On the downward slide...mentally and physically readying myself to come home.
One tourist-y thing I had somehow managed to put off until this week was a commercial cruise on the Brisbane River. OK, maybe because it involved a boat and y'all know what a weenie I am when it comes to them. But it was a gorgeous sunny, cloudless day -- about 70 degrees on land -- and if I was going to get this panoramic view of the city, it was now or never. Jacked up on Dramamine, off I went.
On the water, I quickly found that nausea was at the bottom of my sensations: It was too cold to barf! Breezes straight from Antarctica blasted through that upper deck. All my energy went into not freezing to death. Still, it was an informative and pleasant enough voyage. Brisbane is a muscular city with a short, interesting history.
Last Sunday afternoon my new friend Carol and I attended a wonderful choral concert at the biggest church in town, St. John's Anglican Cathedral. It featured the majestic "Lux Aeterna" by the American composer Morten Lauridsen, which was simply glorious. There's to be another concert there this Sunday featuring four choirs. Oh boy, we can't wait! Afterward we have tickets to yet another concert -- this one at the big Queensland Performing Arts Center -- featuring a well-known Aboriginal singer, Gurrumul, backed by a small gospel choir and orchestra.
Sunday promises to wrap up my journey on a high, spiritual note.
So many wonderful things about this trip...At the top of the list, no contest, are the people. The Aussies have been, without exception, exceptional. After over six weeks, I think I can make some generalizations. Everyone I've encountered has been down-to-earth, friendly, kind, gracious -- I could go on and on. Not that Americans don't also possess these qualities, but let's face it, ever so often one of us is having a bad day and things can get ugly. (Admit it: We all go postal once in a while.) I think it's just remarkable that I haven't run into anybody out here in a foul mood -- or if they're feeling low, they don't let it affect anybody else.
Isn't that amazing? Nobody seems to take themselves too seriously. This lack of pretension and great sense of humor make the Aussies the most congenial people I've ever met. That's to take nothing away from the Brits, whom I love dearly. Maybe it's the result of their being shipped out here initially as convicts, but the Aussies have stripped away the British reserve and just hang themselves out there. What you see is what you get. They don't wait for anybody to strike up a conversation; they've never met a stranger. They'll go out of their way to help you, and do so with a smile. I love that!
I've also enjoyed being introduced to music by Australian composers. My favourite radio station out here, ABC Classic FM, makes a point of featuring Aussie musicians, and I've discovered quite a few pieces I had never heard before. Sweet!
At the risk of sounding churlish, I must mention one big downside of the trip: The food. Now, I realize I may put too much emphasis on food (one look at my hips tells the tale), but puh-LEAZE: I'm starving to death out here! When I actually do find something edible, it's a red-letter day. Food is astronomically expensive, both in restaurants and at the grocery store, and by and large, tasteless. Non-ethnic restaurants offer very little in the way of variety -- you've got your fish-and-chips and you've got your steak and burgers -- and heaven forbid they serve you a decent salad.
And as for condiments: They cost extra. Imagine having to pay for a dab of ketsup, mayo or tartar sauce. Ranch dressing? Forget it. Where oh where is Newman's Own when you need it?! Order waffles, and they come out of a freezer tasting like cardboard -- and you guessed it, syrup costs extra. I once asked for a side order of mushrooms on my steak, got HALF of a button mushroom, and was charged $3. I'm not making this up.
As for their hamburgers, here's what comes as standard: Tasteless ground beef, grilled onions, tomato paste and sliced beets. That's correct: Sliced beets. And sometimes pineapple. Mustard is extra.
If I crave a piece of fresh batter-fried fish, I have only to drive six miles to the edge of Moreton Bay, and get my fix for a mere $8.50. That's just for the fish. French fries, or chips, are extra. A thimble-sized Sprite (half-sized can) is $3.60. But to be fair, being able to eat my picnic across the street at a seaside table is priceless.
At the supermarket, you feel like Alice having just fallen through the rabbit hole: In American currency, an apple costs just under $1. An ounce, or a handful, of cherries, imported from the U.S., is $7.50. A whole watermelon is $44.00. A pound of local shrimp, $32. A dozen eggs, $4.50. A pint of ice cream, which turns out to be nasty: $5.00. Forget fresh veggies; you know they're tasteless and simply not worth the solid gold brick you'll have to exchange to buy them.
I've lived mostly on cheese, Nutella on toast, yogurt, orange-mango juice, milk, Cadbury chocolate bars, and fantasies of Yorkmont Farmer's Market produce, fried squash from Gus's, and Bojangle's biscuits.
Summing up on a positive note, Queensland -- the Sunshine State -- has more than lived up to its name. I've been here in the coldest month, July, and yet with few exceptions it has been sunny every day. The one blustery storm we had blew through and away overnight. The temps have dipped into the 40s at night and usually get into the mid-60s and 70s during the day, with very low humidity. I'm no fan of cold weather, but this has not been a bad way to experience winter.
But all in all, I'm ready to get back home to Charlotte, summer, and some DECENT FOOD! If I could just find a way to drag some of these nice folks and their sunny dispositions back with me...
Friday, July 31, 2015
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Trips down Memory Lane, kangaroo alley and knitters' paradise
As most of us know, it's often life's little things that make the greatest impact. Especially when traveling, subtle, unexpected incidents can create the most lasting memories.
Here in Australia I've had several of those little incidents lately.
Picture it: It's late afternoon and I'm sitting in Scarborough in one of the many pretty parks that line the shore of Moreton Bay about six miles from my house. Behind me, incidentally, is the house where the BeeGees grew up, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story but I thought it was interesting. I'm watching the sky turn purple as the night gathers, I'm reading and listening to my favorite radio station, ABC Classic FM.
Now I have to interject a bit of personal history. The summer before I was a senior in college, 1969, I met a Bolivian guitar student from the N.C. School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. His name was Javier Calderon. I thought he was absolutely the sexiest, most brilliant boy I'd ever met. He seemed to take a shine to me, too, and of course we fell in luv.
I know it's hard to believe, but at age 21 I was not a candidate for Bride of Shrek. In fact, I had long blond hair, only one chin, an actual waistline and was in the zip code of being sort of unconventionally attractive. For his part, Javier had that brown-skinned, dreamy Latino thing going for him, to say nothing of his massive talent. When he serenaded me, which was often, I swooned. To this day classical guitar music evermore flips my switch.
Javier and I were fire and gasoline -- a combustible combo. But lordy mercy, we had a hot romance going, and it lasted about two years until it finally burned itself out. During that time he tried to launch his career as a classical guitarist while remaining at NCSA as a teacher. The last I heard of him he was headed to the University of Illinois and had finally found a professional artists' rep to manage his performance engagements. That was in 1972. I haven't laid eyes on the man or communicated with him since then.
Fast-forward to that park in Australia and that classical radio program...A guitar piece has just concluded, and the announcer is saying, "That was a recording by the Royal something-or-other Orchestra of Guitar Concerto #2 by the American composer Alan Hovhannes, who wrote it for the soloist, Javier Calderon..."
Surely I misheard?? Here I am on another continent on the other side of the world in another hemisphere 43 years later listening to a piece played by -- and written for -- Javier??! Naturally, I went to the radio station's online playlist, and there, sure enough, was the piece with "Javier Calderon, soloist."
People, I couldn't make this stuff up.
Of course, I did a Google search and discovered that Javier is now a Professor of Music at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. I've emailed him there, but I'm not holding my breath that I'll hear a peep from him. Still, I had to share the small-world story with him. I'm thrilled that he has succeeded in making a career of his music.
One of the other "little" things I've done lately involved a mob of kangaroos. That's what one calls a pack, or herd, or bunch of kangaroos, according to the Aussies: A mob.
This particular mob lives "in the wild" -- as opposed to in a game preserve or zoo -- in a little town near here. The locals apparently leave them in peace, because the animals graze in (and fertilize) their yards and in the public park along the waterfront at will. Quite a few of the females had joeys (babies) in their pouches, which were so heavy they were practically dragging the ground. In fact, one of those baby suckers hopped out, saw me, and hopped RIGHT BACK into his mama! It was a sight I'll never forget!
