Alectown, NSW, Australia, 2006. I am newly engaged and far away from familiarity and security. Far from home. I’m lying on a blanket that’s been spread out on the tired brown grass at Mamre Farm. Silence is my soundtrack as I scan the markings on the page of a novel, but my eyes cannot catch the words. Quiet can be distracting as it tries to calm. I lie back onto Steve’s stomach and close my eyes. I listen to the sound of the wind moving the few trees on Harry’s farm. I smell the heat from the Australian spring day. And I’m relaxed, it seems, for the first time in my life.
Peace is like a river. It flows to you, over you, overwhelming you. It’s refreshing, cool to the touch, but a touch to the inside soul part. I open my eyes and tell Steve, “I think this place is anointed.” With peace. It is the only way I can describe the thick calm that I feel in the air.
Hudson, WI, America, 2009. I am newly married and have no idea what home is these days, except for being with Steve. I am sitting with some campers at their hour-long yoga session at the day camp where I am working. The yoga teacher has taken us away from our usual spot under a tree near the office, to a different tree, far from the distractions of camp. We’ve crossed a huge field full of tall grass and accompanying grasshoppers. As we sit in the shade, we sense movement along the path we’ve just made. We look behind us, and see a deer prancing away from us. Most of my campers are calm as we sit and chat with the teacher about what makes us each special and what different things bring us peace and how it is all considered yoga. I turn my head away from the campers and the teacher for a moment, and stare across the field to nothing in particular. It is quiet, it is calm, but it lacks the soul touch.
This kind of peace is like the tide. It comes and goes with the hours of the day. I have known this peace my whole life, but never realized that the inconsistency of its existence made it inherently lacking. Until now.
I date the beginning of the growing process of true peace in my life to when I met my husband. Nothing in my history until then can come close to causing the amount of chaos that I have experienced in the last 4 years. I have grappled with the experience of learning to let go of security in an attempt to let God have full control over every little thing that I do. It wasn’t easy, but quite an essential part of my life story.
I’ve been through countless immigration issues, thinking that the end of the world lay at the other side of a decision the agents had to make. I’ve been in a situation where I had a job in which I needed a car, but no car in sight and no money to pay for one, only to have someone dream they gave me a car and wake up to make it a reality. We’ve had God give us a countless amount of money through the kindness of several people. And despite the economic climate we were living in at the beginning of our marriage, we have somehow managed to survive, while gaining weight due to the huge amount of good food that was provided for us.
And even with these stories, I still seem to find a way to doubt God. I still find myself wondering if we’ll have to call up our parents in a desperate attempt to have a roof over our heads. Wondering if we’ll mess up, and fully ruin any sort of task that God has given us.
Steve and I have this phrase that we say to each other whenever we think we’ve figured something out and then get burned by that something as we discover we really have no idea what we’re doing. He’ll say to me, “Kel, what’s life?” and I am meant to say, “A lesson.” And he’ll say, “And you learn it…?” to which I respond, “…as you go.” We laugh it off as our cheesy couple’s therapy that gets us through some of our stupid choice mistakes, but the sad reality is that we do mess up many, many times in our decisions, and we do learn extremely valuable lesson because of those unfortunate lapses in our judgment.
I sometimes wonder if we are in the right place. We’ve been floating for about 2 years now, not knowing where we’ll be for any longer than six months at a time. We’ve not felt that we were supposed to settle anywhere yet, and life has begun to appear a bit muddled. Even now, we are not 100 percent positive that we will be heading back to America on our trip’s return date.
Steve is finishing up his last day at Tabor College today. He has paid his graduation fee, and will soon be the proud holder of a Diploma of Ministry. We have had a long week of alone time, since Katherine and Lewis have let us stay at their apartment for this week of Steve’s class while they are away on holidays. I believe it is the first time we’ve had a place to ourselves since we moved out of our apartment on the 1st of May. It’s been a good week. After today, we will go up to join Katherine, Lewis, and Steve’s parents for a few days, but after that, we’ve got a whole extra month of Australia time and no idea what we’re going to do with it. We are lost, oblivious to what our purpose is at the moment, desiring to go home (although where that is located, we’ve no idea), uncertain about the future, and confused about recent events.
And for some strange reason, there is peace.
the adventures of steve and kel
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
island living
Elcho Island is extremely hot. This is our third day here, and I’ve taken probably 4 naps since arriving, because the humidity is so tiring. Matty laughs at how much sleep we’ve needed since being here. He’s such a local. It’s been good to be here, with Matty, to see why he is so passionate about what goes on in this somewhat Third World piece of Australia. We’ve taken several walks along the tired, hot streets, waving or saying hello to the natives as they pass us by, and there is so much garbage covering almost every inch of this place. I sometimes want to bring a bag with us so that I can pick the trash up as we walk. Despite the litter, it is still beautiful.
I have to admit, I had no idea what to expect on arriving here. I woke up this past Monday without even thinking about where I was going that night. Steve and I finished our packing and I even included a hair dryer…to bring to the Northern Territory…where it’s hotter than I’ve ever been in my life…this is how little I thought about where I was going. We lazed about with Katherine and Lewis before they dropped us off at the airport sometime around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Our plane was scheduled to leave at 5:45 for Melbourne, which is actually an hour and a half south of Sydney – completely the opposite direction of where we wanted to go, but we couldn’t pass up the cheaper ticket. We were to arrive in Melbourne sometime around 7 pm, and catch a plane for Darwin at 9:05. We would meet Westy at the Darwin airport around midnight, Darwin time (which is an hour and a half behind Sydney and Melbourne time), and spend the night at the airport. Our flight from Darwin to Elcho Island was scheduled for 8:45 the next morning.
The plan sounded fool proof, but the only issue was that Clint was on a direct flight from Sydney to Darwin, meaning we wouldn’t be able to travel with him until after our long journey to the Territory. To remedy this, we went straight to the Qantas ticket sales after arriving at the airport to see if we could switch our flight to the same one as Clint’s. The nice Aussie Qantas agent informed us that we couldn’t, because JetStar serviced the second leg of our trip from Melbourne to Darwin. We weren’t too fazed by this news, and went to check in for our first flight. We used one of those easy check-in machines, and when we entered our flight details, the machine informed us that there was an earlier flight we could take from Sydney to Melbourne if we wanted. Steve reckoned we should take the opportunity, but I reasoned with him that we already had a 2-hour layover in Melbourne, and I really didn’t want to spend another hour sitting in an airport.
We checked our bags, and the ticket agent printed out our tickets. As she was handing our passports back to us, she told us that due to a huge thunderstorm over Sydney, all flights were delayed until further notice. I had a bit of a panic, thinking we wouldn’t make it to Melbourne in time to make our JetStar flight, but I shrugged it off, because our layover was a good 2 hours long. I calculated in my mind how long it would take to claim our luggage from the Qantas flight, check in for our JetStar flight, and rush through security to our gate. Everything still seemed all right, and we decided to deal with the delay the Australian way: “No worries.”
I discovered how different American domestic travel is to Australian domestic travel. As Steve and I approached the security section of the airport, I tried to figure out what the system was. There were 2 x-ray belts, and 2 metal detectors to walk through, but there was no queue line for either one of them. I walked up to the security guard who was leaning over the first x-ray belt, with slits for eyes as he looked like he could have been half asleep. I asked as I approached, “Should I just put my bag here on the belt now?” to which he replied, “Well I don’t really see why not,” in his friendly Aussie accent. I felt a bit silly as I placed my backpack onto the belt and sheepishly made my way through the metal detector…with my shoes still on! While this was not an issue they seemed to care about, I did still manage to get pulled aside for a random search of explosive material. I don’t know how random it is, as I’ve been chosen at least 5 times in my life for these checks.
We wandered around the airport, looking for coffee and food, but found only cheap, gross coffee and snacks. We decided that one of our flights must be planning on giving us food, so we opted to wait for the free airline grub. We sat for about a half hour longer, and finally boarded our plane as the thunderstorm passed from black ominous clouds to a more light grey fluff. After boarding the plane, we waited at the gate for about 20 minutes, and then lined up on the tarmac for another 15 minutes. With each passing second, I became more and more certain that we’d miss our connecting flight. After we finally took off, I requested one of the complimentary small bottles of Malbec that they were offering with the crackers and dip that they were passing out, and I marveled at yet another difference in the travel industries between our two countries. I enjoyed my snack, thankful that it was more filling and more relaxing than the honey roasted peanuts and coke I would have been given had I been traveling in my native land.
We arrived in Melbourne with 40 minutes to spare before our next flight was scheduled to take off. Our determination to run and to be the first people waiting at baggage claim was rewarded with a long wait for our bags to finally show up on the carousel. As soon as they appeared, we grabbed them and ran for the JetStar check in. As we approached the counter, the lady told us not to worry, because our next flight had been delayed half an hour as well. We breathed a deep sigh of relief, and set out through another mellow security check, this time avoiding the random check for explosives. We searched for food, but being Australia, and since it was already 8 o’clock at night, all of their food stores had already been closed up for the night.
We waited another long hour and a bit, and finally boarded our plane. This one went faster on the take off, and we were soon perusing the menu, discovering that we would have to pay for a meal on this cheaper JetStar flight. We didn’t care, we were so hungry. I bought a nice pasta and veggie dish with a lemonade (we would have called it a Sprite), and Steve asked for a meat pie and a Victoria Bitter. We ate and drank as we watched Hot Pursuit on our laptop, which by the way is probably John Cusack’s worse film to date.
