Well, almost.
My heart longs for that festive cheer - it is still on Australian time, and is back home in Sydney amongst family and friends, conjuring a smile with every reminder of how special such days are.
My mind, however, knows well that my body is here in England (still amongst friends and almost-family), and that Christmas day is still, officially, a little over an hour away.
Its strange the memories Christmas can beckon in. I remember so many Christmases (and yes, I'm going by the first google search result for 'plural of Christmas').
I remember Christmas long ago, before I knew much about anything, and could completely immerse myself in the simple pleasure of giving and receiving. I can recall later days when Christmas was marked by the grumpiness of a boy who just found the world and did not yet know how to look at it (or where his family [annoying at the time] might fit in); did not know how this new context might effect the dynamics of giving, receiving and knowing all that goes with these simple actions.
I can still feel the comfort of Christmases past when I knew more about who I was, or at least how I might become the person I longed to be. When family was no longer annoying, when I had figured their special place in my life for eternity. Christmases away from the world, Christmases hidden away in a self-contained paradise, complete with the joys of giving and receiving, the love of family and still the grounding reality of life and relationships.
Christmases when I missed friends, or perhaps a special someone who could not be with me.
A Christmas for mourning the passing of a loved grandparent.
Christmases with new people in new places; Christmases with old people (and older people!) in familiar homes.
Every year Christmas is different because I am different. Every year it means something new, and every year I have the pleasure of making a new memory of Christmas.
There is, however, one constant: Christmas breakfast!
Almost every year for almost as long as I can remember we have had a variety 8-pack of all those delicious, sugar-filled breakfast cereals in tiny individual boxes; the type that, as children, we were never allowed on a regular basis. A real treat, even if its now purely for the nostalgia it evokes.
In fact right now, as I sit miles from home, I can picture my family all reaching for their cereals of choice, perhaps fighting, sometimes resigning (the ultimate sign of family love). And that just might be what I miss most about Christmas this year.
Its a process that has evolved as we've all grown. But it is something that we have almost always had to navigate together. There has never been a hard and fast rule - our tastes seem to change yearly - so each year's negotiation has been different, new and approached with all the wisdom (or aggression or love or strength or courage or selflessness) that we have acquired over the year past. Those two minutes of decision making could be the defining moment for my family each and every year. And I miss it terribly.
I wonder which box I would have reached for if I was there right now.
I hope you take a guess and give mine to Sally. With paws instead of hands and an inability to grab quickly enough I'm afraid she's always missed out, poor puppy.
Merry Christmas and my love to all.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Paris: City of lights, shytes and motorbikes
We arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The trip to the apartment was a near mission impossible, involving twisting turns through narrow Parisian backstreets, visits to buildings, rooms, safety deposit boxes, codes, keys and cash, all with luggage in tow. The apartment itself was (finally) a very chique, loft-style space hidden in a side street somewhere in the 3rd arrondisement.
Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.
What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...
Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.
(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)
The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.
More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.
But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.
But oh the motorcycles!
European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!
But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...
Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...
Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.
What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...
Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.
(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)
The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.
More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.
But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.
But oh the motorcycles!
European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!
But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...
Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...
Friday, November 21, 2008
Scottish Sun
About a month from the winter solstice here in Scotland, and once you get out of the city and away from the buildings it becomes truly evident how much the sun's path through the sky has changed.
The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.
Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.
Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?
I think the Sun could be on to something here...
The sun no longer rises in the morning. It more just plays hide and seek, occasionally peeking through a gap between buildings, maybe teasing you by peering out over the rooftops, but never completely clearing them. It stays low in the sky, before lazily returning to bask other parts of the world in all its glory.
Clearly the sun is bored of the northern hemisphere at the moment, and is seeking greener pastures amongst our southern friends.
Or perhaps, as a wise Scot confided in me today, perhaps the Sun is smarter than we give it credit for. Perhaps the Sun has heard somewhere along the grapevine that Scottish winters are notoriously miserable - cold, cloudy, dark - and is merely leading by example. Perhaps it is getting to that time of year when we humans should reconsider rising from our beds each morning. Maybe we should sleep in a little longer, only stay out for a few hours, then hurry back home to some warmth and comfort. If the Sun knows about avoiding Scottish winters, why shouldn't we?
I think the Sun could be on to something here...
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Dusty (like Russia)
Finally at liberty to write about one of my more miserable travel experiences, I'm going to take this blog back a month or two.
It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.
The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.
That was fine, we said.
Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.
No, we said. We've been given no notice.
Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.
No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.
Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.
At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.
No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.
This was when the real challenge began.
Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.
Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.
Legal advice, we said.
Action, we threatened.
Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.
But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.
Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.
We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.
In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.
It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.
Definitely a lesson learned.
It began with a room viewing on a rainy Edinburgh day towards the end of July. Walking down a pretty cul-de-sac of blocks of old Victorian flats with quaint, flowery front gardens shaded by rows of large trees on the opposite side of the street. It was in a lively part of town, with shops and bars nearby, but it was set back off the busy main road, at the end of a very quiet crescent.
The rooms were generous in size - we were offered the pick of the bunch. The promises flowed, about urgent repairs to be made, renovations to be done, cleaning to completed. The nicer rooms, however, did come with one condition - a week of relocation to the smaller upstairs areas, so that two holidaying families could be comfortable accommodated on just one level of the flat.
That was fine, we said.
Two, three, four weeks into our stay and none of the promises had been kept. Not one. Workmen, inspectors, all arrived without any notice from our landlord, expecting to be shown into rooms where people were still asleep.
No, we said. We've been given no notice.
Our voluntary, good-will relocation for a week was suddenly turned into a month-long move into smaller rooms.
No, we said. That is not what we agreed to at all.
Visits from the landlord were regular and unannounced. The pretence was the work that was to be done. The result was a flat regularly left disheveled, with dishes and washing left strewn about. No work was done.
At the end of it all, after being forced into resignation over the state of the place, we could have signed longer leases.
No, we said. We'd like our deposits back, as we are going to move elsewhere, thank you.
This was when the real challenge began.
Excuse me, we said. It has been 2 weeks since you promised the return of our deposit. Please, reply to our emails, we said. Please return our calls.
Hey, we said. It has now been 3 weeks and we have not heard a word from you. We have called many times, we said. All we ask for is some communication from you.
Legal advice, we said.
Action, we threatened.
Ok, she said. I'll return your deposits now.
But three more weeks were to pass. Three more weeks with no communication. Our calls went unanswered, our messages ignored, our emails summarily dismissed without any reply whatsoever.
Enough, we said. You will now be reminded every single day. As will your partner. Every day, we said. Every day until we have what is rightfully ours.
We left that place cleaner, and in better condition than we found it. We never had to be chased for rent (in fact, we had to ask to pay it). We were polite, far too obliging, and generally excellent tenants.
In return we were disrespected, our generosity was abused, we were misled and we were completely used. Our first experience in Edinburgh was with a landlord who broke the terms of her own agreement, and who was completely neglectful of the needs of her tenants and her property.
It took longer than our period of tenancy for our deposit to be returned.
Definitely a lesson learned.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Ironique (thanks Millie)
I'm currently working in a fantastic new job for the University of Edinburgh in the Media Office.
This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.
My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.
'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'
Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.
In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.
My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.
"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."
Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked
"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"
I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!
This morning a call came in from a man who I thought was identifying himself as 'Tim' hoping to speak with the Director of our department. Unfortunately the call came at a time when the office was full of people and exploding with noise, so I didn't hear too much else.
My first concern was that it was the Principal of the University (first name Tim, last name unknown at this stage), a much respected figure, who, incidentally, is coming on a very important and very official visit to this office tomorrow. Wanting to sound like I knew who he was, I made sure I kept the call brief, business like, very professional, very important, very official.
'Yes, certainly, I'll get him to call you as soon as possible.'
Once off the phone, I enquired as to the Principal's surname. Upon discovering that it didn't begin with 'd' at all, nor did it sound anything like the name that I thought I had heard on the phone, I decreased the importance of this call, and pushed the message down towards the lower end of my to-do list. After all, the Director is a busy man, very important, and was in meetings for the duration of the day.
In a quieter period later in the day I thought that perhaps I could earn some initiative points beside my name if I called back this 'Tim' myself, and attempted to re-direct his call elsewhere in our department, rather than bothering the Director himself.
My call was answered by a kind, gentle voice, identifying herself as Kathleen, whom I assumed must be 'Tim's' assistant.
"Yes, hi, its Hamish calling from the University of Edinburgh-
Yes, thats right-
Yes, I'm calling on behalf of the director of Communications and Marketing to speak with ah, Tim please-
Yes, he called earlier to speak to the Director, but unfortunately the Director is in meetings today, and I was hoping that perhaps I could re-direct his enquiry to someone else in the department who may be able to help him-
Oh, well, could you please ask him to call me back on this number. And, ah, how is that you spell his name sorry?
Oh, its Tam, haha, sorry, my mistake. Tam-
Yes, D-a-l-y-e-l-l-
Pronounced Di-el? Ok excellent. Thank you."
Wanting to find out if anyone else in the press team might know who he was, or if anyone had any dealings with him, I tentatively asked
"Does anyone know a Tam Dalyell?"
I now know that Tam Dalyell is, in fact, a very, very, very important man. And don't I feel quite the fool!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
I bought some gloves
Apparently I served lunch to a Spanish Princess or some member of the Spanish royal family on Sunday. As well as some very rich (and I'm sure famous in their own fields) gentlemen and ladies from all over the world, all attending the Alfred Dunhill Links Championship. Notable attendees included Samuel L. Jackson, Hugh Grant and Michael Vaughn, amongst others.
On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.
On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.
My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.
On Saturday I served an exquisite 4 course meal after a cosy champagne reception at a wedding. The father of the bride was one of Scotland's most reknowned chefs (once again, within the industry), and the wedding was held in Mount Stuart House, an old Victorian mansion which is home to one of Britain's most beautiful indoor swimming pools, and which was the first house in Britain to have a telephone line. The ceilings were over 70 feet high in places.
On Wednesday last week I was a part of team that served over 600 French men and women who were partaking in an all-expenses paid business trip/marketing exercise. Their company paid over £1,000,000 for them to enjoy tours of some of Scotland's most famous highland distilleries before being given kilts to wear to a reception at a gorgeous family castle, which included a 30-man marching bagpipe band and a lighting show that was worth over £25,000 alone. They savoured a slow 4 course meal (dessert was not served until after midnight), seated in a (one use only) marquee worth £150,000, punctuated by performances from both local and French bands, complimented by some of the finest wine and whiskey available.
My job certainly isn't easy - its damn hard work. But it is, in more ways than one, awesome, worthy of awe. Nothing helps you realise this like standing with a bottle of French champagne in your hands whilst admiring an intricate tapestry hundreds of years old, in a house that people usually have to pay just to have the privilege of entering.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Highland Tribute
We took a drive up through the highlands this weekend. Begining with a tour of the small-but-stunning town of Stirling on Friday evening and Saturday morning, and ending with an enjoyable sprint from Inverness to Edinburgh on Sunday evening.
In between I was witness to some of the most amazing scenery I have ever been so privileged to see. The Scottish Highlands are an absolute wonder. As the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to the bare hills of Rhannach Moor, Glencoe Valley, and Loch Leven, words were stolen and replaced merely by repeated gasps at the beauty that was before me. In much the same way, Loch Ness took my breath from me as I gently immersed my face in the cold, cloudy waters (keeping a promise to my mother that I would pass her greetings on to the fabled monster), not just with its icy temperatures, but with the sincerity and drama of the surrounding landscape.
It is a beautiful thing to see a cloud swallow entire hills just metres from where you're standing. Hills that, when visible, are incredibly steep, rocky, seemingly unconquerable, eternal, formidable; hills that defeated the Romans over 2000 years ago, that held at bay the English armies for almost as long; hills that have changed highland hands hundreds of times, but have never themselves changed or relented. Hills that must still succumb to the gentle rolling of low-lying rain clouds, rendered completely invisible by nothing more than wafts of air-filled water.
