International Couple

The past several days in Sydney have been passing excruciatingly slowly. This has a little to do with boredom. I’ve been here nearly three months without working. I’ve had more than enough time to visit everything in Sydney that sparks my interest—two or three times in some cases. But the crawling passage of time has even more to do with an unbearable feeling of anticipation. I’ve been here nearly three months without seeing Andy. Tomorrow I’ll be boarding a plane that will finally bring me to him. And as the time of my departure approaches, each hour seems to pass more slowly than the one before.

Our separation has been hard. It has become a little easier with time, if only because my memories have grown less vivid as they’ve become less recent. I’ve adjusted to Andy being present only through electronic messages, slightly distorted voice and occasional pictures. He’s taken on a sort of abstractness. To such a degree that being in close geographical proximity again seems strangely unbelievable, and actually makes me a little nervous. And though this abstractness has reduced the initial, sharper pain to a dull ache, I don’t like it.

Usually we can work around the distance and express our love for each other through the means we have available. But sometimes it really feels like we’re on opposite sides of the world. When schedules don’t align. When words, unaided by visual cues, just don’t come out right. When one of us is off-kilter. And especially when, as so often happens, technology gets in the way. Internet access in our respective countries is not what we’re accustomed to. There are frequent disconnections, delays, weird electronic interjections and total Internet outages in the middle of our conversations. Sometimes we barely have time to rehash our day-to-day activities. Most of the time we spend talking is taken up by the sentiments that overwhelm everything else: “I miss you” and “I love you.”

Since the time that we have to connect each day is limited, it sometimes seems excessively important and precious. It feels like we no longer have the space to be silly. And being silly, inventing absolutely fantastic scenarios and characters, used to be an important element of our relationship. When we do have a chance to make up something ridiculous and laugh at it, laugh really hard, it’s wonderful. It’s a sudden and startling return to what our relationship used to be like before all the international seriousness crept in. And it illustrates how things have changed.

They haven’t changed beyond recognition. The foundations of love, affection, and mutual respect are still there. But there are small differences. We’re not quite as close as we once were. That’s inevitable, given the 10-hour time difference and 10,543 miles between us. And it’s not irreparable. I have a feeling that physical closeness will allow us to regain what we’ve lost very quickly. There’s an additional gravity. There’s extra frustration. There are tests of trust, patience, maturity and commitment.

There’s also, unfortunately, a bit of jealousy on my part. Andy has been doing a brilliant job of making the most of his experience in France. He’s meeting people and being invited to hikes, dinners and events as a result. He’s sitting in on extra classes. He’s taking tango lessons. Essentially, he’s finding and taking advantage of all sorts of opportunities. And I can’t help being envious. I feel a little like I’ve failed. I didn’t find a job. I didn’t really make friends. I know I ultimately made the decision to call it quits. But I can’t help having a sneaking suspicion that I was fired. That I didn’t do everything I could have to make myself happy in Sydney. That’s all usually short-lived. I want Andy to be doing exactly what he is. And I’m exceedingly proud of him.

For all the difficulties, living in opposite hemispheres done us quite a lot of good. Maintaining a really-long-distance relationship is something I hadn’t dealt with on previous experiences abroad. It made things a little harder. But, paradoxically, it also made them easier. Andy has been caring, encouraging, sympathetic, optimistic and supportive. He still has the ability to make me happy, even across multiple oceans. He’s worked really hard to make sure that this separation is as painless as such a thing can be. So have I. And it seems to have worked. This hasn’t been quite as hard as I anticipated. If anything, it’s made me more certain that I love Andy and will for a long time. I’ve felt a little empty the past few months. But I’m reserving that emptiness for Andy. And it’ll be filled tomorrow.

A Bus Full of Slightly Drunks

I woke up to my alarm and a weak, gray, far-too-early-in-the-morning light on Thursday. I was going on a day trip to the Hunter Valley wine region, and it left early. But even the prospect of delicious wine tastings did nothing to elevate my spirits as I dazedly stumbled downstairs and lingered absent-mindedly in the shower.

The rest of the city didn’t seem to have fully awakened yet, either. Glebe Point Road was eerily but pleasantly quiet when I walked along on my way to Central Station at 6:30. Most of the shops and restaurants were still shut, and only a few people were about. The chaos picked up a bit along the main thoroughfare of Broadway, as did my pace when I realised my relaxed gait likely wouldn’t get me there on time.

I needn’t have worried. I stood for what seemed like ages outside the Central YHA, compulsively checking my watch. My tendency to impatience, quickened by the earliness of the hour, was provoked as the minutes slowly ticked by and the bus still didn’t appear. It finally pulled up 20 minutes late. That was another 20 minutes I could I have devoted to precious sleep. So I was not particularly receptive to the couple already on the bus who tried to strike up conversation.

In response to the driver’s query, I announced that I was from the US. The man of the couple said, “Oh! Small world! We’re from Boston.” I can recognise an American who hasn’t left the country much by how utterly shocked they are to meet another American outside the US. I’ve heard loads of American accents around Sydney and knew a fair few compatriots in London and Dublin. So to me, it only qualifies as a small world if the other person is from Minnesota.

The man exhibited further evidence of insularity when he started talking to the Scottish couple we’d picked up. He twisted round in his seat and immediately asked them something about Braveheart. I think I visually cringed. It was a line of conversation so deeply rooted in popular culture stereotype that I couldn’t believe he’d actually pursued it. But, setting the tone for the day, D answered him in a friendly manner.

In addition to the free-flowing wine, the tour group itself made the trip quite fun. We had three Americans, a woman from Hong Kong who was dressed head-to-toe in glittery and bejewelled clothing, the Scottish couple and three older sisters from Northern England. The sisters were especially jovial, referring to themselves as “Ten Pound POMs.” They’d all immigrated to Australia after World War II, taking advantage of the 10-pound fare offered to anyone with a British passport. One stayed; the other two had since returned to England and were now visiting their sister. I was called upon to show my support of Liverpool FC when one of them introduced herself as living near Manchester and added, “If you’ve heard of Manchester United.”

The tour guide kept us entertained on the two-and-a-half hour drive with further historical anecdotes. Of particular interest to me was the Hawkesbury River. G told us that on a visit to Australia, Mark Twain had referred to it as Australia’s Mississippi. It was quite a bit wider than the part of the Mississippi I’ve cycled on the East and West River Roads, and it was missing the sheer drop-offs with which I’m familiar. But the rolling hills and the fairly similar vegetation made it a decently apt comparison.

It was still gray when we reached Lindemans, the site of our first tasting. A heavily made-up, blonde-dyed young woman lined 10 glasses up on the bar and filled them with splashes of a sparkling white. The Hunter Valley is known for its Semillon and Shiraz, so each vineyard included samples of each. But after tasting seven to 10 wines at each of four places, particulars of type, body and taste escape me. Nothing at Lindemans was particularly good. Most of the wines were quite young, 2007 or 2008 vintage. The more experienced wine connoisseurs wrinkled their noses at most. They complained of the excessive sweetness and the tannin.

Next up that morning (it was still only 11.15) was Tempus Two. We parked alongside a surprisingly modern building. The exterior was painted black with slanted steel supports stretching angular white shade awnings overhead. The interior was similarly contemporary. Incongruously darkened against the morning light, the focus of the room was the wall of wines at the back. A bright orange/pink illuminated panel provided backlighting for the bottles lined up against it.

A businesslike older woman, dressed in a black imitation of a chef’s button-up coat and black glasses, conducted the tasting. She had an air of superiority about her, making it clear that she was not particularly fond of having to give samples to an uncouth busload of tourists. She didn’t have so much cause to be snobby; out of the six or seven wines we sampled there, only the Merlot was very impressive. The hushed opinions that my fellow tasters expressed back on the bus echoed my own thoughts. The winery was new to the Hunter Valley and just seemed to be trying too hard.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was tipsy. How? I’d only been drinking tiny samples! But I’d had 14 of them, and they add up. Mixing the variety of red, white, sparkling and dessert wines probably contributed to the effects. The lunch break that followed our Tempus Two visit seemed perfectly timed. Unfortunately, our lunch stop was at the Blue Tongue Brewery. But my condition, and, more convincingly, the condition of my pocketbook, made it possible to avoid buying the six-beer tasting paddle.

Instead I ate my packed lunch and talked with the other people who’d chosen the light lunch option. These were the driver and the three English sisters. All of them proved to be quite interesting and distracted me from the beer quite nicely. The food and the entertaining conversation helped to clear my head a little before we all boarded the bus and drove the short distance to the Oakvale Vineyard.

