tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5775003607591687202024-03-13T19:48:04.517-07:00Life's A BeachUpdates from Northern Australia
(as well as posts from past adventures)Kathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-36988320582156488082011-12-20T07:07:00.000-08:002011-12-20T07:18:18.296-08:00Life's a Beach, Final ChapterWell, it’s been nine months since I last wrote (don’t worry; I didn’t have a baby) – and four months since I left Cairns – but I’ve had a few requests for an update and have been organizing my pictures, so I think it’s time to get ‘er done. (What can I say; my people have spoken.) <br />
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Now, Cairns was a ridiculously beautiful place, but you may recall that I was frustrated because there wasn’t always a lot going on. It seemed to be a trade-off you make in life: <i>either </i>you live in a big, smelly city and have all sorts of arts and culture, <i>or</i> you live in a beautiful town by the beach and you have cable tv and lots of time to cook nice things and stare out the window. <br />
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(I do mean it when I say “nice things,” though: check out this yummy casserole with hearts carved into it. Yes, I am getting that good!)<br />
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But then, if you don’t get to have all the good city stuff, you shouldn’t have the bad city stuff either. Like, say, mugging, or pollution. Or, oh, I don’t know – just off the top of my head... <br />
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Rodents. <br />
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Right? You know how I feel about them, you know how much sleep I lost when I <i>thought </i>a rat had jumped on my bed: it was a kitten, I saw it myself, I even patted it – I still woke up in a cold sweat at least twice a night for weeks. So I’ll let you just imagine my dread when I opened the pantry one day and saw this: <br />
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Now, there were rats living in the trees outside our house (the discovery of which prompted an immediate and permanent end to outdoor dining) so I was understandably freaked out. The poop being closer to mouse size, though, I tried not to blow it out of proportion. (I’m no friend to mice, but the idea of rats living in the house is in a whole different category of nightmare.) We already had all open food stored in plastic bins or in the fridge, but we doubled up, threw out anything that wasn’t fort-knox secure and scrubbed that kitchen to within an inch of its life. I bought a varied and extensive collection of mouse traps and poisons, which Mark helped me set up just before... he left for a week in New Zealand. The timing could have been better, yes? I had trouble sleeping for the first few nights...<br />
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And there were obviously lots of them, considering how much poop there was. And everywhere – it was everywhere! There was no reason for them to run over the stove, but there was poop there. And under the guest bedroom pillow upstairs – you understand, they were crawling <i>up on beds </i>and running through the sheets and pillows. This is horrifying. The nightmare of a rodent crawling onto your face while you’re sleeping? It could happen! <br />
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There was nothing left for them to eat (except for the delicious poison, which was specifically far away from our food), the whole place smelled like cleaning chemicals, I was sure they were going to give up. Instead, they started in on root vegetables and chewed through the plastic handle on a tin jug of olive oil. Was this normal? Was I exaggerating the gravity of the situation? I ran it by my day care colleagues, the whole mice-gnawing-through-plastic thing, and was told, in no uncertain terms, that I had a rat.<br />
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Guess how much sleep I got that night.<br />
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My rat fears were put somewhat to rest when I saw a mouse run out from under the fridge and dive into the dishwasher. It was definitely bigger than any mouse you would see in a normal country, but this is Australia: everything’s big here and rodents are no exception. So, okay, we were dealing with mice. Huge, hungry, terrifying mice, but mice nonetheless. I spent that evening sitting on the arm of the couch, rocking and staring maniacally towards the kitchen; I could hear them eating the poison cube, because it was attached to the cupboard for monitoring purposes and kept banging against the door. I knew it was ridiculous to be held hostage by my own fear, too scared to leave my safe perch on the couch and risk encountering another giant mouse, but what are you going to do. <br />
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By the time Mark got home from his trip, I was so sleep-deprived and jittery that I was barely functioning. My hands were chapped and scaly from touching so many cleaning products and rubber gloves. My right eyelid kept twitching. I was practically hallucinating, thinking I saw mice everywhere – crawling out from vents, peeking through couch cushions, wriggling through the shower drain... I didn’t go anywhere in the house without closed-toe footwear and I had pretty much stopped eating because I couldn’t face going into the kitchen. I could only imagine how many there must be, as they were eating the poison at an alarming rate, and while I was grateful that I hadn’t actually caught any in the traps when I was alone and couldn’t pass the dead-rodent-disposal buck to Mark, I was spooked by their ability to eat the bait and escape unharmed. I suspected that this breed of giant, mutant mouse was just too big and strong for our puny little mouse traps, but I hadn’t seen one up-close to know for sure. Yet. <br />
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Now, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the universe, or whoever or whatever is out there looking out for me, for watching my back on this fateful Saturday night. Because, instead of just heading downstairs when I was ready for bed, I decided – either with a touch of premonition or just because I had become so skittish – to wait for Mark. He turned on the light (which I never bothered to do) and was thus standing between me and the enormous mouse that was blissed out on poison, just sitting there on the railing, blinking in the sudden light – sitting, you understand, <i>exactly where my hand would have been</i>. (There but for the grace of the universe goes my hand, if you will.) Now, I have to assume that something happened between that moment and me finding myself standing on the coffee table in the living room in tears, but I couldn’t tell you what it was – though adrenalin was definitely involved. Once Mark had “dealt with” the mouse, he had to accomplish the considerable feat of talking me down off the table, past the traumatic railing and down the stairs. Unfortunately, his clean-up job left something to be desired; when I saw blood on the steps of the crime scene, I ended right back on the coffee table. Did I even make it to bed that night? Who knows. We were both pretty highly-strung at that point. <br />
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After that there were a few more incidents – including the morning when I reached into my milk crate of exercise clothes and a panicky monster-mouse ran out, just missing my foot, at which point I a) screamed bloody murder, then b) dug around and discovered that I had been wearing workout clothes that a mouse had been nesting (and pooping) at the bottom of for who knows how long – but after a while they must have all died off, and there wasn’t a scrap of unprotected food anywhere in the house to lure in new ones, so the Mouse Episode was officially over and life got back to normal. I stayed pretty twitchy if I heard any kind of scraping, scratching or shuffling anywhere in or near my house (or car, or shopping trolley, or classroom, or…) but I hoped the universe would recognize that I’ve had more than my share of rodent encounters and give me a break. (It didn’t, but that’s a story for another day.) <br />
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Once it was official that we were leaving Cairns – though the departure date got bumped around a few more times – Mark and I made sure to get out and actively enjoy the Cairns region, since we knew how much we would miss it when we were gone. We started by going back up to do a crocodile cruise along the Daintree River, since last time we were there it was summer and the water was too warm for the crocs to bother coming out. They weren’t exactly lining the banks as we’d expected – the tour guides had told us to come back in winter, "when they’d be lining the banks" – but they were definitely out and about in all their creepy, toothy glory. <br />
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We thought we had scored big when we were the only people on our river cruise, with a boat all to ourselves: Sorry suckas, this is a private ride! Azzam! Then the guide told us about a tour a few weeks earlier where a croc had lunged <i>out of the water </i>to chomp and destroy a chunk of the boat – presumably trying to eat the young German backpackers sitting in it. (Apparently the tour company paid for the backpackers’ dry cleaning – enough said.) Suddenly, as we inched our way quietly towards the middle of our really-not-as-big-as-it-first-seemed river boat, we weren’t so thrilled with our private cruise, you know what I’m saying? We might just have appreciated having a few other juicy tourists on board, especially if they were a little chubbier (or more deliciously fishy) than we were. <br />
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The best way to get out and enjoy the neighbourhood is to show it to someone new, so we had a great time when Pierre, my not-technically-an-uncle-but-might-as-well-be, came through Cairns on his way to meet his new grand-daughter in Darwin, with his brother along for the ride. They saw things locally and up the coast, and on the weekend we did a tour of the Atherton Tablelands. Now, if ever you’re anywhere near Cairns, whatever else happens, get yourself up the hill to the Tablelands. You can do the dairy farm and coffee plantation thing, which is nice, and you can have afternoon tea at a volcanic lake, which is nicer – but mostly you can just drive around between gorgeous waterfalls and bumpy, weird landscapes that you can’t believe are real. I suspect I wasn’t making any friends by the end of the day, when the light would change yet again and I’d freak out about how ridiculously beautiful this place was. Will my pictures do it any kind of justice? Of course not; add it to your travel list and make it happen. (Though check with me first for seasonal details; no point going when everything smells like wet dog for three months.) <br />
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A nice view from one of the coffee plantations.<br />
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High tea at Lake Barrine with Pierre and Guy <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-jDfb5uVjtssA8XiolRyhfIu4vSFEaExijw3WS6GdSaY4jdlVcymyi2kenOFS0JuW-I8nIdTgCjZ-hCOghuT-l9qwcRWTULnZfWsRGtNNjeGqeQsGlRWvgICuKW_8XSKCcW_oFWUnz0/s1600/8+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-jDfb5uVjtssA8XiolRyhfIu4vSFEaExijw3WS6GdSaY4jdlVcymyi2kenOFS0JuW-I8nIdTgCjZ-hCOghuT-l9qwcRWTULnZfWsRGtNNjeGqeQsGlRWvgICuKW_8XSKCcW_oFWUnz0/s320/8+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Tablelands: do it.<br />
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What else happened in those last months? <br />
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I read <i>Infidel </i>and was deeply affected by it; I think you should read it too. (Thanks, Kay.)<br />
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I was in a grade two class around Mother’s Day and particularly liked two of the cards the kids had made: Douglas wrote “I Love You Mum, because I like it when you cook,” which might just have created an existential crisis for poor Mum, and Emma said “I love you because you’re pretty” – sounds like somebody forgot to have that little chat about values with our friend Emma – and then the picture was of a monster version of Frida Kahlo, with warts, claws and a unibrow. It will be a real triumph of motherly love over self-esteem if that card ends up on the fridge. <br />
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Of course, I kept working at day care until the end. One funny moment was when four-year-old Kate asked what the sparkly thing was on my nose; when I explained that it was like when people wear earrings, except it’s in my nose, she looked unimpressed, said, “well, that makes <i>no </i>sense,” and turned back to her bowl of pasta.<br />
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On Canada Day, I brought in stickers and washable tattoos. It was a big hit and seemed like a good idea – until I saw all these little kids running around with “I ♥ Canada” tattooed onto their arms. It turns out there’s a fine line between culture-sharing and propaganda and I felt the need to hover around at pick-up time and explain that I was just being fun, not trying to image-brand my country onto their highly-receptive-to-sticker-based-marketing kids. <br />
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And then, inevitably, the day came when I had to say goodbye to all my gorgeous day care children and it was very, very sad. What else can I say. <br />
