The Shit Is Bananas

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Somehow I must’ve bathed Buddha the wrong way the other week, for he did not pay much attention to my wishes of a good, healthy body. I might actually have poured water at him so inadequately that I managed to piss him off, a scenario I deem possible only because my body started deteriorating the very day after I attended his birthday party in Darling Harbor. Or is this payback for me calling him fat in my last entry?

Right leg: shin splint, left leg; hurting knee. These are aches I immediately ascribed to my old, worn out shoes. Hooray! I thought, I get to spend money I don’t really have on something I desperately need.
I started doing some research online for Sydney’s cheapest sports outlet, and found one a bit outside of the city. It was closing down and therefore throwing what looked like a phenomenal sale, but once I had arrived and stepped into the store I was disappointed to find it to be not all that great after all; the $20 Chuck Taylors were gone, as were most decent trainers in my size. I finally caved in and went to Rebel Sport downtown where I had to spend $189 on a pair of alright Asics Gel, which by the way would’ve cost me $89 in the States. Blimey! What about the trip overseas made the ones I bought that much better?
The pain in my leg didn’t go away even with new shoes, though, but I kept running while treating it with tiger balm, not wanting to surrender to the fact that I had a goddamn shin splint that would only heal through rest. I hate that diagnosis. What am I supposed to do for exercise if I can’t run?
Apparently the most recommended type of cardio when trying to heal a shin splint is swimming, an activity that feels as close to meditation as I'll ever get; after a few laps it’s just me and the water, my arms propelling me forward, air bubbles escaping my lungs, bursting against my face. I get transfixed by focusing on the rhythm of my breathing and the position of my arms as they hit the surface, and next thing you know it's been half an hour and my workout for the day is behind me.
So swimming it is. I finally decided to just suck it up, quit my bitching and buy a few weeks at the swimming pool downtown. $93 for 20 days isn’t exactly cheap, but if that’s all my shin splint ends up costing me, I’ll be alright. To ignore it like I started out doing can apparently lead to permanent injuries, so I guess that’s not an option.

Last weekend, when walking to Darling Harbor with Paule and Susana, we started our little outing with a good cup of continentally strong coffee at Juice & Java Lounge, a café located only one block away from our apartment. I decided to do something to get myself out of the Catch 22 scenario of not having any café experience, and not getting a job because of that minor detail, so I asked the owner if he’d be willing to teach me how to make coffee, perhaps starting the following weekend. I'll work for free, I said, as long as you'll teach me how to be a good barista. He squinted, looked at me for a second, and then surprised me by answering yes.
“Really? Cool. I’ll see you next Saturday, then”.

The following week at the book warehouse was a soporific drag with precious little to do and the growing discomfort of working next to Phil.
He took the liberty of inviting me and himself to visit a work mate without checking with me first, and when he asked me on Monday if I wanted to go for a beer on Friday I couldn’t think of a good reason why not fast enough, so I ended up saying yes.
I returned from work that day, whining to Paule about having to go even though I didn’t want to, but he had minimal understanding and suggested perhaps I was simply into self-abuse.
“Why didn’t you just say no?” he asked. Trying to avoid hurting Phil’s feelings but torturing myself in the process wasn’t a good answer in Paule’s opinion, and I realized that it didn’t make much sense to me either. I concluded I would have to grab the bull by the horns and tell Phil I actually didn’t want to.
The next day I procrastinated this uncomfortable discourse as long as I could, but when time came for him to leave, I finally said; “Hey… I don’t really want to go for beers on Friday”. I was afraid he would be offended, but to my surprise he didn’t look the least bit fazed by this announcement. Unfortunately, his reply revealed why he handled my rejection so well: “OK! So what do you want to do instead?”.
Ugh.
I cringed when answering “Nothing”, and felt like a big, fat, stinky pile of shit when my message started sinking in on Phil. “Nothing at all, or just nothing with me?”
“Er… The latter”, I said, futilely wishing that some divine intervention would save me from this painfully awkward situation.
“Giving me the brush-off, are you?” asked Phil, looking at me intently, and I shrugged and said “I guess. How are you handling it?”
“I’ll live”, was his answer, but he remained in the same spot, seemingly without any intention to leave. Standing there like some goddamn psycho when I’ve just rejected you isn’t really helping the situation, I thought to myself, but finally he turned around and walked away, and I resumed breathing and checking off books on the shelf. The necessity of finding a new job was now weighing even heavier on my scrawny shoulders, but unfortunately I had no options lined up.

