Home Again, Home Again...

Well, tonight I find myself at the end of an adventure; in a few hours I will board an airport shuttle and begin the 20+ hour journey back to Denver. Aside from dreading the upcoming hours of cramped and unwashed conditions, I have also begun reflecting on my time here. What am I taking away from this experience? How do I even begin to quantify it? I've seen wondrous places and done things I've always wanted to...I've even stumbled across a few random delights like dingo-singing and koala-kissing. But how to wrap it into a tidy ball of self-realization? Such a tricky question!

I don't think I fully realize all the ways this trip has affected me. There have been obvious lessons learned (New Zealanders are to be avoided at all costs and koalas are faithless!) but the true benefits are more subtle. I've got some new lingo to flaunt and opinions on loads more things (oh joy!)...and then of course there are the souvenirs. I look forward to returning to the US (land of free refills and cheap food) and discovering just how my time on the other side of the world has affected me.

The one thing I do want to try for when I get back is to live life more like a tourist. The locals here were always startled at all the things Andrea and I did in their own city that they had never heard of! It's the zoning out of our constants that does it. If the ocean is always there, it is no longer special and the same with the mountains. How many Colorado natives no longer ski? It seems a shame to become accustomed to the uniqueness of our homes. I hope that in the future I will live life as a tourist in my own home: with a sense of wonder and appreciation for what I have.

Thank you, everyone, who has followed this blog and sent me lovely emails. I've loved hearing from you all and can't wait to see you again! But, I think it's best for both of us if we wait for the jet lag to pass. Until then: g'day!

Tip Toe-ing Through the Trees and To the Edge of the Sea!

Today's adventure was all about exploring the area around where we live: the gold coast. After renting a car we drove (on the left side of the road) all the way into the mountains for a tree top walk...which are apparently quite abundant in Australia. This walkway was rickety and old, made from wooden planks and resting 20m above the forest floor. Each plank had a small plaque with the name of one of the original patrons on it. Signs hung warning: only 6 people per span. This walkway was more yielding than the others I had found: it bounced and swayed under my weight, creaking slightly with each step. Old metal ladders climbed up a particularly huge tree and allowed visitors to scamper up for a better view.

After the treetop-walk, we sat down to eat at a picnic table nestled in a shady grove. Andrea's Belgian boyfriend (Mathieu) began to feed a particularly brave bird with a puffy yellow chest and black eyes. He marveled at how cute it was and ignored my declaration of it as a soulless, flying stomach. A moment later, there was a rustling in the bushes and a large male bush turkey burst out; his yellow wattle flapped with each step as he hopped onto the table and advanced towards our sandwiches. Now, Andrea is no fan of birds and she explained this to the turkey by standing on her bench and screaming at it while Mathieu and I waved and kicked it away. We were distracted with this persistent fellow when Andrea screamed again and pointed to the trees. 10 more birds sat watching the scene with their inky, hungry eyes. Just as I assured her the birds were harmless (and the male bush turkey made a frantic charge at a female who was trying to get in on the action) another yellow bird dove out of the trees and swooped down at Andrea, missing her head by inches. It was at this point that my lovely roommate made the calm and sensible decision to shriek and run for a more distant table; Mathieu and I gathered the picnic and followed after her, laughing. Within seconds of arriving at the new table, our bird-ish entorage was back. We all decide that eating in the car would be the wisest move and packed up once more. Refusing to be rattled by the birds, I kept the Doritos with me and stuffed one in my mouth as we began walking. Suddenly the world was a blur of yellow! The same bird that had swooped at Andrea was flying straight at my face trying to snag the Dorito from my mouth! Claws + beak + my face = increased motivation. I turned away from the bird and quickly ate the chip, then we all ran back to the rental car and finished lunch there.

You might be amazed by it, but we were still up for more fun after that. So we drove down the coast to Byron Bay: a place famous for its beauty and for being the most easterly point on the Australian mainland. It felt like stepping into a fairy-tale coastline! Steep ocean-side paths curved out of sight, dolphins were surfing the waves below, and a picturesque lighthouse watched over the whole scene. We wandered down to the official most-easterly point and then cut off to the beach for the sun set. The light was so bright on the bay waters that it looked like a field of snow to my eyes! On the beach there were odd designs in the sand, looking like flowers made of sand balls. My theory is that they were the work of sand crabs; but no matter how many of them I followed I never caught them in the act!

