Ahhh, high school memories, to be more precise, high school sports memories. As I have grown older, I am constantly searching for that league, that game, that opponent, that situation which would parallel sports in high school. The search for "El Dorado" of sports is ultimately going to be fruitless and I know that, but it is exciting nonetheless. It is that drive in competition that propels me forward in games, makes me play through a slight ankle sprain when, honestly, beating a team names "Old Schoolz" in the grand scheme of sports/life is trivial. Last night it came all rushing back, for one tiny glimpse of what I have been searching for. That fleeting experience that reminded me of those games, albeit slower paced and with many, many less fit players. I have been playing for this league now for the last two years. I was contacted through the grapevine that this team required a player. I answered that call. The team was aptly known as the Rockets. We are a mishmash of old young, big and tall. Former players and first timers. A great squad with some fiery personalities, uber competitive types (guilty) and players just happy to be there. We were always good, but never quality enough to go forward. We had spark sometimes in games, but the lack of true talent reared its ugly head when crunch time came around. Nevertheless, we enjoyed playing every Monday, a chance to sweat out the alcohol from the weekend, air some of our frustrations from starting a new week and perhaps for some of us, rekindle that search for "El Dorado."
This year played out differently, we were talented and for the first time, knew our roles on the team. This knowledge translated to success and finally on the last game of the season we beat our nemesis, the terrifyingly named team "The Waves" (Cue scary music). We blended team work, hard defense and some timely luck (not to mention some terrible ref calls where by the end it was 5 on 4 in out favor) to triumph. The only problem after this game, we had to play them again in a semi final match. For the first time, we were ready.
All of us from both squads know each other well, whether it is through the numerous times we have played each other over the last two, three, four years or off the court. This game had potential. The Waves are perennial entrants into the championship match. They have a squad that is filled with deadly three point shooters, big bruisers, and slashers that for most teams in the league prove to be difficult to shut down. We are one of those team who could shut down two out of three aspects, but the unguarded aspect always haunted us. If that is not foreshadowing than I quit as a writer.
We came out flying, playing man defense. As I get older, the 2-3 defense is standard operational procedure in "old man leagues." It requires just enough effort for exertion, but saves the legs for what matter most, the offense. I fall into this quasi-laziness trap, but this we were going man. We matched up reasonably well and would shut down their three point capabilities. The strategy worked for 20 out of 30 minutes. The game was like a prize boxing fight. We came out hard, they punched back and by the end of the first half, we were up 26-24. We gave up some late/lazy threes and they overcame an 11 point deficit in the last three minutes of the half. Our game had always been to push the ball and attack. They emulated this and took it to us in those final minutes.
The second half produced more the same intensity. They began on fire and pulled remotely away with eight minutes left. We scraped and clawed (literally in some cases) back to within even with two minutes left. Sweat, and intensity were dripping all over the court and the excitement was palpable coming from the three fans in the tiny gym. Both teams committed turnovers and traded missed shots and then it came down to us. We had 45 seconds left and stalled for the final shot. Precious seconds ticked down, I was passed the ball on the left wing with 15 seconds left. The team collapsed and shifted to resist any move by me. I passed the ball immediately to my friend. 7 seconds left. From the opponents bench one player began the countdown from three even though the real time displayed 7 seconds, my friend not heeding the discrepancy from what the player was falsely shouting and the true time, barreled into the lane in the middle of the key and heaved a prayer up. The ball smashed into the backboard. OT.
Three minutes to beat them. I returned to the huddle, cautiously optimistic. We had taken their best shot in the beginning of the second half and had not wilted under the pressure, but had responded with more vigor and resourcefulness to respond with our own barrage. I felt this boded well for us in OT.
Again OT played out as the entire game had transpired. The two tired teams traded baskets then a three by the opposition. A couple of free throws and a two point basket, put the score at the Waves leading by 1 with 37 seconds left. We called time out. We circled up and looked at each other, one of us put it succinctly. Do we hold the ball until the final seconds to win or shoot at our discretion no matter the team; Our heavy breathing answered the question: we wanted to win. We diagrammed the same plan as the final seconds of the game. Three guard rotation until about 10 seconds then go for it. The ball moved around like a hot potato and the defense, tired and sweaty were not putting as much verve into their defensive position. The ball then swung to me, this time on the left side out near the wing, a step in from the three point line. 8 seconds. The right side defensive man came to hard and I blew past him towards the center. The entire defense collapsed on me like an amoeba around a foreign object. 6 seconds. With a flash I threw the ball to the left to my man a little outside of the left hand block for a wide open shot. 5 seconds. He shot it and it hit the rim, back board then teased the inside of the rim before falling out. 4 seconds. As I watched my teammate shot, time had the odd slowed effect. Not unlike when you hit a baseball through a window and you watch every painstaking second, helpless to block the inevitable, before it crashes through the window. I was in a similar frame of mind. Within the game, but out of it when my body reacted. I jumped and snatched the rebound a mere 3 feet from the rim, in front with limited opposition. Genuinely surprised that the ball came to me, I shot it like so many times before. Except this time, the outcome was not so familiar. I missed. I missed. Unreal. The ball hit the rim on the right side and spun right. Game over. All of the air escaped from my body as well as the gym.
Just as I wanted it, just as I had imagined in high school, just as I had wanted to recapture that feeling. I blew it.
Oh well, I heard there is kickball at Moore park, I am going to attempt to relive those elementary school days now.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Rolling the "Di" no more
It has finally happened, after two and a half years I am moving from Bondi and moving to.....drumroll please... to Waverley. Those of you who have not brushed up on your Sydney suburbs map are probably feeling left in the dark. Waverley is the literally adjacent to Bondi and the area is less than a Km from my old house. Sam and I are moving in together for the next three months before jet setting our way across the world. The place is a one bedroom apartment and extremely large. I will spare you the gory details, just it is a really nice place. What is more important is that marks a fresh change from the the suburb that I have called home for the past two years.
For me, and for many others Australians and travelers alike, Bondi is a special place to be. The area is covered with rolling hills and some would feel mountains that lead down to the beach- take my word, walking up Bondi Rd from the beach is quite the physical challenge. I have planted numerous flags at the top proclaiming that I have reached the summit. Somewhere Sir Edmund Hillary is rolling over in his grave. Everywhere you traverse, whether that is on the summit of one of mountains or in a house, the presence of sand is inescapable. The area is dotted with new apartment blocks that are juxtaposed with the seemingly numerous antiquated (cir. 1970) apartment complexes. There is more character in a piece of blank paper than these buildings. Interspersed among the complexes are terrace houses and bungalows once you approach the beach. Within the older, uglier buildings, to which I have had the pleasure of living in, the battle against mildew, lack of sun and stained carpets can not be won. Most of the time, Bondi apartments are drab and soggy even some nice ones. I am betting that the age of the carpet layer was booming in the late seventies. Even with these less than desirable attributes, Bondi is much sought after.The amount of people living in one bedroom apartments that typify what I just detailed is incredible. I mean 5 people might be living in one room. This is due in a large part, ok the a large majority, to the beach. The beach is absolutely magnificent. White sands that stretch in a crescent moon shape over 2km. A cement board walk, devoid of any shops hugs and looms over the beach. In the center is an esplanade with some shops, but mostly situated in the background, the center is dominated by the surf life guard station. Moving towards North Bondi, the Surf club is located and my other favorite area, the outdoor gym. This outdoor gym is a set of beams and poles where people work out. Picture Venice beach, but without the weights. It is a natural gym so to speak. This is an extremely popular area for the people who got something to show or in their mind, got something to show. It is those people who are severely in need of help. Up a short grassy hill that covers the whole beach, the main drag, Cambell Parade, has all the shops, bars, that a typical beach town would have.
While the beach is the dominate attraction, for travelers like myself, the allure of the beach has been replaced by the subtle charm of Bondi living. Most tourists love Bondi because it is the place to be seen or just be. After living there for two years I have seen the ebb and flow of Bondi from the summer months to the winter months. It is a respite in every sense of the word from downtown Sydney. Here the amount of money does not matter, but the amount of days between shaving or how much was spent on the surfboard. There is a myriad of accents, colors and lifestyle all gelling in this polymorphous suburb. Bondi is deemed more glitz and glamor, but in truth there is a laid back mentality that I have enjoyed. It is from the mixing and ever changing cultures that are congruent on a day to day basis that the character of Bondi is derived from. For me, there is a simplicity that can only be explained after being here. Other beaches have this effect and probably are more "down to earth" or beachy. But Bondi was right for me. I am not a beach person, give me a pair of shoes and socks over sandals. However Bondi has changed something in me. I feel more at ease, I can move within this community with more social grace than in other areas. Everyone here, I believe, have had similar stories to mine.
