Phew. My computer has finally arrived. That's a good thing because now I don't have to yell at a customs official. The Aussies have a COPS-style reality show about customs officers, and I imagine that such an encounter would make for more interesting television than their usual cavity searches. However, I get the feeling I wouldn't come out of it looking like a very nice guy - handcuffs have that effect for some reason.
That aside, those who look at the dates on these posts will notice a conspicuous gap between my last post and this one. Sorry, but it just wouldn't be the TJ experience without a couple gaps of motivation.
Last week, in a great act of motivation, I got hired at a Gloria Jean's coffee shop in Fremantle. I've only worked one shift because of the study break, but it was enough for me to get a good idea of what work will be like. I think my official title is "barista," but I don't yet know how to use the espresso machine. This is particularly discouraging because it's really the only piece of equipment in the place.
I had a very hard time understanding what people said to me at work. The problem came from thick accents, barely being able to hear over steaming milk, and a product line I'm unfamiliar with. (What the hell is a flat white?) It's like people are pouring a jig-saw puzzle into my ear. Occasionally, I see a piece that makes sense, but the overall picture is completely jumbled. The worst part is that I know there's a picture in there somewhere.
The rest of the week was spent on what I can probably describe as the norm: Class, a bit of light studying, gentle preparation for a presentation on Friday, and heavy socialization. One evening, in need of a little time to myself, I went to the shore in Fremantle and watched the sun set behind a lighthouse. It was picturesque, to say the least. (Naturally, I didn't have my camera with me.) It was also a strange exercise in juxtaposition: The beach, lighthouse, and the sun setting at the wrong angle were all very foreign and in front of me. A McDonalds, so familiar and greasy, was behind me.
By week's end, I was desperately ready for the study break. I had no concrete plans, but that took care of itself. After another round of Scottish soccer on Saturday, I barbecued with the guys. One of their roommates was taking a trip to Southwest Australia, and he invited myself and my German friend Chris to go with him. We accepted and went along for a ride. But that's a story for tomorrow.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Government (Grrrr...)
"We hang the petty thieves and appoint the great ones to public office." -Aesop
After my passport experience, I was noticeably frustrated. To put it politely, I was driven to profanity and, eventually, to insanity. However, the document arrived and I was able to move on with my life, free from the shackles of bureaucracy. Or so I thought.
Sadly, I have fallen back into the twisted web that is dealing with government. My laptop, which was sent to the US for repairs, is having difficulties clearing customs. It is not a nefarious device. It most certainly is not contraband. The problem isn't with the computer at all. The problem is that the Australian government, in order to get its cut, wants to know how much the repair was worth, and I can't have it until they know. To compound the problem, the shipping company has a policy of returning, at the expense of the sender, items that can't clear customs within 5 days. Now, I must rely upon the company that made repairs under warranty to slap a value on the repairs and inform myself and the shipping company so that we, in turn, can inform customs. In hindsight, "twisted web" doesn't seem nearly confusing enough to capture all the subtleties of this charlie foxtrot of a process.
Now, the difficulty and the difficulties in understanding the difficulty are bad enough. However, there is always salt for a wound, and governments have a great way of finding it. Some context is needed to understand what I mean.
As I arrived in Australia, a major story in the news concerned a man named Dr Mohammed Haneef. Haneef, it seems, is the second cousin of one of the terrorists who decided to drive a flaming jeep into Glasgow's airport. After the attack, he made a sudden decision to leave Australia. He had a string of conversations with his brother that aroused enough suspicion in Australian authorities that they decided to revoke his work visa. Controversy ensued over the decision, with bleeding hearts siding with Haneef and hawks calling for his head. A judge has recently overturned the decision to revoke Haneef's visa.
Now, propriety of the decision to revoke Haneef's visa aside, consider this whole spectacle from my shoes. Here, a judge has just said that a man who government officials know has links to terrorists is welcome in Australia. (In fairness to Haneef, I must say that links here are familial relations. I do not know if Haneef is a terrorist, if he supports terrorists, or if he is as dodgy his actions have made him seem. I do know that the police consider him suspicious, which leads to my point.) My computer, on the other hand, can't enter the country.
The sheer lunacy of it makes me want to grab a customs official by the collar and scream: "What the hell is wrong with you? My computer can't enter the country without an invoice for repairs, but this guy can correspond with terrorists and just waltz right in? If my computer tries to leave the country suddenly, can I have it? Or does it have to give material support to some radicals before it's allowed?"
Government...
After my passport experience, I was noticeably frustrated. To put it politely, I was driven to profanity and, eventually, to insanity. However, the document arrived and I was able to move on with my life, free from the shackles of bureaucracy. Or so I thought.
Sadly, I have fallen back into the twisted web that is dealing with government. My laptop, which was sent to the US for repairs, is having difficulties clearing customs. It is not a nefarious device. It most certainly is not contraband. The problem isn't with the computer at all. The problem is that the Australian government, in order to get its cut, wants to know how much the repair was worth, and I can't have it until they know. To compound the problem, the shipping company has a policy of returning, at the expense of the sender, items that can't clear customs within 5 days. Now, I must rely upon the company that made repairs under warranty to slap a value on the repairs and inform myself and the shipping company so that we, in turn, can inform customs. In hindsight, "twisted web" doesn't seem nearly confusing enough to capture all the subtleties of this charlie foxtrot of a process.