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One of the things Mark and I had been meaning to do was to visit Paronella Park. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT1CQr_IUJ8l3lJYKQ-BcD-hGTD5BAFIDPSvgoKvnHF5iNRNxaLqSMSLpjUEZ0gxgrU2K8sMf4sPVyZifSE5wUJLNTGlCLtZn9jpqylx3E3Pu-KFx32uu8RDvDNbevX-Ya70NVPtkzvg/s1600/17j+-+Waterfall+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT1CQr_IUJ8l3lJYKQ-BcD-hGTD5BAFIDPSvgoKvnHF5iNRNxaLqSMSLpjUEZ0gxgrU2K8sMf4sPVyZifSE5wUJLNTGlCLtZn9jpqylx3E3Pu-KFx32uu8RDvDNbevX-Ya70NVPtkzvg/s320/17j+-+Waterfall+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>It’s a turn-of-the-century estate built by a Spanish baker who fell in love with the Cairns region, bought this land in the middle of the jungle with a waterfall and created hydro-electric power, making his property the first in Queensland to have electricity and running water.<br />
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We started with the day tour, where you see all the Aztec-y buildings and the beautiful jungle property, and it really is quite beautiful. The park has been hit by quite a few cyclones over the years and there are some parts that are completely falling to pieces, but then the whole aesthetic is old and crumbly, so it doesn’t matter if some bits are in ruins. There’s a lovers’ lane, there are secret little waterfalls all over the place, there are turtles and parrots and all sorts of great things. It’s the kind of place that makes you wish you were a better photographer. (Though let's blame the camera, shall we?) <br />
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It’s really good stuff, as long as you stick to the day tour. Then the sun starts to set, so you walk around one more time, set up your tent and head through the property and across the street to grab dinner at the local pub. Except they don’t tell you that when you’re coming back for the night tour, you should really have a flashlight with you because it’s pitch black. I know you think I’m exaggerating, but I mean it: <i>pitch black</i>. We could vaguely see the lights of the property, off in the distance and behind the trees, and we knew there was a big patch of grass we had to cross to get back to the bridge, but we couldn’t see our own feet, the road they were supposed to be walking along, or the snakes crossing in front of us. <br />
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You: Wait a second, snakes?! <br />
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Me: Yes, snakes. <br />
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You: As in, harmless little garden snakes?<br />
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Me: No, Australian snakes, mate. They’re big and they can really mess you up. <br />
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A car came along behind us and its headlights shone on a huge one lying right in front of us; two more steps and one or both of us would have stepped on it, which I suspect would have ended badly… I mean, I like reptiles as much as the next guy, but I’m not looking to get snake-bitten in the pitch black, in the middle of nowhere and who knows how far from the nearest hospital. <br />
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And then, of course, once the car had passed, we were still standing in the dark and we still had to cross that patch of long grass to get back to the bridge, only now we knew that there were probably huge bloody snakes living in it! I don’t know exactly how long we stood there, frozen like statues and trying to come up with a genius strategy that involved <i>not </i>crossing the grass, but eventually we just had to suck it up, grow a pair and run through the snake-a-rific grass in our flip-flops and bare legs – high-stepping and screaming like little girls, of course – all the way to the bridge. Good times. <br />
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Now, the point of the night tour is that they do all this lights-and-fairy-music stuff and it’s oh so dreamy and magical. Great, right? <br />
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Except that in-between the dreamy and magical moments, the place is a nightmare. At the beginning of the tour they took us through a bat cave – yes, literally, a cave full of bats. Live bats. At night. In a cave. And don’t forget that bats in Queensland aren’t the little hand-sized ones that you find in normal countries; they’re Australian-sized. They’re basically flying raccoons. Flying groundhogs at the very least.<br />
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(I probably don’t have to tell you that I waited outside the cave. There were still lots of bats – they were heading out for their night hunting and there was plenty of wing action around my head - but at least I wasn’t specifically in an enclosed space full of them.) (You can’t tell how big they are from the pictures, can you? Dammit. I’d take a picture of me and a bat so you’d get a sense of the scale, except that – well, I’d rather die.)<br />
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After the bat fun, we headed down to the water where we were encouraged to feed a wriggling, writhing mass of hundreds of slimy eels that were so aggressive and monstrous, they were actually pushing each other out of the water and onto our feet. Oh my god it was so totally gross. <br />
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**This is Bron’s picture from when she did the tour. I hesitate to include it because she had shown it to me and told me how gross it was but I didn’t really grasp the horror of the experience, so now I don’t want you to see the shot and say “so there are eels – what’s the big deal?” (or rather, “what’s the big d’<i>eel</i>?”) (I went for it – I’m not ashamed.) <br />
So. To get a better sense of the scale of revoltingness, use this picture as a starting point, then add: near darkness (the flash makes it look a lot brighter and less spooky than it was), the eels’ crazy screeching, slithering and splashing, and especially, as the camera’s scope is limited, <i>hundreds more eels</i>. And don’t forget about them pushing up onto the pavement at your feet. Grossest thing ever, right? Whose idea was this? <br />
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**Bron, I hope you don’t mind me using your pictures like this; I didn’t get a clear shot of them, probably because I was too busy puking into the bushes… <br />
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Meanwhile, when we weren’t being introduced to a specific group of hideous night creatures, we were walking through the jungle on narrow paths with trees all around us and over our heads. When I nervously asked the tour guide what all the scratching and shuffling might be, hoping to Mickey that it was just frogs and geckos, she said there was nothing to worry about: it was just the tree rats. <br />
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I’m surrounded by rats? Oh, that’s no problem. That’s just fine. No problem at all. And you know what I’m really excited about now? Sleeping in a <i>small canvas tent </i>in a <i>jungle full of rats </i>– it’s going to be great! Yay, camping! What a stellar idea! Well done, campers, well done – way to think things through.<br />
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Incidentally, it was our first time using this tent, and we had just assumed that it would be like our Townsville one, which had at least an extra foot of space all the way around the queen mattress. This assumption was incorrect. The new tent is quite a bit smaller, with just enough space for a double mattress and a bottle of water squeezed along the side. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7D9EqxMBIG1HAme-SsiiQ8N5qpFJYjfO_PR2F7WtpS7BETnBHUpBdU9O0XPtsfadSC842BArqHhMe6SbMnVPIBjSdjR2AstkEqzZgqkIv_FgzDM9Nym1KJje4DTRSAuHUaidbOHDtvw/s1600/16a+-+Mark+with+Hun+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7D9EqxMBIG1HAme-SsiiQ8N5qpFJYjfO_PR2F7WtpS7BETnBHUpBdU9O0XPtsfadSC842BArqHhMe6SbMnVPIBjSdjR2AstkEqzZgqkIv_FgzDM9Nym1KJje4DTRSAuHUaidbOHDtvw/s320/16a+-+Mark+with+Hun+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>Obviously, then, our heads rub right up against the wall. Would you like to guess how much slithering and scratching you hear when your head is right against the wall of a thin tent in the jungle? Maybe the real question here is, how many years can you age in one night? Mark had to come with me when I needed to visit the toilet to help with the stomping (to scare the snakes away), to keep watch for any creepy crawlers while I was in there, and to shush me and stop my whimpering as we passed the other tents. Needless to say, though with sincere apologies, there was very little sleep for anyone that night, possibly including our fellow campers. Paronella Park: check. <br />
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Wrapping it up: we saw our first echidna in the forest (it was terrified of us, immediately hid and stayed impressively still for ages, while we tried not to swat at the mosquitoes feasting on our flesh and wait the little guy out) and it was super cute: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EXxHD7fagwN4PXaqgVd0T_uy1DAJtZN1NcGYtS7gggxj3n4faMksvef0cLe14UKa0sikSEnrdghW8L_2AmO_TF_2RudZc4FvKs16zF7V9gyNRmLfTwz6Qdbhkwvo_Vy7FuAkdjuyGxM/s1600/18+Achidna+in+Kuranda+forest+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EXxHD7fagwN4PXaqgVd0T_uy1DAJtZN1NcGYtS7gggxj3n4faMksvef0cLe14UKa0sikSEnrdghW8L_2AmO_TF_2RudZc4FvKs16zF7V9gyNRmLfTwz6Qdbhkwvo_Vy7FuAkdjuyGxM/s400/18+Achidna+in+Kuranda+forest+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSKZZmddIVkfabL-Vw7cPQEZAX_l0JyfwuNp0uicKAJy2cN3DZDQK4nawA4BMyOcYoM-FWmBf7K3RGBQhAiRcJYaoII9DXscpS_ezt_41sOnN9n4CrX2dGpwohuY5Yocz-g5W8HnVGdc/s1600/19+-+Huntsman+on+the+ceiling+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSKZZmddIVkfabL-Vw7cPQEZAX_l0JyfwuNp0uicKAJy2cN3DZDQK4nawA4BMyOcYoM-FWmBf7K3RGBQhAiRcJYaoII9DXscpS_ezt_41sOnN9n4CrX2dGpwohuY5Yocz-g5W8HnVGdc/s200/19+-+Huntsman+on+the+ceiling+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>My official bedroom spider, Mal (Missing-A-Leg) finally disappeared for good, and within days another huntsman had taken up residence in the exact same spot on the ceiling, directly above my pillow. What’s with that? <br />
(I didn’t name him; he was just a regular old creepy spider.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYH9NrG-CuaNoTzZzcPfnWrgVy3dCF9VaCL9WjQ79JO3R2MrI2yCz2EZHMAiq0AyNWR0aHFY5zBlnwiDLSoJ09GtGRbtVao0j0JLfITP3efWKrM0BiRq6aIbT3akBYiPUzudRfxS4kG8/s1600/23a+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYH9NrG-CuaNoTzZzcPfnWrgVy3dCF9VaCL9WjQ79JO3R2MrI2yCz2EZHMAiq0AyNWR0aHFY5zBlnwiDLSoJ09GtGRbtVao0j0JLfITP3efWKrM0BiRq6aIbT3akBYiPUzudRfxS4kG8/s320/23a+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I got a proper, grown-up, salon haircut (by the father of three of my day care kids, which was fun) and look how nice and straight he made it! So shiny! I was so inspired that the next week I bought a tiny hair straightener - called the “Straightini,” no less – and spent close to two hours making my hair look: flat and dull. I guess salon hair will have to be a salon treat.<br />
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And that’s it. I helped Mark pack up the house and then it was a whirlwind: home and to France – not staying as long as I’d originally planned and so feeling rushed and panicky and not seeing half the people I wanted to see – and then more tearful goodbyes (I should be getting better at it by now, but – well, I’m not) and back on the plane for the kajillion hours to Perth. Lots has been happening and we’ve got good things lined up for the holidays, but that’s for another update… As was to be expected, the minute I left Cairns, I realized how crazy beautiful it was and how lucky I was to live there, spiritual home or not. And so I’ll end this final Life’s A Beach with some favourite pictures from Cairns; hopefully I’ll start getting better at appreciating the good things I have while I have them. In the meantime, I’ll appreciate them in hindsight. <br />
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Thanks for reading along!<br />
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Kathryn <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-kbR1q40ACSji13RCHbChiTWZzGXx7z1iPAo2Sayp3pThvFbzgGz3VwYe4CxmWllvDiHGLZ_d5x_2V1SYV8SyheHozL6zI_194fgVGd4rIms0wkYmnJ271IgJSgkOuZ0Pk5tIIUBW_I/s1600/24+-+View+of+mountains+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-kbR1q40ACSji13RCHbChiTWZzGXx7z1iPAo2Sayp3pThvFbzgGz3VwYe4CxmWllvDiHGLZ_d5x_2V1SYV8SyheHozL6zI_194fgVGd4rIms0wkYmnJ271IgJSgkOuZ0Pk5tIIUBW_I/s320/24+-+View+of+mountains+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>The green mountains all around Cairns - these ones specifically at our house.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZZYpVVESYUlXa6K5sKvnYB5e166duYZOXvAd5HajffOKlMEO0LDb6hZgijo4QHmtb3rCBSNPu2mBDHOS3YajduQAoCosrQShp0nkPPBCS9bvfczDhQzOicWE_y5oIrQQB1KbDvOGkDk/s1600/25+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZZYpVVESYUlXa6K5sKvnYB5e166duYZOXvAd5HajffOKlMEO0LDb6hZgijo4QHmtb3rCBSNPu2mBDHOS3YajduQAoCosrQShp0nkPPBCS9bvfczDhQzOicWE_y5oIrQQB1KbDvOGkDk/s320/25+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>Fuzzy purple cane fields everywhere - killer for allergies but so lovely!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmm8n71PtFC1MY1cM2RdwYyva-dyf5bqUP8tYZgLYS_tzRrIDFQYyckabuE4L4h0uVR402eo-2X2ErYUpA0x584LGWGdCrWUY24pbnm1oibMm4v5bbk1MyjZ6XXaLkPqI1atEKn-ygBl4/s1600/29+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmm8n71PtFC1MY1cM2RdwYyva-dyf5bqUP8tYZgLYS_tzRrIDFQYyckabuE4L4h0uVR402eo-2X2ErYUpA0x584LGWGdCrWUY24pbnm1oibMm4v5bbk1MyjZ6XXaLkPqI1atEKn-ygBl4/s400/29+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRl21_0z42T7yfCorhxz0BilZBl70RR4yXC2Iu5bRnSLlgXKi0HGD8pNJWXRFV5yMMsdeljpdkfpL22dOUH0J6omvtv3lqHrge4gSWYCeybXt-UTtadcYR35zL_aCz_lBGPVvI0UgjwKw/s1600/26+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRl21_0z42T7yfCorhxz0BilZBl70RR4yXC2Iu5bRnSLlgXKi0HGD8pNJWXRFV5yMMsdeljpdkfpL22dOUH0J6omvtv3lqHrge4gSWYCeybXt-UTtadcYR35zL_aCz_lBGPVvI0UgjwKw/s400/26+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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This was always my favourite drive, home from the city, all dripping gold and green.