An old friend of mine passed away recently. He was a proud Scot, whose genuine excitement travelled halfway around the world when I called him from Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Pop was a man who lived life because that's exactly what the word 'life' means - living. He took opportunities in the same way that he took disappointments - with a smile, and an attitude that reassured you no matter the situation. His grey hair and thick grey beard could not hide the youth that still sparkled in his eyes, nor could his aging exterior contain the energy that he still exuded.
He wasn't a huge man, but he had an unconquerable sense of humour, an amazingly kind heart, and an incredible spirit. All who knew him will miss him dearly, without exception.
In passing his body may have completely disappeared from this world, but I know that he is here, somewhere, just behind the clouds.
In between I was witness to some of the most amazing scenery I have ever been so privileged to see. The Scottish Highlands are an absolute wonder. As the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to the bare hills of Rhannach Moor, Glencoe Valley, and Loch Leven, words were stolen and replaced merely by repeated gasps at the beauty that was before me. In much the same way, Loch Ness took my breath from me as I gently immersed my face in the cold, cloudy waters (keeping a promise to my mother that I would pass her greetings on to the fabled monster), not just with its icy temperatures, but with the sincerity and drama of the surrounding landscape.
It is a beautiful thing to see a cloud swallow entire hills just metres from where you're standing. Hills that, when visible, are incredibly steep, rocky, seemingly unconquerable, eternal, formidable; hills that defeated the Romans over 2000 years ago, that held at bay the English armies for almost as long; hills that have changed highland hands hundreds of times, but have never themselves changed or relented. Hills that must still succumb to the gentle rolling of low-lying rain clouds, rendered completely invisible by nothing more than wafts of air-filled water.
An old friend of mine passed away recently. He was a proud Scot, whose genuine excitement travelled halfway around the world when I called him from Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. Pop was a man who lived life because that's exactly what the word 'life' means - living. He took opportunities in the same way that he took disappointments - with a smile, and an attitude that reassured you no matter the situation. His grey hair and thick grey beard could not hide the youth that still sparkled in his eyes, nor could his aging exterior contain the energy that he still exuded.
He wasn't a huge man, but he had an unconquerable sense of humour, an amazingly kind heart, and an incredible spirit. All who knew him will miss him dearly, without exception.
In passing his body may have completely disappeared from this world, but I know that he is here, somewhere, just behind the clouds.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A short black for a long while
I treated myself to a macchiato this morning at a friendly little deli around the corner from where I used to live.
I sat, read the newspapers, sipped slowly at the tiny coffee, and completely immersed myself in matters of the world.
Financial crises, leadership challenges, stories of violence, stories of hope, cynicism beside optimism beside pessimism beside strange inquisition. The less liquid there was in my cup, the more I found my thoughts floating far from myself and to those people and issues that I truly care about.
After being completely involved in my own world for so long, it was a comforting relief to re-find some perspective beyond the borders of my life.
There is so much that I miss from home. People, problems, solutions, challenges, familiarity, family, friends... But the wonderful thing about this re-discovery was that I could also look back on my own self from without, and I could see exactly where I was.
I was walking along the Meadows, with Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over my left shoulder, a bag of bread and a carton of eggs under my right arm, and an old friend on the phone from Brisbane. I could see the distance between myself and my native land, but I could also see all the Australia that I carry with me, all the home that lives in my heart.
This morning I remembered what an incredibly lucky guy I am, and that is a really great way to start a day.
I sat, read the newspapers, sipped slowly at the tiny coffee, and completely immersed myself in matters of the world.
Financial crises, leadership challenges, stories of violence, stories of hope, cynicism beside optimism beside pessimism beside strange inquisition. The less liquid there was in my cup, the more I found my thoughts floating far from myself and to those people and issues that I truly care about.
After being completely involved in my own world for so long, it was a comforting relief to re-find some perspective beyond the borders of my life.
There is so much that I miss from home. People, problems, solutions, challenges, familiarity, family, friends... But the wonderful thing about this re-discovery was that I could also look back on my own self from without, and I could see exactly where I was.
I was walking along the Meadows, with Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over my left shoulder, a bag of bread and a carton of eggs under my right arm, and an old friend on the phone from Brisbane. I could see the distance between myself and my native land, but I could also see all the Australia that I carry with me, all the home that lives in my heart.
This morning I remembered what an incredibly lucky guy I am, and that is a really great way to start a day.
One door closes, another one opens
Whether it be through cheesey pop music, or the wise adages of ancient soothsayers, life is often described as a rollercoaster. There are ups and downs, twists and turns, and sometimes even full loops and swirls.
Personally I think this might be a bit of a relaxed description in today's frantic society. I believe that life is far more like a yo-yo in the hands of a champion yo-yo master. Does that sound childish?
Have you ever seen a champion yo-yo master before?
Think of a rollercoaster tied on a piece of string travelling three times as fast and not limited by the direction of the track in front of it. Unlike with a rollercoaster there is no end of the road. There is no potential foresight of where you might be taken to next. There is only the hand of the master, who alone has the power to decide which direction the yo-yo will be flung in next, or when the perpetual motion will finally cease.
After hunting for a room to stay in for over 4 weeks, I thought I had finally found somewhere. A room in Bruntsfield, the area where I was hoping to live, with reasonable rent, fantastic flatmates and a beautiful room with all I could need. As I was greeted by two smiling faces at the open door, I knew that this was a place I could live.
Everything went well. And apparently I wasn't the only one who thought so - I was humbled by an acceptance the next day from the two current tennants. They would love to have me! We would meet again on Thursday night to discuss the finer points of my moving in and, I hoped, to find out a little more about each other.
But come Thursday afternoon I was surprised by an email - my blog had been found after a quick search of my name. I was initially flattered. Someone had been reading my blog, someone I didn't even know!
But then came the crushing news. My blog revealed an airiness in my plans, and caused some hesitation on behalf of my soon-to-be roommates. They needed committment. They were afraid that I couldn't offer that.
I won't pretend I wasn't surprised. Of all the things in my life, I never thought that this blog, this very blog that you are reading, would get me in any amount of strife. In fact, I hoped it would do the opposite (although they did mention that they enjoyed reading it, and for that I thank you).
But as the door closed on my vision of a beautiful Bruntsfield flat with fabulous flatmates, I completely understood their concerns. This was nothing personal, we were all just victims of unbelievable chance. Put in the same position myself, I would definitely need some convincing to take a different course of action.
The very next morning, feeling a little down at the bottom end of the yo-yo string, I opened the front door of my temporary accommodation to find a smiling neighbour.
"Hi, are you one of the new tennants in this flat?"
"Oh, um, not really. I'm just staying while I search for a room of my own. I'm just heading out to work."
"That's ok, I was just dropping by to say hi, welcome to the building... but you say you're looking for a room?"
"Yeah, hopefully somewhere closeby, I really like the area."
"I have a room."
"You have a room?"
"I have a room... Come, take a look. I'm looking for someone for about two or three months just to help cover a bit of the rental cost. Its a beautiful room."
As she pushed open the door to an enormous double room with a gorgeous bay window, elegant old furniture and a wonderful, positive vibe I knew that as quickly as one door had closed another one had opened literally just downstairs.
I move in this weekend.
I wonder... in which direction will I be thrown next?
Personally I think this might be a bit of a relaxed description in today's frantic society. I believe that life is far more like a yo-yo in the hands of a champion yo-yo master. Does that sound childish?
Have you ever seen a champion yo-yo master before?
Think of a rollercoaster tied on a piece of string travelling three times as fast and not limited by the direction of the track in front of it. Unlike with a rollercoaster there is no end of the road. There is no potential foresight of where you might be taken to next. There is only the hand of the master, who alone has the power to decide which direction the yo-yo will be flung in next, or when the perpetual motion will finally cease.
After hunting for a room to stay in for over 4 weeks, I thought I had finally found somewhere. A room in Bruntsfield, the area where I was hoping to live, with reasonable rent, fantastic flatmates and a beautiful room with all I could need. As I was greeted by two smiling faces at the open door, I knew that this was a place I could live.
Everything went well. And apparently I wasn't the only one who thought so - I was humbled by an acceptance the next day from the two current tennants. They would love to have me! We would meet again on Thursday night to discuss the finer points of my moving in and, I hoped, to find out a little more about each other.
But come Thursday afternoon I was surprised by an email - my blog had been found after a quick search of my name. I was initially flattered. Someone had been reading my blog, someone I didn't even know!
But then came the crushing news. My blog revealed an airiness in my plans, and caused some hesitation on behalf of my soon-to-be roommates. They needed committment. They were afraid that I couldn't offer that.
I won't pretend I wasn't surprised. Of all the things in my life, I never thought that this blog, this very blog that you are reading, would get me in any amount of strife. In fact, I hoped it would do the opposite (although they did mention that they enjoyed reading it, and for that I thank you).
But as the door closed on my vision of a beautiful Bruntsfield flat with fabulous flatmates, I completely understood their concerns. This was nothing personal, we were all just victims of unbelievable chance. Put in the same position myself, I would definitely need some convincing to take a different course of action.
The very next morning, feeling a little down at the bottom end of the yo-yo string, I opened the front door of my temporary accommodation to find a smiling neighbour.
"Hi, are you one of the new tennants in this flat?"
"Oh, um, not really. I'm just staying while I search for a room of my own. I'm just heading out to work."
"That's ok, I was just dropping by to say hi, welcome to the building... but you say you're looking for a room?"
"Yeah, hopefully somewhere closeby, I really like the area."
"I have a room."
"You have a room?"
"I have a room... Come, take a look. I'm looking for someone for about two or three months just to help cover a bit of the rental cost. Its a beautiful room."
As she pushed open the door to an enormous double room with a gorgeous bay window, elegant old furniture and a wonderful, positive vibe I knew that as quickly as one door had closed another one had opened literally just downstairs.
I move in this weekend.
I wonder... in which direction will I be thrown next?
Friday, September 19, 2008
When its time to party we always party hard
I have rather fond memories of my 21st - definitely a highlight of 2007.
I will admit that I did my fair share of complaining in the time leading up to the party. I consented to a party, yes. But my idea of a party was vastly different from my parents. I envisaged a barbeque in the park with my closest friends and family, a football, an old portable stereo, and maybe a balloon or two and some children's party games.
What eventuated was (what most thought to be) a rather grandscale event. Set in a beautiful (permanent) marquee in a park, complete with crisp white table clothes and shining silver cutlery, my birthday turned into a wedding without a bride. Despite my protests, I was the fortunate recipient of (what I thought to be) a lavish celebration of my 21 years. In fact, it was so brilliant that I happily conceded to being spoiled, and revelled in all the attention.
This weekend past I learned the true meaning of extravagance.
Over 340 guests were ushered into a reception marquee to begin the evening. Served champagne and canapes, they were gently serenaded by a crooner's drifting voice set to a baby grand piano, a double bass, and the trickling of a multi-leveled fountain which had been constructed on the tent's carpeted floors. Everyone was dressed magnificently, conversing vibrantly and preparing for what was to be a spectacular evening.
Urged into the adjoining dining hall marquee, guests were seated at tables featuring elegant centrepieces of flowers and candles, table cloths to the floor and cutlery arranged perfectly. We served their three courses promptly from the temporary kitchen assembled in yet another marquee next door, and kept their wine glasses brimming with wonderful whites and rather rich reds.
Dessert was followed by a choreographed display of fireworks, set to a 16 minute soundtrack, all set up within the grounds of the estate which was playing host to this splendid soiree. Whilst guests enjoyed the show outside, preparations were underway inside - tea and coffee was served in the dining area, whilst the partitions between the dining and reception area were removed to reveal an amazing transformation. The reception tent was now a cocktail lounge.
An additional area was opened up with a tiled dancefloor, complete with LED fairy lights embedded in the floor, and a stage at the rear hosting a 15 piece big band. This nightclub-like scene extended into a more relaxed space with lounges, bar tables and stools, colourful lighting and mysterious dark corners. Set right at the rear of the room was a bar offering a menu of beer, wine, cocktails and spirits, where we were kept busy with guests waiting three people thick to be served drinks and keep the festivities alive.
The big band may have finished belting out their big tunes around midnight, but the DJ was more than adequate at keeping partygoers on the dancefloor or crowding the bar for refreshments.
Bacon rolls were served at 2am, fueling the fun and prompting renewed waves of energy from once-tiring guests. Drinks continued to flow until well after 4am, whilst the dining hall was quietly packed away unbeknownst to any revellers.