I felt guilty for not going to the beach for weeks. I enjoy just walking into the main shops above the beach and soaking all the people enjoying coffee or reading a book. Of course I am going to return to the beach before leaving, yet I feel as though I have now become an outsider. One of the people who come just for the beach and not for the lifestyle.
For me, and for many others Australians and travelers alike, Bondi is a special place to be. The area is covered with rolling hills and some would feel mountains that lead down to the beach- take my word, walking up Bondi Rd from the beach is quite the physical challenge. I have planted numerous flags at the top proclaiming that I have reached the summit. Somewhere Sir Edmund Hillary is rolling over in his grave. Everywhere you traverse, whether that is on the summit of one of mountains or in a house, the presence of sand is inescapable. The area is dotted with new apartment blocks that are juxtaposed with the seemingly numerous antiquated (cir. 1970) apartment complexes. There is more character in a piece of blank paper than these buildings. Interspersed among the complexes are terrace houses and bungalows once you approach the beach. Within the older, uglier buildings, to which I have had the pleasure of living in, the battle against mildew, lack of sun and stained carpets can not be won. Most of the time, Bondi apartments are drab and soggy even some nice ones. I am betting that the age of the carpet layer was booming in the late seventies. Even with these less than desirable attributes, Bondi is much sought after.The amount of people living in one bedroom apartments that typify what I just detailed is incredible. I mean 5 people might be living in one room. This is due in a large part, ok the a large majority, to the beach. The beach is absolutely magnificent. White sands that stretch in a crescent moon shape over 2km. A cement board walk, devoid of any shops hugs and looms over the beach. In the center is an esplanade with some shops, but mostly situated in the background, the center is dominated by the surf life guard station. Moving towards North Bondi, the Surf club is located and my other favorite area, the outdoor gym. This outdoor gym is a set of beams and poles where people work out. Picture Venice beach, but without the weights. It is a natural gym so to speak. This is an extremely popular area for the people who got something to show or in their mind, got something to show. It is those people who are severely in need of help. Up a short grassy hill that covers the whole beach, the main drag, Cambell Parade, has all the shops, bars, that a typical beach town would have.
While the beach is the dominate attraction, for travelers like myself, the allure of the beach has been replaced by the subtle charm of Bondi living. Most tourists love Bondi because it is the place to be seen or just be. After living there for two years I have seen the ebb and flow of Bondi from the summer months to the winter months. It is a respite in every sense of the word from downtown Sydney. Here the amount of money does not matter, but the amount of days between shaving or how much was spent on the surfboard. There is a myriad of accents, colors and lifestyle all gelling in this polymorphous suburb. Bondi is deemed more glitz and glamor, but in truth there is a laid back mentality that I have enjoyed. It is from the mixing and ever changing cultures that are congruent on a day to day basis that the character of Bondi is derived from. For me, there is a simplicity that can only be explained after being here. Other beaches have this effect and probably are more "down to earth" or beachy. But Bondi was right for me. I am not a beach person, give me a pair of shoes and socks over sandals. However Bondi has changed something in me. I feel more at ease, I can move within this community with more social grace than in other areas. Everyone here, I believe, have had similar stories to mine.
I felt guilty for not going to the beach for weeks. I enjoy just walking into the main shops above the beach and soaking all the people enjoying coffee or reading a book. Of course I am going to return to the beach before leaving, yet I feel as though I have now become an outsider. One of the people who come just for the beach and not for the lifestyle.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Put the lime in the Coconut.....
......and definitely call the doctor, woke him up he say. ( Henry Nilsson)
I added the definitely to the lyrics of this song, because I can't stress enough how prophetic the singer Nilsson turned out to be. Now I did not have a bellyache as his protagonist suffered from, but I certainly required a visit from the doctor. One of my co-wokers mysteriously had this rash form on his wrists. It was concentrated on his wrists only and it looks like someone took a brush with red paint on it and then spattered the paint all over his wrists. However, as fun as this sounds, the contestant won the ultimate rash prize when these red marks began to form blisters. I know, you are asking where to sign up. At the time, I scoffed at his hands, and pretended that this could not happen to me as I had been there for two years and nothing had ever happened to me at Bowls. Oh how the mighty have fallen. This past Friday, I began to notice the spots forming on the back of my hands. Small red dots which then spread into bigger red spots at the base of my thumb and then the banquet of red large dots on my wrists. My left hand was much more affected, but my right wrist was not squeaky clean. I hurriedly raced to clean my hands, but while running my hands under cold water, I felt the sensation of burning. Alarm bells went off. The dots over the course of the day turned darker red and were raised. When I showed Ben what was happening, Ben looked at me sternly and said, it burns now wait till the blisters form.
I had become a monster, except the monster was located on my wrists only. When I woke up on Saturday, my left wrist was covered with about 5-6 blisters with a sprinkling of red. My right had far fewer, but one large party tent blister on the base of my thumb. To say it was unsightly, was the understatement of the year. In this day and age, we have become our own doctors as we try and diagnosis ourselves by using the internet. As Lewis Black aptly pointed out, most humans incorrectly diagnose themselves by thinking they have the worst ailment possible. He stated that flying from NYC to LA, he read a 30 page article on Diabetes and by the time the plane landed 6 hours later, Lewis had diabetes.
I had the same reaction, I was 100 percent sure I had three things: a spider bite, leprosy and that I was becoming a zombie. To debunk my fears, I just listened to the Australian public and Sam. They told me that if I had spider bite, well....to put it bluntly, I would be dead. If I had leprosy, typing this blog would be tough with one hand and finally, the zombie theory is still open for debate. Have you seen me in the morning?
I reluctantly went to the doctor, not because I was worried about marauding for flesh, which would be my new diet as a zombie, but because I am something scarier than a zombie: uninsured. Yes, I heard you scream all the way over here. In any case, I went to the doctor. He led me to his room, where I recounted my tale to him. I showed him my rash. He painstakingly took notes, his slowness was not attributed to the fine details he was taking, but more attributed to holding the shotgun in his left hand. He couldn't rule out zombie either. After finishing his notes, he looked at me and said the most comforting thing a doctor can say to a patient: I have no idea what that is at all. I am sorry, I am paying 80 dollars for this consultation that for all intent and purposes, a 4 year old could have said to me. The best part of the encounter was that the doctor could not declare with certainty that the rash was a product of work; he hinted at the relationship between Ben and I. To set the record straight, I work with Ben nothing more, nothing less. Period. After 10 minutes of awkward silence, he printed out my referral to a dermatologist and I left.
On Monday, dressed in my bright red leather jacket, tight pants, gloves I thrillered my way to the determatologist. (Thrillered= walking and dancing like Jackson in Thriller). At the office, to my chagrin, the dermatologist took one look at my hands and pronounced that the cause was lime juice on my wrists combined with prolonged time in the sun. I immediately shut off the music, and my back up dancers shuffled out and I got down to business with the doctor. Contact Dermatitis it is called. A product of Tahitian limes and exposure to the sun. I had a severe case with the blistering and the ailment should vanish in about two weeks. The reason to why the rash was so localized can be explained by the way I was cutting the limes. My left hand had it worse because I cut with my right and the juice splashed onto my left. I spend oodles of time outside working with groups so there is the sun. Relieved, I got my prescription steroid cream, and one more time for posterity, moonwalked out of the office. So warning to all of you, craving a lime colada, diet coke with lime, or hang out with English people: it may cause severe blistering.
