All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun

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When new to a country, one of the many surprises of daily life is the unexpected holidays. For a working girl like myself, these translate to days off, and are therefore greeted with enthusiasm.
Monday of last week I learned that we wouldn’t be working that Friday, since it was Anzac Day. I had heard "Anzac" mentioned in a variety of situations; Anzac Biscuit, Anzac Parade, Anzac Bridge etc. Now it was here, the actual holiday, and I learned all about the alliance between Australia and New Zealand, as well as the story of Gallipoli and how they planned to capture Istanbul.
To immerse myself properly in the Aussie culture, I joined Dave in his efforts to help celebrate the 93rd anniversary of this military failure by betting money on either the heads or tails of two coins that were being tossed up into the air by a very drunk and equally dubious man outside a Sydney pub called the Duck and Swan. The game, called two-up, is only allowed during this one day of the year, so I participated one round to make sure I didn’t miss out on this rare privilege. I won $5, but couldn’t be bothered going for another round, as I can only be entertained for so long in a game that involves absolutely nil skill.

At the end of that week I felt socially drained, as there had been some sort of agenda each day, so I declined Phil’s offer to come over for dinner at his place on Sunday, and decided to give myself a weekend off, without plans or commitments. The only plan I did allow for was my yoga session with Paule on Sunday morning. It was as nice as always, and it even came with a bit of an epiphany for me;
During the relaxation part of the class, I was thinking of things outside my reach (people I miss, places I’d like to re-visit sooner than 9 months from now, etc). Right as my mind was busying itself with these longings for what I currently can’t have, the yoga instructor read a passage from an inspirational book she had brought:
“Never waste time and energy wishing you were somewhere else, doing something else. Accept your situation and realize you are where you are, doing what you are doing, for a very specific reason. Realize that nothing is by chance, that you have certain lessons to learn, and that the situation you are in has been given to you to enable you to learn those lessons as quickly as possible.”
Spot on. If you consider what thoughts were filling my head at the time these words were being uttered, you can perhaps appreciate what impression they made on me. It served as a much needed reminder of why there’s no point in thinking “what if” unless there’s feasibility to that notion, and that longing for something out of reach can distract you from all the good things that are sitting right in front of you.
Still, I have to admit I’ve been missing the States more than ever before. I dream of the monsoon rains in Flagstaff, with the fresh smell of wet, warm asphalt filling the air, or one of many rides on the strong back of Bandit, my equine friend, who loves going fast just as much as me.
But more than nearly anything else, I miss driving through the scorching heat and vast beauty of Arizona in the summer, with its mountains and deserts and lakes, while listening to tacky country or sermons from fundamentalist Christians on the radio.
I miss the way the sun would play tricks with the eye by turning road into water, and then from water to sky.
In short, I miss home, and I've realized that "home" doesn't mean Sweden anymore. Maybe it never really did.
(And for any ignoramus who thought Arizona was only barren, desolate wasteland, I have but two words: read up.)

Now that I have a kitchen, there’s a dinner happening pretty much every night. If it’s not a planned event with a friend coming over, it’s an impromptu dinner with my fabulous flatmates, who, by the way, are confused by the stream of males coming over for dinner, and have even started to inquire as to my relation to these lads. When Rowan left after a music-swapping night I was asked if I was dating him, which gave me a good chuckle. I almost said yes, since I’ve become inspired to lie about my life as often as possible to effectively entertain myself, but I settled on the truth this time.

The other day when checking my email during lunch break at work, I was greeted by the following acrimonious email from someone calling him/herself Big Papa Cheese:
“Suggest you fuck off back to Sweden you kook. You don't belong here”.
First thought that ran through my head was naturally: what have I done to be called a “kook”, and how can I make sure to do it again? I’m sure it was meant to be insulting, but in my opinion, being a kook is about as cool as it gets. Or should I say kool? I was both intrigued and excited. Who was this new admirer, and how did he or she know the trick to win my heart in just two sentences? It must either be someone I know well, or my true soul mate who found me through some divine intervention and now wants me to have his babies.
It could conceivably be some jealous girlfriend (remember Kinnon's lady at the country gig?), but I’ve almost decided that’s too ridiculous, even for a beer-spilling avenger. She must be used to groupies when dating such a red hot man, and for that matter, I didn’t actually do anything. I simply expressed my appreciation for Kinnon’s mouthwatering appearance, and this should make her proud and happy rather than bitter. Either way, I of course could not resist responding, and did so promptly:

“Exactly where is ‘here’?
I'm not sure I've had the pleasure of meeting you yet, but as to your inquiry of my experiences in Australia, I'm enjoying myself immensely. Thanks for asking.

