So Many Goodbyes

I was going to start blogging about the Perth trip today, but I’m going to postpone that an extra day or two because I wanted to blog about something else first.  It’s just the day for it.

Sydney is an international city.  In my first year here, I’ve hardly met any Australians.  I read somewhere that Sydney has a higher rate of foreign-born persons than any other city in the world, and I believe that 100%.  Growing up in Florida, I met people from the United States, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic… and a few Jews from the South American countries.  In Texas, we had a few international students at my university, and in Seattle, there were a smattering of Canadians, and I knew a person or two from India, Taiwan, the Philippines, Israel, etc.  But in Sydney – it’s a whole different ballgame.

In my first year here, I met people from the following countries:  Australia, New Zealand, Samoa, Papua New Guinea, United States, Canada (both Quebec and real Canada), Venezuela, Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Norway, Sweden, Germany, Netherlands, Belgium, France, Switzerland, Spain (including Catalonia, the Basque country, and normal Spain), Portugal, Italy, Malta (who the hell has ever met anyone from Malta?), Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Serbia, Greece, Turkey, Russia, Israel, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, India, China, Thailand,  Vietnam, Macau, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Mauritius, and probably more countries that I can’t remember… That’s seriously a lot of representation.  Just in my house alone we’ve had Australia, Brazil, Spain, United States (that’s me!), Russia, Malaysia, Canada, Vietnam, and France as the birthplaces of those who have lived here during my time.  You don’t get this type of exposure to foreigners in the United States.  There is seriously a lot of culture-mixing going on here.

Having friends from all over the world means free lodging in random places when you travel.  Yay!  But it also means that people often times go back to their home countries… and if I have to do another goodbye, I’m just going to lose it.  In my original house, Oscar and Jim both went back to Spain in May and June, respectively, and Mayra left for Brazil in September.  Kathryn went back to the United States in August, and Karen followed her today (which is why I’m in a funk and thought it would be good to get this blog out of the way now).  Several of my Canadian girls have left – to three separate provinces in Canada, and even the Australians I’ve met here are starting to jump ship.  Ross & Jonathon – two of my true blue Aussie friends – got a job opportunity too good to pass up… in Shanghai.  They left in December.  And even Tara & Simon – my token straight Aussie couple – have decided to head back to Adelaide.  It’s only 17 hours away by car or a quick flight, but it still puts a damper on my social scene here.

But there is one thing that stands true with Sydney:  when all of these people leave, a bunch more new ones pop up here in the city.  Beware newbies:  I’m out to make you my new circle of friends.

Me and my homeboy:  Oscar.

And there’s me biting and fondling a cute Canadian girl:  Meghan.

I’m biting Jim here as well.  I’m probably fondling him too but you can’t see it in the photo.

Me and Mayra at her farewell party.

Me and Karen at someone else’s farewell party.

Me and Kathryn.  We weren’t at a farewell party in this one, but I could say we were and you’d totally believe me.

Me and Ross.  We don’t have Jonathon in any photos together.  I think we were always too busy drinking to take photos.  And I don’t have any photos with just Tara & Simon either.  We’re going to have to fix that when I visit them in Adelaide in April.

Flying Domestically

North American travelers are advised to arrive at the airport two hours prior to departure for domestic flights, and three hours for international.  Australia is a bit different, at least for domestic flights.  Every Australian citizen aspires to arrive at the airport no more than a half-hour prior to their flight.  The goal is to check-in at the last possible second, before they cut you off and give your seat away to some salivating stand-by traveler.  I’m not quite sure where this phenomenon stems from.  It could be that Australians simply hate waiting in airports, or it may be from the intense thrill of living on the edge.  Whatever it is, it drives North Americans crazy.

I hate living on the edge.  The edge scares me.

Flying domestically is a very laid-back process in Australia.  First of all, they hardly check ID.  I was checked when we dropped our bags off, but Karen wasn’t, and Cade only had a carry-on.  I was sure they’d check ID’s at security or at the gate, but I was wrong.  I could have booked tickets for Karen and Cade and brought Muhammed and Jihad Jane along instead, and nobody would’ve asked to see any ID whatsoever.  Scary.  I guess Islamic terrorists wouldn’t really gain anything from targeting Australia, seeing as Australia doesn’t really have any major enemies, so that’s comforting.  Who’d really want to fly a plane into a koala anyway?

