At the moment I am exhausted, hungry, and happy. I am washing kale in the hopes of replicating a dish Phoebe made for me once last year. I don’t actually have the recipe, and only sort of remember what was in it, but I don’t intend to let that stop me. Delicious kale, here we come.
The stress of culinary uncertainty is not the cause of my exhaustion. I’m tired because last night I went out to a Bollywood dancing night with a new friend from work, Ruchi. We had an awesome time. Ruchi’s a really good dancer—she’s part of a Bollywood dance troop, and teaches and performs on a regular basis. We were, in fact, at the club with the rest of her dance troop. Most of their dancing was choreographed and well-practiced. Needless to say, this was a bit intimidating, but she says I did fine. I’m hooked—I’ve been energetically bobbing my shoulders and flitting my hands all day. Despite only coming home at 4 am, after even more dancing and chocolate cake.
Erika and I spent most of the day biking around the city. We first went to visit a kitten that she’s fallen in love with at a nearby pet store. Big surprise, it’s a curious and energetic tiger-striped little Scottish wildcat. Not that she’s consistent or anything. Kittens here cost about $300 and are in great demand, which is bizarre to us, coming from a place where you often can’t even give them away for free. All ‘shelters’ here are swift kill shelters, since feral cats and dogs are the biggest threat to native Australian wildlife. The Aussies value their native animals much more than do stray pets. While I agree with that, it’s still sad to think about, and it does lead to a shortage of kittens. (Don’t worry, we’re not actually getting any pets. Just visiting pet stores.)
After that we went to worship in the blue and yellow temple of economy and design. Ikea is such a wonderfully respectful store. You only have to walk in the door to feel accommodated and catered to. And encouraged to spend money. Today the place was full of adorable babies, which was very distracting. We successfully escaped with the picture frames we came for and only one additional unplanned purchase of a small plastic cup. The highly discounted red leather couch was very tempting, but would have been difficult to carry home on the back of our bikes, and we really really don’t need another couch.
This evening we’re going to watch movies, eat (hopefully delicious) kale, and go to bed early. As glamorous as it is to live abroad, it’s nice to have a little mundanity now and then.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
snowwalking
This weekend, I was cold. Very, very cold. “In Australia, the sunburned country, the land of 10,000 beaches?” you may ask. Yes. If you go up in elevation enough, you can be cold anywhere, even Down Under.
And up I went. First geographically, five hours northeast of Melbourne. Then, in the tiny Coloradoish town of Mt. Beauty, we turned off the valley roads and started the winding, stomach-turning ascent through chasm-split and towering mountain ash and eucalyptus up to the barren, snowy high alpine plains of the Victorian Alps.
I was on this backpacking (“bushwalking”) adventure with a group of six other Uni students and two trip leaders, all part of the school’s fantastic outdoors program. Once we reached the snows, we all piled out of the school van, bundled ourselves in all available clothing (“rugged up”), slung our borrowed packs across our backs, and set out through the clouds. We were about 6,000 ft. up (1800 m). It was about 31 degrees F (0 C), wet, windy, and slow going.
The fact that we stopped every 50 ft. to look at the views made it even slower. While the clouds we stood in limited any long vistas, the nearby scenery was breathtaking. A huge fire swept across this entire range in 2003, killing the above-ground parts of all the plants (and most of the animals). This made what started as a barren landscape all the more bare, and the few twisted white snowgum trees mere ghosts of themselves. The plants are designed for fire, though, and kept their roots alive. They are pushing back up through the frozen soil with dense bushes of dark green and tan, with yellow strawflowers and hearty mosses scattered throughout, rubbing scrubs of color into the shades of grey. The cold and clouds conspired to make it all the more arresting by adding crystalline sparkles to every available surface. As if it didn’t look enough like an abstract fairyland already.
After about four miles of distraction and sticky snow, we arrived at our shelter for the night: Edmonson Hut, near Mt. Nelse. It’s a simple 50-year-old corrugated iron hut with an accompanying outhouse (“dunny”). The tiny building (the hut, not the dunny) is graced with a fireplace, cooking tables, a bench, three sleeping lofts, many unfortunate drafts, and a curious resident mouse. All I can say is that Australians don’t have any concept of cold-weather architecture. The structure couldn’t have been better designed to keep any available heat away from the inhabitants. The driving, blinding wind and snow that started up outside as soon as we walked in the door didn’t help. We were already pretty wiped out by the cold when we got there, and spent the next four hours jovially chatting and shivering in our sleeping bags before succumbing to exhaustion. I don’t think anyone got much sleep.
In the middle of the night, I abandoned the relative warmth of my cocoon and braved the track to the dunny. It took me a moment to realize that the snow had stopped, the wind was silent, everything was even more sparkly than before, and… my god… there were stars. The sky. With nothing at all between it and me. No lights anywhere within my horizon but the lights in the heavens. Not a drop of moisture in the achingly cold air. Not even a pesky ozone layer to block the celestial glory. It put every single night sky I had ever seen before to shame, to irrelevance. And it was all unfamiliar: the southern cross, the milky way cutting the wrong way across, no big dipper, no Cygnus, no Cassiopeia… The surprise of it, the perfect clarity when I expected howling grey, the unfamiliar arrangements, the sheer number of stars, made it all the more dream-like, made it seem like a moment out of A Wrinkle In Time, as if I had intruded on a conversation between divine beings. I made everyone who was still awake come outside with me.