Here we were seated at a long, round, dark wood table rather than standing at the bar. The feel couldn’t have deviated more from the flashy nightclub atmosphere of Tempus Two. Oakvale was more like an airy family farmhouse. The wines here were more pleasing as well. A heavy-set man dressed in a black collared shirt embroidered with the Oakvale name explained the difference.
“These are actual Hunter Valley wines,” he said as we sipped one of the samples. “Those other places use grapes from all over. If you ask them where their grapes are grown, they kind of dance around the answer.”
D, the Scotsman, agreed.
“They either don’t know or they won’t answer you,” he complained, referring to his recent experience at Tempus Two.

My imbibing and their proximity to me at the table led me to strike up a conversation with the American couple. Despite their earlier cringe-inducing comments, they weren’t so bad. We’d all had to introduce ourselves on the bus that morning, a gentle coercion I’d resented in the still-pretty-small hours but which I appreciated now. I’d briefly summed up my job search saga then, and we talked about that and the strange barriers to graduate studies that both I and the other American woman were encountering.

The man in charge of the tasting offered to pour us a sample of anything on the list that hadn’t been included in the seven varieties we’d tried. I asked to try the Peppercorn Shiraz and deemed it the best wine of the day. I became convinced that I’ll need to export some of it, despite Oakvale not shipping internationally. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to get it out of this country, into France, out of France and into the US. Simple.

Drayton’s, one of the oldest vineyards in Australia, was our last stop. They were in the midst of ongoing renovations, so their cellar door was actually a small tin-roofed temporary building. The man presiding over the tasting was originally from Northern England, to the delight of the sisters and the Scots (and me).
“Where’re you from, anyway?” D demanded, hearing the man’s definitively non-Australian accent.
“Between Newcastle and Durham,” he explained. His football allegiance was questioned. It lay with Newcastle, and I had a second opportunity to declare my support of Liverpool. He retorted that he’d once forced someone who’d come dressed in Liverpool kit to take it off before he’d pour them a sample.

The 10 wines included in this tasting ensured that most of it is a blur in my memory. I talked to the American couple a bit more. I think the Chardonnay was good. Then I promptly fell asleep when the bus started rolling back towards Sydney. The trip wasn’t so much fun after I woke up. I felt fine, but we’d arrived in the city centre at the height of rush hour gridlock. This prompted me to walk home from where G dropped the American couple rather than waiting out the ride back to my pick-up point.

Despite the long walk home, I'd enjoyed the group experience of this group tour much more than the Penguin Island tour. That probably has much to do with the fact that I was surrounded by people from the UK, which I dearly miss. They, and my relative inexperience with wine sampling, made me much more tolerant of being guided. The grumpiness with which I’d greeted the morning had dissipated with the wine and the hour. I enjoyed becoming better acquainted with everyone at the same time as I increased my familiarity with Riesling, Semillon, Merlot and Shiraz. It was quite a welcome break from Sydney and makes me hopeful for the guided dive experience I’ll be doing in the Great Barrier Reef next week.

Penguin Parades and Kangaroo Smacks

There are penguins in Australia. I’d had no idea that penguins inhabited anything but ice floes in the Antarctic until arriving here. As it turns out, Melbourne is a short distance from a large colony of Little Penguins. The YHA where I was staying offered day trips to witness the spectacle of what they cutely called the Penguin Parade. I have a fairly deep-set prejudice against group tours, preferring to travel independently. But there was no alternative form of public transport to the island. Having the opportunity to see a wild penguin wasn’t something I wanted to pass up, so I decided to make an exception and sign up for one of the tours.

Unfortunately in order to see the penguins I had to see a whole lot of other things first. One of the stops was at Maru Koala and Fauna Park. This was very similar to the Featherdale Wildlife Park I’d already visited, so I wasn’t very enthusiastic about it. Especially since we were guided as a herd from cage to cage. We started with a wombat. The tour brochure had promised the chance to cuddle a baby wombat, but the only person who got any cuddle time was the animal’s keeper. He hoisted her up in his arms and the group immediately crushed forward to get photos, obstructing my view completely.

Like Featherdale, we had the opportunity to feed the wallabies and kangaroos that also inhabit the park. But with a mob of people outnumbering the wallabies at least two to one, it was not easy to find a wallaby that didn’t already have its mouth full. I was growing progressively annoyed with my group and having to wait until all of it reached a cage before the keepers would start talking. So when the rest of the group went into the kangaroo enclosure, I discreetly hung back by the emu pen. I knew what time we were leaving, so I figured I’d let the crowd subside before I went in. I waited and fed the emus until the rest of the group had passed to the far side of the enclosure, then let myself into the pen.

I could see everyone else attempting to feed a group of kangaroos clustered near the exit. I chose to feed an isolated bunch I saw lying off to the side instead. One of them got up as I approached, anticipating a feeding session. I was a little startled by its size. He was much larger than any of the kangaroos I’d seen or fed at Featherdale. His clawed front paws looked a little menacing when he spread them on the ground. But he ate out of my palm politely enough.

As soon as his allotted portion was gone, he became quite greedy. He stood up on his hind legs and attempted to shove his nose into the bowl that contained the rest of the feed. I gave him a few more servings from my hand, then tried to feed one of the other animals nearby. The first kangaroo did not like this at all. He got angry. And he hit me. He used his front paw to smack my arm so that I’d drop my plastic dish and spill the rest of the food. It worked brilliantly. Stunned, I looked around to make sure no-one had seen. The tour guide had probably told everyone else to avoid that particular group of kangaroos because they were aggressive. But of course I hadn’t heard. I picked up the now-empty bowl and slunk back to the group, brushing bits of feed off my shirt and examining the scratch on my arm.

We left shortly after that, making a few more stops before finally reaching Phillip Island. From this point on, the tour completely made up for its lacklustre beginnings. On the way to the island from the mainland, we saw several wild wallabies and the houses that had been built for the penguins to encourage them to expand their nesting grounds. Phillip Island is a dormant volcano, and we started our exploration at a volcanic rock formation called the Nobbies. The scenery there was absolutely breathtaking. Uneven, black rock extended from the base of the hilly island into the water. The sun was weakly penetrating the clouds, creating dazzling reflections off pools of water that were trapped in the pockets of the rocks.

Our tour guide led us along the boardwalk, pointing out holes where some of the penguins were nesting. But the more noticeable birds on the island were the seagulls. They were absolutely everywhere. So was their shit. I’m astonished that I escaped unsullied. I nearly did get pecked, though. I was setting up an autotimer shot and must have encroached on a nest. One of the birds started shrieking, hovering above my head and occasionally diving at me. It persisted until it had driven me a sufficient distance away.

After that, I was happy to leave the windswept area. I was cold and increasingly disturbed by the masses of threatening seabirds in the air and the large number of dead ones on the ground. The journey from the Nobbies to the Penguin Parade was very short, leaving us with plenty of time to explore the gift shops whilst we waited for it to get dark enough for the penguins to come ashore. Finally it was dusk. As the light faded, clusters of the little bird gathered at the edge of the water. They stood there, judging whether it was safe to leave their camouflaged environment for the exposure of the sand.

Eventually a group would grow brave enough and start to waddle across the beach. Then suddenly they’d lose courage, turn around and run back to the water. As the gathering darkness made them feel more secure, clusters of penguins started to make the passage across the sand. We watched from two sets of concrete risers as they ran across the beach to the grassy brush that separated the two stands. They leaned forward, wings spread, and swayed ridiculously from side to side as they moved. They were tiny—only 33 cm tall. It was incredible to see penguins in the wild, even though it was based in such a tourist-attraction setting.

After watching several of them make the crossing from afar, I left the stands and walked along the lengthy boardwalk that traversed the scrub. Several penguins were standing within arm’s length, completely unperturbed by the hoards of humans tromping about so near to them. Perhaps they weren’t afraid because they couldn’t hear us. Once in their burrows, the penguins made tremendously loud chirping, wailing and snoring sounds. The sheer volume was incredible, especially coming from such a small animal. At one lighted section I saw a wallaby climb out of the bush and cross the penguins’ path, disappearing into the grass on the other side of the boardwalk. Compared to the tiny penguins, the small wallaby seemed huge.

I’m very glad I saw the penguin parade. Whether or not I’m glad I went with a tour group is something I still haven’t decided. I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to watch the penguins or be hit by a kangaroo if I hadn’t done the day trip. But I’m a little reluctant to do another in the future. It makes certain aspects, especially transportation, easier, but it restricts choice and makes it impossible to find my own off-the-beaten-path sorts of places. And being shuffled along amongst a herd also annoys me very quickly. I’m planning to go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef next week, so I’ll have to weigh the options again at that point. If someone offers a Sea Turtle ‘Stravaganza, I may just have to take them up on it.