On an unrelated note: When coming to Sydney, remember how I told you it is tantamount to pack a bee keeper suit for the flies, well a map of all the streets in Sydney is just as important. Now you might rebuff me, and say "well Alex, I always travel with a map to foreign cities and lands." Smart traveler, I would reply. However the map is not for your enjoyment, but for the cab drivers in the city who have no idea where any place is. The amount of times, I have been given the wheel to a taxi cab to drive the actual taxi driver to my destination is astonishing. It is not exactly like that, but what usually transpires is: I will say our destination, which is followed by some humming and huffing by the driver, all the time displaying facial features of a student called to answer a question in front of the class even though he didn't do his homework. To make up for his lack of geographical knowledge, most taxi drivers just drive in some indiscriminate direction to quell any fears that he is utterly lost. At this point, after driving in five circles, the taxi driver hands you the street directory and/or stops the car and spends an inordinate amount of minutes looking at the street directory like a detective at a murder scene. He then interrogates me on my whereabouts at 7 pm 24/10 2005 and where I am going tonight. The procedure is then duplicated with any other passengers. With his suspect, I mean street, firmly established he returns to indiscriminately driving. What is incredible from these situations is most cabs are equipped with a GPS system. No joke. This is like choosing to use a typewriter rather than the super fast computer. Unbelievable. Just beware before coming out here, and I plead you to take a bus.
I added the definitely to the lyrics of this song, because I can't stress enough how prophetic the singer Nilsson turned out to be. Now I did not have a bellyache as his protagonist suffered from, but I certainly required a visit from the doctor. One of my co-wokers mysteriously had this rash form on his wrists. It was concentrated on his wrists only and it looks like someone took a brush with red paint on it and then spattered the paint all over his wrists. However, as fun as this sounds, the contestant won the ultimate rash prize when these red marks began to form blisters. I know, you are asking where to sign up. At the time, I scoffed at his hands, and pretended that this could not happen to me as I had been there for two years and nothing had ever happened to me at Bowls. Oh how the mighty have fallen. This past Friday, I began to notice the spots forming on the back of my hands. Small red dots which then spread into bigger red spots at the base of my thumb and then the banquet of red large dots on my wrists. My left hand was much more affected, but my right wrist was not squeaky clean. I hurriedly raced to clean my hands, but while running my hands under cold water, I felt the sensation of burning. Alarm bells went off. The dots over the course of the day turned darker red and were raised. When I showed Ben what was happening, Ben looked at me sternly and said, it burns now wait till the blisters form.
I had become a monster, except the monster was located on my wrists only. When I woke up on Saturday, my left wrist was covered with about 5-6 blisters with a sprinkling of red. My right had far fewer, but one large party tent blister on the base of my thumb. To say it was unsightly, was the understatement of the year. In this day and age, we have become our own doctors as we try and diagnosis ourselves by using the internet. As Lewis Black aptly pointed out, most humans incorrectly diagnose themselves by thinking they have the worst ailment possible. He stated that flying from NYC to LA, he read a 30 page article on Diabetes and by the time the plane landed 6 hours later, Lewis had diabetes.
I had the same reaction, I was 100 percent sure I had three things: a spider bite, leprosy and that I was becoming a zombie. To debunk my fears, I just listened to the Australian public and Sam. They told me that if I had spider bite, well....to put it bluntly, I would be dead. If I had leprosy, typing this blog would be tough with one hand and finally, the zombie theory is still open for debate. Have you seen me in the morning?
I reluctantly went to the doctor, not because I was worried about marauding for flesh, which would be my new diet as a zombie, but because I am something scarier than a zombie: uninsured. Yes, I heard you scream all the way over here. In any case, I went to the doctor. He led me to his room, where I recounted my tale to him. I showed him my rash. He painstakingly took notes, his slowness was not attributed to the fine details he was taking, but more attributed to holding the shotgun in his left hand. He couldn't rule out zombie either. After finishing his notes, he looked at me and said the most comforting thing a doctor can say to a patient: I have no idea what that is at all. I am sorry, I am paying 80 dollars for this consultation that for all intent and purposes, a 4 year old could have said to me. The best part of the encounter was that the doctor could not declare with certainty that the rash was a product of work; he hinted at the relationship between Ben and I. To set the record straight, I work with Ben nothing more, nothing less. Period. After 10 minutes of awkward silence, he printed out my referral to a dermatologist and I left.
On Monday, dressed in my bright red leather jacket, tight pants, gloves I thrillered my way to the determatologist. (Thrillered= walking and dancing like Jackson in Thriller). At the office, to my chagrin, the dermatologist took one look at my hands and pronounced that the cause was lime juice on my wrists combined with prolonged time in the sun. I immediately shut off the music, and my back up dancers shuffled out and I got down to business with the doctor. Contact Dermatitis it is called. A product of Tahitian limes and exposure to the sun. I had a severe case with the blistering and the ailment should vanish in about two weeks. The reason to why the rash was so localized can be explained by the way I was cutting the limes. My left hand had it worse because I cut with my right and the juice splashed onto my left. I spend oodles of time outside working with groups so there is the sun. Relieved, I got my prescription steroid cream, and one more time for posterity, moonwalked out of the office. So warning to all of you, craving a lime colada, diet coke with lime, or hang out with English people: it may cause severe blistering.
On an unrelated note: When coming to Sydney, remember how I told you it is tantamount to pack a bee keeper suit for the flies, well a map of all the streets in Sydney is just as important. Now you might rebuff me, and say "well Alex, I always travel with a map to foreign cities and lands." Smart traveler, I would reply. However the map is not for your enjoyment, but for the cab drivers in the city who have no idea where any place is. The amount of times, I have been given the wheel to a taxi cab to drive the actual taxi driver to my destination is astonishing. It is not exactly like that, but what usually transpires is: I will say our destination, which is followed by some humming and huffing by the driver, all the time displaying facial features of a student called to answer a question in front of the class even though he didn't do his homework. To make up for his lack of geographical knowledge, most taxi drivers just drive in some indiscriminate direction to quell any fears that he is utterly lost. At this point, after driving in five circles, the taxi driver hands you the street directory and/or stops the car and spends an inordinate amount of minutes looking at the street directory like a detective at a murder scene. He then interrogates me on my whereabouts at 7 pm 24/10 2005 and where I am going tonight. The procedure is then duplicated with any other passengers. With his suspect, I mean street, firmly established he returns to indiscriminately driving. What is incredible from these situations is most cabs are equipped with a GPS system. No joke. This is like choosing to use a typewriter rather than the super fast computer. Unbelievable. Just beware before coming out here, and I plead you to take a bus.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Call it the Obama Hangover
Whew!!! I am still reeling from the Obama's victory these past weeks. It was strange, I never felt far away from it all happening. Every newspaper in Australia had at least 7-8 articles a day leading up to the election and then has continued this trend even to this day. I was able to take it all in from my friend's flat in Bondi. It was a surreal setting, daylight, the beach with surfer's, who cared more about the monstrous wave the was in the next set then the monstrous election at hand, peaceful and uneventful streets with the normal pace of traffic. All seemed out of place as I watched the election transpire. I was overwhelmed by the victory, but in a strange way, I am still not drawn back to States. I find it awesome that I can now defend the States with the trump: yeah, but we elected Obama. However in a reversal of how I felt when Bush was elected, pledging to leave the States, I am not booking that ticket back. I feel the stronger desire to stay abroad and transform the antipathy felt towards the United States. Now, don't think I am going to go out and become this vocal activist stumping the States somewhere in Guatemala. His election has affirmed my belief that hopefully the US is in able hands. I did not feel anymore patriotic than before ( I have always knew where I came from without being ashamed), I just feel proud of the country for shedding so much dead weight and being able to move on.
The circle back around what I find most interesting throughout this election was Australia's coverage. The talk leading up to the election was about Obama, the talk after the election was Obama. The coverage and simple everyday conversations, for me, pointed to the fact that Australia is much more closely linked to the US, culturally and economically then its mother England. The potential dismissal of Gordon Brown in England has not generated any speculation. The funny thing is that people see here and I suppose this is the pulse of the States, that Obama is the end solution. I have heard out here that Obama is the greatest president ever. Interesting statement since Obama hasn't even taken a sip from his "World's Greatest President" coffee mug.