Now, the difficulty and the difficulties in understanding the difficulty are bad enough. However, there is always salt for a wound, and governments have a great way of finding it. Some context is needed to understand what I mean.
As I arrived in Australia, a major story in the news concerned a man named Dr Mohammed Haneef. Haneef, it seems, is the second cousin of one of the terrorists who decided to drive a flaming jeep into Glasgow's airport. After the attack, he made a sudden decision to leave Australia. He had a string of conversations with his brother that aroused enough suspicion in Australian authorities that they decided to revoke his work visa. Controversy ensued over the decision, with bleeding hearts siding with Haneef and hawks calling for his head. A judge has recently overturned the decision to revoke Haneef's visa.
Now, propriety of the decision to revoke Haneef's visa aside, consider this whole spectacle from my shoes. Here, a judge has just said that a man who government officials know has links to terrorists is welcome in Australia. (In fairness to Haneef, I must say that links here are familial relations. I do not know if Haneef is a terrorist, if he supports terrorists, or if he is as dodgy his actions have made him seem. I do know that the police consider him suspicious, which leads to my point.) My computer, on the other hand, can't enter the country.
The sheer lunacy of it makes me want to grab a customs official by the collar and scream: "What the hell is wrong with you? My computer can't enter the country without an invoice for repairs, but this guy can correspond with terrorists and just waltz right in? If my computer tries to leave the country suddenly, can I have it? Or does it have to give material support to some radicals before it's allowed?"
Government...
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Culinary Notes
As is often the case with a growing boy, I am frequently hungry. This means I've eaten plenty of Australian cuisine, and I thought I'd share a bit about it.
The first thing to note is that there really is no such thing as "Australian" food. They have a couple dishes that I understand are local, but for the most part, food here is a smorgasbord from around the world. There are an excess of Thai, Chinese, and Japanese places, along with a smattering of Italian joints, some fine cuisine, and even occasional Mexican places. Some of it is done well, especially the Asian and Italian food, as those places are often run by immigrants from those areas.
In truth, I've had little at restaurants. They're expensive, and, true to my starving student form, I'm not buying it. So, it's fair to say that what I've just written is based mainly on impressions from the outside and from smelling the places. I've tried pizza, but the Aussies have managed to foul that up. A couple New Yorkers need to come down here and set these people straight on what a pizza is. Consequently, like much of the nicer food, I won't be eating much pizza.
The main exception to this rule is kebabs. Here, kebab joints are similar, both in frequency and style, to burrito places like Chipotle back home. They tend to have more of a hole-in-the-wall feel than they do quick casual, but you still get to watch the folks make your kebab and can find a place almost anywhere. The best kebab place in town is Nick's Place. It's about 3 doors down from the Newport bar and open after the bar closes, which is already a recipe for success. The hours and location, however, pale in comparison to the fare. Their kebabs drip with grease and generous servings of whatever sauces you fancy.
As I am apt to do with food back home, my kebab order is always the same, regardless of where I'm ordering it. (This habit lead me to consume far too many Bacon Turkey Bravos back home. Faaaar too many.) Every time I come to the counter, whether at Absolutely Kebabulous on campus, Nick's in Freo, or the Kardy Fish 'n Chips joint, I order a beef kebab with lettuce, tomatoes, sweet chili, and sour cream. Yum.
Other than kebabs and Little Creatures (which I've previously mentioned), I rarely eat out. This has meant cooking. Cooking has meant discovering just how little I know how to cook. As it turns out, I can prepare pasta, brown meat, heat sauce, scramble eggs, slice bread, and that's about it. Various combinations of these have kept me from getting bored, but the time at which I'll have to figure out how to turn on our oven is rapidly approaching.
To give you an idea of what I'm preparing, I thought I would share a couple recipes. The first is one of the many items I've created to keep my limited cooking ability interesting enough to eat. The second is a story in itself, so I'll come back to that after I share what my roommate dubbed "Bootleg Sloppy Joe's."
Bootleg Sloppy Joe's
Ingredients:
2 slices bread
1 pan ground beef
1 slice Kraft fake cheese
1 serving Newman's Own Light Balsamic Vinaigrette
Brown mean in frying pan. Put bread into toaster. Retrieve toast from toaster. Put cheese on one slice of toast. Put meat on cheese. Pour salad dressing over meat. Top with other slice of toast. Eat and pretend to enjoy.
While I can't pretend to love that sandwich, I can admit to eating a few. The next recipe was invented by me; my Aussie friend Jace, who works building ships; and Neil, one of the other CIEE students. Jace, on a whim, had come over to our house with 5.5 kilos (12.1 lbs) of gummy bears. After eating our fill, we had barely made a discernible dent in the gummy bears. So, wondering what we could make with all those gummy bears, we brainstormed:
"A gummy bear army?"