Thanksgiving in Melbourne

For the first time in my life, I think I burned more calories on Thanksgiving than I ate. In keeping with my goal of seeing as much of Australia as I can afford before I leave, I booked a trip to Melbourne over the Thanksgiving weekend. Thursday promised to offer the best weather of trip, so I rented a bike from my hostel and spent the morning cycling along the banks of the Yarra River.

I got lost almost immediately upon leaving. But I wasn’t discouraged. I was still in the city centre. The streets are laid out on a fairly simple grid pattern, so I was confident I’d be able to correct my navigational error on my own. I wasn’t. I was thankful that one of the YHA front desk staff had outfitted me with a cycling map. If he hadn’t, I’m not sure I would have found my way back before dark.

After studying the map, I righted my path and found myself on a long, stop-start journey through the city centre. I was feeling great when I found the trailhead. It was warm but not absurdly hot, and the fairly stiff breeze felt good. The scenery was not spectacular. The river was like a smaller, tamer and more placid version of the Mississippi. But it was nice to be outside and doing some form of physical activity besides walking. My initial enjoyment made me a little overconfident. I bypassed the first point where I could turn off to go back into the city. The trail was pretty flat, the bike was mine for the whole day, and I had seemingly boundless energy.

When the fatigue hit, it hit hard. The stiff breeze that had felt pleasant before now felt like an evil headwind. And for flanking the river, the trail was surprisingly confusing. I didn’t want to miss the next fork into the city, so I found myself consulting the map rather frequently. This was difficult in itself, since the map was large and the gale-force wind attempted to refold every crease I’d just undone. And each time I got back into the saddle seat I realised just how sore my arse was. My mountain bike at home must have pretty superior shock technology. My bum was quite comfortable on it all summer. But this was a pummelling it hadn’t felt the likes of since Dublin.

Eventually I lost the trail completely. I’m still not quite sure how it happened, but I wound up on a residential road running through a small neighbourhood. I managed to instinctually travel over to a busier area near one of Melbourne’s multiple tram lines, where I stopped to look at the map. After searching for 10 minutes, I finally figured out where I was. By this point the ride wasn’t very fun anymore. And I still had a long way to go. Everything on the map looked closer than it seemed to be once I was actually pedalling. I consulted the map at least three times in trying to find the road that would bring me back to the Yarra trail, convinced that I’d missed it. But I hadn’t. It was just really far away.

By this time I’d been cycling about two hours. The alternative route I’d mapped took me through a delightfully dodgy suburb, filled with cafes. Had I been smart, I would have stopped at one of them to rest. I had a lock and money. But I’m stubborn about cycling. Once I start, I want to keep going until I’m done. I pedalled past all the restaurants and finally rejoined the path. I eventually reached the Melbourne Zoo, from which I should have been able to take a fairly direct and short route back to my hostel. Unfortunately this landmark and the surrounding park proved to be the black hole of the ride.

No matter how many times I consulted the map, I could not figure out where I was or which way I needed to go. I was close to tears when I reached another intersection that wasn’t what I thought it should be. I had my map open yet again and was studying it intensely when a passing rider took pity on me and stopped.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I confessed, which was probably rather obvious to him already. He asked where I was trying to go, pointed me in the right direction and gave me a set of flawless verbal directions—all without a map.

I could barely walk when I finally arrived back at the hostel 3.5 hours after setting out. The shower I took after returning the bike was the best I’ve experienced since coming out of the Boundary Waters. Drinking some water and cleaning off the grit and sweat renewed my energy a bit, and I took to the Melbourne streets. The hot, sticky weather and roads crowded with rush-hour traffic certainly didn’t evoke images of sitting down to a turkey dinner. Instead, I celebrated Thanksgiving with a meal at a Korean restaurant.

I walked in to find wooden tables and benches, each adorned with a woven mat to mark the seat. A large wooden mask, grinning theatrically, occupied the wall nearby, and very good jazz was playing on the sound system. After taking in the décor, I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only white, non-Korean-speaking person in the restaurant. I was perfectly content with that, taking it as a sign that the food was authentic and delicious.

I ordered a spicy BBQ beef soup and a beer. After drinking that, the complimentary tea and an entire jug of water, I finally replenished all the fluids I’d lost from my extensive bike ride and walk. I was pleasantly surprised when the server brought over some small plates of side dishes. One was rice. One tasted like crab meat. One looked like un-breaded onion rings and may or may not have been kimchee. One looked like a cross-section of a pickled devilled egg. It wasn’t an egg, but it was deliciously pickled.

The soup, when it arrived after I’d sampled the other foods, was incredibly spicy. There was a profusion of red pepper flakes floating in the broth. I think both my manner of eating it and the fact that I was eating it proved amusing to everyone in close proximity. One man sitting at a table behind me said something in Korean to a server who was standing in front of me. She nodded and immediately brought a stack of napkins over to me and laid them next to my plate.

I was a little concerned at this. Granted, I couldn’t always manage to pile the unbelievably long, clear noodles onto my spoon in their entirety. I was forced to discreetly slurp the ends. I splattered a tiny bit. But were my manners really so bad that someone else felt it necessary to ask for extra napkins on my behalf? When I paid, I began to think that the request had more to do with the fact that the food was hot. The server who’d brought the supply of napkins asked, “You like spicy food?” I’d like to think there was a hint of admiration in her voice.
“Yes, I really do,” I confirmed. I react very visibly to spicy foods, with my face assuming quite vivid shades. The observer probably guessed I was sweating as well. I realised how red my face must have been when I walked outside and noted the rush of cool air against my cheeks.

It was quite a delicious, if slightly non-traditional, Thanksgiving meal. It was the first I’d had that didn’t feature turkey and all the usual sides. Despite being in Ireland for Thanksgiving last year, I’d kept fairly close to the typical Thanksgiving meal. Mimi and I cooked turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and lemon and asparagus pasta for ourselves and shared with our Australian friend Janice. I would have been really upset last year if I hadn’t stuck to that food tradition.

This year I didn’t mind doing something different. Maybe it was the summer weather here. Maybe it was the 17-hour time difference, which meant that it actually wasn’t yet Thanksgiving on my Thursday. Maybe I’ve grown used to celebrating major American holidays in other countries. But I was happy enough to celebrate in my own way. I did miss my family and friends and the holiday spirit. But I’ll be reunited with everyone soon enough. I’m thankful that this Thanksgiving proved to be a unique experience I’ll never forget.

What Happened and What's Happening

In addition to providing a habitat for a frightening number of poisonous snakes, spiders, jellyfish and octopi, Australia also seems to be home to an inhospitable job market. I reopened my job hunt when my temp assignment ended about two weeks ago. Ellina suggested that I try looking on one of the city’s main thoroughfares, Pitt Street, near Circular Quay and the Opera House. I walked there one Friday, but the tons of small cafes always looking for help of which she’d spoken didn’t seem to exist. I checked at the few I was able to find. One of them may or may not be hiring at some time in the indeterminate future when their take-away counter is complete. The others were fully staffed.

I wasn’t too discouraged by the lack of progress there. It’s quite a distance from my house. I simply decided to search once more around the closer suburbs. The next morning I walked to Newtown. The manic atmosphere of the crowded sidewalks and even more crowded cafes discouraged me from working in the area. So did the reception I received at the one café where I did turn in a resume.
“I was wondering if you happen to be hiring,” I said when the barista finally acknowledged me. He shrugged indifferently.
“You can leave your CV with me,” he offered. I handed it to him, slightly reluctantly, and he told me he’d show it to the boss.

I walked back to the significantly more relaxed Glebe and went to a combination art gallery and café that I’d only noticed the day before. I’ve walked past it almost daily since I moved to Forest Lodge, so I’m not quite sure how I missed it. I think the labyrinth of mesh fencing that’s enclosed Glebe Point Road’s massive street construction project is partly to blame. It was removed just recently, revealing a wider sidewalk and never-before-seen signage. I walked into the gallery to find a man with a ponytail of long, dusty-coloured dreadlocks leaning against a small coffee counter.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you’re hiring at the moment,” I ventured.
“Well, that depends,” he mused thoughtfully. “We’re looking for someone pretty specific. Ideally someone who’s had gallery experience and is pretty good at making coffee.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t have barista experience,” I confessed.
“I’m sorry, then,” he said.