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNB_BSKkrDJK22DWlwhSLpPPUkw1yFH6CeDhrgGwfUWuXvl1HG6xsx5cKzHHIcZg-X6XibLviE88A8bV1UhQPn7IYTk4lZ071iYAHScZJtqLe8qpm6oVuyEOgQ12u4lag0eu9v1iRQgc/s1600/27+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNB_BSKkrDJK22DWlwhSLpPPUkw1yFH6CeDhrgGwfUWuXvl1HG6xsx5cKzHHIcZg-X6XibLviE88A8bV1UhQPn7IYTk4lZ071iYAHScZJtqLe8qpm6oVuyEOgQ12u4lag0eu9v1iRQgc/s400/27+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVDpQElIwbL9pgiwU3rP7KhFmmlRX0NpvDbilkruEXVzx1L539Jhr07u3IxarzLU8TXdZ8vNEe3sBqf80jREvfWYS-mMsMANpA0fxo6o1UxRb7TNm6qXaWDvgwMIoSutIRVAmIvnG30M/s1600/28+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVDpQElIwbL9pgiwU3rP7KhFmmlRX0NpvDbilkruEXVzx1L539Jhr07u3IxarzLU8TXdZ8vNEe3sBqf80jREvfWYS-mMsMANpA0fxo6o1UxRb7TNm6qXaWDvgwMIoSutIRVAmIvnG30M/s400/28+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Trinity Beach<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhuMAoJw8vQFRi1psb8B3vTaPVDtJikYbbq7RHPsAG4ZMVQnnflHo-nsMnk1vVZQpCNDa7YfCZdVw44RfMuNXVGajACJ3T2ADESJGiizZHFg5sRTFEYdw8M4EOPnzqlTIJ0o9lV3fRpM/s1600/30+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhuMAoJw8vQFRi1psb8B3vTaPVDtJikYbbq7RHPsAG4ZMVQnnflHo-nsMnk1vVZQpCNDa7YfCZdVw44RfMuNXVGajACJ3T2ADESJGiizZHFg5sRTFEYdw8M4EOPnzqlTIJ0o9lV3fRpM/s400/30+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5McByHhJJ5bloJj4ycfzHflp-9qmWL-eP-0Fnks0nXuk5cvy1_ZIZeC0iYoiLuMvCPdrP6pcnLln_uQkNFVe9bWXaXR8v6SXob5dG0SUPqXkdGqXah6WoOiZUCzO-n858oEitCYcxH3o/s1600/31+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5McByHhJJ5bloJj4ycfzHflp-9qmWL-eP-0Fnks0nXuk5cvy1_ZIZeC0iYoiLuMvCPdrP6pcnLln_uQkNFVe9bWXaXR8v6SXob5dG0SUPqXkdGqXah6WoOiZUCzO-n858oEitCYcxH3o/s400/31+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Stoney Creek, favourite hiking and swimming spot in the forest<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX9mCM2dVo-Nb9IpWMoWU-GDejRci0e9vffN7dRLqWSrEqIl3o5t316QQuWEHlyQY1pd9-4yJkqr8AVkeqqTODsz6MlJkON8Y-XQkBMunrg1aIthEul8XqzOv-k4r9qrZXgIMyMpWNcc/s1600/28a+-+Amazing+water+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX9mCM2dVo-Nb9IpWMoWU-GDejRci0e9vffN7dRLqWSrEqIl3o5t316QQuWEHlyQY1pd9-4yJkqr8AVkeqqTODsz6MlJkON8Y-XQkBMunrg1aIthEul8XqzOv-k4r9qrZXgIMyMpWNcc/s400/28a+-+Amazing+water+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Barron Falls<br />
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Daintree River<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijG0sQyH8P4sarFMhHlR2P_54GF7g-R81sY-RI1efhgNvj7CzEuIPGdj1BENCivkH816IQiMf6-gVuC-8iCVcyBfRMCwaxAGdJQ3c189ImQyzajqpqsLVp6eHK2p6YPw3DB8F2SXECykw/s1600/28d+-+Daintree+River+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijG0sQyH8P4sarFMhHlR2P_54GF7g-R81sY-RI1efhgNvj7CzEuIPGdj1BENCivkH816IQiMf6-gVuC-8iCVcyBfRMCwaxAGdJQ3c189ImQyzajqpqsLVp6eHK2p6YPw3DB8F2SXECykw/s400/28d+-+Daintree+River+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Crystal Cascades<br />
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Thanks and good night Cairns, you're beautiful!Kathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-61041201866232057442011-03-12T06:09:00.000-08:002011-03-12T06:14:59.871-08:00Life's A Beach, Chapter 9Apparently I’m not so good at keeping up a blog. I hope you’ve all had a great four months...<br />
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I - Merry Christmas!<br />
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I was worried about going two months without any work, since the summer break goes from early December to February, so I was relieved to score a week-long gig teaching music at a neighbourhood school. It was mostly chaotic, as any last week of school is bound to be, and the kids were all hyped up and even ruder than usual, but by-the-day relief work pays really well and it was good to have a huge bank deposit before the holidays. <br />
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It’s hard to find a relief teacher who is comfortable teaching music, so they expect you to just move around the school, giving classroom teachers their non-contact time and basically baby-sitting in thirty-minute blocks. When you <i>can</i> teach music, they get really excited – especially during Christmas concert week; I ‘helped’ with a lot of class rehearsals and performances and my ‘expertise’ was requested to help the seventh-graders with their graduation song. Now, first, I am not an expert, and second, I can’t <i>stand</i> listening to a bunch of embarrassed pre-teens sing along to a crappy pop song. The teachers wanted me to help the kids reach some of the notes that they were having trouble with, as if a bit of deep breathing would help them cover three octaves. They all just stood there mumbling and whispering their way through the song, which was obviously one of the teacher’s favourite country tunes – there was no way the parents would understand a word they were singing, which defeated the whole purpose of choosing a touchy-feely, reach-for-the-stars song in the first place. I suggested that they play the song as a soundtrack to a slide show, or do sign language and just leave the singing to Faith Hill, but they thought I was joking. There’s a reason why people are paid to write choir arrangements, you know?<br />
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On the last day of school, I put on movies in one corner of the room while some of the students helped the music teacher clean out her room (she had a throat infection and couldn’t teach, but she was still in the school); I know I go on and on about hot Christmas, but it was definitely weird to be watching “Frosty the Snowman” with all these tanned, sweaty, barefoot kids in a sauna of a classroom, fans spinning madly, sweat pooling in my underwear and mosquitoes circling the room like little vultures. They have Aussie versions of Christmas songs (“Dashing through the bush, in a rusty Holden Ute, kicking up the dust, with an esky in the boot...”) but need to make some Christmas-on-the-beach movies as well; snow culture makes no sense. <br />
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That last day, the grade one teachers decided they’d rather have me help them with their class party than have the kids come to music. Rather than helping organize the food or decorations, I was handed the hose and the dishwashing detergent and put in charge of the slip-and-slide. In the name of the festive season, I was wearing a green, knee-length sundress; I’ll leave it to you to guess how long it took before the dress was soaking wet, muddy and clinging to me like plastic wrap. I didn’t realize the extent of it until one of the kids said “um, miss, your knickers are showing,” at which point I began attempting unsuccessfully to hold the dress away from my body while hosing down the slip-and-slide tarp and herding the kids into an approximately organized queue. Luckily, six-year-olds don’t really care about grown-up bodies and other than having a giggle at the muddy splotches all over my dress, they were much more interested in launching themselves down a hill on a dish soap-covered tarp. My next class, however, was year six, and eleven-year-olds aren’t so easily distracted; the material was thin enough that it must have dried pretty quickly, but it certainly felt like ages, sitting in my underwear, watching “Frosty the Snowman.” <br />
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(Incidentally, they started out making fun of the movie – even though they had voted to watch it – but after a few minutes they forgot to be cool and just settled down into it; when Frosty melted, I looked around the group of students and they were all sitting with their mouths open, completely absorbed in the movie. Cute!) <br />
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Instead of us going down to Townsville, this year Mark’s parents, Graham and Mary, came up to spend Christmas with us; both sisters were involved with their in-laws, so it was just the four of us. They drove up with their caravan and stayed twenty minutes up the coast at Ellis Beach, which made it a bit difficult during massively rainy days. They liked having their own space, though, which came in handy when they got stuck here for an extra week because all the major roads in Queensland were flooded and blocked. <br />
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(Our first time going to visit them at the caravan we almost didn’t make it because the torrential rain made driving impossible. When we finally got there, we huddled under the tarp and took turns sweeping the water off so it wouldn’t collapse – and still, they didn’t come to stay with us! I guess I’m not a camper at heart; at the first sign of rain, I’m looking for the nearest hotel.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP8irrVeJUNl02KWFqHw-W-inGKXfD10gtBXQMZUAujtYEcdou2fTERiyBQ7qi4emdlXXFiiDhdLxrj5_4QBig3bQW2Y-F4aPmBxUNfLvCFLS7FEwn4tz1TVbrbHM3L2OKd97glopXV4/s1600/01+-+Massive+rain+coming+off+caravan+cover+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP8irrVeJUNl02KWFqHw-W-inGKXfD10gtBXQMZUAujtYEcdou2fTERiyBQ7qi4emdlXXFiiDhdLxrj5_4QBig3bQW2Y-F4aPmBxUNfLvCFLS7FEwn4tz1TVbrbHM3L2OKd97glopXV4/s320/01+-+Massive+rain+coming+off+caravan+cover+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The camera doesn’t pick up how much water there was; it was like a curtain.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13FdI_53WV8_mZA7qnZg_dVdqzi5LNGhbQpMcCLtAKscoR33Ax-9UAfzABZtjPFXnUMGlgZbdsiCvDSXd041ol0EyWUwy-zeoPKaotjzg04Jx3a9mjJdH4YY4UMSwtOtw2gPUUxUptls/s1600/03+-+Collinses+walking+along+the+beach+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13FdI_53WV8_mZA7qnZg_dVdqzi5LNGhbQpMcCLtAKscoR33Ax-9UAfzABZtjPFXnUMGlgZbdsiCvDSXd041ol0EyWUwy-zeoPKaotjzg04Jx3a9mjJdH4YY4UMSwtOtw2gPUUxUptls/s320/03+-+Collinses+walking+along+the+beach+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>(We took advantage of a brief break in the rain to walk along the lovely, misty beach.) <br />
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Over the two weeks we did lots of reading, puzzling (I got two new puzzles for Christmas! Yay!), movie-watching, board game-playing and eating – including a big Christmas lunch with roast ham and sticky date pudding, and a first sushi experience for Mark’s parents. On Christmas Eve Graham went to see “Tron” with Mark, which let me off the hook; I owed him one for “Nine” and was afraid I would have to spend two hours of my life in a black and green computer fantasy nightmare. Mary and I had coffee instead. <br />
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We also did a big team shop on Boxing Day, during which I got my brand... new... (drum roll)... laptop! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1x4C5y9dk7x9QXfnrs2fr06BfTrUByklMBox4MMcputPxbzkFoMTXhdEEKsIJbA0fBfKU3FbUgDebfzcCdGbOGl0UbMZ4OfLAub4z5sWwcijgIeSB1OmJLP1VHMoTTOggrNcdlkcIxBU/s1600/3a+-+Peeking+from+behind+Charlie+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1x4C5y9dk7x9QXfnrs2fr06BfTrUByklMBox4MMcputPxbzkFoMTXhdEEKsIJbA0fBfKU3FbUgDebfzcCdGbOGl0UbMZ4OfLAub4z5sWwcijgIeSB1OmJLP1VHMoTTOggrNcdlkcIxBU/s320/3a+-+Peeking+from+behind+Charlie+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Mark is a computer geek, you see, and takes great pleasure in installing new programs and operating systems, just for kicks. Sharing a computer with him means that my files can suddenly be rearranged and stored somewhere new and inaccessible, which freaks me out. Now I have Charlie, my Acer buddy: the desktop is arranged how I like it, the files are filed how I like them and no one will change anything without my permission. (“Charlie” is extra satisfying because then PC is Pretty Charlie. I know we aren’t supposed to get attached to material objects, but isn’t it nice having something so new and clean?) <br />
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Whenever the rain let up, we’d go wandering with Graham and Mary.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAMkwaTH6WWUo3wgWNFBpC_gWkaCt0QX-eDWzK6U-V9Jy7T8vrxJ_tT0wWQ9eYHQe4qfGd8UcUgbLtmDxFM6_aWNEN9M21698H4Dunwj33JTwEgHAixMYRS7ZyuDxMZu5Aopv0YzRHa8/s1600/04+-+Crazy+flooded+Lake+Placid+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAMkwaTH6WWUo3wgWNFBpC_gWkaCt0QX-eDWzK6U-V9Jy7T8vrxJ_tT0wWQ9eYHQe4qfGd8UcUgbLtmDxFM6_aWNEN9M21698H4Dunwj33JTwEgHAixMYRS7ZyuDxMZu5Aopv0YzRHa8/s320/04+-+Crazy+flooded+Lake+Placid+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
(Checking out flooding was a favourite activity: this part of the river is usually about half this size; the picnic benches along the banks were completely submerged.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruAI1FkeoBy3HJ3UAyimVQoLVX0jV73gQ9dkFBfni-Qebf1rId192x_f9ltdWseortYpp72TZfPFuYVzu7AODCH0maCLDiJDAW6o5GuTSZYjovJrnkm6AmiWnoBZ4GFaJCKGw35lFjj8/s1600/05+-+Stoney+Creek%252C+waterfall+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruAI1FkeoBy3HJ3UAyimVQoLVX0jV73gQ9dkFBfni-Qebf1rId192x_f9ltdWseortYpp72TZfPFuYVzu7AODCH0maCLDiJDAW6o5GuTSZYjovJrnkm6AmiWnoBZ4GFaJCKGw35lFjj8/s320/05+-+Stoney+Creek%252C+waterfall+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
This is the waterfall at Stoney Creek, of special interest to those of you who saw it with a lot less water in it.<br />
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II – Happy New Year!<br />