Credit to my fellow trekkers, everyone was chipper the next morning. The shocking gold and pink of the surrounding dawn-lit hills, together with the promise of food, was enough to put anyone in a good mood. Oatmeal is never so delicious as when it’s gulped, scalding, into a stomach emptied of its calories by shivering. Especially oatmeal made with delicious water. The water up there is so pure that you can drink it right from the stream. My swamp-born self was dubious at first, but then remembered that there are very few animals that have returned up there, and fewer still that would be at our altitude. Lo and behold, none of us got so much as a bellyache.
That second day we wandered on no particular track (the plants here don’t mind being walked on, quite the change from the delicate alpines at home), dumped our packs, and made our way under a deeply blue sky up around the peak of Mt. Nelse to the views from the fancifully-named Spion Kopje, an Appalachian-esque rolling ridge. And while the sweeping snow plains, distant peaks, etc., were striking, that wasn’t the most surprising aspect of the view: I couldn’t have imagined better hiking weather: sunny, crisp, not much wind, on a Saturday, in a theoretically-popular park. Number of people other than us? 0. Number of buildings, roads, powerlines, etc. visible? 0. We could have been exploring an unpopulated planet for all we could see. It brought home again how human-empty this continent is. I love it.
The afternoon brought us and our re-acquired packs down in elevation and into the sun so that grasses, not snows, surrounded us. I could see why tiny wild horses love this area. I wanted to be a tiny wild horse myself, those fields looked so tasty. The strange thing was, we saw plenty of evidence of recent passage of these creatures, but despite there being nowhere in the landscape for them to hide, we couldn’t see a single animal. I personally decided that they must be invisible.
In the evening’s distressingly-beautiful golden glow, we strode across undulating meadows to our night’s home. I’ve rarely seen so perfect a camping spot. The ramshackle Wallace Hut, of which the Australians are inordinately fond, provides an unusual setpiece amongst a tangle of soft grasses, snowgums, rock heaps, and surprising glimpses down into the southeastern valleys. The ground is cushiony but dry, the trees create quiet nooks throughout, the water is nearby and delicious, the campfire ring is snug, the sunrise and sunset views are both perfect. A pair of Pied Currawong considered stealing our dinner, but limited themselves to merely providing entertainment. Overnight the temperature dropped to around 20 F (-6 C), and I didn’t sleep again. I don’t know why: I used to be able to sleep in any weather.
We were awoken the next morning by a profusely pink dawn. After a quick feed, we hiked out along a dirt road that led to the dam where we’d parked the van. We saw other people (!) out sight-seeing and fishing, though no fish were sighted. A long drive home, made all the longer by – no joke – a home improvements theme on the one radio station we could hear (If I Had a Hammer, Sledgehammer, Pane of Glass Into My Heart, True Colors, Tear It Down, etc.). We were all glad to get home.
The photos below are from the camera of one of my fellow hikers, Debbie. She took most, I took a few. I didn’t have my big heavy camera with me. Thanks for sharing, Debbie! (I’ll add other photos from other people as they become available.)
May 13th update: photos from Emma added. Thanks for sharing, Emma!
And up I went. First geographically, five hours northeast of Melbourne. Then, in the tiny Coloradoish town of Mt. Beauty, we turned off the valley roads and started the winding, stomach-turning ascent through chasm-split and towering mountain ash and eucalyptus up to the barren, snowy high alpine plains of the Victorian Alps.
I was on this backpacking (“bushwalking”) adventure with a group of six other Uni students and two trip leaders, all part of the school’s fantastic outdoors program. Once we reached the snows, we all piled out of the school van, bundled ourselves in all available clothing (“rugged up”), slung our borrowed packs across our backs, and set out through the clouds. We were about 6,000 ft. up (1800 m). It was about 31 degrees F (0 C), wet, windy, and slow going.
The fact that we stopped every 50 ft. to look at the views made it even slower. While the clouds we stood in limited any long vistas, the nearby scenery was breathtaking. A huge fire swept across this entire range in 2003, killing the above-ground parts of all the plants (and most of the animals). This made what started as a barren landscape all the more bare, and the few twisted white snowgum trees mere ghosts of themselves. The plants are designed for fire, though, and kept their roots alive. They are pushing back up through the frozen soil with dense bushes of dark green and tan, with yellow strawflowers and hearty mosses scattered throughout, rubbing scrubs of color into the shades of grey. The cold and clouds conspired to make it all the more arresting by adding crystalline sparkles to every available surface. As if it didn’t look enough like an abstract fairyland already.
After about four miles of distraction and sticky snow, we arrived at our shelter for the night: Edmonson Hut, near Mt. Nelse. It’s a simple 50-year-old corrugated iron hut with an accompanying outhouse (“dunny”). The tiny building (the hut, not the dunny) is graced with a fireplace, cooking tables, a bench, three sleeping lofts, many unfortunate drafts, and a curious resident mouse. All I can say is that Australians don’t have any concept of cold-weather architecture. The structure couldn’t have been better designed to keep any available heat away from the inhabitants. The driving, blinding wind and snow that started up outside as soon as we walked in the door didn’t help. We were already pretty wiped out by the cold when we got there, and spent the next four hours jovially chatting and shivering in our sleeping bags before succumbing to exhaustion. I don’t think anyone got much sleep.
In the middle of the night, I abandoned the relative warmth of my cocoon and braved the track to the dunny. It took me a moment to realize that the snow had stopped, the wind was silent, everything was even more sparkly than before, and… my god… there were stars. The sky. With nothing at all between it and me. No lights anywhere within my horizon but the lights in the heavens. Not a drop of moisture in the achingly cold air. Not even a pesky ozone layer to block the celestial glory. It put every single night sky I had ever seen before to shame, to irrelevance. And it was all unfamiliar: the southern cross, the milky way cutting the wrong way across, no big dipper, no Cygnus, no Cassiopeia… The surprise of it, the perfect clarity when I expected howling grey, the unfamiliar arrangements, the sheer number of stars, made it all the more dream-like, made it seem like a moment out of A Wrinkle In Time, as if I had intruded on a conversation between divine beings. I made everyone who was still awake come outside with me.