The last thing I'll report is about the Jumpers & Jazz Festival in the town of Warwick in southwest Queensland. I found it online and since it would give me an excuse to see more of the country -- the interior about 150 miles from where I'm staying -- I figured, why not?
How can I put this in as complimentary a way as possible? As I've come to expect out here, Warwick is filled with kind, lovely people. And these people have come up with a pretty unique way to promote their town in an otherwise remote part of the countryside -- in the winter, bless 'em. The Warwick boosters should be congratulated for their concept. After all, I fell for it, and no doubt others have, too, because the festival has been held annually since 2004.
It involves yarn. Lots and lots and lots of yarn. "Jumpers" is the Australian and British term for pull-over sweaters. Somewhere along the way, the nice ladies of Warwick discovered that they could knit and crochet their way into infamy by making jumpers -- and caps and socks and flowers and other decorative doo-dads of all descriptions -- and hanging them on Warwick's barren trees in the dead of winter.
The idea took off. Now the whole town -- beginning with City Hall -- is decorated with these colorful yarn creations. Trees, phone poles, buses, you name it. Every surface, it seems, is festooned with a yarn-y item. Judges award prizes for the best displays. Taste may not be a strong influence in their creative choices, but one has to give them an A-plus for imagination and effort.
As one of the knitters told me proudly, "We don't care if we sell anything at the festival or not. We just love spending all year getting ready for it!"
Then there's the "jazz" component of the festival. Well, I'm assuming somebody thought the alliterative "jazz" would go nicely with "jumper," but no one gets too worked up over the actual music selections. The "jazz" event I went to at the local pottery center had three middle-aged gals crooning "Sentimental Journey" and Rosemary Clooney's other latest hits, and nobody minded at all. The place was mobbed -- not by kangaroos, but by friendly locals who seemed to revel in their home-grown entertainment outdoors in the middle of the country on a mild, starry winter night.
Here in Australia I've had several of those little incidents lately.
Picture it: It's late afternoon and I'm sitting in Scarborough in one of the many pretty parks that line the shore of Moreton Bay about six miles from my house. Behind me, incidentally, is the house where the BeeGees grew up, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story but I thought it was interesting. I'm watching the sky turn purple as the night gathers, I'm reading and listening to my favorite radio station, ABC Classic FM.
Now I have to interject a bit of personal history. The summer before I was a senior in college, 1969, I met a Bolivian guitar student from the N.C. School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. His name was Javier Calderon. I thought he was absolutely the sexiest, most brilliant boy I'd ever met. He seemed to take a shine to me, too, and of course we fell in luv.
I know it's hard to believe, but at age 21 I was not a candidate for Bride of Shrek. In fact, I had long blond hair, only one chin, an actual waistline and was in the zip code of being sort of unconventionally attractive. For his part, Javier had that brown-skinned, dreamy Latino thing going for him, to say nothing of his massive talent. When he serenaded me, which was often, I swooned. To this day classical guitar music evermore flips my switch.
Javier and I were fire and gasoline -- a combustible combo. But lordy mercy, we had a hot romance going, and it lasted about two years until it finally burned itself out. During that time he tried to launch his career as a classical guitarist while remaining at NCSA as a teacher. The last I heard of him he was headed to the University of Illinois and had finally found a professional artists' rep to manage his performance engagements. That was in 1972. I haven't laid eyes on the man or communicated with him since then.
Fast-forward to that park in Australia and that classical radio program...A guitar piece has just concluded, and the announcer is saying, "That was a recording by the Royal something-or-other Orchestra of Guitar Concerto #2 by the American composer Alan Hovhannes, who wrote it for the soloist, Javier Calderon..."
Surely I misheard?? Here I am on another continent on the other side of the world in another hemisphere 43 years later listening to a piece played by -- and written for -- Javier??! Naturally, I went to the radio station's online playlist, and there, sure enough, was the piece with "Javier Calderon, soloist."
People, I couldn't make this stuff up.
Of course, I did a Google search and discovered that Javier is now a Professor of Music at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. I've emailed him there, but I'm not holding my breath that I'll hear a peep from him. Still, I had to share the small-world story with him. I'm thrilled that he has succeeded in making a career of his music.
One of the other "little" things I've done lately involved a mob of kangaroos. That's what one calls a pack, or herd, or bunch of kangaroos, according to the Aussies: A mob.
This particular mob lives "in the wild" -- as opposed to in a game preserve or zoo -- in a little town near here. The locals apparently leave them in peace, because the animals graze in (and fertilize) their yards and in the public park along the waterfront at will. Quite a few of the females had joeys (babies) in their pouches, which were so heavy they were practically dragging the ground. In fact, one of those baby suckers hopped out, saw me, and hopped RIGHT BACK into his mama! It was a sight I'll never forget!
The last thing I'll report is about the Jumpers & Jazz Festival in the town of Warwick in southwest Queensland. I found it online and since it would give me an excuse to see more of the country -- the interior about 150 miles from where I'm staying -- I figured, why not?
How can I put this in as complimentary a way as possible? As I've come to expect out here, Warwick is filled with kind, lovely people. And these people have come up with a pretty unique way to promote their town in an otherwise remote part of the countryside -- in the winter, bless 'em. The Warwick boosters should be congratulated for their concept. After all, I fell for it, and no doubt others have, too, because the festival has been held annually since 2004.
It involves yarn. Lots and lots and lots of yarn. "Jumpers" is the Australian and British term for pull-over sweaters. Somewhere along the way, the nice ladies of Warwick discovered that they could knit and crochet their way into infamy by making jumpers -- and caps and socks and flowers and other decorative doo-dads of all descriptions -- and hanging them on Warwick's barren trees in the dead of winter.
The idea took off. Now the whole town -- beginning with City Hall -- is decorated with these colorful yarn creations. Trees, phone poles, buses, you name it. Every surface, it seems, is festooned with a yarn-y item. Judges award prizes for the best displays. Taste may not be a strong influence in their creative choices, but one has to give them an A-plus for imagination and effort.
As one of the knitters told me proudly, "We don't care if we sell anything at the festival or not. We just love spending all year getting ready for it!"
Then there's the "jazz" component of the festival. Well, I'm assuming somebody thought the alliterative "jazz" would go nicely with "jumper," but no one gets too worked up over the actual music selections. The "jazz" event I went to at the local pottery center had three middle-aged gals crooning "Sentimental Journey" and Rosemary Clooney's other latest hits, and nobody minded at all. The place was mobbed -- not by kangaroos, but by friendly locals who seemed to revel in their home-grown entertainment outdoors in the middle of the country on a mild, starry winter night.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Loving my corner of a small world
Down Under in Austreye-ya, I continue to feel like I've joined a big, jolly club. Other than just being here, I don't think I've done anything to deserve membership, but I'm evermore glad I've been accepted, at least temporarily. I can't say enough about the congeniality and kindness I've encountered out here.
If the Aussies could bottle their temperament and send it to the world's warring hot spots, armies would disband. Terrorists would stop blowing themselves up. There would be a massive outbreak of peace.
OK, maybe the Aussies haven't perfected cheeseburgers and fried chicken and country-style steak with rice and gravy yet, but they have won my heart in many, many other ways. They've welcomed me with open arms, have innate generosity of spirit and display a quick, wicked sense of humor.
So while there haven't been daily outings to gardens and stately homes as I have sought out on past trips, I have revelled in my interactions with new friends. Well, I should admit there are no stately homes to see, and given the fact it's winter, the gardens are hibernating. There are compensations, not the least of which is the proximity of the ocean and beautiful, clean parks running alongside it. Still, it's the people who win my attention this go-around.
Today, for example, my new friend Carol gave me a Reiki session, which involved sharing her healing energies to target my dodgy back and the poor circulation in my feet and legs. Tonight I feel the best I've felt in weeks!
