I enjoyed every minute of my four-month Australian stay—soaking up the Australian way, enjoying the first of my two summers in 2009. But, after living abroad in a fairly familiar country, I realized a craving within me for culture shock, a craving that the Australian culture couldn’t satiate. I wanted to feel out of my element. So Meesh and I decided on Thailand, hoping that two weeks and one backpack would help us find some worldly insight.
Upon our arrival into Bangkok the cultural differences present themselves immediately; a Buddhist monk donned in traditional robes and an English-speaking businesswoman sipping from a Starbucks cup sandwich us in the taxi queue.
We start in Bangkok and quickly learn what many friends had advised: go but don’t stay. One cold shower and fourteen sleep-interrupted night-train hours later, we arrive in Chiang Mai, where we explore Buddhist temples and learn to say “kom poon ka” with a respectful wai in place of “thank you.”
One day we drive through villages of straw huts in the back of a pickup to get to the jungle, where our hike guide stands at about 4’9’’ and weighs maybe ninety pounds. But her tiny legs find the perfect steps to carry her stably and seemingly effortlessly down the steep path. She stops abruptly every third step to explain what medicinal benefit the plant in her hand provides when boiled in water. She lives up to her nickname, Medicine Woman, but her actual name is Yo, which provides me with a stifled laugh whenever anyone addresses her. Replaying the said sentence in my mind with a ghetto accent, I giggle. Example: “That was the best mango I’ve ever had, Yo,” or “Yo, let’s go ride elephants!” (Yes, we splurged on the elephant ride, but I wouldn’t recommend it.)
In Pai—a dog-friendly little town situated in a valley north of Chiang Mai known for its live music scene—we rent a motorbike. This is the most popular means of transportation for Thais. In every city motorbikes lines the lanes—mom’s picking up their children from school, kids cruising to the market for their parents, and teenage girls hanging on tightly to their boyfriends from the backseat. If twelve-year-olds can ride them, I figured I could too. So after a shaky start, we drive through a winding village road avoiding the chickens that pace the streets aimlessly. At the top of the hill the road turns to mud, so we take in the city view from above.
Driving back into Pai it seems we pass as many dogs as we do people. This is my favorite part of Pai, aside from its chilled-out atmosphere and quaint streets. The dogs walk the streets like the people do, dropping in the shops and restaurants as they please. In the evening as the air heavies with the sweet smell of dinner from the open-aired restaurants, the dogs wander up to tables licking their chops, hoping for a taste from a generous diner. Our one night in Pai is entirely too short; despite the village’s teeny area, we leave knowing we’ve only skimmed Pai’s surface. Fortunately, the rumored breathtaking beaches of southern Thailand awaited us.
Ko Phi Phi Don—a dumbbell-shaped, tourist-ransacked island off the coast of southern Thailand, marked our last Thai destination. When Meesh and I started planning our trip we surveyed all our friends who had traveled to Thailand and they all recommended one thing in common: Ko Phi Phi. So we flew south to where tourists hail to see what Meesh rightly referred to as the Mecca of all beaches: Maya Bay.
The trash filled shores of the island’s main beaches showcase tourist disregard, but we learn that nice jungle hikes lead to the outer beaches, where empty hammocks hang in abundance and the only thing littering the shore is seashells.
One afternoon the head fisherman of the fishing village we stumble upon takes us to Maya Bay on neighboring island, Ko Phi Phi Ley on his longtail boat. We snorkel with the rainbow fish, then climb our way to the inside of the island where we’re met with white sand so soft it forms a paste when wet. Eyes lit, we run down the sand path to The Beach. The magnificence of the limestone cliffs in combination with the translucent turquoise water of Maya Bay takes our breath. I just laugh. I know I’ll never be able to explain the beauty. I’m happy I couldn’t bring my camera, because I know I would have tried the impossible: to capture the beauty in digital form. Eyes on the sky, arms out, I spin down the shore and splash into the water. Floating on our backs, I tell Meesh, “the only thing that could make this moment better would be if everyone else left.” As if on cue, a tour guide blows his whistle and within five minutes the beach is cleared. In disbelief, all we can do is laugh and soak in the perfection of the moment.
Back on the boat, Lex cuts the pineapple that our Israeli friend provides. The six of us—Lex, the fisherman and his brother, Yelon and Ratival, our Israeli friends, and Meesh and I sit smiling eating the pineapple, ripe to perfection and sweet as honey.
Every location of our Thailand stay offered a bit of culture, a taste of simplicity, and a lot of beauty. Culture, simplicity and beauty—the real riches of life.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Farewell to Sydney
Dear Sydney,
Your sunny days have acquired cool breezes, and your surfers have pulled their wetsuits out from their summer hiding places, reflecting the chill in the air and the water. And, hence, my sundresses hang wearily in the closet reminiscing the warm summer nights on which they were showcased. Those perfect beach days offered only weeks ago now beckon from the northern hemisphere as rainclouds settle over your coast. And so my Australian sojourn ends.
Our time together has seemed short, perhaps because we accomplished Mission Non-Stop Fun, and it’s been a roller coaster of delight—lounging lazily on your sandy shores by day and attempting dance moves to your double-time techno beats by night. Your enjoyable pace of life put lines of accomplishment across my book list, and it’s to your credit that my fear of heights (and bugs) has waned. But why is it that the last few days and nights before departure always seem to be the best? Why does the DJ play all the best songs in a row on your last night at his stompin’ ground? Why does the sunset suddenly showcase oranges and pinks like you’ve never seen before?
Leaving is not entirely sad, as more beaches, more sun, and most importantly, my family and friends await me at home. Still, if the bank account, plane ticket, and thermometer in Sydney read differently, I’d welcome a few more months on your Gold Coast. I could go for a few more sangria-soaked nights, a few more lazy Sundays at the markets, a few more long dinners at that favorite Thai place of ours, and few more exhilarating adventures in your natural playground. I should say however, that it’s Larsee Lu, MCG, Meesh, Mito, Steph and Caro (better known as the Mag 7 when I’m included) that made this experience what it was. In years to come when I think back on this Sydney stopover their faces are the ones who will come to mind.
Physically, I have to leave, but mentally, I know a part of me will always keep Australia close. I hope I don’t turn into that annoying person who returns from abroad and pretends that the new country’s lingo and customs are now second-nature, but in my head, when I hear a well-wisher say “good for you” or “best of luck” I’ll think, “good on ya.” I’ll rock out to techno remixed eighties songs in your honor, and when I see a California-sized spider in my room, I’ll laugh and think of the B.F.G. or the number of cockroaches I stepped over on the sidewalks outside The Lodge nightly. The first time I go to my favorite Santa Cruz beach I may reminisce on how soft your sand is, but as I look out from the other side of the Pacific, I’ll give you a little wave, a genuine smile and a wistful sigh in appreciation of the best semester of my life.
Cheers to you, Australia!
Your sunny days have acquired cool breezes, and your surfers have pulled their wetsuits out from their summer hiding places, reflecting the chill in the air and the water. And, hence, my sundresses hang wearily in the closet reminiscing the warm summer nights on which they were showcased. Those perfect beach days offered only weeks ago now beckon from the northern hemisphere as rainclouds settle over your coast. And so my Australian sojourn ends.
Our time together has seemed short, perhaps because we accomplished Mission Non-Stop Fun, and it’s been a roller coaster of delight—lounging lazily on your sandy shores by day and attempting dance moves to your double-time techno beats by night. Your enjoyable pace of life put lines of accomplishment across my book list, and it’s to your credit that my fear of heights (and bugs) has waned. But why is it that the last few days and nights before departure always seem to be the best? Why does the DJ play all the best songs in a row on your last night at his stompin’ ground? Why does the sunset suddenly showcase oranges and pinks like you’ve never seen before?
Leaving is not entirely sad, as more beaches, more sun, and most importantly, my family and friends await me at home. Still, if the bank account, plane ticket, and thermometer in Sydney read differently, I’d welcome a few more months on your Gold Coast. I could go for a few more sangria-soaked nights, a few more lazy Sundays at the markets, a few more long dinners at that favorite Thai place of ours, and few more exhilarating adventures in your natural playground. I should say however, that it’s Larsee Lu, MCG, Meesh, Mito, Steph and Caro (better known as the Mag 7 when I’m included) that made this experience what it was. In years to come when I think back on this Sydney stopover their faces are the ones who will come to mind.
Physically, I have to leave, but mentally, I know a part of me will always keep Australia close. I hope I don’t turn into that annoying person who returns from abroad and pretends that the new country’s lingo and customs are now second-nature, but in my head, when I hear a well-wisher say “good for you” or “best of luck” I’ll think, “good on ya.” I’ll rock out to techno remixed eighties songs in your honor, and when I see a California-sized spider in my room, I’ll laugh and think of the B.F.G. or the number of cockroaches I stepped over on the sidewalks outside The Lodge nightly. The first time I go to my favorite Santa Cruz beach I may reminisce on how soft your sand is, but as I look out from the other side of the Pacific, I’ll give you a little wave, a genuine smile and a wistful sigh in appreciation of the best semester of my life.
Cheers to you, Australia!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Adventurooing
Sometimes life is too good. Sometimes amazing adventures come in three-day packages, and you wish you could drink the adrenalin-endorphin cocktail that your adventures provide more slowly.
We headed to Cairns for the long weekend. Cairns (pronounced cans) is a three-hour plane ride north of Sydney and an adventure sport haven. Obviously, in the Southern Hemisphere as we travel north the weather becomes more tropical, so higher temperatures and humid rainstorms awaited us in Cairns. However, the beach wasn’t an option. “Salties,” or saltwater crocodiles populate the shores of Northern Australia deterring Australians and tourists alike from the refreshing coastal waters. So the seemingly ironic community pool that sits nestled along the seaside actually sees a lot of action. We spent our first afternoon playing Phase 10 poolside.
On Saturday I woke early to head out on an ATVing adventure; the magazine I work for sent me to test the adventure sport for a feature article in their July issue. At the pick up spot, Todd introduced himself in a manner that only California boys can—lips barely parted, barely moving, and tone barely fluctuating. After discovering we grew up within 45 minutes of each other, we were pals for the day, which was a good decision on my part as Todd came to my rescue later in the afternoon. Upon arrival at the ranch we mounted our quad bikes and took off down the muddy, sheep- and cow-lined path. Zooming along in fifth gear through puddles the size of small swimming holes I couldn’t stop thinking of that country song my mom used to sing. Something about a boy named Tommy “splashing through the mud and the muck.” It took about five minutes for me to get acquainted with my bike (which my leader referred to as “a feisty one”) and then my adrenalin got the best of me. I was handling those curves like a NASCAR racer…until I wasn’t. A turn came too quickly and I headed straight for The Bush. More like I gunned it into The Bush as I mistook my gas throttle for the handbrake. Doubled over in laughter, I looked back at the group to find them 1) stunned and staring and 2) stifling laughter. Then they joined in on the giggles as my buddy Todd pulled me out. Thanks Todd.