Credit to my fellow trekkers, everyone was chipper the next morning. The shocking gold and pink of the surrounding dawn-lit hills, together with the promise of food, was enough to put anyone in a good mood. Oatmeal is never so delicious as when it’s gulped, scalding, into a stomach emptied of its calories by shivering. Especially oatmeal made with delicious water. The water up there is so pure that you can drink it right from the stream. My swamp-born self was dubious at first, but then remembered that there are very few animals that have returned up there, and fewer still that would be at our altitude. Lo and behold, none of us got so much as a bellyache.
That second day we wandered on no particular track (the plants here don’t mind being walked on, quite the change from the delicate alpines at home), dumped our packs, and made our way under a deeply blue sky up around the peak of Mt. Nelse to the views from the fancifully-named Spion Kopje, an Appalachian-esque rolling ridge. And while the sweeping snow plains, distant peaks, etc., were striking, that wasn’t the most surprising aspect of the view: I couldn’t have imagined better hiking weather: sunny, crisp, not much wind, on a Saturday, in a theoretically-popular park. Number of people other than us? 0. Number of buildings, roads, powerlines, etc. visible? 0. We could have been exploring an unpopulated planet for all we could see. It brought home again how human-empty this continent is. I love it.
The afternoon brought us and our re-acquired packs down in elevation and into the sun so that grasses, not snows, surrounded us. I could see why tiny wild horses love this area. I wanted to be a tiny wild horse myself, those fields looked so tasty. The strange thing was, we saw plenty of evidence of recent passage of these creatures, but despite there being nowhere in the landscape for them to hide, we couldn’t see a single animal. I personally decided that they must be invisible.
In the evening’s distressingly-beautiful golden glow, we strode across undulating meadows to our night’s home. I’ve rarely seen so perfect a camping spot. The ramshackle Wallace Hut, of which the Australians are inordinately fond, provides an unusual setpiece amongst a tangle of soft grasses, snowgums, rock heaps, and surprising glimpses down into the southeastern valleys. The ground is cushiony but dry, the trees create quiet nooks throughout, the water is nearby and delicious, the campfire ring is snug, the sunrise and sunset views are both perfect. A pair of Pied Currawong considered stealing our dinner, but limited themselves to merely providing entertainment. Overnight the temperature dropped to around 20 F (-6 C), and I didn’t sleep again. I don’t know why: I used to be able to sleep in any weather.
We were awoken the next morning by a profusely pink dawn. After a quick feed, we hiked out along a dirt road that led to the dam where we’d parked the van. We saw other people (!) out sight-seeing and fishing, though no fish were sighted. A long drive home, made all the longer by – no joke – a home improvements theme on the one radio station we could hear (If I Had a Hammer, Sledgehammer, Pane of Glass Into My Heart, True Colors, Tear It Down, etc.). We were all glad to get home.
The photos below are from the camera of one of my fellow hikers, Debbie. She took most, I took a few. I didn’t have my big heavy camera with me. Thanks for sharing, Debbie! (I’ll add other photos from other people as they become available.)
May 13th update: photos from Emma added. Thanks for sharing, Emma!
Monday, April 28, 2008
montsalvat
A few weeks ago, Petra’s uncle John took us to visit an artist’s community called Montsalvat. It’s about 25k (15 miles) outside the Melbourne in the town of Eltham.
Having just celebrated it’s 75th birthday, it’s practically ancient by Australian standards. The sense of antiquity isn’t hurt by the fact that it was all built by unskilled laborers in a style imaginatively imitative of medieval rural France. The buildings are suitably odd and decrepit, made mostly of scavenged timber and daub. Galleries, a lofty dining hall, studios large and small, living quarters even larger and smaller, courtyards and chapels are arbitrarily nestled amongst 12 acres of alternately landscaped and neglected patches of greenery. Peacocks seem to be the kings of the land. A cafe commands the best view of the city across rolling hills, and serves a proper high tea complete with clotted cream.
Current artists in residence include painters; jewelers; makers of violins, guitars, and Japanese flutes; dressmakers; and others. They also have a resident winemaker, whom they seem to greatly appreciate. The best part of the day was watching two middle-aged guys who’d apprenticed to the guitar maker string and strum their hand-made instruments for the first time. Their quiet joy and pride and skill, listening to their hard fingers slide up the steel strings and watch these grown men silently grin, with the wine and sun and geese underfoot and hay smell and old wood to lean against… it was hard to get me to go back to the hard cold city.
Unfortunately most of the visual art produced here, both historically and presently, is rather terrible. That manages to not detract too much from the grounds and their ideal. Today, Monstalvat is mostly used as a location for weddings and other similar events, as a backdrop for films and ads, and as a place for Melbournians to go for tea and a stroll. I’d recommend it any day.
Having just celebrated it’s 75th birthday, it’s practically ancient by Australian standards. The sense of antiquity isn’t hurt by the fact that it was all built by unskilled laborers in a style imaginatively imitative of medieval rural France. The buildings are suitably odd and decrepit, made mostly of scavenged timber and daub. Galleries, a lofty dining hall, studios large and small, living quarters even larger and smaller, courtyards and chapels are arbitrarily nestled amongst 12 acres of alternately landscaped and neglected patches of greenery. Peacocks seem to be the kings of the land. A cafe commands the best view of the city across rolling hills, and serves a proper high tea complete with clotted cream.