I expected to be dismissed at that point, but he persisted in the conversation.
“Do you live around here?” he asked. When I confirmed that I did, he inquired as to what kind of work I was looking for.
“I was hoping to volunteer for the Museum of Contemporary Art,” I explained. “They want people who are available during the weekdays, so I was hoping to find something where I could work on the weekends and have a day off during the week to do that.”
“Would you be interested in volunteering here?” he offered. “I can teach you the odd thing about making coffee."
“Sure,” I answered, surprised at the turn the initial rejection had taken.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to a stool in front of the coffee stand and walked into another wing of the gallery. He returned a minute later shaking his head.
“Naw, I can’t help you,” he said regretfully. “I’d really like to.”

I’m not sure what changed his mind. But I left feeling pretty crushed at the tease. I was discouraged at the overall lack of receptiveness within the job market and was about to give up for the day. Then I saw another café where I’d been intending to ask about work. They were still open, so I decided to make one last attempt.
“I was wondering if you happen to be hiring,” I said to the girl who greeted me. I was fully prepared to receive the customary no and walk straight back out. Instead, she looked surprised and said, “Oh…we were just talking about that.”

She pointed me out to the manager, who came over immediately and confirmed that they had indeed just been discussing adding more staff. One of her employees had just been in a car crash, leaving them unexpectedly short-handed. She launched straight into a negotiation about how many hours I wanted, on which days, how much I needed to be paid, when I could start, how long I could stay and my plans for the holidays. We went as far as talking about how my superannuation might work. We seemed to have settled on mutually agreeable terms. She said, “I really want to help you out. We are hiring, and you seem to have everything we’d be looking for. Let me talk it over with my husband, and I’ll call you on Monday.”

She didn’t. I waited until 2:00, only an hour or so before a lot of cafes in the area closed. I then decided to take matters into my own hands and call them. The person who answered asked if the woman I’d spoken to could call me back in an hour. Two hours later I called again. This time the woman herself answered.
“Oh, hi Nikki,” she said. “I haven’t had time to talk to my husband yet. Is it okay if I call you back in a few more hours? Sometime this evening?”
That would have been fine if she’d actually done it. She didn’t call back that night. Or the next day. Or the day after.

I let it go at the time because I’d received a call from a different café on Monday morning. The conversation was very strange.
“This is Amanda calling from a café in Newtown. Are you still looking for work?”
I confirmed that I was, and she told me to come in for an interview on Thursday. Before hanging up I attempted to get the name of the café. She declined to tell me and said, “I’ll give you the address.” I looked it up on Google, trying to ascertain a name. No results matched that address to a café, so I wound up walking to Newtown to satisfy my curiosity. The address belonged to a modern Italian restaurant where I hadn’t even turned in my CV. I assumed they’d received my details from a form I’d filled out at the Responsible Service of Alcohol course I’d taken.

I turned up there for my interview on Thursday. It didn’t seem to go very well. As it turns out, the restaurant where I was told to go is owned by the café in Newtown where I’d left my CV. Its name was on the paper application form I had to fill out, which included a test asking things such as what cutlery you should provide with linguine and an inane question about what type of car you’d like to be and why. Then I waited for the interviewer to finish conducting an interview with another girl two tables away.

I could hear everything that was said during their interview, and mine seemed to go rather dismally by comparison. The interviewer scanned the employment history section of the application, where I’d been asked to provide information about my three most recent employers.
“And previous experience?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem like you have much.”
“Well, it was more in the past,” I explained, and told her about my host position at Olive Garden. “And I also have a lot of customer service experience that would hopefully make up for gaps in serving experience.”
She looked like she very much doubted it. Her attitude expressed that she thought taking the five minutes to interview me had been a colossal waste of time. I wanted to point out to her that someone who failed to even mention the name of the café had invited me to an interview after looking at the qualifications on my CV. I also wanted to point out, rather cattily I admit, that the girl she’d spoken to before me thought it was acceptable to wear jeans to an interview.

This desire grew even stronger when I told her at the close of the interview that I had my RSA certification. She must have thought I said I needed my RSA, because her response was very terse.
“Well, IF you are successful,” she clipped, really leaning on the ‘if,’ “you’d still be a few weeks away from needing that."
“Well, I just wanted to let you know I have it in case that’s helpful,” I countered.
“Oh, you HAVE it,” she repeated, not bothering to apologise for not listening or for being completely rude. Instead she showed me to the door. I don’t expect to hear anything back from her.

I also don’t expect to hear anything from a café where I stopped to inquire about employment immediately after my interview. There was a help wanted sign at the door, but the woman working the counter was as unimpressed with me as my interviewer and even more rude.
“How many years of experience do you have?” she snapped.
Years? Not even one. But I exaggerated on that point a little when I answered. With a glare she accepted my resume and immediately stuffed it under the counter, which probably concealed a trashcan.

Given the poor reception I’d received that day, I decided to ask the woman who’d never called me back for a definitive answer. I think through her lack of response I already had one. But I just wanted to be sure. When she picked up the phone, I said, “I’m taking it as a bad sign that I haven’t heard back from you, but I just wanted to know one way or the other whether you’re still interested in having me work there.”
She wasn’t. The girl who’d been in the car accident had come back and wanted full-time hours, so they couldn’t have me on. OK, fine. But she couldn’t have told me that straight out?

I am just fed up. I’ve been here two months with absolutely no success in finding employment. And being in Sydney is keeping me from starting on the educational and career path I actually want to take. I emailed the director of graduate studies in the University of Minnesota’s art history department to get an idea of what sorts of requirements I might have to meet to be accepted into an art history graduate program. It’s more complicated than I thought. She told me that with only one art history course on my transcript there’s no way I’d be accepted. I’m going to have to take some classes as a non-degree-seeking student first. I can’t do that here. It’s summer, and none of the schools in the area offer art history summer courses.

And to top everything off, the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen, dead or alive, went on a prolonged, scuttling journey across my kitchen floor this week.

So I’m coming home. I was planning to stay until the end of February, but it just doesn’t seem to be the right thing for me at this point in time. This thought was echoed by Andy, who said flat out last week, “Just go home.” If Andy’s advising me to go home, it must be getting pretty bad. He’s never said that before. He’s more likely to say, and has often said, “Don’t give up,” or “Keep trying.”

I’m going to France on 18 December and was supposed to fly back to Sydney on 4 January. I ultimately made my decision by thinking about how I’d feel about that when I was standing in the Charles de Gaulle airport. I’d be at least mildly depressed at the prospect of going back to Sydney. But I’d be perfectly content and even a bit excited to go home. So I’m going to use the time and money I have left to see as much of the country as I can before I leave it. And I’m OK with that. I tried. It didn’t work very well. I’ll be back on 9 January.

Breaking and Entering

I learnt last night that I am definitely not fit enough to be a successful burglar. After being unable to find my coin purse in the house, I went outside to see if I’d dropped it on the front walk whilst fumbling with the change for my bus fare that morning. I opened the front door as wide as I could and carefully picked my way down our treacherously sloped sidewalk. Halfway down I heard a sickening click. Oh no, I thought, and turned to look at the door. Sure enough, it had blown shut. Of course it locks automatically. Of course I hadn’t brought a key outside with me. Of course my flatmate wasn’t home.

It was such an obvious and easily prevented situation. It was like a scene in a film where everyone sees what’s coming several minutes before the unfortunate character on the screen. And the way I fixed the situation was also fit for a bad comedy movie. I walked around the back of the house to the fence that encloses our backyard. I reached above my head, grabbed the edge of it and tried to scrabble up and over it. But my disgusting lack of upper body strength made this approach impossible. I needed a boost.

I walked back to the front of the house and looked for the big, black plastic container that I knew was around somewhere. I hauled a heavy and stinky sack of fertilizer out of it and carried the bucket around to the back alley. I turned it upside down and climbed up, trying not to crush it or upend it in the process. I made a few furtive attempts to swing my leg up and over the top of the gate. Still not enough height. I left the bucket in place and went in search of some additional assistance.

Luckily someone had left a sturdy-looking empty recycling bin lying on the sidewalk nearby. I brought this back to the gate and tried to balance the black bucket on top of it. This was too precarious to stand on even in my desperate situation. But another look at the recycling bin gave me another idea. If I turned it on its end, it was taller than the black bucket. I set it down this way and carefully climbed up. It gave me just enough of a height difference.

I clung to a corner post with both hands whilst clumsily managing to catch hold of the top of the gate with my heel. I used my much stronger legs to pull the rest of my body to the top of the gate. Then it was just a matter of getting down. I slowly lowered myself a little ways and used the lock on the inside of the door as a foothold. I jumped the rest of the way to the ground without serious injury. Luckily I’d left the back door of the house itself unlocked and was able to gain access very easily.