The sun set was lovely and everything around me was beautiful...but the thing that struck me most was that Byron Bay was the closest I had been to home in 4 months! I must admit I have grown homesick for the States: family, friends, accents, food, I even miss the US's more familiar form of bureacracy! Such a sucker, really. But! I'm flying home on October 1st...so not much longer to go at all.















*If I look grumpy in this photo it's because I had to climb all those quaint stairs to get there!

Discovering Brisbane

Brisbane is the third largest city in Australia, coming in behind Sydney and Melbourne. But, what it lacks in population and culture it makes up for in horrific fashion statements; you see, Brisbane is as 80's as slap bracelets and leg-warmers! Women strut their sweatshirt dresses as they glare at you from behind bug-eyed shades. So it was with an underwhelming sense of nostalgia that Andrea and I roamed the streets of Brisbane (can't be overwhelmed seeing as how we were born in '84).

The main attraction for our day was visiting Roma Street Parkland. This park sits just outside of central Brisbane in a converted rail yard. I expected to see signs of the old trains: rusty rails, old cars, maybe a restored depot with a themed-cafe...all mixed in with beautiful flowers. What we found was a lovely botanical garden and a free tour (almost as exciting)!

The gardens were filled flowers, exotic and ancient, divided by raised wooden platforms which were frequented by lizards! They lounged beneath our feet, fat and lazy, as our tour group moved past. The guide was a soft-spoken Chinese man who volunteered at the parkland. He seemed to decide that I was the youngest somehow and kept saying things like "You won't remember this, but..." and turning to my roomie. Who, I'll have you know, is only 4 months older than me!

Just as in Perth's King's Park, I had missed the full flower season by 3 weeks; so while some lilies and snapdragons peeked here and there, the guide was constantly apologizing for the "barren" garden. I also learned more about Queensland water drought than I had ever hoped to. When we weren't talking about the lack of flowers or water, the guide showed us some truly exotic plants. One species had been around since the age of the dinosaurs and actually had a male and female division. Girls outnumbered boys 6 to 2....good odds for an enterprising plant! Another tree was so rare that each new plant is sold by auction and comes complete with a birth certificate; scientists are blind-folded and air-lifted to the site to transplant them. Call me crazy, but that seemed a bit excessive for a plant! Especially since you don't even get to name it yourself. Each one is named after a dinosaur. But, I would defy that. If I had to compete for the privilege of buying this plant, I would name it "Joe" - Joe, the plant.

After the park we went to what appeared to be an aboriginal art museum but in fact was a show for ADD artists who have aboriginal-leanings. Having had that life experience, we went to the Museum of Brisbane which was entirely dedicated to a town rodeo which takes place each year. As thrilling and cultural as Brisbane was we hopped the train back home.

So long Brissie, and thanks for all the lizards!

Scandalous Koala Kissing!

I figured I would let everyone know the truth right now before rumors start kicking up: I fell in love last Saturday. It was love at first cuddle and a shameless display of koala-focused affection swiftly followed our meeting at Dreamworld amusement park. I knew the love of my life would find me soon! I just didn't think he'd be quite so furry!

His name is Manny: he's 2.5 yrs old with delightfully tufty-white ears and a soft nose. And our love would have been forever if it weren't for this photo:

Oh, Manny! How could you?! You broke my heart....you broke my heart...

Australian Graffiti

A picture is taking shape on the wall behind my apartment: jagged letters are filling with pulsing colors and twisting around murals - a team of graffiti artists is at work. They are working in plain sight, laughing and drinking beer only a few step from the busiest street in Surfers Paradise. And why not? The city hired them to do it!

I had heard of the unique status of Australian graffiti and, with such a perfect example only two hops away, my roomie and I decided to investigate. Within 5 minutes of talking to le artistes it was undeniable that they were high. We stood 8 feet back as they worked but I still felt my brainstem start to float away. Four artists had divided the wall between themselves and were spraying diligently while 3 more lounged with equal dedication in the shade. The team was headed by a set of middle-aged twins who own their own graffiti company. Companies hired them to design and execute artistic tributes throughout the city. These men had been in business for a decade, and worked all over Australia; I think it's the only country where a scheme like this could work!

In Sydney there are actually graffiti tours of the city! Graffiti is protected in the same way that historical buildings are in the U.S. If you purchased a graffiti'd building there is no guarantee that you'd be able to paint over it - the work may well have entered into the annals of Australian art and be untouchable, or rather un-touch-up-able. The famous Bondi Beach boasts a boardwalk tattooed with bulbous letters and grotesque caricatures, and cities all over Australia have started picking up the trend.
I am not entirely sure why this fascinates me so except that it seems a perfect illustration of the difference between the US and Australia. In the US graffiti is categorized as an "art crime" almost on par with violent hate crimes; in Australia it is glorified. So, is the USA just behind the times? Is graffiti the artistic wave of the future? Maybe. But did I mention the mural they are crafting is for a NASCAR race? Can you say klassy?