And last Saturday night I joined the Friendship Force chapter again for another Trivia Night. They all embraced me a long-lost member -- even though I had attended only one previous meeting -- and gave me the same grief they gave to one of their own. In case you're ever asked about the planets, follow my advice and answer "Pluto." Pluto became the theme of the night with my team. It was not the right answer, but it was MY answer, and nobody let me forget it. My one triumph of the game was the name of the American President who banned broccoli from the White House (George H.W. Bush). Then we played a silly dice game called Beetle Drive, which involved -- well, simply suffice it to say that it leaves you limp with laughter by the end. Good, wholesome fun with good, wholesome folks. I loved being accepted as one of them.
And hands-down, the best Small World story EVER has come out of this trip. The other night, some neighbors of Eileen, my house exchange partner, invited me to their home for dinner. They're in Eileen's book club and thought I'd like to meet someone from the club before next week's book discussion. What a lovely gesture, I thought. Jim and Christine are both retired educators, well-travelled and avid bird-watchers.
So as we're chit-chatting before dinner I discover that like myself, they love England. Oh, where in England have you been? I ask politely. Well, the last trip we took over there was last year, to East Anglia, they said. It's a great place to see massive quantities of birds from Scandinavia who migrate there for the winter. We did a house-swap in Norfolk.
Oh? I say innocently. Last year I did a house-swap in Norfolk.
Ours was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, they said.
Mine was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, I replied.
They started looking sideways at me. I looked sideways right back.
Them: We house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].
Me: I house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].
Epic lights bulbs go on.
Them: Did you ever figure out how to use the microwave? We didn't...Me: I did eventually, but only after I called [owner's name] and had him walk me step-by-step how to use the contraption. Until them I was surviving on cold cereal. Them: And they had this Medieval-style drying rack in the laundry room...Me: ...that you had to raise to the ceiling on pulleys!...All:...but everything else in the house was out of the Starship Enterprise!
Them: And they had lights that cut on automatically every time you went into the toilet. But a heating system that never manufactured any heat. We could see to pee but froze the entire time! Me: And an entire room just for controlling all the electronics, which required an engineering degree to operate. Aaaack!
By this time, of course, all three of us were cracking up to have discovered that WE HAD STAYED IN THE SAME HOUSE!!
What are the odds that I would have stumbled across a couple half-way around the world on a different continent in a different hemisphere who had house-exchanged with the same people?! Is that cool, or what?!!!!
I've suggested we invest in a lottery ticket together.
If the Aussies could bottle their temperament and send it to the world's warring hot spots, armies would disband. Terrorists would stop blowing themselves up. There would be a massive outbreak of peace.
OK, maybe the Aussies haven't perfected cheeseburgers and fried chicken and country-style steak with rice and gravy yet, but they have won my heart in many, many other ways. They've welcomed me with open arms, have innate generosity of spirit and display a quick, wicked sense of humor.
So while there haven't been daily outings to gardens and stately homes as I have sought out on past trips, I have revelled in my interactions with new friends. Well, I should admit there are no stately homes to see, and given the fact it's winter, the gardens are hibernating. There are compensations, not the least of which is the proximity of the ocean and beautiful, clean parks running alongside it. Still, it's the people who win my attention this go-around.
Today, for example, my new friend Carol gave me a Reiki session, which involved sharing her healing energies to target my dodgy back and the poor circulation in my feet and legs. Tonight I feel the best I've felt in weeks!
And last Saturday night I joined the Friendship Force chapter again for another Trivia Night. They all embraced me a long-lost member -- even though I had attended only one previous meeting -- and gave me the same grief they gave to one of their own. In case you're ever asked about the planets, follow my advice and answer "Pluto." Pluto became the theme of the night with my team. It was not the right answer, but it was MY answer, and nobody let me forget it. My one triumph of the game was the name of the American President who banned broccoli from the White House (George H.W. Bush). Then we played a silly dice game called Beetle Drive, which involved -- well, simply suffice it to say that it leaves you limp with laughter by the end. Good, wholesome fun with good, wholesome folks. I loved being accepted as one of them.
And hands-down, the best Small World story EVER has come out of this trip. The other night, some neighbors of Eileen, my house exchange partner, invited me to their home for dinner. They're in Eileen's book club and thought I'd like to meet someone from the club before next week's book discussion. What a lovely gesture, I thought. Jim and Christine are both retired educators, well-travelled and avid bird-watchers.
So as we're chit-chatting before dinner I discover that like myself, they love England. Oh, where in England have you been? I ask politely. Well, the last trip we took over there was last year, to East Anglia, they said. It's a great place to see massive quantities of birds from Scandinavia who migrate there for the winter. We did a house-swap in Norfolk.
Oh? I say innocently. Last year I did a house-swap in Norfolk.
Ours was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, they said.
Mine was near Diss, but it was really out in the country, I replied.
They started looking sideways at me. I looked sideways right back.
Them: We house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].
Me: I house-swapped with a couple named [withheld for privacy purposes].
Epic lights bulbs go on.
Them: Did you ever figure out how to use the microwave? We didn't...Me: I did eventually, but only after I called [owner's name] and had him walk me step-by-step how to use the contraption. Until them I was surviving on cold cereal. Them: And they had this Medieval-style drying rack in the laundry room...Me: ...that you had to raise to the ceiling on pulleys!...All:...but everything else in the house was out of the Starship Enterprise!
Them: And they had lights that cut on automatically every time you went into the toilet. But a heating system that never manufactured any heat. We could see to pee but froze the entire time! Me: And an entire room just for controlling all the electronics, which required an engineering degree to operate. Aaaack!
By this time, of course, all three of us were cracking up to have discovered that WE HAD STAYED IN THE SAME HOUSE!!
What are the odds that I would have stumbled across a couple half-way around the world on a different continent in a different hemisphere who had house-exchanged with the same people?! Is that cool, or what?!!!!
I've suggested we invest in a lottery ticket together.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Hippies, Aborigines and travel karma
Sometimes on my trips -- usually independent affairs involving destinations off the beaten path and activities I find on my own -- I actually behave as a tourist. One such day came last week near Cairns in my "vacation within a vacation."
Not surprisingly, it's the only time in Australia so far that I've run across any other Americans. Leave it to our tribe to suss out the Truly Tacky and call it Culture.
I'm speaking of the village of Kuranda in a rainforest high above Cairns that is billed as an Aborigines settlement with lots of native art.
Here's where your definition of "art" gets a bit murky. And it's when I suspect that my travel karma -- usually so excellent -- has started to slip.
You wouldn't have to go far to find a similar cluster of junk masquerading as "art": Think Gatlinburg, TN, or Glastonbury in England's West Country, or Haight-Asbury in San Francisco. These places have perfected the science of sucking tourists in and not letting them go.
Imagine hippies from the '70s stuck in time and opening a marketplace. "Authentic Australian Souvenirs" consisting of boomerangs made in China, and pouches allegedly made of kangaroo scrotums. (I'm not kidding.) All the usual tourist suspects: Glass beads and T-shirts and wind chimes and incense and skin care oils and mass-produced "original, authentic" watercolours of local birds. And if the retail merchandise doesn't grab you, there are the Butterfly House, the Koala House and Orchid House, a combo ticket for which goes for the stunning bargain price of $48.
In other words, shopping to kill time until your train leaves and you can escape. And about as Aboriginal an experience as a Puccini opera at the Met. Definitely not good travel mojo in my book.
Naturally, I was underwhelmed. Only a few minutes in Kuranda made me yearn and pine for the upscale mercantile trappings of Walmart. Not only did I feel like I was yanked back to the early '70s -- not altogether unpleasant, mind you -- but that I was a captive and my pocketbook was under assault by aliens. "Leave me alone, you rascals," I felt like screaming. "I'm not fooled by this crap! I have taste!"
Kuranda's shopping district aside, the highlight of the day was the journey up and back. The package I bought offered two choices: The SkyRail, which is an enclosed gondola suspended high above the trees by a cable, and the 100-year-old locomotive that lazily weaves through and around the mountain. I took the SkyRail up and the vintage train back down. Both were stunning -- what's not to love about waterfalls and virgin forest land? -- but I liked the daring SkyRail better. That sucker evermore gives you a ride!