The next day was one I’ll never forget. I like to post pictures of places and things I want to see in my life on the bulletin board behind my desk. A panoramic picture of the Great Barrier Reef that I found in a travel magazine is one of the many things that has been pinned there over the last few years. As of last Sunday, I can take that clipping down and retire it to the “Done” box.
After a VERY rocky boat ride out to the G.B.R. that left three of my four travel buddies with their faces stuck to paper bags, we arrived at our dive spot. Caitlin and I geared up and jumped into our introductory dive with our Canadian instructor Kim, and for a half hour that felt like two minutes I was on the set of Finding Nemo. There were Nemos everywhere and even a Gill! I didn’t, however, see any Dorys. The beauty of the coral and the calm existence of the bright, peaceful fish were complemented by the quiet of life below the surface. I enjoyed that I couldn’t taint the experience with the usual “this is unbelievable” chant. We became part of the ocean’s secret world. Certification is definitely in my future as I have never felt so peaceful as I did pretending to be a fish on the Great Barrier Reef. What a spot to start your diving career at, eh?
Our trip ended on an extreme white water rafting tour. We signed up for the extreme tour mainly to be bad asses, but a hidden benefit was the small size of our group. We had nineteen adventurers and five guides to be split up among four boats. When the burly guides noticed our group of five girls and heard our American accents they were vying to by our guides. Bez, who looked like a long-haired AC Slater, and Benny, with blue eyes and biceps to kill, won. We spent the day under the pouring rain, maneuvering gnarly rapids by raft. We swam through rapids when we were thrown from the raft, jumped off rocks, and blushed at the sexual innuendo-filled conversation from our Kiwi guides. Only as we pulled our raft ashore at the end of the day did Benny confess that the river is croc infested. Laughing and finally accepting Australia’s inherent danger, I just shook my head. We left with our limbs still attached, and oftentimes in Australia that itself is something to be proud of.
I’m back in Sydney, writing papers as classes come to an end, packing a suitcase to send home and dreading the end of this adventure. Two weeks in Thailand and a few days with friends in New Zealand keep the adventure alive, but still, I feel the best semester of my life coming to a close. Looking back I see that living abroad has changed me, or perhaps it’s just forced me to get to know myself better. Either way, I’ve realized the important role travel and living abroad will play in my life. Some might diagnose it as the Travel Bug, but that implies that it’s a temporary condition. I hope to employ travel as a philosophy and a lifestyle, not a hobby. So I’m not looking for a cure...just for some like-minded travel buddies.
We headed to Cairns for the long weekend. Cairns (pronounced cans) is a three-hour plane ride north of Sydney and an adventure sport haven. Obviously, in the Southern Hemisphere as we travel north the weather becomes more tropical, so higher temperatures and humid rainstorms awaited us in Cairns. However, the beach wasn’t an option. “Salties,” or saltwater crocodiles populate the shores of Northern Australia deterring Australians and tourists alike from the refreshing coastal waters. So the seemingly ironic community pool that sits nestled along the seaside actually sees a lot of action. We spent our first afternoon playing Phase 10 poolside.
On Saturday I woke early to head out on an ATVing adventure; the magazine I work for sent me to test the adventure sport for a feature article in their July issue. At the pick up spot, Todd introduced himself in a manner that only California boys can—lips barely parted, barely moving, and tone barely fluctuating. After discovering we grew up within 45 minutes of each other, we were pals for the day, which was a good decision on my part as Todd came to my rescue later in the afternoon. Upon arrival at the ranch we mounted our quad bikes and took off down the muddy, sheep- and cow-lined path. Zooming along in fifth gear through puddles the size of small swimming holes I couldn’t stop thinking of that country song my mom used to sing. Something about a boy named Tommy “splashing through the mud and the muck.” It took about five minutes for me to get acquainted with my bike (which my leader referred to as “a feisty one”) and then my adrenalin got the best of me. I was handling those curves like a NASCAR racer…until I wasn’t. A turn came too quickly and I headed straight for The Bush. More like I gunned it into The Bush as I mistook my gas throttle for the handbrake. Doubled over in laughter, I looked back at the group to find them 1) stunned and staring and 2) stifling laughter. Then they joined in on the giggles as my buddy Todd pulled me out. Thanks Todd.
The next day was one I’ll never forget. I like to post pictures of places and things I want to see in my life on the bulletin board behind my desk. A panoramic picture of the Great Barrier Reef that I found in a travel magazine is one of the many things that has been pinned there over the last few years. As of last Sunday, I can take that clipping down and retire it to the “Done” box.
After a VERY rocky boat ride out to the G.B.R. that left three of my four travel buddies with their faces stuck to paper bags, we arrived at our dive spot. Caitlin and I geared up and jumped into our introductory dive with our Canadian instructor Kim, and for a half hour that felt like two minutes I was on the set of Finding Nemo. There were Nemos everywhere and even a Gill! I didn’t, however, see any Dorys. The beauty of the coral and the calm existence of the bright, peaceful fish were complemented by the quiet of life below the surface. I enjoyed that I couldn’t taint the experience with the usual “this is unbelievable” chant. We became part of the ocean’s secret world. Certification is definitely in my future as I have never felt so peaceful as I did pretending to be a fish on the Great Barrier Reef. What a spot to start your diving career at, eh?
Our trip ended on an extreme white water rafting tour. We signed up for the extreme tour mainly to be bad asses, but a hidden benefit was the small size of our group. We had nineteen adventurers and five guides to be split up among four boats. When the burly guides noticed our group of five girls and heard our American accents they were vying to by our guides. Bez, who looked like a long-haired AC Slater, and Benny, with blue eyes and biceps to kill, won. We spent the day under the pouring rain, maneuvering gnarly rapids by raft. We swam through rapids when we were thrown from the raft, jumped off rocks, and blushed at the sexual innuendo-filled conversation from our Kiwi guides. Only as we pulled our raft ashore at the end of the day did Benny confess that the river is croc infested. Laughing and finally accepting Australia’s inherent danger, I just shook my head. We left with our limbs still attached, and oftentimes in Australia that itself is something to be proud of.
I’m back in Sydney, writing papers as classes come to an end, packing a suitcase to send home and dreading the end of this adventure. Two weeks in Thailand and a few days with friends in New Zealand keep the adventure alive, but still, I feel the best semester of my life coming to a close. Looking back I see that living abroad has changed me, or perhaps it’s just forced me to get to know myself better. Either way, I’ve realized the important role travel and living abroad will play in my life. Some might diagnose it as the Travel Bug, but that implies that it’s a temporary condition. I hope to employ travel as a philosophy and a lifestyle, not a hobby. So I’m not looking for a cure...just for some like-minded travel buddies.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
"Working"
As much as I hate to admit it, the halfway point of my Australian adventure has come and passed. It’s been almost ten weeks since I called each family member one last time from my gate at SFO before powering down my cell phone until May. And the time has flown by.
The next five weeks will be based out of Sydney. While it’s true that I have lived in Sydney since my arrival here, the first seven weeks our program offered three day weekends which allowed us to travel within Australia, hence the adventures to the Gold Coast, the Blue Mountains, Melbourne, and Fraser Island. Now I have class on Mondays and work in Sydney Tuesday through Friday, so my deep exploration of the city has only just begun. Our travel adventures in this half of the program are more limited, but stay tuned: We’re scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef in just a few weeks!
The first week of my internships (yes, plural) fared well for me. I spend Tuesdays and Wednesdays doing creative writing for a dating newsletter. One of my favorite parts of this internship is the office. The office is great mostly because it’s not an office and therefore very conducive to creativity. On the second story of the second oldest building in Sydney is a room with a large window that opens from top to bottom, a single desk and a chair. Outside the window, a man dressed in colonial costume rings his bell about every hour and makes an announcement about the neighborhood’s events of the day as if it were still 1880. An outside café is our backyard, and below, American Mike runs bicycle tours of Sydney. Knowing of the reputable advertising and insurance companies that house my fellow classmates as interns, my boss (one of two people beside myself who work for the company) apologized again and again for the lack of professionalism the office offered. Feeling the breeze flutter through the open window onto my shoulders, I assured her that a corporate office is not what I’m looking for and gladly sat down for the day’s work. At 4:15 p.m. my boss inquired, upon learning that I had yet to experience the Israeli chocolatier, Max Brenner, “Katelyn, what do you say we get out here, grab some hot chocolate and head home?” I couldn’t think of a better plan.
Onto internship number two: a women’s magazine. I was worried that after a wonderful Tuesday-Wednesday experience my second internship wouldn’t measure up. I’m happy to tell you that, despite an embarrassing start, I am equally fond of this work experience.
On day one I met the crew—the writers, the design team, the editor, and everyone had one question: where are you from? When I said California I received the usual, “I was just in L.A.!” One writer had just been on assignment in Los Angeles, San Diego and Palm Springs writing a travel article. I asked to read it, and she excitedly handed it over. I gave the pictures a once over—a “California Highway 101” sign, her doing yoga on the beach, et cetera. I began to read the article. Like a true Northern California gal, her adventures in L.A. didn’t’ invoke any strong feelings of home for me, but as she began to describe driving down the 101 to San Diego to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Californication” blaring through the car speakers, I was surprised to find tears in my eyes. Apparently, her words hit home. I have not considered myself homesick during my time here, except for in small, quickly passing spurts, so these tears of apparent sadness were met with a feeling of great surprise. However, if I thought I was surprised, you should have seen the look on my new co-workers’ faces.
One of my favorites of the office remarked, “Oh my god! You made the intern cry on her first day!”
I laughed, assured them that I was emotionally stable and commented to the author that her writing had truly captured the essence of California and had transported me the 7500-miles home. Still, I’m pretty sure crying isn’t on the list of Ways To Make A Good First Impression.