Dinky the Dingo and other Nothern Territory Adventures

Men are selfish! That's all I could think as I ran along the eastern length of Uluru under the midday sun. A fine red dust had collected on my skin, my legs burned, and the backpack happily slammed into me with each stride; I was tired, late for the bus, and men were selfish. Why else would the entire eastern side of the giant rock be declared a sacred male ritual site and therefore off-limits to photos?* I had never noticed it before, but every post card shows the western side of Uluru. The entire eastern side is sacred to the Anangu aboriginals and photographs are considered a violation. Which is a shame really, because the eastern side has the most intriguing rock formations of the site. I don't know if my eyes could violate the sanctity of the rocks but, in the words of Oscar Wilde, "only the sacred things are worth touching."

Uluru lays 480km southwest of Alice Springs; it is a 6-hour drive each way and that meant hopping onto a tour bus at 6am. Ah, 6am! A mythical time I occasionally hear tell of from friends with children or glandular issues. (Having now seen it for myself, let me assure you that it's not worth the trip.) The bus came complete with comfy seats and an annoying tour guide whose nervous, breathy commentary always started and finished with a high-pitched "Righty-o!" After about an hour on the road the sun had come up, painting the land red, and we pulled off at a diner for some breakfast.

Now, before I continue, let me ask this: have you ever had a story to your name that was so surreal, so full of silliness and stereotypes that it almost becomes boring? Well, I have! Waiting at the diner was a piano-playing, singing dingo named Dinky. My fellow tourists and I sat nibbling on egg and bacon sandwiches when Dinky hopped up onto the piano and walked up and down the keys, howling the whole time. We all watched with eager cameras and distracted smiles, able to ignore the high-pitched noise in favor of the comical aspect. I was selected from the audience at one point to play for Dinky while he sang. (This was the culmination of my piano-playing career!) As I moved to sit beneath Dinky, his head turned and I was face to face with a snarling set of dingo teeth. "Woah!" his handler cried, pushing Dinky's head away. "Were you talking to him?!" He demanded of me. I assured him that I had not yet had the pleasure, and he scowled for me to begin playing. And that's how I ended up playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" beneath a singing dingo. (There has been a theory put forth that Dinky is only masquerading as a singing dingo, and is currently wanted by Alice Springs authorities in relation to a baby-eating.)

Not much can beat Dinky for Aussie experiences bordering on the surreal...but Mt Conner and the giant salt lake came close. I thought Mt Conner was Uluru from a distance; it spurred up from the flat horizon so dramatically I felt time had surely slipped and we had arrived! I watched it take shape and wondered why no one else saw it. Eventually, the tour guide explained in his nasal tones that Mt Conner was actually the polar opposite of Uluru- instead of being sacred, the aboriginals feared this place. They believed that Attila the ice-man lived on Mt Conner and would strike down those that approached. So, why is it so cold in the middle of a desert? The answer can be found in the enormous salt lake - a giant stretch of white against the red sand. Though there is no water on the surface it still flows beneath the land, and is still affected by the moon. The water rises higher to the surface at high tide and cools the surrounding air. (If this sounds like complete b.s. blame the tour guide). In a borderline British moment, we had tea, fruit cake, and lamingtons amidst this wasteland. The lamingtons were delicious!

Driving towards our final destination was rather other-worldly. The giant rock rises so dramatically from the flat, arid land that my eyes could not resist climbing it. The soil of the red centre is the finest I have ever seen, burnt to a lovely red-orange color; the Uluru visitors' center has a collection of "sorry rocks" that were taken from Uluru by admiring tourists and then mailed back with notes of apology. If ever a mars movie was to be made it would be filmed at here! A high-pitch droning from the flapping mouth of our tour guide offered three options for entertainment. We could:

1. Climb the giant rock. Unfortunately, this is considered disrespectful to the aboriginals. Tourists who do so anyway are called "mingas", meaning "ants", because that's what they appear to be from a distance: little black pests scurrying up the rock face.
   
2. Walk around it...a 9km journey in all.
   
3. Hang out with the guide at a cultural center and get a base tour by bus.

Well, 3 was right out! Something about a falsetto doesn't invite my friendship, and I had decided against 1 to be respectful. So, option 2 it was! I had just run a 14K so this should be easy, no?