Security was quick and painless.  No removing your shoes.  No checking your boarding pass.  Just walk on through.  And anyone can walk on through – as they don’t check your boarding pass, you don’t have to be a ticketed passenger.  The reason:  there are stores beyond the checkpoint and they want business.  I’d usually go to the mall if there was something I needed, but I guess the airport works too.  One good thing:  you can walk your friend/spouse/child/mistress/etc. to the gate or meet them at the gate – just like in the 1980’s or in the movies.  All those movies must be set in Australia.

And there aren’t any restrictions on liquids which Karen was shocked to find out after 2+ years of checking her bags on domestic flights in Australia.  You can bring shampoo and liquid soap and VitaminWater and all sorts of goodies and they don’t have to be less than 3.4 ounces and fit into one tiny zip-lock bag.  So, go on, bring those gallon jugs of whatever on board.  They want you too.

Then, when you board, the jetway forks and you have to quickly determine where to go.  One way leads to rows 1 – 13 and you enter the plane as normal.  The second way takes you outside and you go down stairs and you walk across the tarmac to the back of the plane and climb up stairs and enter the plane from the rear.

Haha!  I said “from the rear”!  Haha!

That way, the back half of the plane and the front half of the plane can board at the same time – speeding up the process and making it far more efficient (unless you’re an Asian person sitting in the last row and you just MUST enter the plane from the front because you might get hit with the sun or trip up the stairs or something obnoxious.  Ugh.)  The whole thing is extremely quick and probably even more efficient than Southwest’s boarding process.  Who knew that was possible?  Getting off the plane works the same way, just in reverse.

Haha!  I said “getting off”!  Haha!

Other observations:   Domestic and International terminals are completely separate – usually requiring a train or taxi between them, I imagine because of all of the reasons above.  They don’t give you food on flights, which I’m used to, but they also don’t give you a drink.  No freebies.  Not even one little plastic cup of Coke or ginger ale.  You must bring your own or purchase it on board (credit cards only).  This may be just Virgin Blue, but I imagine the other airlines are similar.  The cockpit door was open for a while (it may have been while on the ground but I’m not totally sure) and I seem to recall that not being allowed anymore in the U.S.  In addition, there’s always at least one attractive gay flight attendant, and just like in the States, they tend to ignore me completely.  At least one thing is the same.

And then, when you land and walk off the plane onto the tarmac and into the heat of whatever hot Australian city you are in, you see the welcome sign.  And it’s not the grandest welcome sign, but it’s welcoming nonetheless.  Nowhere in the States do they welcome you BEFORE you even enter the terminal building.

I like this place.

One Year Anniversary

Tomorrow, January 22^nd, marks my one year anniversary in Sydney – and I’ll be starting my day off in the same spot as I started it off exactly one year ago:  Sydney Airport.

Astonishingly, in a whole year in Australia, I’ve yet to venture more than two hours away from Sydney.  I’ve been as far north as the Hunter Valley, as far west as the Blue Mountains, as far south as Wollongong, and as far east as… well, the beach.  But, I haven’t really been anywhere that’s more than a stone’s throw away from Sydney.  I haven’t made it to Canberra or Brisbane or the Great Barrier Reef or even Melbourne.  So, for my first trip, I thought I’d better make it a big one.  I roped my mates Karen and Cade in and we’re on the first flight of the day to…

PERTH!!!

Perth is Australia’s fourth largest city with a population of around 1.7 million.  It’s consistently ranked as one of The Economists top 10 most livable cities in the world, and it holds the distinction of being the world’s most remote big city.  Nowhere on the planet is a city so big so far away from any other city of any significant size.  To put it in perspective:  imagine you live in San Diego.  You hop in your car and start driving east.  The next city you hit would be… New Orleans.  Or, for you East Coast people, imagine you’re in New York.  You start driving and… just nothing… until a little past Denver.  Perth is really out there.

And those distance comparisons are only to Adelaide.  Perth is even further away from Sydney.  The flight is about the same as a flight from New York to Tucson or a flight from Seattle to Cleveland.  Flights from Perth to Jakarta or Bali are actually shorter (and usually cheaper) than they are to Sydney.  And, once Boeing gets their new 787 up and running, Perth will be the only Australian city with a direct flight to Europe.  Currently, it’s just too far.

In addition to Perth, we’ll also be doing a little road trip around the southwest corner of the country.  We’ll be hiking and wine tasting and beaching and singing dirty rap songs as we cruise around Western Australia.  It’s 10 days in total – and it’s going to be a great start to my adventures beyond Sydney.  Can you think of a better one year anniversary present that I could give myself?

I didn’t think so.

I won’t be posting while I’m out there… so see you in February!