The circle back around what I find most interesting throughout this election was Australia's coverage. The talk leading up to the election was about Obama, the talk after the election was Obama. The coverage and simple everyday conversations, for me, pointed to the fact that Australia is much more closely linked to the US, culturally and economically then its mother England. The potential dismissal of Gordon Brown in England has not generated any speculation. The funny thing is that people see here and I suppose this is the pulse of the States, that Obama is the end solution. I have heard out here that Obama is the greatest president ever. Interesting statement since Obama hasn't even taken a sip from his "World's Greatest President" coffee mug.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Creepy Crawlers
This is an ode/ warning to all of you wanting to travel to Sydney over the summer season. I am here as an an ambassador of RAID, and unfortunate real life character of Joe's apartment: Cockroaches are the true owners of this land. I have already detailed the amazing number of species, natural occurrences that can take your life away here in Australia, but one fact they don't mention is the cockroaches. I am not suggesting that I have lived in decadence, so some of the blame to why they appeared at my flat is not entirely Sydney's fault. However, it is a known fact that they rule the cracks, spaces and floors of your flat, especially living in Bondi. Now, please return to reading this, I realize you probably recoiled in disgust, just wanted you to know. They all come out at night, in your home, on the streets, and at the bar parked in the stool next to you downing a whiskey on the rocks (hey if these guys are supposedly going to survive a nuclear holocaust, this is what I envision them drinking.) Cockroaches, in most cases, and many times pertaining to my old flat, represent filth, grime and general apathy towards basic tenants of hygiene and cleanliness. But, Sydney has allowed me to justify not spending money on a cleaner. No matter how clean, how sparkly your place is they will always, I repeat, always be there. Fact of life here in the crazy place.
My other warning to you all, is next to that bikini or pair of board shorts, you might want to place a beekeeper suit. This is the only apparel that will safegaurd you from thr onslaught of the flies. Flies in Sydney do not just pester and casually annoy you at the beach or in the streets of Downtown Sydney (CBD), they make it their jihad, crusade, manifest destiny to enter every orifice on your head. Back at home a simple, lugubrious swat would send a fly packing its bags for the nearest available pile of dog present. Here, the flies only show more determination to become part of your left eye, become a new winged ear plug, or a delightful mid afternoon snack. I mean I have seen people walking around swatting at least three flies while another five more hitching a ride (got the title of the blog in, score one for me) on the person's back like an aircraft carrier with parked kamikaze planes waiting for the air raid siren.
After two years I can deal with this. I have devised a technique, almost a wary truce with the flies: I am now USS Hitch, with flies ready to invade and inflict damage on anyone in my path. With the cochroaches, I have resigned myself as a tributary state. My payment consisting of only flushing three down the toilet a week. I am delighted by this new position in life. I'll tell you one thing, at least it is not loose kangaroos with a penchant for crotch kicking. Although with this country, you better pack a cup.
My other warning to you all, is next to that bikini or pair of board shorts, you might want to place a beekeeper suit. This is the only apparel that will safegaurd you from thr onslaught of the flies. Flies in Sydney do not just pester and casually annoy you at the beach or in the streets of Downtown Sydney (CBD), they make it their jihad, crusade, manifest destiny to enter every orifice on your head. Back at home a simple, lugubrious swat would send a fly packing its bags for the nearest available pile of dog present. Here, the flies only show more determination to become part of your left eye, become a new winged ear plug, or a delightful mid afternoon snack. I mean I have seen people walking around swatting at least three flies while another five more hitching a ride (got the title of the blog in, score one for me) on the person's back like an aircraft carrier with parked kamikaze planes waiting for the air raid siren.
After two years I can deal with this. I have devised a technique, almost a wary truce with the flies: I am now USS Hitch, with flies ready to invade and inflict damage on anyone in my path. With the cochroaches, I have resigned myself as a tributary state. My payment consisting of only flushing three down the toilet a week. I am delighted by this new position in life. I'll tell you one thing, at least it is not loose kangaroos with a penchant for crotch kicking. Although with this country, you better pack a cup.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saddling up to the Economic Crisis
The last few weeks have been full on for me. Work has really been overwhelming as groups keep booking and filling up all the space on the greens. I have been just named manager at work, which basically means get a dollar pay rise. Champagne baths, here I am come. Even with the advent of more hours (and I guess, more responsibilities), I have been able to fit in some me time or stop masquerading as a worker and get back to my roots as a traveler. I needed to experience a real Australian past time: Old Fashioned Gambling. Last week, Sam and I went down to Melbourne for a couple of reasons: she wanted to see her parents; my mom is teaching at a University in Melbourne so I had the chance to see her in working/living environment; the parents could meet each other; but more importantly, the Horse Races in Melbourne. It seems only fitting that in this times of financial crisis and recession, my primary objective in flying to Melbourne is to carelessly throw my money away at the horses races. This feels like the prudent action for a struggling writer and part time bartender. Recession does not affect this breed of canned soup eating, and water drinking folk.
We left at the eye blurring time of 5 15 in morning on Friday and I spent the day writing and carousing around my mom's apartment. I had an early night in anticipation of having a long hot day at the races on Saturday.
A little history, Caulfield Cup is one of the major races in the time known as Spring Carnival. Spring Carnival is held in Melbourne and is pretty much an institution in Melbourne. The carnival is not what we imagine a carnival is: carnies (well, the jockeys come close), hoop tosses, bad corn dogs, and a queasy feeling from the rides that may or may not fall apart after each go around. The Carnival represents horse racing at its finest. It takes its roots all the back to 1890's where, in the old English tradition, high society would come out to parade around in the latest styles. It runs from October 1st until November 19th and is highlighted by major races, Caulfield Cup, Oaks Day, Darby Days and finally the big cahuna, Melbourne Cup. The races are similar to The Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Belmont Stakes, but people actually care what happens. Melbourne Cup is equivalent to the Super Bowl except that it is a public holiday in Victoria ( it might as well be in New South Wales, NSW, as no work is accomplished in Sydney) and betting is more than encouraged, it is forced upon you.
For all races, men and women dress in their Sunday best. Men wearing the latest suit fashion, women the latest designer dresses. The best part is the hats that the women wear. Like rappers, the hats are an extension of their attire and usually attract more attention than the dress itself. Racing and fashion are inexorably tied to these events which is a far cry from our sense of dress at the Preakness (Just Youtube Preakness, you'll understand). The hats are an amalgam of weeding veils, top hats, yamikas, beanies, yet some of them are actually tasteful. Most of the time, I had to stifle my laughter, but my mouth was curled with a incredulous smile as a woman struts by with a hat that even at a costume party is ridiculous.
As for the racing, betting is intertwined with Australian culture. It comes from the British/convict personality. Gambling is a huge problem in Australia, especially in NSW, and one can see why with such an emphasis on racing. This is not a charge against Australian culture at all. I believe that it is different, it seems more out in the open as betting here is one the more old fashioned events: racing, sporting events, cards and slot machines. There is not the crazy online betting schemes that we have in the states , like who will score first? How many times an announcer will cough during the Super Bowl? Or how many times will McCain change the direction of his campaign etc.
I had to go see this event first hand as working in the Bowling club, I am familiar with the betting culture and Melbourne cup. Sam and I decided to go to the Caulfield Cup. There are about 15 races during the day, with the Caulfield Cup being the top billed race. I dressed up in a shirt and tie (pretty sure for the first time in 10 years). Sam had a great veil/hat configuration (not that I am biased) and we went off to Caulfield Racing Track. There I was overwhelmed with all the young people who dressed up. This was not your typical college age gathering. Aside from the people stumbling around from the heat and alcohol, the ambiance was rich with classiness. I made sure to cap my betting to 50 dollars and kept that promise as the day wore on. As any event with a mass of people, the racing takes a backseat. What is more important is judging, critiquing, drinking and betting with all the other people in your area. We bought general admission tickets, but there is the option of going to a tent. Tickets are 200 dollars and I pretty sure, women are required to wear more outlandish hats (for Melbourne Cup prices sky rocket to 1000.) Food and Drink are included along with a better seat to laugh at all the poor losers in General Admission. I loved being in General Admission, bookies on the grass, guys and girls dressed to the nines, betting booths in the clubhouse, long queues for food and alcohol and not a single person paying attention to the races.
By the end of the day, I was down 150 (including drinks) which in the betting world is a smashing success. More importantly I was happy to envelope myself in something that is Aussie. Also, I needed a practice run in actually wearing, you know "real world clothes."
Melbourne Cup is next week on our Tuesday so I am encouraging you to go online and take a look at all the pictures of the fashionable people. Oh, by the way, there is a race as well.
We left at the eye blurring time of 5 15 in morning on Friday and I spent the day writing and carousing around my mom's apartment. I had an early night in anticipation of having a long hot day at the races on Saturday.