Come 5am our bus arrived to take us home. Weaving our way through a still-jumping nightclub, past weary bodies sprawled over lush white lounges, we made it out into the fresh morning air, away from the thump of the drum 'n' bass that was relentlessly pounding away inside.
All this for a 21st.
Conservative estimates have priced this party somewhere between 200 and 250,000 pounds. Half a million Australian dollars.
For those of you still chuckling at the grandeur of my 21st, may I at least point out that I didn't have a fountain.
I will admit that I did my fair share of complaining in the time leading up to the party. I consented to a party, yes. But my idea of a party was vastly different from my parents. I envisaged a barbeque in the park with my closest friends and family, a football, an old portable stereo, and maybe a balloon or two and some children's party games.
What eventuated was (what most thought to be) a rather grandscale event. Set in a beautiful (permanent) marquee in a park, complete with crisp white table clothes and shining silver cutlery, my birthday turned into a wedding without a bride. Despite my protests, I was the fortunate recipient of (what I thought to be) a lavish celebration of my 21 years. In fact, it was so brilliant that I happily conceded to being spoiled, and revelled in all the attention.
This weekend past I learned the true meaning of extravagance.
Over 340 guests were ushered into a reception marquee to begin the evening. Served champagne and canapes, they were gently serenaded by a crooner's drifting voice set to a baby grand piano, a double bass, and the trickling of a multi-leveled fountain which had been constructed on the tent's carpeted floors. Everyone was dressed magnificently, conversing vibrantly and preparing for what was to be a spectacular evening.
Urged into the adjoining dining hall marquee, guests were seated at tables featuring elegant centrepieces of flowers and candles, table cloths to the floor and cutlery arranged perfectly. We served their three courses promptly from the temporary kitchen assembled in yet another marquee next door, and kept their wine glasses brimming with wonderful whites and rather rich reds.
Dessert was followed by a choreographed display of fireworks, set to a 16 minute soundtrack, all set up within the grounds of the estate which was playing host to this splendid soiree. Whilst guests enjoyed the show outside, preparations were underway inside - tea and coffee was served in the dining area, whilst the partitions between the dining and reception area were removed to reveal an amazing transformation. The reception tent was now a cocktail lounge.
An additional area was opened up with a tiled dancefloor, complete with LED fairy lights embedded in the floor, and a stage at the rear hosting a 15 piece big band. This nightclub-like scene extended into a more relaxed space with lounges, bar tables and stools, colourful lighting and mysterious dark corners. Set right at the rear of the room was a bar offering a menu of beer, wine, cocktails and spirits, where we were kept busy with guests waiting three people thick to be served drinks and keep the festivities alive.
The big band may have finished belting out their big tunes around midnight, but the DJ was more than adequate at keeping partygoers on the dancefloor or crowding the bar for refreshments.
Bacon rolls were served at 2am, fueling the fun and prompting renewed waves of energy from once-tiring guests. Drinks continued to flow until well after 4am, whilst the dining hall was quietly packed away unbeknownst to any revellers.
Come 5am our bus arrived to take us home. Weaving our way through a still-jumping nightclub, past weary bodies sprawled over lush white lounges, we made it out into the fresh morning air, away from the thump of the drum 'n' bass that was relentlessly pounding away inside.
All this for a 21st.
Conservative estimates have priced this party somewhere between 200 and 250,000 pounds. Half a million Australian dollars.
For those of you still chuckling at the grandeur of my 21st, may I at least point out that I didn't have a fountain.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The race
Around the corner from our hotel was a little holiday-hire place with a blue scooter and two oversized helmets. For a measely amount and a signature on some forms written in a language I don't understand, I was tossed the keys and warned that there was just enough gas in the tank to make it to the next petrol station.
And so we embarked.
With a full tank of fuel we set about taking wrong turns, flying through the jungle, struggling up hills, dodging roadkill and banana skins and revelling in the wind that lifted the helmets half off our heads, laughing all the way.
Come late afternoon we returned to the hotel and realised that there would be a grand race that evening. Not wanting to miss it, we donned some long sleeves and met by our tiny blue steed in the hotel carpark from where the race was to commence.
And without warning it began! Out of the hotel carpark, taking a short cut through the next parking lot, up and over the footpath, the wrong way down a one-way and we were ahead almost immediately. One red helmet and one white, flapping in the wind as we giggled at our initial daring success.
But our confidence overwhelmed our sense of urgency until we noticed that we were losing our illustrious lead. The hard thing about being in front is having no one to follow, instead having to rely on nothing more than some scratchings on a piece of paper, waving in the wind, with no more right to call itself a map than we had right to call our scooter a steed.
Is that the turn off? The sign says this way! Is this the long way?
I can't read this, it makes no sense - follow the signs! Oh, wait. This is taking us the long way! We can't go back now...
And with that there was a renewed vigour in my twisting wrist, riding the throttle in the fading light. We could see our racing partner ahead, chasing down the finish line with a steadiness that seemed unbeatable, inevitable. But there was power beneath our bottoms yet.
That was our prize. This was our race.
With a flick of the wrist and the mercy of a downhill run, we leaned into the corners, roaring with hysterical glee over the scream of the engine, blind through intersections, around slow traffic, darting through pedestrians,
there's the turn off!
sliding now with the sand and gravel into the final destination. Did we make it?
Did we make it?
We both turn, look our over the white sand, past the gentle lapping of the bright blue ocean and know that we had, indeed, won the race.
I grabbed her hand and we ran over the sand to claim our well-earned reward. The most beautiful sunset over a perfect beach, with tropical islands silhouetted across the horizon and the pinks and oranges of a quickly sinking sun sliding off the few pure white clouds, filling the sky with colours aplenty.
The sand was still warm from the last of the sun's rays. We sat, sank our toes in and breathed the perfection.
With the last of the light we returned to our trusty two-wheeled friend and leisurely trundled towards what would be an amazing seafood dinner, cooked in the local Langkawi style, enjoyed at a tiny table looking out over the beach.
We smiled.
The day had been ours.
And so we embarked.
With a full tank of fuel we set about taking wrong turns, flying through the jungle, struggling up hills, dodging roadkill and banana skins and revelling in the wind that lifted the helmets half off our heads, laughing all the way.
Come late afternoon we returned to the hotel and realised that there would be a grand race that evening. Not wanting to miss it, we donned some long sleeves and met by our tiny blue steed in the hotel carpark from where the race was to commence.
And without warning it began! Out of the hotel carpark, taking a short cut through the next parking lot, up and over the footpath, the wrong way down a one-way and we were ahead almost immediately. One red helmet and one white, flapping in the wind as we giggled at our initial daring success.
But our confidence overwhelmed our sense of urgency until we noticed that we were losing our illustrious lead. The hard thing about being in front is having no one to follow, instead having to rely on nothing more than some scratchings on a piece of paper, waving in the wind, with no more right to call itself a map than we had right to call our scooter a steed.
Is that the turn off? The sign says this way! Is this the long way?
I can't read this, it makes no sense - follow the signs! Oh, wait. This is taking us the long way! We can't go back now...
And with that there was a renewed vigour in my twisting wrist, riding the throttle in the fading light. We could see our racing partner ahead, chasing down the finish line with a steadiness that seemed unbeatable, inevitable. But there was power beneath our bottoms yet.
That was our prize. This was our race.
With a flick of the wrist and the mercy of a downhill run, we leaned into the corners, roaring with hysterical glee over the scream of the engine, blind through intersections, around slow traffic, darting through pedestrians,
there's the turn off!
sliding now with the sand and gravel into the final destination. Did we make it?
Did we make it?
We both turn, look our over the white sand, past the gentle lapping of the bright blue ocean and know that we had, indeed, won the race.
I grabbed her hand and we ran over the sand to claim our well-earned reward. The most beautiful sunset over a perfect beach, with tropical islands silhouetted across the horizon and the pinks and oranges of a quickly sinking sun sliding off the few pure white clouds, filling the sky with colours aplenty.
The sand was still warm from the last of the sun's rays. We sat, sank our toes in and breathed the perfection.
With the last of the light we returned to our trusty two-wheeled friend and leisurely trundled towards what would be an amazing seafood dinner, cooked in the local Langkawi style, enjoyed at a tiny table looking out over the beach.
We smiled.
The day had been ours.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
August Rush
An update from Edinburgh, which is where I am planning on living until the end of November.
I finally have a roof over my head, an agency that doesn't seem to have any problems placing me in jobs and just enough money in the bank account that I can still afford to eat.
Internet access has been limited in Edinburgh, and my web time has been dedicated to job and apartment hunting - not too much has changed in that department, except that my current job allows for some free time online. Hooray!
Life in Edinburgh is... a vibrant, lively grey. Like the clouds that perpetually exist just above the city skyline, Edinburgh is a city with a million different tones, shapes and shades all concealed within the same colour - grey.
There is a rather dramatic beauty in clouds. At a glance they may appear oppressive, overbearing and dull. Yet they are alive, moving, changing all the time. Sometimes they float, sometimes they roll, sometimes they're harbingers of a booming doom, other times they're merely the gateway to the paradisiacal blue above - there's a diversity in their consistency. They're always there, but if you look closely there is always something new to be found in the way they move, in the shapes they make, in the tiny gaps between.
The weather here might be rather dull, but that isn't Edinburgh's most prominent feature (although it might be my most prominent point of complaint). With the world's largest festival just coming to an end, Edinburgh is taking a new shape. As the crowds fade and the party-goers leave, the city is coming into its own and revealing the calm beauty that exists even after the excitement has left.
The drama of a castle perched atop the crags, the gentle, green roll of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's highest hill) and the concrete crassness of the eternally-busy Princes Street form just three sides of a city with many. The fact that Edinburgh is a town whose city boasts not one but two ground levels for many of its buildings is rather indicative of the vibe of this place - you can walk in on ground floor, and leave on ground floor, but end up in an entirely new place. Like the shifting shapes of the clouds overhead, Edinburgh is a city to be explored and enjoyed by those with an appreciation of their own imagination.
And for those with patience.
I wish those clouds would hurry up and disappear, I miss the sunshine.
I finally have a roof over my head, an agency that doesn't seem to have any problems placing me in jobs and just enough money in the bank account that I can still afford to eat.
Internet access has been limited in Edinburgh, and my web time has been dedicated to job and apartment hunting - not too much has changed in that department, except that my current job allows for some free time online. Hooray!
Life in Edinburgh is... a vibrant, lively grey. Like the clouds that perpetually exist just above the city skyline, Edinburgh is a city with a million different tones, shapes and shades all concealed within the same colour - grey.
There is a rather dramatic beauty in clouds. At a glance they may appear oppressive, overbearing and dull. Yet they are alive, moving, changing all the time. Sometimes they float, sometimes they roll, sometimes they're harbingers of a booming doom, other times they're merely the gateway to the paradisiacal blue above - there's a diversity in their consistency. They're always there, but if you look closely there is always something new to be found in the way they move, in the shapes they make, in the tiny gaps between.
The weather here might be rather dull, but that isn't Edinburgh's most prominent feature (although it might be my most prominent point of complaint). With the world's largest festival just coming to an end, Edinburgh is taking a new shape. As the crowds fade and the party-goers leave, the city is coming into its own and revealing the calm beauty that exists even after the excitement has left.
The drama of a castle perched atop the crags, the gentle, green roll of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's highest hill) and the concrete crassness of the eternally-busy Princes Street form just three sides of a city with many. The fact that Edinburgh is a town whose city boasts not one but two ground levels for many of its buildings is rather indicative of the vibe of this place - you can walk in on ground floor, and leave on ground floor, but end up in an entirely new place. Like the shifting shapes of the clouds overhead, Edinburgh is a city to be explored and enjoyed by those with an appreciation of their own imagination.
And for those with patience.
I wish those clouds would hurry up and disappear, I miss the sunshine.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tripping over
There are many fine lines in life: between love and hate, pleasure and pain, success and failure. Travelling puts this already-too-skinny line on a diet, starving the barrier that keeps us from the horror on the other side to the point of transparency.
Yes, you can have some of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer. Yes, your mind is expanded in a dozen different directions all at once. But a huge part of this enjoyment, this fulfilment, this satisfaction is the fact that we can tramp so close to the other side without even realising it.