"A gummy bear gondola?"
"Gummy bear gumbo?"
At that suggestion, all of our eyes lit up, we began scouring through the cupboards for ingredients, and the most legendary desert down under was born. Despite what you might think from reading the recipe, it wasn't that bad. Granted, more than one serving immediately results in diabetes, but one must learn the virtues of moderation somehow.
Gummy Bear Gumbo
Ingredients:
1 cup cheap white wine
1/8 cup raspberry cordial mix
1 red apple
1 teaspoon Apricot Jam
1 lemon
1 pot full of gummy bears
Mix white wine, cordial mix, and jam in empty pot. Heat lightly until jam/wine mixture is no longer chunky. Chop apple into little bits. Slice lemon into wheels. Remove mixture from heat. Add apples. Squeeze in two wheels of lemon. Throw away rest of lemon due to bad planning. Add gummy bears. Serve by the spoonful.
After we all tried a little, Jace made the pointed observation that "your lawn will be painted rainbow by morning." He was proved wrong, but none of us is sure why, as some sort of intestinal distress was most certainly warranted.
The first thing to note is that there really is no such thing as "Australian" food. They have a couple dishes that I understand are local, but for the most part, food here is a smorgasbord from around the world. There are an excess of Thai, Chinese, and Japanese places, along with a smattering of Italian joints, some fine cuisine, and even occasional Mexican places. Some of it is done well, especially the Asian and Italian food, as those places are often run by immigrants from those areas.
In truth, I've had little at restaurants. They're expensive, and, true to my starving student form, I'm not buying it. So, it's fair to say that what I've just written is based mainly on impressions from the outside and from smelling the places. I've tried pizza, but the Aussies have managed to foul that up. A couple New Yorkers need to come down here and set these people straight on what a pizza is. Consequently, like much of the nicer food, I won't be eating much pizza.
The main exception to this rule is kebabs. Here, kebab joints are similar, both in frequency and style, to burrito places like Chipotle back home. They tend to have more of a hole-in-the-wall feel than they do quick casual, but you still get to watch the folks make your kebab and can find a place almost anywhere. The best kebab place in town is Nick's Place. It's about 3 doors down from the Newport bar and open after the bar closes, which is already a recipe for success. The hours and location, however, pale in comparison to the fare. Their kebabs drip with grease and generous servings of whatever sauces you fancy.
As I am apt to do with food back home, my kebab order is always the same, regardless of where I'm ordering it. (This habit lead me to consume far too many Bacon Turkey Bravos back home. Faaaar too many.) Every time I come to the counter, whether at Absolutely Kebabulous on campus, Nick's in Freo, or the Kardy Fish 'n Chips joint, I order a beef kebab with lettuce, tomatoes, sweet chili, and sour cream. Yum.
Other than kebabs and Little Creatures (which I've previously mentioned), I rarely eat out. This has meant cooking. Cooking has meant discovering just how little I know how to cook. As it turns out, I can prepare pasta, brown meat, heat sauce, scramble eggs, slice bread, and that's about it. Various combinations of these have kept me from getting bored, but the time at which I'll have to figure out how to turn on our oven is rapidly approaching.
To give you an idea of what I'm preparing, I thought I would share a couple recipes. The first is one of the many items I've created to keep my limited cooking ability interesting enough to eat. The second is a story in itself, so I'll come back to that after I share what my roommate dubbed "Bootleg Sloppy Joe's."
Bootleg Sloppy Joe's
Ingredients:
2 slices bread
1 pan ground beef
1 slice Kraft fake cheese
1 serving Newman's Own Light Balsamic Vinaigrette
Brown mean in frying pan. Put bread into toaster. Retrieve toast from toaster. Put cheese on one slice of toast. Put meat on cheese. Pour salad dressing over meat. Top with other slice of toast. Eat and pretend to enjoy.
While I can't pretend to love that sandwich, I can admit to eating a few. The next recipe was invented by me; my Aussie friend Jace, who works building ships; and Neil, one of the other CIEE students. Jace, on a whim, had come over to our house with 5.5 kilos (12.1 lbs) of gummy bears. After eating our fill, we had barely made a discernible dent in the gummy bears. So, wondering what we could make with all those gummy bears, we brainstormed:
"A gummy bear army?"
"A gummy bear gondola?"
"Gummy bear gumbo?"
At that suggestion, all of our eyes lit up, we began scouring through the cupboards for ingredients, and the most legendary desert down under was born. Despite what you might think from reading the recipe, it wasn't that bad. Granted, more than one serving immediately results in diabetes, but one must learn the virtues of moderation somehow.
Gummy Bear Gumbo
Ingredients:
1 cup cheap white wine
1/8 cup raspberry cordial mix
1 red apple
1 teaspoon Apricot Jam
1 lemon
1 pot full of gummy bears
Mix white wine, cordial mix, and jam in empty pot. Heat lightly until jam/wine mixture is no longer chunky. Chop apple into little bits. Slice lemon into wheels. Remove mixture from heat. Add apples. Squeeze in two wheels of lemon. Throw away rest of lemon due to bad planning. Add gummy bears. Serve by the spoonful.