New Year’s Eve Tidal Wave of 2010/11

We Americans see it on TV every year.  New Year’s Eve morning all the New Yorkers and Floridians and Texans and Californians wake up to TV footage of fireworks shooting out of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.  It’s always one of the first ones shown on American TV because (1) it’s one of the first ones that happens (2) it’s right by two very iconic structures (the Opera House and the bridge itself) and (3) it’s a pretty neat show.  New Year’s Eve is a big deal in Sydney.

The waterfront parks to the east of the bridge get packed early – people start getting out there and claiming their territory at dawn.  By noon, the general public has invaded and taken up every last square inch of green, green grass.  Seeing as I generally despise the general public, I opted to head to a park to the west of the bridge – still right on the harbour with a pretty good view – but far less crowded and infinitely more enjoyable.  More enjoyable that is, until the fucking tsunami hits.

Karen and I got there around 4:30pm – complete with full picnic supplies:  a blanket, playing cards, snacks of all sorts, and bottles of wines poured into those water bottles that you take to the gym.  Classy.  We grabbed a spot right on the water – what luck!  The park wasn’t nearly all that crowded yet!  It wasn’t long before our fellow Americans – Chris, Kei, and Ryan – arrived with more blankets, more food, more booze, and an iPod and some speakers (and one of their Australian housemates – who invited the Aussie?!?!?).  So there we were – chillin’ on blankets on the grass in the sun – playin’ cards and drinkin’ moscato from a thermos – rockin’ out to some Jay-Z/Alicia Keys on the iPod – and generally doin’ anything that involved strikin’ the “g” from the end of a verb and replacin’ it with an apostrophe.  Then all of a sudden – from the corner of our eye – we saw it – and there wasn’t anything we could do about it:

A big fucking wave crashed up over the seawall and soaked us and all of our shit.

Seriously.  Now, I don’t mean soaked.  I mean SOAKED.  Everything was wet.  Our blankets were like little pools of water – Karen and I proceeded to wring them out but they were still sopping.  Our playing cards were all stuck together, but luckily the iPod and speakers survived – though there was panic as they were right in the line of fire.  And poor Kei – wearing a white dress.  Poor thing.

Then we looked around.  Nobody else was wet.  Just us.  This rogue wave came right for us and only us.  It must’ve been a big boat or something that came by and sent the ripple of water in our direction – hitting our stretch of 6-foot high seawall at just the right angle and with enough momentum to rise up and take us down.  Bastards.

It was just moments later that the sun began to set so there was no hope of the heat drying us out.  Luckily, David and Elcid came to the rescue shortly thereafter with a very large, dry blanket for us to sit on.  We decided to move 5 or 6 feet back away from the water.  And of course, people came and sat right in front of us.  And of course, there wasn’t another single wave the entire remainder of the evening to soak those buttmunches.

But it was a fun night nonetheless.  We ate, we drank, and we played a very interesting game of “Kill, Marry, Fuck” (the fun equivalent of the “Marry, Date, or Dump” game that some of you less risqué people might be familiar with).  And there were fireworks of course – first at 9pm for all the kiddies to see, and then the big ones at midnight.  They shot off of the bridge, off of the top of the skyscrapers in the CBD, and from various barges located up and down Sydney Harbour.  It was pretty neat.  And the best part:  all that noise really fucked with the seagulls.  Hehe.

Some boys – Ryan, Antony, and Chris:

A girl – Karen:

Some more boys – Elcid, me, and David:

And another girl – Kei:

The harbour and the bridge:

And the city:

Some fireworks shooting from all different directions:

And don’t forget the fireworks shooting right off the bridge!

Mimosa Christmas

Co-worker:  So, what are you doing for Christmas?

Me:  Not too much.  Just heading over to some friends’ house for Mimosas and Challah French Toast.

Co-worker:  Mimosa?  Is that like a samosa?

Me:  Seriously?

Co-workers:  Oh – it’s a flower, isn’t it???

Me:  WTF?!?!?

Australians do not know what a Mimosa is.  I was super excited for my Christmas Mimosa brunch at David & Elcid’s house.  Elcid was making Challah French Toast as well and we were going to lounge around all day watching all sorts of American TV that I had been missing.  But every time I said I was going to make Mimosas, every Australian looked at me funny – like how a cow looks at an oncoming train.  Seriously – not one of them knew what it was.  The Brits didn’t get it either.

How do these people not know what a Mimosa is???

After asking at least a dozen people, I was amazed to find that they would simply call it “Champagne and orange” here.  BORING!  Champagne and orange is not a fun cocktail name.  It’s lame and lazy and a poor excuse of a name for a drink.  Mimosa sounds exotic and delicious and tantalizing.  And the Brits… the Brits call it a “Buck’s Fizz”.  Now, for you Americans who don’t know, “buck” is another name for a dude (for example, instead of a “bachelor party”, guys in Australia have a “bucks night”).  So, when I hear the words “Buck’s Fizz”, all I can think about is… jizz.  Because that’s what it sounds like and that’s that visual you get.

