That's what it says on a 50-ft. banner hanging over the main entrance to the Melbourne University campus. No intelligent design debates here!
Classes don't start til tomorrow, but I've been attending orientation workshops for a week now. The workshops are completely scintillating: "You and Your Tax File Number," "The Responsibilities and Structure of the Student/Supervisor Relationship," "How to Use the Library SuperSearch Database," etc. I am actually writing this during the "Strategies for Success" workshop. On the powerpoint screen: "Manage your time well, prioritize, make the best use of all available time." Check.
I'm signed up for three really exciting classes this semester: Value Theory, Metaphysics and Epistemology, and Moral Psychology. Ok, so maybe y'all don't think that sounds exciting, but I do. I guess that means I'm on the right track. I'll also be starting my year's diploma thesis (sortof like an undergrad senior year honors' thesis).
On an even more thrilling note, there's an outing club here at the University that has dozens of really fantastic trips planned for the semester, from one-day surfing lessons and cave exploration to weekend backpacking trips in the nearby mountain ranges to 11-day extravagent combo hiking/canooing/ATV-ing/etc. treks that cover thousands of miles. I of course want to sign up for all of them, but will probably just test the waters this semester with one or two. And there's a mountaineering club that I have learn more about. SO EXCITED!
And my very own photo tour of the campus: (more photos to be added soon)
There's also a rather unwieldy virtual tour of the campus here.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Sunday, March 2, 2008
the (rain)forest primeval
Erika bought herself a lovely book of the 60 best hikes (“walks”) in Australia. We leafed avidly through the section on Victoria (our fair state), and eventually chose to do none of them because we don’t have a car. Instead, on Saturday we took the train about 20 miles outside the city to a state park in the Dandenong mountain range that the book had mentioned but not detailed.
As soon as we got off the train in Belgrave, we knew we were someplace special. It smelled like the Smith plant house (misty and green plus sweet heaven and cow manure), and there were cockatoos feeding at a birdfeeder. We weren’t in the Central Business District anymore.
We walked through the tiny town, which is charming and strange, following our dodgy photocopied map a kilometer up the road. The sidewalk was really just a footpath, winding its way through people’s gardens and occasionally playing dual role as drainage ditch, driveway, reinforcing wall, etc. The town is cut into the side of a steep mountain, so they’re creative with their available space.
As I gazed over the painted tin rooftops of the houses at three distinct and mist-shrouded layers of forest and the profusion of Jurassic ferns, I remembered that the Dandenongs are, in fact, a rainforest. Right. Fortunately, when Erika packs for a hike, she prepares for all possible scenarios. An unexpected rainforest environment didn’t hold us back. Lilli, the umbrella came in very useful. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s not a good idea.
After finally finding our trailhead (in the back parking lot of a tavern), we headed into what Erika called “The Jungle! The Jungle!” Now, it’s not that I hadn’t been to the Dandenongs before. But I hadn’t been in a really long time and, while things were relatively familiar, I had forgotten how big everything is (and, well, that it was a rainforest, but…). The tallest tree in the world is somewhere in this forest. They’ve since lost it, which you’d think would be impossible, but somehow when you’re here it’s not all that surprising. Everything is incredibly big, in the literal sense of the word incredible—when looking at everything, you still can’t quite believe it’s that big.
It took us about forty minutes to go the first ½ kilometer because we had to stop every few meters to gape. It started with the cockatoos. Their gorgeous white shapes glide from limb to limb in the leafy canopy with a grace completely at odds with their raucous and obnoxious calls. Sooooar… SQWAWK! … Swoooop (coy glance, pretty eyes), … swoop… SQUAWK! CAHK CAKKKKK SCREEECH! …(pretty). Then there were pretty little green and red parrots that we think were laurakeets, and charming brown tree-hopping birds about the size of a can of tuna, the small kind (oh my eloquence…).
And then we nearly jumped out of our shoes when something huge erupted from the incredibly dense underbrush about a meter to our left and took off into the forest. By huge I mean like small pony sized. Like the kind you ride at the fair. The thing, which we only saw as BIG! FURRY! FAST! Brownish? was probably a wombat startled out of its daytime sleep. Erika had no idea that wombats were any bigger than a terrier. She went on about Rodents Of Unusual Size for some time after that. It really was very startling. And huge. And close.
The rest of our walk induced far less adrenaline, though no less amazement. We wandered up and down a few ridges, looked for a waterfall but never found it, had lunch (and a nap for Erika) by a stream, and took a lot of pictures (sorry). After scanning the canopy all day, we finally saw what we think was a koala dozing in the crook of a distant treetop. We decided this was an excellent conclusion to the day, and caught the train back home.