After we all tried a little, Jace made the pointed observation that "your lawn will be painted rainbow by morning." He was proved wrong, but none of us is sure why, as some sort of intestinal distress was most certainly warranted.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
They Don't Call it 'Oz' without Reason
Yesterday, I injured my thumb while playing soccer with a bunch of Scots in Western Australia. That sentence contains so many absurdities that I felt compelled to share it. After all, why am I hurting my thumb while playing soccer? Why are there enough Scots for a soccer game here? What the hell is my fat American bottom doing playing soccer in the first place? I guess there's always a little touch of the surreal when one is south of the equator.
Speaking of being on the other side of the globe, I've been asked to examine the truth behind the Coriolis effect and toilet bowls. Theory holds that being in the Southern hemisphere should cause the water to proceed through its draining procedure in the opposite direction it does in the Northern hemisphere. I've endeavored to try the experiment, but Australian toilets are ill suited for such observations.
The problem is that the Aussies are not used to a quiet, subtle flush that drains away inoffensively. Rather, they prefer a method more like God used when he grew displeased with the world. When you flush the toilet (which, by the way is accomplished with a button instead of a lever), a torrent of water comes from the tank and into the bowl, eradicating any evidence of what has occurred. It's a shockingly violent process, which is especially startling the first time you flush a toilet.
Urinals, here, are different, too. Rather than the individual, stand-alone, bidet look-alikes we prefer back in the States, the Aussies prefer troughs. They'll simply cut a wall back six inches, make it out of aluminum, and drill a drain hole. Viola! One urinal. I'm unclear on the etiquette of use, but it seems that those big enough for two are only used by one. Those big enough to hold three or more are almost always used by an odd number of people. Three, five, or seven to the urinal. Don't ask me why.
As if the difference in fixtures wasn't already enough, the Aussies don't even call it a restroom. They say "toilet," "wash room," or "dunnee." The CIEE residential director, Paul, has wondered why we call it the restroom. "After all," he asks, "you aren't really resting when you're in there, are you?"
Learning those little cultural differences makes me grin, especially when I'm able to apply the lesson. With that in mind, I've accustomed myself to using the words "mate" and "cheers." My accent makes me feel like a tourist awkwardly (and unsuccesfully) adopting a local custom when I say "Cheers, mate" (American translation: "Thanks for the beer"). Bartenders don't bat an eye though, so I think I'm getting it right.
I've also discovered that Australians don't have the first clue what the word "sweater" means. They call a sweater a "jumper," and the guys I was talking with couldn't fathom why one might ever use the word "sweater."
Mind you, this means I am changing my vocabulary, not my accent. I fully intend to keep my accent because I'm American and I'm proud of it, I'm too obstinate to change just because almost everyone around me speaks with one, and I'm told that an American accent is an advantage with Australian women. Don't think you're too clever for knowing which of those is most important to me.
The Australian accent is, however, strangely endearing. Maybe it's because it's different from what I'm used to. Maybe it's because it is representative of the opportunity I have here. Maybe it's because it reminds me of Paul Hogan. For whatever reason, I feel like the Aussies intone in a warmer and more upbeat fashion than we do back home.
Oh, back home. I already dread leaving Australia.
Speaking of being on the other side of the globe, I've been asked to examine the truth behind the Coriolis effect and toilet bowls. Theory holds that being in the Southern hemisphere should cause the water to proceed through its draining procedure in the opposite direction it does in the Northern hemisphere. I've endeavored to try the experiment, but Australian toilets are ill suited for such observations.
The problem is that the Aussies are not used to a quiet, subtle flush that drains away inoffensively. Rather, they prefer a method more like God used when he grew displeased with the world. When you flush the toilet (which, by the way is accomplished with a button instead of a lever), a torrent of water comes from the tank and into the bowl, eradicating any evidence of what has occurred. It's a shockingly violent process, which is especially startling the first time you flush a toilet.
Urinals, here, are different, too. Rather than the individual, stand-alone, bidet look-alikes we prefer back in the States, the Aussies prefer troughs. They'll simply cut a wall back six inches, make it out of aluminum, and drill a drain hole. Viola! One urinal. I'm unclear on the etiquette of use, but it seems that those big enough for two are only used by one. Those big enough to hold three or more are almost always used by an odd number of people. Three, five, or seven to the urinal. Don't ask me why.
As if the difference in fixtures wasn't already enough, the Aussies don't even call it a restroom. They say "toilet," "wash room," or "dunnee." The CIEE residential director, Paul, has wondered why we call it the restroom. "After all," he asks, "you aren't really resting when you're in there, are you?"
Learning those little cultural differences makes me grin, especially when I'm able to apply the lesson. With that in mind, I've accustomed myself to using the words "mate" and "cheers." My accent makes me feel like a tourist awkwardly (and unsuccesfully) adopting a local custom when I say "Cheers, mate" (American translation: "Thanks for the beer"). Bartenders don't bat an eye though, so I think I'm getting it right.