God bless,

/anna”

Unfortunately this is the extent of our correspondence thus far, but I’m hopeful it’s just because my admirer is taking her/his time to reply with yet another articulate and impressive letter. I'll keep you posted.

The other week at work, Phil all of a sudden walked me home from work, even though he lives in the diametrically opposite direction. Unfortunately it was to work up the courage to tell me that he liked me. “Oh, in that good ol’ platonic way?” I attempted, but no. It was in that other, sticky and complicated way. I have to find another job, I thought, a notion that felt alright as I've been getting bored at the book-warehouse lately anyway.
Throughout my whole adult life I’ve been accused of being naïve in my friendships with men, and I guess I finally have to admit that I am. In hindsight all the signs were there, with Phil just like any other guy, but I miss them all, simply because I never assume anyone will actually like me that way.
I was not a pretty child, at least not in anyone’s eyes but my mom’s, and although I wasn’t necessarily a monstrosity, I was not the type of girl you considered making your girlfriend. I was a tomboy, and quite happy with that. I played with the boys instead of dating them, and I excelled in sports. This was what I wanted to do, and I wasn’t fazed by not being the prettiest girl in the room.
That androgynous tomboy, the one who gets nothing but kind indifference from the opposite gender, is still there, and she still doesn't expect anything more. People typically confuse this with low self-esteem or insecurity, but that’s not accurate. I’ve never thought my value as a person was limited to my exterior, so my confidence remains intact regardless of what people think about my looks. The only downside is that I end up in uncomfortable situations because I never see a romantic interest for what it is, but instead rationalize it away: "I think he's like that with everyone", or "I'm sure he was just a bit too drunk". Furthermore, when I don't want anything other than platonic friendships with men, I tend to see what I want these to be rather than what it actually is.

Rowan celebrated his 23rd birthday last Friday and organized a little gathering in a bar on Oxford Street. I went with Dave, and when the others moved on to another bar in Newtown, Dave and I stayed and spiced up the dance floors of Sydney’s gay boulevard with our dangerously hot moves. When drunk enough, we took a cab to Zanzibar, where the crowd was a bit more straight than in, say, the Columbian at Oxford. I locked eyes with a hottie who was passing by and he immediately came up and danced closely, which could have been fun, had he been older than 20. As it was, I drunkenly counted what year he was born, and when realizing that he was conceived in -88 I scoffed at his hands as they were approaching my butt, and told him I was into older men. “You know how 60-year olds get plastic surgery and then end up looking like surprised prunes? That gets me off, big time.” The kid looked uncertain of my sanity at this comment, but it did successfully remove his paws off my bum.
Soon after this disturbing event, Dave and I went back to his place, where I pissed him off by eating his leftover one and a half pieces of sushi, without sharing. (For the record, I had asked if he had anything for me to eat, and he took out the sushi and placed it in front of me, and then left the area. What was I suppose to extract from this situation? There weren’t even two mouthfuls there, and he didn’t express interest in it, so naturally I had both. When he returned he acted as if I had just ingurgitated a banquet for two, instead of the teeny bit of leftovers I had in fact munched on.)

I woke up early the next morning, as is my habit when going to bed drunk, one that Dave did not seem to share with me. I left his apartment and headed out to Newtown, and on my way I called up Pete to meet up for a Saturday coffee.
Unless you have to work, the day after a night out can be great; you’re a bit hung-over as you’re walking down the street, and there’s a string of nebulous memories from the previous night flashing before your bloodshot eyes, but the weather is perfect, you have the day off, and the whole city is bustling with people craving that soy latte just as much as you do. There’s nothing to not love about these days. So carefree, so blithe.
After some caffeine and raisin toasts, I headed back to my part of the city to pack a daypack and walk over to the train station where I would catch a train to visit Jett in the Blue Mountains.