And who the hell would want to drink jizz?

Ok, maybe a whore named Chrissie would, but nobody else.

Oh, maybe some power bottoms too.  But that really has to be extent of it.

Further research revealed that the International Bartenders Association classifies a Buck’s Fizz as having 2 parts orange juice to 1 part champagne, whereas a Mimosa has 1 part orange juice to 1 part Champagne.  Therefore, Mimosas are the obvious choice.

People of the world outside of North America:  Take note!  Mimosas are delicious beverages that can be enjoyed at breakfast, brunch, lunch, or dinner, or as an afternoon snack, as an after dinner drink, or past midnight.  They can be enjoyed at home, at restaurants, on patios, or in-flight.  There are no limitations!  And, even better, their name doesn’t remind you of jizz!

Step 1:  Start with some strawberries to add a touch of class because we’re classy like that.

Step 2:  Add champagne.

Step 3:  Add orange juice.

Step 4:  Consume with Challah French Toast.  Yummy!

Make sure to wear your finest Christmas pimp outfit!  Poor Elcid.

And, after brunch, have a fancy roof top Christmas dinner!  It’s Australia.  We can have a Christmas dinner on the roof without freezing.  Hahaha!

Make sure to include Elcid’s orgasmic sweet potato concoction!

And maybe some chocolate cake for good measure.

And that’s a good Mimosa Christmas.

Black, Asian, or Hispanic Christmas

It definitely wasn’t a White Christmas.  It’s fucking hot here and the closest thing we have to snow is white pavement.  And that’s not even remotely close to snow at all.

Christmas is equally as big and equally as obnoxious in Australia as it in the United States.  First off, everybody has a party for Christmas.  Everybody.  Your friends, your other friends, your family, your other family, your company, your department, your team, your veterinarian… Australians don’t need an excuse to party and drink, but when they have an excuse – especially an excuse as big as Christmas – they tend to go all out.  December is just one long booze-filled month of Christmas parties.

I’m ok with that, but I will say it’s exhausting.  I had our company Christmas party, and our department had a Christmas picnic at a local park, and we did a Secret Santa the week before.  Our team at work also went out for karaoke and since someone talked of singing a Christmas song (maybe we sang Mariah Carey’s but I was drunk and can’t remember…) I’m going to contend that it was a Christmas karaoke.  Bojan and Charlotte had a Christmas gift exchange party at their house one night and I even co-hosted a Chrismukkah Party with Tara, Simon, Karen, and Elsbeth.  It was really a Christmas party but I changed the name to Chrismukkah because I was inviting Jews and because I had a big fight with the Baby Jesus a few years back and I’m still a little bitter.  Also, my housemates (except for the awful guy) and I hosted an “Orphan’s Christmas Dinner” the weekend before Christmas (they call it “orphan’s” because so many people in Sydney are foreigners and they have no family here so they are invited to the “Orphan’s Christmas”) and then I ended up at David & Elcid’s for an actual Christmas dinner on the actual Christmas.

Christmas music is equally as annoying here and I don’t even own a radio.  Some of the girls at work were blasting it on our Christmas Eve half-day.  I put my headphones on and turned up the Martina McBride in rebellion.  One of the gay nightclubs played Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” one night when I was out.  I was actually ok with that but it did seem a bit strange for a gay club.  Then there was the Myer – one of our local department stores (equivalent to Macy’s).  I went in one day looking for clothes and a new pot for the kitchen.  I had to leave the store twice and work up the courage to go back in because the Christmas music was just too strong that day.  Ugh.

There are some strange traditions here.  One:  everyone goes to the beach on Christmas.  Try that shit in New York or Toronto or Chicago or Seattle or Dallas (Dallas is inland so this is actually irrelevant but I say it to make a point).  Two:  Christmas Crackers.  No, they aren’t edible crackers.  Christmas Crackers are these paper/cardboard things that you and a friend pull apart and a little firecracker goes off when you split it and then inside there’s a paper crown for you to wear and a little toy.  I think the crown is because Jesus was king (what, does he think he was Elvis???) and the toy is because he was a baby and babies love toys.  Or something like that.  If you want to know ask an actual Australian.  I bet they won’t know either.  (My housemate, Vicky, said it’s just because crowns are festive.  WTF?)