For the rest of the night I expected to hear sirens approaching as the police responded to reports of breaking-and-entering. My forced entry had been far less than stealthy. Robbery is definitely something I cannot take up as a profession, no matter how bleak the job search becomes. I have massive bruises on my legs, scrapes on my legs and wrists and tremendously sore muscles. But I didn’t have to sit outside for the three hours that passed before my roommate returned in the downpour that started shortly after I made it back into the house. And I found my coin purse, too.

Day Tripper

Judging from my Sydney guidebook, no visit to the city would be complete without a day trip to the Blue Mountains. At least one Australian I’ve met doesn’t understand it. “Everyone goes to the Blue Mountains,” he said perplexedly. “What’s so great about the Blue Mountains? They’re not actually blue or anything.” Ellina probably doesn’t understand it either. But being a dutiful daughter, she organised the requisite outing there for her visiting father and invited me and her friend Peter along.

The four of us boarded the train at Central, which was already idling at the station 20 minutes before it was due to depart. Had we known how long we’d be on the train once it actually started moving, we probably would have opted to do something with our extra time besides sit aboard it. We stopped at station after station, making progress seem slow. Judging from the leisurely rate at which the scenery slid past the windows, progress WAS slow. Trees and faces of sheer rock crowded the sides of the track, and a thick mist was settling over everything. I was quite restless by the time we reached Katoomba, the town from which we would access the popular scenic overlooks of the mountains.

With the increased elevation, the weather had changed from bordering on chilly to definitely chilly. I was relieved to pull on the long-sleeved shirt I’d brought against the possibility of brisk air. A very light rain or heavy mist was falling. This deary weather and our early departure time made us all feel a bit dull and sluggish, so we decided to stop at a café for some coffee and lunch before attempting to determine which of the many transport links to the mountains was best.

Feeling renewed after our collective caffeine infusion, we discovered which bus was cheapest. It was a replica of a historical trolley bus, which a plaque on the interior informed us had begun running in 1951. Ellina joked that they could have at least improved the suspension. We sat on the wooden, slatted, park bench-like seats with our backs to clear plastic windows that could be opened and closed with zippers and snaps.

We jounced on to Echo Point, which overlooks the Three Sisters rock formation. From our elevated vantage, the entire tree-covered valley spread below us in a blue-green swathe. Three pieces of rock jutted into the sky in an orderly row. We, along with several other tourists, walked up to the railing and admired the view. Despite the completely different topography and vegetation, it reminded me of Gooseberry Falls State Park. It was a wilderness attraction, but sufficiently crowded, paved and safety-railed to make you feel as if you weren’t too deep into the wild.
After gazing at the expanse for a while, we walked down a path that led to a very steep staircase. The trail was lined with trees that had strings of bark moulting off them. Ellina’s dad laughed that they were strip trees. The walk also featured tall surfaces of rock, thoroughly coated with messages carved by the many passerby. We climbed down the narrow steps at the end of the path, sharing the tight space with others huffing mightily as they made the brutal ascent. We went as far as the point where one of the three sisters broke from the surrounding rock, and decided that was sufficient.



When we reached the top of the stairs again, the mist had turned into a dense fog. Most of the valley was now invisible. We went back to the bus stop and waited to be taken to Scenic World. From there, you could board a cable car that traversed a steep ravine and take a different cable car down into the valley. When the trolley finally arrived, we found the same elderly driver who’d taken us to Echo Point. He explained the three modes of transport—the Scenic Skyway, Scenic Railway and Scenic Cableway—and assured us we’d have time to do all three before the final bus went back to Katoomba.

We boarded the first mode of scenic transport, the Scenic Skyway, eagerly anticipating the thrilling, slightly dangerous-feeling trip the bus driver had described. But unless you’re scared of heights, the ride proved to be very tame. The car inched along the cable perfectly smoothly. The entire experience lasted about a minute. We disembarked at a payment station, where I learned that that minute of bare-minimum adventure would cost me 10 AUD. This was definitely a tourist destination.

After paying, we were routed through the gift shop to the Scenic Railway. Its operator, wearing a stereotypically Australian Akubra outback hat, asked us if we were interested in a ride. “Ah, we are still deciding,” Ellina said. She asked for details, and learned that the 7-10 minute ride would cost somewhere around 20 AUD. We all agreed that we’d been taken for a ride on one of the rides already and opted not to do so again. We loitered around the gift shop for a while and then walked back outside to wait for the last bus back to the Katoomba train station.

It was being driven by the same man who had been shuttling us about all day. “How much is it?” Ellina asked, though we all knew what the fare would cost by now. He waved his hand, dismissing our obligation to pay a third fare that day. He seemed to have become rather fond of us. He asked what our plans were for the evening. When he learnt that we were heading back to Sydney yet that night, he asked, “So you’re looking for somewhere to eat first?” We agreed that we may indeed do that, and he began raving enthusiastically about a restaurant where he ate regularly.

“You can get a meal there for $5,” he said. This is unheard of in Australia. Even fast food costs just under $10. And the food he described sounded amazing.
“They have steaks about that thick,” he elaborated, holding his thumb and forefinger a good distance apart. “And a family burger that needs a spear in it just to hold it together.” We confirmed that this sounded like a good dinner option, and he directed us to it when he dropped us off near the train station.
“Just tell them Peter sent you,” he said. “And I’ll join you there in about an hour.”

We walked in to find the sort of dining room that would perfectly suit an elderly gentleman like our bus driver. The soundtrack featured jazz tunes from the 1930s, and the atmosphere was quite anonymous. The waiter was much less enthusiastic about the restaurant than Peter. We glanced at the menus he handed us, looking for the $5 meals. Nothing cost less than $9.50. Every price Peter had quoted was absolutely wrong. What was going on? Did he have some sort of arrangement where he received commission from the restaurant? Is that why he told us to tell them he sent us?

We didn’t mention him to our server, and we didn’t hang around long enough for him to meet us after his shift. We paid for our average meals and dashed for the train. At least Peter was more accurate with the train departure times than the restaurant’s prices. We crawled along towards Sydney, finally arriving home two and a half hours later. Despite the excessive travel time, outrageous prices for scenic rides and faulty food recommendations, it had been an enjoyable day trip. I think the guidebook was right in suggesting it as a destination close to but outside of the city. But, like my Sydneysider friend, I’m also a little bemused by the publicity it receives. After all, the mountains aren’t actually blue or anything.

Market Day

As I suspected they might, certain aspects of Sydney are starting to work their way into my affections. Oddly enough, a stinky pile of fish was one of those aspects. I went along with my roommate and her father, who is visiting from Russia, to the Sydney Fish Market on Saturday. It was an overcast day, which somehow lent charm to the waterside scene. The white masts of the ships docked in the harbour were barely distinguishable from the grey cloud cover of the sky. The umbrellas on the rows of four-benched tables had done nothing to protect the seats from the rain. This did not stop people from sitting on them. One creative individual even hauled a gigantic cardboard box over and used it to soak up the excess moisture before casting it aside and plonking down on the bench.

We arrived early enough to lay claim to a table. Ellina and I went inside to buy lunch whilst her dad guarded our seats. I was pleased to discover that a buttery, battery, flaky serving of fish and chips was actually as cheap as chips. I have no idea what sort of fish was buried beneath the breading, but it was delicious. I also sampled Ellina’s eel and bought my own marinated octopus. The label should have said marinated octopi, since I found a mass of baby octopi when I opened the plastic container. I was a little bothered by the baby-ness and the chewy-ness of this marine delicacy, but I’m glad I tried it.

The stand selling prepared seafood dishes was next to one of several amazing displays of raw ocean life. There were shellfish, octopus tentacles, prawns, eels, lobsters, live crabs, squid tubes, and cuts of fish I’d never before encountered. No walleye or bass at this fish market. The seaflesh was gathered in mounds of beige, grey white, pink, brown, and purple amongst piles of ice. I wandered amongst the selection, absolutely fascinated. This was definitely something cool about Sydney. Although fish markets exist almost everywhere, I’d never before sought one out. And the offerings here were so exotic!

The seafood wasn’t the only thing being sold fresh on site. A produce market, wine store, cheese counter and bread shop shared the space. Despite the more unusual papaya, passionfruit and bok choy available, I couldn’t resist buying a heinously expensive plastic container of massive, juicy-looking blueberries. I also picked up a variety of kiwi that is less hairy and said to be sweeter than the standard fuzzy fruit. I then ogled the selection of cheeses. Edam, mozzarella, brie, camembert, Roquefort, gorgonzola…I was amazed. And I’m not even that fond of cheese.

I decided that I could certainly get used to making separate stops at shops that specialised in each type of food I wanted to purchase. It may take longer, but it would certainly be far more pleasing than slogging through my local supermarket. ANYTHING would be better than the supermarket. It’s dreary, uniform, and always packed with other grim shoppers wearing glazed expressions. I’m quite willing to spend the extra time to find higher-quality food and a more vibrant atmosphere.