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We were really slow and disorganized about finding something to do and by the time we got around to making plans, all the restaurants we were interested in were booked out. We considered a picnic on the beach to watch the fireworks but couldn’t commit to sitting in the rain and since I don’t like crowds, the idea of joining the rest of Cairns by the waterfront wasn’t too appealing. What I really wanted was to wear elegant clothes and go dancing to swanky jazz – basically I wanted to recreate the ‘Cheek to Cheek’ scene from ‘The English Patient’ – but this is Cairns, where ‘elegant’ means shoes-and-shirt-required, so we ended up going with the parents’ suggestion and ate at a beach bar beside the caravan park. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6NaH5EKli46sYUn4RmZ9X4jCjxkYbdH8u8OAvzTaOujXNYVEJ0l56ww2Z0QLEpmhRUjB1xr4urhsfsdKG2A5J0U0SVfih-q4YdqdLBGqe4XkjIzS29vXGmBMmxoEAU7j89qOyKljnuY/s1600/06+-+New+Year%2527s+dinner+location+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6NaH5EKli46sYUn4RmZ9X4jCjxkYbdH8u8OAvzTaOujXNYVEJ0l56ww2Z0QLEpmhRUjB1xr4urhsfsdKG2A5J0U0SVfih-q4YdqdLBGqe4XkjIzS29vXGmBMmxoEAU7j89qOyKljnuY/s320/06+-+New+Year%2527s+dinner+location+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Veal parmigiana and onion rings were the meals of choice; they were fresh out of caviar and oysters! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o_Wbo_wKSeWoL35sIvGVqIn3cF3xxi5YmIPr2xDIelYrbHn0-ug_pIW6KsvpzbvDGIWCWdsQbKx9llIsh8hR4Id0K7KqiN7tO_geTGAbiwUdynxSEmTDp7Z9sVqhOjQendUnGg1YaLE/s1600/07+-+Table+3%252C+New+Year%2527s+Eve+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o_Wbo_wKSeWoL35sIvGVqIn3cF3xxi5YmIPr2xDIelYrbHn0-ug_pIW6KsvpzbvDGIWCWdsQbKx9llIsh8hR4Id0K7KqiN7tO_geTGAbiwUdynxSEmTDp7Z9sVqhOjQendUnGg1YaLE/s320/07+-+Table+3%252C+New+Year%2527s+Eve+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
It was far too wet to stay for the fireworks, so Mark and I headed home, went for a rainy walk to help digest the pub food, watched an episode of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” and were asleep by 10:30. Ring-a-ding ding!<br />
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III – Antiquate<br />
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On January 19th, while I was in the middle of my 15-minute buns workout for dummies with Gay Gasper, I got a phone call from my brother. He was in the hospital, exhausted and excited and... a new dad! Hooray! Cameron Riley Thomas was born, and Aunt Katy along with him. (‘Auntie Kate’ was out for obvious reasons and no one seemed keen on my suggestion to be known as K-Dog, though there is still time to slide it in there...) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_tLkZrga-nHSZ2WOgr7mQAmskfI7SXMEowpvqr0W59MkS790C0sZMI3yH7JyaEsRXTBQM7Ug3O7O6iQ0KiBCBK39xvGolzo5lX3zBPmAezESLHbSezH8BTAgj0QLZBZgfz9tPLF6YQg/s1600/8+-+Skin-to-skin+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="333" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_tLkZrga-nHSZ2WOgr7mQAmskfI7SXMEowpvqr0W59MkS790C0sZMI3yH7JyaEsRXTBQM7Ug3O7O6iQ0KiBCBK39xvGolzo5lX3zBPmAezESLHbSezH8BTAgj0QLZBZgfz9tPLF6YQg/s400/8+-+Skin-to-skin+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I’ve spent many an hour poring through pictures (often crying) and have met little Cam twice on Skype – totally scrumptious. So I’m going to indulge myself and share some of my favourite pictures with you: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEhS23a9z-Wzs8jFjSLfGpbhTX9eQvAyae_X01O65yHxE3ORbvRkr4U75-TUbpWNpvWA62pHgxVEL_Hn-0dIogEio0AD-4x95I77ZrPdd6IVvaf9N43YT-FcmaMLlcnGdGOrdtsCtNEE/s1600/8a+-+Lindsay+and+Cameron+gazing+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEhS23a9z-Wzs8jFjSLfGpbhTX9eQvAyae_X01O65yHxE3ORbvRkr4U75-TUbpWNpvWA62pHgxVEL_Hn-0dIogEio0AD-4x95I77ZrPdd6IVvaf9N43YT-FcmaMLlcnGdGOrdtsCtNEE/s320/8a+-+Lindsay+and+Cameron+gazing+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div>Lindsay getting to know the new bub. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_RoDMiGAe7MiHEKz2Ehjwl7vs2vwCeae93p_-P4oKsYjMY584C8JIpfIoa9jucfapxIfeXv08-hu6ZNjYTXYG9Uc6U_wt7DzCDbs7r0-mlA2Nzw-ICWsvI7loka1Y30OcAOQ3KetvIM/s1600/8b+-+Nana+gazing+at+bub+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_RoDMiGAe7MiHEKz2Ehjwl7vs2vwCeae93p_-P4oKsYjMY584C8JIpfIoa9jucfapxIfeXv08-hu6ZNjYTXYG9Uc6U_wt7DzCDbs7r0-mlA2Nzw-ICWsvI7loka1Y30OcAOQ3KetvIM/s320/8b+-+Nana+gazing+at+bub+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyiU5-Zd_4dvtTe-5aVHIZe5sXP6w-4BLYZZblnfuxo27nJxS_pzYu_RYzFEL8QTEYcOdHKTTqz-mXlWYIHUonP6uPDqsbWX0HSYoN5qx69z9-aUN7vBDt-8cI8yR9g8P_JUnvcUbGIo/s1600/8e+-+Cam+endormi+avec+Papou+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyiU5-Zd_4dvtTe-5aVHIZe5sXP6w-4BLYZZblnfuxo27nJxS_pzYu_RYzFEL8QTEYcOdHKTTqz-mXlWYIHUonP6uPDqsbWX0HSYoN5qx69z9-aUN7vBDt-8cI8yR9g8P_JUnvcUbGIo/s320/8e+-+Cam+endormi+avec+Papou+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div>Proud Nana Honey, proud Papou Alain.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoETAZOn11a-8Sr_qpqXzZcOMcX86Z5tqynbYrP8NchWI-_oS1qGxkm2_pxEvI0HIfwQaIym47eONea3kkxavEOGF9tP66ORWqVgXnf4wwqUiJcmTgQBZ6xbjXQ17TkuIAZN8Nr10Goc/s1600/8c+-+Squished+in+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoETAZOn11a-8Sr_qpqXzZcOMcX86Z5tqynbYrP8NchWI-_oS1qGxkm2_pxEvI0HIfwQaIym47eONea3kkxavEOGF9tP66ORWqVgXnf4wwqUiJcmTgQBZ6xbjXQ17TkuIAZN8Nr10Goc/s320/8c+-+Squished+in+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Cutest outfit ever, unfortunately wouldn’t fit properly in the car seat... <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6apDb6IGPu42aY1fk2wIRhFYQ2Deu5LTnr2-fydYBjnpw-_SHTUJaFZagV6i7-c5zaafXcmct8THwqESrJYm13GxPCoFpdGOiay2cknnP_GU6Givo1P-OA4tKj9ZEwkkOeUnXjBPqCGY/s1600/8d+-+Home%2521+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6apDb6IGPu42aY1fk2wIRhFYQ2Deu5LTnr2-fydYBjnpw-_SHTUJaFZagV6i7-c5zaafXcmct8THwqESrJYm13GxPCoFpdGOiay2cknnP_GU6Givo1P-OA4tKj9ZEwkkOeUnXjBPqCGY/s320/8d+-+Home%2521+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8GY50n-Tl8dEGOCJC7dk4mZNOIf3jRGmymw_-jh2O6MZ4onWjazbDuhfP_hqg6qMGGi-rH4mzePGnqH6VWK-aLDuMxRqsySyASJaleZsB4OVVGgUhLWvIZJq1m1p0UjkdiQaw4yINpI/s1600/8f+-+Michael+sleeping+with+Cam+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8GY50n-Tl8dEGOCJC7dk4mZNOIf3jRGmymw_-jh2O6MZ4onWjazbDuhfP_hqg6qMGGi-rH4mzePGnqH6VWK-aLDuMxRqsySyASJaleZsB4OVVGgUhLWvIZJq1m1p0UjkdiQaw4yINpI/s400/8f+-+Michael+sleeping+with+Cam+%2528Large%2529.jpg" /></a></div>Possibly my favourite picture of all. And look at that squished little face! <br />
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IV – Kiss My Yasi!<br />
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You are probably expecting my cyclone experience to be a really exciting, interesting part of the update: prepare to be disappointed. <br />
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There were storms a-brewing, cyclones included, so we were expecting lots of foul weather. All of a sudden, though, there was a category 5 coming straight for Cairns, tomorrow. I set out with a list of council-suggested emergency kit supplies: flashlight, battery radio, spare batteries, candles and matches, fuel lamp, portable stove, masking tape, water and waterproof bags. Obviously, though, the time to get your cyclone supplies is at the beginning of cyclone season, not the day before a massive one lands on your doorstep: by the time I got through the traffic and parked (illegally) a mile away from the store – the only spot I could find – the only thing I could get was a flashlight. Every store – hardware, department, convenience, grocery – was out of water, matches, batteries... everything. (Though I did pick up some chewy candies and hand soap while I was out...) You’re supposed to fill your gas tank, in case you have to evacuate, but traffic was completely backed up with people lining up to get into a gas station, most of which ran out of fuel within a couple of hours. I was starting to get pretty nervous about the whole thing.<br />
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The cyclone was due Wednesday night, so Mark and I spent Wednesday getting the house ready: everything brought upstairs, valuables – passports, laptops, health documents, etc – into a waterproof Rubbermaid bin, windows taped up (with the little tape we had in the house, since I couldn’t get any at the shops), furniture stacked against windows and walls, all surfaces cleared, cupboards taped shut. <br />
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You’re also supposed to fill as many buckets, bottles, sinks and tubs as possible, as it can be days or weeks without water after the cyclone. Mark’s sister called to give me hell for staying in Cairns instead of driving down to Townsville; while I was on the phone with her, the tub that I was filling downstairs overflowed and completely flooded the basement – it took over an hour to sweep and mop it out. So, nice start to The Big Storm, with red, blistered hands and a wet basement. <br />
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We set up safe bunkers in the bathrooms – upstairs in case of flood, downstairs in case the roof blew off – with blankets, cushions, flashlight etc. I also cooked up a few meals to use the meat before the power went off, figuring we’d ultimately throw less away. Then, with everything boarded up and packed away, and with platefuls of Moroccan chicken (even though I was feeling anxious and didn’t want to eat anything), we sat and watched the increasingly doomsday-ish news coverage, listening to the wind get stronger and waiting for the shit to hit the fan. <br />
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Eventually we decided that we should try and get some sleep before the worst part hit. We left a hallway light on so that we’d know when the power went off and left the back door open so we’d hear and feel the wind when it got crazy and we could take action. I dozed rather fitfully because I was so nervous, sleeping on and off throughout the night, listening to the admittedly wild wind and rain, and then eventually it was morning. The light was still on, one leaf had blown into our room. Cyclone Yasi: done and done.<br />
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This is the back area, which is covered and has a bunch of trees. Behind the fence is the covered parking area for the apartment buildings behind us; all of this cover and foliage obviously kept the wind out.<br />
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Now, other places weren’t nearly as lucky; the cyclone ended up veering back south, which put us north of the eye, the best place to be. Under the eye or south of it is where all the storm surges happen and where the wind is at its worst. Townsville, where Mark’s sister thought we should be hiding out with his parents, was out of power for days and days. Some towns, including Mission Beach – where we went for Mark’s birthday – were completely destroyed. A major sugar factory was damaged beyond repair and closed down. Farmers took a big hit as well; between the floods and the cyclone, pretty much all of Queensland’s crops have been wiped out. Just looking at food prices in the grocery stores is enough to indicate how much was lost. Yasi’s been replaced by Libya, New Zealand and now Japan in the news, so I don’t really know where it’s all at, but considering that people are still homeless from the floods, I’m sure that things are still pretty lousy for a lot of Queenslanders. Sorry that I don’t have a more interesting story to tell, but I’m pretty glad that it turned out to be boring and overblown, considering the alternative. <br />
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V – Living the Day-to-Day<br />
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Well, it’s starting to get cooler overnight, which is nice; I’m able to sleep in a bit if I have the morning off, if I can tune out the cockatoos. I have some cockatoo and frog video recordings that I wanted you to hear, but I can’t figure out how to load them onto either this kind of document or the blog, so it might be for another time. Suffice it to say, they’re loud, they’re annoying, they never shut up. The frogs go into drain pipes when it rains, which amplifies their croaks to unbelievable levels. You can’t listen to the news, you can’t hear your cd player, you sometimes can’t even have a conversation with someone in the same room, they’re so damn loud. <br />
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One of the most annoying things about the heat is that when you sit in front of a fan, it blows your nose hairs around and makes you all itchy and irritated. <br />
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As far as dead animals around the house, during a Big Sunday Clean I found a whole stash of little dried gecko corpses behind the curtains, which just goes to show that you have to clean out corners more often than I do. Also, last week I noticed a really unpleasant smell, not unlike that of dead flowers, and figured that some of the plants in the back yard were rotting out. Mark went digging around, though, and found a dead, bloated cane toad. Gross! <br />
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As far as <i>live </i>animals around the house, our fire alarm has been cock-teasing our neighbour’s dog. The alarm is low on batteries, which I know because it started chirping in the middle of the night. A loud, piercing chirp, every twenty or thirty seconds, that sounds a bit like a yappy dog – or maybe sounds <i>exactly </i>like a yappy dog, because this other dog got into a whole long conversation with it. Ours would chirp, then the big dog would give a big bark and wait for the next one. You’d think he’d give up after a while, what with the fire alarm saying the exact same thing over and over again – who wants to chat with such an idiot dog? – but he kept it up until I couldn’t take it anymore, poked around with a broom and then, when that didn’t work, made Mark dismantle it – which meant perching precariously between the railing and the shelves in the hall closet. Good, brave Mark. That poor dog barked another few times and then, presumably feeling rejected and lonely with the sting of unrequited love, gave up.<br />
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As for improvements around the house, I finally cleaned out the second kitchen drawer! <br />
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Why did I wait so long, feeling stressed out each time I reached for a wooden spoon or the scissors? Now it’s tidy and organized and all the cooking utensils are in a pretty basket beside the stove. I am finally able to sleep at night. Most of my dreams involve the opening and closing of tidy drawers...<br />