So while I’m keen on both of my internships, the downside of working (besides the actual working part!) is how quickly time flies when you are on a schedule—constantly scanning the calendar, planning for the coming weeks. I’d prefer to throw watches and calendars out that beautiful, open window, but then I remember that this is school and not vacation, that these writing assignments will be edited and published, not graded, so I happily accept the responsibilities. As someone who struggles with but believes in living in the moment, I despise countdowns (especially the kind that end with “you leave Australia.”), so I won’t say anything more about the days I have left. I’ll just say this: I’m planning on going out with a bang.
The next five weeks will be based out of Sydney. While it’s true that I have lived in Sydney since my arrival here, the first seven weeks our program offered three day weekends which allowed us to travel within Australia, hence the adventures to the Gold Coast, the Blue Mountains, Melbourne, and Fraser Island. Now I have class on Mondays and work in Sydney Tuesday through Friday, so my deep exploration of the city has only just begun. Our travel adventures in this half of the program are more limited, but stay tuned: We’re scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef in just a few weeks!
The first week of my internships (yes, plural) fared well for me. I spend Tuesdays and Wednesdays doing creative writing for a dating newsletter. One of my favorite parts of this internship is the office. The office is great mostly because it’s not an office and therefore very conducive to creativity. On the second story of the second oldest building in Sydney is a room with a large window that opens from top to bottom, a single desk and a chair. Outside the window, a man dressed in colonial costume rings his bell about every hour and makes an announcement about the neighborhood’s events of the day as if it were still 1880. An outside café is our backyard, and below, American Mike runs bicycle tours of Sydney. Knowing of the reputable advertising and insurance companies that house my fellow classmates as interns, my boss (one of two people beside myself who work for the company) apologized again and again for the lack of professionalism the office offered. Feeling the breeze flutter through the open window onto my shoulders, I assured her that a corporate office is not what I’m looking for and gladly sat down for the day’s work. At 4:15 p.m. my boss inquired, upon learning that I had yet to experience the Israeli chocolatier, Max Brenner, “Katelyn, what do you say we get out here, grab some hot chocolate and head home?” I couldn’t think of a better plan.
Onto internship number two: a women’s magazine. I was worried that after a wonderful Tuesday-Wednesday experience my second internship wouldn’t measure up. I’m happy to tell you that, despite an embarrassing start, I am equally fond of this work experience.
On day one I met the crew—the writers, the design team, the editor, and everyone had one question: where are you from? When I said California I received the usual, “I was just in L.A.!” One writer had just been on assignment in Los Angeles, San Diego and Palm Springs writing a travel article. I asked to read it, and she excitedly handed it over. I gave the pictures a once over—a “California Highway 101” sign, her doing yoga on the beach, et cetera. I began to read the article. Like a true Northern California gal, her adventures in L.A. didn’t’ invoke any strong feelings of home for me, but as she began to describe driving down the 101 to San Diego to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Californication” blaring through the car speakers, I was surprised to find tears in my eyes. Apparently, her words hit home. I have not considered myself homesick during my time here, except for in small, quickly passing spurts, so these tears of apparent sadness were met with a feeling of great surprise. However, if I thought I was surprised, you should have seen the look on my new co-workers’ faces.
One of my favorites of the office remarked, “Oh my god! You made the intern cry on her first day!”
I laughed, assured them that I was emotionally stable and commented to the author that her writing had truly captured the essence of California and had transported me the 7500-miles home. Still, I’m pretty sure crying isn’t on the list of Ways To Make A Good First Impression.
So while I’m keen on both of my internships, the downside of working (besides the actual working part!) is how quickly time flies when you are on a schedule—constantly scanning the calendar, planning for the coming weeks. I’d prefer to throw watches and calendars out that beautiful, open window, but then I remember that this is school and not vacation, that these writing assignments will be edited and published, not graded, so I happily accept the responsibilities. As someone who struggles with but believes in living in the moment, I despise countdowns (especially the kind that end with “you leave Australia.”), so I won’t say anything more about the days I have left. I’ll just say this: I’m planning on going out with a bang.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Jee Jee Dub '09
When finals were done, Brooke, Jorie, Sarah Mitus and I boarded our flight to the Gold Coast. Our spring break itinerary was great mostly because we didn’t have many set plans. We would split the next week between the Gold Coast beaches and Fraser Island—a sand island filled with natural paradises like fresh water lakes, rainforest and refreshing creeks.
First things first. Sarah Mitus has not been formally introduced, but she deserves that introduction. So here’s a little Sarah Mitus synopsis: we call Sarah by her last name, “Mitus,” mostly because it’s an awesome last name that we feel deserves first name usage. And it fits, because Aussies shorten every word: afternoon = “arvo,” breakfast = “brekky,” “Brisbane = “brizzy.” So, after two months together, Mitus now answers to “Mito,” “Smito,” Shmito” and so on. Shmito is my personal favorite so from here on that’s how we’ll refer to her.
I met nineteen-year-old Shmito at the airport newsstand back in January. “Cosmo or Glamour?” Jorie asked her and her friend Caroline. “Cosmo for sure,” they replied. We were friends from there on.
Shmito is from western Massachusetts, but she is the farthest thing from a Mass-hole. The girl’s favorite response is, “I’m down for whatever,” which explains why 1) she is a great person to travel with and 2) why she’s become one of my dearest friends so quickly. She’s easygoing. She mostly smiles and laughs, but ask her about marketing and she’ll show you her wits. She talks admiringly about her family, especially her dad, and worries that she won’t find a guy as great as him. So, plain and simple, Shmito was a wonderful addition to the spring break adventure.
Our trip featured many beautiful locales and exciting adventures. Here are the highlights:
DRIVING: None of us had ever driven on the left side of the road, so this was a recipe for some fun. Additionally, Brooke and I haven’t owned cars in over two years, and I only drive during the summer. In our rented Hyundai we maneuvered the streets of Coolangatta onto the Pacific Highway. (Yay for another Pacific Highway!) It took all four of us to make a lane change, and that lane change was often only signaled by turning on our windshield wipers instead of our blinker. Wipers. Blinkers. Same difference.
By far the funniest part of our driving experience was the four-hour drive turned six-and-a-half-hour drive to Fraser Island. Brooke’s Australian ex-boyfriend (who’s house we stayed in on the Gold Coast) had provided us with directions to get around the Gold Coast. Those directions had satisfied all our needs—groceries, secluded beaches, nightlife—until Tuesday morning, when, like fools, we didn’t read the fine print. After three and half hours of following Morgan’s directions to a tee, we did indeed arrive at Cooloola Way, just where our directions intended for us to be. The catch is that Cooloola Way has a giant sign at its conception warning drivers that “Cooloola Way is 30 kilometers of sand and gravel track connecting to Rainbow Beach Road…4-wheel drive vehicles only.” We had failed to read that the directions were guiding us to where Morgan took his 4-wheel drive before putting it on a barge to Fraser Island. The Hyundai was closer to a go-cart than a jeep and with no town in sight we had no choice but to detour to Rainbow Beach, where we stopped at a backpacker’s lodge. The look on the woman’s face when I told her we were looking for Hervey Bay said it all. Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, she told us were two hours south of our destination.
This little bump in the road, if you will, did have an upside. First, my appreciation for my travel companions grew as we each chose to laugh at our own mistake, pitch in on gas and get back on the road. Someone suggested road games to pass the extra hours. There’s nothing more valuable on a road trip in a foreign country than easygoing travel partners. The other upside of this slip up was the night sky on the ferry ride to the island. (We had planned on taking the 4 p.m. ferry, and ended up on the 7 p.m. ferry thanks to our detour.) On the open ocean in the absence of city lights, the stars stretched to the horizon. I had never seen so many stars at once, and I got that feeling that you read about in books. You feel small, but not insignificant. It was the closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience. We continued our star gazing on the deck of our condo on Fraser Island. Two shooting stars, a beer and countless mosquito bites later, the irritation of the long car drive was long forgotten.
WILDLIFE: What you read is true. Australia is filled with weird and dangerous wildlife. I came knowing they have most of the world’s most poisonous snakes, lots of venomous spiders and, obviously, sharks too. But because I grew up swimming just on the other side of the Pacific, I wasn’t intimidated to swim here, even after hearing of the first two shark attacks in Sydney Harbour, in which both people were swimming at dusk, aka dinner time for sharks. Turquoise from afar but clear up close with rolling waves, I can’t refuse the ocean’s invitation. So on a perfect afternoon at Dreamtime Beach on the Gold Coast, I encouraged the group, “let’s swim out further.” As we did, we got a lot of looks from the surfers. At first I thought we had swam into their surf spot, but we were clearly outside their territory. Then we thought they probably just thought we were cute. Wrong again. The next night we told our friend Lara, who was born in Oz, moved to the U.S. and now goes to school on the Gold Coast, about our swimming adventure. Her jaw dropped.
“You swam there! I would never swim there! There are sharks. I never go past my knees at that beach.”
Dumb American girls. No wonder those boys were staring as I floated on my back like a seal over the waves. They knew who was shark bate.
The next day we ventured the 50 kilometers to Byron Bay, which is considered a town but in actuality just an intersection of three streets lined with cafes and shops on the southern end of the Gold Coast. We drove to the lighthouse on top of the hill to check the view and see Australia’s most easterly point. From the mountain we saw sharks feeding on a school of fish only about 100 feet off the coast, giving weight to Lara’s comment that there are indeed sharks and they aren’t that far out. A pod of dolphins swam by. A stingray probably 5 feet wide hovered in the waves. Sea turtles drifted by. This was the most natural wildlife exhibit I had ever seen, all within a 500-foot stretch of coast.
While the shark feeding was unexpected and fascinating, Wednesday morning’s surprise was the most memorable of the trip in terms of wildlife. We woke early to start our tour of Fraser Island. Sleep still in my eyes (and definitely in my hair), I walked slowly to the couch to put on my shoes, but I stopped in my tracks at the site of the hairy Huntman’s spider the size of my palm caught between our window screen and glass. (Taylor, you would have passed out.) The woman who answered our call to the front desk assured us that it was non-venomous and would just keep the other bugs out, so we let B.F.G, as we named him, stay where he was. But when we returned nine hours later, B.F.G. wasn’t lookin’ so hot, so Ashley came up to remove him.
“Woah, he IS big,” Ashley remarked. Yes, Ashley he is. Thank you for noticing. That at least made us a feel a little better about our level of toughness.