Because each one of our senses is engaged in trying desperately to absorb the new world around us, we become so absorbed in the experience that we forget the pain that can exist side-by-side with pleasure. We forget the hate that balances love.
So when we slip, tripping over that now anorexic line, we can fall hard.
Ignorance is only bliss for as long as we can stay ignorant. If the hard times manage to creep up on us, we are caught by surprise. Who would think that standing in line to cross the border into Canada could so quickly lead to a violent, physical arrest (as happened to someone in the line ahead of me)? How was I to believe that the owner of the cafe wouldn’t actually give me a job, despite her frequent reassurances? When, how, why did that person so suddenly leave our world back home? It isn’t fair! Where did this pain suddenly erupt from, how did this tragedy sneak into my wonderful worldly adventure? How am I supposed to feel about it? How do we react?
When we are torn from our ideal world of travel and happiness it happens quickly and without warning. Being so far from the comforts of home makes the shock harder to bear and the disbelief can reverberate far louder than when we are in a familiar place.
All of a sudden the brilliance and the wonder of the new things which surround us lose their attractiveness. All of a sudden we are lost. The wide world becomes a scary, claustrophobic place which has us trapped far from the security of our known lives. All of a sudden the freedom of travelling becomes a fear of being so far away.
But the thing about love and hate and about pleasure and pain is that they are mutually reliant on each other – one cannot exist without the other. This is not always an easy truth to accept when you are on your own thousands of kilometres from home, but it is an essential part of travelling.
It is hard to remember, but this is one of the reasons I am here. I won’t always know what I am doing here. I won’t have my safety net to help me deal with those sneaky problems that come crashing into my new world. I will want to pack it all in and come home. But then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will be reminded. I am here because of this. I am here to live through this. I am here because I want to be.
It may be a thin line, made even finer by my distance from home... But every time I trip over, I will to try to remember that the other side of it isn’t far away.
Yes, you can have some of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer. Yes, your mind is expanded in a dozen different directions all at once. But a huge part of this enjoyment, this fulfilment, this satisfaction is the fact that we can tramp so close to the other side without even realising it.
Because each one of our senses is engaged in trying desperately to absorb the new world around us, we become so absorbed in the experience that we forget the pain that can exist side-by-side with pleasure. We forget the hate that balances love.
So when we slip, tripping over that now anorexic line, we can fall hard.
Ignorance is only bliss for as long as we can stay ignorant. If the hard times manage to creep up on us, we are caught by surprise. Who would think that standing in line to cross the border into Canada could so quickly lead to a violent, physical arrest (as happened to someone in the line ahead of me)? How was I to believe that the owner of the cafe wouldn’t actually give me a job, despite her frequent reassurances? When, how, why did that person so suddenly leave our world back home? It isn’t fair! Where did this pain suddenly erupt from, how did this tragedy sneak into my wonderful worldly adventure? How am I supposed to feel about it? How do we react?
When we are torn from our ideal world of travel and happiness it happens quickly and without warning. Being so far from the comforts of home makes the shock harder to bear and the disbelief can reverberate far louder than when we are in a familiar place.
All of a sudden the brilliance and the wonder of the new things which surround us lose their attractiveness. All of a sudden we are lost. The wide world becomes a scary, claustrophobic place which has us trapped far from the security of our known lives. All of a sudden the freedom of travelling becomes a fear of being so far away.
But the thing about love and hate and about pleasure and pain is that they are mutually reliant on each other – one cannot exist without the other. This is not always an easy truth to accept when you are on your own thousands of kilometres from home, but it is an essential part of travelling.
It is hard to remember, but this is one of the reasons I am here. I won’t always know what I am doing here. I won’t have my safety net to help me deal with those sneaky problems that come crashing into my new world. I will want to pack it all in and come home. But then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will be reminded. I am here because of this. I am here to live through this. I am here because I want to be.
It may be a thin line, made even finer by my distance from home... But every time I trip over, I will to try to remember that the other side of it isn’t far away.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Love at first bite
Am I singing happily in the cyber-shower? Two posts about love and dating in a row - perhaps I am showing signs of love in my life.
In fact, it is probably time to confess: there is a new love in my life.
It is a very passionate love, tempered only by the distance that has since been thrust upon us. It is a love that has greatly expanded my view on the world, challenged my understanding of cultural experiences and that has taught me to appreciate the more exciting facets of life.
We met within hours of my arrival in Kuala Lumpur.
It was warm. The intimidating storm clouds that greeted me served only to heighten the drama of this strange new place. The pelting tropical rain returned life to my senses that had been lying dormant since my departure from the US over 20 hours earlier.
I knew from the moment that I walked into that little corner cafe that this would be the beginning of a beautiful life-long romance.
I began slowly, gently flirting without stepping outside my personal comfort zone: nasi ayam, a dish which is as simple as the literal translation of its name - chicken and rice. With a cheeky grin I also sampled my first barley ice: a sweet, refreshing drink that quickly became a staple part of my Malaysian diet.
Seeing my own enthusiasm at these initial contacts, I became bolder in my advances. My confidence was rewarded as each and every one of my tastebuds were passionately assaulted with new flavours: small, spicy snails which had to be sucked straight from the shell and adorable little shellfish known as lalahs, their cute name matched by their delicate flavour. I ate not with greed, but with a vigour that increased with every bite. Each taste seemed impossibly good, surpassed only by the next mouthful. And the next.
And the next again.
And the next again until the plates were finished and my stomach was not only full but satisfied in a way I had not known possible.
And thus a passion was ignited in me, one which cannot be extinguished. My first meal in Malaysia will always be memorable for the anticipation, the slow building of excitement, and the amazing crescendo to conclude. My last meal in Malaysia will undoubtedly be one of the saddest moments in my life, for I have never, ever been so in love with a country's food before.
Malaysian food (in all your glorious forms), I love you.
In fact, it is probably time to confess: there is a new love in my life.
It is a very passionate love, tempered only by the distance that has since been thrust upon us. It is a love that has greatly expanded my view on the world, challenged my understanding of cultural experiences and that has taught me to appreciate the more exciting facets of life.
We met within hours of my arrival in Kuala Lumpur.
It was warm. The intimidating storm clouds that greeted me served only to heighten the drama of this strange new place. The pelting tropical rain returned life to my senses that had been lying dormant since my departure from the US over 20 hours earlier.
I knew from the moment that I walked into that little corner cafe that this would be the beginning of a beautiful life-long romance.
I began slowly, gently flirting without stepping outside my personal comfort zone: nasi ayam, a dish which is as simple as the literal translation of its name - chicken and rice. With a cheeky grin I also sampled my first barley ice: a sweet, refreshing drink that quickly became a staple part of my Malaysian diet.
Seeing my own enthusiasm at these initial contacts, I became bolder in my advances. My confidence was rewarded as each and every one of my tastebuds were passionately assaulted with new flavours: small, spicy snails which had to be sucked straight from the shell and adorable little shellfish known as lalahs, their cute name matched by their delicate flavour. I ate not with greed, but with a vigour that increased with every bite. Each taste seemed impossibly good, surpassed only by the next mouthful. And the next.
And the next again.
And the next again until the plates were finished and my stomach was not only full but satisfied in a way I had not known possible.
And thus a passion was ignited in me, one which cannot be extinguished. My first meal in Malaysia will always be memorable for the anticipation, the slow building of excitement, and the amazing crescendo to conclude. My last meal in Malaysia will undoubtedly be one of the saddest moments in my life, for I have never, ever been so in love with a country's food before.
Malaysian food (in all your glorious forms), I love you.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
First impressions
Humans, by nature it seems, are quick to judge and slow to change their minds.
Going on a first date we are usually eager to excite each of the senses of our potential partner: we want to look sharp, sexy; we want to smell fantastic, inviting; we want to feel clean, smooth (or stubbly, depending on the look you are going for); we want to sound intelligent, witty and; should it progress this far, we want to taste sweet, fresh for that first kiss. We aim not just to attract, but to give an overall impression of the person that we are. That is what we hope is attractive to this intriguing other.
(Author's note - I realise that this is an idealistic view of the dating world. Please humour my naivety for now, for I would hate for my idealism to be crushed at this stage in life)
My first date with America was in the run-down, expansive dungeon that is LAX. Possibly the most disgusting airport I have ever seen, it is characterised by open ceilings revealing a mess of filthy air-conditioning systems and a jumbled maze of wiring. Every visible surface seems to be dirty; people seem too disinterested to be approached for directions or help. If I didn't have the promise of a brighter future with friends and family on the other side, I doubt that this date would have gotten past immigration (except for the fact that I had invested so much in this first date that I would be obliged to continue).
Taiwan, in transit, greeted me with a beautiful complex that was clean and smart looking. Just from spending 40 minutes in the airport, I am already enticed, and hope to return. It appears to be a relationship worth pursuing.
Kuala Lumpur International Airport leaves a wonderful first impression. Staff were friendly (I was even greeted with an unprecedented smile by the immigrations official), helpful and accommodating. Well organised, tidy, sparkling like new, it invites you in to Malaysia with an air of prestige, implying an exciting country which takes pride in its hospitality. The only disappointment I have with my relationship with this gorgeous country was how short our time together was.
Judging by its airport, Bahrain is presented as a country of riches and luxury. There is an abundance of help at hand from smart-looking staff, the shopping is expansive and the announcements are friendly. This is definitely a date that I hope to call soon.
Heathrow airport is nothing spectacular. Old, shabby, with carpet that has literally worn through, it is an airport that sees too much use and not enough love. Heathrow seems tired. With immigration officials who appear to be looking for any excuse to end your fun and send you packing, it makes England appear an oppressive, intimidating place. Taking the next step feels like a leap of faith: I know there is a lot on offer behind this initially dubious exterior. Beauty must come from within (right?).
I am glad that I didn't allow my first date to be the foundation for my impressions. Thus far things with the United Kingdom have been progressing well. It looks as though we might even share a place in the not-too-distant future - perhaps my faith has been well placed.
Going on a first date we are usually eager to excite each of the senses of our potential partner: we want to look sharp, sexy; we want to smell fantastic, inviting; we want to feel clean, smooth (or stubbly, depending on the look you are going for); we want to sound intelligent, witty and; should it progress this far, we want to taste sweet, fresh for that first kiss. We aim not just to attract, but to give an overall impression of the person that we are. That is what we hope is attractive to this intriguing other.
(Author's note - I realise that this is an idealistic view of the dating world. Please humour my naivety for now, for I would hate for my idealism to be crushed at this stage in life)
My first date with America was in the run-down, expansive dungeon that is LAX. Possibly the most disgusting airport I have ever seen, it is characterised by open ceilings revealing a mess of filthy air-conditioning systems and a jumbled maze of wiring. Every visible surface seems to be dirty; people seem too disinterested to be approached for directions or help. If I didn't have the promise of a brighter future with friends and family on the other side, I doubt that this date would have gotten past immigration (except for the fact that I had invested so much in this first date that I would be obliged to continue).
Taiwan, in transit, greeted me with a beautiful complex that was clean and smart looking. Just from spending 40 minutes in the airport, I am already enticed, and hope to return. It appears to be a relationship worth pursuing.
Kuala Lumpur International Airport leaves a wonderful first impression. Staff were friendly (I was even greeted with an unprecedented smile by the immigrations official), helpful and accommodating. Well organised, tidy, sparkling like new, it invites you in to Malaysia with an air of prestige, implying an exciting country which takes pride in its hospitality. The only disappointment I have with my relationship with this gorgeous country was how short our time together was.
Judging by its airport, Bahrain is presented as a country of riches and luxury. There is an abundance of help at hand from smart-looking staff, the shopping is expansive and the announcements are friendly. This is definitely a date that I hope to call soon.
Heathrow airport is nothing spectacular. Old, shabby, with carpet that has literally worn through, it is an airport that sees too much use and not enough love. Heathrow seems tired. With immigration officials who appear to be looking for any excuse to end your fun and send you packing, it makes England appear an oppressive, intimidating place. Taking the next step feels like a leap of faith: I know there is a lot on offer behind this initially dubious exterior. Beauty must come from within (right?).