Our stomachs were full, and we had a good 3 hours of a flight left. Steve fell asleep instantly, as I struggled next to him to find a position that even slightly resembled comfortable. I was finally able to snooze on Steve’s lap, without causing him to wake up too completely.
But then, I woke up with a start. I tried to figure out what was wrong with me. It didn’t take long to realize that my right foot was completely numb and dead. I had been lying on Steve’s lap to the right of me, which apparently had put my foot to sleep. In my half asleep state, I panicked. I woke Steve up, franticly, and he drowsily asked me what was wrong. I don’t recall ever explaining to him what was ailing me. I just grabbed my foot and started to rub it, but I couldn’t feel a thing. “My foot’s asleep, I can’t feel it,” I groaned, trying not to wake up the people around me. Poor Steve tried to do his best to help, but there was nothing he could do. I began to bang my foot on the floor of the plane, trying to get it out of its stupor and back to the land of the living. Slowly it began to burn, and the burning was followed by feelings of tingling and heaviness. I kept banging it on the floor until the feeling was fully restored. Afterwards, I couldn’t sleep; I wiggled and squirmed, trying to find another spot that would allow me to fall into sleep, but nothing helped.
As we reached Darwin and began our descent, I looked out my window and could see fire. The Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory burn the brush every year to prevent the out of control fires that Australia gets in other areas of the country. I was expecting to see it, but it was still a little taken aback by the sight of it.
We landed in Darwin, walked to baggage claim, found our luggage, and searched for Westy. We found him near the bathrooms, asleep on his bags. He had been there for about an hour and a half already. He woke up, and we chatted about our trips until our eyes were too heavy to care that we were sleeping on the floor of an airport. Our sleep was on and off, and I seem to remember dreaming that someone was trying to kill me because of who my dad was…it had something to do with his being an air traffic controller. I woke up to a busy airport, even though it was only 3 in the morning. Darwin International Airport never sleeps.
We were able to check into our Air North flight at 6 am, and had a good 2 hours before we were to board our flight. We went through another security line, and made our way to the only café inside the terminal. We ordered 3 flat white coffees, and 3 toasted sandwiches for $30. We assumed that the sandwiches would be huge, since they were so expensive, but they were only about and inch thick, and very ordinary, made with cheap bread, fake cheese, and some sort of meat-like substance. We laughed at the traveling lessons we had learned as we ate our sandwiches, and waited for our flight.
After landing on Elcho, we waited as the security officials at the teeny tiny airport painstakingly searched through each piece of luggage on the hunt for alcohol, drugs, and porn, all of which are banned from the island. Matty arrived before our bags came out, and we hugged our greeting, grabbed our bags, and jumped into his Land Cruiser, happy to be done with our traveling and to be with a friendly face.
I was overwhelmed at the culture shock I was experiencing as we drove through the tiny village near the airport. People were everywhere, under trees, or walking along the street, and all were eager to wave a hello as we passed. Matty gave us a lesson on some of the differences we would find here. He told us that there were 2,000 inhabitants on the island. Some of the houses we were seeing were about the size of a mobile home, but sometimes housed 20 people at once. Because of the welfare system the government has set up as an apology to these natives, there is a lot of sitting around, doing nothing, and gambling at night. Several of the younger children run around naked, and most of the people walk on the hot and stony ground without shoes on. There had been a suicide recently, which could have been brought on by depression due to a lack of purpose; because of the uproar it had caused, there have been several other suicide attempts – an aching cry for attention.
It was such a sight, and I pointed out that this was probably the furthest away from American that I had ever been.
We dropped our stuff off at Matty’s and drove around the island. Our car soon overheated, and we laughed as the boys tried to see if we could make it to the barge that Matty wanted us to see. Luckily, we were able to drive the car long enough to get us to the ocean. We snapped some photos before heading to the store for a big shop, and then back to Matty’s for lunch. After eating, Matty pulled out his fishing pole, and we headed down to the beach and further to the rocks that were strewn about the beach. I found a nice one to sit on as the boys enjoyed the sun, water, and fishing pole. After taking some more photos and video, I sat down and wrote these words:
“I’m sitting in a sea of black rocks, staring out to where they become covered in the clearest water I’ve ever dipped my feet into. My husband is knee deep in this croc-infested water with a fishing pole in hand. I’ve been assured that the crocodiles don’t enjoy the places where the rocks are, since the rough surface scratches their soft bellies. It’s hot enough to dry our wet clothes in a few minutes, but the breeze off the warm water keeps the heat from becoming too intense. The sounds in the background are those of distant call of the cockatoos and the cheering of the Aboriginal people. We at first thought they were happy cheers, but when we stopped to listen, Matty informed us that it was actually a funeral ceremony.”
We soon grew tired of catching only seaweed, and we headed to the house again. The house next to Matty’s belongs to a lady who has translated the Bible’s New Testament into the language of the people on this island. She had left earlier in the day for a funeral on the mainland, and had told Matty to let us stay in her house while she was gone. Clint, Steve and I decided to nap in her house, after becoming exhausted from lack of sleep the night before and the intense heat we’d been sitting under for the past 3 hours.
After we woke up from our nap, we stopped in Matty’s house to grab some food and headed out to some dunes with a cliff beyond its sandy surface, the bright turquoise water below. We built a fire in the sand and cooked some steaks that we ate with bread and tomato sauce. We spent the next few hours eating, drinking (non-alcoholic) ginger beer, and catching up with Matty about the last year and a half. We laughed as we reminisced about the memories we’d had with each other, and looked forward to the new ones we’d make in the following days.
I have to admit, I had no idea what to expect on arriving here. I woke up this past Monday without even thinking about where I was going that night. Steve and I finished our packing and I even included a hair dryer…to bring to the Northern Territory…where it’s hotter than I’ve ever been in my life…this is how little I thought about where I was going. We lazed about with Katherine and Lewis before they dropped us off at the airport sometime around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Our plane was scheduled to leave at 5:45 for Melbourne, which is actually an hour and a half south of Sydney – completely the opposite direction of where we wanted to go, but we couldn’t pass up the cheaper ticket. We were to arrive in Melbourne sometime around 7 pm, and catch a plane for Darwin at 9:05. We would meet Westy at the Darwin airport around midnight, Darwin time (which is an hour and a half behind Sydney and Melbourne time), and spend the night at the airport. Our flight from Darwin to Elcho Island was scheduled for 8:45 the next morning.
The plan sounded fool proof, but the only issue was that Clint was on a direct flight from Sydney to Darwin, meaning we wouldn’t be able to travel with him until after our long journey to the Territory. To remedy this, we went straight to the Qantas ticket sales after arriving at the airport to see if we could switch our flight to the same one as Clint’s. The nice Aussie Qantas agent informed us that we couldn’t, because JetStar serviced the second leg of our trip from Melbourne to Darwin. We weren’t too fazed by this news, and went to check in for our first flight. We used one of those easy check-in machines, and when we entered our flight details, the machine informed us that there was an earlier flight we could take from Sydney to Melbourne if we wanted. Steve reckoned we should take the opportunity, but I reasoned with him that we already had a 2-hour layover in Melbourne, and I really didn’t want to spend another hour sitting in an airport.
We checked our bags, and the ticket agent printed out our tickets. As she was handing our passports back to us, she told us that due to a huge thunderstorm over Sydney, all flights were delayed until further notice. I had a bit of a panic, thinking we wouldn’t make it to Melbourne in time to make our JetStar flight, but I shrugged it off, because our layover was a good 2 hours long. I calculated in my mind how long it would take to claim our luggage from the Qantas flight, check in for our JetStar flight, and rush through security to our gate. Everything still seemed all right, and we decided to deal with the delay the Australian way: “No worries.”
I discovered how different American domestic travel is to Australian domestic travel. As Steve and I approached the security section of the airport, I tried to figure out what the system was. There were 2 x-ray belts, and 2 metal detectors to walk through, but there was no queue line for either one of them. I walked up to the security guard who was leaning over the first x-ray belt, with slits for eyes as he looked like he could have been half asleep. I asked as I approached, “Should I just put my bag here on the belt now?” to which he replied, “Well I don’t really see why not,” in his friendly Aussie accent. I felt a bit silly as I placed my backpack onto the belt and sheepishly made my way through the metal detector…with my shoes still on! While this was not an issue they seemed to care about, I did still manage to get pulled aside for a random search of explosive material. I don’t know how random it is, as I’ve been chosen at least 5 times in my life for these checks.
We wandered around the airport, looking for coffee and food, but found only cheap, gross coffee and snacks. We decided that one of our flights must be planning on giving us food, so we opted to wait for the free airline grub. We sat for about a half hour longer, and finally boarded our plane as the thunderstorm passed from black ominous clouds to a more light grey fluff. After boarding the plane, we waited at the gate for about 20 minutes, and then lined up on the tarmac for another 15 minutes. With each passing second, I became more and more certain that we’d miss our connecting flight. After we finally took off, I requested one of the complimentary small bottles of Malbec that they were offering with the crackers and dip that they were passing out, and I marveled at yet another difference in the travel industries between our two countries. I enjoyed my snack, thankful that it was more filling and more relaxing than the honey roasted peanuts and coke I would have been given had I been traveling in my native land.