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If I’m up early enough, I strap on my i-pod, set up my running playlist and jog around the neighbourhood, though I still can’t run more than 15 minutes at a time without getting a major cramp. I’m not happy about it. When it’s too late (and hot), though, or when I really don’t feel like going public, I do exercise tapes in the living room with all the fans on full-blast. I have a good yoga one, a couple of really fun zumba ones, and this set of four 15-minute Workouts for Dummies that I totally love. The host, whose name is Gay Gasper – honestly – is so muscular that it makes me feel kind of queasy to look at her. I mean, this woman is <i>fit</i>. It’s a bit demoralising to see how effortlessly she whips through the various exercises while I’m struggling and making crazy faces, but she just seems so nice that I feel really good about exercising with her. She doesn’t judge, you know? She just wants everyone to reach their best fitness level, whatever that may be. Gay’s the best. <br />
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My new favourite thing is when Mark decides he wants to get a bit of exercise and he does the tape, either with me or on his own. The actual workouts are easy enough to follow, but the quick warm-ups at the beginning of each segment are aerobics-based. I’m so used to that kind of exercise that it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be hard to figure out the steps, but watching Mark try to follow the routine is enough to make my week. (The fact that he’s smashed after doing one or two of the routines also makes me feel great, as I do all four and am now using weights to make them harder, so I’m proud to see improvement.) If I could load videos onto this update you’d all be in for a treat, let me tell you. <br />
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VI – Out and About in Cairns<br />
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Mark and I are trying to get to all the things that were on our original to-do list, as we’re winding down our time in Cairns and when it’s time to go, we’ll obviously be busy with things other than hanging out at that nice cafe or doing that hike we never got around to. (Word on the street is that when our new lease runs out on June 15th, we’ll be moving to wherever the next job is. That’s the third time we’ve set a date, though, so I won’t be surprised if we’re stuck here longer than that.) <br />
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One day last year when we went out exploring the area – unfortunately in the middle of a major storm – we found this super cute beach-side cafe in Holloway’s Beach, which we couldn’t wait to frequent in nicer weather. Mark’s been super busy all year with his studies, though, and never made it there. (I’ve been back alone, with Bron and with Mom, so he really felt like he was missing out.) At the first chance – which meant free time and a bit of sun – we headed straight there for breakfast.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhsoOngGkonXvEtorbHfdc_mIGUadhgjSQNoPOrij3M723eeOSUvEEQ_lhuvvdtHvVsZGZeW_8ChrB6TAYpRHO8vhfh7gTpo2Lp6KyC41V-22bm3M18eXp6VZHkIecQUKWKjykBW_uyg/s1600/19a+-+Tables+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhsoOngGkonXvEtorbHfdc_mIGUadhgjSQNoPOrij3M723eeOSUvEEQ_lhuvvdtHvVsZGZeW_8ChrB6TAYpRHO8vhfh7gTpo2Lp6KyC41V-22bm3M18eXp6VZHkIecQUKWKjykBW_uyg/s320/19a+-+Tables+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>The furniture is all uneven and original, with tables and shelves carved into trees – it’s very rustic and natural-looking.<br />
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Mark enjoying...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyU8vkkuHqiw5UCDtcDkmb5D7uxv8HejL_yAw5CSWoF8pTsYgxkWy5bHCmc1SUgNGZcXMDVHFfqQbGIK1IdwQYvRxnLW4S8V8wV6OSw_sv5-R_KA4pp3t_o5-X1q7B-FJJ_Cbe-DaY5_E/s1600/19d+-+Mark+again+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyU8vkkuHqiw5UCDtcDkmb5D7uxv8HejL_yAw5CSWoF8pTsYgxkWy5bHCmc1SUgNGZcXMDVHFfqQbGIK1IdwQYvRxnLW4S8V8wV6OSw_sv5-R_KA4pp3t_o5-X1q7B-FJJ_Cbe-DaY5_E/s320/19d+-+Mark+again+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWUEXO0qfnSREA3D0pRzLGrENqYSeQ1usTZBEhkWXWtQbidZga4ZiUmfALKEzbsZKJ1vNfOHGbTboGvXPszmOumwuxtSahpCBuLIm3wuWT7ejzpCKcd1YUrk2Rue-jbk5DjVQXH6NGHI/s1600/19e+-+The+view+in+question+%2528Large%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWUEXO0qfnSREA3D0pRzLGrENqYSeQ1usTZBEhkWXWtQbidZga4ZiUmfALKEzbsZKJ1vNfOHGbTboGvXPszmOumwuxtSahpCBuLIm3wuWT7ejzpCKcd1YUrk2Rue-jbk5DjVQXH6NGHI/s320/19e+-+The+view+in+question+%2528Large%2529.JPG" /></a></div>... the view.<br />
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So nice to have some sun – good thing we stocked up on vitamin D while we could; we haven’t had much since!<br />
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Mark had been wanting to do the mangroves walk for a while, so that was our next stop. Do you know what mangroves are? Trees that grow in salt water, I think would be the general definition, though I may be missing the mark. They’re the best place to find crocodiles, as far as I understand, so it’s a creepy place to wander around, plus it’s muddy and gross, smells like rot. Lots of crabs scuttling around everywhere, though, which is always fun. <br />
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Mark, conscientious citizen, picks up rubbish in the mangroves.<br />
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See? Muddy.<br />
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We were pretty disappointed with the whole experience, but at least we know how to make our own fun: No Hands! is the best game ever.<br />
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One thing we’ve discovered is that the Civic Theatre has lots of stand-up comedy come through. We’ve been to a couple of shows and it’s super fun. Plus, we go to dinner early so we’ll make the show, and it turns out that one of our favourite restaurants has an early bird special, twenty per cent off if you sit down before 6:30. Yowza! We can’t get enough! Now we go early bird even if we aren’t seeing a show, which suits our love of discounts (we’re only human, after all) as well as our need to be in bed by 9:30 pm. It’s all about finding a system.<br />
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VII – Until I Win the Lottery...<br />
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Still working at the day care, which is nice – though not as nice as it used to be, as some staff members left and everybody shifted positions, and now the whole vibe of the place is different. What can you do. <br />
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Funny story: a boy named Patrick was the page boy at his uncle’s wedding, except that his sister’s name is Page and he wasn’t having any of it, but insisted on being called the Patrick boy instead. <br />
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Also funny was when I went into work when I was still a bit under the weather, so I had long pants on and was wearing my glasses, which the children had never seen. Fully half of the kids were too shy to talk to me, for whatever reason. Did they actually not know who I was? I’m not sure. They hid behind other staff members, though, or inched towards me and waited for me to make a move – it was crazy. Then, once we got past the initial anxiety and they were okay with me again, all they could talk about all day was the fact that I was wearing glasses. Why was I wearing them? Why didn’t I always wear them? And I do mean all day, including bringing their parents over to see me at pick-up time, to show them this incredible phenomenon, Katy with glasses. I don’t think I’ll wear them again. <br />
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(Three-year-old Sasha, seeing me in long pants (khakis) and glasses: Why are you wearing jeans? And why are you wearing sunglasses?)<br />
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Then, of course, there’s school. It took a while for the calls to start coming in, as school only started in February – and was shut down for almost a week because of the cyclone – and it takes a while for teachers to start taking sick days and requiring relief teachers. My first day back was a pretty good day, grade one at a Catholic school I’d never been to, so that was promising – and then I went back to Mareeba. (The school with the rubber room.) The short version is that the two major ‘events’ of the day were first when I broke up an intense fight in my grade five class, having to wedge myself in and use my body as a shield to protect one of the boys, and then later when I pulled one boy off the one he was strangling (completely unprovoked; I was there the whole time) and he turned on me and engaged in fully a five-minute physical struggle until help, in the form of the behaviour management team, finally arrived and someone else took over (and was equally attacked) while I got the other kids back in the class. I mean, that’s some crazy shit, right? It’s always a bit wild there, and I’ve witnessed and dealt with more than my share of fights – which is why I’m so good at the straight-jacket hold, a big help in this situation – but no one has ever directly come at me before. I was covered in red marks, to the point where someone asked me how I got such an erratic sunburn. I was also told to lock the door because he was at large in the school, and he did come back and try to kick the door in before they finally got him off the property, to the great excitement of the whole class.<br />
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To be fair, this was one kid’s random freak-out and it’s not like I’m in danger every time I walk into the school, so I’ve decided to go ahead and honour the other dates I’ve made with them, but if anything even remotely similar ever happens again, I’m getting in my car, driving home, taking my name off their list and never going back. There have to be easier ways to make money. <br />
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VIII – Acts of God<br />
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Now, if you’re, say, my mother, and you wish I weren’t so far away, then it doesn’t help that every time you hear news about the part of the world where I live, it’s something catastrophic. Flooding, then the cyclone, then more flooding, then tsunami warnings... Is it just a matter of time before this Pacific curse catches up to me personally and something goes seriously wrong? I don’t know. <br />
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There’s a lot of flooding in this area right now. Last week the highway was blocked and traffic was backed up for hours. Some kids, leaving their houses at 7:30 or 8:00 for what is normally a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive, didn’t get to day care until after noon. (You can imagine the level of crankiness in the air that day.) Probably half of the city’s population lives where we do, in the Northern Beaches, so when the highway is blocked, nobody can get to work and everything shuts down. In which case, you’d think people would just turn around and stay home, but people were on that highway for <i>hours</i>, either inching along or just sitting there. One lady left her car and walked down to the day care to use the toilet, and nobody had moved an inch when she got back. (The kids and I were watching; cars and trucks are their absolute favourite thing. Well, after tractors and diggers, of course.) Townsville has been cut off from all supplies coming through, and the rain isn’t showing any signs of letting up, so it’s definitely a rough year for Queensland.<br />
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As for the tsunami warnings, some sources say we’re in the danger zone and others (like the Australian tsunami-watch group) say there’s no problem. I guess it depends on what happens with follow-up quakes, but we have our fingers crossed – for ourselves and all Pacific dwellers – that those unnecessarily hostile tectonic plates just give it a rest for a while. Amen. <br />
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<br />
KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-29465647651090736732010-11-26T15:21:00.000-08:002010-11-26T19:17:50.208-08:00Life's A Beach: Chapter 8<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wkB7qZywk0zBLGfbJo19xAkBVpEsAyCZ4gSawruU7BJLNc5rohMUwV34sJtrQoXn0rupUCvIwktRZ5a48dt7VqjPCLSpVNogW6uwYcE0LY5Wqz3o8NufS72Umfa4k-641JSbIz-WjyA/s1600/22+-+Katy+in+canyon+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wkB7qZywk0zBLGfbJo19xAkBVpEsAyCZ4gSawruU7BJLNc5rohMUwV34sJtrQoXn0rupUCvIwktRZ5a48dt7VqjPCLSpVNogW6uwYcE0LY5Wqz3o8NufS72Umfa4k-641JSbIz-WjyA/s320/22+-+Katy+in+canyon+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544033613605982210" /></a><br /><br />Well, listen – it had to happen eventually: I’ve turned thirty. I’m still waiting for the wisdom and poise that I was sure I would possess by this age... Any day now...<br /><br />I<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgretqrsiSNStLz1tLQeq7p1i2kR1aD2wYf8JAdNoLYFrPUyxOJur3LXauYrXGAQoLNe3G8Si6AQY2HR5S64Y-u2IxmPYqD7bc8Zr90A7_CHTQlfjyBuQoBoLi2552w00mXdsDlO0sb7z4/s1600/25+-+Sam+Powers%2521.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgretqrsiSNStLz1tLQeq7p1i2kR1aD2wYf8JAdNoLYFrPUyxOJur3LXauYrXGAQoLNe3G8Si6AQY2HR5S64Y-u2IxmPYqD7bc8Zr90A7_CHTQlfjyBuQoBoLi2552w00mXdsDlO0sb7z4/s320/25+-+Sam+Powers%2521.