I am glad that I didn't allow my first date to be the foundation for my impressions. Thus far things with the United Kingdom have been progressing well. It looks as though we might even share a place in the not-too-distant future - perhaps my faith has been well placed.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Right son, get them Reeboks on, we's goin' chav huntin'
If I peek up past my computer screen in this internet cafe I am looking directly at Hyde Park, except for when the double decker buses block my view. The Clash is telling me to rock the casbah, but I think that I'll need to go and find a nice warm coat before I go out in search of this casbah.
It may be summer in London, but don't be fooled into thinking that its hot. The sun is nice and warm, but the shade is cold and British.
I know I know I know that I am behind (as always). In fact, I probably owe about 10 new posts - a summary of the US wouldn't go astray, then I need to update everyone on the beauty of Malaysia before launching into a grande description of the glorious MotherLand (and unfortunately I'm not talking about Mother Russia - hopefully I will make it there soon). And photos! I have so many photos!
The unfortunate news is that I didn't end up buying a laptop in Malaysia. I'm all talk apparently. Well, not all talk - just a slow mover. I talked about my overseas trip for about 3 or 4 years before I finally left. And if you think about it relatively (with regards to financial output), I should have a laptop within a few weeks. Although I might wait till I find work before I make that sort of financial committment.
In any case, I do have more regular access to the internet here in the UK, so you can expect a few more posts. If you're interested, please start logging in a little more frequently, and if I am falling behind, send me an email to get me moving.
Thanks to everyone who has been patient enough to persist with reading this.
Time to run for the tube!
It may be summer in London, but don't be fooled into thinking that its hot. The sun is nice and warm, but the shade is cold and British.
I know I know I know that I am behind (as always). In fact, I probably owe about 10 new posts - a summary of the US wouldn't go astray, then I need to update everyone on the beauty of Malaysia before launching into a grande description of the glorious MotherLand (and unfortunately I'm not talking about Mother Russia - hopefully I will make it there soon). And photos! I have so many photos!
The unfortunate news is that I didn't end up buying a laptop in Malaysia. I'm all talk apparently. Well, not all talk - just a slow mover. I talked about my overseas trip for about 3 or 4 years before I finally left. And if you think about it relatively (with regards to financial output), I should have a laptop within a few weeks. Although I might wait till I find work before I make that sort of financial committment.
In any case, I do have more regular access to the internet here in the UK, so you can expect a few more posts. If you're interested, please start logging in a little more frequently, and if I am falling behind, send me an email to get me moving.
Thanks to everyone who has been patient enough to persist with reading this.
Time to run for the tube!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
No computer, ok lah?
My sincerest apologies for the sudden stop in blog postings - I have literally had a total of only 10 minutes of internet time since I arrived in Malaysia.
I am currently sitting in the offices of the best law firm in Klang. Thankfully it is pleasure that brings me to these offices, and not business.
In fact, Malaysia has been nothing but pleasure since I arrived. Spending time with the people here has been the closest thing I could possibly have to being with my immediate family (whom I miss very much).
Thus far most of my time has been spent with family and eating. Eating before I go somewhere, eating when I get there, and then eating again when I get back. Anyone who knows me well would also know how much I am loving this sort of lifestyle. The food is superb. The only thing better than the food has been spending lots of time with such a caring, close-knit family. It is an honour to be considered a part of it.
I hope to spend the next week and a half exploring a little further - go to Kuala Lumpur, Melaka, maybe Langkowi or Penang. And eating lots more.
Unfortunately, I don't have enough time for a more substantial update. However I do hope to purchase a laptop while I am here and the Australian dollar is strong, which means that posts might become more regular.
I'm not promising anything.
What I can promise to you is that I am having a wonderful time in this country, and feel very much so at home.
I am currently sitting in the offices of the best law firm in Klang. Thankfully it is pleasure that brings me to these offices, and not business.
In fact, Malaysia has been nothing but pleasure since I arrived. Spending time with the people here has been the closest thing I could possibly have to being with my immediate family (whom I miss very much).
Thus far most of my time has been spent with family and eating. Eating before I go somewhere, eating when I get there, and then eating again when I get back. Anyone who knows me well would also know how much I am loving this sort of lifestyle. The food is superb. The only thing better than the food has been spending lots of time with such a caring, close-knit family. It is an honour to be considered a part of it.
I hope to spend the next week and a half exploring a little further - go to Kuala Lumpur, Melaka, maybe Langkowi or Penang. And eating lots more.
Unfortunately, I don't have enough time for a more substantial update. However I do hope to purchase a laptop while I am here and the Australian dollar is strong, which means that posts might become more regular.
I'm not promising anything.
What I can promise to you is that I am having a wonderful time in this country, and feel very much so at home.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
A picture's worth
Rather than spend my last few hours in LA writing furiously, I thought that perhaps I would finally put a substantial number of pictures online. They aren't perfect, I am yet to even rotate some of them, but you'll get the idea pretty quickly of where I have been and what I have done.
Enjoy!
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Baltimore%20and%20the%20Preakness/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Boston/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Chicago/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Graceland/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Los%20Angeles/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/New%20York/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/New%20York/Mothers%20Day/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Roadtrip%20South/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Seattle/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/St%20Louis/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Vancouver/
http://s283.photobucket.com/albums/kk313/hamishbr86/Washington/
Rollin' rollin' rollin'
My Amtrak review is a very mixed one. It would be better called my Train Travel Review, because my review of Amtrak is far from shining.
Of 8 train trips I took, 6 were significantly late. Lowlights of travelling with Amtrak include the terrible food, the occasionally strange conductors, and St Louis station (if you can call the muddy ground beside the tracks a station). Highlights include the fact that their employees don't check dates on rail passes, so I was still travelling on mine almost a full week after it expired.
Removing Amtrak from the equation, going by train is actually a decent way to get around. Granted, it takes a really long time to get from place to place (I left New York at 4pm on Tuesday afternoon, and didn't arrive in Vancouver until 4pm Friday afternoon, and spent all but 4 hours of that time either on a train or in a bus where the train from Seattle to Vancouver wasn't running). I'll also concede that there isn't always a lot to see out the window (the endless states of North Dakota and Montana come to mind).
But you see a lot more than you ever would by air. The long trips are conducive to (mostly) interesting conversation, bringing people closer merely because we are all confined to the same space for a significant amount of time.
There are no seat belt signs confining you to your seat, and lounge cars tend to be a reasonably social place, should you choose to engage.
Its also an economical way of travelling, particularly with the savings on accommodation. Thankfully, there is sufficient room on the long haul trips to spread out and get some decent sleep. Make sure you get the window seat.
In short, I would recommend train travel for anyone with time to spare (allow extra if travelling with Amtrak), a book to read, who enjoys looking out a window, and has a good tolerance for crazy people.
Just my kinda thing.
There's no place like...
I can now fire off a reasonably substantial list of American towns and cities that I have visited: Boston, Chicago, St Louis, Washington, Roanoke (VA), Knoxville, Nashville, Memphis, Baltimore, Seattle, Los Angeles, New York and then add in the Canadian city of Vancouver. And that is just on this trip. I probably have every right to add cities like Las Vegas, Phoenix, San Francisco, San Diego, New Orleans and Miami from the previous family trip that we took to the US.
In short, I have seen a lot of what this country's city living has to offer.
For me Seattle and Vancouver both appeared to be the most livable cities. I could easily see myself buying a modest home in North Vancouver somewhere, nestled at the feet of the mountains, just a short drive away from one of the inlets, surrounded by the lush green forests that give Vancouver a lot of its character. Seattle could accommodate me with a cosy apartment somewhere around the downtown area, or somewhere around the harbour where I could happily ride a ferry to work each day, but still be close enough to everything that I can smell the coffee.
But there is no place that draws me like New York City. Not quite the hideous concrete jungle that is Los Angeles (and don't worry Alane, I'm not talking about the beautiful Chino Hills area, nor am I implying that the people of LA match the city's ugliness - quite the opposite), New York really only has snippets of aesthetic beauty. To get out of the city and into some greenery, you need a car and a full day. Living is expensive, the climate can be extreme and the people have a reputation for rudeness.
Perhaps ignore that last comment.
Nevertheless, I would love to wake up in the city that never sleeps. I have never felt more at home, relaxed and comfortable anywhere outside Sydney as I do in New York.
Perhaps what draws me is the honest dichotomy (an oxymoron?). I never thought I would say that about the financial capital of the world, where market traders regularly ruin lives daily, where business can be horribly cut-throat, where image can be everything. But there is something honest in there.
There is an acceptance that emanates from almost every New Yorker - this is what the city is, and we still love it. We make every pretension when it comes to our image - we are the best in the world, and will never be made to look otherwise. But we also make no pretensions with regards to the inner workings of this place - New York city can be an ugly beast, which is perfectly capable of swallowing people whole. Its a dog-eat-dog world out there, so if our dogs fight in Central Park and mine loses, that's the way of the world. C'est la vie, as a cousin's boyfriend so delicately put it.
But I will file suit against you. Because its a man-eat-man world in New York City.
And I love that.
At a time when I am near-obsessed with seeing the importance of acceptance in all facets of life, New York both embodies this spirit and crushes it.
And it accepts that this is exactly what New York is.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Update
Having failed in the purchase of a laptop in either New York or Chicago on my way across the country, the blog is going to have to suffer a little more. The train ride was long, uncomfortable at times, but I definitely met... people. Some fantastic people, some interesting people, some strange people. I hope to keep in touch with some if not all of them.
The scenery was equally mixed - the neverending fields of North Dakota and Montana were exactly that. The Mississippi River took on a whole new beautiful shape heading down from St. Paul-Minneapolis; crossing the Rocky Mountains was magical. I might write a few more words about it at a later date when I have more time.
I am currently in Vancouver, BC, which is beautiful. I am staying with a cousin's uncle (from the other side of the their family), who is an extremely generous host who lives on the foot of the smaller mountains on the north side of Vancouver.
Unfortunately neither of my phones (Australian or American) work in Canada, so I am slightly more cut off from the rest of the world than usual, which isn't an entirely terrible thing. It'd be easy to go wandering for days on end in the woods up here. Very pretty, very tranquil.
I probably won't be spending terribly much time on the internet either, not until I get to LA (where I will probably stay up all night trying to catch up on a few blog entries). So feel free to slacken off with checking back until about the 29th May. Hopefully I will be posting more then.
Until then, just don't worry aboot it, eh?
The scenery was equally mixed - the neverending fields of North Dakota and Montana were exactly that. The Mississippi River took on a whole new beautiful shape heading down from St. Paul-Minneapolis; crossing the Rocky Mountains was magical. I might write a few more words about it at a later date when I have more time.
I am currently in Vancouver, BC, which is beautiful. I am staying with a cousin's uncle (from the other side of the their family), who is an extremely generous host who lives on the foot of the smaller mountains on the north side of Vancouver.
Unfortunately neither of my phones (Australian or American) work in Canada, so I am slightly more cut off from the rest of the world than usual, which isn't an entirely terrible thing. It'd be easy to go wandering for days on end in the woods up here. Very pretty, very tranquil.
I probably won't be spending terribly much time on the internet either, not until I get to LA (where I will probably stay up all night trying to catch up on a few blog entries). So feel free to slacken off with checking back until about the 29th May. Hopefully I will be posting more then.
Until then, just don't worry aboot it, eh?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Please don't be too dismayed
Yet another temporary post which will only briefly provide news (but no entertainment).
The next leg of my journey is now due to being: the great trek over to the west coast. Enlisted in my troop to complete such a task is the service of two Amtrak trains - one which will accompany me to Chiacgo, and another which will make the final pitch across the country to Seattle.
From Seattle I will board a bus which will whisk me up to Vancouver, where I am grateful to be met by a very distant relative who has kindly offered to put me up for a night or two.
This sojourn across these United States of America will begin this afternoon at 4pm in New York, and will find its conclusion hopefully in Vancouver by Friday evening, 5pm.
After Vancouver (and after the Memorial Day weekend which prohibits me from finding accommodation), I will visit the coffee-sipping, grunge-rocking town of Seattle for a few days before flying back into LA on May 29.
My flight to Malaysia departs from LAX at 1.40am on June 1.