WARREN: Because of the awesome exchange rate we were able to plan a private tour of Fraser Island, which is great because otherwise you have to either rent a 4-wheel drive jeep on your own and then operate it through the sand roads of the island or join a 40 person tour bus—not our scene. So Warren, a fifty something off-roading expert and native Australian handled the wheel driving us to Fraser’s best lakes and creeks to cool our cores. But in the meantime, we got to know him and vice versa. Warren had two sons and had been happily married to his wife for over 25 years. He loved his job, meeting people from around the world, sharing his knowledge of the island with them. He read “Wildlife of Greater Brisbane” in the shade as we swam in Lake McKenzie. This was Warren’s best advice.
“People of my generation did it all wrong. We hurried into jobs, got married, bought a house and had kids. We planned to travel later in life. Problem is later in life you can’t walk like you used to. So, girls, travel now. Don’t get married until at least 28. Plenty of time for guys.”
Amen, Warren. Amen. After a perfect day, we bid Warren goodbye.
“Thank you for showing us such a great time! Have a nice evening Warren!” I called.
“Have a nice life. And remember! Don’t get married until 28.”
************************************************************
When the last Corona had been drunk and our suitcases offered nothing more than sand covered shorts and tanks, our seven-day spring break adventure came to a close. It flew by too quickly but was just enough to rejuvenate us for the next half of our semester here. And Brookie went back to New York revitalized as well, but not before a tear-filled goodbye from me. I’ll never forget the fun of the last two weeks. Jee Jee Dub ’09!!
First things first. Sarah Mitus has not been formally introduced, but she deserves that introduction. So here’s a little Sarah Mitus synopsis: we call Sarah by her last name, “Mitus,” mostly because it’s an awesome last name that we feel deserves first name usage. And it fits, because Aussies shorten every word: afternoon = “arvo,” breakfast = “brekky,” “Brisbane = “brizzy.” So, after two months together, Mitus now answers to “Mito,” “Smito,” Shmito” and so on. Shmito is my personal favorite so from here on that’s how we’ll refer to her.
I met nineteen-year-old Shmito at the airport newsstand back in January. “Cosmo or Glamour?” Jorie asked her and her friend Caroline. “Cosmo for sure,” they replied. We were friends from there on.
Shmito is from western Massachusetts, but she is the farthest thing from a Mass-hole. The girl’s favorite response is, “I’m down for whatever,” which explains why 1) she is a great person to travel with and 2) why she’s become one of my dearest friends so quickly. She’s easygoing. She mostly smiles and laughs, but ask her about marketing and she’ll show you her wits. She talks admiringly about her family, especially her dad, and worries that she won’t find a guy as great as him. So, plain and simple, Shmito was a wonderful addition to the spring break adventure.
Our trip featured many beautiful locales and exciting adventures. Here are the highlights:
DRIVING: None of us had ever driven on the left side of the road, so this was a recipe for some fun. Additionally, Brooke and I haven’t owned cars in over two years, and I only drive during the summer. In our rented Hyundai we maneuvered the streets of Coolangatta onto the Pacific Highway. (Yay for another Pacific Highway!) It took all four of us to make a lane change, and that lane change was often only signaled by turning on our windshield wipers instead of our blinker. Wipers. Blinkers. Same difference.
By far the funniest part of our driving experience was the four-hour drive turned six-and-a-half-hour drive to Fraser Island. Brooke’s Australian ex-boyfriend (who’s house we stayed in on the Gold Coast) had provided us with directions to get around the Gold Coast. Those directions had satisfied all our needs—groceries, secluded beaches, nightlife—until Tuesday morning, when, like fools, we didn’t read the fine print. After three and half hours of following Morgan’s directions to a tee, we did indeed arrive at Cooloola Way, just where our directions intended for us to be. The catch is that Cooloola Way has a giant sign at its conception warning drivers that “Cooloola Way is 30 kilometers of sand and gravel track connecting to Rainbow Beach Road…4-wheel drive vehicles only.” We had failed to read that the directions were guiding us to where Morgan took his 4-wheel drive before putting it on a barge to Fraser Island. The Hyundai was closer to a go-cart than a jeep and with no town in sight we had no choice but to detour to Rainbow Beach, where we stopped at a backpacker’s lodge. The look on the woman’s face when I told her we were looking for Hervey Bay said it all. Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, she told us were two hours south of our destination.
This little bump in the road, if you will, did have an upside. First, my appreciation for my travel companions grew as we each chose to laugh at our own mistake, pitch in on gas and get back on the road. Someone suggested road games to pass the extra hours. There’s nothing more valuable on a road trip in a foreign country than easygoing travel partners. The other upside of this slip up was the night sky on the ferry ride to the island. (We had planned on taking the 4 p.m. ferry, and ended up on the 7 p.m. ferry thanks to our detour.) On the open ocean in the absence of city lights, the stars stretched to the horizon. I had never seen so many stars at once, and I got that feeling that you read about in books. You feel small, but not insignificant. It was the closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience. We continued our star gazing on the deck of our condo on Fraser Island. Two shooting stars, a beer and countless mosquito bites later, the irritation of the long car drive was long forgotten.
WILDLIFE: What you read is true. Australia is filled with weird and dangerous wildlife. I came knowing they have most of the world’s most poisonous snakes, lots of venomous spiders and, obviously, sharks too. But because I grew up swimming just on the other side of the Pacific, I wasn’t intimidated to swim here, even after hearing of the first two shark attacks in Sydney Harbour, in which both people were swimming at dusk, aka dinner time for sharks. Turquoise from afar but clear up close with rolling waves, I can’t refuse the ocean’s invitation. So on a perfect afternoon at Dreamtime Beach on the Gold Coast, I encouraged the group, “let’s swim out further.” As we did, we got a lot of looks from the surfers. At first I thought we had swam into their surf spot, but we were clearly outside their territory. Then we thought they probably just thought we were cute. Wrong again. The next night we told our friend Lara, who was born in Oz, moved to the U.S. and now goes to school on the Gold Coast, about our swimming adventure. Her jaw dropped.
“You swam there! I would never swim there! There are sharks. I never go past my knees at that beach.”
Dumb American girls. No wonder those boys were staring as I floated on my back like a seal over the waves. They knew who was shark bate.
The next day we ventured the 50 kilometers to Byron Bay, which is considered a town but in actuality just an intersection of three streets lined with cafes and shops on the southern end of the Gold Coast. We drove to the lighthouse on top of the hill to check the view and see Australia’s most easterly point. From the mountain we saw sharks feeding on a school of fish only about 100 feet off the coast, giving weight to Lara’s comment that there are indeed sharks and they aren’t that far out. A pod of dolphins swam by. A stingray probably 5 feet wide hovered in the waves. Sea turtles drifted by. This was the most natural wildlife exhibit I had ever seen, all within a 500-foot stretch of coast.
While the shark feeding was unexpected and fascinating, Wednesday morning’s surprise was the most memorable of the trip in terms of wildlife. We woke early to start our tour of Fraser Island. Sleep still in my eyes (and definitely in my hair), I walked slowly to the couch to put on my shoes, but I stopped in my tracks at the site of the hairy Huntman’s spider the size of my palm caught between our window screen and glass. (Taylor, you would have passed out.) The woman who answered our call to the front desk assured us that it was non-venomous and would just keep the other bugs out, so we let B.F.G, as we named him, stay where he was. But when we returned nine hours later, B.F.G. wasn’t lookin’ so hot, so Ashley came up to remove him.
“Woah, he IS big,” Ashley remarked. Yes, Ashley he is. Thank you for noticing. That at least made us a feel a little better about our level of toughness.
WARREN: Because of the awesome exchange rate we were able to plan a private tour of Fraser Island, which is great because otherwise you have to either rent a 4-wheel drive jeep on your own and then operate it through the sand roads of the island or join a 40 person tour bus—not our scene. So Warren, a fifty something off-roading expert and native Australian handled the wheel driving us to Fraser’s best lakes and creeks to cool our cores. But in the meantime, we got to know him and vice versa. Warren had two sons and had been happily married to his wife for over 25 years. He loved his job, meeting people from around the world, sharing his knowledge of the island with them. He read “Wildlife of Greater Brisbane” in the shade as we swam in Lake McKenzie. This was Warren’s best advice.
“People of my generation did it all wrong. We hurried into jobs, got married, bought a house and had kids. We planned to travel later in life. Problem is later in life you can’t walk like you used to. So, girls, travel now. Don’t get married until at least 28. Plenty of time for guys.”
Amen, Warren. Amen. After a perfect day, we bid Warren goodbye.
“Thank you for showing us such a great time! Have a nice evening Warren!” I called.
“Have a nice life. And remember! Don’t get married until 28.”
************************************************************
When the last Corona had been drunk and our suitcases offered nothing more than sand covered shorts and tanks, our seven-day spring break adventure came to a close. It flew by too quickly but was just enough to rejuvenate us for the next half of our semester here. And Brookie went back to New York revitalized as well, but not before a tear-filled goodbye from me. I’ll never forget the fun of the last two weeks. Jee Jee Dub ’09!!
 |
| Australia |
Wish You Were Here
“Reunited and it feels so goooood,” she sang as promised, waltzing out of the taxi, seemingly unscathed by the twenty-four hours of traveling she had just endured. With her Vans and a-line bob, she looked the same, which for some reason is always surprising when you are miles (or kilometers) away from home. Brookie, my silly older sister traveled half the world from New York to Sydney to spend twelve days with me in Australia, so we didn’t waste anytime before getting the party started. (DISCLAIMER: the party is never full on without younger sister Taylor in tow.)
That afternoon we explored Newtown, a hippy neighborhood in Sydney, where we chatted over a Pure Blonde (yummy Australian beer) about the things that never made it into the quick phone conversations we had had during the last one and half months. We updated each other on our respective country’s news: U.S. economy still sucks. Shark attacks in Sydney Harbour.
The first five days of B’s trip overlapped with finals week for me, but this finals week did not boast the usual workload, snowstorm and head cold that those in Boston do. Instead, on Wednesday we took the ferry to Manly beach, and after class that night, we went for Mexican food at Baja Cantina. As California girls we have high expectations for our Mexican food—expectations that the east coast of the United States has never fulfilled, so we were delighted to read that Baja Cantina’s owner and operator had worked in both Mexico and California as a chef before opening this location in Sydney. We hoped that was enough experience to create a palate-pleasing menu. And, in fact, our prawn fajitas and red sangria were so delicious we went back the next night…and ordered the same thing.