Current artists in residence include painters; jewelers; makers of violins, guitars, and Japanese flutes; dressmakers; and others. They also have a resident winemaker, whom they seem to greatly appreciate. The best part of the day was watching two middle-aged guys who’d apprenticed to the guitar maker string and strum their hand-made instruments for the first time. Their quiet joy and pride and skill, listening to their hard fingers slide up the steel strings and watch these grown men silently grin, with the wine and sun and geese underfoot and hay smell and old wood to lean against… it was hard to get me to go back to the hard cold city.
Unfortunately most of the visual art produced here, both historically and presently, is rather terrible. That manages to not detract too much from the grounds and their ideal. Today, Monstalvat is mostly used as a location for weddings and other similar events, as a backdrop for films and ads, and as a place for Melbournians to go for tea and a stroll. I’d recommend it any day.
Friday, April 25, 2008
ANZAC Day
Some of you may have been fortunate enough at some point to sample one of my mother’s famous oatmealy coconutty ANZAC Biscuits*. They’re truly delicious, with a texture and flavor unmatched by any I’ve tried in the US or Australia. Today—25th April—is the day that these scrumptious desserts commemorate: ANZAC Day, one of Australia’s most important public holidays.
ANZAC stands for “Australia New Zealand Army Corps.” Both the holiday and the biscuits mark the 1st major military action fought by the combined forces of the then-young countries Australia and New Zealand in WWI—specifically, the landing in Gallipoli, Turkey in 1915. The aim of the battle was to capture Istanbul, at that point the capital of the Ottoman Empire. More than 80,000 Aussies and 3,000 New Zealanders died in this failed campaign, representing a significant percentage of the countries’ contemporary populations.
ANZAC Day started during the war as a national celebration of military endeavor. Once the war ended and the veterans returned home, they sought fellowship, a way to remember their dead friends, and a way to reconcile themselves with the brutalities of war. They began gathering annually on ANZAC Day in silent dawn vigils, adding an element of memorial and reflection to the military enthusiasm. These days, ANZAC Day honors the victims of all wars. The dawn vigils remain one of the most important parts of the day, and nicely balance the mighty parades. In addition to domestic events, almost 20,000 Australians make an ANZAC Day pilgrimage each year to the battlefields in Turkey to commemorate the fallen.
According to The Age, Australia’s last surviving WWI vet watched today’s parade via the TV in his nursing home. He was 16 at the time of the battle, and is now 109 years old. I hope he had a really good day and ate lots of biscuits.
The University of Melbourne’s student newspaper included a few interesting articles about some lesser-known aspects of the day, which we recommend reading:
“The echoes of war,” “Youth, Death, and Gallipoli,” and “Don’t mention the anti-war feeling.”
*Delightfully, Australian law actually prohibits anyone from referring to ANZAC Biscuits as cookies.
ANZAC stands for “Australia New Zealand Army Corps.” Both the holiday and the biscuits mark the 1st major military action fought by the combined forces of the then-young countries Australia and New Zealand in WWI—specifically, the landing in Gallipoli, Turkey in 1915. The aim of the battle was to capture Istanbul, at that point the capital of the Ottoman Empire. More than 80,000 Aussies and 3,000 New Zealanders died in this failed campaign, representing a significant percentage of the countries’ contemporary populations.
ANZAC Day started during the war as a national celebration of military endeavor. Once the war ended and the veterans returned home, they sought fellowship, a way to remember their dead friends, and a way to reconcile themselves with the brutalities of war. They began gathering annually on ANZAC Day in silent dawn vigils, adding an element of memorial and reflection to the military enthusiasm. These days, ANZAC Day honors the victims of all wars. The dawn vigils remain one of the most important parts of the day, and nicely balance the mighty parades. In addition to domestic events, almost 20,000 Australians make an ANZAC Day pilgrimage each year to the battlefields in Turkey to commemorate the fallen.
According to The Age, Australia’s last surviving WWI vet watched today’s parade via the TV in his nursing home. He was 16 at the time of the battle, and is now 109 years old. I hope he had a really good day and ate lots of biscuits.
The University of Melbourne’s student newspaper included a few interesting articles about some lesser-known aspects of the day, which we recommend reading:
“The echoes of war,” “Youth, Death, and Gallipoli,” and “Don’t mention the anti-war feeling.”
*Delightfully, Australian law actually prohibits anyone from referring to ANZAC Biscuits as cookies.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
i don't want a pickle
I love riding my bike. For starters, my bicycle is beautiful and perfect in every way: I splurged on a new Trek hybrid road/mountain bike, more on the road side than mountain. It’s black. And very fast.
There are bike lanes on almost all of the city streets, and drivers are accustomed to bikers, so it’s safer than any city I’ve ever biked in before. There’s even little bike streetlights on big intersections. Riding through the city to school every day is a breeze.
The bike gives me such a sense of freedom. It’s not just the joy of riding: my heartbeat up, the wind, the speed, the alertness, the scenery. It’s being able to go absolutely anywhere. Road? Sidewalk? Playingfield? To the library? To another town? Want to sit in a quiet forest (“the bush”) somewhere? No problem. Me and my bike will be there. Possibly via thirteen fun and scenic detours.
The first time I took off to explore outside the city was a bit of a disaster: right after I got my bike, about two weeks ago, I explored north up the Murray river. It turned out to a big wind tunnel that smelled like poo, had a lot of construction, no bathrooms, and getting there involved a containership port, two highway underpasses, a railroad yard, an active marathon course, new-bike adjustment troubles, and a broken bridge. Not hard to beat that.