A little history, Caulfield Cup is one of the major races in the time known as Spring Carnival. Spring Carnival is held in Melbourne and is pretty much an institution in Melbourne. The carnival is not what we imagine a carnival is: carnies (well, the jockeys come close), hoop tosses, bad corn dogs, and a queasy feeling from the rides that may or may not fall apart after each go around. The Carnival represents horse racing at its finest. It takes its roots all the back to 1890's where, in the old English tradition, high society would come out to parade around in the latest styles. It runs from October 1st until November 19th and is highlighted by major races, Caulfield Cup, Oaks Day, Darby Days and finally the big cahuna, Melbourne Cup. The races are similar to The Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Belmont Stakes, but people actually care what happens. Melbourne Cup is equivalent to the Super Bowl except that it is a public holiday in Victoria ( it might as well be in New South Wales, NSW, as no work is accomplished in Sydney) and betting is more than encouraged, it is forced upon you.
For all races, men and women dress in their Sunday best. Men wearing the latest suit fashion, women the latest designer dresses. The best part is the hats that the women wear. Like rappers, the hats are an extension of their attire and usually attract more attention than the dress itself. Racing and fashion are inexorably tied to these events which is a far cry from our sense of dress at the Preakness (Just Youtube Preakness, you'll understand). The hats are an amalgam of weeding veils, top hats, yamikas, beanies, yet some of them are actually tasteful. Most of the time, I had to stifle my laughter, but my mouth was curled with a incredulous smile as a woman struts by with a hat that even at a costume party is ridiculous.
As for the racing, betting is intertwined with Australian culture. It comes from the British/convict personality. Gambling is a huge problem in Australia, especially in NSW, and one can see why with such an emphasis on racing. This is not a charge against Australian culture at all. I believe that it is different, it seems more out in the open as betting here is one the more old fashioned events: racing, sporting events, cards and slot machines. There is not the crazy online betting schemes that we have in the states , like who will score first? How many times an announcer will cough during the Super Bowl? Or how many times will McCain change the direction of his campaign etc.
I had to go see this event first hand as working in the Bowling club, I am familiar with the betting culture and Melbourne cup. Sam and I decided to go to the Caulfield Cup. There are about 15 races during the day, with the Caulfield Cup being the top billed race. I dressed up in a shirt and tie (pretty sure for the first time in 10 years). Sam had a great veil/hat configuration (not that I am biased) and we went off to Caulfield Racing Track. There I was overwhelmed with all the young people who dressed up. This was not your typical college age gathering. Aside from the people stumbling around from the heat and alcohol, the ambiance was rich with classiness. I made sure to cap my betting to 50 dollars and kept that promise as the day wore on. As any event with a mass of people, the racing takes a backseat. What is more important is judging, critiquing, drinking and betting with all the other people in your area. We bought general admission tickets, but there is the option of going to a tent. Tickets are 200 dollars and I pretty sure, women are required to wear more outlandish hats (for Melbourne Cup prices sky rocket to 1000.) Food and Drink are included along with a better seat to laugh at all the poor losers in General Admission. I loved being in General Admission, bookies on the grass, guys and girls dressed to the nines, betting booths in the clubhouse, long queues for food and alcohol and not a single person paying attention to the races.
By the end of the day, I was down 150 (including drinks) which in the betting world is a smashing success. More importantly I was happy to envelope myself in something that is Aussie. Also, I needed a practice run in actually wearing, you know "real world clothes."
Melbourne Cup is next week on our Tuesday so I am encouraging you to go online and take a look at all the pictures of the fashionable people. Oh, by the way, there is a race as well.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
OZ inspiring
This is a segment from my other writing blog on Sydney and Melbourne. I am only allowed 700 words so my whole thoughts, like how damn cold Melbourne is are absent:
Quick name the capital of Australia. Bet Sydney flew out of your mouth. This is the common misconception not unlike New York City. Canberra is the capital of Australia, and if you have traveled to here, inspiring, exciting are never adjectives to describe the country’s governmental dwelling- adjectives that come to mind range from dull, insipid to the ever popular, soul crushing. No, Canberra’s existence was attributed to the massive rivalry that resonates between Sydney and Melbourne-present even today. Canberra was constructed to appease the bigwigs in each state government- New South Wales (Sydney) and Victoria for (Melbourne). The respective party leaders balked in the past at permitting the other city to enjoy the advantage of being the heralded city in this growing nation within the international community.
A rivalry generally is born from commonalties within two entities who are vying to reach the top position. However today, these two cities offer a completely unique Australian experience that would appear to diffuse a rivalry, but it continues to smolder. Each city endeavors to claim the cultural and spiritual crown of Australia.
As a traveler, the rivalry seems peculiar as the two cities are like apples and oranges offering a wide range of sights, sounds and activities, which capture the attention of any open minded traveler and makes it difficult to arguably state that one city is superior.
Melbourne’s layout would no doubt please any directionally challenged person. The city’s layout is a network of streets that form an easy to navigate grid and a distinguishable downtown. Tram tracks (street trains) reinforce the grid with their cross-crossed railways. Sydney does not have this simplistic layout, as it is a chaotic intersection of numerous streets. Its main street, George St, cuts through the heart of downtown and straight to the harbor. Although Melbourne is the champion of perpendicular street corners, Sydney’s trademark design is no less unmistakable: the Harbor and the ocean. Everything seems to gravitate towards this natural beauty. Streets seem to bend to give a motorist or pedestrian a glimpse of its beauty before in moments there rests the Opera House, Bridge, beach and bays.
The main transit of the two cities differs greatly as well. Trams, antiquated and sleek new versions, dominate the roadways. They slowly glide forward swallowing up passengers from street corners as they move straight over the hills into the distance. In Sydney, big blue and white busses groan and push their way through traffic to reach some unattainable purpose. The style of old and new of the trams embodies the spirit of Melbourne as outdated buildings from the British and new high-rise architecture form a symbiosis of style and grace. It has a European medieval ambiance and one would expect to run into a person speaking like Hugh Grant around every corner. Sydney exudes more of a young child proudly displaying his or her new clothes. There are old buildings, but they quietly lurch in the corners- or belong to the first established part of Sydney, the Rocks area.
Culturally, there are small caveats that differentiate the people between the cities. The simplistic way can be described through the significance of numbers in conversations for a Melbournite or a Sydneysider. In Melbourne, the numbers most important are what tram you will take to the jazz show. Numbers within the address of the bar are tantamount. Melbourne, even with its perfect grid, is a maze of back street cafes and bars; they spring from nowhere and a regular door in alley can lead into a swank popular after hours club. Sydney, important numbers revolve around the height of your surfboard and the size of the wave at 6 a.m. or how many bars you partied at in Kings Cross.
The rivalry seems unfounded as the two cities offer such a unique experience that the other lacks. In truth, the two cities are becoming more homogenous as Melbourne is taking a page from Sydney trying to draw tourists to their habor and river within the city. Sydney, on the other hand, is steering tourist to places like Paddington with its terraces houses and small pubs in an attempt to recapture that lost European character.
They present opportunities for any traveler and even with this rivalry, the two cities can probably agree on one thing: They are wholly Australian.
Quick name the capital of Australia. Bet Sydney flew out of your mouth. This is the common misconception not unlike New York City. Canberra is the capital of Australia, and if you have traveled to here, inspiring, exciting are never adjectives to describe the country’s governmental dwelling- adjectives that come to mind range from dull, insipid to the ever popular, soul crushing. No, Canberra’s existence was attributed to the massive rivalry that resonates between Sydney and Melbourne-present even today. Canberra was constructed to appease the bigwigs in each state government- New South Wales (Sydney) and Victoria for (Melbourne). The respective party leaders balked in the past at permitting the other city to enjoy the advantage of being the heralded city in this growing nation within the international community.
A rivalry generally is born from commonalties within two entities who are vying to reach the top position. However today, these two cities offer a completely unique Australian experience that would appear to diffuse a rivalry, but it continues to smolder. Each city endeavors to claim the cultural and spiritual crown of Australia.
As a traveler, the rivalry seems peculiar as the two cities are like apples and oranges offering a wide range of sights, sounds and activities, which capture the attention of any open minded traveler and makes it difficult to arguably state that one city is superior.
Melbourne’s layout would no doubt please any directionally challenged person. The city’s layout is a network of streets that form an easy to navigate grid and a distinguishable downtown. Tram tracks (street trains) reinforce the grid with their cross-crossed railways. Sydney does not have this simplistic layout, as it is a chaotic intersection of numerous streets. Its main street, George St, cuts through the heart of downtown and straight to the harbor. Although Melbourne is the champion of perpendicular street corners, Sydney’s trademark design is no less unmistakable: the Harbor and the ocean. Everything seems to gravitate towards this natural beauty. Streets seem to bend to give a motorist or pedestrian a glimpse of its beauty before in moments there rests the Opera House, Bridge, beach and bays.