After exploring the food markets, we continued on to a goods market. While Paddy’s Market also sells produce, a large portion of it is given over to merchandise. It’s all packed into a cavernous, concrete warehouse area. And it is indeed packed. Each stall is crammed with as many products as can possibly fit into each square inch of space. It’s all cheap and caters to the tourist market. T-shirts, electronics accessories, jewellery, wigs, stuffed animals, shoes, bags, boomerangs, and anything that can possibly be emblazoned with a Sydney or Australia logo make up the inventory. It’s a screaming display of consumerism, which doesn’t suit me at all. Though I must admit I bought a few less-cheesy souvenirs that I intend to give various people for Christmas.

I was in gift-hunting mode at that point, so I decided to visit the Glebe market located just a few minutes from my house. I enjoyed it for its approach to a market, which was the absolute antithesis of Paddy’s Markets. This market was open-air and featured unique goods that were far from cheap souvenirs. They weren’t cheap, for one thing. But they were reasonably priced and interesting. Jewellery, original screen-printed T-shirts that said nothing about Sydney or kangaroos, soaps, leather journals, used books, clothes, and woodworks were spread on the tables in such a way that each individual item was visible.

There was also a pleasant community feel amongst the vendors. A woman selling wood-framed mirrors was lamenting the fact that her stall looked like shantytown.
“Walk past it! I want to see your reaction,” she ordered her neighbour, who sat behind a tasteful display of jewellery. The woman did as she was told, and both sellers burst into laughter at her surprised face.
“Thanks for nothing!” the mayor of shantytown jokingly yelled after me as I eventually walked away with a purchase from her neighbour’s table, but nothing from her own. Nearby, a bookseller was deeply involved in literary conversation with a browser.

I had a good time shopping in that atmosphere. I’m thrilled to have discovered an alternative to Sydney’s ridiculous number of soulless shopping centres, which I’d rather avoid. Like fish markets, this sort of market is not exclusive to Sydney. I used to browse those in the Portobello Road and Camden when I lived in London. But unlike those, the Glebe markets offer a lot that I would actually buy. Unusually for me, it took some effort to remember my uncertain budget and refrain from purchasing everything I liked. This particular market is unique to Sydney and is something I quite like about the city.

As I left the park that houses the market, I realised how pleased I was to wholly enjoy a few things here. Not to say I haven’t appreciated other things I’ve seen and done so far. I have. But my experience has previously been tempered, even tainted, by my unsuccessful job search and the stress that accompanied it. Perhaps having work helped me to enjoy Sydney more. But at the same time, enjoying Sydney more makes my job search seem more worthwhile. My assignment at Coupon Place ends tomorrow, and I’m ready to renew the hunt for work with renewed energy. I just have to leave enough time to sightsee and keep finding those things that make me want to work here.

Bad Days Lead to Good Decisions

My future plans have taken an unexpected turn. Not entirely unexpected, since it was me who decided what turn to take. But it is a turn I never would have anticipated making. It was prompted by my re-entry to the workforce this week. Whilst writing my blog post about being cursed, a temp agency where I’d interviewed the week before called to offer me a two-week assignment. I was tremendously delighted to finally cut down my excessive amount of free time—and, more importantly, to be paid! But the thrill very quickly wore off.

It was ground down by the commute, which is over an hour long and involves three forms of transportation. A walk, bus ride, walk, train ride and walk later, I arrived at Coupon Place. They set me to work filing as soon as I walked in. I was introduced to no-one except the other receptionists, which, in my experience as a temp, is unusual. I was at least given an introduction to my co-workers on each of my previous assignments.

This lack of introduction was accompanied by a strange lack of instruction. I returned from lunch expecting to continue the leisurely filing I’d been doing all morning. Instead, L said, “Come sit over here,” and indicated one of the seats at reception. Suddenly, after five minutes of training, I was going to start answering phones and doing data entry. This was a bit bewildering, since I had no idea who anyone in the company was or what they did. Actually, it was tremendously bewildering. I also had no answers with which to combat the queries I was receiving about the company’s product.

My head was reeling when I left the office. What happened to the days where I was ridiculously thoroughly trained in how to apply a label? I really didn’t want to go back the next day. But of course I did. And I learned that I was stressed on Monday because everyone else was, too. There are usually three administrators at Coupon Place. I’m covering one of the spots until they can find a replacement for a woman who recently found a different job. And the lead administrator learnt that morning that she had blood clots in her leg and would unexpectedly be gone for the rest of the week.

This left one administrator who actually knew what she was doing. And it wasn’t me. L had to learn all the things that the lead administrator would normally do, plus teach me my job. I have sympathy, but I think the stress got to her. She was distinctly rude, condescending and unfriendly by the end of the week. Everything she explained to me was accompanied by a sneer. My attempts at conversation were dismissed, until she turned around and started discussing the subject I’d just tried to open with someone else who doesn’t even sit at reception. It was as if she wanted to emphasise the fact that she was ignoring me.

So instead of feeling more integrated into Australian life, I felt more isolated. But it turned out to be a surprisingly good thing. I was wretchedly miserable on Monday night. I felt purposeless. I came here with only a very vague idea as to why. But it definitely wasn’t to do more temp work. Especially with a miserable co-worker. I’ve been temping for nearly a year. I don’t like it. At least at home I had Australia as my end goal. But that goal didn’t have as distinct an end as I’d thought. So I’m doing more temp work here, with no end in sight.

But if I don’t want to be doing this, what DO I want to be doing? I’ve been casually pondering this for a while now. On Monday I arrived at the answer surprisingly suddenly. I thought about how ridiculously excited I’d been about the possibility of working at the Tate Modern museum when I was trying to avoid going home by finding a job in England. I thought about how I’m hoping to volunteer at an art gallery here. And it became clear. I want to be a curator at a gallery. To do that, I need a degree in art history and/or museum studies.

So I’m going to grad school.

And I’m probably going home early. It’s not definite. I’ve not booked the plane ticket yet. But at this moment, it seems inevitable that I’ll run out of money. My savings have gone ridiculously fast, and I’m not sure how steady my temp work will be. But if that happens, I won’t be crushed. I don’t have the vehement desire to stay here that I experienced in London and Dublin. Or, perhaps more accurately, I don’t have an absolutely panicky adverse reaction to the idea of going home. It actually makes me pretty happy.

None of this is what I anticipated. Going back to school had never entered my mind. But now that it has, it seems completely right. I never would have considered ending a period as an expat early. But I want to get going on this new plan of action as soon as I can. I’m not going to be closed to any possibilities Sydney might yet offer. If something happens to make me want to linger here a little longer, then I’ll go with it. But I finally have a direction that I want to take going forward. If I wind up not being able to finance this interlude in Australia, it’s OK. It was being here that helped me to figure out what I’ll do whenever it is that I go home. That alone was worth the trip.

No Regrets

I had a few interesting encounters yesterday evening. After being confined to the house all day by my unwillingness to brave the wind, rain and cold, I was glad to empty the last few drops of milk from the carton. That gave me an excuse to go out, if only for a bit. It was as blustery and unpleasant outside as it had appeared from inside. I decided that the inclement weather warranted a mocha whilst I was out.

I went to a café that I’ve been frequenting lately called Fair Trade Coffee. The woman who took my order there was the same person with whom I’d placed my order for molten apple cinnamon toast the day before. She’s Irish, and I’ve been tempted to ask her what part of the country she’s from. I’m hesitant to start a conversation in this way sometimes because I remember how weary I became with answering that question for everyone who heard me speak in Ireland.

Yesterday it took her a while to make my drink after I’d ordered. Another employee was in visiting, and they were talking for a bit before she started steaming the milk. Her speech was peppered with “fecker,” “fouk,” several other swear words and multiple dropped h’s. The strong lilt to her accent made me guess she was from Cork, and I decided just to ask her when she came over with my drink.

“Are you from around Cork?” I asked as she gently balanced the drink on the arm of the green leather chair I occupied.
“No, I’m from the other side—Kilkenny?” she corrected, her answer ending in a question as to whether I was familiar with the town name. I explained that I’d lived in Ireland last year and had a friend from Cork who I thought sounded like her. We started talking about how long I’d been in Ireland, why and where I’d worked. She perched on the arm of the chair next to me and asked, “Where’d you live?”
“A little south of Dublin in Rathmines,” I said.
“Ah, I was just about to ask if you’d lived in Rat’mines!” she exclaimed. We then commiserated about the difficulty of finding work and she went back to it.