I knew that going somewhere I hadn’t gone before with the Sydney Train System would be a butt-fucker of epic proportions, especially when a bit hungover after a night out, and this is why it didn't surprise me when it proved impossible to find information regarding the platform from which my train would depart. Failing to figure it out from the screens and train network maps, I went to the ticket counter to inquire about it. “Look at the screens” was the answer I was given from the angel behind the glass. She was a few keyboard strokes away from the exact answer to my query, had she only cared enough to look it up, but I was in no such luck. “Fine. What’s the name of the end station I should look for?” I continued, and although she presumably did answer this question, her thick Indian accent in combination with her service-minded mumble from behind the glass was enough to prevent me from discerning any familiar syllables that might lead me closer to the answer. I was tempted to ask her to try again, this time enunciating as if she were talking to a customer without super-sonic hearing, and perhaps also someone who hasn’t heard the name of these destinations a thousand times before, but I was afraid it could be considered a racial attack, so I resisted. Instead I went to find the platform that listed the Blue Mountains as a destination. I found it, and the next train leaving would be going in the right direction, but as far as I could tell, it wouldn’t take me all the way. I couldn’t figure out why, but there was no one to ask, and I was running out of time, so I just got on.
It turned out that this very platform only operated to the Blue Mountains during peak hours, which Saturday pm obviously was not, so I had to get off a few stops later and wait for an hour for the right train. Bugger.

Hung-over and mildly homicidal after hearing these news I decided I needed to flood my system with heaps of sugar to prevent a serious outburst. I went to the little kiosk downstairs, and when going up to the counter to pay for my Magnum Ego ice-cream I felt certain my mood was about to improve. As I handed over my debit card to pay the girl behind the counter kindly informed me that she could only accept cash. I only had about a dollar in coins, which could easily be blamed on Jett, who had said that the fare to the Blue Mountains would be $5, when in fact it was $11. Foolishly assuming what Jett said to be true, I had made sure to have a $10-bill when leaving Sydney, to make at least the ticket purchase smooth and hassle-free, but since I instead had to go through every nook and cranny of my clothes to find the last dollar to pay the actual fare, I now had insufficient funds for the ice-cream that would save me from a potentially criminal expression of my frustration.
“OK, where’s the nearest ATM?”, I asked, hell-bent on feeding myself sugar.“Outside the station” was the answer, and this reply made my blood boil. I would have to exit the train station, take out money, and then buy a new ticket to be able to re-enter. I was in dire need of sugar, but not $11 + $3.20 worth of sugar, so I finally accepted defeat.
Resigned, I looked at the girl who wouldn’t take my card as form of payment, and at her hand, flat on the counter with a pencil lying next to it. Surely no one would hold it against me if I grabbed the pen and jabbed it into her hand with enough force to penetrate the wooden counter and thus pin her delicate hand to it? Or would they? As I mused over the possible negative outcome of such act, the young kid behind me in line asked how much the ice-cream was, and when the girl told him the price he paid for it along with his Gatorade.
“There is hope for humanity after all. You just scored some really good karma right there,” I said, but the kid just smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said he knew how annoying it is when you don’t have cash and a store won’t accept cards.
He looked about 17-18 years old, skateboard under one arm, and in general he struck me as the type who probably gets taken for a little thug most of the time. But if you ask me, the guy was alright.

The platform personnel had told me the train to Blue Mountains would leave from platform 6 at 3:34pm, but when a train rolled in at 3:32, with a whole other destination on its front sign, I asked the nearest station employee if I was really on the right platform, which of course I wasn’t. Platform 8 was where my train left from, in 2 minutes, and once more athleticism saved the day as I darted downstairs to run to the right platform. I just barely made it inside before the train doors closed.