The main transit of the two cities differs greatly as well. Trams, antiquated and sleek new versions, dominate the roadways. They slowly glide forward swallowing up passengers from street corners as they move straight over the hills into the distance. In Sydney, big blue and white busses groan and push their way through traffic to reach some unattainable purpose. The style of old and new of the trams embodies the spirit of Melbourne as outdated buildings from the British and new high-rise architecture form a symbiosis of style and grace. It has a European medieval ambiance and one would expect to run into a person speaking like Hugh Grant around every corner. Sydney exudes more of a young child proudly displaying his or her new clothes. There are old buildings, but they quietly lurch in the corners- or belong to the first established part of Sydney, the Rocks area.
Culturally, there are small caveats that differentiate the people between the cities. The simplistic way can be described through the significance of numbers in conversations for a Melbournite or a Sydneysider. In Melbourne, the numbers most important are what tram you will take to the jazz show. Numbers within the address of the bar are tantamount. Melbourne, even with its perfect grid, is a maze of back street cafes and bars; they spring from nowhere and a regular door in alley can lead into a swank popular after hours club. Sydney, important numbers revolve around the height of your surfboard and the size of the wave at 6 a.m. or how many bars you partied at in Kings Cross.
The rivalry seems unfounded as the two cities offer such a unique experience that the other lacks. In truth, the two cities are becoming more homogenous as Melbourne is taking a page from Sydney trying to draw tourists to their habor and river within the city. Sydney, on the other hand, is steering tourist to places like Paddington with its terraces houses and small pubs in an attempt to recapture that lost European character.
They present opportunities for any traveler and even with this rivalry, the two cities can probably agree on one thing: They are wholly Australian.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Thought I would be looking after kids, and in a way I am
I have been at Paddington Bowling Club for basically two years now. I know, right!? Disclaimer, shameless plug alert: http://www.paddobowls.com.au/
It has had the desired effect of paying my bills, making friends, opening my eyes to the good and bad side of Australians, and I have added to my repertoire of games I am most surely going to play when my back decides to finally give out. ( This could be tomorrow at the rate I am going at.) For those of you still confused about what the particulars of my job are, I will indulge you right now. This place is amalgamation of drinking, lawn bowling, and betting. PBC or as the Aussies call it, the Bowlo, is settled in the back streets of Woolarha and Paddington. This area has an English Charm with two-storied terraced houses that seem tiny from the front, but extend way back. There are a myriad of coffee shops/cafes as well as small boutique stores with their own flavor unlike anything in downtown Sydney. Among these shops and cafes are small pubs that fill up with young 20 somethings looking to have a schooner (type of glass, smaller than a pint) and revel in a more relaxed atmosphere than other areas to drink and hobnob ( I just looked up the origin of hobnob and derivation of the word comes from the 19th where two people drank to each other's health..I guess Paddington is pretty healthy with amount people drink a night.)
I applied for this job when I first came over in October 2006. I found it through the search website seek.com.au under the title "Sports Instructor". Believing that my many years of coaching and teaching kids would be more than enough credentials, I applied. I thought I would be in charge of kid groups and odd games. Sports instruction was probably the greatest misnomer/euphemism in all of the English Language, as I am doing anything but instruction or arguably Sporting. My role is to cater to corporate groups during the week ranging in size from 15 up to 150 people sometimes. I am their fearless leader in the abyss known of lawn bowling. The sport is played outside on an enormous green (there are two at PBC) which is divided into individual lanes. I teach these groups how to bowl. Without getting pedantic, it is extremely similar to Bocce Ball, except a person rolls a small bowling ball that is weighted on side, thereby making it turn as it rolls. I am providing a link for those of you who are still confounded. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_bowls
The club is very popular as companies come under the auspice of team building, but in truth, just come to get smashed. We are completely booked out for the month of December and January is already filling up. On a given weekday, there might be a total of 700 or more bowling in all the sessions combined. The time slots are as followed: 11-2, 2-5, 5-8
I explain the rules to which giving a speech that is about 5 minutes long to a large group of inebriated people, is an incredible feat. If I get 20 percent compliance on the house rules (no loud noises, no drinks on the green, one bowler at a time on the green, everyone else needs to be up on the concrete) and how to play, I deem this a smashing success. At this point, I am waiter, barman, score taker, babysitter, funny guy with an accent and looks at little old compared to the other staff. I am usually with my group for about 2 hours or a little more, guiding them through a round robin tournament and eventual final as well as getting them drinks. I also have the enviable role of being tormentor as after about 4-5 drinks and being in the sun, people start forgetting to be quiet and walking on the green with their drinks, at this point I am sternly talking to a lawyer or accountant 10 years my senior to not forget the rules. I always give the disclaimer in my presentation that I am cool guy, but this seems to be lost after the fifth time a rule has been broken. When given a free tab, we all know how some people get at these type of events. The mild manner person at the beginning of the session is now running around the green shirtless and screaming. The secretary is spilling her drinks on you for the fifth time. The list goes on and on; furthermore, drinking really brings out the competitive spirit. I have had some groups that groaned when first bowling, but by the end are arguing with me about which bowl is closer and/or are endlessly hugging and pointing to the heavens when they have won their group's championship. A lady last night, told me she was so nervous in the championship game that she wanted to throw up. Point of reference, she was the director of an advertisement company.
People look to me for answers on how to bowl and what to do, in most cases, I give a serious look and then make up whatever I feel is the best answer on strategy. If I don't know, still got to play the part.
As you can tell, I love it there. It is outside, I am able to talk for two hours and do minimal work, not including set up of the green which takes over an hour. I get to tell and perfect the same stories, which makes me look like a funny guy. Things are going to pick up as I said, so it is going to be full on for me, sometimes instructing 3 groups a day in the blazing sun.
In a way, as I just flushed out one of my responsibilities at PBC, I am instructing kids. I always thought that we should protect kids from drinking at an early age, I do agree with this notion, but I am adding an amendment to this notion: Save the 23- 50 yr old corporate person. My god, the childish stuff they do sometimes is unfathomable. The amount of cajoling I have to do not to break the rules is unreal. It is like Bill Cosby once stated about Parenthood, I am constantly repeating myself where to my chagirn, I think people believe I have a stutter. No No No No, take the drink off green, take the drink off green, take the drink off green, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt. The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside. Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable, Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable, Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable.
Throughout my summer here, I am going to include more stories about PBC, explain my other roles there (bartender, physical laborer and possible manager), so get ready to be bowled over. Had to do it, sorry.
It has had the desired effect of paying my bills, making friends, opening my eyes to the good and bad side of Australians, and I have added to my repertoire of games I am most surely going to play when my back decides to finally give out. ( This could be tomorrow at the rate I am going at.) For those of you still confused about what the particulars of my job are, I will indulge you right now. This place is amalgamation of drinking, lawn bowling, and betting. PBC or as the Aussies call it, the Bowlo, is settled in the back streets of Woolarha and Paddington. This area has an English Charm with two-storied terraced houses that seem tiny from the front, but extend way back. There are a myriad of coffee shops/cafes as well as small boutique stores with their own flavor unlike anything in downtown Sydney. Among these shops and cafes are small pubs that fill up with young 20 somethings looking to have a schooner (type of glass, smaller than a pint) and revel in a more relaxed atmosphere than other areas to drink and hobnob ( I just looked up the origin of hobnob and derivation of the word comes from the 19th where two people drank to each other's health..I guess Paddington is pretty healthy with amount people drink a night.)