When I left, I wound up tailing three guys walking three wide on the sidewalk. One was commenting on how he doesn’t say it’s spitting anymore when it’s raining because he’d once said that to a girl and she looked around to see who was literally spitting. The way he pronounced the word reminded me of my flatmate in London, Peter, and I guessed they were Kiwi. I was proud to have determined this before the other guy indicated the construction on Glebe Point Road and said, “When I go home to New Zealand and come back in five years, this’ll still be here.”

Eventually I heard the shorter guy walking in the middle say something in French. A couple of tall New Zealanders and a smaller French guy. It reminded me so much of my flatmates in London. I was probably following close enough for them to think I was creepy. But I wanted so badly to hear them conversing about how the Frenchman was a taxee drivair and how he used to “learn” ten-nees when he was in France (he meant teach). I also wanted to join in on their chat, but decided that listening to it was good enough.

The conversations I both had and eavesdropped on made me feel quite content. I wasn’t sure why I’d been so eager to have one and listen to the other. Then I realised that they triggered memories of my experiences abroad. Good memories. And I knew that my time in Sydney would be worthwhile. Despite the thoughts I’ve been having to the contrary lately, I will never regret coming here. In fact, no regrets I may have in life will be the result of travelling.

I know that because had a hard time in Ireland. I never came to like Dublin as a place. But hearing the brogue tonight reminded me of Ireland. Thinking about Ireland made me happy. There are certain elements of that place that were sneakily endearing to me. Similarly, my relationships with my roommates in London were an aspect of that place that I didn’t value appropriately at the time. But I miss J.P. and Peter. Thinking about them makes me happy, too.

No matter what happens here, I will not regret it. If I never find a job, completely run out of money and have to go home I won’t be sorry. It was worth trying. I haven’t grown wonderfully fond of Sydney yet. But I’m sure there will be something about this city that I’ll miss once I’ve left it. There’s something in every place you live that is or will be meaningful. Sometimes it just takes distance to figure it out.

Comedy of Errors

I went to sleep last night with a small suspicion that I might be cursed. This morning I awoke and was certain of it. The sky, usually bright blue or covered with a thin, soon dispensed cover of clouds, was heavy with several layers of dark, ominous clouds. The branches were being tossed recklessly by a merciless wind, whist rain plunked off the metal roofs of the neighbourhood. It is the worst weather I’ve experienced since arriving.

And I had been planning to go to the zoo.

It’s just a little storm. I can go to the zoo another day. I have to expect that things will not always work out as I expected. I know that. But the sheer number of small things that have not played out in my favour is ridiculous to the point of being funny. Several of these occurred yesterday.

I’ve fallen into the habit of going to the library every morning to use their free WiFi. This helps me to save money on the Internet service I have at home, for which I pay based on the amount of data I use. However, the library’s service is far slower than my own. Often intolerably slow. That was the case yesterday, so I thought Stuff it and went to a café that I knew offered WiFi.

I ordered cinnamon apple toast along with my mocha to meet the minimum purchase amount required to use the Internet. When the dish arrived, I sawed off a piece of toast, speared a chunk of apple and put it in my mouth. The unmelting butter on my slab of toast was a completely misleading indication of the temperature of the food. It was a downright lie. The apple was a pouch of molten cider that scalded the roof of my mouth and any gum line unfortunate enough to be surrounding my upper molars.

I shifted the burning fruit to various parts of my mouth, trying to cool it down. I only succeeded in damaging a larger surface area. Each time I attempted to bite down, boiling juice would squirt out. After a sufficient time period, I finally managed to chew and swallow the ill-tempered and hateful apple. I then finished sending out resumes with a throbbing ache around my teeth.

After lunch, I needed to go retrieve my wayward Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate. I’d had to make some phone calls, search some online records and provide my credit card details again, but it was finally ready. There was no problem with picking it up except for when I was leaving. The elevator stopped, and I got out as someone else got on. I had no idea where I was, and looked so confused that a woman walking by felt the need to offer assistance. It turns out the elevator had stopped on the second floor to let the other woman on and I hadn’t noticed we’d not yet reached the ground floor.

With evidence of my RSA savvy in hand, I submitted resumes at a few more theatres. On the way home I decided to stop at a different branch of the library. I’d been perusing the catalogue earlier, and another Hemingway book I wanted to read was checked in there. I walked in and looked for it without success. Confused, I checked the library catalogue computer again. The Hemingway book actually belongs to the Surry Hills branch. It was a book about gentrification that was at Haymarket. I’d had the two confused.

I still wanted to read about gentrification, so I rode the incredibly dodgy elevator up to the second floor. I found the section of dewy decimal numbers where the book should have been located (this post is getting progressively nerdier all the time). The catalogue had assured me it was on the shelves. But it wasn’t. I checked about 10 times.

I was cranky and without reading material when I arrived home. And my feet hurt. I thought that was due to the fact that I’d been walking around for close to four hours. But when I took off my shoes, I noticed certain concentrated areas were itchy as well. Upon further inspection, I discovered that an aggressive swarm of mosquitoes had perpetrated an assault on my feet when I’d been out on my deck Skyping with Andy the night before.

Books, apples, mosquito bites and raindrops are small things. I can easily deal with them. I have all the tools I need, like patience, close-toed shoes and umbrellas. And now that I’ve reached the point of finding my small hoard of misfortunes funny, I’ll be able to combat them with attitude as well. Bring it on, Sydney!

Thwarted

My new direction contains a few more bumps in the road than I expected. I was certain that once I expanded my options I’d have a job within a week. A week has passed. I don’t have a job. I’m feeling thwarted. Very little seems to be turning out properly at the moment. Some days it’s comical. Some days it’s downright depressing. I was revelling in the former yesterday and am tending towards the latter today.

The most recent example is my attempt to keep pursuing front-of-house theatre work by sitting for the Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate. I was determined to take the course as soon as my money completed its electronic journey from the US to Australia. My frighteningly diminishing funds cleared on Thursday, and I promptly registered online for the course being taught on Saturday.

My name wasn’t on the list when I arrived.
“Oh, I don’t see myself on the list,” I said, pleadingly seeking assistance from the woman manning the sign-in table. After a thorough verbal investigation of how I’d registered, she perkily told me that the course was full but I’d be allowed to take it if someone else didn’t turn up.
“But I paid online already,” I protested, very reluctant to have arisen early on a Saturday and made the 20 minute trip into the city centre for no reason.
“Did you get a confirmation?”
“They sent me a text.” Drat. I’d thought that was a bit suspicious at the time. Apparently my suspicion was correct.
“Well, we won’t be able to give you your certificate until we’ve verified that you paid for the course,” she said. “What we can do is have you sit the course today and call on Monday to make sure your payment’s gone through. Then you can come pick it up once we have all the details.”
So instead of walking out with confirmation of having passed the RSA like everyone else in the class, I have to spend Monday tracking it down.

That incident, had it been isolated, would not have ruffled me much. But it’s another addition to a host of small problems (many involving the Internet and payment for it) that, taken together, are making me increasingly frustrated and decreasingly confident. Or maybe, that incident, had I a job, would not have ruffled me much. I’m fairly certain the responses I’ve been receiving from my efforts are the main thing that’s irking me.
“Someone will call you back.” (I have yet to receive a call back when told I would).
“If they were going to call you they would have already.”
“We’ll contact you in another 10 business days to let you know if you’ve been shortlisted."
“Your application was unsuccessful.”
Or no response at all, which is most common.

Given all the piddly frustrations and the sheer stasis of the job search so far, I expect that something has to look up soon. While it didn’t include a concrete offer of employment, last week wasn’t a complete wash. I received a call from a temp agency (the only one of the seven to which I’ve applied and follow-up-called to contact me) and went in for an interview with them on Thursday. It was a surprisingly enjoyable experience, since I’m still going through that initial infatuation with Australian phrases. “Hi, how you going?” the receptionist chirped cheerily as I walked in. This set the tone for my jovial interview a few minutes later. The interviewer frequently interjected, “Oh, good-O!” if I said something that pleased her. This infatuation also factored into the RSA course. Hearing “GOATee” instead of “goaTEE,” “trollied” instead of drunk and other random words made the class far more entertaining than it probably should have been.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new week. My fourth in Sydney. I haven’t given up yet. And some good things have been happening as well. But it’ll be easier to focus on those when I’m running on more than four hours of sleep.

Hitting the Streets

It seemed strangely fortuitous that I woke up to clouds and sprinkles today. Perhaps just because it was different from the long string of warm and absolutely clear days Sydney has had lately. Perhaps because it reminded me of London. I was planning to start the new branch of my job search today, and I found the weather strangely motivating. I discovered a library and its printing services yesterday, so went there straight away this morning to print out a stack of resumes for different purposes—theatre jobs and café jobs. I decided yesterday that working in a theatre would be fun, so I decided to pursue that in addition to café work.