I had a Trainspotting-weekend in Blue Mountains with Jett, who lived with an artist/alcoholic/heroin user, a guy who might also inadvertently win the in-official “Who has the most odious house in New South Wales?”-contest. The place was a disgrace for mankind, and literally screamed mental illness. Animal furs and stuffed birds were to be found everywhere, and there was a strong odor of cigarettes, alcohol and filth in the whole house. To spruce things up further, Jett’s ex was there as well, walking around like a mumbling zombie, looking like a train wreck. When entering the bathroom I scoffed at the toiletries I had brought along; there was no way in hell I would use that shower. There was a thick paste of grime and pubic hair on the floor (and blood?), and I sincerely doubted that taking a shower there would make me feel clean. What the hell is Jett doing living in this rathole?
The next morning we headed out for a refreshing hike, during which we ran into Dave and his mom not once or twice, but three times. I scored a ride home with them in their rental at the end of the day, and upon return to my home, I was so grateful for the relatively clean bathroom, and for my flatmates who don’t inject heroin or even smoke indoors. I took a long shower while my clothes were going through a cleansing ritual in the laundry machine, and felt born again when drying myself with a towel that smelled of fresh detergent. Yuk for addicts.

In an attempt to re-create the wonderful almond butter I used to make when living in New York, I managed to ruin my $29 food processor. That wasn’t much of a surprise, considering the tight-ass price of the appliance, but I went back and got another one, since I knew I would need one when making pesto for James.
He showed up with a nice bottle of red wine, and I had garlic bread in the oven and pasta cooking on the stove when this second food processor broke down. This time I wasn’t quite as relaxed about the piece of cheap crap breaking down since someone else’s meal was hinging on its performance, so I went downstairs to our neighbor and asked if perhaps he had one, but he didn’t. No choice but to get to know the neighbors in the other buildings, I thought, so I rang the doorbell of the gay couple across the street. When the door opened I politely introduced myself: “Hello, my name is Anna, I live up there, and I’m making pesto, but my food processor died on me. Do you have one to lend me, perchance?” Rod, who had answered the door, invited me to come in while Ron, the younger one, went through their cupboards to finally produce an old but promising food processor. Rod admitted that they hadn’t used it in 8 years, but that last time it worked just fine.
The machine turned out to be a wonder-appliance, and 15 minutes later James and I were gorging on smooth, rich pesto with al dente pasta, garlic bread with rosemary and good red wine. Oh, how wonderful these gluttonous moments are, especially when there's the gamble of the necessary tools not operating, and the problem-solving aspect that adds to cooking. Truly rewarding.
James promised to reciprocate with salmon at his place soon, a night I’m really looking forward to.

I'm not sure it's good for me to live with a hairdresser, as my hairdo is getting increasingly shorter every week. It started with a careful haircut featuring a vague mullet, but now it's turning into a faux-hawk/undercut mystery. It's just so addictive to have Paule right there, and to be able to try things out whenever I feel like it. At this point it's difficult to make my hair much shorter than it already is, though, without going with a crew cut, and although I'm not completely opposed to that idea, I'm not ready for it just yet.
After cutting my hair some more this morning (I really have to stop it) Paule, Susana and I went downtown to partake in the celebration of Buddha's birthday. I made a wish with burning incense and bathed the fat little Buddha while hoping for better body, mind and heart.
Tomorrow after yoga Paule is going with me to buy new running shoes, as my old ones are so worn out that it hurts my bones to run in them, and if the company's website is accurate I could even score some $20 Converse. We might also pop in at IKEA, since it's in the same neighborhood. I'm running out of all the Swedish delicacies that I can only get there, but more importantly, I can't live much longer without a cheese slicer in the house.
But for now, it's party time in Newtown with Dave!

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Photos

Me and Paule
Yes, we're idiots.

Comments

[sandra]

yay for a good life!
... sounds pretty much perfect to me :) It's a shame you won't be able to understand my blog as it is in German, but let me assure you: you would find we're kindred spirits. Especially with all the friendships to men and complications when the concept of a platonic relationship is lost on them. Greetings, another tomboy