Today’s ride was beautiful. Not even just in comparison, just beautiful. It was about 75 degrees and sunny. (some autumn, eh?) I got out of the city by biking east through an interesting old shopping lane (Johnston Street), then wound northeast along the Yarra river. Despite theoretically following a major bike lane, I managed to get lost about every kilometer (1/2 mile), but that merely allowed me to discover a waterfall, a nice bench on a dirt path, myriad views of the muddy river, a nice beagle puppy, and other things I’d never have seen if I’d been where I thought I was. This made my 35 k (20 miles) take more than three hours door back to door, which is silly really even though it was quite hilly.
My favorite part of the day was stealing all of the chocolate chips and dried apricots out of my trail mix while watching a particularly mischievous kookaburra perched above lovely waving grasses by the Yarra, slouching its way toward the city. I'm really not cut out for the city. Give me half a chance and you'll find me beating a hasty retreat from the hussle and noise. Good thing I have that option here.
Petra’s getting a hand-me-down bike from a cousin later this week, and I’m looking forward to showing her all the wonderful places I’ve discovered. That’s the only thing that could possibly make biking better: having someone to bike with. It should be great.
View Larger Map
There are bike lanes on almost all of the city streets, and drivers are accustomed to bikers, so it’s safer than any city I’ve ever biked in before. There’s even little bike streetlights on big intersections. Riding through the city to school every day is a breeze.
The bike gives me such a sense of freedom. It’s not just the joy of riding: my heartbeat up, the wind, the speed, the alertness, the scenery. It’s being able to go absolutely anywhere. Road? Sidewalk? Playingfield? To the library? To another town? Want to sit in a quiet forest (“the bush”) somewhere? No problem. Me and my bike will be there. Possibly via thirteen fun and scenic detours.
The first time I took off to explore outside the city was a bit of a disaster: right after I got my bike, about two weeks ago, I explored north up the Murray river. It turned out to a big wind tunnel that smelled like poo, had a lot of construction, no bathrooms, and getting there involved a containership port, two highway underpasses, a railroad yard, an active marathon course, new-bike adjustment troubles, and a broken bridge. Not hard to beat that.
Today’s ride was beautiful. Not even just in comparison, just beautiful. It was about 75 degrees and sunny. (some autumn, eh?) I got out of the city by biking east through an interesting old shopping lane (Johnston Street), then wound northeast along the Yarra river. Despite theoretically following a major bike lane, I managed to get lost about every kilometer (1/2 mile), but that merely allowed me to discover a waterfall, a nice bench on a dirt path, myriad views of the muddy river, a nice beagle puppy, and other things I’d never have seen if I’d been where I thought I was. This made my 35 k (20 miles) take more than three hours door back to door, which is silly really even though it was quite hilly.
My favorite part of the day was stealing all of the chocolate chips and dried apricots out of my trail mix while watching a particularly mischievous kookaburra perched above lovely waving grasses by the Yarra, slouching its way toward the city. I'm really not cut out for the city. Give me half a chance and you'll find me beating a hasty retreat from the hussle and noise. Good thing I have that option here.
Petra’s getting a hand-me-down bike from a cousin later this week, and I’m looking forward to showing her all the wonderful places I’ve discovered. That’s the only thing that could possibly make biking better: having someone to bike with. It should be great.
View Larger Map
green 2nd impressions
This is the first in a series of posts about my deeper impressions of Melbourne and Australian culture. I don’t claim to be an expert: we’ve only been here for two months now, and I know I have a lot to learn. But I find what I see around me to be fascinating, and y’all keep asking about this place, so here’s what I’ve noticed.
****
There is a country-wide environmental ethic here. Everyone's well-informed about environmental issues, every local government and company is doing everything they can (or seeming to) to be more green.
Environmentally-friendly products are all the rage: organic is quite common, even for clothing cotton. Half the booths at the food market are exclusively organic. Trendy t-shirts that say "Listen to your mother" with a picture of the earth, "Respect Planet Earth," "I love the planet," "stop killing whales," and the like are the most popular for hip kiddos. The biggest department store in the city, Myers (like Macys) currently has filled all of their display windows with their newest line of eco-friendly clothing. You can find 100% post-consumer recycled toilet paper at any grocery store, tiny inner-city convenience stores stock all-natural dish soap and laundry detergent… you get the idea. And the best part: these products are only a tiny bit more expensive than their non-organic counterparts.
It’s not just products that are above the eco-norm: Everyone uses cloth shopping bags, and you get a dirty look if you forget yours. Public transit's great, and is the norm for getting around. Lots of people, even professionals, bike. There's a lot less paper used, everything's electronic instead. People are quite keen to buy local items if they’re available, and they know why that matters. Their water conservation techniques are quite innovative, and the average bloke’s understanding of natural watershed filtration systems is impressive. Petra’s favorite graffiti in the city is a big one that says “stop logging our water cachements!” Even the vandals (“hoons”) care.
It's not perfect--they have a lot of British infrastructure (external plumbing, single-pane windows, high ceilings, etc) to undo. The only eco-bad practice that’s common here is that shopkeepers seem to think it’s a great idea to air condition the city: shops will blast the air or heat and leave their doors wide open, and it’s very common for restaurants to use those free-standing sidewalk heaters even on pretty warm nights. But in general everyone really really cares and is trying to think outside of the box and make fast and effective change to save the environment.
I knew they’ve had a really good governmental eco-history since the late 1980s, but I’ve been fascinated to learn about the amazingly astute stewardship sensibilities of some (though certainly not all) of the early European settlers. Some of the world’s first conservation efforts were undertaken by the leaders of the young colonies here, often with the intent to protect natural resources (timber, seals, etc.) from being used up by the eager new residents. The more astute farmers among the ‘transported’ inmates cautioned against swift livestock breeding and overgrazing, saying the seemingly-endless plains here were too dry to grow back quickly enough to replenish themselves. A mayor here and there tried to protect all of the trees surrounding the little proto-cities to ensure a lasting firewood supply, good drainage, and soil retention. A few of the more aesthetically-minded prisoners even got some pretty gullies and hills protected just because they were nice to look at. These were ideas hundreds of years ahead of their times.
