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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Swear, They Must Pump Tranquilizers into the Air

For a few years in a row, my grandpa was unable to leave the nursing home, so my family would go to my grandparents' for Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving holiday festivities. Inevitably, the day followed the same routine.

Get up. Eat a light breakfast. Drive to parents' house. No one's ready at the time we are supposed to leave. Sit at the counter, surly, because I could have slept later. Remember we need pictures to color. Print coloring pages. Pack colored pencils.

Lauren sleeping in car

Leave 30-45 minutes behind schedule. Gah, really? I could have slept that much longer? Pass out in the car for most of the two-and-a-half hour drive. I cannot stay awake in a moving vehicle, people. Arrive hangry (hungry-angry). Get antsy to eat. Why are we saying hello and wishing everyone a happy day? I just want food! Also, the first indication of airborne tranquilizers hits me as I realize I'm about to collapse I'm so tired. No matter, it's nap time after we eat. Ignore weariness.

fun with food

Go to the dining room! Eat! The food is really good, and the only thing I didn't like about eating at the retirement center is no left-overs. Halfway through the meal, remember how dead-tired you are. Barely waddle back to Grandma's apartment due to fullness and exhaustion. Pass out anywhere--floor, couch, bed; I'm not picky.

Wake up two hours later. Go to activity room where they serve cookies and juice. Color. One of the residents would come up to us each holiday, compliment our drawings, and tell us her mother was an artist. We would offer her a coloring sheet, but she wouldn't join in.

Look at the sun, it's time to go! Convince Mom we need to leave (homework, work, etc). This takes anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours. Try unsuccessfully to wake Grandpa. Say goodbyes. Leave. Pass out in car. Usually, a second bout of hanger would rear its head. Stop at a gas station for beef jerky and white cheddar popcorn. Wake up at parents'. Drive home. Go to bed.

As you can see, there was a lot of sleeping involved. The car nap is just my reaction to being a passenger in any moving vehicle, so ignore that. Every time, we swore the retirement home pumped some sort of sedative into the air. My sisters undeniably felt the tranquilizing effects, as well, and would doze off with me. 

If only I could have stayed awake long enough to find out if there was actually such a somnifacient...I mean, we wouldn't want any fights to break out amongst the elderly.

Merry Christmas...God!

publicdomainpictures.net

The Christmas of my 15th year, we spent the holiday at my grandparents' house. My uncle, aunt, and cousin were also in attendance, and I had to sleep on the living room couch. 

I was not excited about sleeping in the living room because I knew the children (13, 10, and 9) would be up at the butt-crack of dawn, so excited about gifts, and I would want to punch them in the face due to lack of sleep and aversion to chipper people in general but especially to children's laughter at that time of day. Background: at the time, I slept on average 10-11 hours a day.

Of course, when the time came I was grumpy and wanted to sleep more, just like I had warned everyone the night before. As everyone filed into the living room, each greeted me with a jovial "Merry Christmas!" I was going by the 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all' doctrine and kept my mouth shut.

"Say Merry Christmas, Monica," my mom ordered. Super-cheerily, I said "Merry Christmas!" Then I followed up with a smart-alecky, meant to be loud enough for everyone to hear under my breath, "God!" 

And to top it off, it's on film.

Interpreting Questions While Sleeping

After a semester in Seville, Spain my junior year of college, a friend and I traveled through Italy. I was responsible for choosing where we stayed in Venice, and I had to keep in mind that we were on a strict budget, between €15 and 20 per person per night. I had already "messed up" on our Rome accommodations, choosing a place that was €50 per night for a 2-bed room--€25 per person was exorbitant.

The places in town were more expensive, what with Venice being an island so having limited options. So I looked outside the city and found a campsite that had cabins. I checked with Laura, and she was leery but eventually agreed.

The train from Rome arrived in the morning in Venice. Then we had to go back out of the city by train to a bus stop, where we got on a bus that went to the campsite. It took 30-45 minutes to get there.

Once we arrived at the campsite, we checked in and were told we were staying in a tent. By then, we were getting hangry, so we didn't argue. The tents were set up on a concrete slab with two cots. 

Rialto in Venice

We stopped at the general store at the camp entrance to get some food. I got some sort of cookies, and Laura got crackers. We ate while bussing and training back to Venice. Then we jumped on the Vaporetto water bus to St. Mark's square. Since we had some cookies and crackers left over, we fed them to the pigeons. Their little claws felt so weird!

feeding pigeons at St. Mark's

After spending the day in town, we trekked back to the camp. There was a party going on at the lodge, with loud music. I passed out as soon as we got there, not caring about the music. During the night, I flipped over. Laura asked, "Are you awake?" "Nope, just turning over," I replied.

The next day, we hopped on a train to Milan. Laura asked if I remembered our conversation. I mean yea, I was just turning over. She. Was. PISSED. She couldn't fall asleep because of the music so laid awake for hours. She got excited when I flipped over that I might be awake, too, and would chat.

When I told her I was not awake, just turning over, she stewed because clearly, I was awake if I could tell her that I wasn't. She had almost forgiven me, thinking maybe I was talking in my sleep, since I do that, too. However, I had confirmed that I had been awake because I remembered the exchange.

In my defense, I was half asleep. My sides get tired when I sleep, so I usually wake up a few times just enough to flip over then fall right back asleep. In the haze of sleep I cannot be expected to interpret "Are you awake?" to mean "I can't fall asleep, and if you can't sleep, either, keep me company." Oops!

Frustrations in Vacation Planning

This past April, one of my sisters and I went to Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. It was supposed to be a girl's vacation...I mean we're both girls, so I suppose we succeeded on that objective :) But some friends had expressed interest in going on vacation together, maybe an all-inclusive. I'm up for pretty much any travel my friends suggest, so I happily researched where and when to go. 

First off, do you know how difficult it is to plan a vacation when you don't know where you want to go? Or how hard it is to research all-inclusive resorts? Every other trip I've taken, I knew the destination first and ran with it. Also, I had never done an all-inclusive so didn't know where to start. 

Anywho, based on recommendations from many people and extensive internet research, I narrowed it down to a couple resorts in Punta Cana and picked a week in April. I sent the info and...crickets. I mean, zero response.

A couple weeks later, I finally talked to the friend who originally suggested a girl's trip. She lamented that she would not be able to go because she couldn't get a whole week off work, and neither could our other friend. And you couldn't have told me that sooner? If I had know that, I would have looked into somewhere they could get to with a single flight so that they could go for a long weekend.

By that point, I had already put so much effort into planning Punta Cana that I wasn't going to change it. Oh well! My sister ended up being able to go, though, so I still went and had a blast! So there.

The moral of this story is that no matter how much I love travel, there will always be frustrations, and overcoming them makes me somewhat of a superhero! If only I had a cape...