OK, so I "did" Kuranda. It's what one does if one is in Cairns. I had ridden the sleek overnight Queensland Railway for 24 hours (in my own luxurious Railbed) to get there, so in for a penny, in for a pound. But to tell you the truth, I feel faintly embarrassed by it -- like the tourist rulers have taken advantage of me somehow. I want to claim to somebody, "You're not the boss of me! I know better!"
The next day I flew back to Brisbane, planning to take the Airtrain from the airport to Eagle Junction, where I was to catch a regular commuter train back to Petrie, the station closest to my house. From there I hoped to take a taxi back home, but the later I arrived, the less likely it was that a taxi would be available. Naturally, I missed the 8:00 train at Eagle Junction. It was cold and damp and by this time I was rapidly losing my enthusiasm for this journey.
The only other soul on the platform was a nicely-dressed gentleman who could have been a Qantas Airline safety engineer or an axe-murderer. Who knew? But by this time of night, I didn't much care.
"Excuse me," I said in my best Suzanne Sugarbaker voice. "Do you know whether the next train stops in Petrie?" Yes, said the maybe-axe-murderer. "Do you think there'll be any taxis around the station by the time the train gets in?" I ask. "I doubt it, to tell you the truth," said Axeman. "Where do you need to go?" Figuring I'd find out his intentions soon enough, I told him "North Lakes."
"I'm going nearby. I'd be happy to give you a lift," he said. And so my new best friend Gareth, a Qantas safety engineer who had a car at the station, and I chatted like long-lost buddies for the next hour. Found out he grew up in Shrewsbury in Shropshire, one of the English villages in which I've had a house swap! Small world, huh? As promised, he brought me straight to the house, and even carried my bags in before going on his merry way. How's that for courtesy? Is it any wonder I love the Aussies?!
And best of all, I found that my good travel karma is still intact.
Not surprisingly, it's the only time in Australia so far that I've run across any other Americans. Leave it to our tribe to suss out the Truly Tacky and call it Culture.
I'm speaking of the village of Kuranda in a rainforest high above Cairns that is billed as an Aborigines settlement with lots of native art.
Here's where your definition of "art" gets a bit murky. And it's when I suspect that my travel karma -- usually so excellent -- has started to slip.
You wouldn't have to go far to find a similar cluster of junk masquerading as "art": Think Gatlinburg, TN, or Glastonbury in England's West Country, or Haight-Asbury in San Francisco. These places have perfected the science of sucking tourists in and not letting them go.
Imagine hippies from the '70s stuck in time and opening a marketplace. "Authentic Australian Souvenirs" consisting of boomerangs made in China, and pouches allegedly made of kangaroo scrotums. (I'm not kidding.) All the usual tourist suspects: Glass beads and T-shirts and wind chimes and incense and skin care oils and mass-produced "original, authentic" watercolours of local birds. And if the retail merchandise doesn't grab you, there are the Butterfly House, the Koala House and Orchid House, a combo ticket for which goes for the stunning bargain price of $48.
In other words, shopping to kill time until your train leaves and you can escape. And about as Aboriginal an experience as a Puccini opera at the Met. Definitely not good travel mojo in my book.
Naturally, I was underwhelmed. Only a few minutes in Kuranda made me yearn and pine for the upscale mercantile trappings of Walmart. Not only did I feel like I was yanked back to the early '70s -- not altogether unpleasant, mind you -- but that I was a captive and my pocketbook was under assault by aliens. "Leave me alone, you rascals," I felt like screaming. "I'm not fooled by this crap! I have taste!"
Kuranda's shopping district aside, the highlight of the day was the journey up and back. The package I bought offered two choices: The SkyRail, which is an enclosed gondola suspended high above the trees by a cable, and the 100-year-old locomotive that lazily weaves through and around the mountain. I took the SkyRail up and the vintage train back down. Both were stunning -- what's not to love about waterfalls and virgin forest land? -- but I liked the daring SkyRail better. That sucker evermore gives you a ride!
OK, so I "did" Kuranda. It's what one does if one is in Cairns. I had ridden the sleek overnight Queensland Railway for 24 hours (in my own luxurious Railbed) to get there, so in for a penny, in for a pound. But to tell you the truth, I feel faintly embarrassed by it -- like the tourist rulers have taken advantage of me somehow. I want to claim to somebody, "You're not the boss of me! I know better!"
The next day I flew back to Brisbane, planning to take the Airtrain from the airport to Eagle Junction, where I was to catch a regular commuter train back to Petrie, the station closest to my house. From there I hoped to take a taxi back home, but the later I arrived, the less likely it was that a taxi would be available. Naturally, I missed the 8:00 train at Eagle Junction. It was cold and damp and by this time I was rapidly losing my enthusiasm for this journey.
The only other soul on the platform was a nicely-dressed gentleman who could have been a Qantas Airline safety engineer or an axe-murderer. Who knew? But by this time of night, I didn't much care.
"Excuse me," I said in my best Suzanne Sugarbaker voice. "Do you know whether the next train stops in Petrie?" Yes, said the maybe-axe-murderer. "Do you think there'll be any taxis around the station by the time the train gets in?" I ask. "I doubt it, to tell you the truth," said Axeman. "Where do you need to go?" Figuring I'd find out his intentions soon enough, I told him "North Lakes."
"I'm going nearby. I'd be happy to give you a lift," he said. And so my new best friend Gareth, a Qantas safety engineer who had a car at the station, and I chatted like long-lost buddies for the next hour. Found out he grew up in Shrewsbury in Shropshire, one of the English villages in which I've had a house swap! Small world, huh? As promised, he brought me straight to the house, and even carried my bags in before going on his merry way. How's that for courtesy? Is it any wonder I love the Aussies?!
And best of all, I found that my good travel karma is still intact.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Finding Nemo and celebrating Daddy
Back from a delightful "vacation within my vacation" -- one that had special meaning because of its timing. And rejoicing that I didn't barf up my spleen in the process. Let me explain:
Last Tuesday, July 7, would have been my daddy's 100th birthday. He was a blue-collar worker in a textile mill, and as his only child, I thought he hung the moon and all the stars. When I was growing up, all the mills in Lexington closed during the week of the Fourth of July. Likely as not, this meant that Daddy had his birthday off. We didn't have any money to go anywhere, and neither Mama nor Daddy wanted to go anywhere anyway. But that week was a real treat for me because it meant that I'd get to spend a lot of time with Daddy, just the two of us. We'd go blackberry picking, fishing, visiting down in the country and just hanging out. So to this day, the week around July Fourth translates "vacation" in my mind. And of course, I associate it with Daddy's birthday.
Daddy had done all the traveling he ever wanted (and quite a bit more) during the War, but he understood my desire for adventure and never stood in the way of my taking a trip. He died in 1987 before I started traveling overseas in earnest, but I think he would have delighted in all the places I've had the privilege of visiting in these last 20 years or so. And I think he would have cheered the loudest when I was finally able to check off perhaps the biggest item on my Bucket List: the Great Barrier Reef.
Making this trip out to Australia was indeed inspired by the Reef, and once I knew I'd be here on Daddy's birthday, arranging a Reef package to coincide with that big anniversary was a no-brainer. Queensland Railway happily obliged me, offering a dynamite package that included a 24-hour, 1,000-mile train journey from Brisbane north to Cairns (pronounced Cans), day trips both to Green Island on the Reef and to Kuranda in the rainforest nearby, three nights' hotel accommodation and transportation during the entire stay.
Think "planes, trains and automobiles," plus buses, catamarans, semi-submerged submarines, glass-bottom boats and gondolas suspended by cables hurling above the treetops. You name a conveyance, and I rode it last week!
In all modesty, regarding the ocean-going components of this outing, I must congratulate myself for not heaving up breakfast, let alone a vital organ, overboard. To say I am prone to seasickness is to remark casually that The Elephant Man has a mild case of acne. I avoid looking at pictures of boats; my stomach lurches at the thought of a Jacuzzi. I am the quintessential Taurus: This bull must remain on terra firma, or epic nausea ensues. I've been told my face takes on a greenish hue not seen in nature.