I will endeavour to write something interesting on this blog between now and then. My sincerest apologies for now that there is nothing new and exciting to read - I will catch up soon.
Thanks for reading.
The next leg of my journey is now due to being: the great trek over to the west coast. Enlisted in my troop to complete such a task is the service of two Amtrak trains - one which will accompany me to Chiacgo, and another which will make the final pitch across the country to Seattle.
From Seattle I will board a bus which will whisk me up to Vancouver, where I am grateful to be met by a very distant relative who has kindly offered to put me up for a night or two.
This sojourn across these United States of America will begin this afternoon at 4pm in New York, and will find its conclusion hopefully in Vancouver by Friday evening, 5pm.
After Vancouver (and after the Memorial Day weekend which prohibits me from finding accommodation), I will visit the coffee-sipping, grunge-rocking town of Seattle for a few days before flying back into LA on May 29.
My flight to Malaysia departs from LAX at 1.40am on June 1.
I will endeavour to write something interesting on this blog between now and then. My sincerest apologies for now that there is nothing new and exciting to read - I will catch up soon.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Memphis, Tennessee
Beale Street greeted us tonight with a police officer drawing his gun at a guy while his partner wrestled the guy to the ground.
Welcome to Tennessee, gents.
Welcome to Tennessee, gents.
Monday, May 12, 2008
News
Quick post in between updates...
Tonight I am about to embark on a road trip with cousin Andrew. I am sure it will be wild. I am also quite sure that internet access is going to be limited.
For those concerned with my safety, our current plan is to go as far as Memphis, Tennessee, and visit places like Nashville, Richmond, Baltimore and Washington (probably in that order).
For those concerned about my reputation...
Be concerned.
I'll try and make an update somewhere along the way, however please don't begin to riot if you don't hear from me in the next 8 or 9 days. There are far better reasons to riot!
Post-script: Happy mother's day
Tonight I am about to embark on a road trip with cousin Andrew. I am sure it will be wild. I am also quite sure that internet access is going to be limited.
For those concerned with my safety, our current plan is to go as far as Memphis, Tennessee, and visit places like Nashville, Richmond, Baltimore and Washington (probably in that order).
For those concerned about my reputation...
Be concerned.
I'll try and make an update somewhere along the way, however please don't begin to riot if you don't hear from me in the next 8 or 9 days. There are far better reasons to riot!
Post-script: Happy mother's day
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Travel my way...
I stuck my foot in the Mississippi River!!
I was a cowboy for a day!! Actually, I was the horse and my adorable cousin Stephanie was the cowgirl. At least I wasn't the cow.
OK I was the cow too... and even a crab at one stage. Laugh if you like, but I had a great time.
...now you go through St Louis...
I was a cowboy for a day!! Actually, I was the horse and my adorable cousin Stephanie was the cowgirl. At least I wasn't the cow.
OK I was the cow too... and even a crab at one stage. Laugh if you like, but I had a great time.
...now you go through St Louis...
Singin', swingin', shrill trumpets ringin'
Chicago highlights:
An evening of swing dancing to a 14-piece band, lorded over by a bouncer with a curly moustache at Al Capone's favourite jazz club - the Green Mill.
Millenium Park, downtown Chicago.
My first home-cooked Indian meal in a month.
Just being in a home.
Chicago lowlights:
Unfortunate souls rattling cups on every corner, begging.
Realising that the full moon wasn't outside in the starry Chicago night - it was actually in my dorm at the hostel, asleep without any sheets covering it.
An evening of swing dancing to a 14-piece band, lorded over by a bouncer with a curly moustache at Al Capone's favourite jazz club - the Green Mill.
Millenium Park, downtown Chicago.
My first home-cooked Indian meal in a month.
Just being in a home.
Chicago lowlights:
Unfortunate souls rattling cups on every corner, begging.
Realising that the full moon wasn't outside in the starry Chicago night - it was actually in my dorm at the hostel, asleep without any sheets covering it.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Chicago? Chicago.
There are many places in the world that can be legitimately described as awesome; unfortunately, I haven't seen all that many. But in my limited experience, Chicago is a place that is genuinely worthy of awe.
Chicago is a city in which you can look in almost any direction and there is something to see. Chicago is the type of city which makes me want to take photography lessons. Chicago is a city which inspires a desire to better understand architecture and design.
Chicago has kept my eyes open very wide without fail whenever I have gone anywhere near the downtown area.
I'll happily admit that there are parts of the town that are downright shabby, but my general impression thus far:
Chicago? Yes please.
...hopefully there will be more to come at a later date :-)
Chicago is a city in which you can look in almost any direction and there is something to see. Chicago is the type of city which makes me want to take photography lessons. Chicago is a city which inspires a desire to better understand architecture and design.
Chicago has kept my eyes open very wide without fail whenever I have gone anywhere near the downtown area.
I'll happily admit that there are parts of the town that are downright shabby, but my general impression thus far:
Chicago? Yes please.
...hopefully there will be more to come at a later date :-)
Oh baby don't you wanna go?
Staying in hostels is great fun, I have met some wonderful people and have enjoyed tapping into the wealth of travel knowledge and community spirit that are so readily shared at these places. Despite the fact that a roommate of mine in Chicago slept in the nude (and was apparently too hot for sheets), and that there is a need to always wear thongs in the bathroom, my experience of hostels has been brilliant.
But there is something to be said for the comfort of a home and the love of a family. There is nothing in the world quite like it.
Staying with family (and friends who might as well be family) has been like finding oases in beautiful deserts: whilst there are still some amazing things to be seen wondering around on your own, knowing that there is a friendly place to stop along the way is a luxury that makes any journey far more enjoyable.
So thank you to all who have already endured me, and thank you in advance for all those who have volunteered themselves for the future. I genuinely appreciate the family time much more than you might realise.
Sweet home Chicago.
But there is something to be said for the comfort of a home and the love of a family. There is nothing in the world quite like it.
Staying with family (and friends who might as well be family) has been like finding oases in beautiful deserts: whilst there are still some amazing things to be seen wondering around on your own, knowing that there is a friendly place to stop along the way is a luxury that makes any journey far more enjoyable.
So thank you to all who have already endured me, and thank you in advance for all those who have volunteered themselves for the future. I genuinely appreciate the family time much more than you might realise.
Sweet home Chicago.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Revolution, Liberation, Precipitation
The Freedom Trail is a great walk through Boston, touring around all the historical sites that were significant to the birth of this nation. After walking it today I feel a real sense of the American psyche. I feel liberated.
And saturated. Probably more saturated.
Boston's a really pretty city, and I am definitely glad that I extended my stay here (despite the inclement weather).
And saturated. Probably more saturated.
Boston's a really pretty city, and I am definitely glad that I extended my stay here (despite the inclement weather).
iPod with my little ears...
Every playlist and song that is on my own iPod.
Weird... All the bars in America seem to be playing the exact same music that I left back on my iPod at home.
I hope someone is firing that thing up every now and then.
Weird... All the bars in America seem to be playing the exact same music that I left back on my iPod at home.
I hope someone is firing that thing up every now and then.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
In other news
Its raining. And I don't have a coat.
:-(
Edit: I bought an umbrella.
It broked.
I bought a raincoat.
I'm still soaked.
:-(
Edit: I bought an umbrella.
It broked.
I bought a raincoat.
I'm still soaked.
Revision
Just booked myself in for an extra night in Boston. This place is really pretty, and there is plenty to see!
I am also now a proud member of the Boston Public Library. Beautiful building.
Free internet.
And so begins the poverty...
I am also now a proud member of the Boston Public Library. Beautiful building.
Free internet.
And so begins the poverty...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
News post
This was a country built on railroads. I thought I might explore a few.
Current itinerary:
27th Apr - New York to Boston
29th/30th Apr - Boston to Chicago
5th May - Chicago to St Louis
6th May - St Louis to Chicago
7th May - Chicago to Washington
9th/10th May - Washington to New York
Then its time to go roadtrippin (thanks to the Jacqueses who suggested, and to the Jacques who agreed to come). The route is yet to be decided, but may include New Orleans, may involve a trip around the Great Lakes or could be a trip down to Miami. I will keep you all posted.
Back to the west coast by May 22, then maybe Seattle, Vancouver and possibly San Francisco before heading back to LA to see Naomi for one last big hug, and fly to Malaysia.
But anyone who has been in touch with me would know how quickly these plans could change. Check back regularly for updates!
Current itinerary:
27th Apr - New York to Boston
29th/30th Apr - Boston to Chicago
5th May - Chicago to St Louis
6th May - St Louis to Chicago
7th May - Chicago to Washington
9th/10th May - Washington to New York
Then its time to go roadtrippin (thanks to the Jacqueses who suggested, and to the Jacques who agreed to come). The route is yet to be decided, but may include New Orleans, may involve a trip around the Great Lakes or could be a trip down to Miami. I will keep you all posted.
Back to the west coast by May 22, then maybe Seattle, Vancouver and possibly San Francisco before heading back to LA to see Naomi for one last big hug, and fly to Malaysia.
But anyone who has been in touch with me would know how quickly these plans could change. Check back regularly for updates!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
United Nations. We hope.
Often criticised for their inability to accomplish things, the United Nations can often seem like a really defunct institution. I tend towards optimism in most facets of life, but even I am dismayed at times by the meaninglessness of some of the UN's actions. Inactions.
But I must admit that when I visited the headquarters in New York, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope in just the idea of nations united. It is definitely a powerful thing.
The building itself was far from spectacular. In fact, it seemed almost run down in some areas. The gardens were pretty, but entirely fenced off. And I know it was naive of me to expect more, but the security guards just didn't seem all that sophisticated.
Yet walking through the security checkpoint, I found myself very excited. I was thrilled at the idea of being on an international territory (yes, to visit the UN you must actually leave US soil - unfortunately no, you don't get a stamp on your passport that proves it). I was eager to impress everyone that I spoke to, with some faint idea at the back of my mind that this is what should be done here - it is a place of unity, respect and peace.
United nations is a fairly romantic notion. Even before the birth of the nation-state people struggled to coexist peacefully, and whilst forming nations added politics to the already volatile mix of racial, religious and geographical tensions, it did little to halt conflict. In fact, it became yet another reason to go to war.
But with nations and nation-states also came a new sense of diplomacy. Nations can work together in ways that, historically, different races or people from different religous groups could not. All sorts of different people can be united under the banner of 'nation', whereas defining people by their race or religion is much more constraining.
Standing in the lobby of the UN Headquarters I was as giddy as a scholar who finally discovered not the solution to his problem, but a new path to a potential solution. It was exhilarating, and I couldn't get enough of the idealism that existed within the walls of that very building.
Or maybe I am just naive. Either way, I'm not letting go of my idealism easily.
Is peace worth fighting for?
But I must admit that when I visited the headquarters in New York, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope in just the idea of nations united. It is definitely a powerful thing.
The building itself was far from spectacular. In fact, it seemed almost run down in some areas. The gardens were pretty, but entirely fenced off. And I know it was naive of me to expect more, but the security guards just didn't seem all that sophisticated.
Yet walking through the security checkpoint, I found myself very excited. I was thrilled at the idea of being on an international territory (yes, to visit the UN you must actually leave US soil - unfortunately no, you don't get a stamp on your passport that proves it). I was eager to impress everyone that I spoke to, with some faint idea at the back of my mind that this is what should be done here - it is a place of unity, respect and peace.
United nations is a fairly romantic notion. Even before the birth of the nation-state people struggled to coexist peacefully, and whilst forming nations added politics to the already volatile mix of racial, religious and geographical tensions, it did little to halt conflict. In fact, it became yet another reason to go to war.
But with nations and nation-states also came a new sense of diplomacy. Nations can work together in ways that, historically, different races or people from different religous groups could not. All sorts of different people can be united under the banner of 'nation', whereas defining people by their race or religion is much more constraining.
Standing in the lobby of the UN Headquarters I was as giddy as a scholar who finally discovered not the solution to his problem, but a new path to a potential solution. It was exhilarating, and I couldn't get enough of the idealism that existed within the walls of that very building.
Or maybe I am just naive. Either way, I'm not letting go of my idealism easily.
Is peace worth fighting for?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
New York, Zoo York, Jew York, Too (much) York
Highlights:
Central Park is beautiful. It isn't just the flowers that are blooming, it is the people as well - there is so much life here. An afternoon can be easily wiled away just watching, relaxing, enjoying.
