International Couple

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Bus Full of Slightly Drunks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Penguin Parades and Kangaroo Smacks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving in Melbourne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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