But to get the full Reef experience, one must board water vessels of some type. I had come all this way, and so by golly I was evermore committed to conquering my punies. I was going to enjoy this excursion or die trying! Down went the Dramamine, chased with a couple of ginger tablets provided by the crew on the Big Cat, the catamaran holding 299 other passengers bound for glory off the coast of Cairns. In choppy seas.
Oh, boy.
Just let me not hurl. Just let me not hurl. Just let my head stop pounding. Just let me get on dry land again before I die, please God.
After about 90 minutes of rocking and pitching and all manner of vile heaving back and forth on the waves (which felt like 90 hours) we dock. I've made it!!! Land never looked or felt so good!
I took a pass on snorkelling, since the wintertime ocean temperature was too chilly for me, but I did get a big impression of underwater life from the glass-bottom boat and the semi-submarine, a claustrophobic contraption in which several dozen souls are crammed like sardines sitting ten feet below the surface of the sea.
The glass-bottom thingy did entirely too much bobbing up and down to suit me (can one's head actually explode from excessive bobbing?). But once I transferred to the sub, I got my equilibrium back. From the windows on either side of the sub you're about as close to marine life as one can get without actually being submerged in the water. It's a pleasant feeling, especially since there's no sense of movement.
In fact, this was when I had the "Aha!" moment. The Great Barrier Reef, given its mammoth size (visible from outer space, they say) has had great press. It deservedly earns kudos for receiving excellent PR. And it's impressive, no doubt about it. BUT. From the tiny portion I saw, its fish and marine life are rather underwhelming and far less colorful than, say, what I've seen in the Virgin Islands, Aruba, Mexico, Hawaii or Costa Rica, and particularly in the Bahamas -- which sets the gold standard for your underwater sea show.
The GBR's fish on view on this mostly sunny day ran the gamut from dull brown to dull gray. The coral, likewise, was an undistinguished brown and gray and all the drab tones in between. Interesting textures, but otherwise unmemorable. There were a few huge turtles that played a starring role, and a few stingrays stirring up the sandy-colored sand. I did see a couple of clown fish -- like "Nemo" from the movie -- who stood out like champs because of their distinctive orange stripes. Otherwise, it was all rather monochromatic and, dare I say, disappointing.
But I did it, was grateful to a benevolent Universe for allowing me this adventure, and surviving to tell the tale. And unlike the majority of my fellow passengers, mostly Japanese, I actually looked at Nature's grand sights around me rather than surgically attaching myself to one or more electronic devices. Why, I ask you, does one bother taking a voyage to one of Planet Earth's greatest wonders and then spend the day attached to your phone??
Despite the churning, rocky seas on the return trip, I made it back to Cairns with my tummy (and dignity) intact. I'll never be a sailor, but I had achieved my goal, ticked a big item off my Bucket List, and remembered my beloved dad, Roland Hedrick, in the process. All in all, a hugely successful outing. Happy 100th birthday, Daddy!
Next blog entry: I travel back in time to a hippie haven in the rainforest.
Last Tuesday, July 7, would have been my daddy's 100th birthday. He was a blue-collar worker in a textile mill, and as his only child, I thought he hung the moon and all the stars. When I was growing up, all the mills in Lexington closed during the week of the Fourth of July. Likely as not, this meant that Daddy had his birthday off. We didn't have any money to go anywhere, and neither Mama nor Daddy wanted to go anywhere anyway. But that week was a real treat for me because it meant that I'd get to spend a lot of time with Daddy, just the two of us. We'd go blackberry picking, fishing, visiting down in the country and just hanging out. So to this day, the week around July Fourth translates "vacation" in my mind. And of course, I associate it with Daddy's birthday.
Daddy had done all the traveling he ever wanted (and quite a bit more) during the War, but he understood my desire for adventure and never stood in the way of my taking a trip. He died in 1987 before I started traveling overseas in earnest, but I think he would have delighted in all the places I've had the privilege of visiting in these last 20 years or so. And I think he would have cheered the loudest when I was finally able to check off perhaps the biggest item on my Bucket List: the Great Barrier Reef.
Making this trip out to Australia was indeed inspired by the Reef, and once I knew I'd be here on Daddy's birthday, arranging a Reef package to coincide with that big anniversary was a no-brainer. Queensland Railway happily obliged me, offering a dynamite package that included a 24-hour, 1,000-mile train journey from Brisbane north to Cairns (pronounced Cans), day trips both to Green Island on the Reef and to Kuranda in the rainforest nearby, three nights' hotel accommodation and transportation during the entire stay.
Think "planes, trains and automobiles," plus buses, catamarans, semi-submerged submarines, glass-bottom boats and gondolas suspended by cables hurling above the treetops. You name a conveyance, and I rode it last week!
In all modesty, regarding the ocean-going components of this outing, I must congratulate myself for not heaving up breakfast, let alone a vital organ, overboard. To say I am prone to seasickness is to remark casually that The Elephant Man has a mild case of acne. I avoid looking at pictures of boats; my stomach lurches at the thought of a Jacuzzi. I am the quintessential Taurus: This bull must remain on terra firma, or epic nausea ensues. I've been told my face takes on a greenish hue not seen in nature.
But to get the full Reef experience, one must board water vessels of some type. I had come all this way, and so by golly I was evermore committed to conquering my punies. I was going to enjoy this excursion or die trying! Down went the Dramamine, chased with a couple of ginger tablets provided by the crew on the Big Cat, the catamaran holding 299 other passengers bound for glory off the coast of Cairns. In choppy seas.
Oh, boy.
Just let me not hurl. Just let me not hurl. Just let my head stop pounding. Just let me get on dry land again before I die, please God.
After about 90 minutes of rocking and pitching and all manner of vile heaving back and forth on the waves (which felt like 90 hours) we dock. I've made it!!! Land never looked or felt so good!
I took a pass on snorkelling, since the wintertime ocean temperature was too chilly for me, but I did get a big impression of underwater life from the glass-bottom boat and the semi-submarine, a claustrophobic contraption in which several dozen souls are crammed like sardines sitting ten feet below the surface of the sea.
The glass-bottom thingy did entirely too much bobbing up and down to suit me (can one's head actually explode from excessive bobbing?). But once I transferred to the sub, I got my equilibrium back. From the windows on either side of the sub you're about as close to marine life as one can get without actually being submerged in the water. It's a pleasant feeling, especially since there's no sense of movement.
In fact, this was when I had the "Aha!" moment. The Great Barrier Reef, given its mammoth size (visible from outer space, they say) has had great press. It deservedly earns kudos for receiving excellent PR. And it's impressive, no doubt about it. BUT. From the tiny portion I saw, its fish and marine life are rather underwhelming and far less colorful than, say, what I've seen in the Virgin Islands, Aruba, Mexico, Hawaii or Costa Rica, and particularly in the Bahamas -- which sets the gold standard for your underwater sea show.
The GBR's fish on view on this mostly sunny day ran the gamut from dull brown to dull gray. The coral, likewise, was an undistinguished brown and gray and all the drab tones in between. Interesting textures, but otherwise unmemorable. There were a few huge turtles that played a starring role, and a few stingrays stirring up the sandy-colored sand. I did see a couple of clown fish -- like "Nemo" from the movie -- who stood out like champs because of their distinctive orange stripes. Otherwise, it was all rather monochromatic and, dare I say, disappointing.
But I did it, was grateful to a benevolent Universe for allowing me this adventure, and surviving to tell the tale. And unlike the majority of my fellow passengers, mostly Japanese, I actually looked at Nature's grand sights around me rather than surgically attaching myself to one or more electronic devices. Why, I ask you, does one bother taking a voyage to one of Planet Earth's greatest wonders and then spend the day attached to your phone??
Despite the churning, rocky seas on the return trip, I made it back to Cairns with my tummy (and dignity) intact. I'll never be a sailor, but I had achieved my goal, ticked a big item off my Bucket List, and remembered my beloved dad, Roland Hedrick, in the process. All in all, a hugely successful outing. Happy 100th birthday, Daddy!
