Who Wears Short Shorts?

surreptitious picture of the shorts

“Real men wear shorts to work”--direct quote from one of my co-workers at Kurundi Station, another cattle station job. It’s true that some of the guys here work in shorts. I just don’t understand why they have to wear shorty shorts--think along the lines of 1980s men’s basketball shorts.

For station work, they’re around cattle all day long. It’s mustering season, so they muster (bring cattle into the yards), draft (sort by sex and/or age), and brand. The branding process involves de-horning, castration, ear-marking, and hormone tags for the steers in addition to the actual branding.

When cattle are de-horned, they spurt blood from the head. Castration and branding sometimes causes them to shit themselves. So these guys come back covered in…you guessed it…blood and poo, not on their jeans, but on their legs. I can’t imagine it’s fun to clean out of leg hairs.

wearing shorts to feed Lucille

But who am I to judge? I wore shorts when feeding the poddy (orphaned) calves at my last station job, and I would inevitably end up with milk, poo, and sometimes blood  (don’t ask, sometimes blood happens caring for calves) on my legs. Manure in the boots was the worst. I’m just glad I didn’t have the leg hair-cleaning problem. And I could immediately clean and not have to wear it all day.

What Star Sign Are You?

This was an actual interview question (back in May) for a kitchenhand position in Australia.
“Cancer"
“So you’re a homebody?”

“Well kind of, but I’m here [in Australia].”

I had a weird feeling about the job in the first place, and I didn’t pursue it after that because really? My zodiac sign has bearing on how well I would work in a kitchen? At least it was a phone interview, so the guy didn’t see my reaction.

It’s OK Because You Said It in an Accent, part 1

Australia is backpackerlandia. Seriously, I have met more people from England, Sweden, and Germany each than I have Australians. Interacting with people with accents can be quite entertaining, especially when English is not their first language. Sometimes they say things that might be considered rude or inappropriate; other times, they just don't know how to phrase it; and yet other times, it just sounds funny with an accent. The following stories are courtesy of Stefan, a German backpacker I met at the lovely On the Wallaby lodge in Yungaburra, Queensland, Australia.

Trying to get my attention, Stefan started poking my arm…hard. I gave him a look that said WTF? Forgetting what he was going to say but continuing to poke my arm not quite as hard, he confusedly asked, "Are you easy?" 
"I don't think that's the question you want to ask."

"Are you easy? Bruises?" 
Oh, gotcha. "Do you bruise easily?" 

As I pulled my bangs back with a barrette, I got a quizzical look from Stefan. 
"What are you doing?"
"Getting my hair out of my face."
"Why?"
"Because it bothers me when it touches my face."
"I was thinking of shaving my head. Maybe you should, too. Then you won't have hair in your face."
"But I feel like if I shaved my head, I would look like a lesbian."
"Are you a lesbian?"
"No."
"Then keep your hair the way it is." 

There was a large group of college students that were checking into the hostel, and Stefan asserted that it was probably illegal for him to sleep with any of them. He was moving rooms, and the CFL in the new room was dim. I suggested it was mood lighting. He agreed and said he would just lay naked and let the girls come to him. However, they would have to pay first. “It works for girls, so it must work for guys.” 

But it all sounds so much better in an accent.

brrrRRING...brrrRRING...brrrRRING...

No way can it be time to get up yet. Nope, that's right 4:45. It's my first day of work in seven months. Why did I choose "cook at a cattle station" again? Oh right, food and accomodation included and no place to spend money. I stumble to the kitchen where lights and music (horrible top 40 pop music, no less) are already blaring.

Amelia, my boss, already has the meat cooking, and I get to do eggs. I'm cooking for 10 this morning, so I decide scrambled is the best way to go and do a whole dozen. Later I'm told, "Scrambled is for when you're trying to save eggs, so do half the number of eggs than people. Add some milk and really whisk them to get air in so they're really fluffy." Half an egg per person is piddly; I eat 3 eggs myself at home. Also, in my experience, people take more than one egg's worth when they're scrambled.