We’re caught wanting both to go back to that park again as soon as possible, and knowing that there’s so much to see in this amazing country. Erika’s suggested that she would have more time to see it all if she quit grad school. Luckily, this won’t be necessary, as we have weekends and holidays galore.
I’ve just realized I didn’t talk about the Lyrebird or the Kookaburra. They were awesome. Another time.
As soon as we got off the train in Belgrave, we knew we were someplace special. It smelled like the Smith plant house (misty and green plus sweet heaven and cow manure), and there were cockatoos feeding at a birdfeeder. We weren’t in the Central Business District anymore.
We walked through the tiny town, which is charming and strange, following our dodgy photocopied map a kilometer up the road. The sidewalk was really just a footpath, winding its way through people’s gardens and occasionally playing dual role as drainage ditch, driveway, reinforcing wall, etc. The town is cut into the side of a steep mountain, so they’re creative with their available space.
As I gazed over the painted tin rooftops of the houses at three distinct and mist-shrouded layers of forest and the profusion of Jurassic ferns, I remembered that the Dandenongs are, in fact, a rainforest. Right. Fortunately, when Erika packs for a hike, she prepares for all possible scenarios. An unexpected rainforest environment didn’t hold us back. Lilli, the umbrella came in very useful. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s not a good idea.
After finally finding our trailhead (in the back parking lot of a tavern), we headed into what Erika called “The Jungle! The Jungle!” Now, it’s not that I hadn’t been to the Dandenongs before. But I hadn’t been in a really long time and, while things were relatively familiar, I had forgotten how big everything is (and, well, that it was a rainforest, but…). The tallest tree in the world is somewhere in this forest. They’ve since lost it, which you’d think would be impossible, but somehow when you’re here it’s not all that surprising. Everything is incredibly big, in the literal sense of the word incredible—when looking at everything, you still can’t quite believe it’s that big.
It took us about forty minutes to go the first ½ kilometer because we had to stop every few meters to gape. It started with the cockatoos. Their gorgeous white shapes glide from limb to limb in the leafy canopy with a grace completely at odds with their raucous and obnoxious calls. Sooooar… SQWAWK! … Swoooop (coy glance, pretty eyes), … swoop… SQUAWK! CAHK CAKKKKK SCREEECH! …(pretty). Then there were pretty little green and red parrots that we think were laurakeets, and charming brown tree-hopping birds about the size of a can of tuna, the small kind (oh my eloquence…).
And then we nearly jumped out of our shoes when something huge erupted from the incredibly dense underbrush about a meter to our left and took off into the forest. By huge I mean like small pony sized. Like the kind you ride at the fair. The thing, which we only saw as BIG! FURRY! FAST! Brownish? was probably a wombat startled out of its daytime sleep. Erika had no idea that wombats were any bigger than a terrier. She went on about Rodents Of Unusual Size for some time after that. It really was very startling. And huge. And close.
The rest of our walk induced far less adrenaline, though no less amazement. We wandered up and down a few ridges, looked for a waterfall but never found it, had lunch (and a nap for Erika) by a stream, and took a lot of pictures (sorry). After scanning the canopy all day, we finally saw what we think was a koala dozing in the crook of a distant treetop. We decided this was an excellent conclusion to the day, and caught the train back home.
We’re caught wanting both to go back to that park again as soon as possible, and knowing that there’s so much to see in this amazing country. Erika’s suggested that she would have more time to see it all if she quit grad school. Luckily, this won’t be necessary, as we have weekends and holidays galore.
I’ve just realized I didn’t talk about the Lyrebird or the Kookaburra. They were awesome. Another time.
home tiny home
After a week's hard work, our apartment feels like a home. Thanks to bookshelves and little plants from Ikea (insert angelic choir here) we were able to divide our one room into a bedroom and living/dining room. It makes a big difference. I am completely and totaly in love with Ikea.
Monday, February 18, 2008
on the fly
ok, at a really really expensive internet cafe (is there any other kind?), so this is going to be shorthand:
we have an apartment, right in downtown Melbourne, which means it is really convenient and makes our commutes supereasy but which also means it's really tiny. but at least it is ours. photos and address forthcoming, the later in an email.
petra's job is going really well so far, even though she has a cubicle.
it's really, really hot. and there isn't enough water. no surprises there, but it's still surprisingly uncomfortable.
last night we went to a great outdoor short film festival -- TropFest 2008 -- with an assortment of the cousins and other family. great fun, rather idyllic really. i'm enjoying being part of an astoundingly well-populated, fun, intelligent, good-looking Italian family. and the films were fantastic. and my favorite one won. "Marry Me," with fantastic 8-year-old actors.
did I mention it's hot here?
more soon, I promise.
we have an apartment, right in downtown Melbourne, which means it is really convenient and makes our commutes supereasy but which also means it's really tiny. but at least it is ours. photos and address forthcoming, the later in an email.
petra's job is going really well so far, even though she has a cubicle.
it's really, really hot. and there isn't enough water. no surprises there, but it's still surprisingly uncomfortable.
last night we went to a great outdoor short film festival -- TropFest 2008 -- with an assortment of the cousins and other family. great fun, rather idyllic really. i'm enjoying being part of an astoundingly well-populated, fun, intelligent, good-looking Italian family. and the films were fantastic. and my favorite one won. "Marry Me," with fantastic 8-year-old actors.
did I mention it's hot here?
more soon, I promise.