I've also discovered that Australians don't have the first clue what the word "sweater" means. They call a sweater a "jumper," and the guys I was talking with couldn't fathom why one might ever use the word "sweater."
Mind you, this means I am changing my vocabulary, not my accent. I fully intend to keep my accent because I'm American and I'm proud of it, I'm too obstinate to change just because almost everyone around me speaks with one, and I'm told that an American accent is an advantage with Australian women. Don't think you're too clever for knowing which of those is most important to me.
The Australian accent is, however, strangely endearing. Maybe it's because it's different from what I'm used to. Maybe it's because it is representative of the opportunity I have here. Maybe it's because it reminds me of Paul Hogan. For whatever reason, I feel like the Aussies intone in a warmer and more upbeat fashion than we do back home.
Oh, back home. I already dread leaving Australia.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Nothing is Rotten in Denmark
I must begin by apologizing for my failure to relate this sooner. I am currently without my computer, so any kind of prolonged internet use involves begging, borrowing, or stealing.
Last weekend, I went to the south coast with half of my exchange group. We drove about four hours to get to the small town of Denmark. On the way, we got to pass through lots of small-town Australia. Having driven through many a small American town, I can confidently report that small-town America and small-town Australia are very similar. There are truck stops with old proprietors, restaurants, and quirky rules on handwritten signs.
In Denmark, we stayed at a small resort called The Cove. The Cove is a 60 acre spread that comes right up to Wilson Inlet. It is largely forested, as it is owned and operated to be just that. the accommodations are all hand-built with wood milled by the owners. It gives the entire place a kind of hippie log cabin feel. The owners make renovations and maintain the property almost entirely by themselves, which is the kind of life style I can admire and pretend I would be cut out for. However, I'm far too lazy to be that self-reliant. Hell, yesterday I drank milk from a bowl so I wouldn't have to clean any glasses.
Our time was spent exploring the region, which I get the feeling few people do.
We saw a museum with aboriginal and early 20th century farm artifacts. Our tour guide was the real highlight, though. He would simply point to something and say what it was, then point to the next item and say what it was. Between pointing out items, he would tell stories about the crazy questions some guests to the museum had asked and the complete lies he would tell them in response. The man should never have become a tour guide - he should have been a story teller.
We swam in Green's Pool. It's a scenic little spot with enough rocks around it to make the water very calm. In the summer, the pool is used for children's swimming lessons. Alas, it is winter here, so the water was not just calm, it was downright cold. I found out today that Thomas, my younger brother (I say "younger" instead of "little" because he could rock my world in a fight.) will be shipping out for the Navy in September. Swimming in the cold water gave me a taste of what he's about to begin, and I can say without reservation that I don't envy the swimming he'll be doing.
We went on a hike in the bush. The Aussies call the wilderness the "bush." I don't know why.
Perhaps the most touristy moment of the trip was our visit to the petting zoo. We were all given a bag of feed and unleashed onto crowds of animals that had little interest in being petted, but loved being fed. There were kangaroos, a koala, a camel, alpacas, goats (total jerks, by the way), a donkey that made noises fit for only the most horrible and twisted bowels of hell, and a couple emu. The roos were fairly happy to be fed and were fairly well-mannered. The emu shared their appetite, but not their sophistication. The ridiculous big birds would peck the feed out of our hands in such a way as to make it very clear that they had little interest in how we felt so long as we kept the food coming.
Another highlight (yes, the touristy parts have been highlights) was eating kangaroo. That's right, eating kangaroo. We went to the butcher, bought some kangaroo steaks, grilled them, and ate them. The meat is fairly tasty, but must be kept on the rare side to avoid it becoming too tough, which reminds me of trying to cook buffalo. I had the good fortune to be on the duty roster to cook dinner that evening, so I was in charge of the kangaroo grilling. It was a double blessing because not only did I get to say I cooked kangaroo, but everyone wanted to say they helped cook kangaroo, so I had all the willing help I could ever want.
Sadly, the weekend had to end, and we had to return to Murdoch and go to school the next day. School, I should mention, has been strange for me. I've easily overcome the accents of the teachers, as they speak fairly clearly. However, my classmates often leave me dumbfounded when they ask questions.
I've already had to give a presentation in my class on the Australian economy. In what has become a rarity for me, my heart rate rose and I began to sweat bullets. It wasn't that I was nervous about public speaking, per se, but my particular situation was so absurd that I couldn't help but be nervous. My assignment was to provide a brief overview of the Australian economy. So there I am in front of a room full of Aussie students and my Aussie professor. I've only been in the country for two weeks. By all accounts, my American accent is thick. And I have to tell these guys about their own economy? Anyone who could make it through that without at least a moment of pause is damaged goods.
Last night, we went to Newport, a bar in Freo. Half the time they played strange house music, and the other half of the time a local band covered pop-rock hits. It was fun to hear American songs sung badly with a funny accent. The place was crowded ($2 beers have that effect), but there was still enough room that one could dance or mingle. The age to drink here is 18, so sometimes kids would walk past me and I would wonder "How the hell did he get in here?"