As everyone exits the kitchen, Amelia instructs me to make a cake for "smoko" (smoke break). "There should be recipes for cakes without butter in the book." Oh yea, we're out of butter. I panic as I look through the pantry, cold room, and store room and come up with no flour either. There is oatmeal, so I decide to improvise individual oatmeal in muffin tins. They explode almost immediately, so I choose undercooked rather than impossible mess and possibly no food if they completely bubbled over.

I get yelled at for thinking there was no flour since someone put it in the other cold room (I was not aware there was another cold room). But I did make something, so crisis averted.

People were in for lunch in about three groups. Ki-Vi is on her own. "So how late do you guys work?" "Dinner is at 7:00, so..." "That's a lot to expect out of people." "But time flies. I can't believe I've already had lunch!" My day is crawling, but I do admit that days and weeks did fly by after the first few panic-filled days.

That afternoon, I scour recipes left by former cooks and organize them into meals and desserts. I also start to organize the pantry and store room. We have a freezer full of mince (ground beef), some lamb chops, 10 kg plain flour, 10 kg self raising flour, 1 huge bag of potatoes, 2 huge bags of onions, 1 large box of apples, 1 large box of carrots, many cans of coconut milk and sweetened condensed milk, and some random cans of other food, but not much else. We weren't going to starve, but we had lots of similar meals until a big grocery trip was arranged and a "killer" done and aged.

For dinner, I cooked some mince (ground beef) and topped it with potatoes and carrots. It was beautiful; all the carrots and potatoes cooked (unlike many subsequent meals). There just wasn't enough for everyone; Dave had to eat leftovers. "Cook more food, lots more," I'm instructed.

By the time I finish dishes, it's 8:30 or 9:00. This may not sound late, but I soon made my lights-out time 9:00. It was another short night made even shorter by my anxiety keeping me awake thinking of what I had to do the next day.

Oops, I Touched a Sleeping Stranger

The first night in a new hostel always seems a little confounding, and Space Hotel was no exception. There I had booked into a six-bed female dorm room. In the middle of the night I got up in to use the restroom. 

Upon returning to the room, it was really dark. Some hostels don’t have adequate window covering, but that was not the case at Space. It was especially murky since I had not really cleared my eyes properly and had come from the brightly lit hall.

I missed my bed, just walked right past it. When I reached what I thought was my bed, I stretched my hand out to make sure I was close enough and jumped when I touched a blanket--I always throw the covers off so I can easily hop back between the sheets.

I shuffled around and made it to my bed. Oh, and I don’t think my neighbor knew I almost got into her bed with her.

The Anti-Comedian Bus Driver

Over the first weekend in March, there were no (reasonable) rooms available in Adelaide due to it being Mad March, the festival season. Someone told me there are 200 separate events that occur in March in Adelaide! The Clipsal 500 stock car race put the city over the edge as far as rooms go. So I took a trip to Melbourne to see my friends. It worked out cheaper to do that than to stay in town. 

The bus driver on the overnight bus there thought he was a comedian, but he was only humorous in the awkward sense. He started off the 8:30 pm ride with a boisterous, “How is everyone?” Silence. “What if I make everyone give me $5? Now how is everyone?” Crickets. “How about I make it $10?” Finally someone piped up a dry, “We’re all fine,” just to shut him up. “Why are you speaking for everyone?”

After the 15 minute safety video, he went on to talk for another 10 minutes about using the toilet on the bus. “If you don’t make sure the bowl empties, it will back up and pour out on the floor of the bathroom and spill out into the bus. You don’t want that. Also, guys, please point down when you use the toilet…you know what I mean…your willie.” If they knew what he meant, why did he say it?

“I’m going to put on a movie now. If you’ve already seen it, you don’t have to watch it again. You could read or listen to music or try to sleep.” I mean, it's a bus, so I would say the options are pretty obvious. At least he didn’t repeat the safety video or the toilet spiel at every stop throughout the night.

Upon arrival in Melbourne, he proceeded to talk for 15 minutes about what you need to do if you were going on to Sydney via bus or going to the airport or taking a train or about five other options. “And if Melbourne is your home, just don’t say anything. You know what to do.”