I applied for this job when I first came over in October 2006. I found it through the search website seek.com.au under the title "Sports Instructor". Believing that my many years of coaching and teaching kids would be more than enough credentials, I applied. I thought I would be in charge of kid groups and odd games. Sports instruction was probably the greatest misnomer/euphemism in all of the English Language, as I am doing anything but instruction or arguably Sporting. My role is to cater to corporate groups during the week ranging in size from 15 up to 150 people sometimes. I am their fearless leader in the abyss known of lawn bowling. The sport is played outside on an enormous green (there are two at PBC) which is divided into individual lanes. I teach these groups how to bowl. Without getting pedantic, it is extremely similar to Bocce Ball, except a person rolls a small bowling ball that is weighted on side, thereby making it turn as it rolls. I am providing a link for those of you who are still confounded. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_bowls
The club is very popular as companies come under the auspice of team building, but in truth, just come to get smashed. We are completely booked out for the month of December and January is already filling up. On a given weekday, there might be a total of 700 or more bowling in all the sessions combined. The time slots are as followed: 11-2, 2-5, 5-8
I explain the rules to which giving a speech that is about 5 minutes long to a large group of inebriated people, is an incredible feat. If I get 20 percent compliance on the house rules (no loud noises, no drinks on the green, one bowler at a time on the green, everyone else needs to be up on the concrete) and how to play, I deem this a smashing success. At this point, I am waiter, barman, score taker, babysitter, funny guy with an accent and looks at little old compared to the other staff. I am usually with my group for about 2 hours or a little more, guiding them through a round robin tournament and eventual final as well as getting them drinks. I also have the enviable role of being tormentor as after about 4-5 drinks and being in the sun, people start forgetting to be quiet and walking on the green with their drinks, at this point I am sternly talking to a lawyer or accountant 10 years my senior to not forget the rules. I always give the disclaimer in my presentation that I am cool guy, but this seems to be lost after the fifth time a rule has been broken. When given a free tab, we all know how some people get at these type of events. The mild manner person at the beginning of the session is now running around the green shirtless and screaming. The secretary is spilling her drinks on you for the fifth time. The list goes on and on; furthermore, drinking really brings out the competitive spirit. I have had some groups that groaned when first bowling, but by the end are arguing with me about which bowl is closer and/or are endlessly hugging and pointing to the heavens when they have won their group's championship. A lady last night, told me she was so nervous in the championship game that she wanted to throw up. Point of reference, she was the director of an advertisement company.
People look to me for answers on how to bowl and what to do, in most cases, I give a serious look and then make up whatever I feel is the best answer on strategy. If I don't know, still got to play the part.
As you can tell, I love it there. It is outside, I am able to talk for two hours and do minimal work, not including set up of the green which takes over an hour. I get to tell and perfect the same stories, which makes me look like a funny guy. Things are going to pick up as I said, so it is going to be full on for me, sometimes instructing 3 groups a day in the blazing sun.
In a way, as I just flushed out one of my responsibilities at PBC, I am instructing kids. I always thought that we should protect kids from drinking at an early age, I do agree with this notion, but I am adding an amendment to this notion: Save the 23- 50 yr old corporate person. My god, the childish stuff they do sometimes is unfathomable. The amount of cajoling I have to do not to break the rules is unreal. It is like Bill Cosby once stated about Parenthood, I am constantly repeating myself where to my chagirn, I think people believe I have a stutter. No No No No, take the drink off green, take the drink off green, take the drink off green, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, please put your pants on, you can't streak here, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt, Don't throw the bowl at your mate, it will hurt. The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside, The bathroom is inside not outside. Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable, Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable, Putting the Jack in your mouth is dirty and unacceptable.
Throughout my summer here, I am going to include more stories about PBC, explain my other roles there (bartender, physical laborer and possible manager), so get ready to be bowled over. Had to do it, sorry.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Taking Australian history a little too seriously
It is just great to be back in Sydney amid all the sunshine, the Australian people and the beach. I have settled into my old job at the Paddington Bowling Club and this summer/Christmas season is already shaping up to be incredible hours of work. The best part of it all is that I have oodles of time to do nothing in particular until November. To put it bluntly, since returning here, I have played Home Run Derby at a cricket oval for three hours and today I played a mutant form of baseball at Bondi Beach for two unbelievable hours. I would also like to tell you that I am 26 years old. Surreal does not even begin to explain my life over here.
However, this weekend I was schooled on Australian history/ life experiences 1o1 and I didn't even sign up for the classes. This weekend was a public holiday weekend meaning most people in NSW (New South Wales) had Monday off. I had to work a short shift at the bar on Sunday, but around 4pm, Sam and I went to Darling Harbour for a Latin American festival. There was music, dancing, Spanish speakers, basically heaven for me. We stayed at the festival and the Darling Harbour area until around 7 pm when we decided that we wanted to enjoy some wine and beer at Sam's place. Our regular bottle shop (or Botttleo, Australians have this curious and hilarious linguistic characteristic in which they shorten a lot of nouns and sometimes names and then either put an "O", "Y" or "IE" at the end of the words: Bottle Shop= BottleO; Jonathan= Jono; Registration for the car= Rego; Football= Footy; Sunglasses= sunnies; Person from the States= Sepo or short for Septic tank, which is derived from the word Yank....I am not that naive. ... you get the idea.) was closed so we had to go to one that was up the street. The area where this bottle shop is located is in a posh section of Sydney called Wollahra where coincidently, I work. To paint the picture for you, this is the place where dogs being walked are, in actuality, carried by their owners since a live thing is such a cool accessory. Sunglasses cover 3/4 of the people's faces and wearing a T-shirt and Jeans basically means you have come from the Twist genealogy.
I wanted to buy some beers and Sam wanted a crisp white wine for a relaxing night. Sydney was awash with excitement as people had Monday off, there was a huge music festival about 2km away from Woolahra, and a huge Rugby final was being played involving a team from Sydney. I selected my beers, and went to pay the shop keeper as Sam still was undecided about what wine to buy. We were the only patrons in this small shop, and as I finished my transaction, Sam questioned the shop keeper for suggestions on a good wine. At this point, class was in session. As we all know, Australia was founded by the English by transplanting criminals to the continent, I never thought I would get a live and updated tutorial on this historical fact.
I looked left and a short, stocky man entered wearing a mask. I paid no attention to this guy as he probably had been celebrating Sydney's win in the Rugby final, or had come from a costume party and was that guy with the lame idea. I turned away from him, only to see out of the corner of my eye, a very large knife. Again, Sydney slashed Melbourne in the Rugby final, but this physical pun was a step too far. It was not until he demanded money from the cash register that I realized this guy was serious. He came within a couple of feet of me, and pounded the knife on the counter top. Again, not to harp on the stereotypes, but all I was thinking was Paul Hogan's line "that's not a knoife, this is knoife." I stepped back to place myself in the path between him and Sam. He demanded money from the register, but did not focus his attention on us. I turned to Sam and she was rummaging through her bag to get her wallet, to which I quietly motioned for her to stop. The walking Australian stereotype took the money and to my absolute disbelief, walked out. I have no other verb to really describe how he exited, but I am pretty sure that a sloth would have beat him out the door. He gingerly got into his car and left.
Sam and I were shaken, but fine as was the shop keeper. As a hilarious statistic for you at home, this is the third time this shop keeper has been robbed at this store in the last 4 years....and he only works on Sunday and Monday!
The police arrived shortly after the robber left. Now as I described, there was a lot of events in Sydney this night, so one would surmise that the police force would be stretched out, incorrect. One car arrived , then another, then another and for posterity a paddy wagon arrived. For those scoring at home and this might be a little off, 7 witnesses (some 16 year boys caught a glimpse of the license plate number) to 79837 police officers. For about 30 minutes, the crime scene turned into a police officer chat session. Sam kept muttering within earshot of the police slumber party, that she is not going to pay taxes anymore if this is how it is spent on officers.
To end, police investigators took our statements and we ended the night at 10:45pm .
This event shed a lot of light on the notion of traveling to foreign countries; Australia is deemed a safe place to travel (except for the killer spiders, sharks, crocodiles, snakes, rips, sun, surfboards, koalas, on second thought, why would you come here?). From experience, people have been nervous with traveling through South America, Asia etc. However I am here to tell you that it doesn't matter, in Sydney my house has been broken into, I have had an ipod stolen and my girlfriend has stolen my heart. It really doesn't matter where you are, things are going to happen, you just have to chalk up to life experiences and learn from it.
I am extremely relieved nothing happened to Sam or the shop keeper, and my love for this city has not wavered. Just another crazy day here in Sydney.
Class over.