Monday, February 11, 2008
sun and success
This officially ranks as the easiest job search I have ever undertaken. After 48 hours in Melbourne, I already have a respectable job at a very well-known and well-regarded international aide and development organization—exactly what I was looking for. World Vision is Australia’s largest humanitarian aide organization, employing about 500 people just in the Melbourne headquarters. They work globally, focusing in the Asia/Pacific region and parts of east and south Africa. The thing I really love about them is their focus on sustainability and community partnership.
Today was our first business day in Australia, and we put it to very good use: opening a bank account, registering with the taxation office (which is like getting a Social Security number), and visiting the Medicare office. My uncle John has been an expert on all things practical: he has been our financial advisor, translator, personal reference, proofreader, chauffer, chef, social coordinator, tour guide, etc., working non-stop since we arrived to get us set up. Some of this is perhaps motivated by his desire to get us ensconced somewhere other than his bedroom, which he has graciously lent us until we get our own place.
Having taken care of the job search, we’ve thrown ourselves into the much more exciting apartment search. We’ve been poring over maps of Melbourne and its many neighborhoods and surrounding suburbs to find the perfect place. Erika, whose love of maps is deep and abiding, has particularly enjoyed this. More news on the home front soon.
On the events side of things, yesterday we went to a festival in one of the hippest seaside suburbs, St. Kilda. 340,000 young people. Great music, fantastic food, incredible peoplewatching, lovely sandy beaches, gay men. We particularly liked a culturally-amalgamated band Direct Influence that was playing in the beer garden. Erika got a free straw hat and new sunglasses (fully covering with 100% UV protection, Lilli). Our sunscreen was in our luggage which was lost, but fortunately we remembered to pick some up before our toes got crispy. The sun is really intense here. It’s like winter sun with summer heat. The angle and brightness of the sharpest winter sky but the warmth and color of the summer sun. It can be a bit much—but we’re not complaining!
Oh, and yes, our bags arrived safe and whole. We’re good to go.
Today was our first business day in Australia, and we put it to very good use: opening a bank account, registering with the taxation office (which is like getting a Social Security number), and visiting the Medicare office. My uncle John has been an expert on all things practical: he has been our financial advisor, translator, personal reference, proofreader, chauffer, chef, social coordinator, tour guide, etc., working non-stop since we arrived to get us set up. Some of this is perhaps motivated by his desire to get us ensconced somewhere other than his bedroom, which he has graciously lent us until we get our own place.
Having taken care of the job search, we’ve thrown ourselves into the much more exciting apartment search. We’ve been poring over maps of Melbourne and its many neighborhoods and surrounding suburbs to find the perfect place. Erika, whose love of maps is deep and abiding, has particularly enjoyed this. More news on the home front soon.
On the events side of things, yesterday we went to a festival in one of the hippest seaside suburbs, St. Kilda. 340,000 young people. Great music, fantastic food, incredible peoplewatching, lovely sandy beaches, gay men. We particularly liked a culturally-amalgamated band Direct Influence that was playing in the beer garden. Erika got a free straw hat and new sunglasses (fully covering with 100% UV protection, Lilli). Our sunscreen was in our luggage which was lost, but fortunately we remembered to pick some up before our toes got crispy. The sun is really intense here. It’s like winter sun with summer heat. The angle and brightness of the sharpest winter sky but the warmth and color of the summer sun. It can be a bit much—but we’re not complaining!
Oh, and yes, our bags arrived safe and whole. We’re good to go.
first impressions
Now that I’ve been in Melbourne for 48 hours, I feel I can authoritatively report on its nature and character.
The city is quite unique, but has something in its flavor that reminds me of southern California, Sicily, Nice, the garden district of New Orleans, the outskirts of London, a less gritty Thayer St, a dash of Bellingham WA, the most affluent parts of Costa Rica, a touch of India. I couldn’t really say what of each of these is here, but they come to mind.
It’s very lovely, clean, tropical, urban, beachy, young, sunny, open, colorful, hip, lots of graffiti. Smells good: dry grass, salt, eucalyptus, white tea, old wood, milk soap, juniper, glass, line-dried laundry, whiffs of sweet flowers and coffee and saccharine auto exhaust and curry and seaweed and biscotti. The quality of light is refreshing, crisp but not white, rich but not golden, more diffuse than such clear skies warrant, fantastic for photos. It reminds me a bit of the light on Prince Edward Island, but falling on much brighter colors.