On Thursday we toured Sydney’s beaches with echoes from me that they had nothing on those of the Gold Coast. Those beaches would steal Brooke’s breath the next week. So in the meantime, we danced with foreign boys at backpacker bars, shopped at the weekend markets and laughed. I was so happy to share Sydney’s delights with my sister and best friend, and it felt good to have a little piece of home next to me. Our little verbal disputes that never lasted longer than a few minutes comforted me—only the people who really know you can push your buttons. Driving on the left side of the road the following week prompted little “fights” like this:
“Brooke, you’re driving in the bike lane!”
“Kate, it’s a narrow road, and I’m trying my best!”
“Ok well I’d like to arrive alive.”
(Pause)
“Remember that time dad drank too many mai tais in Hawaii and…”
(NOTE: I also drove in the bike lane, so the above can be rearranged to reflect the change in driver. In fact, I believe it was me that almost led the group to its demise as I "merged" onto the highway.)
Beside having the time of my life in an exotic city with my big sis, I learned an important lesson last week: beautiful places are abundant, but exploring those places with someone you love next to you, making memories to last a life time turns those beautiful places into matchless experiences. Life is about the people with whom you share your experiences. B, I’m glad this one was with you.
That afternoon we explored Newtown, a hippy neighborhood in Sydney, where we chatted over a Pure Blonde (yummy Australian beer) about the things that never made it into the quick phone conversations we had had during the last one and half months. We updated each other on our respective country’s news: U.S. economy still sucks. Shark attacks in Sydney Harbour.
The first five days of B’s trip overlapped with finals week for me, but this finals week did not boast the usual workload, snowstorm and head cold that those in Boston do. Instead, on Wednesday we took the ferry to Manly beach, and after class that night, we went for Mexican food at Baja Cantina. As California girls we have high expectations for our Mexican food—expectations that the east coast of the United States has never fulfilled, so we were delighted to read that Baja Cantina’s owner and operator had worked in both Mexico and California as a chef before opening this location in Sydney. We hoped that was enough experience to create a palate-pleasing menu. And, in fact, our prawn fajitas and red sangria were so delicious we went back the next night…and ordered the same thing.
On Thursday we toured Sydney’s beaches with echoes from me that they had nothing on those of the Gold Coast. Those beaches would steal Brooke’s breath the next week. So in the meantime, we danced with foreign boys at backpacker bars, shopped at the weekend markets and laughed. I was so happy to share Sydney’s delights with my sister and best friend, and it felt good to have a little piece of home next to me. Our little verbal disputes that never lasted longer than a few minutes comforted me—only the people who really know you can push your buttons. Driving on the left side of the road the following week prompted little “fights” like this:
“Brooke, you’re driving in the bike lane!”
“Kate, it’s a narrow road, and I’m trying my best!”
“Ok well I’d like to arrive alive.”
(Pause)
“Remember that time dad drank too many mai tais in Hawaii and…”
(NOTE: I also drove in the bike lane, so the above can be rearranged to reflect the change in driver. In fact, I believe it was me that almost led the group to its demise as I "merged" onto the highway.)
Beside having the time of my life in an exotic city with my big sis, I learned an important lesson last week: beautiful places are abundant, but exploring those places with someone you love next to you, making memories to last a life time turns those beautiful places into matchless experiences. Life is about the people with whom you share your experiences. B, I’m glad this one was with you.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Hardcore Chicks
Out of the corner of my eye I spot my white and blue Saucony running shoes, still damp as they rest on the floor of my apartment. Those shoes have carried my stride many a time. Along East Cliff Drive and through Nisene Marks in the summer. To the Chestnut Hill Reservoir on brisk, fall afternoons in New England. Over the belt of the treadmill at the gym during Boston’s icy winters. Down Mountain Avenue in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey. Even through Central Park in the spring. And recently, around Sydney Uni. But its destiny as a pair of shoes may have only been fulfilled last Saturday abseiling in the Blue Mountains down mountainsides, water canyons and a waterfall.
We woke up at 5:00 a.m. to catch the train. As we chugged further from the city and deeper into the mountains, the fog thickened, wrapping the hills in a comforting manner but ruining our chances of watching the sun rise all the same.
The shop wasn’t open yet, so when Caroline spotted the yellow lab sitting outside the café, we were lured in, first for a pet of the dog’s silky, floppy ears, and then for a steaming mug of chai to offset the morning chill in the mountain air.
Around nine the group piled into the creaky twelve-person van. I slowly surfaced out of my sleepy state as we bounced along the dirt road. Anticipation fluttered in my gut as my group mates took turns telling their tales of skydiving, bungee jumping, zorbing, and the like. What was I getting myself into, I wondered looking out the window.
The first of our abseils (kind of like repelling) was puny even to my standards. Maybe twenty feet high, so Jorie and I lead the pack. Roped in, I backed my Saucony’s to the edge, released some rope and continued all ten steps down the natural wall.
With my newfound confidence and a wonder about why everyone considered this an adventure sport, we hiked our way to the second site of the day. This one was not only higher but different. Instead of treading your way down the mountain, we guided ourselves over the edge and then swung under the ledge, allowing our feet to dangle as we zipped the rest of the way down.
We ended the morning with a six-story abseil. The scary and invigorating part of this descent was that the mountain continued for what seemed like miles past the ledge on which we landed. So while our drop was only maybe sixty-feet long, the height was hundreds of feet above the trees, allowing for amazing views as we repelled down. Thinking of my dad and how much he’d enjoy this, I loosened the grip on my break hand, diving quicker toward the platform. The combination of exhilarating sport with pristine and serene setting made for a perfect Saturday escape from the city.
After a nice lunch break, we hiked down the canyon to start the water adventure. When the leader of the pack stopped abruptly, turned with big eyes and said a thick, brown snake just crossed his path, I felt my welcome to Australia was complete. Knowing that nine out of ten of the world’s most poisonous snakes are native to Oz, I looked to our tour guide for comfort that was not granted. We hurried along, turning every corner with anxiety.
I wish I could describe the beauty of the water canyon. We all just kept murmuring, “This isn’t real.” Ironic, because actually, this place was as it real it gets. Forget Raging Waters, this place had real waterslides and real waterfalls. So besides being the most naturally beautiful place to which I’ve ever been, Empress Canyon also hosted the best activity of the day—rock jumping and waterslide scaling. Because we were submerged in water almost the entire way, we left our cameras behind—a bittersweet arrangement considering that I cannot describe the canyon’s beauty, but it also saved us from documenting the hideous getups in which we traversed the rocky canyon. (Or so we thought.) As if the bright blue wetsuits weren’t bad enough, add yellow helmets, a rock climbing harness and large waterproof backpacks to the mix and you had me squealing with laughter looking at my friends. So when Clare, a solo traveler from England started snapping pictures of us with her waterproof camera promising to find us on Facebook for our viewing pleasure, I couldn’t help but think of the laughing fit my mom and I had a few years ago on the beach in Maui as we attempted to walk down the shore with our snorkeling fins still on our feet. That picture still provides us a good chuckle when we pull it out, so I could imagine the future laughs these pictures would too.
After a few rock jumps, natural water slides and a crayfish spotting, we arrived at the waterfall. Instructed to stay away from the edge until it was our turn to repel down, we couldn’t see the height of the drop. Leaving it to the imagination, excitement built.
I had hoped to tell you that I navigated down the waterfall like a pro—legs sturdy, rope running smoothly through my hands. In fact, once I lost my footing the first time on the slippery wall of the waterfall with water dowsing on me like, well, a waterfall, I never really got it back. I repelled down that wall like dead weight. At the bottom, I swam ashore, embarrassed at my poor form despite all the practice. But as I climbed up and watched the rest of my group take the waterfall head on, I was happily surprised to find that my group mates’ shoes were just as slippery as mine.
Then, Damon, our tour guide, talked us up to the rest of the group as we dressed to hike back up the mountain. Pride swelling at his comments about our good performances, the four of us gladly accepted the title “the hardcore chicks.” Then Damon surprised us.
“Hey Hardcore Chicks”
(Collective with giggles) “Yaa?”
“You know what hardcore chicks do?”
“What?”
“They carry ropes.”
And that’s how we got tricked into hiking home with an extra thirty pounds on our backs.
Physically exhausted we opted for Finding Nemo that Saturday night instead of Cargo Bar. I fell asleep before Nemo found his dad but still consider this day among the best of my time in Australia.
We woke up at 5:00 a.m. to catch the train. As we chugged further from the city and deeper into the mountains, the fog thickened, wrapping the hills in a comforting manner but ruining our chances of watching the sun rise all the same.
The shop wasn’t open yet, so when Caroline spotted the yellow lab sitting outside the café, we were lured in, first for a pet of the dog’s silky, floppy ears, and then for a steaming mug of chai to offset the morning chill in the mountain air.
Around nine the group piled into the creaky twelve-person van. I slowly surfaced out of my sleepy state as we bounced along the dirt road. Anticipation fluttered in my gut as my group mates took turns telling their tales of skydiving, bungee jumping, zorbing, and the like. What was I getting myself into, I wondered looking out the window.
The first of our abseils (kind of like repelling) was puny even to my standards. Maybe twenty feet high, so Jorie and I lead the pack. Roped in, I backed my Saucony’s to the edge, released some rope and continued all ten steps down the natural wall.
With my newfound confidence and a wonder about why everyone considered this an adventure sport, we hiked our way to the second site of the day. This one was not only higher but different. Instead of treading your way down the mountain, we guided ourselves over the edge and then swung under the ledge, allowing our feet to dangle as we zipped the rest of the way down.
We ended the morning with a six-story abseil. The scary and invigorating part of this descent was that the mountain continued for what seemed like miles past the ledge on which we landed. So while our drop was only maybe sixty-feet long, the height was hundreds of feet above the trees, allowing for amazing views as we repelled down. Thinking of my dad and how much he’d enjoy this, I loosened the grip on my break hand, diving quicker toward the platform. The combination of exhilarating sport with pristine and serene setting made for a perfect Saturday escape from the city.
After a nice lunch break, we hiked down the canyon to start the water adventure. When the leader of the pack stopped abruptly, turned with big eyes and said a thick, brown snake just crossed his path, I felt my welcome to Australia was complete. Knowing that nine out of ten of the world’s most poisonous snakes are native to Oz, I looked to our tour guide for comfort that was not granted. We hurried along, turning every corner with anxiety.