Unfortunately, the leaders of the colonies didn’t have much control over what the residents did, so a lot of the timber, seals, grasslands, pretty bits, etc. did get wiped out anyways, with predictable results. Some blame the current imbalance in the Australian climate entirely on this early damage: this view is oversimplified, but it’s interesting how they’re very aware of their forbearers’ effect on the landscape and their culpability in the current water cycle and all. How many Americans have ever thought what the landscape of our country looked like before white people arrived?
I think Australia’s recent enthusiasm for all things green is not only because of this historical awareness, but also because of the big whopping hole in the ozone layer that's sitting over their heads PLUS the drastic effects of global warming that are already being seen here: 13th year of drought here in the south, devastating flooding in the north, and Antarctica and it's collapse are right on the doorstep here. With all that, it's hard to ignore our responsibility.
Monday, April 14, 2008
we are the Navy Blues
We are the Navy Blues
We are the old dark navy Blues
We’re the team that never lets you down
We’re the only team all Carlton knows.
With all the champions
They like to send us
We’ll keep our ends up
And they'll know that they've been playing
Against the famous old dark Blues!
This weekend we visited an iconic local landmark known as the MCG (the Melbourne Cricket Ground) hoping to see the Carton Blues trounce the Collingwood Magpies. I was thrilled – and honestly, a bit surprised – because in fact we saw exactly that! It was the Blues’ first win in 14 games. We take full credit – our attendance clearly inspired my cousin’s team to win their first victory of the season. Collingwood and Carlton have a longstanding rivalry, so this weekend’s win was particularly satisfying.
Given that we were at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, you might suppose we were watching, well, cricket. In fact the sport was Australian Rules Football (“Footie”), a game which resembles nothing so much as soccer played with a rugby ball with passes and plays reminiscent of American Football.
The AFL (Australian Football League) was established in Melbourne and most of the teams are still based here. Consequently, Australia’s largest national sport has a peculiarly local flavor. The teams maintain strong connections to the suburbs and neighborhoods in which they are based. The Carlton Blues, for example, have an historic connection with the Italian immigrant community (though ironically, my Italian immigrant family has historically supported St. Kilda). Imagine what it would be like if Somerville, Lexington, Allston, the North End, Cambridge, and Southie each had their own baseball teams, but these teams had national prominence.
For someone used to the hyper-commercial, flashy, inflated, and expensive beast that is American Football, the Australian Football League is refreshingly relaxed and down-to-earth. Tickets are comparatively reasonable in price. The halftime show consisted of a dozen mini footie games being played all over the field by pint-sized participants in the AFL’s after-school sports program. They even had adorably re-sized goal posts.
The highlight, of course, was seeing my cousin play. Andy is the son of my mother’s first cousin (for those of you who know Matt, Andy is Matt’s younger brother). Andy plays Midfield (I say like I know what that means). I’m very much enjoying being related to a famous sports star. The taxi driver who brought us home from Ikea the other day was very impressed and gave us a discounted fare. I proudly show off my fan button to the people at work, and I hear there are little figurines of Andy available in a gift shop somewhere. Figurines! My cousin has merchandise. The possibilities for mischief are endless. What would you do to (gently!) tease your cousin if you had access to his action figure?
The final score for Sunday’s game was 111 to 88. Carlton fans cheered and sang the teams song (lyrics above) over and over again while Magpie supporters slunk out of the stadium. As we were leaving Andy’s dad told us that we will now need to come to all of Carlton’s games for the rest of the season since we clearly bring the team good luck.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
an ode to quince
You will have to forgive my enthusiasm, but it is my ardent opinion that quince are divine. Truly. I think that if a god or gods existed in the traditional embodied sense, that this is the fruit they would have personally created and dined upon. Its flavors are the closest to my concept of nectar and ambrosia that has ever crossed my adventurous palate.
Uncooked, it has a beautiful golden hue that seems almost to glow. If you press your nose to its firm skin, a perfume to rival French Provence in springtime seems to permeate your mind. And it truly is a perfume: this is no mere smell. It brings to mind honey and roses and melting butter and warm sun on an old painted wooden wall and distant spices and a small river after a swollen rain.
To eat them you must cook them. With these two quince given to us by Petra's co-worker, we sliced them and stewed them in a shallow pan, then sautéed them in a light butterscotch reduction. The flesh of the quince, like that of an unripe white pear before cooking, slowly softens and releases its perfume, becoming translucent and then rosy-colored. The gritty grain of the fruit becomes apparent, then dissolves. Eventually you are left with the softest, sweetest, most sublime material to ever melt on your tongue.
I am very thankful for the English sensibilities here that have kept this glorious fruit in the public consciousness and gardens. Let it never be said again that the Brits don't know their food.
Friday, April 4, 2008
vic markets
I just got back from a weekly grocery shopping trip at Victoria Market. Groceries might not sound exciting, but they are. Queen Victoria Market, which has been around since 1850, is the largest open-air market in the Southern Hemisphere. We are lucky enough to live three blocks away.