Next blog entry: I travel back in time to a hippie haven in the rainforest.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Koalas, starvation and Fourth of July at the mall
Wishing there were some other Americans around today...The Aussies don't quite seem to "get" the Fourth of July thing, not that they're supposed to, of course. But I've been yearning and pining for a flag and a proper hot dog all day.
Had occasion to go to the local mega-mall today -- my version of the seventh ring of Dante's Hell. Trust me, I wouldn't have gone within ten kilometres of the place if I had had a choice. But I discovered quite by accident that in order to ride the TRAIN, one has to acquire a "Go-card" in advance. And where are these Go-cards sold, you ask? If you answered "The train station, you idiot," you would have been WRONG. Most of the suburban train stations, including the one closest to my house, are not staffed most of the time. Therefore, to buy a Go-card, which serves as a ticket, one must go to a Newsagent.
Now, in all of my surburb of North Lakes, to the best of my knowledge, there is only ONE Newsagent, which is located in the deepest, darkest bowels of the biggest mall in the Southern Hemisphere. It occupies approximately the same land mass as Iowa. Finding the Newsagent is not easy, since there are NO SIGNS either inside or outside the mall to indicate where anything is located. In fact, there are only a couple of entrances into the place, and no directories once you manage to find a parking spot and get inside. Think needles and haystacks.
To no one's surprise, half of the population of Queensland, and virtually all of its teenagers (I suspect reinforcements had been bused in from New South Wales), were at the mall today. It was mobbed, and I was soon longing for the joys of prepping for my next colonoscopy. But motivated by my need to ride a local train Monday to begin my journey to the Great Barrier Reef, I soldiered on.
During my 12-mile hike to the Newsagent I did have one fascinating encounter: A man carrying a box of fresh Krispy Kremes! Naturally, I accosted him with drool running down my chin. WHERE did you get those Krispy Kremes? I cried. He allowed he had bought them at a service station along the highway rather than at the mall. Damn! Had they been for sale anywhere in that vast cavern, I would have liberated my own box and stuffed myself into a sugar coma. Unfortunately, the man was very friendly but was disinclined to share. To be fair, I wouldn't have shared with a stranger, either.
Speaking of food, I think I've been in Australia long enough to make some generalizations. As we'd say in Davidson County, the food out here ain't any 'count. Maybe I just haven't been to the right places yet. But most of what I've tasted so far has been underwhelming, if not outright inedible. I'm starving out here, folks! And prices for both groceries and restaurant meals are outrageous. My futile attempt at locating a hot dog at the mall's food court led me to the unimaginable: Hungry Jack's, the Aussie version of Burger King. Yes, folks, my Fourth of July fare consisted of a Whopper with cheese combo meal, which set me back AU$11.60. Even with the Coke served in a paper thimble, it was possibly the best thing I've consumed since I got here.
The mall aside, since my last blog posting I've had a couple of memorable outings: The first was my lovely Sunday drive up into the mountains in what's called the Hinterlands of the Sunshine Coast. It reminded me of the area surrounding Banner Elk and Blowing Rock, except the crafts selections left much to be desired. I did locate two independent book stores, which are always treats.
The second was my visit to Brisbane's Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. As I posted on Facebook, my blasted camera died so I was unable to get any shots of the animals. I was hoping to get a couple to accompany this deathless prose, but alas, it was not meant to be. One potential photo in particular was of a kangaroo -- boy parts exposed in all their mature glory -- who was fast asleep and pooping at the same time. The zoo keepers also had koalas who would pose for visitors to take photos with their own cameras (for a fee, of course). The sullen wombat, airborne birds of prey and herd of kangaroos on the hop were really Kodak moments, but one that shall live only in my memory, since my stupid camera was as dead as a doornail. I must believe all of my would-be shots would have won National Geographic prizes.
More disparate observations...The joy of sitting in a nearby public park overlooking the ocean on a sunny day with a good book. The persistent sunshine, even though it abruptly vanishes at 5 p.m. The genuine friendliness I continue to encounter everywhere. The movie theatre that runs ads for the local funeral home catering to all sorts of hobbyists, including bikers (they have a special motorcycle tricked out with a casket-bearing sidecar). The multimedia campaign on radio and highway billboards for Dr. Snip ("Walk in, Walk Out"), advertising vasectomies!
Had occasion to go to the local mega-mall today -- my version of the seventh ring of Dante's Hell. Trust me, I wouldn't have gone within ten kilometres of the place if I had had a choice. But I discovered quite by accident that in order to ride the TRAIN, one has to acquire a "Go-card" in advance. And where are these Go-cards sold, you ask? If you answered "The train station, you idiot," you would have been WRONG. Most of the suburban train stations, including the one closest to my house, are not staffed most of the time. Therefore, to buy a Go-card, which serves as a ticket, one must go to a Newsagent.
Now, in all of my surburb of North Lakes, to the best of my knowledge, there is only ONE Newsagent, which is located in the deepest, darkest bowels of the biggest mall in the Southern Hemisphere. It occupies approximately the same land mass as Iowa. Finding the Newsagent is not easy, since there are NO SIGNS either inside or outside the mall to indicate where anything is located. In fact, there are only a couple of entrances into the place, and no directories once you manage to find a parking spot and get inside. Think needles and haystacks.
To no one's surprise, half of the population of Queensland, and virtually all of its teenagers (I suspect reinforcements had been bused in from New South Wales), were at the mall today. It was mobbed, and I was soon longing for the joys of prepping for my next colonoscopy. But motivated by my need to ride a local train Monday to begin my journey to the Great Barrier Reef, I soldiered on.
During my 12-mile hike to the Newsagent I did have one fascinating encounter: A man carrying a box of fresh Krispy Kremes! Naturally, I accosted him with drool running down my chin. WHERE did you get those Krispy Kremes? I cried. He allowed he had bought them at a service station along the highway rather than at the mall. Damn! Had they been for sale anywhere in that vast cavern, I would have liberated my own box and stuffed myself into a sugar coma. Unfortunately, the man was very friendly but was disinclined to share. To be fair, I wouldn't have shared with a stranger, either.
Speaking of food, I think I've been in Australia long enough to make some generalizations. As we'd say in Davidson County, the food out here ain't any 'count. Maybe I just haven't been to the right places yet. But most of what I've tasted so far has been underwhelming, if not outright inedible. I'm starving out here, folks! And prices for both groceries and restaurant meals are outrageous. My futile attempt at locating a hot dog at the mall's food court led me to the unimaginable: Hungry Jack's, the Aussie version of Burger King. Yes, folks, my Fourth of July fare consisted of a Whopper with cheese combo meal, which set me back AU$11.60. Even with the Coke served in a paper thimble, it was possibly the best thing I've consumed since I got here.
The mall aside, since my last blog posting I've had a couple of memorable outings: The first was my lovely Sunday drive up into the mountains in what's called the Hinterlands of the Sunshine Coast. It reminded me of the area surrounding Banner Elk and Blowing Rock, except the crafts selections left much to be desired. I did locate two independent book stores, which are always treats.
The second was my visit to Brisbane's Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. As I posted on Facebook, my blasted camera died so I was unable to get any shots of the animals. I was hoping to get a couple to accompany this deathless prose, but alas, it was not meant to be. One potential photo in particular was of a kangaroo -- boy parts exposed in all their mature glory -- who was fast asleep and pooping at the same time. The zoo keepers also had koalas who would pose for visitors to take photos with their own cameras (for a fee, of course). The sullen wombat, airborne birds of prey and herd of kangaroos on the hop were really Kodak moments, but one that shall live only in my memory, since my stupid camera was as dead as a doornail. I must believe all of my would-be shots would have won National Geographic prizes.
More disparate observations...The joy of sitting in a nearby public park overlooking the ocean on a sunny day with a good book. The persistent sunshine, even though it abruptly vanishes at 5 p.m. The genuine friendliness I continue to encounter everywhere. The movie theatre that runs ads for the local funeral home catering to all sorts of hobbyists, including bikers (they have a special motorcycle tricked out with a casket-bearing sidecar). The multimedia campaign on radio and highway billboards for Dr. Snip ("Walk in, Walk Out"), advertising vasectomies!