The next morning I was a fair bit worried about how Phil would be acting towards me now, but he wasn’t making a big deal out of it, for which I was grateful. After work I met up with Dave, and we went to see Bridezilla's and Aerialize show at the Studio in the Opera House, which was amazing. We went for beers afterwards, staying out just long enough and drinking just the right quantity to make certain that the following day would become energetically challenging, but I had taken Friday afternoon off since there’s rarely been enough work for me at the book warehouse during that time of the week anyway.
After a nap I went a few blocks down the street to a job interview for a sales job that I was only semi-keen on, and when walking towards the entrance of the building where the company had its headquarter, four guys were heading towards the same entrance. They whistled at me when I was still safely on the the other side of the street, only to laugh uncomfortably as they saw me follow them into the same stairwell. When my interviewer entered the lobby 15 minutes later he turned out to be one of the four infantile whistling guys I had just encountered. I felt like saying “Wow, this must be pretty embarrassing for you”, but I figured I might really need this job, and I didn’t want to ruin my odds by making him more awkward than he most likely already was.

The following morning I went to the café that had promised to train me in the fine art of coffee-making, and although I had only come with hopes of some new skills, I left after 5 minutes later with a new job. Kit, the owner, apparently liked something about me, so he offered me a position that had just become vacant. I was quite pleased with Life at this point, as it meant I wouldn’t have to return to the book warehouse after all, but more than that, I would finally get to work in a café. For some reason, this is what I pictured myself doing when moving to Australia, so I figured it was only right that I finally lived up to this image of myself.
Happy and excited about this unexpected but much needed new employment I went to meet up with Johan, a Swedish friend from my days with the volunteer organization in Arizona. We went back to my place to eat and catch up on the two years that had passed since we worked together, and it was great to sit there and allow for some ACE nostalgia and a bit of Swedish chatting.
Johan had already paid for a few nights at a skanky hostel, but would move into my place for his last two weeks in the country. I could only offer half my bed, but since Johan is a laidback, respectful Swede I knew it would be alright.

Intending to do something about my inactive company, I met up with a friend who might be able to help me make the website I need to get it started. We went out for drinks afterwards, and when walking home from the train station I walked up Elizabeth Street, passing the Spanish restaurant I've been wanting to check out. On the glassed-in veranda by the entrance, three men sat by a table, one of them waving at me as I walked by. I opened the door to see what it was about, and was immediately invited to come join them for sangria. Needless to day, I didn’t hesitate for even a second at this offer, and before long I had had a few fruity drinks while my company tried to guess where I was from. I initially offered three, then five guesses, but I quickly realized I’d have to help them a bit more than that: “Actually, I’ll allow ten guesses between the three of you, and I bet you still won’t be able to figure it out.”
At guess number 9 I had disappointed them with shaking my head at all of their guesses; the States, Canada, Ireland (?), Slovakia, Czech Republic, Netherlands, Russia, Georgia and Iceland. I had spoken in Swedish to give them hints, and finally decided to put them out of their misery. “Here’s the final hint, and if you don’t get it now, I’ll walk out that door immediately. The hint is: tomorrow I’m going to IKEA.”
Now they got it, and as they were hollering about how on Earth the missed that, an ice hockey player friend of theirs joined the table, wondering what the noise was all about. “Guess where she’s from!” they all yelled, and the game started all over again.
I stayed until the restaurant closed, drinking heaps of sangrias, and as I left these four gentlemen, I had been proposed to by the ice hockey player three times, and offered a job. “If you want the job it’s yours,” said the older man, who obviously was the boss of the others, but I wasn’t even tempted to check it out. I don’t like sales jobs, I’d rather make coffee! I know you all think I’m insane, but I’m so content with my life right now I don’t want to change a thing.
I walked the 4 minutes home, and as I entered the alley that leads up to my apartment, a car crept up along my left side. Being Australia, this means that the driver sits on the right side, and he talked to me through the open window:
“Are you doing anything tonight?”
“What?” I stopped and looked at the man behind the wheels, trying to determine whether my first impression on what he’s doing was correct. He repeated:
“Are you doing anything tonight?”
The rest of this pleasant verbal exchange contain a few obscenities from my ribald mouth, which turns really foul when being taken for a prostitute's. I'll spare you the details of this conversation. Suffice to say I used the word 'fuck' more than once. After raising my voice enough to make him really uncomfortable, he sped up to drive away, but before he was gone I managed to throw in a nice kick on the side of his car with my red Converse. Chuck Taylors for life!