I wish I could describe the beauty of the water canyon. We all just kept murmuring, “This isn’t real.” Ironic, because actually, this place was as it real it gets. Forget Raging Waters, this place had real waterslides and real waterfalls. So besides being the most naturally beautiful place to which I’ve ever been, Empress Canyon also hosted the best activity of the day—rock jumping and waterslide scaling. Because we were submerged in water almost the entire way, we left our cameras behind—a bittersweet arrangement considering that I cannot describe the canyon’s beauty, but it also saved us from documenting the hideous getups in which we traversed the rocky canyon. (Or so we thought.) As if the bright blue wetsuits weren’t bad enough, add yellow helmets, a rock climbing harness and large waterproof backpacks to the mix and you had me squealing with laughter looking at my friends. So when Clare, a solo traveler from England started snapping pictures of us with her waterproof camera promising to find us on Facebook for our viewing pleasure, I couldn’t help but think of the laughing fit my mom and I had a few years ago on the beach in Maui as we attempted to walk down the shore with our snorkeling fins still on our feet. That picture still provides us a good chuckle when we pull it out, so I could imagine the future laughs these pictures would too.
After a few rock jumps, natural water slides and a crayfish spotting, we arrived at the waterfall. Instructed to stay away from the edge until it was our turn to repel down, we couldn’t see the height of the drop. Leaving it to the imagination, excitement built.
I had hoped to tell you that I navigated down the waterfall like a pro—legs sturdy, rope running smoothly through my hands. In fact, once I lost my footing the first time on the slippery wall of the waterfall with water dowsing on me like, well, a waterfall, I never really got it back. I repelled down that wall like dead weight. At the bottom, I swam ashore, embarrassed at my poor form despite all the practice. But as I climbed up and watched the rest of my group take the waterfall head on, I was happily surprised to find that my group mates’ shoes were just as slippery as mine.
Then, Damon, our tour guide, talked us up to the rest of the group as we dressed to hike back up the mountain. Pride swelling at his comments about our good performances, the four of us gladly accepted the title “the hardcore chicks.” Then Damon surprised us.
“Hey Hardcore Chicks”
(Collective with giggles) “Yaa?”
“You know what hardcore chicks do?”
“What?”
“They carry ropes.”
And that’s how we got tricked into hiking home with an extra thirty pounds on our backs.
Physically exhausted we opted for Finding Nemo that Saturday night instead of Cargo Bar. I fell asleep before Nemo found his dad but still consider this day among the best of my time in Australia.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Little Things
“Rain, rain go away…and if you don’t we’ll jetset out of this town and won’t return until your skies are sunny.” That’s how the song goes, right? Regardless, rain had dowsed Sydney for too many days straight, so our Melbourne trip arrived at just the right time.
As our plane climbed to altitude through Sydney’s stormy clouds and zipped onward toward Melbourne’s clear sky, I started to re-read one of my favorite books, Tuesdays With Morrie. I hadn’t read it since high school and figured that as graduation nears, now was a great time to revisit what should be life’s textbook. I finished the book later that night (all 192 tiny pages), tears on my cheeks and inspiration in my heart. Encouraging its readers to live meaningfully by connecting with people and by enjoying the little things in life, the book was even better the second time, or maybe its message just resonated more with my twenty-one-year-old self (yikes!) than my sixteen-year-old self. I appreciated its reminders and vowed to start paying more attention to The Little Things in my fortunate life. Like these:
It’s the little things in life like when your best friend surprises you on your birthday with the necklace that you fell in love with at the market, teeter-tottered about buying and then finally decided against thanks to her comment that you should “wait. Think it over,” which she only said so she could sneak back to the tent when you were busy browsing through the clothes.
It’s the little things like cruising on the Great Ocean Road with Jack Johnson singing the trip’s soundtrack. It’s the breathtaking turquoise color of the ocean—the same one that brushes your shores at home, only it can’t be because you’ve never seen an ocean so beautiful. It’s the massiveness of the rock formations that have stood along that coast longer than humans have existed. It’s looking out over the cliff and realizing that the next land mass is Antarctica. Ok the Great Ocean Road might be a bit more than a little thing, but it’s the little things like when your tour guide is cute, walks barefoot all day and talks to you about your mutual love of maps all with an Australian accent.
It’s the little things like the bar you stumble across in a seemingly disgusting alleyway with your six friends, where they play Spanish reggae music and you dance and talk all night with Aussies who teach you that the city’s name is pronounced Mel-bin, not Mel-born.
It’s the little things like realizing the world is small when you are walking around a quaint, foreign city and you start to feel worlds away from your sisters and you get a little pang of sadness in your stomach. Then you stumble into a trendy clothing store, and on the first rack you pick through you find stuffed between hangers of board-shorts a sweatshirt with your hometown’s name printed across the front. And it’s the only one. And so you laugh in astonishment and the sales guy inquires why you are staring so hard at a piece of his merchandise. You try to explain through the beaming smile spread across your face that this small town in California is your hometown, et cetera, but you can’t explain that this sweatshirt has really just sent you a message saying something more along the lines of “it’s a small world. You’re never that far away.”
It’s the little things like DJ’s that make Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” into a techno remix for you to dance to on another Thursday night at Sidebar. It’s your aunt who sends you two cards on February 14th—one for Valentine’s Day and one for your birthday. And it’s the little things like waking up to clear skies back in Sydney. Thanks for the reminder Morrie.
As our plane climbed to altitude through Sydney’s stormy clouds and zipped onward toward Melbourne’s clear sky, I started to re-read one of my favorite books, Tuesdays With Morrie. I hadn’t read it since high school and figured that as graduation nears, now was a great time to revisit what should be life’s textbook. I finished the book later that night (all 192 tiny pages), tears on my cheeks and inspiration in my heart. Encouraging its readers to live meaningfully by connecting with people and by enjoying the little things in life, the book was even better the second time, or maybe its message just resonated more with my twenty-one-year-old self (yikes!) than my sixteen-year-old self. I appreciated its reminders and vowed to start paying more attention to The Little Things in my fortunate life. Like these:
It’s the little things in life like when your best friend surprises you on your birthday with the necklace that you fell in love with at the market, teeter-tottered about buying and then finally decided against thanks to her comment that you should “wait. Think it over,” which she only said so she could sneak back to the tent when you were busy browsing through the clothes.
It’s the little things like cruising on the Great Ocean Road with Jack Johnson singing the trip’s soundtrack. It’s the breathtaking turquoise color of the ocean—the same one that brushes your shores at home, only it can’t be because you’ve never seen an ocean so beautiful. It’s the massiveness of the rock formations that have stood along that coast longer than humans have existed. It’s looking out over the cliff and realizing that the next land mass is Antarctica. Ok the Great Ocean Road might be a bit more than a little thing, but it’s the little things like when your tour guide is cute, walks barefoot all day and talks to you about your mutual love of maps all with an Australian accent.
It’s the little things like the bar you stumble across in a seemingly disgusting alleyway with your six friends, where they play Spanish reggae music and you dance and talk all night with Aussies who teach you that the city’s name is pronounced Mel-bin, not Mel-born.
It’s the little things like realizing the world is small when you are walking around a quaint, foreign city and you start to feel worlds away from your sisters and you get a little pang of sadness in your stomach. Then you stumble into a trendy clothing store, and on the first rack you pick through you find stuffed between hangers of board-shorts a sweatshirt with your hometown’s name printed across the front. And it’s the only one. And so you laugh in astonishment and the sales guy inquires why you are staring so hard at a piece of his merchandise. You try to explain through the beaming smile spread across your face that this small town in California is your hometown, et cetera, but you can’t explain that this sweatshirt has really just sent you a message saying something more along the lines of “it’s a small world. You’re never that far away.”
It’s the little things like DJ’s that make Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” into a techno remix for you to dance to on another Thursday night at Sidebar. It’s your aunt who sends you two cards on February 14th—one for Valentine’s Day and one for your birthday. And it’s the little things like waking up to clear skies back in Sydney. Thanks for the reminder Morrie.
 |
| Australia |
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Illusions and Evolutions
Someone dressed up school in a uniform of fieldtrips and told it that homework was no longer necessary. I don’t know who is responsible for this genius evolution, but if I had to venture guess, I’d say it could be my Australian Sporting and Traditions instructor. He’s the one who mandated a fieldtrip to the beach, where upon arrival he instructed us to think up a research topic while we lounged on the sand and floated on the waves. Then we’d meet him at the pub in two hours to let him know the subject on which we had decided to write. Over a beer that afternoon he encouraged me, “it’s just like Oscar Wilde said, ‘life is too important to take seriously.’ You only have eighty odd years here, so…bugger it!" So, yes, I feel pretty confident that he could be the brain behind the other school sponsored fieldtrip I took this weekend with my Australian Wine Industry class to the Hunter Valley.
There, we employed our wine tasting skills that we had rehearsed in class the week before—no holding the glass by the bodice, check for color against a white wall, swirl to release the aroma, smell and then, finally, taste. So for two days, we toured the wineries of the Hunter Valley in New South Wales, Australia attempting to develop our palates. Really, we were just faking maturity. Sure, we tasted and discussed wine by day, but the ruthless game of Sharks and Minnows that we started that night at the hotel’s pool adequately demonstrates that we are not real adults yet.
And speaking of real adults, I am about to become one, or at least be expected to be one. This weekend I will turn twenty-one, and if that’s not enough, I just received word that I will in fact graduate next December, making me a college graduate by the end of this year. I’ll repeat that: a college graduate. Luckily, my best friend/roommate/travel companion, the one and only Miss Jorie Larsen, is in the same predicament, leading us to the discussion we had last night.
“Kate, do you feel scared to graduate?”
“Well...it’s kind of exciting. I mean we get to start doing what we want to do!”
“Ya…what do we want to do again?”
“Well…yes, I feel scared.”
For now, I’m taking the advice of my instructor: bugger it.
There, we employed our wine tasting skills that we had rehearsed in class the week before—no holding the glass by the bodice, check for color against a white wall, swirl to release the aroma, smell and then, finally, taste. So for two days, we toured the wineries of the Hunter Valley in New South Wales, Australia attempting to develop our palates. Really, we were just faking maturity. Sure, we tasted and discussed wine by day, but the ruthless game of Sharks and Minnows that we started that night at the hotel’s pool adequately demonstrates that we are not real adults yet.
And speaking of real adults, I am about to become one, or at least be expected to be one. This weekend I will turn twenty-one, and if that’s not enough, I just received word that I will in fact graduate next December, making me a college graduate by the end of this year. I’ll repeat that: a college graduate. Luckily, my best friend/roommate/travel companion, the one and only Miss Jorie Larsen, is in the same predicament, leading us to the discussion we had last night.
“Kate, do you feel scared to graduate?”