Everything is unfamiliar, which is fun but disconcerting: trees, bushes, birds, cars, architecture, words, signs, clothes, haircuts, social signals, stereotypes. I’ve never ever seen most of them before. I’m accustomed to knowing the name and history and edible/medicinal properties every single plant and animal, accurately reading people in one glance, knowing how to get anywhere by the most scenic and efficient route, and knowing where to expect to see the sun. The sun’s on the wrong side of the sky. It keeps throwing me off. I think we’re driving east, and we’re going west. I can’t express how unsettling it is.
Because it’s such a fashionable, urban place, I keep being surprised by the fact that it’s right on the ocean, that it’s a beach city. Most places I’m familiar with are either cities that happen to be on the coast or beach towns that happen to have a lot of people living there. This is equally a beach town and a city. It gets cold at night and intensely sunny in the midafternoon, and there are urban wind tunnels. There are lots of sailboats and jetskis, and there are businessmen in slick suits and powermoms with strollers and yoga pants and pugs, chic cafes and hotdog stands, flipflops and Dolce, Jeeps and Smart Cars. There’s a great public transit system (Petra says it’s like Portland). People drive like maniacs, and there are plenty of sun-blissed beachers.
The populace in general seems quite relaxed, kind, forthright, affluent, clean, wholesome, and fun-loving. I’m not saying they necessarily ARE all of those things, they just seem so. But I think there is a real truth to their being so much more relaxed than I’m used to. The social services and health insurance and education and everything here is so so so much better than at home that people don’t have to worry as much about just coping as we do.
It’s especially notable in all the parents of young children (of which there seem to be a lot). The parents are like people at home who don’t have kids. I don’t quite know how to put it. At home, if there’s a young 30-something couple and they have a kid, they’re almost certainly going to seem more exhausted, more suspicious, more performative of responsibility, more miserly, less fashionable, less happy, less open, less social than their same-aged childless cohorts. The parents here seem relaxed, hip, social, comfortable. The kids seem to blossom as a result—they all seem calm, happy, mature, intelligent, healthy. All of them. I haven’t yet seen an exception, a single frazzled kid or parent. And with standard 12-month maternity leave, regular free childcare, excellent socialized health care, and free or practically free education all the way up through the end of college, why not relax?
More impressions soon.
The city is quite unique, but has something in its flavor that reminds me of southern California, Sicily, Nice, the garden district of New Orleans, the outskirts of London, a less gritty Thayer St, a dash of Bellingham WA, the most affluent parts of Costa Rica, a touch of India. I couldn’t really say what of each of these is here, but they come to mind.
It’s very lovely, clean, tropical, urban, beachy, young, sunny, open, colorful, hip, lots of graffiti. Smells good: dry grass, salt, eucalyptus, white tea, old wood, milk soap, juniper, glass, line-dried laundry, whiffs of sweet flowers and coffee and saccharine auto exhaust and curry and seaweed and biscotti. The quality of light is refreshing, crisp but not white, rich but not golden, more diffuse than such clear skies warrant, fantastic for photos. It reminds me a bit of the light on Prince Edward Island, but falling on much brighter colors.
Everything is unfamiliar, which is fun but disconcerting: trees, bushes, birds, cars, architecture, words, signs, clothes, haircuts, social signals, stereotypes. I’ve never ever seen most of them before. I’m accustomed to knowing the name and history and edible/medicinal properties every single plant and animal, accurately reading people in one glance, knowing how to get anywhere by the most scenic and efficient route, and knowing where to expect to see the sun. The sun’s on the wrong side of the sky. It keeps throwing me off. I think we’re driving east, and we’re going west. I can’t express how unsettling it is.
Because it’s such a fashionable, urban place, I keep being surprised by the fact that it’s right on the ocean, that it’s a beach city. Most places I’m familiar with are either cities that happen to be on the coast or beach towns that happen to have a lot of people living there. This is equally a beach town and a city. It gets cold at night and intensely sunny in the midafternoon, and there are urban wind tunnels. There are lots of sailboats and jetskis, and there are businessmen in slick suits and powermoms with strollers and yoga pants and pugs, chic cafes and hotdog stands, flipflops and Dolce, Jeeps and Smart Cars. There’s a great public transit system (Petra says it’s like Portland). People drive like maniacs, and there are plenty of sun-blissed beachers.
The populace in general seems quite relaxed, kind, forthright, affluent, clean, wholesome, and fun-loving. I’m not saying they necessarily ARE all of those things, they just seem so. But I think there is a real truth to their being so much more relaxed than I’m used to. The social services and health insurance and education and everything here is so so so much better than at home that people don’t have to worry as much about just coping as we do.
