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.
23 October, 2008
22 October, 2008
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!
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!
19 October, 2008
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.
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.
14 October, 2008
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.
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.
13 October, 2008
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.
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.
12 October, 2008
People and Place
I have frequently been at a loss lately. I really don’t know what I’m doing here. At first the whole point was to be anywhere but the US. Now I’m rethinking that, and reflecting on my previous abroad experiences. During my initial study abroad experience in London, I had unforgettable moments and developed an exhilarating independence. I also found closer friends than I’d ever had before. It wasn’t quite the same when I went back. I still loved the city, but I remember being lonely a lot.
I was desperately lonely in Dublin for a while as well. And though I never developed a particular affection for the place, I eventually solidified friendships that made my experience there a lot better. I was also still enchanted with the expat lifestyle. I was having incredible adventures, growing out of my shyness and developing my writing. I absolutely dreaded going home. So much so that I made a plan before I left Ireland to travel to Sydney in less than a year.
But I was taken by surprise. My life went in an unforseen new direction when I fell in love with Andy. And I realised that contentment has a lot less to do with where you live than I’d originally imagined. It’s all about connection. Having people that you care for in a place can change it entirely. That has a great deal to do with why I fell so hard for London initially. That eventually made the difference in Dublin. That completely upended my experience at home. That is what I’m lacking in Sydney.
As a result of my originally discovering it with flatmates I cared about, I have a tremendous affinity for London as a place. I’d often use that as a substitute for connection with people when I was lonely. I can do that a little bit with Sydney. It’s a cool city. But I’m lacking the absolute need to be here that I felt in London.
At first I thought that was just down to Andy not being here. A lot of it is. I miss him terribly, and our separation is, unfortunately, as difficult as I feared it would be. But it doesn’t have everything to do with Andy. A lot of it is just not having formed connections here yet. That will come.
For now I’m homesick. Wherever home may be. Part of it’s in England. Part of it’s in Ireland. Part of it’s in the US. And part of it’s in France. Because this has nothing to do with place. It’s the people that make it home.
I was desperately lonely in Dublin for a while as well. And though I never developed a particular affection for the place, I eventually solidified friendships that made my experience there a lot better. I was also still enchanted with the expat lifestyle. I was having incredible adventures, growing out of my shyness and developing my writing. I absolutely dreaded going home. So much so that I made a plan before I left Ireland to travel to Sydney in less than a year.
But I was taken by surprise. My life went in an unforseen new direction when I fell in love with Andy. And I realised that contentment has a lot less to do with where you live than I’d originally imagined. It’s all about connection. Having people that you care for in a place can change it entirely. That has a great deal to do with why I fell so hard for London initially. That eventually made the difference in Dublin. That completely upended my experience at home. That is what I’m lacking in Sydney.
As a result of my originally discovering it with flatmates I cared about, I have a tremendous affinity for London as a place. I’d often use that as a substitute for connection with people when I was lonely. I can do that a little bit with Sydney. It’s a cool city. But I’m lacking the absolute need to be here that I felt in London.
At first I thought that was just down to Andy not being here. A lot of it is. I miss him terribly, and our separation is, unfortunately, as difficult as I feared it would be. But it doesn’t have everything to do with Andy. A lot of it is just not having formed connections here yet. That will come.
For now I’m homesick. Wherever home may be. Part of it’s in England. Part of it’s in Ireland. Part of it’s in the US. And part of it’s in France. Because this has nothing to do with place. It’s the people that make it home.
07 October, 2008
Gastric Lament
I have been eating on a budget in Sydney. And I have been eating some pretty bad food. Not intentionally. I harbour a great hatred of spending money on a bad meal. It’s so unsatisfying and disappointing. But food prices here seem ridiculously high, the facilities in my hostel discourage me from cooking anything more complicated than pasta, and I’m not making any money. So I’ve been opting for cheap. I thought I was doing a good job of being discriminating, but not so.
The most recent run-in with bad cuisine occurred today at a take-away salad shop in the mall near Bondi Beach. The salad part of the salad was fine. It was the chicken in this dish that was particularly offensive. The first piece I ate was normal. The second was un-chewable. I had to pull the mass of what was decidedly not consumable chicken out of my mouth. The third had a disconcerting fishy taste.