I walked out to find the bus to Circular Quay waiting at the stop right across the street. I trotted across the intersection and boarded, intending to visit the four theatres clustered together in the Rocks area near the Opera House. The bus driver was cranky and the jerking motion of stopping and starting made me quite carsick. But that failed to make me feel downtrodden. It was lunchtime when I alighted in the Rocks. I figured that anyone who managed front-of-house staff would be eating, so I decided to do the same.

I wandered until I noticed a kebab stand. The food was a decent price and the structure itself didn’t look nearly as dodgy as most kebab shops do. I think grime is actually a hallmark of a respectable kebab place, but it’s still something I can do without. I ordered a falafel with tabouli and hummus sauce and enjoyed it quite immensely. The packaging was very innovative. It’s usually impossible to eat a kebab without half of its contents spilling out. But this kebab was wrapped in paper and slipped into a foil-lined sleeve. You simply pull out part of the kebab, roll up the resulting slack at the bottom of the foil sleeve and tear off the paper to eat it. Genius!

I crossed under the Harbour Bridge after lunch, and the rain began to fall quite a bit harder. Rivulets of cold water dripped off my umbrella and down the back of my shirt as I approached the theatre area. I was happy at the prospect of taking shelter. But my time outside didn’t end simply because I’d found the building. It looked nothing like I’d expected. It was a low, grey, wooden structure that occupied the entire length of a pier built out into the harbour. I slogged to the end of the pier through the gathering puddles, looking for the Bangarra Dance Company. I saw numerous fire doors, but no appropriately marked entrance.

I turned round and headed for the more visible entrance to the Sydney Dance Company section of the building. The space I entered looked like a cursorily renovated warehouse. The floors were constructed of well-trod diagonal wooden planks. Rows of windows were located near the ceiling and the floor, admitting a grey, hazy light that added to the careworn atmosphere. Thick, square, diagonally slanted slabs of wood obscured the top row of panes. A hip, bustling café counter was located near the door, and ambient house music throbbed through some suspended speakers. I loved it.

After wandering the interior for a bit, I saw a sign stating that the Administrative Offices were upstairs. I climbed the open, winding steps to find an empty reception desk just inside a glass-walled office. I timidly stepped inside, and a confused-looking man sitting just beyond the desk stood up to attend to me.
“I was wondering if you happen to be hiring,” I said.
“Wot, are you a teacher?” he inquired.
“No…I was wondering if you had any sort of front-of-house roles.”
His expression changed from quizzical to amused and slightly disdainful as he said no.

I was a bit put off, but not deterred. I went next door to the Sydney Theatre Company and dropped my CV off with their much friendlier receptionist. When I left I happened upon a map that showed me where the Bangarra administrative offices were located. I traced my steps back to the end of the pier, again without finding an appropriate door. I turned back once more and entered the only door I could open without setting off an alarm. Once inside, a piece of paper taped to a heavy beige door informed me that the Bangarra Administrative Offices lay just beyond. I’m not sure all the effort was well spent. The receptionist gave me the company’s card, saying that I should email my resume because all the entire production staff was on tour until the second week of November.

Shortly after leaving the pier, I happened upon the Sydney Theatre and decided to try my luck there. My shoes squeaked obnoxiously as I crossed the floor to the box office. The sole worker there said that they were always on the lookout for front-of-house staff.
“Do you have an RSA?” she asked. Huh? A what? I grudgingly had to display my ignorance.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Responsible Serving of Alcohol certificate.”
“No, I don’t,” I answered. I assume she’d already gathered that, since I didn’t even know what one was. She said that since front-of-house staff man the bar sometimes, she thought they were required to have an RSA. But she took my resume anyway and assured me she’d pass it on.

I attempted to find my way back to George Street, where I would find the two additional theatres I was planning to visit that day. I soon had no idea where I was. It was thrilling. I had my map in my messenger bag, so I could easily have figured out my coordinates. But I resisted looking at it. I had a good sense of which way I needed to go in order to reach George Street, and my roundabout route took me down a few new streets. When I emerged onto George Street, I saw a sign for Martin Place right over the road. Perfect! That was just where I needed to go!

I wound my way around a corner to the City Recital Hall and queried the box office attendant as to whether they were hiring.
“I’m not sure, but I can take your CV and pass it on,” he said. I was in the process of extracting it from its folder when he added, “You need an RSA to work in a front-of-house role.”
“I don’t have that,” I said disappointedly, thankful I now knew what it was.
“Everyone who works in a job where they serve alcohol needs to have one,” he stated matter-of-factly. I put my folder back in my bag.
“Do you know how I go about getting one? Is it a course?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a one or two day course. A lot of places do them. Just Google RSA. It usually costs about $80.”

Right. I decided to skip going to the last theatre until I had obtained said RSA. On the way home, I did made one last stop at the Fair Trade Coffee Company. I’d gone in the day before to inquire about whether they were hiring.
“We’re having a few people on and just seeing how they go,” the woman replied. “Do you have your CV?”
I didn’t at the time, but said I’d bring it by. I dipped in today to drop it off. It’s a relaxed, comfortable, slightly hippie café. Having a nose ring seems to be a prerequisite for working there, so I think I’d fit right in.

I didn’t get hired quite as fast as I thought I might today. But the process of searching was surprisingly fun. Despite the rain, going about and talking to people is much more enjoyable than sitting at home and typing a string of inquiry emails. I’m still inspired. Once my money finishes its electronic journey from the US to Australia, I’ll probably book myself into one of the RSA courses. Unless the café calls back first. I still don’t know what’s going to happen from here. But I’m getting used to liking that again.

A New Direction

I have days here that are better and worse, easier and harder. Yesterday was worse and harder. I was missing Andy particularly badly and feeling stressed about still not having found a job. Plus, I was already bored and faced a day frighteningly devoid of responsibilities or ideas on how to enjoy my leisure. The prospect of an entirely empty day spent by myself can make me anxious and uneasy for some reason. This was yet another in a long string of such days.

I eventually tried to kill some time by walking to Circular Quay, where the Opera House is located. My wanders there were plagued by discomfort and a frustratingly implacable discontent. It was the same unsettled feeling that has pervaded most of my days lately. Since I’ve already been to Circular Quay three or four times in the past two weeks, going there again didn’t help to change my dismal attitude. What did was reading my friend Erinn’s blog when I got home.

Erinn is a fellow expat. She relocated to Canada about a month before I left for Australia. She has also been facing a job search, displacement, and an unprecedented amount of free time. What she does with that free time is what particularly encouraged me. She writes, reads voraciously, ponders what she’s read, wanders, people-watches and makes plans for the future. A lot of that is what I have been doing in Sydney or used to do in London and Dublin.

Reading about her activities, and what interesting things have come out of them, made me realise that I’ve been looking at my Australian experience the wrong way. Having excessive free time isn’t bad. I just have to use it more constructively. I spoke with my parents yesterday, and my mom mused that if nothing else, this would be a good time for soul-searching. She’s right.

I have some soul-searching to catch up on. I’d postponed a lot of it while I was home, since I was wrapped up in my developing relationship with Andy and making logistical plans for Australia. I was disinclined to do a thorough examination of certain parts of my life that I was frustrated with—namely my job. I’m at a stage where I’m not really sure what I want to do for a career. I thought that would sort itself out once I arrived here. I had been looking at my time in Australia as an opportunity to find a job I loved and wanted to work in no matter where I lived.

But having clearance to work for one company for only six months is not conducive to being hired for a career-advancing job. The lack of responses I’ve received from the multitude of places I’ve applied is simply depressing. Even the temp agencies won’t contact me, and I get maddeningly fobbed off when I try to call and follow up. So my new plan is to take a more casual sort of job. It may not be the job of my dreams, but using my time here to figure out what the job of my dreams is would still be a worthwhile endeavour.

Andy encouraged this bud of an idea wholeheartedly. When I confessed my frequent thought of the day—that I almost hoped I wouldn’t find a job and would have to go home early—he was adamant that I shouldn’t give up. He said he could sense that I wasn’t fully engaged with my Sydney experience and suggested I do something immediately to make myself enjoy it more. Volunteering was one option he mentioned. I hadn’t thought about that before, but it’s a prospect I’ve become excited about. I could, for example, work at a café and use whatever day I have off to volunteer at an art museum.

After receiving so much indirect and direct encouragement, I have renewed energy for my job search. I also have a new attitude about being here. I’m on walkabout. I might as well follow the Australian example and enjoy it.