We arrived in Melbourne with 40 minutes to spare before our next flight was scheduled to take off. Our determination to run and to be the first people waiting at baggage claim was rewarded with a long wait for our bags to finally show up on the carousel. As soon as they appeared, we grabbed them and ran for the JetStar check in. As we approached the counter, the lady told us not to worry, because our next flight had been delayed half an hour as well. We breathed a deep sigh of relief, and set out through another mellow security check, this time avoiding the random check for explosives. We searched for food, but being Australia, and since it was already 8 o’clock at night, all of their food stores had already been closed up for the night.
We waited another long hour and a bit, and finally boarded our plane. This one went faster on the take off, and we were soon perusing the menu, discovering that we would have to pay for a meal on this cheaper JetStar flight. We didn’t care, we were so hungry. I bought a nice pasta and veggie dish with a lemonade (we would have called it a Sprite), and Steve asked for a meat pie and a Victoria Bitter. We ate and drank as we watched Hot Pursuit on our laptop, which by the way is probably John Cusack’s worse film to date.
Our stomachs were full, and we had a good 3 hours of a flight left. Steve fell asleep instantly, as I struggled next to him to find a position that even slightly resembled comfortable. I was finally able to snooze on Steve’s lap, without causing him to wake up too completely.
But then, I woke up with a start. I tried to figure out what was wrong with me. It didn’t take long to realize that my right foot was completely numb and dead. I had been lying on Steve’s lap to the right of me, which apparently had put my foot to sleep. In my half asleep state, I panicked. I woke Steve up, franticly, and he drowsily asked me what was wrong. I don’t recall ever explaining to him what was ailing me. I just grabbed my foot and started to rub it, but I couldn’t feel a thing. “My foot’s asleep, I can’t feel it,” I groaned, trying not to wake up the people around me. Poor Steve tried to do his best to help, but there was nothing he could do. I began to bang my foot on the floor of the plane, trying to get it out of its stupor and back to the land of the living. Slowly it began to burn, and the burning was followed by feelings of tingling and heaviness. I kept banging it on the floor until the feeling was fully restored. Afterwards, I couldn’t sleep; I wiggled and squirmed, trying to find another spot that would allow me to fall into sleep, but nothing helped.
As we reached Darwin and began our descent, I looked out my window and could see fire. The Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory burn the brush every year to prevent the out of control fires that Australia gets in other areas of the country. I was expecting to see it, but it was still a little taken aback by the sight of it.
We landed in Darwin, walked to baggage claim, found our luggage, and searched for Westy. We found him near the bathrooms, asleep on his bags. He had been there for about an hour and a half already. He woke up, and we chatted about our trips until our eyes were too heavy to care that we were sleeping on the floor of an airport. Our sleep was on and off, and I seem to remember dreaming that someone was trying to kill me because of who my dad was…it had something to do with his being an air traffic controller. I woke up to a busy airport, even though it was only 3 in the morning. Darwin International Airport never sleeps.
We were able to check into our Air North flight at 6 am, and had a good 2 hours before we were to board our flight. We went through another security line, and made our way to the only café inside the terminal. We ordered 3 flat white coffees, and 3 toasted sandwiches for $30. We assumed that the sandwiches would be huge, since they were so expensive, but they were only about and inch thick, and very ordinary, made with cheap bread, fake cheese, and some sort of meat-like substance. We laughed at the traveling lessons we had learned as we ate our sandwiches, and waited for our flight.
After landing on Elcho, we waited as the security officials at the teeny tiny airport painstakingly searched through each piece of luggage on the hunt for alcohol, drugs, and porn, all of which are banned from the island. Matty arrived before our bags came out, and we hugged our greeting, grabbed our bags, and jumped into his Land Cruiser, happy to be done with our traveling and to be with a friendly face.
I was overwhelmed at the culture shock I was experiencing as we drove through the tiny village near the airport. People were everywhere, under trees, or walking along the street, and all were eager to wave a hello as we passed. Matty gave us a lesson on some of the differences we would find here. He told us that there were 2,000 inhabitants on the island. Some of the houses we were seeing were about the size of a mobile home, but sometimes housed 20 people at once. Because of the welfare system the government has set up as an apology to these natives, there is a lot of sitting around, doing nothing, and gambling at night. Several of the younger children run around naked, and most of the people walk on the hot and stony ground without shoes on. There had been a suicide recently, which could have been brought on by depression due to a lack of purpose; because of the uproar it had caused, there have been several other suicide attempts – an aching cry for attention.
It was such a sight, and I pointed out that this was probably the furthest away from American that I had ever been.
We dropped our stuff off at Matty’s and drove around the island. Our car soon overheated, and we laughed as the boys tried to see if we could make it to the barge that Matty wanted us to see. Luckily, we were able to drive the car long enough to get us to the ocean. We snapped some photos before heading to the store for a big shop, and then back to Matty’s for lunch. After eating, Matty pulled out his fishing pole, and we headed down to the beach and further to the rocks that were strewn about the beach. I found a nice one to sit on as the boys enjoyed the sun, water, and fishing pole. After taking some more photos and video, I sat down and wrote these words:
“I’m sitting in a sea of black rocks, staring out to where they become covered in the clearest water I’ve ever dipped my feet into. My husband is knee deep in this croc-infested water with a fishing pole in hand. I’ve been assured that the crocodiles don’t enjoy the places where the rocks are, since the rough surface scratches their soft bellies. It’s hot enough to dry our wet clothes in a few minutes, but the breeze off the warm water keeps the heat from becoming too intense. The sounds in the background are those of distant call of the cockatoos and the cheering of the Aboriginal people. We at first thought they were happy cheers, but when we stopped to listen, Matty informed us that it was actually a funeral ceremony.”
We soon grew tired of catching only seaweed, and we headed to the house again. The house next to Matty’s belongs to a lady who has translated the Bible’s New Testament into the language of the people on this island. She had left earlier in the day for a funeral on the mainland, and had told Matty to let us stay in her house while she was gone. Clint, Steve and I decided to nap in her house, after becoming exhausted from lack of sleep the night before and the intense heat we’d been sitting under for the past 3 hours.
After we woke up from our nap, we stopped in Matty’s house to grab some food and headed out to some dunes with a cliff beyond its sandy surface, the bright turquoise water below. We built a fire in the sand and cooked some steaks that we ate with bread and tomato sauce. We spent the next few hours eating, drinking (non-alcoholic) ginger beer, and catching up with Matty about the last year and a half. We laughed as we reminisced about the memories we’d had with each other, and looked forward to the new ones we’d make in the following days.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
starting over takes us north
I’m sitting in the back of a 30-passenger, two turboprop Embraer E120 Basilia. Steve and Clint are with me, and we’re making our way east of Darwin to Matty on Elcho Island. With Upton in my ears and the Northern Territory out my window, I’m overwhelmed with what this trip to Australia has brought to us so far.
After the stomach upsets of the first few days, we settled into what we thought was familiarity – home time. Here we were, at the café with friends – dear friends – again. It felt normal for a few days, but I should have known that normal is not in the plan yet for Steve and me. There’s still ground to take – unfamiliarity to master.
We had a plan, you see. Countless people had asked us for a plan – in more ways than one and in not so many words. Expectations aren’t always easy to live up to. And even though our plan was way more colorful than I had ever envisioned for my world, it was a plan nonetheless.
We came to Australia to see if there was a reason to come back to live. We came to pursue Steve’s music dream. It was a reconnaissance mission, to see if we were ready to come back to Australia yet, and we were so sure we knew what we were coming back for, and so sure that it was going to be something big. Now, in a matter of days, our plans have hit a wall. I suppose when other people are involved, it’s hard to grow your dreams together, especially when you’re growing them half a world away from each other. The wind was knocked out of the gut of our plans, and we returned to a place of uncertainty.
It’s fitting, I suppose, that this trip has brought me to a strange land. Arnhem Land is its given name, and even before we’ve reached the island, I am surrounded by an unfamiliar culture, in the back corner of a very small plane. I am wearing a long black skirt – initially because Matty told me it’s respectful to the culture, but after being in the heat of the top-most part of Australia, I’ve realized the benefits of its flowing openness.
From this viewpoint, I’m seeing what it’s like for a group of Aboriginal people traveling back to their home. They are happy, excited, and loud. This happiness seems to be inherent, but I’ve had a very limited experience with them. I was in the bathroom before boarding the plane, and from the men’s bathroom, I heard a loud, horrible coughing-retching-vomiting. I washed my hands as I winced through each cough, feeling terrible for the man who was, from the sounds of it, spewing up his insides. But as I finished washing and went to reach for the paper towel, I heard him leave the bathroom, laughing out some foreign words to one of his friends. It was encouraging to know he was enjoying himself, even though I began to hope I wouldn’t be sitting by him on the plane.
We’ve just landed in Maningrida for a stopover on our way to Elcho Island. It seems to be a place planted in the middle of nowhere, and as I look out the window, I’m greeted with a sight I’ve only ever seen in movies. The dirt is deep orange and this airport so small, and just by looking out the window, I can tell the air is a burning hot. This stop came at us rather alarmingly as our small aircraft twisted and jerked her way to a landing, in a movement much akin to driving a car on a rode covered in ice. It may have been the first time I’ve ever considered reaching for the vomit bag while flying . After the wheels touched down, it felt like we were fishtailing down the tarmac. We’ve dropped off about 5 people, and are about to finally head over to Elcho.