Have a Nice Trip

Last weekend I walked by Chatime, and there was a line out the door. ‘Ooo, popular place!’ I thought to myself. I’m not one to wait in line, so I passed on by. The next day when I walked by, there was only one person in the shop, so I entered and selected chocolate milk tea.

Now in Australia, they have these ingenious devices that put a plastic seal on your smoothie or juice cup, and you get a straw with a pointy end, like Capri Sun, to stab into the drink. I punctured the top and took one delicious sip. Then I walked to the corner to cross the street.

Taking another sip, I began to cross but caught my toe on the tram rail. My beverage sprang from my hand and shattered on the ground. I thought I had caught myself and wasn't going to fall, but alas, I had not. In what seemed like slow motion, I fell directly onto the puddle of delightful drink, covering my entire left side.

Some guy asked if I was ok, very concernicus. “Yes, thank you.” I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I walked away.

Double the Arrests, Double the Fun

Arrest Number 1:

After a couple drinks in Melbourne, Scott, Adele, and I walked to Melbourne Central station to catch the train to the suburbs, where we were staying. The departures screen informed us that our next train left in 15 minutes, so they sat down for a rest. 

Scott swiftly turned around and grabbed the handrail of the “up” escalator, but he could only support himself for a few seconds. When he had slid back down, he said, “Mon, get a video of me!” So I obliged and shot a short video.

On his third time up, two transport security officers came over and tried to get his attention, “Sir, what are you doing? Sir, get down. Sir, that’s how people get hurt.” One officer spoke with Scott, and the other addressed myself then Adele. “Do you know it’s illegal to take pictures down here?” He pointed to a sign directly behind me that I clearly had not seen. It looked something like this, but it also included a camera icon. 

“Ohmygod, no! I’ll delete them right now.” “Well don’t worry about that now.” My mouth went dry. Shit. “Do you have ID?”

“Are you all English?” I overheard Scott’s officer. “We are," he indicated himself and Adele, "but she’s American,” Scott replied.

I handed him my driver’s license. “Are you a resident or traveling?” “We’re all traveling on working holiday visas.” He wrote down my name and asked my date of birth. He wanted to get correct documentation since America is not down with the rest of the world, which writes dates day-month; we write dates month-day.

He asked for Adele’s ID. Now, Adele had done nothing wrong, so she had taken a step back. She looked as terrified as I felt (and, as it turns out, also looked). He took her info down in his notebook, as well.

As he handed us back our IDs, Adele asked what happens next. “Oh this one’s trouble,” he indicated to the other officer but offered no explanation. The guy who had been talking with Scott piped up, “We can’t fine you because you’re not residents.” Sigh of relief.

Scott later informed us that as soon as his officer saw his ID, he said, “Oh shit. You’re English, so I can’t issue a citation.” I don’t understand why the guy talking with Adele and I couldn’t have offered us the same courtesy--he just left us hanging.

And to top off almost being arrested, the departures screen lied to us. There were no more trains from that station, so we missed the last one back. Then we had to battle hundreds of others trying to hail taxis right at shift change, so it took us an hour to finally find someone who would take us there. 

Arrest Number 2: 

The next day, as we were riding the train into town, two transport officers came through the car checking everyone’s Myki (metro) card to make sure everyone paid for their ride. When he came up to us, he looked at me with my feet up on the seat and said, “Do you know that having your feet on the seat is a finable offence.” Crap not again. “No.” “I’ll need to see your ID.”

I start to retrieve my license. “Since I’ve caught you doing it, I will have to make a report. If the transport authority decides to issue a citation, it will come in the mail.” I feel immediately relieved because, having been through this the night before, I now know I won’t be fined.

Handing him my license I answer, “Ok,” polite and agreeable, “I’m American, so how does that work?” He gets snippy, “You’re not a resident?” “No, sir.” “Are you living in Melbourne?” “No.”

“Are you staying in Melbourne?” inquired his sidekick. “We’re staying outside the city tonight, but we’re staying in a hostel in the city tomorrow.” “How long have you been in Melbourne?” “Just for the weekend; I’m going to Adelaide Tuesday.”