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Thwarting terrorism and other advancements
Before I get into a report of my latest activities, I need to reassure everyone that we are all a little bit safer because my vast, QUEEN-SIZED BUM has been thoroughly vetted by the fine folks at LAX Security.
Let me rewind -- back to the boarding process at LAX on my way out here. At the checkpoint the TSA agent decreed that I would have to have a full body search because -- wait for it -- the radar screening had indicated that I was in possession of suspicious substances around my waist and on my backside.
She showed me on the monitor: Large globs of yellow where there oughtn't to be anything. Dully, I said, "Huh?" She said I could have the pat-down there or in private, but that she had to make certain I was not carrying any lethal substances about my person. I said, "Bring it on. I've got nothing to hide," and so Brunhilde started patting. And patting.
Naturally, she found nothing but FAT in my OVERLY GENEROUS BUTT. No bombs, no weapons, just butt fat. Alert the media, please.
I'm still not exactly sure how my oversized butt is linked to the threat of terrorists, but I'm sure everyone on Virgin Australia Flight #8 flew just a little bit more securely knowing that it had been cleared before take-off.
OK, so back to Australia and my comings and goings out here. I continue to be very favourably impressed by the friendly and generous people I encounter everywhere. The Australians seem to have a uniformly cheerful disposition. Nobody has been rude or impatient; to the contrary, everybody so far has been eager to help, laid back and kind. When they say, "No worries, mate," they mean it!
Except for the Brisbane Planetarium and Botanical Garden, I really haven't done much in the way of "touristy" things yet. Instead, I've been busy making friends. For example, I've been to two quiz nights sponsored by two local clubs -- Friendship Force and Quota Club, a woman's service organization. Trivia contests are apparently huge in Australia. I'm rubbish at them -- can't remember my own middle name if pressed -- but they're a marvellous way to meet people and have some cheap laughs.
At the Friendship Force meeting, the theme of the evening was "L." Everybody put together a costume evoking the letter L. The winner had dressed as "Laundry." Afterward there was a trivia contest in which the answer to every question began with, of course, L. Since we didn't play in teams, it was up to each of us to pipe up with our answer. If you got it right, you won a "lolly," or hard candy. What struck me from the start was that nobody cheated; those thumbs on those smart phones remained still the entire evening. Even without electronic aid, I got a few correct answers -- the name of the 16th President of the U.S., Lincoln, was my big hit of the evening -- so I went home with a few lollies, thank heavens. And these nice folks invited me to their next trivia night in a couple of weeks. I can't wait.
At the Quota Club, on the other hand, my table went down in flames (finishing eighth out of nine teams). I should've warned my teammates of my utter uselessness at trivia, but we had a good time, anyway, and I made two new jolly friends who are meeting me for tea in a few days.
A lovely woman whom I met at the community center and I have hit it off like a house afire -- we've already met for lunch and have two concerts on our calendars in the next few weeks -- and she has even offered to give me a lift to the train station when I head north to the Great Barrier Reef next Monday. Sweet!
My exchanger's book club has also invited me to their next meeting, so I'll have the opportunity to meet even more of my neighbors then -- despite my admitting I haven't read this month's selection because I thought it was crap and refused to finish it. Quoth the member I spoke with on the phone, "Oh, I think most of the books we're supposed to read are crap. In fact, we all think most of them are crap. But we show up and have great discussions, anyway. You'll fit right in!"
You see why I really love these folks?!
And those are just the Aussies: Thanks to a mutual friend back home, I've connected with a delightful couple who grew up in Charlotte/Rock Hill who are living in Brizzy for three years. We had dinner Saturday down at the coast -- all of six miles from here -- in a seaside café and counted our blessings that serendipity had brought us all to this wonderful place.
Let me rewind -- back to the boarding process at LAX on my way out here. At the checkpoint the TSA agent decreed that I would have to have a full body search because -- wait for it -- the radar screening had indicated that I was in possession of suspicious substances around my waist and on my backside.
She showed me on the monitor: Large globs of yellow where there oughtn't to be anything. Dully, I said, "Huh?" She said I could have the pat-down there or in private, but that she had to make certain I was not carrying any lethal substances about my person. I said, "Bring it on. I've got nothing to hide," and so Brunhilde started patting. And patting.
Naturally, she found nothing but FAT in my OVERLY GENEROUS BUTT. No bombs, no weapons, just butt fat. Alert the media, please.
I'm still not exactly sure how my oversized butt is linked to the threat of terrorists, but I'm sure everyone on Virgin Australia Flight #8 flew just a little bit more securely knowing that it had been cleared before take-off.
OK, so back to Australia and my comings and goings out here. I continue to be very favourably impressed by the friendly and generous people I encounter everywhere. The Australians seem to have a uniformly cheerful disposition. Nobody has been rude or impatient; to the contrary, everybody so far has been eager to help, laid back and kind. When they say, "No worries, mate," they mean it!
Except for the Brisbane Planetarium and Botanical Garden, I really haven't done much in the way of "touristy" things yet. Instead, I've been busy making friends. For example, I've been to two quiz nights sponsored by two local clubs -- Friendship Force and Quota Club, a woman's service organization. Trivia contests are apparently huge in Australia. I'm rubbish at them -- can't remember my own middle name if pressed -- but they're a marvellous way to meet people and have some cheap laughs.
At the Friendship Force meeting, the theme of the evening was "L." Everybody put together a costume evoking the letter L. The winner had dressed as "Laundry." Afterward there was a trivia contest in which the answer to every question began with, of course, L. Since we didn't play in teams, it was up to each of us to pipe up with our answer. If you got it right, you won a "lolly," or hard candy. What struck me from the start was that nobody cheated; those thumbs on those smart phones remained still the entire evening. Even without electronic aid, I got a few correct answers -- the name of the 16th President of the U.S., Lincoln, was my big hit of the evening -- so I went home with a few lollies, thank heavens. And these nice folks invited me to their next trivia night in a couple of weeks. I can't wait.
At the Quota Club, on the other hand, my table went down in flames (finishing eighth out of nine teams). I should've warned my teammates of my utter uselessness at trivia, but we had a good time, anyway, and I made two new jolly friends who are meeting me for tea in a few days.
A lovely woman whom I met at the community center and I have hit it off like a house afire -- we've already met for lunch and have two concerts on our calendars in the next few weeks -- and she has even offered to give me a lift to the train station when I head north to the Great Barrier Reef next Monday. Sweet!
My exchanger's book club has also invited me to their next meeting, so I'll have the opportunity to meet even more of my neighbors then -- despite my admitting I haven't read this month's selection because I thought it was crap and refused to finish it. Quoth the member I spoke with on the phone, "Oh, I think most of the books we're supposed to read are crap. In fact, we all think most of them are crap. But we show up and have great discussions, anyway. You'll fit right in!"
You see why I really love these folks?!
And those are just the Aussies: Thanks to a mutual friend back home, I've connected with a delightful couple who grew up in Charlotte/Rock Hill who are living in Brizzy for three years. We had dinner Saturday down at the coast -- all of six miles from here -- in a seaside café and counted our blessings that serendipity had brought us all to this wonderful place.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
G'day from Down Under!
Well, y'all, I'm happy to report I'm HERE -- North Lakes in the Moreton Bay region just outside Brisbane, Australia, my home for a total of seven weeks.
First impressions: It's so ordinary in its familiarity that I have had a hard time remembering I'm in a foreign country. OK, the majority of the folks talk like the luscious Hugh Jackman, an Aussie native, and cars drive on the left-hand side of the road. But the 15-year-old suburb where my exchange house is located could be mistaken for Florida -- palm trees, hibiscus, birds-of-paradise and other vegetation under clear blue skies.
I haven't spotted a kangaroo or koala yet, but my back yard is a haven for native Australian birds. My hands-down favorite is the flock of rainbow lorikeets -- with blue heads, red beaks and bright plumage of green and every other color of the rainbow. They're like parakeets on steroids and are truly brilliant.
