts on his lights. "It's all clear, you can cross."
I stand completely still. It's entrapment, right? That's, like, totally illegal, isn't it?
"Go on, it's clear. Have a good night."
It takes another moment before I realize what's going on and scurry across the road, shouting thank you. Almost add in an "eh?" for good measure, but opt not to. No sense pushing my luck.
Over the railing and just as I'm about to make a dash for it, a police car turns the corner. He sees me, standing on the wrong side of the tram barrier, essentially in the middle of the highway, at night no less, and pulls up.
Damn.
Wide eyes and in the sweetest Canadian accent, I throw down the golly-gee-I'm-a-clueless-foreigner card (as jaywalking is clearly acceptable abroad).
"I just got off the tram and ended up over on this side and I'm looking for Wellington, do you know where Wellington is? Oh, there it is! Wow, ok... I'll just, um..." I trail off.
[Note: This is exactly what I said. I know! Terrible. Particularly the bit about ending up on the other side. Yeah right, like magic.]
At this point, there is no possible way he could have bought such an embarassing performance. Man, I wonder how much a jaywalking fine is here...
The officer checks over his left shoulder and puts on his lights. "It's all clear, you can cross."
I stand completely still. It's entrapment, right? That's, like, totally illegal, isn't it?
"Go on, it's clear. Have a good night."
It takes another moment before I realize what's going on and scurry across the road, shouting thank you. Almost add in an "eh?" for good measure, but opt not to. No sense pushing my luck.
The Drive-In
March 19th
Tonight, we're going to a movie. I bike over to the warehouse after work, excited because it's been ages since I've been to the cinema. Doesn't even matter what we're going to see.
Jeremy and a friend are fussing over a website they've been working on all day. I ask what movie we're checking out.
"Dunno, some superhero thing. The... Watchmen?"
My reaction -- a bouncy jump-half-kick with some manner of exclamation -- receives a chuckle.
David comes downstairs to check when it's playing. And hey, it's showing at the drive-in!
Oh man. Yes, please.
Now, of course, drive-ins are open nearly year-round in Australia. But I have yet to experience the drive-in. And it's not for lack of trying. Plans have been made almost every summer since I was 16 and every time, something comes up. Enough so that tonight, when the drive-in decision is made, I get the sudden feeling we won't get to the movie.
We wait and wait for Jeremy and his pal until they tell us to go on without them. Dave, Justin, and I head off in Dave's harvest-gold Valiant, listening to the blues ("Appropriate, huh?" he says with a smile).
We pull up to a light beside a silver hatchback full of girls listening to dance music. Dave rolls down the windows, cranks the blues, and peels off the instant the light changes.
"Yeah, that's right..."
***
Justin has put in a request to stop at the bottle shop [beer store]. The shop is on the corner, but the street that the entrance faces onto happens to be closed on our lane. Dave turns anyway, pulling into the proper lane after the barricade. An oncoming car blows its horn. Justin, indignant at the offense, yells something out the window. Dave seems more surprised than anything: "Woa, ya Captain Planet?"
***
The movie is not to Justin's liking. About a half hour in, he gets out of the car in a bit of a huff and disappears for a while. He later tells us he was watching a different movie playing on another screen and that even without sound, it was 15 times better than The Watchmen.
He comes back to the car about an hour later, gives it maybe 20 minutes before, "Oh come on! No. That's it. Call me when it's over."
"Where you goin'?"
"Don't know. Call me, pick me up."
And he's gone.
***
For my part, I wasn't a huge fan of the movie, doubly disappointed because I enjoyed the book and was mega-excited. But sitting in the Valiant was so luxurious! Infinitely better than the theatre. (The car also has a killer sound system. Essentially, it's a Drive-In-Mobile.)
We pick up Justin outside a pub. He has one of the drive-in's Exit signs, taken because he "needed to get something from the evening."
***
It's late by the time we get back to the warehouse. Dave and Justin insist I stay the night, bike back to St. Kilda in the morning. I say no, it's fine. Justin reminds me that yesterday they kicked out a pair of couch surfers who were staying there on grounds of lameness and here they were, asking me to stay, so declining the offer would be plain rude.
Best arm-twist ever.
Tonight, we're going to a movie. I bike over to the warehouse after work, excited because it's been ages since I've been to the cinema. Doesn't even matter what we're going to see.
Jeremy and a friend are fussing over a website they've been working on all day. I ask what movie we're checking out.
"Dunno, some superhero thing. The... Watchmen?"
My reaction -- a bouncy jump-half-kick with some manner of exclamation -- receives a chuckle.
David comes downstairs to check when it's playing. And hey, it's showing at the drive-in!
Oh man. Yes, please.
Now, of course, drive-ins are open nearly year-round in Australia. But I have yet to experience the drive-in. And it's not for lack of trying. Plans have been made almost every summer since I was 16 and every time, something comes up. Enough so that tonight, when the drive-in decision is made, I get the sudden feeling we won't get to the movie.
We wait and wait for Jeremy and his pal until they tell us to go on without them. Dave, Justin, and I head off in Dave's harvest-gold Valiant, listening to the blues ("Appropriate, huh?" he says with a smile).
We pull up to a light beside a silver hatchback full of girls listening to dance music. Dave rolls down the windows, cranks the blues, and peels off the instant the light changes.
"Yeah, that's right..."
***
Justin has put in a request to stop at the bottle shop [beer store]. The shop is on the corner, but the street that the entrance faces onto happens to be closed on our lane. Dave turns anyway, pulling into the proper lane after the barricade. An oncoming car blows its horn. Justin, indignant at the offense, yells something out the window. Dave seems more surprised than anything: "Woa, ya Captain Planet?"
***
The movie is not to Justin's liking. About a half hour in, he gets out of the car in a bit of a huff and disappears for a while. He later tells us he was watching a different movie playing on another screen and that even without sound, it was 15 times better than The Watchmen.
He comes back to the car about an hour later, gives it maybe 20 minutes before, "Oh come on! No. That's it. Call me when it's over."
"Where you goin'?"
"Don't know. Call me, pick me up."
And he's gone.
***
For my part, I wasn't a huge fan of the movie, doubly disappointed because I enjoyed the book and was mega-excited. But sitting in the Valiant was so luxurious! Infinitely better than the theatre. (The car also has a killer sound system. Essentially, it's a Drive-In-Mobile.)
We pick up Justin outside a pub. He has one of the drive-in's Exit signs, taken because he "needed to get something from the evening."
***
It's late by the time we get back to the warehouse. Dave and Justin insist I stay the night, bike back to St. Kilda in the morning. I say no, it's fine. Justin reminds me that yesterday they kicked out a pair of couch surfers who were staying there on grounds of lameness and here they were, asking me to stay, so declining the offer would be plain rude.
Best arm-twist ever.
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