We are now 2 ½ weeks into our 2 month trip. After discovering the devastating music news 6 days after landing in Sydney, we’ve set out on a frustrating trip back to purpose. We feel homeless, but 2 days after the initial shock, we were able to drive out to Mudgee to visit Clint. It was his birthday, and the theme was Bogan Pride. So, dressed in our best flannel and Ugg boots, Steve and I packed up Katherine’s little Hyundai, picked up Jon and made our way over the mountains. After spotting Izzy’s mustard yellow ute, and making eye contact with his passenger, Phil, we decided to stop for a kebab in the mountains together. I have no words to describe the wonder of that experience. It had been a full year and a half since I ate my last one, and being away from it was only slightly less painful than being away from Steve.
We made another stop for some beverages in Lithgow, making the 3 hour trip turn into more like 4 ½ hours. But, let me tell you, Mudgee was worth it.
I walked into Clint’s house carrying a bag of clothes in one hand and Westy’s gift in the other hand. The house was full of people I had never met, and they were all dressed pretty bogan-ly. The first person to approach me was a man wearing an obviously pillow-stuffed Wallabey's Rugby jersey, the shortest green shorts know to man, a fake mullet wig under a bogan hat, and a real-life white trash mustache. I winced as I stuck my hand in his for a hearty handshake as he announced, “I’m Dennis, and I live here.” My thoughts were many and as follows:
1) Steve had better stay near me
2) Where did Steve go?
3) Are we sure this is Westy’s house?
4) Where is Westy?
5) Is that real or just a wig?
In hindsight, maybe a Bogan Pride party is not the best place to form an opinion of someone. Clint’s housemates were great, and treated us like royalty.
We eventually found Westy and raised our beers to toast his 25th. There were a lot of laughs that night, and good sleep for Steve and I since Westy gave up his bed for us.
After sleeping off the party, we drove to a few wineries and had a slow afternoon of wine tasting, Aussie rules football, and of course, a barbecue of sausages. That night, we hit up the local wine bar for some more of the local wine and some live music. In celebration of his birthday, Clint was coerced into getting up on stage for a song with the band. The performance was full of on-the-spot lyrics and famous Clint interpretive dancing. I would have to say, it may have been his finest hour. And, I got it on film.
The next morning, we visited his church and were greeted by several locals with handshakes and hugs. The service was followed by some quality time with Clint, which allowed us to share our hearts and our pain with someone who understands us more intricately than most and who always seems to be ready to pour out love to us. It eased the intensity of our hurt, and reminded us why we love it here.
After Mudgee, we spent some time in Parkes where I learned to drive a manual car – just, not on an actual rode yet. We then made our way back to Sydney to bide our time until this trip to Elcho.
We’ve landed safely and are ready to see Matty. I’ll be keeping this blog posted on our time here.
After the stomach upsets of the first few days, we settled into what we thought was familiarity – home time. Here we were, at the café with friends – dear friends – again. It felt normal for a few days, but I should have known that normal is not in the plan yet for Steve and me. There’s still ground to take – unfamiliarity to master.
We had a plan, you see. Countless people had asked us for a plan – in more ways than one and in not so many words. Expectations aren’t always easy to live up to. And even though our plan was way more colorful than I had ever envisioned for my world, it was a plan nonetheless.
We came to Australia to see if there was a reason to come back to live. We came to pursue Steve’s music dream. It was a reconnaissance mission, to see if we were ready to come back to Australia yet, and we were so sure we knew what we were coming back for, and so sure that it was going to be something big. Now, in a matter of days, our plans have hit a wall. I suppose when other people are involved, it’s hard to grow your dreams together, especially when you’re growing them half a world away from each other. The wind was knocked out of the gut of our plans, and we returned to a place of uncertainty.
It’s fitting, I suppose, that this trip has brought me to a strange land. Arnhem Land is its given name, and even before we’ve reached the island, I am surrounded by an unfamiliar culture, in the back corner of a very small plane. I am wearing a long black skirt – initially because Matty told me it’s respectful to the culture, but after being in the heat of the top-most part of Australia, I’ve realized the benefits of its flowing openness.
From this viewpoint, I’m seeing what it’s like for a group of Aboriginal people traveling back to their home. They are happy, excited, and loud. This happiness seems to be inherent, but I’ve had a very limited experience with them. I was in the bathroom before boarding the plane, and from the men’s bathroom, I heard a loud, horrible coughing-retching-vomiting. I washed my hands as I winced through each cough, feeling terrible for the man who was, from the sounds of it, spewing up his insides. But as I finished washing and went to reach for the paper towel, I heard him leave the bathroom, laughing out some foreign words to one of his friends. It was encouraging to know he was enjoying himself, even though I began to hope I wouldn’t be sitting by him on the plane.
We’ve just landed in Maningrida for a stopover on our way to Elcho Island. It seems to be a place planted in the middle of nowhere, and as I look out the window, I’m greeted with a sight I’ve only ever seen in movies. The dirt is deep orange and this airport so small, and just by looking out the window, I can tell the air is a burning hot. This stop came at us rather alarmingly as our small aircraft twisted and jerked her way to a landing, in a movement much akin to driving a car on a rode covered in ice. It may have been the first time I’ve ever considered reaching for the vomit bag while flying . After the wheels touched down, it felt like we were fishtailing down the tarmac. We’ve dropped off about 5 people, and are about to finally head over to Elcho.
We are now 2 ½ weeks into our 2 month trip. After discovering the devastating music news 6 days after landing in Sydney, we’ve set out on a frustrating trip back to purpose. We feel homeless, but 2 days after the initial shock, we were able to drive out to Mudgee to visit Clint. It was his birthday, and the theme was Bogan Pride. So, dressed in our best flannel and Ugg boots, Steve and I packed up Katherine’s little Hyundai, picked up Jon and made our way over the mountains. After spotting Izzy’s mustard yellow ute, and making eye contact with his passenger, Phil, we decided to stop for a kebab in the mountains together. I have no words to describe the wonder of that experience. It had been a full year and a half since I ate my last one, and being away from it was only slightly less painful than being away from Steve.
We made another stop for some beverages in Lithgow, making the 3 hour trip turn into more like 4 ½ hours. But, let me tell you, Mudgee was worth it.
I walked into Clint’s house carrying a bag of clothes in one hand and Westy’s gift in the other hand. The house was full of people I had never met, and they were all dressed pretty bogan-ly. The first person to approach me was a man wearing an obviously pillow-stuffed Wallabey's Rugby jersey, the shortest green shorts know to man, a fake mullet wig under a bogan hat, and a real-life white trash mustache. I winced as I stuck my hand in his for a hearty handshake as he announced, “I’m Dennis, and I live here.” My thoughts were many and as follows:
1) Steve had better stay near me
2) Where did Steve go?
3) Are we sure this is Westy’s house?
4) Where is Westy?
5) Is that real or just a wig?
In hindsight, maybe a Bogan Pride party is not the best place to form an opinion of someone. Clint’s housemates were great, and treated us like royalty.
We eventually found Westy and raised our beers to toast his 25th. There were a lot of laughs that night, and good sleep for Steve and I since Westy gave up his bed for us.
After sleeping off the party, we drove to a few wineries and had a slow afternoon of wine tasting, Aussie rules football, and of course, a barbecue of sausages. That night, we hit up the local wine bar for some more of the local wine and some live music. In celebration of his birthday, Clint was coerced into getting up on stage for a song with the band. The performance was full of on-the-spot lyrics and famous Clint interpretive dancing. I would have to say, it may have been his finest hour. And, I got it on film.
The next morning, we visited his church and were greeted by several locals with handshakes and hugs. The service was followed by some quality time with Clint, which allowed us to share our hearts and our pain with someone who understands us more intricately than most and who always seems to be ready to pour out love to us. It eased the intensity of our hurt, and reminded us why we love it here.
After Mudgee, we spent some time in Parkes where I learned to drive a manual car – just, not on an actual rode yet. We then made our way back to Sydney to bide our time until this trip to Elcho.
We’ve landed safely and are ready to see Matty. I’ll be keeping this blog posted on our time here.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
remember...
Our first day back in Australia was full of confusing instances that helped to reconstruct the memories I have of my husband’s culture. After making our way through customs, Steve in the Australian passport holder line, and me in the All other passport holder line, we parked ourselves in front of the luggage carousel. While waiting for ours to appear, our carry-on bags were sniffed by the cutest drug dog I’ve ever seen. I struggled to let the puppy do its job, without a pat on the head and back or maybe behind the ears to assure him he did a good job not finding drugs in my bag.
We found all of our bags and then headed to the Express line of customs because we had nothing to declare. The customs guy who took our bags to send them through the x-ray machine took my purse as I gave it to him and said, “All right ma’am, you’re good to go, have a nice visit in Australia.” And then he started to laugh. It was the first sign that I was in Australia – that the customs officer could laugh about taking my purse from me in an effort to joke about stealing it.
We were finally free to be in the country, so we left the customs area into the arrivals waiting area. Our eyes scanned the crowd looking for either Steve’s family or our friends who had all promised to be at the airport to meet us. We were having trouble finding their familiar faces, when out of the hum of the crowd I heard a very distinct bird call of “Ka-Kaaa” and I somehow knew it was Tim. We saw him then, as he pointed out that his brother Jon and other friend Phil were also there waiting for us. Hugs all around and then a request from me to use the bathroom.