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544032936309972802" /></a> On the eve of the big day, Bronwyn and I went to see the Sam Powers magic show that Mark and I loved so much when we saw it in June. I came no closer to understanding some of the really magical tricks and was no less impressed by how skilfully they pulled off the ones I could understand – like the handcuffed-in-a-trunk switcheroo that has to have a trick door or something but who cares – how do they do it so quickly?!! Sam Powers looks something like Jake Gyllenhaal (cute!), has a voice like Job on “Arrested Development” and does funny things with his eyes for extra effect, so it’s all very ridiculous and is the best show ever – other than the dank, stale-beer-and-sweat smell of the nightclub where he performs. <br /><br />The only part I don’t like is when he and Robin, his impossibly fat-free assistant, wait at the top of the stairs to shake hands with the audience members as they leave. Mark and I tried to sneak past last time, as SP was chatting someone up, but Robin stopped us and said Sam would be really disappointed if he didn’t shake our hands. Questionable, but whatever. This time, Bron and I were the last out so we had lots of time to anticipate the big shake and decide what to say. Now, I’m not someone who hangs around after a show to meet the star: this is partly because I don’t like to see performers up-close and harshly lit, which only breaks the illusion and pulls me abruptly out of the mood they created; more importantly, though, I know myself well enough that I dread whatever weird thing is going to come out of my mouth. This time I was determined to play it cool – my only specific instructions to myself were: “don’t mention that you’ve seen the show before.” Sam Powers, though, has a mighty grip and a piercing gaze – he shook my hand and then just stood there holding it and looking intensely into my eyes, as per his funny-weird stage persona, which meant, obviously, that I felt the need to keep talking. Great show, thanks so much - “actually, I’ve seen the show before. We liked it so much we brought a friend – not the royal we, just Mark and me – Mark didn’t come, though, he has class on Thurdays – finance – he’s doing his MBA – crazy year, with all the studying! – that’s Bronwyn over there” – more of that, then at one point I said something about trying to spot the tricks, which is what you’re not supposed to say to an illusionist, gushed about how quick and efficient they are in their switcheroos, and when SP asked where I was from and said Toronto was a beautiful place, I made a weird snorty sound and over-enthusiastically kind of shouted “well, I certainly think so!” before pulling my hand away, forcing Robin into a hand shake and then almost body-checking her on my way past. (Bronwyn: “what was that all about?!”) It was all very manic and very embarrassing and I was dismayed to discover, yet again, my complete and utter lack of poise. Good show but I won’t be going back.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMTvzJqzYOlJe3ZzLCAkD3J7lYT7OgZAkJutFTQCtk8X2mS-qvr2qG35C4ndXhjA7qlgPuDJlnpFBGrwM1y1T40pw2vyl_hmEuItFXLJyXGjvW1GzF9xjqUwGq1ZT4hhS1pCkhVTtr0A/s1600/16a+-+Katy+%2526+Bron+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMTvzJqzYOlJe3ZzLCAkD3J7lYT7OgZAkJutFTQCtk8X2mS-qvr2qG35C4ndXhjA7qlgPuDJlnpFBGrwM1y1T40pw2vyl_hmEuItFXLJyXGjvW1GzF9xjqUwGq1ZT4hhS1pCkhVTtr0A/s320/16a+-+Katy+%2526+Bron+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544033321239443922" /></a>The big day itself was lovely: Bronwyn had decorated the house with a banner and balloons and we headed straight out to the river for hike and swim in one of our many favourite spots at Stoney Creek. In the afternoon my mom treated me to a spa package – my first facial ever and a definite life changer – and then, with my fresh, glowing, youthified face, it was off to dinner with Mark at “C’est Bon,” which boasts a properly French kitchen staff and a coq-au-vin to die for, not to mention the crème brulée. So good that we *almost* didn’t have room for the lemon cake that Bron had waiting for us at home... Altogether an excessively satisfying and sumptuous day. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4RJHHrieEJMHmfUKMYnxlZFfiTdzGce6v_pE0_u4qRMcbFLndVRv2ssIvILHlcwDeH8509g5H-u0KwgxBsNWOVEUF-eOs3UoIQdbK0bsJn26J3yXw7nlggGv1p869XYK0P32kONUfT8/s1600/17+-+Stoney+Creek+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4RJHHrieEJMHmfUKMYnxlZFfiTdzGce6v_pE0_u4qRMcbFLndVRv2ssIvILHlcwDeH8509g5H-u0KwgxBsNWOVEUF-eOs3UoIQdbK0bsJn26J3yXw7nlggGv1p869XYK0P32kONUfT8/s320/17+-+Stoney+Creek+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544034296349076674" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIZRryYBH1HC2eu_4q0JNJDHs77e16M1zLHiv3w1q6j6cw_AZfnVz0_KmsUB04XYi5nDBcMJBravZ-tvpn79T0qEpLYbzNRNsCM-XDMdxS1OzpnDNSsI9g0oViGvIBTg6KFQkkPFjXuU/s1600/37+-+Katy+%2526+Bron+after+a+sunny+swim+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIZRryYBH1HC2eu_4q0JNJDHs77e16M1zLHiv3w1q6j6cw_AZfnVz0_KmsUB04XYi5nDBcMJBravZ-tvpn79T0qEpLYbzNRNsCM-XDMdxS1OzpnDNSsI9g0oViGvIBTg6KFQkkPFjXuU/s320/37+-+Katy+%2526+Bron+after+a+sunny+swim+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544034049012930242" /></a>(Swimsuits are rolled down - we're not sitting around nekked!)<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HZbkiIoKO6hS8jQZLA0mfsQQ0gCGOV0erzaKLASUXcRyAoShl5jaLoorhkVYinGQs1zAyYGmzFfUpGYbBXZ7af9O7hrNAEhOmwD47YVsfEraSQnUBF0T_aFHuI1xOGXh9kItcEmRycA/s1600/5+-+With+sparkler.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HZbkiIoKO6hS8jQZLA0mfsQQ0gCGOV0erzaKLASUXcRyAoShl5jaLoorhkVYinGQs1zAyYGmzFfUpGYbBXZ7af9O7hrNAEhOmwD47YVsfEraSQnUBF0T_aFHuI1xOGXh9kItcEmRycA/s320/5+-+With+sparkler.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544060533301066066" /></a><br /><br /><br />II<br /><br />After all this pampering, I needed to do something that properly marked the beginning of a new decade, so Mark and I went skydiving. (Bron decided that it wasn’t her bag.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H-43n8_vOiobYKL7RJBvxK4pQ4uuiDsRuVu8StnVLULpId6nGlskzoaNMAsgn1MmlQY_PrloWHorQyC7SCt3uKb_qnQrM4vw1saFPlkkYHHFnAolPEU9DppRBiAAgi19Tsk1k2I6rcU/s1600/6+-+Bananas%2521+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H-43n8_vOiobYKL7RJBvxK4pQ4uuiDsRuVu8StnVLULpId6nGlskzoaNMAsgn1MmlQY_PrloWHorQyC7SCt3uKb_qnQrM4vw1saFPlkkYHHFnAolPEU9DppRBiAAgi19Tsk1k2I6rcU/s320/6+-+Bananas%2521+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544035483018265330" /></a> We caught the Tandem Cairns bus in town and rode to Innisfail, where there was this beautiful house – in the middle of a field – full of hip, tattooed people standing around in goggles and jumpsuits. Now, I had been pretty calm about the whole thing since the beginning, other than a brief bout of nervous excitement when I made the booking, and was waiting for proper anxiety to kick in. I was a bit nervous on the bus ride and through our three-minute, sitting-on-the-couch instruction session, and of course felt a whole different kind of anxiety when it was time to put on my skydiving pants – which have a colour-coded stripe on the side so that everyone can see you’ve been eating too much birthday cake and you’re wearing the size that’s designed for very tall men and they’re still, frankly, a little snug – but it’s when we watched the first batch of divers land that the queasiness began in earnest. I had planned for everything – hair in braids so it wouldn’t get in my tandem guy’s face, perfume so he’d have a pleasant ride down – but hadn’t really considered that I was actually going to jump out of a plane. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzsrHuVVLT4gClPRkkMH2107sp3_MoCgdEI_9G0aDGnydwoarrFTeyEzysAuKBZZATttYRJXg_Gy1bpWvDO9VXAhZbWQ5PC0ALXZJpeMNR9ezVcVBsDsx-SCsSOuBnIXTQXR3fP4vDFo/s1600/Skydive2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzsrHuVVLT4gClPRkkMH2107sp3_MoCgdEI_9G0aDGnydwoarrFTeyEzysAuKBZZATttYRJXg_Gy1bpWvDO9VXAhZbWQ5PC0ALXZJpeMNR9ezVcVBsDsx-SCsSOuBnIXTQXR3fP4vDFo/s320/Skydive2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544035885074237874" /></a> My guy was named Lee and he was really non-emotional about the whole thing – luckily, Mark’s guy was very gentle and thorough and thought to explain that after the parachute opens they undo two hooks to give us better agility in landing – otherwise that double click and suddenly loose harness would have scared the bejeesus out of me. (He also explained that we needed to curve backwards when we jumped, like bananas, and when we were doing "good bananas" they'd let us put our arms out.) We watched the first divers, all of whom were working towards their next jumping licenses and were somewhere between their 30th and 200th jumps, and then, just like that, it was our turn. I don’t know how to describe how I felt, but there was definitely a lot of dread involved. When I knew Lee was filming, I tried unconvincingly to hide my fear; the shots where I didn’t realize the camera was on are the most revealing of my pure<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbE0KLQaCutTDMcgv9ENdjyxrgKEDq-Ec3E4iyHCrIGHvJJYuQM9BnYRA-49r79iOSwqTJJOAZNb831eHNqXoaTfSKc-pvakxxKGlY1RhX_NkIWMgoOZXim-0KSNVXnZJuTNfyimhPGIY/s1600/Skydive7.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbE0KLQaCutTDMcgv9ENdjyxrgKEDq-Ec3E4iyHCrIGHvJJYuQM9BnYRA-49r79iOSwqTJJOAZNb831eHNqXoaTfSKc-pvakxxKGlY1RhX_NkIWMgoOZXim-0KSNVXnZJuTNfyimhPGIY/s320/Skydive7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544036627136455202" /></a> terror. We squished into the plane, which was just exactly big enough for the eight of us who sat straddling each other on the floor, and when I looked at how high we were and then Lee told me that we were only about halfway up – have you ever had one of those moments where you realize you’ve made a huge mistake? Then the other divers starting jumping out of the plane and I had a full-blown internal panic attack: the sight of people throwing <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Cxlo6MnSGJz9yMaliOwWAp9-wm6RNx38udD_51IBxetIWSq4K_T2NpH-DLo5T3kohttZOnedWlyurZirijMxbV2mTcJb2TN5azKiswRj3l4ShfuRr5yKENGmpv0XMixMQYMNBQ4iSfQ/s1600/Skydive12.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Cxlo6MnSGJz9yMaliOwWAp9-wm6RNx38udD_51IBxetIWSq4K_T2NpH-DLo5T3kohttZOnedWlyurZirijMxbV2mTcJb2TN5azKiswRj3l4ShfuRr5yKENGmpv0XMixMQYMNBQ4iSfQ/s320/Skydive12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544036996573421282" /></a>themselves into the sky is terrifying. Mark went next and I was scared out of my mind for him, so that by the time it was my turn I think I was numb to fear and was just resigned to my fate. As far as I knew, we shuffled over to the open door and rolled straight out, but I’ve since seen in the video that we sat for a really long time, presumably with my heart beating so wildly and my mind in lock-down survival mode, keeping me from realizing what was actually happening. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeEKCSwV-MaWF_FE_eZePWWjMzOneJ2TTMeNOHMT2Ycjno1C6Jr_PVtRVhEDutg_dU5-54DOAlBpP64vFjt95NbmsFD3TADFjYnm9KobaoxFHEIifVpKJv7fXQkYIy9xccEOkHettnx8/s1600/Skydive10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeEKCSwV-MaWF_FE_eZePWWjMzOneJ2TTMeNOHMT2Ycjno1C6Jr_PVtRVhEDutg_dU5-54DOAlBpP64vFjt95NbmsFD3TADFjYnm9KobaoxFHEIifVpKJv7fXQkYIy9xccEOkHettnx8/s320/Skydive10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544039521160633810" /></a><br /><br />(We're only halfway up?!!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJnGlUXQbx_oRBCnUNZLOvAwKoLkanY7KTnaMNdv_g6GfyOLB-spbWjPH8bWaotGaE9JitcO-xtP-9PihE70BkCyen_y_O9WcgeaSZ3fnIxPY8uZ0BheXjWPAf_TDj-pnSjaE-hNKmbE/s1600/Skydive15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJnGlUXQbx_oRBCnUNZLOvAwKoLkanY7KTnaMNdv_g6GfyOLB-spbWjPH8bWaotGaE9JitcO-xtP-9PihE70BkCyen_y_O9WcgeaSZ3fnIxPY8uZ0BheXjWPAf_TDj-pnSjaE-hNKmbE/s320/Skydive15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544037313437570994" /></a><br /><br /><br />And here we go...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQ4C3HhN5UGIGfURZJOlTz9synUDMDAUoT3ciCY7RCFVtm2pNWa4YSg2GFqF9LCREjAq3spQfMSrInmSgfb-8fgbp09KnpFNOs5aapEOPrynw_Hj6kMV5scxx0x8eTaEQDLGbc0XRPO0/s1600/Skydive18.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQ4C3HhN5UGIGfURZJOlTz9synUDMDAUoT3ciCY7RCFVtm2pNWa4YSg2GFqF9LCREjAq3spQfMSrInmSgfb-8fgbp09KnpFNOs5aapEOPrynw_Hj6kMV5scxx0x8eTaEQDLGbc0XRPO0/s320/Skydive18.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544038102765036130" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriPI06Fulx5ifJu1-hveHwSMBbuMFTddYphyhYYkqBsjfrzOXU44GKjGCTwvIqIs35FGqBubvBAPyzY24UQcsKW8Yg3EMo_qgjyT-mX5qau3Az5z7nkre2Udd7l-fWciS_mRFt8nz92c/s1600/Skydive19.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriPI06Fulx5ifJu1-hveHwSMBbuMFTddYphyhYYkqBsjfrzOXU44GKjGCTwvIqIs35FGqBubvBAPyzY24UQcsKW8Yg3EMo_qgjyT-mX5qau3Az5z7nkre2Udd7l-fWciS_mRFt8nz92c/s320/Skydive19.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544038332871284290" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4Kfqrj-pai0zhRymyyN64Vc2enXXpTrjSHFwP6am2yK05S0UyXZvBVO3lv4crfr9jNejQ_vFSgSX8LpuTgjgti8u79oCFA1oDJJiCHSdpwh1DaciytJnKkwVs53UzbdlonL3SHG-K_8/s1600/Skydive22.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4Kfqrj-pai0zhRymyyN64Vc2enXXpTrjSHFwP6am2yK05S0UyXZvBVO3lv4crfr9jNejQ_vFSgSX8LpuTgjgti8u79oCFA1oDJJiCHSdpwh1DaciytJnKkwVs53UzbdlonL3SHG-K_8/s320/Skydive22.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544038575557946546" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5MlNSvywRdvL3eNXTEBFd-wMiMjJY7QTD29PHcCSHmGVafIAb8XZ_0e7txJ0uXlZiwsHr4rVxFZVsdeHobZ4BO4vXWenrPEfHaSaIeju6mhRPWLXI1STG28lYyXwbGI3q9mdF8pUnOk/s1600/Skydive23.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5MlNSvywRdvL3eNXTEBFd-wMiMjJY7QTD29PHcCSHmGVafIAb8XZ_0e7txJ0uXlZiwsHr4rVxFZVsdeHobZ4BO4vXWenrPEfHaSaIeju6mhRPWLXI1STG28lYyXwbGI3q9mdF8pUnOk/s320/Skydive23.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544038975104239794" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLVkXO-dFXbffl21f27LxXegW401vENG5TbYAb-5MchlXpfVSV9rUyKHXwIpvZ1GRR7u8o_HH5ENLwBv480etEIaYxUxSMoW9dVRItVDMCcwfJ3TrX0EpWkIABmmtTTdqGmURNjRwo5g/s1600/Skydive32.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLVkXO-dFXbffl21f27LxXegW401vENG5TbYAb-5MchlXpfVSV9rUyKHXwIpvZ1GRR7u8o_HH5ENLwBv480etEIaYxUxSMoW9dVRItVDMCcwfJ3TrX0EpWkIABmmtTTdqGmURNjRwo5g/s320/Skydive32.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544039208494272882" /></a> And then, we were out! <br /><br />It didn’t feel like we were falling at all, but rather like we were just lying on a big gust of air, cold and painful around my ears. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijVrLRA1Qk5Mj3jiC1eh2hTxuL8OgY9BbbCKx9aIlAEygz7hkyOl0Vx6tkLYVv0laFrhDB11rcz0qL-DUINf5Y3ZZXTiBxe-kQiCUAkrjD16stHnN52oNlo5ZaSOnsl0J0VGors9N43w/s1600/Skydive34.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijVrLRA1Qk5Mj3jiC1eh2hTxuL8OgY9BbbCKx9aIlAEygz7hkyOl0Vx6tkLYVv0laFrhDB11rcz0qL-DUINf5Y3ZZXTiBxe-kQiCUAkrjD16stHnN52oNlo5ZaSOnsl0J0VGors9N43w/s320/Skydive34.