However, this weekend I was schooled on Australian history/ life experiences 1o1 and I didn't even sign up for the classes. This weekend was a public holiday weekend meaning most people in NSW (New South Wales) had Monday off. I had to work a short shift at the bar on Sunday, but around 4pm, Sam and I went to Darling Harbour for a Latin American festival. There was music, dancing, Spanish speakers, basically heaven for me. We stayed at the festival and the Darling Harbour area until around 7 pm when we decided that we wanted to enjoy some wine and beer at Sam's place. Our regular bottle shop (or Botttleo, Australians have this curious and hilarious linguistic characteristic in which they shorten a lot of nouns and sometimes names and then either put an "O", "Y" or "IE" at the end of the words: Bottle Shop= BottleO; Jonathan= Jono; Registration for the car= Rego; Football= Footy; Sunglasses= sunnies; Person from the States= Sepo or short for Septic tank, which is derived from the word Yank....I am not that naive. ... you get the idea.) was closed so we had to go to one that was up the street. The area where this bottle shop is located is in a posh section of Sydney called Wollahra where coincidently, I work. To paint the picture for you, this is the place where dogs being walked are, in actuality, carried by their owners since a live thing is such a cool accessory. Sunglasses cover 3/4 of the people's faces and wearing a T-shirt and Jeans basically means you have come from the Twist genealogy.
I wanted to buy some beers and Sam wanted a crisp white wine for a relaxing night. Sydney was awash with excitement as people had Monday off, there was a huge music festival about 2km away from Woolahra, and a huge Rugby final was being played involving a team from Sydney. I selected my beers, and went to pay the shop keeper as Sam still was undecided about what wine to buy. We were the only patrons in this small shop, and as I finished my transaction, Sam questioned the shop keeper for suggestions on a good wine. At this point, class was in session. As we all know, Australia was founded by the English by transplanting criminals to the continent, I never thought I would get a live and updated tutorial on this historical fact.
I looked left and a short, stocky man entered wearing a mask. I paid no attention to this guy as he probably had been celebrating Sydney's win in the Rugby final, or had come from a costume party and was that guy with the lame idea. I turned away from him, only to see out of the corner of my eye, a very large knife. Again, Sydney slashed Melbourne in the Rugby final, but this physical pun was a step too far. It was not until he demanded money from the cash register that I realized this guy was serious. He came within a couple of feet of me, and pounded the knife on the counter top. Again, not to harp on the stereotypes, but all I was thinking was Paul Hogan's line "that's not a knoife, this is knoife." I stepped back to place myself in the path between him and Sam. He demanded money from the register, but did not focus his attention on us. I turned to Sam and she was rummaging through her bag to get her wallet, to which I quietly motioned for her to stop. The walking Australian stereotype took the money and to my absolute disbelief, walked out. I have no other verb to really describe how he exited, but I am pretty sure that a sloth would have beat him out the door. He gingerly got into his car and left.
Sam and I were shaken, but fine as was the shop keeper. As a hilarious statistic for you at home, this is the third time this shop keeper has been robbed at this store in the last 4 years....and he only works on Sunday and Monday!
The police arrived shortly after the robber left. Now as I described, there was a lot of events in Sydney this night, so one would surmise that the police force would be stretched out, incorrect. One car arrived , then another, then another and for posterity a paddy wagon arrived. For those scoring at home and this might be a little off, 7 witnesses (some 16 year boys caught a glimpse of the license plate number) to 79837 police officers. For about 30 minutes, the crime scene turned into a police officer chat session. Sam kept muttering within earshot of the police slumber party, that she is not going to pay taxes anymore if this is how it is spent on officers.
To end, police investigators took our statements and we ended the night at 10:45pm .
This event shed a lot of light on the notion of traveling to foreign countries; Australia is deemed a safe place to travel (except for the killer spiders, sharks, crocodiles, snakes, rips, sun, surfboards, koalas, on second thought, why would you come here?). From experience, people have been nervous with traveling through South America, Asia etc. However I am here to tell you that it doesn't matter, in Sydney my house has been broken into, I have had an ipod stolen and my girlfriend has stolen my heart. It really doesn't matter where you are, things are going to happen, you just have to chalk up to life experiences and learn from it.
I am extremely relieved nothing happened to Sam or the shop keeper, and my love for this city has not wavered. Just another crazy day here in Sydney.
Class over.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Clear and Present Visa
My visa to Australia has been processed and my flight has been changed to later tonight 11:50 pm PST or way way too late East Coast time. The visa process took a lot less time than what I have envisioned. I had already investigated potential jobs here in Carlsbad on the slim chance I would not be leaving for a month, but the visa Gods smiled kindly on this traveler and everything has worked out. It was ironic and somewhat bittersweet that my visa was granted on Monday, Sydney time at 10:30 am. Originally, Sam and I were scheduled to arrive at 7:30 so I could have come down with a wicked case of stomach cramps and loitered in the bathroom for 3 hrs until my visa became official. The plan had me all flushed. Foresight is 20/20 no?
I am excited to return to my Sydney life. Aside from being an experienced barman, I will go back to my other job as a prophesier of the future. What does this job entail Alex? Well, since I am technically a day ahead of you beginning on Wednesday, I have the ability to foresee how your Wednesday will go. I suspect I will receive more emails on Sunday your time to ascertain and how my Monday is going to fully prepare for the upcoming Monday in the States. Consider me the groundhog armed with more short term scheduling capabilities.
Therefore, starting Wednesday or for you stuck in the stone age Tuesday, I will update this blog every week and a half or sometimes earlier. Expect some exciting stories that revolve around my time with my Mom or that Australians prefer Carlton beer over Tooheys beer.
I also wanted to again send my love to everyone I saw over my past month that I was in the States. You can't measure how happy I was to see everyone again and really has made it a memorable trip.
I am excited to return to my Sydney life. Aside from being an experienced barman, I will go back to my other job as a prophesier of the future. What does this job entail Alex? Well, since I am technically a day ahead of you beginning on Wednesday, I have the ability to foresee how your Wednesday will go. I suspect I will receive more emails on Sunday your time to ascertain and how my Monday is going to fully prepare for the upcoming Monday in the States. Consider me the groundhog armed with more short term scheduling capabilities.
Therefore, starting Wednesday or for you stuck in the stone age Tuesday, I will update this blog every week and a half or sometimes earlier. Expect some exciting stories that revolve around my time with my Mom or that Australians prefer Carlton beer over Tooheys beer.
I also wanted to again send my love to everyone I saw over my past month that I was in the States. You can't measure how happy I was to see everyone again and really has made it a memorable trip.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
On the side of the road
Well.... Everything in the past two years has made me believe that immigration issues could not effect this traveler. I have had one issue before trying to depart Chile and get to Argentina. It was a 6 a.m flight and I had the brilliant idea (done by many, many people) to stay up all night and just roll to the airport. I forgot my student card, which I needed to leave, and this proved to be my undoing. This card, turns out, was more important than my actual information contained in Chilean immigration computadoras or my passport. We almost missed our plane as my reaction was, how shall we say it, less than diplomatic. Thanks to some fast (and soothing) talking by one of my friends, we boarded on time. This would be the last problem I would encounter while traveling. Now, I am waiting in the US for my Australian visa to be processed and there is a possibility that it will take awhile. I would love to be an immigration official, or for that matter a plumber, electrician, any household appliance repairman, only for the fact that you can give huge gaps in time when the contracted task will be completed. My visa, to be processed, might take 2 days or 4 weeks, or I'll be at your house between 8 am on Tuesday and 10 pm Sunday. If you leave the house (or enter the country) and we come, the whole process starts over again. So now I am leaving for sunny California and waiting there for who knows, 3 days, 1 week, till the rest of my hair falls off (which could be tomorrow, so here is to hope). Welcome to my blog, which coincidentally is a lot like others blogs. My purpose for this blog is kinda of written journal of my time in Australia, and then my travels with Sam, my girlfriend, to India and to somewhere in Latin America. It serves as a James Joyceian (not a word, but work with me) personal platform to inform you about me, cultural experiences, exciting places to go, thoughts and feelings on being abroad...well you get the idea. An electronic global footprint, so to speak. Also it serves as a place to read about me, without having to send one of those pesky emails, thereby allowing you (the reader) to expend the least amount of energy in contacting me.
I guess my real purpose is to hopefully stimulate a travel bug within you and go out to visit me or just go anywhere. Incredibly enough, working at a bar allows me a large window of time to be online so I will be able to update this pretty regularly. As for now though, picture me with a sign that reads "Australia or Bust" sitting on my luggage on some dusty road, ready for the adventure to begin.
I guess my real purpose is to hopefully stimulate a travel bug within you and go out to visit me or just go anywhere. Incredibly enough, working at a bar allows me a large window of time to be online so I will be able to update this pretty regularly. As for now though, picture me with a sign that reads "Australia or Bust" sitting on my luggage on some dusty road, ready for the adventure to begin.
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