I made my way into the girl’s room, and was surprised that I had forgotten what the toilets look like. They are rounder, taller, with a small amount of water in them. The stalls give more privacy here than in America, because the cracks between the door and post are almost non-existent. And then there’s the button on the back of toilet, allowing you a half flush or a full flush, depending on the job you’ve just done. For some reason, I had forgotten these differences, even though it is the main difference that I share with my own American family and friends when talking about my Australian experience. After my initial shock at how the toilet looked, I was able to do my job and smile, at yet another reminder of where in the world I was sitting.
When I was finished, I found the boys again and we wondered what we should do to find Steve’s family. We were all in need of a coffee, so as we made our way to find a good one, Steve’s brother Dave and mum Pauline walked by and Dave said, “Hey, there’s Tim,” before he realized that Steve and I were standing with him. There were more hugs, and we were able to finally leave the airport. We decided to leave with Tim, who always parks about a mile and a half away from the airport, to avert the fees for parking at the airport. We had a pleasant walk to the car in the beautiful Australian spring morning air. It was a strange atmosphere, this being my third time here. It didn't feel new anymore; I wasn't searching for the funny differences anymore, because they seemed normal to me. It felt like home, even like a different town within America, but definitely not foreign. I liked it.
We were taken to Steve’s sister Katherine’s apartment, where we would spend most of the day before leaving to sleep at Jon’s house. Our time there, though, consisted mainly of small snacks as we chatted, interrupted from time to time by a nap. After a shower, we made our way to Cronulla beach for some Oporto chicken burgers, which my mouth had been thinking of for nearly 2 years. After eating, we strolled the beach, near the big houses, and back again, ready for a trip into Miranda for a shop at the Westfield, which is what Australians call most of their malls.
At the mall, we were able to buy an Australian Sim card, so we unlocked our American phone. Steve handed me the American Sim card, for safe keeping until we made our way back to America. I stuck it in the envelope that the new Sim card came in, and placed the envelope in my purse. We then walked around looking to see if there was anything else we needed. There wasn’t, and we got back into the car and headed for Katherine’s yet again. When we were half way home, something told me to check my purse to see where the Sim card was. When I pulled the envelope out and looked inside, it was empty. I dug through my purse, pulling out books and wallets and passports – and the Sim card remained hidden. I stuck my hand in the bottom, trying to feel around for it, yet trying to be delicate enough not to break the card if I did find it. No luck, the Sim card was not in my bag.
Thoughts went through my mind about what an airhead I was. The amount of times that I’ve lost something of Steve’s or mine is uncountable. We got back to Katherine’s where I was able to dump my purse onto the ground to make sure the sim card wasn’t in there. Nothing, nowhere. Steve’s dad, Wayne, suggested we call the Donut King we were sitting near when we unlocked the phone, to see if we had dropped it there. After getting a disconnected number and calling mall security, we were finally able to get a hold of the Donut King store, and luckily, someone had just given them our card. They promised to hold it until the next day. Drama, finished.
We bummed around Katherine’s for a couple of hours, and then ate some homemade lasagna, garlic bread and roasted vegetables. It was tasty, it was fresh. After dinner, we jumped into Katherine’s car that she is letting us borrow while we’re here. We readied ourselves to drive the 20 minutes to Jon’s house where we would be sleeping for the weekend. Jon was going to be meeting us there after visiting his grandma in the hospital. As we pulled up to his house, a wave of sick feeling hit my stomach. I thought that maybe I had some gas issues due to the crazy amount of traveling we had done and the fact that I hadn’t had to use the bathroom that way since Phoenix about 2 days ago. But as I decided to relieve myself of the air in my belly, I soon discovered that it wasn’t only air. I thought, "Maybe it will subside if I just don't think about it for a while." No luck, the feeling just intensified until I couldn't bare the thought of holding on for another minute. I frantically asked Steve if there was any way we could get into the house without Jon here, because I really needed to use the bathroom. He asked if I needed him to drive me to a gas station, to which I yelled “NO” before he could even finish his sentence – I didn’t even think I could get back into the car without letting everything go. Steve gave Jon a call and asked him how far he was from the house. 10 minutes. And no, there's no spare key. I began to cry. “I can’t wait ten minutes, Steve. I need to go now! Quick, let’s get in the car. QUICK!” Steve ran to the driver’s side and I jumped into the passenger seat. I reached for the seat belt as I began to whimper. I couldn’t hold it in. I was sure I was going to mess up Katherine’s front seat.
We turned left out of the subdivision and in the distance, at the next light, we could see a gas station on the right side. Unfortunately, we were driving on a divided highway, meaning we would have to do a u-turn in order to get into the gas station parking lot. Which meant we’d have to wait for all of the traffic to go through the light before we could do our u-turn. Which meant I’d have to physically hold my bum cheeks together, ensuring a clean ride to the toilet. I began to scream for some help from Jesus, as tears ran down my cheeks. If there was ever a time I needed him to come to my rescue, this was definitely one of them.
Steve turned into the station, wheels squealing, and drove me straight to the outside entrance to the toilet. I ran out of the car and into the bathroom as he told me he’d fill up the car with petrol while I used the bathroom. I looked around at the dirty sink, with the thin, hard, bent piece of soap, left over and old from probably months of not being used. The toilet seat was up and inside was a layer of dirt, outlining the bottom of the bowl. I couldn’t even tell if there was water in it, and if there wasn’t, that would mean my mess would be there for someone else to clean. Trying to be considerate, even in my panic, I made sure the toilet could still flush, and sure enough, there was water in the bottom. I quickly knocked the seat down, causing an echoing "clang" to fill the bathroom, and looked around for some toilet paper to line the seat before I sat down. Between the toilet and the wall was an empty toilet paper roll, and there wasn’t a fresh one in sight. I couldn't wait another second, so I decided to worry about what I’d do to clean up later, and sat down to instantaneous relief. Thoughts went through my head that maybe I could just use my underwear and go commando until Jon arrived back at his house. I was starting to feel better, though, and logic was coming back into my brain. What was I going to do? I thought that maybe I could wait for Steve to get back from filling up the car, but I couldn’t make out how long I had been in the bathroom. Time had stopped making sense when all I could think of was the pain.
I then remembered there had been another room next to the bathroom, and I started thinking that maybe it had been another bathroom. I pulled my pants up to a sagging position, so that my underwear wouldn't touch anything, ensuring their cleanness, and waddled my way outside and over to the other door. And of course, in big block letters, it read STAFF USE ONLY. I hesitated for about 2 seconds, and decided I would just see if they had toilet paper. They did. Four whole rolls. I grabbed one and made my way back to the other bathroom where I could finally clean up and be done with the disgusting mess of a bathroom trip this had been.
Steve was waiting for me outside after, smiling. He said he almost wished I would have messed my pants and the car, because it would have made a good story. I told him I thought this one was good enough.
We found all of our bags and then headed to the Express line of customs because we had nothing to declare. The customs guy who took our bags to send them through the x-ray machine took my purse as I gave it to him and said, “All right ma’am, you’re good to go, have a nice visit in Australia.” And then he started to laugh. It was the first sign that I was in Australia – that the customs officer could laugh about taking my purse from me in an effort to joke about stealing it.
We were finally free to be in the country, so we left the customs area into the arrivals waiting area. Our eyes scanned the crowd looking for either Steve’s family or our friends who had all promised to be at the airport to meet us. We were having trouble finding their familiar faces, when out of the hum of the crowd I heard a very distinct bird call of “Ka-Kaaa” and I somehow knew it was Tim. We saw him then, as he pointed out that his brother Jon and other friend Phil were also there waiting for us. Hugs all around and then a request from me to use the bathroom.
I made my way into the girl’s room, and was surprised that I had forgotten what the toilets look like. They are rounder, taller, with a small amount of water in them. The stalls give more privacy here than in America, because the cracks between the door and post are almost non-existent. And then there’s the button on the back of toilet, allowing you a half flush or a full flush, depending on the job you’ve just done. For some reason, I had forgotten these differences, even though it is the main difference that I share with my own American family and friends when talking about my Australian experience. After my initial shock at how the toilet looked, I was able to do my job and smile, at yet another reminder of where in the world I was sitting.
When I was finished, I found the boys again and we wondered what we should do to find Steve’s family. We were all in need of a coffee, so as we made our way to find a good one, Steve’s brother Dave and mum Pauline walked by and Dave said, “Hey, there’s Tim,” before he realized that Steve and I were standing with him. There were more hugs, and we were able to finally leave the airport. We decided to leave with Tim, who always parks about a mile and a half away from the airport, to avert the fees for parking at the airport. We had a pleasant walk to the car in the beautiful Australian spring morning air. It was a strange atmosphere, this being my third time here. It didn't feel new anymore; I wasn't searching for the funny differences anymore, because they seemed normal to me. It felt like home, even like a different town within America, but definitely not foreign. I liked it.
We were taken to Steve’s sister Katherine’s apartment, where we would spend most of the day before leaving to sleep at Jon’s house. Our time there, though, consisted mainly of small snacks as we chatted, interrupted from time to time by a nap. After a shower, we made our way to Cronulla beach for some Oporto chicken burgers, which my mouth had been thinking of for nearly 2 years. After eating, we strolled the beach, near the big houses, and back again, ready for a trip into Miranda for a shop at the Westfield, which is what Australians call most of their malls.