The Guggenheim Museum has an exhibition on by Cai Guo Qiang. It is the most amazing exhibition that I have ever seen. His ideas are challenging, his vision is grand and his favourite material is gunpowder. Say no more.
I stood inside an Egyptian tomb over 4,000 years old in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw burial cloths equally as old. I now know why everyone in the world wants Egyptian cotton.
The emotion stirred by Ground Zero and stories of September 11, 2001 is still very poignant. I wonder what the Middle East is going to be like...
Seder with a group of Jewish families was... delicious! My first Jewish religious experience.
The food here is phenomenal.
The biggest highlight is that I still haven't seen a fraction of what this place has to offer. Come to New York.
Central Park is beautiful. It isn't just the flowers that are blooming, it is the people as well - there is so much life here. An afternoon can be easily wiled away just watching, relaxing, enjoying.
The Guggenheim Museum has an exhibition on by Cai Guo Qiang. It is the most amazing exhibition that I have ever seen. His ideas are challenging, his vision is grand and his favourite material is gunpowder. Say no more.
I stood inside an Egyptian tomb over 4,000 years old in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw burial cloths equally as old. I now know why everyone in the world wants Egyptian cotton.
The emotion stirred by Ground Zero and stories of September 11, 2001 is still very poignant. I wonder what the Middle East is going to be like...
Seder with a group of Jewish families was... delicious! My first Jewish religious experience.
The food here is phenomenal.
The biggest highlight is that I still haven't seen a fraction of what this place has to offer. Come to New York.
Drive me crazy
Yes, another driving post. But I am not the driver.
I am amazed at the judgement shown by people driving in New York City. Lanes are ignored, double-parking is frequent, indicators are a barely used accessory, yet I haven't seen an accident. I know they happen - I have seen the scratched, dented panels and fenders. Yet traffic flows, people zip through spaces that a Sydney driver wouldn't even consider, drivers seem to co-exist in spaces between lanes between spaces between cars.
Sitting in the car with Murray I feel completely comfortable (whereas in Sydney I wouldn't). Sitting in the back of a cab, I am rigid with tension and nerves.
Interesting but irrelevant observations!
I am amazed at the judgement shown by people driving in New York City. Lanes are ignored, double-parking is frequent, indicators are a barely used accessory, yet I haven't seen an accident. I know they happen - I have seen the scratched, dented panels and fenders. Yet traffic flows, people zip through spaces that a Sydney driver wouldn't even consider, drivers seem to co-exist in spaces between lanes between spaces between cars.
Sitting in the car with Murray I feel completely comfortable (whereas in Sydney I wouldn't). Sitting in the back of a cab, I am rigid with tension and nerves.
Interesting but irrelevant observations!
Wrong way, Monsieur Ratsinger
I stood about 2.5 metres from the Pope on Friday evening. He waved through his car window as he (and his entourage of over 50 vehicles) went the wrong way down East 87th St from Park Avenue, right out the front of our building.
As exciting as the whole event was, the cherry on top was definitely the lone police scooter that ended a convoy of 30 - 40 highway patrol motorcycles, big SUV's, buses of media, limousines, police cars and black vans going the wrong way down East 87th.
Only the Pope. Only in New York. I love this place.
As exciting as the whole event was, the cherry on top was definitely the lone police scooter that ended a convoy of 30 - 40 highway patrol motorcycles, big SUV's, buses of media, limousines, police cars and black vans going the wrong way down East 87th.
Only the Pope. Only in New York. I love this place.
And home, home's anywhere you are too...
End of week two and a tiny bit of people-sickness is kicking in. That is not to say that I am sick of the people here - on the contrary, I love the people that I am spending my time with here.
What I do mean is that I am missing all the people who aren't here. I don't miss Australia just yet (although I do automatically sit up and pay attention when I hear an Australian accent in the crowd), but I do miss my friends and my family. Especially with the sudden, forced changes of plans. It would be nice to have a more familiar face here to boost my confidence, to bounce ideas off of, to laugh with.
That being said, my New York family have been wonderful. Murray and Francine have provided endless amounts of encouragement and support, whilst still giving me complete freedom. Not only have they given me full run of their beautiful home in the middle of upper Manhattan, but they have also dispensed tips, happily included (or not included) me in any of their plans, and have fed me the most spectacular meals.
Perhaps I shouldn't publish this post, lest everyone comes to New York to abuse their hospitality. Oops!
I could make New York home quite happily, if I could have my family and friends here too. I do wonder though - is my comfort here a result of the fact that I do have family here?
I thought I had already learned to appreciate the importance of family. Maybe this is a lesson that repeats itself over and over. I shall keep you all informed.
What I do mean is that I am missing all the people who aren't here. I don't miss Australia just yet (although I do automatically sit up and pay attention when I hear an Australian accent in the crowd), but I do miss my friends and my family. Especially with the sudden, forced changes of plans. It would be nice to have a more familiar face here to boost my confidence, to bounce ideas off of, to laugh with.
That being said, my New York family have been wonderful. Murray and Francine have provided endless amounts of encouragement and support, whilst still giving me complete freedom. Not only have they given me full run of their beautiful home in the middle of upper Manhattan, but they have also dispensed tips, happily included (or not included) me in any of their plans, and have fed me the most spectacular meals.
Perhaps I shouldn't publish this post, lest everyone comes to New York to abuse their hospitality. Oops!
I could make New York home quite happily, if I could have my family and friends here too. I do wonder though - is my comfort here a result of the fact that I do have family here?
I thought I had already learned to appreciate the importance of family. Maybe this is a lesson that repeats itself over and over. I shall keep you all informed.
Friday, April 18, 2008
I am. Are you?
I am.
The shortest possible sentence in the English language, yet probably the most powerful.
Also a surprisingly significant sentence and concept in many aspects of life.
For example, I found out today that the State of New York doesn't believe who I am. In fact, the United States government will not believe that I am who I say I am in many contexts.
Why is this significant? If I can't prove who I am, then I can't legally own a motorcycle in this country. A frustrating revelation given that I went to bed with such cold feet, worried about the risk that I was taking if I was to buy this bike that I test-rode yesterday, but woke up with a strong resolve - I would buy this bike or regret my decision not to. Anticipating regret makes difficult decisions slightly easier.
Having difficult decisions made for you is also easy. So now I will plan myself a train or bus tour of this grand country, despite the fact that this grand country will not believe in me.
I will make this work. I know who I am. I know that I am.
I am.
The shortest possible sentence in the English language, yet probably the most powerful.
Also a surprisingly significant sentence and concept in many aspects of life.
For example, I found out today that the State of New York doesn't believe who I am. In fact, the United States government will not believe that I am who I say I am in many contexts.
Why is this significant? If I can't prove who I am, then I can't legally own a motorcycle in this country. A frustrating revelation given that I went to bed with such cold feet, worried about the risk that I was taking if I was to buy this bike that I test-rode yesterday, but woke up with a strong resolve - I would buy this bike or regret my decision not to. Anticipating regret makes difficult decisions slightly easier.
Having difficult decisions made for you is also easy. So now I will plan myself a train or bus tour of this grand country, despite the fact that this grand country will not believe in me.
I will make this work. I know who I am. I know that I am.
I am.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
New news
Briefly...
LA was really great! Seeing Naomi and meeting RJ was brilliant, and I couldn't have asked for more in hosts. Thank you so much for your couch, your food, your bathroom, your driving skills, your patience and yourselves. I'm looking forward to coming back to visit!
I flew into NY on a red-eye flight, arriving at 6.30am Monday, and have been on the go since. There is so much to see and do here, and I am totally in love with the place and the people.
Including more motorbikes. Don't hold your breath.
Actually, feel free to breathe a little easier - my baby Geni (also known as UKP 05, 02 Suzuki GS 500 back home) has gone to a new home. She will be well loved by her new owner, a family man who has a passion for biking. I hope to see you on the road when I get back, Geni.
More soon, so keep an eye out! Or in.
LA was really great! Seeing Naomi and meeting RJ was brilliant, and I couldn't have asked for more in hosts. Thank you so much for your couch, your food, your bathroom, your driving skills, your patience and yourselves. I'm looking forward to coming back to visit!
I flew into NY on a red-eye flight, arriving at 6.30am Monday, and have been on the go since. There is so much to see and do here, and I am totally in love with the place and the people.
Including more motorbikes. Don't hold your breath.
Actually, feel free to breathe a little easier - my baby Geni (also known as UKP 05, 02 Suzuki GS 500 back home) has gone to a new home. She will be well loved by her new owner, a family man who has a passion for biking. I hope to see you on the road when I get back, Geni.
More soon, so keep an eye out! Or in.
E'erbody in the club gettin' tips (revisiting my final night in LA)
In the USA, people in the service industry are paid not for the work they do, but (theoretically) for how well they do the work. This happens in the form of tips. If they serve well, they can expect their 15% and more. If they don't perform quite up to standard, they might fall a few cents short of that magical 15% mark - and when you are getting paid a pittance for your base wage, every cent that you get in tips will count.
As such, this is generally a place where customer service is good, if not great - people's livelihood relies on it. Therefore this is a society in which there is a strong expectation of swift, friendly, helpful service. Afterall, it is the customer who is paying most of the wage directly from their own wallet, and they want their money's worth.
Obviously where there are expectations, there are also disappointments. This high expectation of good service can become highly entertaining in circumstances where it isn't fulfilled.
On Saturday night RJ and his friends had a booking for about 20 people at a teppanyaki restaurant in a nice neighbourhood in LA (Fullerton). Knowing his friends well, guests were told that the booking was for 9pm, but the reservation with the restaurant was made for 9.30pm. The plan was mostly a success - come 9.30, 15 of 22 people were there and the other 7 were on their way. We took our seats, ordered drinks, and contemplated menus, knowing that the other 7 would merely order appetisers when they arrived (they were going to be too late to have their food cooked on the grill in front of us).
Just as comfort levels rose and small talk grew between new and old friends, friendly conversation over drinks and menus was interrupted rather rudely by a quick-tongued manager.
"Who is responsible for this reservation? I need to speak to the person responsible for this reservation."
"I guess I am responsible?" (April, RJ's lovely cousin who made the booking and was also celebrating her birthday)
"Well, I need to know how many other people are coming."
"Um, I think 5 people are coming. Either 5 or 7?"
"When are they going to be here."
"They are on their way, I'm not sure when they will actually arrive. But they're just ordering from the appetiser menu, so you can feel free to fire up the grill anytime - we don't need to wait for them." (Smile from April)
"But are they coming? When will they be here? Because I have 5 seats here that need to be filled. And if your friends don't come, I am charging you $25 a head for those seats."
I must interrupt here just to add that there was nobody waiting for tables at this stage, and there was two whole teppan grills going unused.
"Oh! But, they are coming? I just spoke to them, they are coming and ordering appetisers."
"Well, if you confirm that now, and I reserve these 5 seats for them, then I am going to charge you $25 a head if they don't show up."
"But you didn't make any mention of this when I made the booking? Is this a rule? You didn't mention this at all when I called before..."
"No, but I am the manager here and I am telling you right now that I am changing the rule, ok? This is how it is. Either you say yes, your friends are coming, and whether or not they turn up you pay. Or you say no, and I don't reserve those seats for you. That's it."
"... what?! But nothing was mentioned about this sort of a policy when we made the booking."
"No, but I am mentioning it now, ok!"
"Excuse me, but aren't we the paying customers here?" (Steps in Ahmed, one of RJ's more hilarious friends with a sizeable mouth)
"Yes, and I am the manager."
"So you are trying to run a restaurant, I get it. But we are the customers and you need us to run your restaurant. You made no mention of this policy when the booking was made, surely you should be willing to try and find some sort of compromise here for us."
"No, I am telling you now. Either you book those seats and pay, or I give them to the next people that walk in."
"No, we are the customers. You need to compromise. You made no mention of this before."
"I am telling you that this is how it is, ok?"
Manager walks away.
After a 30 second discussion and a unanimous vote, we all finish our drinks and walk out, completely stunned.