The guy jumps back in, “Common sense tells you not to put your feet on the seat. Do they have trains in the state of” he checks my ID “Illinois?” “Yes.” “Do they allow you to put your feet on the seats there?” I wasn’t going to stoop to his rudeness level and reply that no one really cares if you put your feet on the seat, nor would anyone get fined for having feet on the seat. If a transport employee did come through and cared enough, they would just ask you to please put your feet on the floor.

“To be honest, I’ve never ridden the train in Illinois.” That was a lie, but really it’s been years since I did. He reiterated the common sense bit and moved on, not bothering to take down my information.

By the way, it’s not as if I had muddy or even dirty shoes, in which case common sense would have kicked in, and I would not have had them on the seat. Also, I could have informed him that the train from Melbourne to Adelaide does not have such a rule, since we all had our feet up a couple weeks prior. Had he been polite about the whole thing, I may have felt sorry for putting my feet on the seat, but as he was exceedingly rude, I don’t.

Here's Your Sign, part 2

More signs that amused me:

Some people I know should set these up

Seems cheap for pot

At the beach, maybe waves should be expected

And you can help prevent them pooping on you

Say hello to my little friend. It'll blow you away...literally

This dog is so talented, its poo spells "poo"

Put your hands in the air, like you just don't care

Even when I do hold on, I still flail about

You know there was a spitting problem if they had to put up a sign

So polite and helpful

This warning should apply to "abled" people as well as "handies"...ok, maybe just me

Didn't know this was a song until a few days later

Maybe one should not be packing either dogs or cats

We want our flames fully clothed

I'd be more worried the handle was hygienic

What soundtrack are you putting to the visual in the restroom?

Mexican steroids may actually be way more dangerous than a delicious burrito

Oh, haha...burgers...I wondered where you were going with that

Maybe Jesus is not the best spokesperson for YOLO

You're grammar is awful

Magnetizing Weirdos

Where my amazing ability to draw in kooky people comes from, I don’t know, but it certainly has made my life richer. Ok, I do know that when I only witness the oddness, the skill comes from observing people around me…and a little voyeuristic listening to their conversations. But it’s the times when they feel the need to speak to me--that’s the gift from nowhere.

Last week, there was a woman on the tram creating a ruckus by shouting that her home is jail and that she wanted to stab two white men. She did not in fact stab anyone on the tram, just caused a scene and made everyone feel uncomfortable. I do want to say she was not talking to me but was on the other end of the tram.

A few days ago, I sat down in a food court for lunch, and the guy at the next table, who was missing multiple teeth, smiled and said hi, so I said hello back. A woman came through yelling to herself. The man turned to me, laughing, and said something about how she’s so crazy and always shouting. He proceeded to talk smack about her incomprehensibly. 

A few days ago, I spoke with Rachel, a lavender-haired woman who was most likely on drugs and may or may not have been homeless.

Most of the day Monday, I watched free Adelaide Fringe shows at the mall, a venue for the artists performing at the Fringe to let people know what their show is about and to provide the public with some free entertainment. To fill time between acts, the host asked the audience if anyone had already seen or was going to see a Fringe show. Rachel, who had been watching all morning, too, said she won tickets to a show that night. I gave details about Confessions of a Control Freak.

After lunch break, I hear Rachel holler my name and look over thinking, ‘yay, this woman knows my name.’ She says her friend (can’t remember his name) went crazy and deleted his Facebook. “Oh, that’s too bad,” I replied.

Later that afternoon, she came and sat next to me and said she recognized me from our conversation the previous week. “When you were talking earlier, I said to myself ‘that’s Monica.’” We had never spoken before that day, but I wanted to see where it was going so I just went along with it.

She asked how long I’d been in Adelaide and whether I liked it. She’s been in Adelaide 12 years, but she doesn’t like it because her boyfriend broke up with her. And also because he stabbed her. She reiterated about her housemate who came home high, went crazy, and deleted his Facebook.

She told me she was trying to sell the tickets she had won for $20 because she had to work that night. It clearly said on the tickets that they were free, so I don’t know if she had any luck with that. She also said her auntie works at the Hilton and that she’s letting Rachel live there for free. I chose to believe the bit about the housemate over her living at the Hilton.