It’s especially notable in all the parents of young children (of which there seem to be a lot). The parents are like people at home who don’t have kids. I don’t quite know how to put it. At home, if there’s a young 30-something couple and they have a kid, they’re almost certainly going to seem more exhausted, more suspicious, more performative of responsibility, more miserly, less fashionable, less happy, less open, less social than their same-aged childless cohorts. The parents here seem relaxed, hip, social, comfortable. The kids seem to blossom as a result—they all seem calm, happy, mature, intelligent, healthy. All of them. I haven’t yet seen an exception, a single frazzled kid or parent. And with standard 12-month maternity leave, regular free childcare, excellent socialized health care, and free or practically free education all the way up through the end of college, why not relax?
More impressions soon.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
i’ll fly away, oh glory!
We’ve arrived in Melbourne safe and sound. Erika is shocked to report that Australia really does exist, and isn’t a mythical land after all. Here’s how we got here:
Petra:
First we packed. A lot. It took us about 20 hours to pare our worldly possessions down to 4 checked bags of a total size less than 208” and less than 50 pounds each, two carry on bags of less than 45” and 15 pounds, and a personal item each. But we did it. Erika is a god of real-life tetris. See, those hours on the Gameboy really did pay off.
(After hours of baggage research, we’re pleased to inform you that should you ever wish to include antlers in your checked luggage, American Airlines regulations specify that they must be removed of all debris and that the skull must be fully wrapped and the tips protected. You may bring one (1) hang glider for an additional charge of $80, a charge which also applies to the one (1) javelin or set of oars you are allowed. Bowling balls must be packaged in a carry case with accompanying shoes. Unfortunately, no vaulting poles or kayaks are allowed.)
Our departure committee of my parents, Erika’s mom, and us woke up at 3:30 this morning to pack the car (the Tetris God blessed us once more by fitting all of our bags in the boot of one small SUV). By 4:40 am we were driving to Logan through the gross and slopping snow, which made us not so sad to be leaving New England after all. At the time of this writing we are at the airport and through security, eagerly awaiting the start of our 32 hour plane adventure. More soon!
Erika:
The flight from Boston to LA was uneventful except for the remarkably pitiful service on this Delta leg of our trip. The airline seems determined to deprive and depress passengers as much as possible: flimsy sweaty blankets, horrid lighting, no food, very little water, wacky cabin air, and of course tiny seats. Yet there were very few people on the flight, so we each got a three-seat row to stretch out on. Erika actually claimed six seats, three on either side of the plane, and spent a good hour popping back and forth to see the different scenery. This was especially exciting when we flew over the Grand Canyon.
Upon arriving in LA, we had to find our way outside, walk about ¾ of a mile past two other terminals to get to our new terminal, check in again, get new boarding passes, re-check our bags even though we didn’t have them (the hidden baggage gnomes did), go back through security, freak out because the official told us we were going to miss our plane, find out the plane was in fact delayed and we had an hour and a half to wait, mentally shake our fists at the official that made us freak out, and wait to board. And stare at the plane that would take us all the way across the Atlantic in one go. The really, really, really big plane. I get so used to the 747s that I always forget how big these others are: two levels, with wings that are so wide they curl up at the end. It was like Air Force One. But bigger. Whoa.
I meant to ask how many people the plane fit, but forgot. My educated guess would be about 1000 passengers. Seriously. It was 10 seats wide, and we were in row 65, and were a little more than halfway down the plane, so there were probably about 80 rows in economy, plus business and first class, and I don’t even know about the upper level. We’re talking a big plane here. And in the lovely economy class, we were each granted about 22” x 30” for our 15 hour flight.
They made it about as good as it could be, considering. Most of the food was rather tasty, especially the melon creamsicles and the hot cocoa, and they kept it coming. Plenty of water and juice. A little stretching area outside the bathrooms. No seatbelt light the whole flight. About 50 personal-choice on-demand movies, TV shows, and video games on your own TV screen. (Between us we watched Elizabeth, The Darjeeling Express, The Bee Movie, Stardust, Désaccord Pafait, a documentary on Australian linguistic phonics, and played Tetris.)
Our rowmate, who had the aisle seat, was thankfully patient with our frequent bathroom and stretching breaks. I felt really bad for the people sitting with his friend, though. His friend was extremely obese, and had no legs, and had the aisle seat. No joke—and he certainly had no sense of humor about it. So the people sitting in the inner seats from him were pretty well trapped for the whole flight. Not an ordeal I would wish on my theoretical worst enemies.