Vic Market, as it’s colloquially known, is huge. Most of the vendors set up in stalls arranged in rows under roofs of corrugated tin: think warehouses without walls. The aisles are usually thronged with people. The more crowded it gets, the more the merchants holler: “Nannas wan-dalla, wan -dalla, wan-dalla-a-kilo! Aussie nannas!” (Translation: “These Australian bananas are selling at the truly bargin rate of one dollar per kilogram.” This is especially amusing because “Nanna” is also a common appellation for one’s grandmother). The market stalls are a riot of colors, with the products, sinage and the vendors themselves all competing for your eye. The smells are varied, pervasive, and sometimes – in the case of the butchers’ building – strong enough to shock you into immobility despite the urge to flee.
This is not a farmer’s market. Aside from a small local and organic section (small = ¼ acre), the produce piled in the 50+ fruit and veggie stalls comes off of containerships every morning. We’re still trying to figure out where the containerships come from. It used to be that they came from Europe. My Nono’s (grandfather’s) first business when he came to this country from Italy was a fruit and vegetable stand in this very market. He used to tell me tales of getting up at three o’clock in the morning to meet the boats. Looking at the boisterous, cheerful, and hectic atmosphere of the markets, I can see why he loved this work and why he did so well here.
The fruit and vegetable section is only a small portion of the food market. There are equally large sections devoted to cheeses and deli products, butcher stalls, fish, breads and baked goods, prepared foods, wine, live fowl, and anything else vaguely consumable that you might possibly desire, heavily weighted toward an Italian palate. It’s all incredibly fresh and the prices are amazingly good.
And that’s not all! There’s not just food: anything cheap that can be shipped in from China is sold here. A lot of it masquerades as Australian souvenirs (ugg boots, sheepskins, leather hats, Aboriginal-styled art objects, stuffed koalas), but unfortunately anything actually made in Australia seems to be scarce. As you might imagine, the market is a very popular tourist destination. The nice thing is that it’s still well utilized by locals too. There’s clothes, general-store stalls, home goods, decorative bits, fabric, even a few pet stalls.
It’s kind of a classic free-market capitalist set-up. You can sell anything at whatever price you want, and either people buy it or they don’t. The only factors are supply and demand, price and quality. From talking to some of the stall-owners, there’s a lot of resentment that some of the stalls are being owned and staffed by foreign distribution companies (instead of owned by Australians and selling the goods of foreign distribution companies), making the money “go abroad instead of going to Australia.” The countries involved are almost entirely China and it’s Pacific Rim allies. Feelings are especially high about this because the market has such a long-standing tradition of being the place where new Australians get their start: with the money and stall spaces going to foreign companies, the many new immigrants don’t have a chance. While I love buying the cheap fresh organic produce, I hesitate to buy any of the free-market goods because I’d rather the money stay in Australia and not go to an economic system and government that I don’t want to support.
See, I told you grocery shopping was fun!
Vic Market, as it’s colloquially known, is huge. Most of the vendors set up in stalls arranged in rows under roofs of corrugated tin: think warehouses without walls. The aisles are usually thronged with people. The more crowded it gets, the more the merchants holler: “Nannas wan-dalla, wan -dalla, wan-dalla-a-kilo! Aussie nannas!” (Translation: “These Australian bananas are selling at the truly bargin rate of one dollar per kilogram.” This is especially amusing because “Nanna” is also a common appellation for one’s grandmother). The market stalls are a riot of colors, with the products, sinage and the vendors themselves all competing for your eye. The smells are varied, pervasive, and sometimes – in the case of the butchers’ building – strong enough to shock you into immobility despite the urge to flee.
This is not a farmer’s market. Aside from a small local and organic section (small = ¼ acre), the produce piled in the 50+ fruit and veggie stalls comes off of containerships every morning. We’re still trying to figure out where the containerships come from. It used to be that they came from Europe. My Nono’s (grandfather’s) first business when he came to this country from Italy was a fruit and vegetable stand in this very market. He used to tell me tales of getting up at three o’clock in the morning to meet the boats. Looking at the boisterous, cheerful, and hectic atmosphere of the markets, I can see why he loved this work and why he did so well here.
The fruit and vegetable section is only a small portion of the food market. There are equally large sections devoted to cheeses and deli products, butcher stalls, fish, breads and baked goods, prepared foods, wine, live fowl, and anything else vaguely consumable that you might possibly desire, heavily weighted toward an Italian palate. It’s all incredibly fresh and the prices are amazingly good.
And that’s not all! There’s not just food: anything cheap that can be shipped in from China is sold here. A lot of it masquerades as Australian souvenirs (ugg boots, sheepskins, leather hats, Aboriginal-styled art objects, stuffed koalas), but unfortunately anything actually made in Australia seems to be scarce. As you might imagine, the market is a very popular tourist destination. The nice thing is that it’s still well utilized by locals too. There’s clothes, general-store stalls, home goods, decorative bits, fabric, even a few pet stalls.
It’s kind of a classic free-market capitalist set-up. You can sell anything at whatever price you want, and either people buy it or they don’t. The only factors are supply and demand, price and quality. From talking to some of the stall-owners, there’s a lot of resentment that some of the stalls are being owned and staffed by foreign distribution companies (instead of owned by Australians and selling the goods of foreign distribution companies), making the money “go abroad instead of going to Australia.” The countries involved are almost entirely China and it’s Pacific Rim allies. Feelings are especially high about this because the market has such a long-standing tradition of being the place where new Australians get their start: with the money and stall spaces going to foreign companies, the many new immigrants don’t have a chance. While I love buying the cheap fresh organic produce, I hesitate to buy any of the free-market goods because I’d rather the money stay in Australia and not go to an economic system and government that I don’t want to support.
See, I told you grocery shopping was fun!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Jeremiah 4: 11-12
Yesterday was strange. All morning I had a bizarre light-headed feeling which I've only ever felt before hurricanes. I checked the weather: just some possible thunderstorms in the afternoon. So I settled in to my homework.