Despite the fact that I am still slow and unsure when it comes to leaving tips, I think the only tip coming his way that evening was the one from a member of our group on the way out:
"Thanks... FOR NOTHING!"
On a post script, we ended up at a place called Yardhouse, which was wonderful. Great atmosphere, brilliant staff, wonderful manager and fantastic food.
Post-post script, the 7 people who were late turned up at the teppanyaki place at 10.30, an hour and a half late. Then they decided not to join us at Yardhouse after we walked out of a restaurant for them. Shame.
All up, an entertaining and memorable final night in LA. Much thanks to all, even the manager.
As such, this is generally a place where customer service is good, if not great - people's livelihood relies on it. Therefore this is a society in which there is a strong expectation of swift, friendly, helpful service. Afterall, it is the customer who is paying most of the wage directly from their own wallet, and they want their money's worth.
Obviously where there are expectations, there are also disappointments. This high expectation of good service can become highly entertaining in circumstances where it isn't fulfilled.
On Saturday night RJ and his friends had a booking for about 20 people at a teppanyaki restaurant in a nice neighbourhood in LA (Fullerton). Knowing his friends well, guests were told that the booking was for 9pm, but the reservation with the restaurant was made for 9.30pm. The plan was mostly a success - come 9.30, 15 of 22 people were there and the other 7 were on their way. We took our seats, ordered drinks, and contemplated menus, knowing that the other 7 would merely order appetisers when they arrived (they were going to be too late to have their food cooked on the grill in front of us).
Just as comfort levels rose and small talk grew between new and old friends, friendly conversation over drinks and menus was interrupted rather rudely by a quick-tongued manager.
"Who is responsible for this reservation? I need to speak to the person responsible for this reservation."
"I guess I am responsible?" (April, RJ's lovely cousin who made the booking and was also celebrating her birthday)
"Well, I need to know how many other people are coming."
"Um, I think 5 people are coming. Either 5 or 7?"
"When are they going to be here."
"They are on their way, I'm not sure when they will actually arrive. But they're just ordering from the appetiser menu, so you can feel free to fire up the grill anytime - we don't need to wait for them." (Smile from April)
"But are they coming? When will they be here? Because I have 5 seats here that need to be filled. And if your friends don't come, I am charging you $25 a head for those seats."
I must interrupt here just to add that there was nobody waiting for tables at this stage, and there was two whole teppan grills going unused.
"Oh! But, they are coming? I just spoke to them, they are coming and ordering appetisers."
"Well, if you confirm that now, and I reserve these 5 seats for them, then I am going to charge you $25 a head if they don't show up."
"But you didn't make any mention of this when I made the booking? Is this a rule? You didn't mention this at all when I called before..."
"No, but I am the manager here and I am telling you right now that I am changing the rule, ok? This is how it is. Either you say yes, your friends are coming, and whether or not they turn up you pay. Or you say no, and I don't reserve those seats for you. That's it."
"... what?! But nothing was mentioned about this sort of a policy when we made the booking."
"No, but I am mentioning it now, ok!"
"Excuse me, but aren't we the paying customers here?" (Steps in Ahmed, one of RJ's more hilarious friends with a sizeable mouth)
"Yes, and I am the manager."
"So you are trying to run a restaurant, I get it. But we are the customers and you need us to run your restaurant. You made no mention of this policy when the booking was made, surely you should be willing to try and find some sort of compromise here for us."
"No, I am telling you now. Either you book those seats and pay, or I give them to the next people that walk in."
"No, we are the customers. You need to compromise. You made no mention of this before."
"I am telling you that this is how it is, ok?"
Manager walks away.
After a 30 second discussion and a unanimous vote, we all finish our drinks and walk out, completely stunned.
Despite the fact that I am still slow and unsure when it comes to leaving tips, I think the only tip coming his way that evening was the one from a member of our group on the way out:
"Thanks... FOR NOTHING!"
On a post script, we ended up at a place called Yardhouse, which was wonderful. Great atmosphere, brilliant staff, wonderful manager and fantastic food.
Post-post script, the 7 people who were late turned up at the teppanyaki place at 10.30, an hour and a half late. Then they decided not to join us at Yardhouse after we walked out of a restaurant for them. Shame.
All up, an entertaining and memorable final night in LA. Much thanks to all, even the manager.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Its All-Right, Its All-Right
They move in the most mysterious ways!
Driving on the right side of the road doesn't feel too wrong. Having the bulk of the car to my right when I am driving definitely doesn't feel right. But turning left is alright, and turning right feels pretty right.
You might have to think about that for a little while. I know I will.
The hardest thing about driving around in LA (and no, I haven't attempted any LA freeways in my friend's car) has been figuring out where to look. You definitely can't look into the eyes of any other driver on the road - its like looking into the eyes of a pit bull. You can't afford to gaze too long at the palm trees either, because you might just miss your turn to slip through the stop inersection. You can't even just concentrate on looking straight out your windscreen because in this city chances are that the person who is more likely to run into you is coming from behind. But don't spend too long looking back there, or you might just become that person.
Driving here has been easy and tough at the same time. Its not so much that my driving skills are the wrong way around, its just that my observation instincts are geared to the opposite side of the road. So whether I am crossing the road as a pedestrian, or negotiating a 4-way stop sign intersection in the car, it takes me a full second to figure out exactly where to look. Cruising aong, I have to learn to be aware that I am sitting on the left side of the car, and that the bulk of the car is actually sitting just past my right shoulder.
That being said, test riding motorcycles has been just fine. When you are riding you are concentrating 100% on making sure that you have your own personal space. I think that's why I feel safer on a bike - I am in control of my own space and don't need to worry about someone else's space that I might be considered responsible for.
Still no luck on buying a motorcycle. I'm thinking of flying to New York and trying there.
Driving on the right side of the road doesn't feel too wrong. Having the bulk of the car to my right when I am driving definitely doesn't feel right. But turning left is alright, and turning right feels pretty right.
You might have to think about that for a little while. I know I will.
The hardest thing about driving around in LA (and no, I haven't attempted any LA freeways in my friend's car) has been figuring out where to look. You definitely can't look into the eyes of any other driver on the road - its like looking into the eyes of a pit bull. You can't afford to gaze too long at the palm trees either, because you might just miss your turn to slip through the stop inersection. You can't even just concentrate on looking straight out your windscreen because in this city chances are that the person who is more likely to run into you is coming from behind. But don't spend too long looking back there, or you might just become that person.
Driving here has been easy and tough at the same time. Its not so much that my driving skills are the wrong way around, its just that my observation instincts are geared to the opposite side of the road. So whether I am crossing the road as a pedestrian, or negotiating a 4-way stop sign intersection in the car, it takes me a full second to figure out exactly where to look. Cruising aong, I have to learn to be aware that I am sitting on the left side of the car, and that the bulk of the car is actually sitting just past my right shoulder.
That being said, test riding motorcycles has been just fine. When you are riding you are concentrating 100% on making sure that you have your own personal space. I think that's why I feel safer on a bike - I am in control of my own space and don't need to worry about someone else's space that I might be considered responsible for.
Still no luck on buying a motorcycle. I'm thinking of flying to New York and trying there.
Friday, April 11, 2008
In other news...
LA is ugly, but there is definitely some movie-like magic to its bland hideousness.
I have thus far been unsuccessful in my hunt for a two-wheeled machine that will get me around this great nation. Plans for a Sunday departure may need altering, be it the date or the mode of transport.
Seeing Naomi and finally meeting her husband has been wonderful, and they have been very accommodating hosts. I will try not to burden them too longer with my immobility.
I have thus far been unsuccessful in my hunt for a two-wheeled machine that will get me around this great nation. Plans for a Sunday departure may need altering, be it the date or the mode of transport.
Seeing Naomi and finally meeting her husband has been wonderful, and they have been very accommodating hosts. I will try not to burden them too longer with my immobility.
Tourist highlights include: Farmer's Markets and the Getty Centre today, seeing the rich houses in Chino Hills yesterday, Naomi and RJ's choir practice on Tuesday evening.
Say cheeeese!
I remembered only a few things about America after our family trip here in Dec 01/Jan 02... I remembered snow in New York, basements in the suburbs of Chicago, theme parks in Cali and Florida.
I learnt more before coming here by casually flipping through the thousand-odd pages of my Lonely Planet and by actually paying attention to some of the travel stories told vividly by excited friends... Huge freeway interchanges in LA, vibrant cultural hotspots in Seattle and Vancouver, amazing musical communities in Memphis and New Orleans, fantastic hot dogs in New York.
I know I didn't come to America with a strong plan under my belt or a solid idea under my hat. My mother and most of my friends will happily testify to that. In fact, as far as trip preparation goes, I had none.
What I thought I did have was a good cultural preparation. I knew that Americans (in America) were generally hospitable people (if a little impatient at times). I knew that my Australian accent would get me out of a lot of sticky situations. I knew that America was the land of fast food, huge meals and plenty of carbs and protein.
However I was completely unprepared for the full frontal cheese assault that has been attacking my digestive system since I flew in on Tuesday. Everything in America comes with cheese. Everything.
I'm not talking about a creamy brie on water crackers with a French wine to begin your meal. I don't mean that your rocket comes with Italian shaved parmesan, or that your greek salad has some delicately crumbled feta dotted throughout. Nor do I infer that your dessert is a platter of New Zealand cheeses with fuit. No, not at all.
Cheese in America comes melted over your fries. Cheese comes in the form of a sauce all over your salad. Cheese comes dripping from your hamburger. Cheese is melted, cheese is oily, cheese is abundant. Cheese is also multicultural: "Would you like American, Swiss or Cheddar poured all over your sandwich, sir?"
Please don't think that this is a rant (although it might be). It is rather an observation, nothing more. I have actually discovered a way to benefit from this cultural difference and my stomach's inability to cope with the sudden influx of dairy and oil - rather than force the traditional three meals in a day, I can now happily survive on a hearty breakfast and a light evening snack. This saves me time and money, without which I wouldn't be able to update this blog.
So in effect, you benefit from the cheesiness that is the United States of America. God Bless America.
And Switzerland.
And Cheddarland...
I learnt more before coming here by casually flipping through the thousand-odd pages of my Lonely Planet and by actually paying attention to some of the travel stories told vividly by excited friends... Huge freeway interchanges in LA, vibrant cultural hotspots in Seattle and Vancouver, amazing musical communities in Memphis and New Orleans, fantastic hot dogs in New York.
I know I didn't come to America with a strong plan under my belt or a solid idea under my hat. My mother and most of my friends will happily testify to that. In fact, as far as trip preparation goes, I had none.
What I thought I did have was a good cultural preparation. I knew that Americans (in America) were generally hospitable people (if a little impatient at times). I knew that my Australian accent would get me out of a lot of sticky situations. I knew that America was the land of fast food, huge meals and plenty of carbs and protein.
However I was completely unprepared for the full frontal cheese assault that has been attacking my digestive system since I flew in on Tuesday. Everything in America comes with cheese. Everything.
I'm not talking about a creamy brie on water crackers with a French wine to begin your meal. I don't mean that your rocket comes with Italian shaved parmesan, or that your greek salad has some delicately crumbled feta dotted throughout. Nor do I infer that your dessert is a platter of New Zealand cheeses with fuit. No, not at all.
Cheese in America comes melted over your fries. Cheese comes in the form of a sauce all over your salad. Cheese comes dripping from your hamburger. Cheese is melted, cheese is oily, cheese is abundant. Cheese is also multicultural: "Would you like American, Swiss or Cheddar poured all over your sandwich, sir?"
Please don't think that this is a rant (although it might be). It is rather an observation, nothing more. I have actually discovered a way to benefit from this cultural difference and my stomach's inability to cope with the sudden influx of dairy and oil - rather than force the traditional three meals in a day, I can now happily survive on a hearty breakfast and a light evening snack. This saves me time and money, without which I wouldn't be able to update this blog.
So in effect, you benefit from the cheesiness that is the United States of America. God Bless America.
And Switzerland.
And Cheddarland...
Chili Cheese fries. Not even I could finish them.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Start Blogging?!
More like start packing!
I'll get this thing happening soon... Keep an eye out! Or keep it in. I like eyes better when they are in.
I'll get this thing happening soon... Keep an eye out! Or keep it in. I like eyes better when they are in.
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