I was totally excited about watching movies for 14 hours straight. After three movies, though, I was ready to call it quits. It turns out that’s not as much fun as it sounds. Unfortunately, the 6 hours I’d filled wasn’t even halfway through the flight. I spent the second half of the flight wishing I wanted to watch more movies, and feeling increasingly like a pile of toxic withered grout. By the time we arrived in Sydney, I wasn’t sure if I could stand up, let alone walk or maintain basic bodily functions. I was pushing serious exhaustion at this point, was quite dehydrated despite my best water-guzzling efforts, and was irrationally convinced they wouldn’t let me through customs and would send me home on another 15 hour flight without my ever seeing Australia. I was sure this ordeal would kill me, and was resigning myself to death by plane travel.
Of course, the immigration officer was a lovely man who kindly chatted with me and Petra, welcoming us to Australia with tips on how to find supportive communities and sincerely sharing how glad he was that we were joining his beloved country. My visa seemed to do the trick, and we didn’t even get our oddly full and lumpy bags checked by customs. We were in.
In the Sydney airport, at least. Where we still are. Six hours later. It’s 3:30 am local time, and we have two hours to go until we get to check in for our last leg to Melbourne. We found the sad little corner of the airport where they let ridiculously-layover-ed people like us sleep, claimed our over-armrest-ed set of seats for the night, and settled in. Not so bad, really. There’s a bathroom and water fountain around the corner, and they stopped jackhammering an hour ago. Here’s to hoping for an uneventful conclusion of our travels.
Petra:
The flight from Sydney to Melbourne was blissfully short and uneventful. We arrived in Melbourne at 7:30 am, and my uncle John and cousin Matt were there to meet us. Our baggage was not, though. It was still in Sydney. (The friendly Australian baggage handlers will deliver them to us tomorrow.)
After figuring that out, we took a scenic drive to John’s place in Brighton where we’re staying, had showers and some coffee, and found a second-hand clothing store (“Op Shop”) and discount warehouse (“Bond shop”) where we gratefully procured clean clothes.
John then took us on a day-long driving tour of Melbourne to get Erika oriented and me re-oriented. A lot has changed in the three years since I’ve been here—lots of new building. We visited my grandmother (“Nonna”—Italian) Nella, who was having a very good day, and my grandfather’s grave as well. Erika was excited to see the University of Melbourne campus, which looks reassuringly like a real university campus, with nice gothic brick and stone buildings and ugly things from the 70s. She’s still not entirely convinced that this place isn’t a dream, since everything is backwards—not only the roads and seasons and all, but even the sun’s on the wrong side of the sky.
It’s currently 76 degrees and sunny. Everyone’s friendly. The food is delicious—even the milk is better than at home. It’s good to be here.
Petra:
First we packed. A lot. It took us about 20 hours to pare our worldly possessions down to 4 checked bags of a total size less than 208” and less than 50 pounds each, two carry on bags of less than 45” and 15 pounds, and a personal item each. But we did it. Erika is a god of real-life tetris. See, those hours on the Gameboy really did pay off.
(After hours of baggage research, we’re pleased to inform you that should you ever wish to include antlers in your checked luggage, American Airlines regulations specify that they must be removed of all debris and that the skull must be fully wrapped and the tips protected. You may bring one (1) hang glider for an additional charge of $80, a charge which also applies to the one (1) javelin or set of oars you are allowed. Bowling balls must be packaged in a carry case with accompanying shoes. Unfortunately, no vaulting poles or kayaks are allowed.)
Our departure committee of my parents, Erika’s mom, and us woke up at 3:30 this morning to pack the car (the Tetris God blessed us once more by fitting all of our bags in the boot of one small SUV). By 4:40 am we were driving to Logan through the gross and slopping snow, which made us not so sad to be leaving New England after all. At the time of this writing we are at the airport and through security, eagerly awaiting the start of our 32 hour plane adventure. More soon!
Erika:
The flight from Boston to LA was uneventful except for the remarkably pitiful service on this Delta leg of our trip. The airline seems determined to deprive and depress passengers as much as possible: flimsy sweaty blankets, horrid lighting, no food, very little water, wacky cabin air, and of course tiny seats. Yet there were very few people on the flight, so we each got a three-seat row to stretch out on. Erika actually claimed six seats, three on either side of the plane, and spent a good hour popping back and forth to see the different scenery. This was especially exciting when we flew over the Grand Canyon.
Upon arriving in LA, we had to find our way outside, walk about ¾ of a mile past two other terminals to get to our new terminal, check in again, get new boarding passes, re-check our bags even though we didn’t have them (the hidden baggage gnomes did), go back through security, freak out because the official told us we were going to miss our plane, find out the plane was in fact delayed and we had an hour and a half to wait, mentally shake our fists at the official that made us freak out, and wait to board. And stare at the plane that would take us all the way across the Atlantic in one go. The really, really, really big plane. I get so used to the 747s that I always forget how big these others are: two levels, with wings that are so wide they curl up at the end. It was like Air Force One. But bigger. Whoa.