Next day was my Friday off, and Johan and I had big plans: we were going to IKEA. After a nutritious brekkie consisting of raisin toast and Nutella, we were off.
Being well-informed of my love for IKEA, I know you all assume I dragged this poor youngster along to the Swedish edifice, but no, this excursion was Johan’s idea. I was not hard to convince, though. To get to go there when in another country with another Swede is a pretty unique experience, and we had a grand ol’ time, like the pictures suggest.
We returned home hours later, exhausted from a long day of furniture fun. I had planned to go out until the free newspaper on the train informed us that Australia broadcasted the first semi-final of the Euro Vision Song Contest that same night. This immediately changed my plans. Johan and I both agreed our Swedish day couldn’t end in a more appropriate manner, so we loaded the coffee table in the living room with dill chips, crispbread, kalles kaviar, boiled eggs, mustard herring, daim and marabou chocolate, and then we absorbed all the ostentatious tackiness that poured out of the TV while gorging on our Swedish delicacies. Oh, whatta night…!
We challenged our tastebuds by mixing smoked cod roe, dill chips and chocolate in one little appetizer, and there are two Youtube-clips displaying exactly how disgusting this concoction was, for those of you who wonder:
Johan's experience
Anna's experience

Next morning there was no sleeping in, because I had a date with a pair of oily hands; Dave and I had an appointment with New South Wales School of Massage, where $20 bought you an hour of pleasure (not that kind, you pervs!). I got a Swedish girl named Ebba kneading away at my back and neck, but a simple misunderstanding nearly caused me severe embarrassment:
Because it’s a school, you get your massage in a room with 7-9 other clients, and Dave and I got benches situated next to each other. When I undressed Ebba only held up a towel to cover me from some angles, leaving Dave’s side open. I kept my bra on when laying down on the bench, and removed it only once the towel was placed over me. When the time had come to turn to my back Ebba asked me to turn her way, which also happened to be towards Dave. She didn’t bother holding up a towel, and when the massage was over she only covered me from the back, again leaving me open towards Dave. “I’ll hold the towel for you so no one can see”, she said. “Anyone other than him”, I said and nodded towards Dave who thankfully wasn’t looking my way. Ebba laughed and said that it surely didn’t matter if he saw me without a bra on. “He’s not my boyfriend”, I clarified, words that made Ebba freeze for a brief moment before she swiftly swung the towel around to cover me properly from all angles. Blushing, she said: “I guess you shouldn’t ever make any assumptions about your clients”.
Dave and I stepped out of the parlor feeling refreshed, both agreeing that this was an excellent start of the day. On the way back home we stopped in at my job for a free soy latte to-go, and then we picked up Johan and went to see a free exhibition at Carriageworks. It was really entertaining, and some of the installations inspired me and Johan to start planning the makings of a music video. Stay tuned for this, because it will be fantastical.

The other day, when coming home from yet another interesting day at the coffee shop, I was greeted by a postcard from Seville (thanks Will!) and a package from an old friend in Germany (thanks Michael!). Few things are more uplifting than coming home to find that people actually like you enough to take the time to send things via snail mail, which got me thinking I should try a little harder to become the type of person who sends stuff now and then.

And right now I’m suffering through a luxury problem of having $40 in credit on my phone, money that will expire tomorrow, so I’m calling friends abroad to use it all up. It’s like splurging with a clean conscious, and I like it.

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Comments

[Will]

tops. i was about to ask if you got it or not.. those spaniards sure are lazy bunch so wasnt sure if itd make it to oz.. said will without capitals or puncuation..

[riley]

what is billy
and why is he on your site?