On Monday, I was sitting watching the shows at the mall when I feel poke on my shoulder blade. There's Rachel. "Oh, hi! how are you?" I asked. "Sore," she replied. "I got kicked out and had to sleep on the streets last night. That's why I have all my stuff with me." She pointed to a red suitcase. I didn't question her about living in the Hilton. She pointed out her new haircut, which was a little shorter with the sides shaved.

Anywho, whatever the reason these people talk to me, I guess I'll have to accept it.

Last Night I Had to Sleep with Strangers

For the last six weeks, I have been in the company of five to eleven people I met during the "fun week." Some of us split off in Melbourne, and there were six of us who traveled to Adelaide together a couple weeks ago. For the last couple weeks, it's just been our group in a dorm room, which has been nice because no one is going to steal anything. Our group has split up, though, so last night I was in a room with random people. 

Last week, Binx went to visit his aunt. Yesterday, Luke went to Port Lincoln for a shark dive. Richard is still here, but we're not in the same room. Luke will come back Thursday, and then he and Richard return to Melbourne Friday. 

Sunday was a really difficult day because I had to say goodbye to Scott and Adele, my favorite people here, because they went back to Melbourne. I know we'll get together again while we're here, and we plan to visit each other in the future. But they've become my family here, and it's scary when you've been with people for so long to think of being on your own. 

It's not that I dislike traveling on my own...quite the opposite. I can do what I want, when I want, for as long as I want. I can eat what I want, when I want. Basically, I don't have to keep anyone else happy.

Obviously when you travel, you're away from everyone and everything you know, which is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. When you do make friends traveling, you progress into the friendship much quicker than you would at home. I revealed more about myself to these people in a week than I would in months back home.

At home, I have best friends, ok friends, family, acquaintances, good friends...basically a whole lot of choice of who to spend my time with. Here, I've been with the same people all day every day, and we converse the whole time. I've created these deep relationships that feel like I've known them for years. Maybe it's the introvert in me, but when I become friends with someone, I give a little piece of myself to them, or at least that's how I feel.

For now, on with my adventure!

Shout Out to my English (and Swedish) Homies

My new English friends requested a shout-out on my blog. We met during the fun-week orientation with Work and Travel Company. They were going to spend a few days in Bondi before heading to Melbourne, which was where I was headed. I saw most of what I wanted to see in Sydney, and the rest I can see when I get back at the end of the year.

I had been pretty quiet and awkward for the first week, as I am when I meet new people, and was kind of just tagging along with them, but I soon made myself integral to the group via “that’s what she said” and other innuendos.

A few of them now relish speaking in an American accent (that sounds nothing like anywhere in America). “Mwaniker” is my new name, but they also call me by singing my full name. It cracks my shit up. When they request my English accent, they call me out for speaking “posh.”

They call me their mum because I’m prepared for all situations. All I do is have the map memorized, have everything in its place (OCD), carry a Swiss army knife, and have safety pins to be considered “so efficient it makes me sick.” I’ve also been nicknamed a walking encyclopedia since I share random facts. 

So here's a "hey, hey" to Binx, Scott, Adele, Luke, Jess, and Richard.

Here's Your Sign, part 1

I enjoy taking pictures of signs. Here’s a collection of some from the past couple weeks that I find amusing:

Wear your old-fashioned undersea exploration suit when climbing on the roof

Clearly numbers 1-4 are the most important

First, the misspelling of ladies’, also there was no reciprocal sign regarding ladies in the men’s shower…

Found behind the toilet—there was not a tap, and I don't drink from the toilet

Love that the old lady is all sassy, with her hip out

On the count of three, dismount

1—there’s a kangaroo and an emu emblem, 2—I actually had to press the button for one second to turn it on then another second to turn it off

Is that really what you want?

Beware of the rhinoceros on a skateboard. He’s vicious.

Don’t throw Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’s carcass in the trash any more

I did need to keep telling myself this

Apparently a “doona” is a comforter (or duvet to my English friends)

Should Sweeny Todd really be the one collecting sharps?