I meant to ask how many people the plane fit, but forgot. My educated guess would be about 1000 passengers. Seriously. It was 10 seats wide, and we were in row 65, and were a little more than halfway down the plane, so there were probably about 80 rows in economy, plus business and first class, and I don’t even know about the upper level. We’re talking a big plane here. And in the lovely economy class, we were each granted about 22” x 30” for our 15 hour flight.
They made it about as good as it could be, considering. Most of the food was rather tasty, especially the melon creamsicles and the hot cocoa, and they kept it coming. Plenty of water and juice. A little stretching area outside the bathrooms. No seatbelt light the whole flight. About 50 personal-choice on-demand movies, TV shows, and video games on your own TV screen. (Between us we watched Elizabeth, The Darjeeling Express, The Bee Movie, Stardust, Désaccord Pafait, a documentary on Australian linguistic phonics, and played Tetris.)
Our rowmate, who had the aisle seat, was thankfully patient with our frequent bathroom and stretching breaks. I felt really bad for the people sitting with his friend, though. His friend was extremely obese, and had no legs, and had the aisle seat. No joke—and he certainly had no sense of humor about it. So the people sitting in the inner seats from him were pretty well trapped for the whole flight. Not an ordeal I would wish on my theoretical worst enemies.
I was totally excited about watching movies for 14 hours straight. After three movies, though, I was ready to call it quits. It turns out that’s not as much fun as it sounds. Unfortunately, the 6 hours I’d filled wasn’t even halfway through the flight. I spent the second half of the flight wishing I wanted to watch more movies, and feeling increasingly like a pile of toxic withered grout. By the time we arrived in Sydney, I wasn’t sure if I could stand up, let alone walk or maintain basic bodily functions. I was pushing serious exhaustion at this point, was quite dehydrated despite my best water-guzzling efforts, and was irrationally convinced they wouldn’t let me through customs and would send me home on another 15 hour flight without my ever seeing Australia. I was sure this ordeal would kill me, and was resigning myself to death by plane travel.
Of course, the immigration officer was a lovely man who kindly chatted with me and Petra, welcoming us to Australia with tips on how to find supportive communities and sincerely sharing how glad he was that we were joining his beloved country. My visa seemed to do the trick, and we didn’t even get our oddly full and lumpy bags checked by customs. We were in.
In the Sydney airport, at least. Where we still are. Six hours later. It’s 3:30 am local time, and we have two hours to go until we get to check in for our last leg to Melbourne. We found the sad little corner of the airport where they let ridiculously-layover-ed people like us sleep, claimed our over-armrest-ed set of seats for the night, and settled in. Not so bad, really. There’s a bathroom and water fountain around the corner, and they stopped jackhammering an hour ago. Here’s to hoping for an uneventful conclusion of our travels.
Petra:
The flight from Sydney to Melbourne was blissfully short and uneventful. We arrived in Melbourne at 7:30 am, and my uncle John and cousin Matt were there to meet us. Our baggage was not, though. It was still in Sydney. (The friendly Australian baggage handlers will deliver them to us tomorrow.)
After figuring that out, we took a scenic drive to John’s place in Brighton where we’re staying, had showers and some coffee, and found a second-hand clothing store (“Op Shop”) and discount warehouse (“Bond shop”) where we gratefully procured clean clothes.
John then took us on a day-long driving tour of Melbourne to get Erika oriented and me re-oriented. A lot has changed in the three years since I’ve been here—lots of new building. We visited my grandmother (“Nonna”—Italian) Nella, who was having a very good day, and my grandfather’s grave as well. Erika was excited to see the University of Melbourne campus, which looks reassuringly like a real university campus, with nice gothic brick and stone buildings and ugly things from the 70s. She’s still not entirely convinced that this place isn’t a dream, since everything is backwards—not only the roads and seasons and all, but even the sun’s on the wrong side of the sky.
It’s currently 76 degrees and sunny. Everyone’s friendly. The food is delicious—even the milk is better than at home. It’s good to be here.
Monday, January 28, 2008
we're really going!
After three years of dreaming, two years of planning, a year and a half of paperwork, and seven months of bureaucratic morass:
1) Erika actually has her visa
2) and she’s officially a graduate student at Melbourne University,
3) we have our plane tickets, and
4) we’re actually moving to Australia.
We’re leaving at the crack of dawn on Feb. 7th. Going away party TBA.
As an added bonus, I already have a job interview lined up!
Yay! (Now off to pack...)
Saturday, January 26, 2008
home for the holidays
The past month and a half since we got back to Massachusetts have been busy, festive, and delightfully filled with friends and family. My mother's brother John came from Melbourne for Christmas, flying in the day after we arrived back home. He was lucky enough to arrive just ahead of one of the most beautiful snowstorms of the season. Actually, given the beautiful snowstorm, he was lucky to have made it through Chicago in the first place. I woke him up early the next morning to see the lovely snow. While he did seem genuinely appreciative of the view from inside the house, he was strangely reluctant to accept my offer to teach him how to shovel the driveway.