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544040172906239314" /></a> <br /><br /><br />They tell you to shout and scream so that you’ll breathe, which I did, and then the chute opened (and I briefly thought I was going to vomit) and floating down was the dreamiest, most serene experience of my life. Looking down at my legs hanging over the earth – crazy.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmL67mGpz9vsAs6IgQeEFbMQaDID7EX3ZRe7bw69z_OTE-Ia0jxfz7rHB02h2mNPx2EErJWDP65qpbW7wSK3zD6PArS58zLw16DOm0UG2XDUhDtTPv4xW8Mlec7UAnK3iisCy4oas-1c/s1600/Skydive38.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmL67mGpz9vsAs6IgQeEFbMQaDID7EX3ZRe7bw69z_OTE-Ia0jxfz7rHB02h2mNPx2EErJWDP65qpbW7wSK3zD6PArS58zLw16DOm0UG2XDUhDtTPv4xW8Mlec7UAnK3iisCy4oas-1c/s320/Skydive38.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544041313373860978" /></a><br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLVu_YIvODsdQTuOLTsw_IWbOn4rYJ64AKneYnXAOhxkfItNp11bJ2WJF3Z0J712kO8w4CI66OMRMVh8sxJAVhZ1AlnqJhcm41mgJa8_3HOqWCChyhS-tVmr3fo-paBUeECjaI5F5EIQ/s1600/Skydive42.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLVu_YIvODsdQTuOLTsw_IWbOn4rYJ64AKneYnXAOhxkfItNp11bJ2WJF3Z0J712kO8w4CI66OMRMVh8sxJAVhZ1AlnqJhcm41mgJa8_3HOqWCChyhS-tVmr3fo-paBUeECjaI5F5EIQ/s320/Skydive42.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544041572469656498" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQbn7L1OLCCkxzW_ZRDPeVYBAnI_MlZmEDU35bL0EGeUqhKyU-aLqWI6dWSTPVb_2i32Eb6cNUcg7uHehV3xMx0KWv8MnqKp6UJL7s04_vrzzU0tXDTGruwgA-mCRGUgs5sScI6xavZU/s1600/Skydive54.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQbn7L1OLCCkxzW_ZRDPeVYBAnI_MlZmEDU35bL0EGeUqhKyU-aLqWI6dWSTPVb_2i32Eb6cNUcg7uHehV3xMx0KWv8MnqKp6UJL7s04_vrzzU0tXDTGruwgA-mCRGUgs5sScI6xavZU/s320/Skydive54.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544041881785663762" /></a><br /><br />Unfortunately, close to the end, Lee thought I needed a bit more fun and he did this spinning around thing that made me actually taste the vomit I was about to puke out in his face, so I told him I was happier with just... floating. I was really worried about throwing up and messing up the landing, but I managed to hold it in and get my legs up as instructed, and then it was over. <br /><br /><br /> Landing: getting your feet up is hard in the pants and harness!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHymWAdt44ztgbM5JKw5Pu098BEvDSUkrvg-EFebAJIUEG2t1z0BJWrUWvJ3YvUtac2mfB4GyinpBZ_T44n1X101q_FStkuIeAc-hdmQjJpQ_TmI-290C7ePj9L8CSS-B0Wn6prxfVmzg/s1600/Skydive58.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHymWAdt44ztgbM5JKw5Pu098BEvDSUkrvg-EFebAJIUEG2t1z0BJWrUWvJ3YvUtac2mfB4GyinpBZ_T44n1X101q_FStkuIeAc-hdmQjJpQ_TmI-290C7ePj9L8CSS-B0Wn6prxfVmzg/s320/Skydive58.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544042190164794146" /></a><br /><br /><br /> Painful landing: snapped my feet!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJuljyYDQ12Fc-Vr2DnlTyKpz0_ygHQRnnOTdhFNqRY090DYY_dbrkTctJJZY5IgQVgctlsTA2ZuitvH4zUFfz5R-Pu7qB0ZssPeO9CN2DGZc1Pa-JzUgFh239IxC1ss-6xELfkxD1dU/s1600/Skydive59.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJuljyYDQ12Fc-Vr2DnlTyKpz0_ygHQRnnOTdhFNqRY090DYY_dbrkTctJJZY5IgQVgctlsTA2ZuitvH4zUFfz5R-Pu7qB0ZssPeO9CN2DGZc1Pa-JzUgFh239IxC1ss-6xELfkxD1dU/s320/Skydive59.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544043116293019618" /></a> <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FQzyqXHyoy1eNvX667mGvj5mxQ4YTEDMMJ_vP10c9o5Lo8vB7uhNCW6pV3L307I4tKdTWWmkqor1hQ-g-3dprh2BV4qGzZMcR9c1ZoQqB6PMOXhWKopSNG3hoPX76xdC3s6J0GTl-Cc/s1600/Skydive64.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FQzyqXHyoy1eNvX667mGvj5mxQ4YTEDMMJ_vP10c9o5Lo8vB7uhNCW6pV3L307I4tKdTWWmkqor1hQ-g-3dprh2BV4qGzZMcR9c1ZoQqB6PMOXhWKopSNG3hoPX76xdC3s6J0GTl-Cc/s320/Skydive64.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544043460366036242" /></a><br /><br />I felt queasy all day, as I do after any plane ride, but there was no left-over adrenaline, no panic, no rush – just “well, wasn’t that nice.” And ear pain. Skydiving: check!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbm8Lg0UOFj8pku9nYebPzsCs1bwAawLahTVnSXxADkP7qC5QyH6jrKzExy6Gj9lgwcbYONEO4W_MBH-5o-2-MPpI9zRy7dE_V8980cWpsSOb8F4hC4FzN1E3UM5pp1xx64nF6uGpj8uI/s1600/Skydive65.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbm8Lg0UOFj8pku9nYebPzsCs1bwAawLahTVnSXxADkP7qC5QyH6jrKzExy6Gj9lgwcbYONEO4W_MBH-5o-2-MPpI9zRy7dE_V8980cWpsSOb8F4hC4FzN1E3UM5pp1xx64nF6uGpj8uI/s320/Skydive65.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544043936389952994" /></a><br /><br /><br />III<br /><br />Bron travelled around Australia for a month before coming back to stay with us again. Having been unable to cook for so long made her feel all domestic and food-y, to Mark’s and my endless eating pleasure. Between whipping up lasagnes and stuffed spinach gozemes, she’d spontaneously make pretzels, baklava, specialty muesli and ginger-chocolate cake – and we ate every last bite of it. <br /><br />As for local fauna, before even coming to Australia, Bronwyn didn’t like birds – couldn’t stand the swooping. Then, like anyone who spends more than three hours here, she developed a deep and lasting hatred of cockatoos. We get the ear-piercing squawking, the poo and the pervasive, wet-bird smell, but Bron also had a window facing directly into the trees where they sleep at night – I’m talking hundreds of spooky white bodies glowing in the darkness when she was trying to just forget about creepy birds and get to sleep. In a ridiculous stroke of bad luck, she also happened to be dive-bombed twice in Australia: people wear glasses backwards to fool the magpies and keep them from bombing the back of their heads – they also wear ice cream containers so that when the birds aren’t fooled, at least they won’t be able to tear out chunks of skin. They get crazy about their nests and god help you if you walk anywhere near their babies. (There’s a bird up here, can’t remember its name, that specifically builds its nest in the middle of fields: the kids at one of my schools have learned to play footy around the general nest area and to just keep their heads down when these aggressive little birds decide to pick a fight.) <br /><br />So we did a lot of eating, a lot of complaining about birds. We did some driving lessons so that Bron could drive a manual car – success! – and did some shopping because she needed some summer clothes – except that I, who claim to hate shopping, always ended up with way more loot than she did. (The highlight was when we heard “Believe It Or Not, I’m Walking On Air” in two separate stores! What are the chances?!) We kept running, more or less, except that I’ve started getting a major cramp after 15-18 minutes, every time, no exception. I’ve tried running first thing in the morning, last thing before bed, with water, without water, with food, without food, uphill, downhill, straight – doesn’t matter. Does anybody know what’s going on here? Will I forever have to run in 15-minute blocks?<br /><br />We also went to the waterfall circuit, which she’d already seen, and man, are the waterfalls pretty. It’s funny because you hike or drive to the site and have a swim if possible, and then you don’t really know what to do. Do I just sit here and keep looking at it? At what point is my enjoyment of the waterfall officially over? Walking away always feels a bit callous. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR6fXx-plXCq7X33F4BEfD8WEP20IiWY5QfdAC2tddYFrGe_rqTlLlwzCZ67kO0are5udUC9UTGYx-b4ODTbhSZSqLdjp6nk-NvYOwxveNX5mXwAm1BmZrB4I8geIgFOk1DJ9BDr1UYQ/s1600/4+-+Ellinjaa+Falls+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR6fXx-plXCq7X33F4BEfD8WEP20IiWY5QfdAC2tddYFrGe_rqTlLlwzCZ67kO0are5udUC9UTGYx-b4ODTbhSZSqLdjp6nk-NvYOwxveNX5mXwAm1BmZrB4I8geIgFOk1DJ9BDr1UYQ/s320/4+-+Ellinjaa+Falls+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544048999225040530" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizXzdeKZn8_ruRiCGwGnYKUrk3xb921-qOa8wPEJTD6FgEU8FDk3tmbEyQFTXp-IZQyt5T1tbeLbR-Q8Le11V36aeFxbLyRdqn96TsSsKdPhAos_w8k5syGyG64_GBztCrEpZ2p2ez3Y/s1600/8+-+Millaa+Millaa+with+red+tree+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizXzdeKZn8_ruRiCGwGnYKUrk3xb921-qOa8wPEJTD6FgEU8FDk3tmbEyQFTXp-IZQyt5T1tbeLbR-Q8Le11V36aeFxbLyRdqn96TsSsKdPhAos_w8k5syGyG64_GBztCrEpZ2p2ez3Y/s320/8+-+Millaa+Millaa+with+red+tree+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544049410391848466" /></a><br /><br />Now Bronwyn’s gone and we have to do all the cooking ourselves. And there’s no one to swim with because Mark only goes into water that feels like a bath. And I have to run by myself. And I have no one to talk to. Boo. Boo to Bronwyn leaving. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAW6F_9V3BUK6ju_V4b_8Y7k40EyLeCGai-2rhEqAUDQOxrzRyV9AefzzGorQ3yeC2lMatoPjtWMbjEKThAlGz2gu-qPhRV7MzJ-swFjIyDdFj_Odwf6mYi14-oMAoCVJFx25gaueaznk/s1600/2f+-+Waiting+for+the+Parade...+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAW6F_9V3BUK6ju_V4b_8Y7k40EyLeCGai-2rhEqAUDQOxrzRyV9AefzzGorQ3yeC2lMatoPjtWMbjEKThAlGz2gu-qPhRV7MzJ-swFjIyDdFj_Odwf6mYi14-oMAoCVJFx25gaueaznk/s320/2f+-+Waiting+for+the+Parade...+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544049870668425314" /></a><br /><br /><br />IV<br /><br />Then it was Mark’s birthday. He went into it on the right foot, as he gained a year at the very last minute: he apparently had spent this whole year thinking he was already thirty-six and was tickled pink, when I mentioned that he had a few more days to enjoy as a thirty-five-year-old, to realize that he was a whole year further from forty than he thought. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSuabFdvb7SNSi-XgBabSsNrAhz0gOV802TuOVnteXc23E3WvDFylvtuFHzsusVqivhZxyNnSvdup4ta8qKvvcOufnt5TpG_VKY2_22dlmkl7yPLoUdsfNi3VEmBwauftiQT8TEVJJTg/s1600/8+-+Beach+and+trees+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSuabFdvb7SNSi-XgBabSsNrAhz0gOV802TuOVnteXc23E3WvDFylvtuFHzsusVqivhZxyNnSvdup4ta8qKvvcOufnt5TpG_VKY2_22dlmkl7yPLoUdsfNi3VEmBwauftiQT8TEVJJTg/s320/8+-+Beach+and+trees+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544050308839558210" /></a> We also thought that he’d be writing a finance exam on his birthday, but some classes got reorganized and he had the week-end free, which we spent in a little “Balinese-style chalet” in Mission<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYObyjckVIj1yGKzizZjsrMkBEb_G0Lqx1Uauwf6xGP8-3EpT_Vh1cYObGDGKhRJbksHsio0WgVmCgG9XMBlJIke7rOw2niYcXTYjYeq31FeaqJjK5ofd0CNOfFq1hFiu6NMlfME_fq7g/s1600/3+-+Outdoor+area%252C+no+flash+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYObyjckVIj1yGKzizZjsrMkBEb_G0Lqx1Uauwf6xGP8-3EpT_Vh1cYObGDGKhRJbksHsio0WgVmCgG9XMBlJIke7rOw2niYcXTYjYeq31FeaqJjK5ofd0CNOfFq1hFiu6NMlfME_fq7g/s320/3+-+Outdoor+area%252C+no+flash+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544050603273728546" /></a> Beach. It rained the whole time, as we expected would happen (welcome to North Queensland!) and which is why we had chosen somewhere roomy and self-contained rather than being stuck for three days in a hotel room. It was nice to be able to just lie around, listening to the rain in the forest, reading or sleeping or watching tv (they had cable!), far from home so that we were off the hook from feeling the need to accomplish anything. Maybe that’s the true sign of getting older, is when a good holiday means having good food and big sleeps. <br /> <br /><br />V<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qofDAJWGUH4Gu1x0x6DhyphenhyphenGah4E8hLpQo_sod7Rt6dUw3_C-jmodSV2nDrnfxHkamk6XerTQ0mLR4RVoOx9ShnLBxtUdntbdG-hiy9fKyxqJ0l4D2N9zatIyfn-kTnpoix-DrIBFWgXc/s1600/8+-+Jona+up-close+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qofDAJWGUH4Gu1x0x6DhyphenhyphenGah4E8hLpQo_sod7Rt6dUw3_C-jmodSV2nDrnfxHkamk6XerTQ0mLR4RVoOx9ShnLBxtUdntbdG-hiy9fKyxqJ0l4D2N9zatIyfn-kTnpoix-DrIBFWgXc/s320/8+-+Jona+up-close+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544034655279712562" /></a> A few weeks ago we had another week-end road trip, down to Townsville to meet Mark’s newest little nephew, Jona. He was almost four months old when we met him and you want to know what’s cute? A four-month-old baby. He was happy enough to be held by people other than his parents – not indefinitely, but long enough for a good snuggle against his baby soft skin. <br /><br />As we had anticipated, Mark and I lost out to the baby and were relegated to the camper van, which is parked outside the house in such a way as to face right into the bathroom window and yet require a really long walk to get to the bathroom itself. Lying there in the middle of the night on the lumpy, tiny bed, listening to mosquitoes buzz around my head, the big debate was whether to make the cold dash to the toilet or to stay snugly and warm but with a painfully full bladder. As expected, my bladder prevailed and I ventured out into the night, only to be completely spooked by the many creature sounds I encountered on the way to the bathroom – which was occupied! Bloody hell! I hopped around for a while until I realized that whoever was in there was in for the long haul, so I decided to squat in the bushes, figuring I could be brave for thirty seconds and ignore the animal sounds all around me. Nope! I hadn’t even picked a spot when a monster bat flew over my head just as something brushed against my foot and I moved faster than I have ever moved, high-tailing it back to the camper van. In the end, desperate, cold and scared of my own hair brushing my shoulder – I’m not proud, I’m just telling it like it is – I found what I hoped was a discrete spot right outside the camper van to do the deed, slept fitfully as visions of bats and rodents danced in my head, then snuck around the next morning with a big bucket of water to wash the spot down so that nobody would ever know. The best part was when I went for a toilet run the next night (with a flashlight this time) and it was occupied – except that it wasn’t; they just had the door closed throughout the night. I could have just gone in peace and been done with it! Foiled again!