The bar scene here seems to be lively, but Perth is rather sprawled out, so getting back home means taking a cab since the buses stop running at 9 p.m. Beer, I'm sad to report, is not as good as back home. The Coors Light types are of about equal quality (These include Carlton, VB, and Toohey's) to those back home. As those are cheapest, they're what we drink the most. However, finding good microbrews is tough. Even when you do find good beer, drinking it is cost prohibitive. There is hope, though, as there's a brew pub in Freo called Little Creatures. Their Pale Ale is top-shelf, their food is a perfect match, and one need not drop his life savings to buy a pint. I predict many an hour will be spent there.
This place makes me wish I were a poet. The place and the people can't be done justice in prose. To illustrate, the fireplace at the Cove was made with the casing of a decommissioned sea mine. Instead of floating in cold water waiting to end lives, it warms an entire building, both in temperature and spirit. Now, I'm no Ginsberg, but I'd love to give that one a whirl.
Last weekend, I went to the south coast with half of my exchange group. We drove about four hours to get to the small town of Denmark. On the way, we got to pass through lots of small-town Australia. Having driven through many a small American town, I can confidently report that small-town America and small-town Australia are very similar. There are truck stops with old proprietors, restaurants, and quirky rules on handwritten signs.
In Denmark, we stayed at a small resort called The Cove. The Cove is a 60 acre spread that comes right up to Wilson Inlet. It is largely forested, as it is owned and operated to be just that. the accommodations are all hand-built with wood milled by the owners. It gives the entire place a kind of hippie log cabin feel. The owners make renovations and maintain the property almost entirely by themselves, which is the kind of life style I can admire and pretend I would be cut out for. However, I'm far too lazy to be that self-reliant. Hell, yesterday I drank milk from a bowl so I wouldn't have to clean any glasses.
Our time was spent exploring the region, which I get the feeling few people do.
We saw a museum with aboriginal and early 20th century farm artifacts. Our tour guide was the real highlight, though. He would simply point to something and say what it was, then point to the next item and say what it was. Between pointing out items, he would tell stories about the crazy questions some guests to the museum had asked and the complete lies he would tell them in response. The man should never have become a tour guide - he should have been a story teller.
We swam in Green's Pool. It's a scenic little spot with enough rocks around it to make the water very calm. In the summer, the pool is used for children's swimming lessons. Alas, it is winter here, so the water was not just calm, it was downright cold. I found out today that Thomas, my younger brother (I say "younger" instead of "little" because he could rock my world in a fight.) will be shipping out for the Navy in September. Swimming in the cold water gave me a taste of what he's about to begin, and I can say without reservation that I don't envy the swimming he'll be doing.
We went on a hike in the bush. The Aussies call the wilderness the "bush." I don't know why.
Perhaps the most touristy moment of the trip was our visit to the petting zoo. We were all given a bag of feed and unleashed onto crowds of animals that had little interest in being petted, but loved being fed. There were kangaroos, a koala, a camel, alpacas, goats (total jerks, by the way), a donkey that made noises fit for only the most horrible and twisted bowels of hell, and a couple emu. The roos were fairly happy to be fed and were fairly well-mannered. The emu shared their appetite, but not their sophistication. The ridiculous big birds would peck the feed out of our hands in such a way as to make it very clear that they had little interest in how we felt so long as we kept the food coming.
Another highlight (yes, the touristy parts have been highlights) was eating kangaroo. That's right, eating kangaroo. We went to the butcher, bought some kangaroo steaks, grilled them, and ate them. The meat is fairly tasty, but must be kept on the rare side to avoid it becoming too tough, which reminds me of trying to cook buffalo. I had the good fortune to be on the duty roster to cook dinner that evening, so I was in charge of the kangaroo grilling. It was a double blessing because not only did I get to say I cooked kangaroo, but everyone wanted to say they helped cook kangaroo, so I had all the willing help I could ever want.
Sadly, the weekend had to end, and we had to return to Murdoch and go to school the next day. School, I should mention, has been strange for me. I've easily overcome the accents of the teachers, as they speak fairly clearly. However, my classmates often leave me dumbfounded when they ask questions.
I've already had to give a presentation in my class on the Australian economy. In what has become a rarity for me, my heart rate rose and I began to sweat bullets. It wasn't that I was nervous about public speaking, per se, but my particular situation was so absurd that I couldn't help but be nervous. My assignment was to provide a brief overview of the Australian economy. So there I am in front of a room full of Aussie students and my Aussie professor. I've only been in the country for two weeks. By all accounts, my American accent is thick. And I have to tell these guys about their own economy? Anyone who could make it through that without at least a moment of pause is damaged goods.
Last night, we went to Newport, a bar in Freo. Half the time they played strange house music, and the other half of the time a local band covered pop-rock hits. It was fun to hear American songs sung badly with a funny accent. The place was crowded ($2 beers have that effect), but there was still enough room that one could dance or mingle. The age to drink here is 18, so sometimes kids would walk past me and I would wonder "How the hell did he get in here?"