At the mall, we were able to buy an Australian Sim card, so we unlocked our American phone. Steve handed me the American Sim card, for safe keeping until we made our way back to America. I stuck it in the envelope that the new Sim card came in, and placed the envelope in my purse. We then walked around looking to see if there was anything else we needed. There wasn’t, and we got back into the car and headed for Katherine’s yet again. When we were half way home, something told me to check my purse to see where the Sim card was. When I pulled the envelope out and looked inside, it was empty. I dug through my purse, pulling out books and wallets and passports – and the Sim card remained hidden. I stuck my hand in the bottom, trying to feel around for it, yet trying to be delicate enough not to break the card if I did find it. No luck, the Sim card was not in my bag.
Thoughts went through my mind about what an airhead I was. The amount of times that I’ve lost something of Steve’s or mine is uncountable. We got back to Katherine’s where I was able to dump my purse onto the ground to make sure the sim card wasn’t in there. Nothing, nowhere. Steve’s dad, Wayne, suggested we call the Donut King we were sitting near when we unlocked the phone, to see if we had dropped it there. After getting a disconnected number and calling mall security, we were finally able to get a hold of the Donut King store, and luckily, someone had just given them our card. They promised to hold it until the next day. Drama, finished.
We bummed around Katherine’s for a couple of hours, and then ate some homemade lasagna, garlic bread and roasted vegetables. It was tasty, it was fresh. After dinner, we jumped into Katherine’s car that she is letting us borrow while we’re here. We readied ourselves to drive the 20 minutes to Jon’s house where we would be sleeping for the weekend. Jon was going to be meeting us there after visiting his grandma in the hospital. As we pulled up to his house, a wave of sick feeling hit my stomach. I thought that maybe I had some gas issues due to the crazy amount of traveling we had done and the fact that I hadn’t had to use the bathroom that way since Phoenix about 2 days ago. But as I decided to relieve myself of the air in my belly, I soon discovered that it wasn’t only air. I thought, "Maybe it will subside if I just don't think about it for a while." No luck, the feeling just intensified until I couldn't bare the thought of holding on for another minute. I frantically asked Steve if there was any way we could get into the house without Jon here, because I really needed to use the bathroom. He asked if I needed him to drive me to a gas station, to which I yelled “NO” before he could even finish his sentence – I didn’t even think I could get back into the car without letting everything go. Steve gave Jon a call and asked him how far he was from the house. 10 minutes. And no, there's no spare key. I began to cry. “I can’t wait ten minutes, Steve. I need to go now! Quick, let’s get in the car. QUICK!” Steve ran to the driver’s side and I jumped into the passenger seat. I reached for the seat belt as I began to whimper. I couldn’t hold it in. I was sure I was going to mess up Katherine’s front seat.
We turned left out of the subdivision and in the distance, at the next light, we could see a gas station on the right side. Unfortunately, we were driving on a divided highway, meaning we would have to do a u-turn in order to get into the gas station parking lot. Which meant we’d have to wait for all of the traffic to go through the light before we could do our u-turn. Which meant I’d have to physically hold my bum cheeks together, ensuring a clean ride to the toilet. I began to scream for some help from Jesus, as tears ran down my cheeks. If there was ever a time I needed him to come to my rescue, this was definitely one of them.
Steve turned into the station, wheels squealing, and drove me straight to the outside entrance to the toilet. I ran out of the car and into the bathroom as he told me he’d fill up the car with petrol while I used the bathroom. I looked around at the dirty sink, with the thin, hard, bent piece of soap, left over and old from probably months of not being used. The toilet seat was up and inside was a layer of dirt, outlining the bottom of the bowl. I couldn’t even tell if there was water in it, and if there wasn’t, that would mean my mess would be there for someone else to clean. Trying to be considerate, even in my panic, I made sure the toilet could still flush, and sure enough, there was water in the bottom. I quickly knocked the seat down, causing an echoing "clang" to fill the bathroom, and looked around for some toilet paper to line the seat before I sat down. Between the toilet and the wall was an empty toilet paper roll, and there wasn’t a fresh one in sight. I couldn't wait another second, so I decided to worry about what I’d do to clean up later, and sat down to instantaneous relief. Thoughts went through my head that maybe I could just use my underwear and go commando until Jon arrived back at his house. I was starting to feel better, though, and logic was coming back into my brain. What was I going to do? I thought that maybe I could wait for Steve to get back from filling up the car, but I couldn’t make out how long I had been in the bathroom. Time had stopped making sense when all I could think of was the pain.
I then remembered there had been another room next to the bathroom, and I started thinking that maybe it had been another bathroom. I pulled my pants up to a sagging position, so that my underwear wouldn't touch anything, ensuring their cleanness, and waddled my way outside and over to the other door. And of course, in big block letters, it read STAFF USE ONLY. I hesitated for about 2 seconds, and decided I would just see if they had toilet paper. They did. Four whole rolls. I grabbed one and made my way back to the other bathroom where I could finally clean up and be done with the disgusting mess of a bathroom trip this had been.
Steve was waiting for me outside after, smiling. He said he almost wished I would have messed my pants and the car, because it would have made a good story. I told him I thought this one was good enough.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
up to date
I sit at the window at Grind coffee shop at Cronulla Beach, in beautiful Australia. A smallish mug, filled with a flat white and topped with a heart, carved into its foam is brought to me on a saucer. I take a sip and hold the taste of espresso in my mouth for a few seconds, to savor this moment on my third trip back to Australia. I swallow the heated liquid, I sigh, I smile. This is one of the things I could barely wait to experience again.
We are into our first full day in Australia, and already, so much has happened. It is Saturday, and last night was the first time we slept in a bed since Tuesday night. Which sounds wrong, but the days get a little muddled together when traveling over that all-powerful International Date Line. I woke up this morning feeling fully refreshed, but by the time I had showered, dressed, and eaten breakfast, I was ready for a nap. Fair enough, though, since our yesterday was basically a full 45 hours. Time has no meaning for now, and I'm loving it.
When I was still in high school and even up until I took my first international flight, I dreaded flying. I would get next to no sleep the night before my flight because of fear. Now, I lose sleep because of my excitement. I love to travel. I love the check-in process, the security lines, sitting in the gate area while waiting for the plane to board. I love watching people as they travel, trying to guess at who is traveling for the first time. This trip, however, gave us a bit more stress than most. We had flown down to Oklahoma City to spend a week with my family before heading to California for our flight to Oz. While in Oklahoma, we bought our tickets to San Francisco. The plan was to book the tickets to San Fran a full day before our night flight from there, so we could explore the city a bit. Our Sydney flight left on Wednesday late night, so we booked our tickets for the Tuesday morning, ensuring our arrival into San Fran by lunchtime. This would give us plenty of time to see some sights.
On Monday morning, Steve and I decided to check in online for our flight from Oklahoma City to San Francisco. We had found an amazing deal on Priceline, but couldn’t quite figure out how to check in for a flight booked through them. After about 10 minutes of full frustration, I decided to look at the confirmation email once more, to see if we were missing any instructions. On the email, in bold blue letters, it read, “Your itinerary for flight from OKC to SFO September 22, 2009.” We had booked our tickets for a full week too late. Our flight from San Francisco to Sydney left on September 16. I yelled for Steve, showed him what we had done, and we stared at each other, trying to think of a way that the computer could be lying to us. This discovery was followed by several phone calls to the airline and $500 later, we were checked in and ready to fly the next day for San Francisco.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not only was I excited and semi-nervous about the process of exploring a whole new city, but I kept thinking that maybe the computer was lying to us about our Sydney flight. What if we were already a week too late? All throughout that day, I had checked and rechecked the calendar, the times, the emails – everything that told us when we were leaving. And then, what if our alarm didn’t go off? What if we slept through our boarding time? It was a long night.
After all that thinking, I got up in the morning on time, and even remembered everything the first time out the door. My mom took us to the airport and we met my dad there to say goodbye. They waved us off, and we boarded the plane for Phoenix, where we had a 2-hour layover. We arrived in San Francisco at noon, gathered our luggage, and made our way through the confusion of the hotel courtesy shuttle system.
We arrived at our hotel, the Vagabond Inn, and waited behind another couple so that we could check in. My eyes wandered around the sunny room whose walls were made of windows. Outside, palm trees swayed in the warm breeze and the blue sky remained uninterrupted by any intrusive clouds. It was going to be a good day.
But then my eyes wandered to a sign that the hotel had in one of their windows. It said, “This hotel uses chemicals that cause birth defects, cancer, and other reproductive diseases.” I jabbed Steve in the side and pointed to the sign. He looked at me and smiled…there was really nothing else he could do. I knew I needed to find out what I needed to stay away from so that my children would come out with all of their fingers, instead of webbed feet or something. When it came our turn to check in, I gave the concierge our name, and she began the process of checking us in.
“So, what’s the chemical that causes all the birth defects?” I asked, in a forced casual voice. “Oh,” she said, “let me get you a brochure.” She opened the desk to look for one, but discovered they had run out. I asked her if there was just something that I should stay away from and she said, “It’s just that we allow people to smoke in the hotel vicinity.” I was never so relieved to hear about cigarettes.