Daily reminder of how dangerous Australia is

Surf Camp…Spoiler Alert: My Day Ended in Burned Feet

Yesterday my orientation group went to surf camp at Seven Mile Beach National Park. We were told to bring a huge appetite because lunch would be two bread rolls. I don’t know what bread rolls sounds like to you, but to me it sounds like dinner rolls, something you would get with a chicken dinner. FYI, bread rolls are sandwiches.

Being allergic to neoprene, the main ingredient in a wet suit, I told the surf camp staff when we lined up to get fitted. The lead surf instructor informed me he is a medical professional (mmm hmm) and wanted to know what my reaction was. “When I got certified for SCUBA a couple years ago, I broke out in a rash everywhere the wetsuit touched me.” I mean, I don’t know if he thought I was lying so I didn’t have to wear one, but I really don’t want to run the risk of wearing one again since every time you’re exposed to an allergen, the allergy tends to become more severe.

They did not have a non-neoprene wet suit, so I got a “rash shirt” (“skin” in U.S.). He told me if I booked a weeklong surf camp to let him know in advance so he could procure a rubber wet suit. Right, with my long-time hatred of sand, I’m going to roll around in it for a week--I was doing good to be there for the one day in the first place.

We left our stuff at the camp and walked to the beach. However, they failed to inform us how long of a walk it would be, so most of us did not wear shoes, myself included. By the time we got to the beach, the balls of my feet had burned and blistered from the heat of the blacktop. I couldn’t walk the last bit to the beach, so one of the instructors lent me his “thongs” (flip-flops).

We sat down on the sand for our surfing lesson—yes, I sat on sand, no towel, just sand. The wind had picked up and was pelting us with the stuff. I was zoned out, mentally numb from my feet and to turn my brain off to sand. I tried to stand to attempt the paddling practice, but I couldn’t stand on my feet so immediately sat back down. When everyone picked up boards, the instructor asked if I was going to try. Nope.

He pointed out a table the surf camp had that I could lie under so I wouldn’t fry in the sun. It was maybe four feet long, two wide, and two tall, so I was on the struggle bus to get under it and keep my knees and everything out of the sun. I promptly started ugly crying, sobbing, with snot running down my face. It was attractive. 

I wanted to watch everyone else surf, so I faced that direction. But the sand was assaulting my face, swirling around, and going up my nose. So I sucked it up, got out, dug some sand from under the table to give myself a little more room, and turned the other direction, so I couldn’t see the surfing but wasn’t struck directly in the face with sand. I still had to put my arm into an awkward position to protect my face, but it was better.

Then I felt a stinging bite on my ass and saw a horsefly zooming about. He bit me at least another 20 times--but only on the buttocks. I got out a couple times to swat him, but he was too swift.

An instructors came back to offer a surf with him holding the board or even on my knees, but I could not imagine anything worse at that moment, so I declined and stayed in own my sandy, horsefly hell for the remainder of the two hours.

I was so grateful for the flip-flops on the way back. I know my feet are wimpy, but I genuinely could have made it back without them. I was walking on the outsides of my feet to compensate, so my ankles (especially the one I broke) were screaming at me by the time I got back to the camp. The blister on the left popped on the walk back, and I pricked and let out most of the right one after I got back to the hostel. The lead instructor loaned me gel ice packs for the bus ride back to Sydney.

The others without shoes were suffering from burned feet, too. In fact, on the walk back, two of them sat down almost crying, and all the instructors walked past and left them behind. They couldn’t find the way back and ended up locked out of the camp while the rest of us were getting rinsed off and eating fruit and cookies. They did make it back but only because some random people lent them flip-flops and showed them the way back.

The surf camp staff tried to blame us for not wearing shoes, but we were absolutely not informed that we would need shoes. I heard this morning that the Work and Travel staff informed the owner that he needs to ensure people are wearing shoes.

I elevated my legs last night, and my feet (and ankles) definitely feel better than they did yesterday--I can walk, so that’s a plus. But my right foot is a little squishy and my left ankle is puffy. It’s going to be weeks before my feet are healed.