The bar scene here seems to be lively, but Perth is rather sprawled out, so getting back home means taking a cab since the buses stop running at 9 p.m. Beer, I'm sad to report, is not as good as back home. The Coors Light types are of about equal quality (These include Carlton, VB, and Toohey's) to those back home. As those are cheapest, they're what we drink the most. However, finding good microbrews is tough. Even when you do find good beer, drinking it is cost prohibitive. There is hope, though, as there's a brew pub in Freo called Little Creatures. Their Pale Ale is top-shelf, their food is a perfect match, and one need not drop his life savings to buy a pint. I predict many an hour will be spent there.
This place makes me wish I were a poet. The place and the people can't be done justice in prose. To illustrate, the fireplace at the Cove was made with the casing of a decommissioned sea mine. Instead of floating in cold water waiting to end lives, it warms an entire building, both in temperature and spirit. Now, I'm no Ginsberg, but I'd love to give that one a whirl.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
The Cast
Going by standard convention, I have established the setting and must now introduce you to the cast.
First is me. You know me. That's why you're reading this.
Next is the flatmates, of whom there are three: Andrew, Lindsey and Sinead. We have a good group dynamic going. Whether it's walking home from the grocery store with two carts full of food, cooking hamburgers on charcoal that doesn't want to light, or inviting over Germans to hang out in our living room, we've split up tasks, cleaned, and kept each other company in the process. Within 20 minutes of my arrival (I was the last of the flatmates to move in), we had gotten out a bottle of wine and the guitar.
Outside our house, most of the American students are living on campus. We have spent many an evening trying to convince them to drop by. Many of the international students also live in the Student Village. Their flats seem nicer than the shoe box CU sardined me into my freshman year, but still possess the cold and institutional feel that dormitories are apt to. Other international students have been looking for places to live. Watching them struggle makes me ever more grateful for the way CIEE handles lodging.
All of the international students speak English to varying degrees. Most can carry on full conversations (I read somewhere that a vocabulary need have only 500-1,000 words to be functional, and I imagine many are in this range.) about the days events or rock 'n roll or where to find an inexpensive six pack. Their courses of study range from microbiology to computer science to English.
For this group of people, it can truly be said that the world is their playground. There is a vibrancy and energy to the group that I've never seen back home. The circumstances that brought us here dictate that common interests are the rule rather than the exception. I imagine a similar atmosphere at base camp on K2 or Everest. To bring together so many people with similar interests, tastes, goals, and experiences in a place far from home makes for one hell of a group.
Where, I think you must be wondering, do the Aussies fit in all of this? I myself have asked and am certain that we will find similarly minded Australians. As of yet, the only Australians I have met have been either teaching me or bringing me my dinner. The start of classes affords a great opportunity to start meeting some who are out for a good time. The Australians I've seen around town have been friendly enough that I'm certain I will soon be able to report all manner of awesome Australians.
I'm guessing I'll have to write about people again, but this is at least a good primer on the company I keep. What I'm about to say is a total aside, but I have to get it off my chest and I'm scraping for the kind of open-ended, optimistic, and (most importantly) corny ending of which I'm fond, so this will have to suffice:
The wildlife here is bizarre. I am in a place where birds sound like billy goats.
Outside our house, most of the American students are living on campus. We have spent many an evening trying to convince them to drop by. Many of the international students also live in the Student Village. Their flats seem nicer than the shoe box CU sardined me into my freshman year, but still possess the cold and institutional feel that dormitories are apt to. Other international students have been looking for places to live. Watching them struggle makes me ever more grateful for the way CIEE handles lodging.
All of the international students speak English to varying degrees. Most can carry on full conversations (I read somewhere that a vocabulary need have only 500-1,000 words to be functional, and I imagine many are in this range.) about the days events or rock 'n roll or where to find an inexpensive six pack. Their courses of study range from microbiology to computer science to English.
For this group of people, it can truly be said that the world is their playground. There is a vibrancy and energy to the group that I've never seen back home. The circumstances that brought us here dictate that common interests are the rule rather than the exception. I imagine a similar atmosphere at base camp on K2 or Everest. To bring together so many people with similar interests, tastes, goals, and experiences in a place far from home makes for one hell of a group.
Where, I think you must be wondering, do the Aussies fit in all of this? I myself have asked and am certain that we will find similarly minded Australians. As of yet, the only Australians I have met have been either teaching me or bringing me my dinner. The start of classes affords a great opportunity to start meeting some who are out for a good time. The Australians I've seen around town have been friendly enough that I'm certain I will soon be able to report all manner of awesome Australians.
I'm guessing I'll have to write about people again, but this is at least a good primer on the company I keep. What I'm about to say is a total aside, but I have to get it off my chest and I'm scraping for the kind of open-ended, optimistic, and (most importantly) corny ending of which I'm fond, so this will have to suffice:
The wildlife here is bizarre. I am in a place where birds sound like billy goats.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
A Week is Worth a Thousand Words
It would be impossible for me to sum up the week in one sitting, so what I'll do over the next few days is try to write out some of what I've done and couple it with descriptions of those I'm with. For today, though, I want to start with the setting.