The winds started whipping through the city by midmorning. I had to close our window for fear of it being torn off its hinges, but its hinges are weak little screwy things, so that's not saying much. I was fully immersed in my reading, so wasn't thinking when the wind noise outside became so loud that I put in the earplugs I reserve for sleeping on loud nights. It sounded like those tin sheets you shake backstage to make thunder noise, then silent, then kindof screechy, then like a train going by. A small part of my brain started wondering about the structural integrity of my window frame. I pictured a dark cartoon cloud in the sky angrily puffing, and kept reading.
When, a little after noon, I absentmindedly switched on yet another lamp to read by, I realized something was wrong. I was sitting next to the 10'x9' window in our 9th-storey apartment, it was early afternoon, and there wasn't enough light to read by. "Must be quite the thunderstorm coming," I thought, and glanced out the window. Only to see a yellow sky hung low with dark clouds, our neighbor's patio torn to pieces, strips of the tin roof next door peeling up... and a wall of roiling orange stretching from earth to clouds moving toward me. "Sandstorm," my Hollywood-trained weather eye reported. Unfortunately, it was right.
Being fully indoctrinated into the post-post-modern era, I hopped on the computer and checked the current conditions and forecast to see what the heck was going on. Sustained winds of up to 65 mph, regular gusts of up to 85 mph, and "some blowing dust." I looked out the window again. "That's Australian understatement for you," I thought.
At this point, Petra called from work: "I hope you're not out biking in this!" She reported that the power was out in her area, but that they were all being asked to stay inside. Seemed reasonable to me. I turned off the power points and hunkered down.
The wall of sand began dissipating about three blocks away as it reached the edge of the tall-buildings part of the city. For the next hour, the winds (still galeing away on my poor windows, which thankfully were better constructed than they appeared) brought with them a deafening hiss of sediment. There was so much red sand in the air that next building over looked curtained in rust-stained cheesecloth.
A sudden cats-and-dogs rain did a good job clearing out the air in mid afternoon. The wind kept blowing all night, sometimes with rain, sometimes without, and is still gusting now under a sunny sky. Even the most staid and reasonable newspapers have reported on the storm with FOX-like zeal, but for once I think their adjectives and sense of drama are correct. It seemed somehow Biblical. One Ballarat newspaper described it as "The day the sky wept red tears." The winds were so strong they blew a brick wall onto a woman in one of Melbourne's suburbs, stripped farmers' fields of grain bare, knocked over countless stressed trees: it's like the three little piggys' wolf gone huge.
And the culprit behind this storm? Global warming. The seas are warming, currents are shifting, and Antarctica is melting. So, among the other problems this is causing, the winds are rising. Here. And now. Let's pray.
The view of central Melbourne (peer closely in the background for the tall buildings where I live) after the wall of sand dissipated.
The winds started whipping through the city by midmorning. I had to close our window for fear of it being torn off its hinges, but its hinges are weak little screwy things, so that's not saying much. I was fully immersed in my reading, so wasn't thinking when the wind noise outside became so loud that I put in the earplugs I reserve for sleeping on loud nights. It sounded like those tin sheets you shake backstage to make thunder noise, then silent, then kindof screechy, then like a train going by. A small part of my brain started wondering about the structural integrity of my window frame. I pictured a dark cartoon cloud in the sky angrily puffing, and kept reading.
When, a little after noon, I absentmindedly switched on yet another lamp to read by, I realized something was wrong. I was sitting next to the 10'x9' window in our 9th-storey apartment, it was early afternoon, and there wasn't enough light to read by. "Must be quite the thunderstorm coming," I thought, and glanced out the window. Only to see a yellow sky hung low with dark clouds, our neighbor's patio torn to pieces, strips of the tin roof next door peeling up... and a wall of roiling orange stretching from earth to clouds moving toward me. "Sandstorm," my Hollywood-trained weather eye reported. Unfortunately, it was right.
Being fully indoctrinated into the post-post-modern era, I hopped on the computer and checked the current conditions and forecast to see what the heck was going on. Sustained winds of up to 65 mph, regular gusts of up to 85 mph, and "some blowing dust." I looked out the window again. "That's Australian understatement for you," I thought.
At this point, Petra called from work: "I hope you're not out biking in this!" She reported that the power was out in her area, but that they were all being asked to stay inside. Seemed reasonable to me. I turned off the power points and hunkered down.
The wall of sand began dissipating about three blocks away as it reached the edge of the tall-buildings part of the city. For the next hour, the winds (still galeing away on my poor windows, which thankfully were better constructed than they appeared) brought with them a deafening hiss of sediment. There was so much red sand in the air that next building over looked curtained in rust-stained cheesecloth.
A sudden cats-and-dogs rain did a good job clearing out the air in mid afternoon. The wind kept blowing all night, sometimes with rain, sometimes without, and is still gusting now under a sunny sky. Even the most staid and reasonable newspapers have reported on the storm with FOX-like zeal, but for once I think their adjectives and sense of drama are correct. It seemed somehow Biblical. One Ballarat newspaper described it as "The day the sky wept red tears." The winds were so strong they blew a brick wall onto a woman in one of Melbourne's suburbs, stripped farmers' fields of grain bare, knocked over countless stressed trees: it's like the three little piggys' wolf gone huge.
And the culprit behind this storm? Global warming. The seas are warming, currents are shifting, and Antarctica is melting. So, among the other problems this is causing, the winds are rising. Here. And now. Let's pray.
The view of central Melbourne (peer closely in the background for the tall buildings where I live) after the wall of sand dissipated.
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