Further to set the stage: The house in which I'm staying has all the comforts one dreams of in a home exchange arrangement, but which one seldom gets, as we've discovered over the years. As a result, I'm afraid my blogs from Oz may be rather on the dull side, given the fact that I have already figured out how to use the microwave...and that the washing machine has a cycle that's less than three hours...and there's a fully operational desktop computer with Internet service...and there are actual, by-god utensils and cookware in the kitchen, as well as a well-stocked linen closet!!!
On top of these marvellous attributes are the facts that the place is a spacious ranch-style home (no stairs!) and a car with automatic transmission. And a clothes dryer. A clothes dryer!! And it WORKS! The owner still prefers the Medieval method of drying her washing on the line outdoors, but hey, this diva can go native only so far, especially when she's on holiday. I hung a load out this morning just to play nice, but when dark hit at 5 p.m. -- yes, 5 p.m. -- and those clothes were still damp, into the dryer they went.
Weather-wise, Queensland is considered semi-tropical, so even though it's smack-dab in winter here, the temps have been very mild so far -- about 70 to 74 in mid-afternoon, but as soon as the sun goes down, the thermometer goes into a nosedive. It's doing a number on my psyche to know that it's June and yet have to accept that these are the shortest days of the year in the Southern Hemisphere. Fortunately, my first four days here the sun was shining brightly, if only for a few hours at a time.
Before she left, my hostess graciously showed me how to turn on the "air conditioner" -- which is the contraption I fervently hope is really a "furnace." I kept asking about turning on the heat if it gets cold enough to warrant it. (Remember my swap in Lancashire, where it was so damp and cold I had to burn a fire every night?) And my Aussie exchanger kept saying, "Oh, you won't need the air conditioner." Well, heck,l no, I'm thinking, I shouldn't need the "air conditioner" in the wintertime! But then came my "Aha" moment when I finally understood her definition of terms: In Aussie-speak, an air conditioner provides both cold AND HOT air.
However -- and here is where I knew I wasn't going to spared at least some domestic drama this go-around -- I am supposed to use this heat-producing unit very sparingly because of the cost of energy and the threat of committing gecko homicide. Yes, you read this correctly: Gecko homicide. It seems that the local gecko population seeks out air conditioners for warmth at this time of year, and as soon as these mechanisms are cranked up, the little lizards are pulvarized -- leaving the air conditioners as dead as they are.
I have no reason for doubting this unfortunate possibility, since my hostess pointed out a pile of gecko poop in the fuse box as proof. On the other hand, if it gets cold in this house as winter wears on, I may have to sacrifice a lizard or two. I'll do so with deep regret, but don't say I didn't warn them.
Regarding the décor in the house, it's perfectly sophisticated and acceptable -- not necessarily my taste, but then who shares my passion for purple? At least it doesn't look like Early Goodwill, or something that the cat rejected for breakfast. (Remember the house in London?!) The TV has a great picture and receives more than three channels, most of them in English, and all the furniture is fabulously comfortable. No chiropractors will be required!
So domestically, gecko threats aside, my cup runneth over. Those of you who have followed Our Intrepid Traveler might remember the various challenges she has had with her various domestic arrangements over her years of house-swapping can appreciate how I'm sighing with relief. True, I don't expect a replication of American conveniences when I'm abroad, but it's a wonderful thing when so many of the mod-cons materialize at one time. In fact, it's the best place all-around that I've ever drawn in the lottery known as house-swapping.
And did I mention that I'm only six miles from Moreton Bay, which opens into the Pacific Ocean? I've already sussed out the public park that extends along the shore in nearby Redcliffe on the bay.
So even though I haven't yet delved into the many tourist treasures Austray-a has to offer, I'm happy here in my home base -- and after a 29-hour trip, that constitutes Living Large!
First impressions: It's so ordinary in its familiarity that I have had a hard time remembering I'm in a foreign country. OK, the majority of the folks talk like the luscious Hugh Jackman, an Aussie native, and cars drive on the left-hand side of the road. But the 15-year-old suburb where my exchange house is located could be mistaken for Florida -- palm trees, hibiscus, birds-of-paradise and other vegetation under clear blue skies.
I haven't spotted a kangaroo or koala yet, but my back yard is a haven for native Australian birds. My hands-down favorite is the flock of rainbow lorikeets -- with blue heads, red beaks and bright plumage of green and every other color of the rainbow. They're like parakeets on steroids and are truly brilliant.
Further to set the stage: The house in which I'm staying has all the comforts one dreams of in a home exchange arrangement, but which one seldom gets, as we've discovered over the years. As a result, I'm afraid my blogs from Oz may be rather on the dull side, given the fact that I have already figured out how to use the microwave...and that the washing machine has a cycle that's less than three hours...and there's a fully operational desktop computer with Internet service...and there are actual, by-god utensils and cookware in the kitchen, as well as a well-stocked linen closet!!!
On top of these marvellous attributes are the facts that the place is a spacious ranch-style home (no stairs!) and a car with automatic transmission. And a clothes dryer. A clothes dryer!! And it WORKS! The owner still prefers the Medieval method of drying her washing on the line outdoors, but hey, this diva can go native only so far, especially when she's on holiday. I hung a load out this morning just to play nice, but when dark hit at 5 p.m. -- yes, 5 p.m. -- and those clothes were still damp, into the dryer they went.
Weather-wise, Queensland is considered semi-tropical, so even though it's smack-dab in winter here, the temps have been very mild so far -- about 70 to 74 in mid-afternoon, but as soon as the sun goes down, the thermometer goes into a nosedive. It's doing a number on my psyche to know that it's June and yet have to accept that these are the shortest days of the year in the Southern Hemisphere. Fortunately, my first four days here the sun was shining brightly, if only for a few hours at a time.
Before she left, my hostess graciously showed me how to turn on the "air conditioner" -- which is the contraption I fervently hope is really a "furnace." I kept asking about turning on the heat if it gets cold enough to warrant it. (Remember my swap in Lancashire, where it was so damp and cold I had to burn a fire every night?) And my Aussie exchanger kept saying, "Oh, you won't need the air conditioner." Well, heck,l no, I'm thinking, I shouldn't need the "air conditioner" in the wintertime! But then came my "Aha" moment when I finally understood her definition of terms: In Aussie-speak, an air conditioner provides both cold AND HOT air.
However -- and here is where I knew I wasn't going to spared at least some domestic drama this go-around -- I am supposed to use this heat-producing unit very sparingly because of the cost of energy and the threat of committing gecko homicide. Yes, you read this correctly: Gecko homicide. It seems that the local gecko population seeks out air conditioners for warmth at this time of year, and as soon as these mechanisms are cranked up, the little lizards are pulvarized -- leaving the air conditioners as dead as they are.
I have no reason for doubting this unfortunate possibility, since my hostess pointed out a pile of gecko poop in the fuse box as proof. On the other hand, if it gets cold in this house as winter wears on, I may have to sacrifice a lizard or two. I'll do so with deep regret, but don't say I didn't warn them.
Regarding the décor in the house, it's perfectly sophisticated and acceptable -- not necessarily my taste, but then who shares my passion for purple? At least it doesn't look like Early Goodwill, or something that the cat rejected for breakfast. (Remember the house in London?!) The TV has a great picture and receives more than three channels, most of them in English, and all the furniture is fabulously comfortable. No chiropractors will be required!
So domestically, gecko threats aside, my cup runneth over. Those of you who have followed Our Intrepid Traveler might remember the various challenges she has had with her various domestic arrangements over her years of house-swapping can appreciate how I'm sighing with relief. True, I don't expect a replication of American conveniences when I'm abroad, but it's a wonderful thing when so many of the mod-cons materialize at one time. In fact, it's the best place all-around that I've ever drawn in the lottery known as house-swapping.
And did I mention that I'm only six miles from Moreton Bay, which opens into the Pacific Ocean? I've already sussed out the public park that extends along the shore in nearby Redcliffe on the bay.
So even though I haven't yet delved into the many tourist treasures Austray-a has to offer, I'm happy here in my home base -- and after a 29-hour trip, that constitutes Living Large!
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