Concord is a delightfully Norman Rockwellian place to spend Christmas. The town decorates the 50 foot pine tree in the center of the town green, and every year about 300 people show up to sing carols on Christmas Eve. This year I was especially happy that Erika's mother Lilli and sister Lisa could come up for Christmas Eve, which we spent at my mother's best friend’s house with the usual crowd. Mum made a gingerbread house, I decorated it, and the several toddlers present a Christmas Eve joyfully decimated it with a hammer at the end of evening.
After a lovely Christmas morning at my parents’, characterized by gifts of interesting books, delicious food, and the collecting of commemorative quarters, we said a temporary farewell to Lilli and Lisa. Mum, dad, Erika, me, and John all piled into the car and drove north. Four hours later we arrived in my father's hometown of Lancaster New Hampshire, to celebrate Christmas with my state-side extended family. They're wonderful. Aunt Sylvia made oyster stew. Cousins Chris and Lorna teased us about being flat-landers and Democrats, cousins Peter and Dennis continued my education in the key New Hampshire industries of hunting and skiing, and we all ate a bit too much.
Taking the very very scenic route home via my parents’ new summer place on the coast of Maine, we were surprised to come upon an Elk farm. I love Maine. And I love elk. My uncle John was delighted by them.
We got a chance to visit twice this holiday season with Erika's older brother Reed and his wife Sue. As they wound their way from North Carolina to northern Maine, we met up at their uncle's house in Connecticut for great food, visiting, and carol singing. We were lucky enough to corner them again on their way back down for New Years at Lilli's house. We played with our new Christmas toys (webcams! bwa ha ha, you’ve been warned), learned a new card game, and ate ALL of the delicious food in pretty boxes that mysteriously proliferates around the holidays. Despite valiant efforts—no, really, we didn’t even try—none of us stayed up until midnight. We’re officially old.
Since then we've been continually preparing for overseas moves: first helping Lisa get ready for a four-month teaching engagement in Siena, Italy (where she is now), and then preparing for our own move to Australia. More news on that front soon!
Concord is a delightfully Norman Rockwellian place to spend Christmas. The town decorates the 50 foot pine tree in the center of the town green, and every year about 300 people show up to sing carols on Christmas Eve. This year I was especially happy that Erika's mother Lilli and sister Lisa could come up for Christmas Eve, which we spent at my mother's best friend’s house with the usual crowd. Mum made a gingerbread house, I decorated it, and the several toddlers present a Christmas Eve joyfully decimated it with a hammer at the end of evening.
After a lovely Christmas morning at my parents’, characterized by gifts of interesting books, delicious food, and the collecting of commemorative quarters, we said a temporary farewell to Lilli and Lisa. Mum, dad, Erika, me, and John all piled into the car and drove north. Four hours later we arrived in my father's hometown of Lancaster New Hampshire, to celebrate Christmas with my state-side extended family. They're wonderful. Aunt Sylvia made oyster stew. Cousins Chris and Lorna teased us about being flat-landers and Democrats, cousins Peter and Dennis continued my education in the key New Hampshire industries of hunting and skiing, and we all ate a bit too much.
Taking the very very scenic route home via my parents’ new summer place on the coast of Maine, we were surprised to come upon an Elk farm. I love Maine. And I love elk. My uncle John was delighted by them.
We got a chance to visit twice this holiday season with Erika's older brother Reed and his wife Sue. As they wound their way from North Carolina to northern Maine, we met up at their uncle's house in Connecticut for great food, visiting, and carol singing. We were lucky enough to corner them again on their way back down for New Years at Lilli's house. We played with our new Christmas toys (webcams! bwa ha ha, you’ve been warned), learned a new card game, and ate ALL of the delicious food in pretty boxes that mysteriously proliferates around the holidays. Despite valiant efforts—no, really, we didn’t even try—none of us stayed up until midnight. We’re officially old.
Since then we've been continually preparing for overseas moves: first helping Lisa get ready for a four-month teaching engagement in Siena, Italy (where she is now), and then preparing for our own move to Australia. More news on that front soon!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
the french quarter
We’ve realized we didn’t actually tell you about the French Quarter, the only part of New Orleans most of you have ever seen. It is the oldest part of town, originally settled by the eponymous French settlers, though it was later held briefly by the Spanish before becoming nominally American. It is hands-down the most European neighborhood I’ve ever seen on this continent, with truly glorious architecture, and has a history more rich and dramatic than its measly (by Continental standards) 400-some-odd years of permanently settled existence.
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)