After this, I examined the poultry more carefully. It was unbelievably thin, and most of the pieces I looked at were veined with gristle. I pushed the remaining slices to one corner of the take-away box and concentrated on isolating the greens. Unfortunately the disgusting meat had contaminated either the salad or my tastebuds and left me craving anything that would banish the foul flavour from my mouth. A Cadbury Time Out bar served that purpose quite nicely.
I’ve had particularly bad luck with Indian fare. A lamb vindaloo I ordered has the distinction not only of being the worst curry I’ve ever had, but probably the worst food. I enjoy Indian dishes because they’re hot. A good curry makes me sweat and makes my nose run. I want a vindaloo that leaves me gulping down every liquid within arm’s length, desperate to salve the third-degree burns in my mouth. This vindaloo had no spice. Actually, it had no flavour aside from that of the lamb. And that was bordering on rancid. I ate as much of it as I could tolerate and then closed the container, gagging a little.
After this experience, I don’t know why I risked buying bottled madras sauce from the grocery store a few days later. I certainly regretted it. My faith rested on a bottled green curry sauce I’d bought in Ireland that was quite good. This is not Ireland. It turned into yet another meal that I had to choke down, wincing at the odd tang of the spices.
But I am not yet despairing of ever finding tasty cuisine in Sydney. There have been a few bright spots. I stopped at an unassuming chippie near the beach tonight for dinner and ate the best plate of fish and chips I’ve ever tasted. I don’t know what kind of fish it was, but it was hot and light and flaky. The tang of the lemon and vinegar offset the buttery batter flavour perfectly.
Then when I got home I had a few of the TimTam biscuits I bought yesterday. They’re chocolate wafers with chocolate filling covered with dark chocolate. They’re crispy and creamy and…chocolaty. I can already see myself coming home with a stockpile of them. And I think they’ll be my exclusive meal option from now on.
The most recent run-in with bad cuisine occurred today at a take-away salad shop in the mall near Bondi Beach. The salad part of the salad was fine. It was the chicken in this dish that was particularly offensive. The first piece I ate was normal. The second was un-chewable. I had to pull the mass of what was decidedly not consumable chicken out of my mouth. The third had a disconcerting fishy taste.
After this, I examined the poultry more carefully. It was unbelievably thin, and most of the pieces I looked at were veined with gristle. I pushed the remaining slices to one corner of the take-away box and concentrated on isolating the greens. Unfortunately the disgusting meat had contaminated either the salad or my tastebuds and left me craving anything that would banish the foul flavour from my mouth. A Cadbury Time Out bar served that purpose quite nicely.
I’ve had particularly bad luck with Indian fare. A lamb vindaloo I ordered has the distinction not only of being the worst curry I’ve ever had, but probably the worst food. I enjoy Indian dishes because they’re hot. A good curry makes me sweat and makes my nose run. I want a vindaloo that leaves me gulping down every liquid within arm’s length, desperate to salve the third-degree burns in my mouth. This vindaloo had no spice. Actually, it had no flavour aside from that of the lamb. And that was bordering on rancid. I ate as much of it as I could tolerate and then closed the container, gagging a little.
After this experience, I don’t know why I risked buying bottled madras sauce from the grocery store a few days later. I certainly regretted it. My faith rested on a bottled green curry sauce I’d bought in Ireland that was quite good. This is not Ireland. It turned into yet another meal that I had to choke down, wincing at the odd tang of the spices.
But I am not yet despairing of ever finding tasty cuisine in Sydney. There have been a few bright spots. I stopped at an unassuming chippie near the beach tonight for dinner and ate the best plate of fish and chips I’ve ever tasted. I don’t know what kind of fish it was, but it was hot and light and flaky. The tang of the lemon and vinegar offset the buttery batter flavour perfectly.
Then when I got home I had a few of the TimTam biscuits I bought yesterday. They’re chocolate wafers with chocolate filling covered with dark chocolate. They’re crispy and creamy and…chocolaty. I can already see myself coming home with a stockpile of them. And I think they’ll be my exclusive meal option from now on.
06 October, 2008
Slightly Down Down Under
I love being an expat. I think. I’m not so sure at this point of my antipodean adventure. I forgot all the hard work and stress involved in establishing myself in a different country. I forgot how much of a confidence-shaker having no job and no home really is. I forgot the boredom and the loneliness.