Perth is a hell of a place. I've been here a week and I can already tell that it's the kind of town I enjoy. The house I'm in (46 Gratwick Tce Murdoch, WA 5160) is similar to some I remember from Walnut Creek. It's a ranch house built to stay cool in the summer. The front door has a major overhang to avoid direct sunlight heating the house's walls. It's made of yellow brick that has just enough iron in it to cause stains that look a little like burn marks.
Inside is spacious - each of the four housemates has his or her own bedroom. We have three living rooms, a kitchen, and a covered back patio. It's more space than we need or deserve, but I'm not complaining. We have gone grocery shopping so the pantry and fridge are not empty. It's a particularly guilty pleasure for me to sit on the patio and play my guitar since it's warm during the day.
The problem with our house is that it's built to stay cool, and right now, it's downright cold at night. Even at 10 a.m., the house is a good ten degrees colder than it is outside. This means that even at noon time, I can be found wearing my fleece vest if I'm sitting inside, but must shed it immediately if I am to go outside.
Aside from temperature though, the house creates no complaints. It is as close to campus as many houses on The Hill are in Boulder. We are about a two minute walk from a bus stop that can take us 20 minutes to the cool part of town (Fremantle, or simply 'Freo') or 30 minutes up to Perth itself.
The campus of Murdoch Uni (as Aussies are prone to abbreviating 'University') is much smaller than that of CU Boulder, from whence I came. The school only has about half the enrollment, so that makes sense. Bush Court is the center of campus. It's surrounded by concrete buildings housing various student services like banks, the bookshop, and a food court with a restaurant named "Absolutely Kebabulous." No, I didn't make that up.
Wandering campus right now is a strange experience, as only international students, who make up 2000 or Murdoch's 17000 strong student body, are here. Germans, Swedes, Japanese, Chinese... You name it, we've met 'em. Except Australians. Since classes haven't started yet, there are very few Australians around. What's more, since they aren't directly involved in the international student activities, we've had little chance to interact with them. The irony of traveling however many thousand miles I flew to Australia to meet largely Germans is not lost on me.
Our weather has been, to this point, somewhat of a mixed bag. Our first five days were constantly rainy, gray, and generally crummy. But in the last few days, it has become sunny, and the days are very nice. Nights are still cold, and I wake up with cold toes each morning. I know the obvious solution is to wear socks, but I would much rather have cold toes than deal with that odor.
There is Perth (Well, mainly the suburb of Murdoch) in a nutshell. Soon I'll crack it...
Perth is a hell of a place. I've been here a week and I can already tell that it's the kind of town I enjoy. The house I'm in (46 Gratwick Tce Murdoch, WA 5160) is similar to some I remember from Walnut Creek. It's a ranch house built to stay cool in the summer. The front door has a major overhang to avoid direct sunlight heating the house's walls. It's made of yellow brick that has just enough iron in it to cause stains that look a little like burn marks.
Inside is spacious - each of the four housemates has his or her own bedroom. We have three living rooms, a kitchen, and a covered back patio. It's more space than we need or deserve, but I'm not complaining. We have gone grocery shopping so the pantry and fridge are not empty. It's a particularly guilty pleasure for me to sit on the patio and play my guitar since it's warm during the day.
The problem with our house is that it's built to stay cool, and right now, it's downright cold at night. Even at 10 a.m., the house is a good ten degrees colder than it is outside. This means that even at noon time, I can be found wearing my fleece vest if I'm sitting inside, but must shed it immediately if I am to go outside.
Aside from temperature though, the house creates no complaints. It is as close to campus as many houses on The Hill are in Boulder. We are about a two minute walk from a bus stop that can take us 20 minutes to the cool part of town (Fremantle, or simply 'Freo') or 30 minutes up to Perth itself.
The campus of Murdoch Uni (as Aussies are prone to abbreviating 'University') is much smaller than that of CU Boulder, from whence I came. The school only has about half the enrollment, so that makes sense. Bush Court is the center of campus. It's surrounded by concrete buildings housing various student services like banks, the bookshop, and a food court with a restaurant named "Absolutely Kebabulous." No, I didn't make that up.
Wandering campus right now is a strange experience, as only international students, who make up 2000 or Murdoch's 17000 strong student body, are here. Germans, Swedes, Japanese, Chinese... You name it, we've met 'em. Except Australians. Since classes haven't started yet, there are very few Australians around. What's more, since they aren't directly involved in the international student activities, we've had little chance to interact with them. The irony of traveling however many thousand miles I flew to Australia to meet largely Germans is not lost on me.
Our weather has been, to this point, somewhat of a mixed bag. Our first five days were constantly rainy, gray, and generally crummy. But in the last few days, it has become sunny, and the days are very nice. Nights are still cold, and I wake up with cold toes each morning. I know the obvious solution is to wear socks, but I would much rather have cold toes than deal with that odor.
There is Perth (Well, mainly the suburb of Murdoch) in a nutshell. Soon I'll crack it...
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