No! For the record, I'm a masochistic idiot. I don't know if I hovered too much over pictures or just set a mosey-like pace, but as the deadline to meet the bus approached I found myself stranded on the eastern side of Uluru with no way to get back to the road. That's how I ended up running at the back of Uluru. Eventually, I had to cut across some protected land to make it back to the road. Two national parks violated in as many weeks! I'm a rebel with a cause...and that cause appears to be trespassing in national parks. Look out, Yellowstone!

Aside from the intrinsic beauty of Uluru, I loved the stories and myths about the rock. The first tale I stumbled across was about a gray lizard-shaped discoloration on the western face. Long ago, Lizard came to live at Uluru. One day he found a wounded emu with tribal spears sticking out of its belly. Even though it was obviously the object of a hunt, he killed and ate the emu. When the hunters came looking for their catch, Lizard lied and said he had never seen the creature. Soon after, the hunters discovered Lizard's trick and came back demanding their emu. Lizard climbed the rock to escape them. As he climbed, the hunters built a great fire and blinded lizard who fell to his death, hitting the rock where the ghostly shape still lays. (In fact, the gray discoloration is the true color of the rock! The orange that covers most of it is in fact rust.)

We finished the day with a sunset dinner at Uluru, complete with cheap champagne. After scarfing the food and casually kicking over the drink I'd been given I snuck away to watch the show. A purple shadow crawled towards the giant rock, slipping over golden bushes and low trees. It oozed up to the rock and then began to scale it. The colors drained away wherever the shadow touched and eventually it had devoured the rock. As soon as the sun set, the sky surrounding Uluru bloomed with an intense pink color that swam about the gargantuan stone before dying out. In the twilight the rock was gray, its true color, not the burnt orange shade that rust had given it. The desert was quiet and we had a long journey home. I waved goodbye and boarded the bus. So long, Uluru, I couldn't forget you if I wanted to!


See below for Dinky's performance!




*I later learned there are some female sacred sites mixed in there, too. But I think the blame is fine where it's been laid.

14 Kilometers Later...

Everywhere I looked, runners jostled each other in the early morning chill at Hyde Park. People from all over the world had flooded into Sydney for the annual City 2 Surf 14K "fun run" and now waited for the the start guns to fire. As we shuffled, the differences between Colorado's Bolder Boulder and this race kept jumping out at me.

• Bolder Boulder: 26+ starting heats based on prior race times and estimated times
• City 2 Surf: 5 starting heats based entirely on completion time in last year's race

• Bolder Boulder: the streets were lined with bands and cheerers- tons of entertainment!
• City 2 Surf: 2 bands composed of senior citizen rockers

• Bolder Boulder: 10K on relatively flat terrain
• City 2 Surf: 14K on hills that would make San Francisco blush

• Bolder Boulder: Freebies! T-shirts, food, drinks, galore!
• City 2 Surf: A free newspaper and bus ride back to the start

• Bolder Boulder: 55,000 registered participants
• City 2 Surf: 70,000 registered participants

Finally, the gun shot for our heat ripped the air...and no one moved. A minute passed...still nothing. People started hopping to see the front. Had that been our group's shot? It had. Slowly, the crowd began to move: waddling forward like so many penguins. It was 5 minutes after the gun shot that I crossed the start line, and then the real fun began!

Even after being part of a 70,000-strong herd of humanity, I have no way to conceptualize that number. I think the human brain starts struggling somewhere around 500 people. All I know is that the crowd never thinned out. I was perpetually dodging walkers and runners and the river of participants always disappeared into the distance. Another runner joked that it was a 16K race with all the weaving factored in.

As with the Bolder Boulder, some people had gone all out for a theme. There were about 20 men painted blue and wearing white undies: smurfs. Some army men carried two kids on stretchers; a group of kids ran as tools - wrenches, pliers, etc. Others wore fruit or fat suits...just general silliness.

In general, I found the race incredibly under-organized; it worked as it was, but could run so much smoother! However, there was a clever aspect of the race that rather impressed me. Runners were told to wear clothes that they didn't want anymore for layers and to simply strip them off as they warmed up. People tore their clothing off as they moved, festooning the streets with jumpers and sweat bands. Girl scouts followed along and collected the clothing then carted it off to charity. And, the lack of freebies meant even more money for charity. I believe the race raised over $1,000,000.00 and was, all in all, a pretty unique experience.

How did it all turn out? I was the 25,917th person to cross the finish line with a time of 84:24. I have yet to decide if this time is a "good time" but, in the moment, simply finishing was everything I could hope for!