“Well...it’s kind of exciting. I mean we get to start doing what we want to do!”
“Ya…what do we want to do again?”
“Well…yes, I feel scared.”
For now, I’m taking the advice of my instructor: bugger it.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Escape
After sixteen days in the city, I needed an escape from the masses of people and cars. Relief came in the form of Coolangatta on the Gold Coast of Australia.
Home to some of the best surf in Australia (and perhaps the world?), the Gold Coast requires nothing beyond board-shorts and flip flops by day and a sundress at night—my kind of place. For as much as I appreciate the thrills of the city (hence my moves to Boston and Sydney), my roots are in a small, beach town and I intend to keep it that way. So three days on the white sandy beaches of the Gold Coast would hopefully provide the relief I needed.
We decided on Coolangatta because a friend of mine from high school had made the small town home during a month of his three-month surf trip to New Zealand, Australia and Bali. So we operated on surf time with him: up with the parrots, which sang from the trees beautifully and loudly just after daybreak.
After renting a car that was barely bigger than a Volkswagen Golf, we packed in—two surfboards running from front to back, two girls squished in the center and side seats of the rear, and one six-foot-five guy at the wheel.
Along the way to Bryon Bay we drove through a torrential downpour. Fortunately, in true tropical style, the storm passed as quickly as it came. Upon arrival the sun started peaking through the clouds.
Byron Bay boasted everything we were looking for: secluded beaches and great surf. My surf knowledge does not stretch far beyond your average non-surfer from a surf town; I know some lingo and some big names, et cetera, but not much. However, even I “woahed” out loud at the site of one guy being barreled at the beach we decided on. I had never before seen a wave like that, and I suddenly understood why my guy friends were off combing the world for the best waves. The guy shrugged off the congratulations that he was met with from the other four surfers at the beach, but the look of elation on his face was impossible to conceal.
Vast and expansive—they’re the only words to explain the setting: the ocean, the sand, the trees, but especially the sky was vast and expansive. Everything looked untouched, like the way it was millions of years ago. I’ve always said that if I could time travel to any other time, I would go to the time of dinosaurs; I have a fascination for the world before people touched it. I’m not counting on time travel, but after this weekend I can imagine better what the Jurassic era might have looked like. Laying on the delicate sand the color of bone, hugged by a seemingly-never ending grove of mixed trees, looking up at the sprawling sky, I could feel the curvature of the earth.
Mission accomplished. We’re rejuvenated.
Home to some of the best surf in Australia (and perhaps the world?), the Gold Coast requires nothing beyond board-shorts and flip flops by day and a sundress at night—my kind of place. For as much as I appreciate the thrills of the city (hence my moves to Boston and Sydney), my roots are in a small, beach town and I intend to keep it that way. So three days on the white sandy beaches of the Gold Coast would hopefully provide the relief I needed.
We decided on Coolangatta because a friend of mine from high school had made the small town home during a month of his three-month surf trip to New Zealand, Australia and Bali. So we operated on surf time with him: up with the parrots, which sang from the trees beautifully and loudly just after daybreak.
After renting a car that was barely bigger than a Volkswagen Golf, we packed in—two surfboards running from front to back, two girls squished in the center and side seats of the rear, and one six-foot-five guy at the wheel.
Along the way to Bryon Bay we drove through a torrential downpour. Fortunately, in true tropical style, the storm passed as quickly as it came. Upon arrival the sun started peaking through the clouds.
Byron Bay boasted everything we were looking for: secluded beaches and great surf. My surf knowledge does not stretch far beyond your average non-surfer from a surf town; I know some lingo and some big names, et cetera, but not much. However, even I “woahed” out loud at the site of one guy being barreled at the beach we decided on. I had never before seen a wave like that, and I suddenly understood why my guy friends were off combing the world for the best waves. The guy shrugged off the congratulations that he was met with from the other four surfers at the beach, but the look of elation on his face was impossible to conceal.
Vast and expansive—they’re the only words to explain the setting: the ocean, the sand, the trees, but especially the sky was vast and expansive. Everything looked untouched, like the way it was millions of years ago. I’ve always said that if I could time travel to any other time, I would go to the time of dinosaurs; I have a fascination for the world before people touched it. I’m not counting on time travel, but after this weekend I can imagine better what the Jurassic era might have looked like. Laying on the delicate sand the color of bone, hugged by a seemingly-never ending grove of mixed trees, looking up at the sprawling sky, I could feel the curvature of the earth.
Mission accomplished. We’re rejuvenated.
 |
| Australia |
Beauties and the Brains
I have a confession. I cheated. Well, actually we cheated. But I’m the one with the guilty conscious. Ok, here’s the story:
Wednesday evenings feature two great happenings in the Broadway neighborhood of Sydney. The first is Australian-rules football practice in the park by our apartment. The second is trivia night at the Australian Youth Hotel (hotel means bar here.) Jorie (my roommate and best friend since the first day of our freshman year in Boston) and I discovered both indiscriminately on our first night in Sydney.
After an evening stroll through the park sprinkled with Australian footie players, we stumbled upon a happenin’ little pub where five or six tables of mostly Australians were engaged in a game of trivia quizzing them as much on American history and culture as on Australian history and culture. But because jetlag told us it was bedtime at ten, we agreed to play the following week. Because we play to win.
Come Tuesday, a group of boys in our study abroad program approached us to inform us that the Lansdowne Hotel does trivia on Tuesdays. The boys already had a team name—The Sunburned Americans. We, the self-named Beauties and the Brains, which consists of Jorie, five of our friends and me, accepted the challenge. So, we go. We play. We win third and beat the boys. Prizes include $25 in Lansdowne mula and an Ashton Kutcher-style trucker hat.
Provoked by our winnings, Beauties and the Brains trek to trivia at the original bar the next night. We’re convinced that we’ll be able to make a living out of trivia bar hopping. Too embarrassed to play again, the boys aren’t there. But guess what? The questions are the same questions from the Lansdowne the night before. We know every answer, including questions about Australian cricket players, New Zealand films from the 1960s, and random facts about the earth’s highest and lowest points. But we’ve still got some competition—mainly the McClosky’s. Hence, we’re in third as we enter the jeopardy round. True to our philosophy of playing to win, we bet all our points. Palms sweaty and hearts racing, the final question is asked and it’s a new question: what country is 22 times longer than it is wide? Now let me stray for a moment and say that in the last five months I have become obsessed with a little place called Chile. I bought Frommer’s guide to Chile before I bought a book on Australia. I revamped my Spanish studies last semester, and I dream of moving to Chile next January after I graduate from school. So, back to the story, I know this answer. I have to muffle my mouth with my hands to keep from screaming the answer out for everyone to hear. We win the game—the whole thing, including a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the bar. Take that McClosky’s! Sweden is not that long!
So it’s funny at this point—the looks on the faces of the Australian men who thought a group of American girls knew more about cricket than they did. We leave laughing, check in hand.
Here’s where I hope you’ll forgive us: we did it again the next week. Another fifty dollars to the bar. More applause from the moderator. More dirty looks from Australians. Now I have a guilty conscious, so I’m out. I can hear my little sister Taylor telling me to keep going—“Kate, who cares!? You win free drinks!” My best friend Allie would agree. Big sister Brooke would laugh and ask, “but is it really fun if you already know the answers?”
I broke the news to them the next day; I told Beauties and the Brains that I can’t do it again. The lies haunt me at night.
Wednesday evenings feature two great happenings in the Broadway neighborhood of Sydney. The first is Australian-rules football practice in the park by our apartment. The second is trivia night at the Australian Youth Hotel (hotel means bar here.) Jorie (my roommate and best friend since the first day of our freshman year in Boston) and I discovered both indiscriminately on our first night in Sydney.
After an evening stroll through the park sprinkled with Australian footie players, we stumbled upon a happenin’ little pub where five or six tables of mostly Australians were engaged in a game of trivia quizzing them as much on American history and culture as on Australian history and culture. But because jetlag told us it was bedtime at ten, we agreed to play the following week. Because we play to win.
Come Tuesday, a group of boys in our study abroad program approached us to inform us that the Lansdowne Hotel does trivia on Tuesdays. The boys already had a team name—The Sunburned Americans. We, the self-named Beauties and the Brains, which consists of Jorie, five of our friends and me, accepted the challenge. So, we go. We play. We win third and beat the boys. Prizes include $25 in Lansdowne mula and an Ashton Kutcher-style trucker hat.
Provoked by our winnings, Beauties and the Brains trek to trivia at the original bar the next night. We’re convinced that we’ll be able to make a living out of trivia bar hopping. Too embarrassed to play again, the boys aren’t there. But guess what? The questions are the same questions from the Lansdowne the night before. We know every answer, including questions about Australian cricket players, New Zealand films from the 1960s, and random facts about the earth’s highest and lowest points. But we’ve still got some competition—mainly the McClosky’s. Hence, we’re in third as we enter the jeopardy round. True to our philosophy of playing to win, we bet all our points. Palms sweaty and hearts racing, the final question is asked and it’s a new question: what country is 22 times longer than it is wide? Now let me stray for a moment and say that in the last five months I have become obsessed with a little place called Chile. I bought Frommer’s guide to Chile before I bought a book on Australia. I revamped my Spanish studies last semester, and I dream of moving to Chile next January after I graduate from school. So, back to the story, I know this answer. I have to muffle my mouth with my hands to keep from screaming the answer out for everyone to hear. We win the game—the whole thing, including a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the bar. Take that McClosky’s! Sweden is not that long!
So it’s funny at this point—the looks on the faces of the Australian men who thought a group of American girls knew more about cricket than they did. We leave laughing, check in hand.
Here’s where I hope you’ll forgive us: we did it again the next week. Another fifty dollars to the bar. More applause from the moderator. More dirty looks from Australians. Now I have a guilty conscious, so I’m out. I can hear my little sister Taylor telling me to keep going—“Kate, who cares!? You win free drinks!” My best friend Allie would agree. Big sister Brooke would laugh and ask, “but is it really fun if you already know the answers?”
I broke the news to them the next day; I told Beauties and the Brains that I can’t do it again. The lies haunt me at night.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Romance
Introductions. I like them. My introduction to this city resembles how I hope my meeting of a handsome boy begins a great love affair. Its beauty caught my eye. Then the friendliness of its people drew me to it like a smile from across the room. The pace of the Sydney lifestyle solidified my interest like a firm handshake followed by a witty remark. And if the accent is like our first date--gives me butterflies but leaves me wondering if its all a facade--then its weather is our first kiss--warm with spurts of thunder and lightning.