We settled into our room and then decided to take the shuttle back to the airport to catch the Bay Area Rapid Transit train. The price to get into the city from the airport and back was a whopping $16.20 each. Shocking though that news was, we gave in and bought the tickets, jumped on the train, and listened as one of the workers tried to explain to an Asian couple which stop they needed to get off of in order to transfer to another line. They obviously didn’t know much English, and as the worker said to them, “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?” Steve let the guy know that we would tell them when they needed to exit the train.
The San Francisco BART line is loud, and it feels as though the train could jump the track at any moment. When the conductor would get on the loud speaker to let us know which station we were at, I was amazed that she could make every name for each stop fit into a one syllable, mumbled word. We finally arrived at the Embarcadero station, and unfortunately exited up the wrong stairway, which took us to the Financial District. We walked for about an hour before asking a local to point out the way to the bay, only to discover that we had been traveling in the wrong direction the entire time.
We finally made it to the bay, but by now, we were starving. We had planned on finding Pier 43 ½ where there was a ferry station that took people on tours around Alcatraz and under the Golden Gate Bridge. We decided to walk along the boardwalk and find some food while we looked for our pier. The smells ranged from the aromatic scents of Italian food, seafood, sewage, and fish water. We walked and walked and walked, and finally found Pier 1. So we walked some more, stopping along the way to peruse the menus of some very expensive restaurants. We traveled for about 2 hours, and finally made it to Fisherman’s Wharf, where our pier was located. We walked up to the ticket counter, where we were met with a sign that said CLOSED.
Discouraged and still extremely hungry, we decided to keep walking. We still had not seen any signs of the actual Golden Gate Bridge. We found some seafood places, but they were either too expensive, or too disgusting to temp us. We almost gave into one of the smaller vendors on the street when in the distance I saw a sign for an Italian restaurant. “Let’s go and see what they have to offer,” I said, and Steve agreed. While we were walking towards it, we could hear a man yelling something. He sounded like a baseball vendor trying to sell his products and we faintly heard “Golden Gate Bridge…Alcatraz…last tour of the night…$15.” Steve looked at me and asked if I wanted to go on the tour. My stomach fought against the tourist in me, and as we neared the man, I decided to take him up on his offer. My stomach could wait.
We paid the man, and boarded his dingy fishing boat, beautifully named Lovely Martha. About 30 other people were sitting throughout the boat. We found a seat near the middle of the back part of the boat, and laughed at how small the boat was and how ridiculous we felt. Would we make it through this cruise alive? We waited until all the seats were sold, and the captain and his cruise director (dressed in shorts and old t-shirts) boarded the vessel, untied us from the dock, and pushed us off. We headed first for the bridge, and along the way heard a history of the wharf, saw some seals sunbathing on a dock, were splashed by the waves that hit our boat as we made a wake, and got a glimpse of the “Full House”-like houses lining the bay.
As we neared the bridge, we realized that like so many other tourist moments in our relationship, this one was going to include fog. The bridge was covered in its own cloud. Nowhere else on the water or on the land was there fog; it was only around the bridge. We laughed at our luck, took some photos, and headed for Alcatraz. Steve invented a long, in-depth story about how he had been the only person to escape Alcatraz, and that when he got out, the guards tried to swim after him. He claimed that because he was so amazing, he was able to swim away, breaststroke style, while the guards swam free-style, unable to catch up to him. He apparently got to the shore, swam back to Alcatraz, and then back to the shore again, without the guards ever catching up with him. He was upset that I didn’t laugh.
After the boat docked again, we got off the boat, chilled by the wind, sticky from the salt water. My hair was a mess, my cheeks pink, and my toes were numb. We walked to the restaurant and found out there was a comedy stand-up night there, and we could both get in for $5. We couldn’t pass it up, so while we listened to sub-par comedians joke about their pretty average lives, we ate some great food and shared a bottle of red.
Afterwards, we decided we should head back to the BART station, so we could get back to the airport before the hotel shuttle was done for the night. We arrived with plenty of time, made our way to the shuttle waiting area, and as I picked up the phone to call the hotel to request the shuttle to be sent, Steve looked at me with panic in his eyes. “I think I just messed my pants,” he said. I thought nothing of it as he made his way back into the airport to use the bathroom. But as the shuttle pulled up, I began to wonder how my husband was going in the bathroom. I gave his phone a ring and told him the shuttle was here. “We have a mess on our hands,” he explained, “Ask the shuttle guy if he can wait for 5 minutes.” While it upset the poor man, he said he’d wait. I sat in the bus, watching for Steve. After about 3 minutes, I saw him running towards us. He hopped on the bus and sat on the seat, kind of on his leg. “What happened?” I asked. “That call could not have come at a worse time. I diarrhea-ed in my pants, and when you called me I was in the middle of a massive clean-up.” We laughed our way to the hotel, where Steve cleaned up and we soon fell asleep.
The next morning, we woke up slowly and checked out by 11 in the morning. Our plan was to check in with Qantas, getting rid of all of our luggage. We would then find some sort of transportation into a neighboring San Franciscan town where we would spend the day until about 7 pm when we would make our way back to the airport to go through security. Unfortunately, ours was the only flight Qantas had that day, so the check-in counter didn’t open until 6:45 that night. However, being the seasoned travelers that we are, we did not let that news upset us. We spent the day at a table in the airport’s food court and wasted the 7 hours reading, making a slide show for our Australian family, and eating. Time dragged by, and eventually it was time to check in.
Things went smoothly, and despite the fact that Steve looks much like a scary mountain man, we didn’t have to be wanded down or anything. We found our gate, sat for another 2 hours, and finally boarded the plane. We were delighted to find out that our seats were by themselves in the first row of economy, giving us plenty of leg room and denying us the need to climb over a stranger when we needed to use the bathroom throughout the flight.
We made our way over the enormous Pacific Ocean as we watched movies and tried, semi-successfully, to get some sleep. And as the sun finally caught up with us, we caught the sight of land. And slowly, the land became more distinct and buildings formed, and then we saw buildings that we recognized – the Opera House, the observation tower, and the Harbor Bridge. Steve pointed out my old suburb, and tried, yet again, to explain the layout of Sydney. We heard the wheels being lowered, and looked at each other in anticipation. “You happy to be home?” I asked, and Steve smiled in affirmation as our plane touched down.
More to come...
Sunday, July 26, 2009
whoa, the festival flow
I went to Michigan at the end of May and stayed for about 3 weeks, visiting with family and friends, watching my cousin give birth to her second daughter while I worked at mending, strengthening, and creating relationships with several people. I went solo for the first 2 weeks, while my poor husband stayed behind in Wisconsin to work. During the second week of us being in separate places, our nightly phone calls became more consistent. Steve called me one night as my grandma, my mom, my cousin and her first daughter, and I were all sitting in my grandma's living room, counting the minutes between contractions. He told me to go to a separate room because he had some interesting news to share. I got nervous, because although I play the part of a cup-half-full person, if I'm being honest, I'm generally the half-empty type. I went into my grandma's front room and coaxed the news out of my giddy husband.
"What is it you wanted to do this summer, but that we couldn't afford?" he asked as I sat, sweating on a couch, staring into my skewed reflection through a darkened window that was still covered in clear plastic, armored for the winter cold. It was the end of spring.
"Steve, I can't guess what you have to tell me with the clue you've given me. Please just spit it out."
And then, a recording from his phone, of a local radio announcer from South Africa to whom we often listen.
"The battle for the tickets is over. Stephen from Wisconsin won the battle. He's an Aussie too, so nice to pass on tickets to another resident alien. He's gonna go and see the 10,000 Lakes festival July 22 at Soo Pass Ranch."
I didn't believe that he had won the tickets. I thought it had to be another Aussie Stephen. He was tricking me, I was sure of it. I was not playing the gullible ticket this time.
Sitting at our tent a month and a half later, looking at the glitter in the sky, drinking wine and trying to comprehend the activity of the past 4 days, I couldn't remember why I doubted Steve. Although we lead a pretty good life together, it often feels like spectacular things take the hands of others, while we chase after them, trying not to lose our shoes or turn into pumpkins.
The glory of this festival was the final performance on Saturday night. Dave Matthews Band, with accompanying musician friend Tim Reynolds. Whoa.
We set out on a four hour drive on Wednesday the 22nd around 2 in the afternoon. Before leaving, we made sure we had the tickets, the camping registration, the map, and the letter we had received when the tickets were mailed to us. I vaguely remember realizing that there was only half of the letter wrapped around the tickets - a page was missing. Weird, I thought, but continued packing in my haste to leave before it got too late. We stopped for gas, to check the oil, to shop for food and beer. The beer was the most important part. We had been looking forward to this weekend away from the dry camp site that we live on, to relax, be together, and enjoy some excellent wheat flavored, hoppy beverages. And we're cheap, so we stopped at the Sam's Club on our way out of town. We wanted it to last the entire 5 days we would be gone, so we obviously went for the Sam's Club sized packages. Two cases. As we reached for them, Steve mentioned that he had a feeling we should buy it in the cans. I assured him that at a green festival such as the 10K Lakes Festival, they would rather recycle glass instead of aluminum. He reluctantly gave into my reasoning, against his better judgment, and after paying for the beer, and shopping for some quality, carb-loaded snacks, we set out for Soo Pass.