This initial shock reminds me of my first few weeks in London. How I’m feeling now mirrors that experience nearly exactly. It involved frantically searching for jobs and flats and panicking at the prospect of not finding one or the other soon enough. That was combined with the boredom of not having a job to go to and not wanting to spend money I’m not earning on going out. That gave me a lot of time to dwell on missing people back home.
My experience in Sydney so far is pretty much the same. Except this time there are additional factors thrown in. I knew London. I had connections there. I had a friend there who met me at the airport and let me stay with her for two weeks. The same was true in Dublin. Here, I know no one and I’ve never even visited Australia before. And now I have a boyfriend on the other side of the world.
The last bit has proven more difficult than I anticipated. My communications with Andy have been uncertain. We are both having Internet troubles. The free wireless my hostel promised has only worked one day out of the seven I’ve been there. Andy has found Skype and gchat blocked in most places where he can access the Internet. But we’ve both bought our own wireless services now and should be able to talk more easily. And when we can talk, Andy has been a great source of encouragement.
This is, I hope, the worst stretch. Though it seems slow, I have made progress. I found a flat this week and will move in on 9 October. This is the first time that my flat search has gone so smoothly. It’s never been particularly hard; I’ve never had to look at more than three places before finding something suitable. But this time I loved the very first place I saw. The room I will have is huge and extends to my own private deck.
And, Sydney is awesome. Once I become fully settled I think I will absolutely love it here. On my first day I went to the Opera House. That was not the earth-moving experience I thought it would be, but the neighbouring Royal Botanic Gardens were. All the plants and wildlife are so new and interesting to me. I’ve yet to see any kangaroos, koalas, wallabies or platypi, but the cockatoos, small parrots and gigantic fruit bats flying around are amazing to see.
If I forgot how difficult it was to start over in a new country, I also forgot the full extent of the thrill I get from doing just that. I forgot the excitement of seeing a place that is entirely new. I forgot the sense of possibility that comes from getting lost. I forgot how fulfilling it is to meet new people and new friends. These are the things that will make this uncomfortable time worthwhile. They will also make me sure: I love being an expat.
This initial shock reminds me of my first few weeks in London. How I’m feeling now mirrors that experience nearly exactly. It involved frantically searching for jobs and flats and panicking at the prospect of not finding one or the other soon enough. That was combined with the boredom of not having a job to go to and not wanting to spend money I’m not earning on going out. That gave me a lot of time to dwell on missing people back home.
My experience in Sydney so far is pretty much the same. Except this time there are additional factors thrown in. I knew London. I had connections there. I had a friend there who met me at the airport and let me stay with her for two weeks. The same was true in Dublin. Here, I know no one and I’ve never even visited Australia before. And now I have a boyfriend on the other side of the world.
The last bit has proven more difficult than I anticipated. My communications with Andy have been uncertain. We are both having Internet troubles. The free wireless my hostel promised has only worked one day out of the seven I’ve been there. Andy has found Skype and gchat blocked in most places where he can access the Internet. But we’ve both bought our own wireless services now and should be able to talk more easily. And when we can talk, Andy has been a great source of encouragement.
This is, I hope, the worst stretch. Though it seems slow, I have made progress. I found a flat this week and will move in on 9 October. This is the first time that my flat search has gone so smoothly. It’s never been particularly hard; I’ve never had to look at more than three places before finding something suitable. But this time I loved the very first place I saw. The room I will have is huge and extends to my own private deck.
And, Sydney is awesome. Once I become fully settled I think I will absolutely love it here. On my first day I went to the Opera House. That was not the earth-moving experience I thought it would be, but the neighbouring Royal Botanic Gardens were. All the plants and wildlife are so new and interesting to me. I’ve yet to see any kangaroos, koalas, wallabies or platypi, but the cockatoos, small parrots and gigantic fruit bats flying around are amazing to see.
If I forgot how difficult it was to start over in a new country, I also forgot the full extent of the thrill I get from doing just that. I forgot the excitement of seeing a place that is entirely new. I forgot the sense of possibility that comes from getting lost. I forgot how fulfilling it is to meet new people and new friends. These are the things that will make this uncomfortable time worthwhile. They will also make me sure: I love being an expat.
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