The moral of this story is to wear shoes at surf camp.

People Die in This Weather

Today was a hot one--42 C or 108 F! We were warned upon starting orientation today that "people die in this weather." Awesome because knowing my luck, it will be me. I just tried to stay out of the sun, wore my hat when I was in the sun, and drank loads of water.

We were also told to wear "sun cream" and not to worry about tanning because the sun will burn right through it, what with Australia being right under the hole in the Ozone Layer. Oh yay, one more thing that can kill you...eventually.

I did survive, though, and without a sunburn, so that's a plus.

Calculating a 17-hour Time Difference

I was very concernicus about calculating the 17-hour time difference, until I realized I could just add 7 hours to Sydney time, and it’s that time yesterday at home.

The time change did mess with my head, and I felt fuzzy for a few days. But I had to make up sleep from Tuesday night and bad sleep on the plane, and I’m getting over a cold, sniffling all over the place.

That said, I’m really glad I got here before my program starts because I don’t think I could have functioned like a real human. I did manage to stay up almost all day on Friday, just a teeny nap during a movie in the hostel’s common room.

Disorientation on Entering Sydney

Arrival in Sydney was a big CF. Everyone rushed to the nearest bathroom, like is usual after a long flight. There were four stalls in the one I entered, but someone was sick in one stall, so we were down to three. I wanted to go before getting my backpack because that’s one less thing to stuff into the stall.

Immigration is always busy, with everyone trying to get his passport stamped first. As usual, they had separate lines for citizens and foreigners, but there were signs pointing in opposite directions indicating where foreigners should go. I went where the permanent sign pointed so was in the right place. Then I had to wait for my luggage, and with a double-decker plane containing 88 rows, there’s a lot of luggage.

Once I finally got my backpack (for whatever reason, my luggage is almost always toward the end), I hoisted it onto my back and turned toward customs. Oh. My. God. The number of people trying to get through was atrocious. There were two lines merging into one, and by lines, I mean large blobs of people. I decided to take the airport up on a free cart. At least my blob was the smaller of the two, so I may have gotten through a little easier.

Fun fact: You’re not allowed to bring food of any kind into Australia. They tell you on the plane that no food is allowed, including food you receive on the plane. There are quarantine bins throughout the terminal. Most countries don’t want you bringing fruit, vegetables, or seeds in, but I’ve never heard of confiscating mints and granola bars.

I marked on the customs form that I had no food, left my trail mix on the plane, and crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t search my bag and find the chocolate bar because I read that they search everyone regardless of what you mark on the form. Apparently, I don’t look like a food terrorist, so they let me through without checking my bags.

Once through customs, I walked out to freedom. Work and Travel Company, whose program I’m using, had indicated my program included airport pick-up, so I was expecting to see a driver with my name on a sign. No such luck. By now, it had been over an hour since the plane landed, so there was no way the driver was that late.

I turned on my phone to see if I had a message. Nope. I tried to jump on the airport’s wireless to get the phone number because I had forgotten to put it in my phone before I left, but there wasn’t much of a signal and they were asking for my email address to “keep in touch with me” (aka send me spam), so I asked Airport Help. He said there was another exit and to check there. Nope.

I was fed up, so I just got a taxi. I hopped in the back and closed the door before remembering that Australians sit in the front seat of taxis because of “egalitarianism.” Oh well, too late.

Time Travel on a Jet Plane

For realsies, I don't know when I'll be back again. I'm sitting at LAX waiting for my flight to Sydney. I'm going to Australia on a Working Holiday Visa, which allows me to legally work while not having to go through the rigorous process of getting a work visa. I'm allowed to be there up to a year and cannot work for the same company for more than six months.

On the way there, I cross the international date line, and since I'll be heading west, I lose a day. Where does it go? I don't know. But basically, January 3rd will not exist for me. And when I return, I time travel again because I'll arrive in Los Angeles at an earlier hour of the day then I left Australia.

As for not knowing when I'll be back, I mean, as long as I'm already there, I'd like to see New Zealand fr sure. Then, where to?