We arrived around 7 at night. As I drove into our campsite, Steve read from the second half of the letter. The second page started in the middle of a sentence that ended something like, "so you do not get your favorite beer taken away from you during the car search."
"What does that mean?" I asked. Not having the first half sent me into a bit of a panic. I had a feeling it had something to do with the glass bottles I had convinced my husband to buy.
A blond security girl met us at the gate, and promptly told us that before we could get our car tag and festival bracelets, she had to check our car for anything glass. "You mean, like beer bottles?" I asked, full of dread.
"Yep," she said. I looked at her and nearly broke down in tears. I told her that we actually had 2 cases full of glass bottled beer. She nearly cried with me. We slowly opened the door for her and popped the trunk so she could grab both boxes from our car. Oh, did I mention it was Fat Tire and Sam Adams? No Bud Light here...we went for the good stuff.
"If you guys have a plastic bottle or something, you can transfer your beer from the glass bottles and take it in with you," the security girl told us. She and the others who were working with her were all trying to give us advice of what to do to save our beer.
"Do you know where the nearest Target or Wal-Mart is?" I asked in desperation. My mind had clicked into problem-solving as I tried to imagine what would best help us get that beer into camp. I figured if we could get an igloo dispenser or some empty water cartons, we could save some of it.
"Sorry," said one of the guy security workers, "I'm not from around here."
We set out into Detroit Lakes, without a clue as to where we were headed. Our beer sat at the entrance of camp, being guarded by security, as though it were a celebrity guest at the festival. "We'll remember you," they had promised, "Just go find something to save your beer."
After driving for about 10 minutes around the lake and into town, and hearing my husband's defeated sigh and declaration of, "Kel, we just might have to count our losses," we realized that our atlas had been purchased at Wal-Mart. Inside was listed every Wal-Mart in the entire United States. This revelation hit us both at the same moment, and I watched as Steve reached for the huge book, as if searching for treasure. "There's one in Detroit Lakes," he said softly, as though Wal-Mart was a mirage, and talking too loudly might blow it away.
We found it on the left, and turned in. Decisions had to be made. What kind of containers did we want to buy. How much money did we really want to spend to save this beer? After walking the entire store about 4 times, we decided to buy a 2 gallon igloo water dispenser and four 1 gallon empty water jugs.
When we reached the campsite, we were welcomed back by the security team. Our beer was still sitting there, waiting to be demolished. I set about popping open each beer bottle with our 39 cent bottle opener, and as I passed them onto Steve, I watched as the smell drifted from the bottle in a small cloud of carbonation. I refused to think about how they would all soon become flat, and remained determined to save every last drop. We waved to the other cars as they passed through with their canned beverages, persisting through the task at hand.
It turns out that beer gets flat pretty soon after being opened. With just the two of us, and several gallons to get through, we ended up throwing out more than we drank. Which isn't so bad, as we don't really depend on the beer to give us a good time. We eventually reached a moment when we were laughing at our predicament, and at my insistent plea that we make sure that not one drop gets left behind.
Lesson learned: Steve knows what he's talking about, so Kelley, step aside.
"What is it you wanted to do this summer, but that we couldn't afford?" he asked as I sat, sweating on a couch, staring into my skewed reflection through a darkened window that was still covered in clear plastic, armored for the winter cold. It was the end of spring.
"Steve, I can't guess what you have to tell me with the clue you've given me. Please just spit it out."
And then, a recording from his phone, of a local radio announcer from South Africa to whom we often listen.
"The battle for the tickets is over. Stephen from Wisconsin won the battle. He's an Aussie too, so nice to pass on tickets to another resident alien. He's gonna go and see the 10,000 Lakes festival July 22 at Soo Pass Ranch."
I didn't believe that he had won the tickets. I thought it had to be another Aussie Stephen. He was tricking me, I was sure of it. I was not playing the gullible ticket this time.
Sitting at our tent a month and a half later, looking at the glitter in the sky, drinking wine and trying to comprehend the activity of the past 4 days, I couldn't remember why I doubted Steve. Although we lead a pretty good life together, it often feels like spectacular things take the hands of others, while we chase after them, trying not to lose our shoes or turn into pumpkins.
The glory of this festival was the final performance on Saturday night. Dave Matthews Band, with accompanying musician friend Tim Reynolds. Whoa.
We set out on a four hour drive on Wednesday the 22nd around 2 in the afternoon. Before leaving, we made sure we had the tickets, the camping registration, the map, and the letter we had received when the tickets were mailed to us. I vaguely remember realizing that there was only half of the letter wrapped around the tickets - a page was missing. Weird, I thought, but continued packing in my haste to leave before it got too late. We stopped for gas, to check the oil, to shop for food and beer. The beer was the most important part. We had been looking forward to this weekend away from the dry camp site that we live on, to relax, be together, and enjoy some excellent wheat flavored, hoppy beverages. And we're cheap, so we stopped at the Sam's Club on our way out of town. We wanted it to last the entire 5 days we would be gone, so we obviously went for the Sam's Club sized packages. Two cases. As we reached for them, Steve mentioned that he had a feeling we should buy it in the cans. I assured him that at a green festival such as the 10K Lakes Festival, they would rather recycle glass instead of aluminum. He reluctantly gave into my reasoning, against his better judgment, and after paying for the beer, and shopping for some quality, carb-loaded snacks, we set out for Soo Pass.
We arrived around 7 at night. As I drove into our campsite, Steve read from the second half of the letter. The second page started in the middle of a sentence that ended something like, "so you do not get your favorite beer taken away from you during the car search."
"What does that mean?" I asked. Not having the first half sent me into a bit of a panic. I had a feeling it had something to do with the glass bottles I had convinced my husband to buy.
A blond security girl met us at the gate, and promptly told us that before we could get our car tag and festival bracelets, she had to check our car for anything glass. "You mean, like beer bottles?" I asked, full of dread.
"Yep," she said. I looked at her and nearly broke down in tears. I told her that we actually had 2 cases full of glass bottled beer. She nearly cried with me. We slowly opened the door for her and popped the trunk so she could grab both boxes from our car. Oh, did I mention it was Fat Tire and Sam Adams? No Bud Light here...we went for the good stuff.
"If you guys have a plastic bottle or something, you can transfer your beer from the glass bottles and take it in with you," the security girl told us. She and the others who were working with her were all trying to give us advice of what to do to save our beer.
"Do you know where the nearest Target or Wal-Mart is?" I asked in desperation. My mind had clicked into problem-solving as I tried to imagine what would best help us get that beer into camp. I figured if we could get an igloo dispenser or some empty water cartons, we could save some of it.
"Sorry," said one of the guy security workers, "I'm not from around here."
We set out into Detroit Lakes, without a clue as to where we were headed. Our beer sat at the entrance of camp, being guarded by security, as though it were a celebrity guest at the festival. "We'll remember you," they had promised, "Just go find something to save your beer."
After driving for about 10 minutes around the lake and into town, and hearing my husband's defeated sigh and declaration of, "Kel, we just might have to count our losses," we realized that our atlas had been purchased at Wal-Mart. Inside was listed every Wal-Mart in the entire United States. This revelation hit us both at the same moment, and I watched as Steve reached for the huge book, as if searching for treasure. "There's one in Detroit Lakes," he said softly, as though Wal-Mart was a mirage, and talking too loudly might blow it away.
We found it on the left, and turned in. Decisions had to be made. What kind of containers did we want to buy. How much money did we really want to spend to save this beer? After walking the entire store about 4 times, we decided to buy a 2 gallon igloo water dispenser and four 1 gallon empty water jugs.
When we reached the campsite, we were welcomed back by the security team. Our beer was still sitting there, waiting to be demolished. I set about popping open each beer bottle with our 39 cent bottle opener, and as I passed them onto Steve, I watched as the smell drifted from the bottle in a small cloud of carbonation. I refused to think about how they would all soon become flat, and remained determined to save every last drop. We waved to the other cars as they passed through with their canned beverages, persisting through the task at hand.
It turns out that beer gets flat pretty soon after being opened. With just the two of us, and several gallons to get through, we ended up throwing out more than we drank. Which isn't so bad, as we don't really depend on the beer to give us a good time. We eventually reached a moment when we were laughing at our predicament, and at my insistent plea that we make sure that not one drop gets left behind.
Lesson learned: Steve knows what he's talking about, so Kelley, step aside.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I woke up this morning and suddenly realized that I was married, the renter of a not-too-shabby apartment, and happily unemployed. And although I would love to continue the life of a wandering gypsy with no home and no job to tie me down, I've unfortunately found myself stuck in the American dream. I've always desired to be married but the whole settling down is the part that I and my crazy wonderful husband are struggling with at the moment. "Give us a five-year plan," was the plea of several friends and family members as we grappled with the reality of being engaged. When the wedding came around, and we still had not given them a plan of action that we were passionate about, I sensed some disappointment, as well as some chuckles and the attitude of "well, they'll find out soon enough that you can't go through life without a plan."Three months later, here we are, without a job possibility that looks at all attractive, and with an unexplainable peace and mindset that everything is going as it should. And as I fight the desire to find a job that will give me the number one comfort of security, I am daily finding myself dodging the pressure to give up my dreams, and to settle for someone else's. I hope I am able to succeed in this endeavor. It's a tough one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)