In their words, I'm keen on Sydney. In fact, in an attempt to keep from being that girl who moves to a new country, falls in love with it and then dismisses her own country as if it has nothing to offer, I have actually begun to search for Sydney's faults. So far the only thing holding Sydney and I back from taking our relationship to the next level is a little thing I like to call cockroaches. To be clear, however, they are not little. My fear of bugs can be traced back to the Wolf-Spider-In-The-Hallway Incident of 2004, so while I am keen on Sydney, I am not so keen on bugs, especially ones the size of wine corks. Perhaps then you can imagine the effect the large cockroach that crawled up the wall during my second lecture at the University of Sydney had on me. If you can't, I'll tell you that for the remaining forty-five minutes of class I couldn't take notes because I was busy scanning. I twitched with fear every time my hair brushed my shoulders, and I sat, perhaps impolitely, with my feet up on the chair in front of me. Luckily, Sydney and I are still in the infatuation stage of our relationship when you find the other's quirks endearing, so I'm looking at the sunny side of this bug situation; it's preparation for when I finally make the trek to Thailand.
Friendliness in Sydney is one of the first things I noticed, and I come from a place with a pretty friendly reputation. Northern California may not be the Midwest, but we have that wave-to-your-neighbor and use-your-blinker-light kind of courtesy. Still, I noticed the friendly level at new heights in Sydney. Drivers yield to the pedestrians in the cross walk (ahem, Boston), and random people are happy to help you find your way and, in one case, walk you there. But they're not just nice to each other; they're nice to tourists. And they're especially mindful of American tourists. The intersections have painted reminders on the streets that tell you which way to look for oncoming traffic (with arrows!), obviously a gesture to its American visitors who drive on the right side of the road. No pun intended. And on the day of President Obama's inauguration we were treated like celebrities. Upon recognition of our American accents we were met with congratulations. Journalists from ten different news organizations interviewed, photographed and filmed five of my friends and me. Hello, Sydney televistion debut.
But the characteristic that really grabs me is the pace of the city. In Sydney you're invited to take your time and enjoy life. This may come in the form of a lengthy lunch break, an afternoon stroll on the cliffs, or just a great cup of coffee that comes in a glass cup, forcing you to sit down and enjoy it at the sidewalk cafe, rather than hurry with it to the bus. And yet, professionals abound. I like this balance between work and play that is not so much a personal decision as it is the Sydney way of life. At the cafes in the financial district there is enough space to sit comfortably for lunch; there are no plastic utensils, no premade salads for those who don't have enough time to wait for assembly. The message seems to be that if workers are rested and happy, they'll work efficiently. I'm willing ot test out that philosophy.
Of everything I've seen in my short time here, the sign at the entrance to the Royal Botanical Gardens sums up Sydney's attitude best. It reads: "Welcome to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Please walk on the grass. We also encourage you to smell the roses, hug the trees, talk to the birds, and picnic on the grass." So, Sydney, in the profound words of a 1990s rapper, "I like the way you work it. No diggity. No doubt."
In their words, I'm keen on Sydney. In fact, in an attempt to keep from being that girl who moves to a new country, falls in love with it and then dismisses her own country as if it has nothing to offer, I have actually begun to search for Sydney's faults. So far the only thing holding Sydney and I back from taking our relationship to the next level is a little thing I like to call cockroaches. To be clear, however, they are not little. My fear of bugs can be traced back to the Wolf-Spider-In-The-Hallway Incident of 2004, so while I am keen on Sydney, I am not so keen on bugs, especially ones the size of wine corks. Perhaps then you can imagine the effect the large cockroach that crawled up the wall during my second lecture at the University of Sydney had on me. If you can't, I'll tell you that for the remaining forty-five minutes of class I couldn't take notes because I was busy scanning. I twitched with fear every time my hair brushed my shoulders, and I sat, perhaps impolitely, with my feet up on the chair in front of me. Luckily, Sydney and I are still in the infatuation stage of our relationship when you find the other's quirks endearing, so I'm looking at the sunny side of this bug situation; it's preparation for when I finally make the trek to Thailand.
Friendliness in Sydney is one of the first things I noticed, and I come from a place with a pretty friendly reputation. Northern California may not be the Midwest, but we have that wave-to-your-neighbor and use-your-blinker-light kind of courtesy. Still, I noticed the friendly level at new heights in Sydney. Drivers yield to the pedestrians in the cross walk (ahem, Boston), and random people are happy to help you find your way and, in one case, walk you there. But they're not just nice to each other; they're nice to tourists. And they're especially mindful of American tourists. The intersections have painted reminders on the streets that tell you which way to look for oncoming traffic (with arrows!), obviously a gesture to its American visitors who drive on the right side of the road. No pun intended. And on the day of President Obama's inauguration we were treated like celebrities. Upon recognition of our American accents we were met with congratulations. Journalists from ten different news organizations interviewed, photographed and filmed five of my friends and me. Hello, Sydney televistion debut.
But the characteristic that really grabs me is the pace of the city. In Sydney you're invited to take your time and enjoy life. This may come in the form of a lengthy lunch break, an afternoon stroll on the cliffs, or just a great cup of coffee that comes in a glass cup, forcing you to sit down and enjoy it at the sidewalk cafe, rather than hurry with it to the bus. And yet, professionals abound. I like this balance between work and play that is not so much a personal decision as it is the Sydney way of life. At the cafes in the financial district there is enough space to sit comfortably for lunch; there are no plastic utensils, no premade salads for those who don't have enough time to wait for assembly. The message seems to be that if workers are rested and happy, they'll work efficiently. I'm willing ot test out that philosophy.
Of everything I've seen in my short time here, the sign at the entrance to the Royal Botanical Gardens sums up Sydney's attitude best. It reads: "Welcome to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Please walk on the grass. We also encourage you to smell the roses, hug the trees, talk to the birds, and picnic on the grass." So, Sydney, in the profound words of a 1990s rapper, "I like the way you work it. No diggity. No doubt."
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Arrival
It's funny how before you visit a place you imagine it in your mind--its look, its feel--but then you arrive, see it, feel it and you can no longer remember what you imagined. The authenticity of it blows your depiction away. This is my experience with my recent venture to Sydney, Australia. Over the last few months as I prepared for my semester abroad I drew a mental picture that I'll admit was stereotypically dominated by the Harbour Bridge and Sydney Opera House. I chatted up friends with Sydney experience, searched Google images for "Sydney," "Australia," and "kangaroo," and read half of Bill Bryson's In a Sunburned Country, ultimately trying to quench my thirst for the Land Down Under.
Unsurprisingly, the only sufficient quencher was actually experiencing the city. And experiencing is exactly what I aim to do in this Asian-influenced, but European-feeling, tropical metropolis. That's why on my first cliff walk from Bronte Beach to the renowned Bondi Beach I snapped not one picture. Ok, well actually my camera battery was dead and the charger was traversing the Pacific via UPS. But this issue is something I had thought about before. The digital whirlwind that is Facebook, texting and emailing can get in the way of actually experiencing life and all its adventures. Detailing trips by taking pictures incessantly puts a distance between me and the beauty I am supposedly enjoying, and I don't want to see the world through the viewfinder of my Fuji point-and-shoot. I want nothing in between Australia and me, New Zealand and me, Thailand and me. Undistracted by documenting I hope to feel the places I visit rather than just see them, and besides, after each picture I have snapped, I sighed "a picture just doesn't do it justice." Of all places to build your photograph collection, Australia is among the best that I've seen. Simply, every thing and every one is beautiful, so I will return home (if I go home) with pictures to show my family and friends, to hang on my walls in an effort to mentally return to this expansive and lovely continent/island. However, you'll have to politely forgive me that collecting scrapbook material is not my main pursuit in this journey.
So now that I've arived after a comfortable and seemingly quick Air New Zealand flight from San Francisco and settled into my simple and sufficient one room apartment with one of my dearest friends, let the journey begin. This trip in which I will live and work in the South Pacific's largest city marks my first independent, international adventure of what I hope will be many over the course of my life. I'm obviously not the first to study abroad, and of the study abroad locales, I'm in an arguably familiar setting (although the Aussies would disagree with that.) I'm not the first to chronicle travel abroad. And I'm certainly not the first to vow to lose myself in the culture of a distant land. The only originality I offer is my open mind and my desire to let a different culture influence my life experience. I'll use this space to share my experiences in and impressions of Australia and beyond over the next four months for those who care to read. (That's you, mom.)
Katelyn de Diego
Unsurprisingly, the only sufficient quencher was actually experiencing the city. And experiencing is exactly what I aim to do in this Asian-influenced, but European-feeling, tropical metropolis. That's why on my first cliff walk from Bronte Beach to the renowned Bondi Beach I snapped not one picture. Ok, well actually my camera battery was dead and the charger was traversing the Pacific via UPS. But this issue is something I had thought about before. The digital whirlwind that is Facebook, texting and emailing can get in the way of actually experiencing life and all its adventures. Detailing trips by taking pictures incessantly puts a distance between me and the beauty I am supposedly enjoying, and I don't want to see the world through the viewfinder of my Fuji point-and-shoot. I want nothing in between Australia and me, New Zealand and me, Thailand and me. Undistracted by documenting I hope to feel the places I visit rather than just see them, and besides, after each picture I have snapped, I sighed "a picture just doesn't do it justice." Of all places to build your photograph collection, Australia is among the best that I've seen. Simply, every thing and every one is beautiful, so I will return home (if I go home) with pictures to show my family and friends, to hang on my walls in an effort to mentally return to this expansive and lovely continent/island. However, you'll have to politely forgive me that collecting scrapbook material is not my main pursuit in this journey.
So now that I've arived after a comfortable and seemingly quick Air New Zealand flight from San Francisco and settled into my simple and sufficient one room apartment with one of my dearest friends, let the journey begin. This trip in which I will live and work in the South Pacific's largest city marks my first independent, international adventure of what I hope will be many over the course of my life. I'm obviously not the first to study abroad, and of the study abroad locales, I'm in an arguably familiar setting (although the Aussies would disagree with that.) I'm not the first to chronicle travel abroad. And I'm certainly not the first to vow to lose myself in the culture of a distant land. The only originality I offer is my open mind and my desire to let a different culture influence my life experience. I'll use this space to share my experiences in and impressions of Australia and beyond over the next four months for those who care to read. (That's you, mom.)
Katelyn de Diego
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