One thing about Christmas – just like Thanksgiving – Christmas is tasty.  One:  everyone keeps baking and baking and buying chocolate and there was a whole sweets buffet lined up in our area of the office for the entire month.  While the Grinch’s heart grew three times the size that day, it was my stomach that did the expanding.  Two:  they have turkey.  Christmas turkey.  Turkey is not a prevalent meat in Australia.  Cold cuts are rare – and ground turkey at the grocery store is even rarer – and even restaurants usually always favor chicken to turkey on the menu.  But everyone gets a Christmas turkey.  Unless they have a BBQ.  That’s big here too on Christmas.

So yeah, I could keep blabbing about Christmas, but I think pictures are more fun.  Our Orphan’s Christmas dinner set up:

Notice the thing on the plate right at the bottom there.  That’s a Christmas Cracker.  There’s shit inside and it pops out when you pull it apart.  For example, David got this lovely red plastic paper clip which he applied as an earring.

And I got a black plastic mustache which clipped onto my nose.

Elcid obviously thought my black plastic mustache was sexy.  Oh – and don’t forget the Christmas paper crowns which we’re all sporting!  Mine dyed my forehead turquoise or aquamarine or something.  Lovely.

Of course we had food – lots of it!  Including carrots and peas and pierogi (it’s a Polish thing maybe?) and I of course made my mac n cheese and Elcid made this stunning sweet potato thing with pineapple and marshmallows and brown sugar maybe?  Whatever the hell was in it I swear my taste buds were in heaven.  Seriously.

And there was Christmas turkey made by my favorite heterosexual Canadian male housemate:  Nick!  (I could’ve said favorite Canadian, but I think a few people may have been really upset with me.)

And just so I don’t get yelled at tomorrow, here are photos of the hosts and hostesses from our Christmukkah Party a few weeks earlier:

That’s Elbeth and Karen and me and I have no idea what’s going on in that photo.  And below we have the lovely Tara and Simon!

(Tara’s the one on the left and Simon’s the one on the right, just in case you couldn’t figure that out.)

Dirty Jokesgiving

As the old saying goes:  “You can take the boy out of America, but you can’t keep the boy away from American food.”

That’s a famous quote, right?

Anyway, the weeks leading up to the end of November were marked by talk of nothing other than… Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is a holiday which revolves around delicious food, and seeing as there is no delicious food in this country, Australians don’t celebrate Turkey Day.  No turkey.  No mashed potatoes.  No cranberry sauce.  Neither Pilgrims nor Indians.  No Black Friday sales.  Australia carries on as usual on the fourth Thursday in November.  Strange.

Actually, outside of the United States and Canada, nobody really celebrates Thanksgiving except for some small town in the Netherlands, a barely populated island in the Pacific, and Liberia.  So really, outside of the United States and Canada, nobody really celebrates Thanksgiving.

So, how can we Americans abroad celebrate our favorite fatty holiday???

There’s a formula.

We started with a team of Americans, united to bring Thanksgiving to the land down under.  Actually, it was a team of five Americans, three Australians, two Germans, a Dutch, and a partridge in a pear tree.

As John was still in town, I decided to take off work on the Thursday and Friday in commemoration of Thanksgiving.  And in typical Thanksgiving fashion, the day revolved around food:  first a meal at Bill’s – one of my favorite brunch spots in the neighborhood – then off to the David Jones Food Hall and Coles to purchase all of my ingredients – and then back to the kitchen to cook, cook, cook!  And then, we hopped in a taxi and we went to our multinational Thanksgiving feast!

We were greeted by our lovely hostesses with the mostesses:  Karen and Elsbeth!

Of course, there was turkey!

And a whole buffet of delicious carbs:  mashed potatoes, rolls, mac n cheese, candied yams, green bean casserole, stuffing, more turkey, and cranberry sauce!

There were plenty of ridiculous antics... involving oven mitts... especially as we drank more wine (you can’t imagine how many bottles of wine and beer the 11 of us went through – we nearly finished it before we ate so John and I collected funds and ran over to the liquor store for $150 worth of reinforcements!)

Did I mention that Karen made pumpkin pie – from scratch???  Like, she actually bought a pumpkin and scraped out the innards because they don’t sell pumpkin in a can here.  If only Karen was a man.  A gay man.  A gay man with a thing for Jews.  That would be so hot.

And then we all sat down around the table to dine.

And instead of saying what we’re thankful for, we went around the table and told dirty jokes.  So there’s our formula for Thanksgiving in Australia:  take the U.S. holiday, add tasteless jokes, and douse in copious amounts of booze.  It's very Australian.  I do believe we have a winner!