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.
25 November, 2008
20 November, 2008
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.
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.
12 November, 2008
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.
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.
10 November, 2008
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.
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.
02 November, 2008
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.
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.
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