<br /><br />On the drive down, Mark and I stopped in for dinner at an Indian/Fish & Chips place, which I thought was a bit weird; I wouldn’t move to India and open, say, a Sandwich and Curry shop, as I’d assume that actual Indian people were already making some pretty good curry – much better curry, in fact, than I, a non-curry-expert, could be expected to make. I’d stick to what I was good at: sandwiches. Why the fish and chips? Why not just make really excellent Indian food and leave the traditionally Aussie food alone? Though, really, it’s not like frying up some battered fish and greasy fries is really that hard, so they might as well have a go, since they have the kitchen all set up and ready to go. It was just a thought I had. <br /><br />About an hour before Townsville, a guy behind us flashed his lights. I figured he was in a hurry so I pulled over and let him by, only to have him drive more slowly in front of me than I had been driving. Eventually I got around him, but he kept flashing his lights. I tried speeding up and he’d stay right behind me – even though they’re really serious about speeding here and you don’t risk it, so for him to catch up to my 40 km/h over the limit is pretty aggressive – then if I got really slow he wouldn’t pass me, but just stayed behind, flashing lights. When I managed to overtake other people to put a few cars between us, he’d end up overtaking them too and would stay right behind me. This went on for about an hour and a half, in the dark and the rain, at the end of which I was losing my mind with frustration and anger and assumed it was a car full of hooligans, playing with me because they thought it was funny. When we finally got off the highway and into town and we stopped at a light, Mark got out of the car and went to give them a piece of his mind – only to find a family, with two kids sleeping in the back and dad completely unaware that there was anything wrong with his lights. Sticking right behind me the whole time is still weird, but all that for nothing. I was completely stressed out and exhausted by the time we got to Mark’s parents’ house and on the way home I was so happy to have an easy drive that I got us a speeding ticket. Hmphf. <br /><br /><br />VI<br /><br />I’ve been doing a lot of teaching, often up in Mareeba, where I get the most work. (That’s where I did my remedial reading gig and just finished a contract for a week in kindergarten.) It’s something of a rough school and features a “Youth Transition Centre,” which is a building across the street used for kids who freak out so much that they need to be removed from school and put in a rubber room until they calm down, among other things. After a week in which breaking up a fist fight in my grade six class (and getting punched in the jaw in the process) was just one of many unhappy events, I was nervous when I got to school and was told that I wasn’t doing grade four after all, but would be in the rubber room all day. They’re all getting zooey at this time of year so when I pictured my worst nightmare kids all in the same spot, I considered quitting on the spot, but it turned out to be embarrassingly cruisy: kids come in to sit out their in-school suspensions, high school kids come in as part of their parole orders – if you want, you can sit and read a magazine while they do work sheets. <br /><br />Now, I have a problem with this, as a lot of these “problem” kids would much rather come hang out with the super cool YTC staff than stay in class and do stupid old things like math and spelling, so they’ve basically been given a free pass from school. They’re encouraged to take a walk or something if they’re starting to feel upset and they’re going to act out, which is a good idea, but that means that if they don’t really feel like doing what you ask them to, they say “I’m going to see Mr. B” and they take off until they’ve “calmed down” and decide to come back into the classroom, no questions asked. (Usually in time for art or computers, would you believe.) Now that I’ve seen the other side, I’m even more sceptical; one boy was there serving an in-school suspension, so he did some fill-in-the-blanks sheets, some look-at-the-pictures-and-see-what’s-different sheets, kicked a ball around and watched a movie with a bowl of popcorn. Now, what possible motivation could he have for not getting another suspension? Another boy comes every afternoon because he doesn’t get along with his teacher and can’t focus in class – except that he didn’t even finish a single work sheet. I think that not finishing his class work, while at least hearing classroom things happening around him, must be better than not finishing his connect-the-dots sheets, while hearing adult conversation, soccer games and movies around him. Call me crazy. There are a few kids who come in because they’re out of control – I’ve sent a few over myself and have certainly been grateful to be left with a semi-functioning class as a result – so it can be a good thing. I just don’t think that tip-toeing around the kids and trying so hard to keep them “engaged with school” that you never ask them to actually do anything remotely school-based is what the centre is there for. <br /><br />Meanwhile, Ronny, the guy I was working with, gets together with a few teachers and they play indoor soccer at lunch against teams of students. The kids come running as soon as the bell rings and get into teams of five: whoever scores stays on and a new team swaps with the ones who were scored on. Ronny was telling me about when he played semi-professional soccer and when I expressed interest in the sport (sub-category: watching, not playing), he suggested I come and play, since they can never get five teachers and they always have students play with them. Ultimately, I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse and so there I was, at 11:00 in the morning, in the sweltering auditorium crammed full of excited, sweaty children, wearing my white teacher pants and sandals, playing indoor bloody soccer. Do you know how badly the kids want to play on the teacher team? I was robbing some 11-year-old of his dream, and why? To what end? I can’t play soccer. I mean, I really can’t play. I harbour this fantasy that I could have really been something if I’d kept up with it when I was younger, since I was involved with the all-star team or something like that – except that I distinctly remember them calling my house and asking for “Kathryn McCutcheon,” obviously confusing me with teammate (and talented soccer player) Michelle McCutcheon and then being stuck with me until I finally gave up in grade eight. I was very definitely never destined to star on the soccer field, but there I was in my fake Birkenstocks – seventeen soccerless years later, no less – hoping to hell I didn’t twist an ankle or accidentally kick a child in the face, and of course nobody ever managed to score against us so I had to stay on and play the entire forty minutes. Did I mention how hot it was? We’re talking the tropics in the middle of the day in summer, in a gym with no air conditioning and lined wall-to-wall with people. Hot. When I was in net I considered sabotaging the game, letting one in so we could switch off with another team, but the defence was too solid and I didn’t have the chance. <br /><br />When I was called on to make a penalty shot, I decided that this was going to be my moment of glory and all the students on the sidelines would be impressed with my amazing athleticism and how cool I was and they would never misbehave in class again <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZ91Q3aJEDXg148L-JRMDsDuRAwAFaj6WYvSPtubVXA9w1JIPCyuYa98lf_P8umpGKtOwD7gcuKR4NcVy9M_WfPstJlr9NEwlbWv_9l1j6bxsD87t5jL-KuhYipDTjqT5m7uwYMjV7Bs/s1600/brave_soccer_cup.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZ91Q3aJEDXg148L-JRMDsDuRAwAFaj6WYvSPtubVXA9w1JIPCyuYa98lf_P8umpGKtOwD7gcuKR4NcVy9M_WfPstJlr9NEwlbWv_9l1j6bxsD87t5jL-KuhYipDTjqT5m7uwYMjV7Bs/s320/brave_soccer_cup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544056535963012386" /></a> because they’d be so in awe of me and really I was the best soccer player ever and they wanted me not Michelle and it was a crying shame that I’d let this natural talent go undeveloped and it was going to be just like a Disney movie when I got the ball right into the corner of the net and the crowd would cheer and – which is what they call “celebrating prematurely”: the ball went about four metres over the net and my teammates, who said they were just out to have a good time but actually took the game really seriously, were properly disappointed and never gave me another penalty kick. The bell finally, mercifully, rang – Ronny went and changed his shirt, clever fellow, while I was left sitting in my sweat and nursing my heat rash for the rest of the day in the Youth Transition Centre. Hmphf. <br /><br /><br />VII<br /><br /><br />Another memorable school day was in the local Catholic school. I noticed at morning assembly that all the teachers were really dressy and formal, where I – having not been informed that there was a special mass that day – was dressed for casual Friday, in jeans and a glorified tank top. Next to the others, I looked like a total slob. Some of the older kids were in charge of part of the assembly and they had a song prepared. As it started, they came directly up to me and said “would you come with us,” so I followed them around the room like an idiot until I realized that they meant “would you come sing with us” and that all the other teachers had already made their way onto the stage. I tried to quietly get into the back but ended up front and centre, between the guy with the microphone and the principal. It turned out to be a song about a holy cross, so I assume it was the school song, and there were – of course – actions. I stood there in my grubby jeans, guessing my way through the song (I tried to just look really earnest and poignant so that even if I was messing up the words and actions, at least they knew my heart was in it) and then we had to stay put for the national anthem, the words to which I don’t really know. I’ve heard it hundreds of times, of course, but when you hear a group of children at school assembly mumble their way through a song, you don’t come out feeling confident about the lyrics. When I get to the part I don’t know, I usually find a student who’s misbehaving and give him or her a disapproving look, or mouth something like “that’s enough,” which makes me look serious and important and covers the fact that I don’t know the anthem. Here, though, I had nowhere to hide. I was centre stage, my voice being picked up by the microphone, the principal (in her silk suit) singing enthusiastically to my right... Lame. (The bigger scandal in the day was actually when, in a moment of exasperation, I said “Jesus Christ!” and my year seven class literally gasped and looked at each other in shock – Catholic school. Oops.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9bzdOrIcEMWL8Cq1_IjaDIz1uxEXlREd-k8Ld39pvpiv9X1H4waVTNxVWhxZeInMQbQsA-5WCIdufKP4eT9yRX0vju9ogM_WniipWaXjmcMd1ruaGlwjLwfXF8bCm1sM1mxRXyMPfwE/s1600/Catholic+picture.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9bzdOrIcEMWL8Cq1_IjaDIz1uxEXlREd-k8Ld39pvpiv9X1H4waVTNxVWhxZeInMQbQsA-5WCIdufKP4eT9yRX0vju9ogM_WniipWaXjmcMd1ruaGlwjLwfXF8bCm1sM1mxRXyMPfwE/s320/Catholic+picture.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544055063548472114" /></a><br /><br /><br />VIII<br /><br /><br />I have this rodent thing, right? There were some bad experiences from my childhood (like running into the dark kitchen to answer the phone in my bare feet and stepping on a dead mouse) and some things in Guadeloupe, and of course The Great High Park Apartment Mouse Infestation of 2001, the extremity of which caused me to move back home before the end of the school year. I really can’t stomach the thought of mice sharing my living space and I think about them pretty much all the time – oh, the irony of being both terrified of rodents and highly allergic to cats. I’ve been extra jumpy since that kitten-on-the-bed episode in August, a really stressed-out sleeper, and am even more alert to suspicious night sounds than usual. So a few weeks ago, when I heard some rustling in the bathroom – which is an en suite, so we’re talking three metres from my head – I just knew it was a mouse. My panic vibes woke Mark, who said “it’s nothing, it’s just the fan, you’re losing your mind,” but when I threw something at the garbage bin, whence came the rustling, something with a tail scurried out of it. Praying that it would turn out to be a gecko, I sent Mark in to see and he was all “oh, for God’s sake” until he moved the garbage and a DIRTY LITTLE BROWN MOUSE ran out!!! Ha!!! (My triumph was largely overwhelmed by my revulsion and by the Extreme Cleaning Plan I was already forming, since I obviously wouldn’t be sleeping that night anyway.) The mouse, scared poopless, froze by the door, where Mark was trying to find his shoe, and then darted out and will probably never come back in to this house of giants, one screaming and the other trying to kill it. Just in case, though, we’ve set a couple of traps – the piece of bread disappeared but the peanut butter has gone untouched for weeks. I was also thrilled to discover the neighbourhood cat having a big pee in our yard and thus hopefully scaring the mice away from the area altogether (and maybe the cat’s eating them sometimes too?), and Mark now pees in the garden every night to add his own male hormone smells to the mix. I’m back to being able to sleep, though fitfully, but I am no longer able to go quickly into the bathroom without turning on the lights, so Mark put a flashlight on my bedside table so that he wouldn’t have to wake up each time I have to pee. <br /><br />(Bron suggested I need to do some phobia therapy, starting with looking at pictures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0knObZszK3RaZ1BuKxEfDow-c5li9C6Al-TiDQPstZV_6GZGjgqvS-CHUX0hVilYykoOY18YH4JEXp4QAkE1oL3MbNhhmaTYZSwRAUyHUtYzmY5aQ-WwokS1wT0chDwCN5-gcQZnPYs/s1600/Pilliga_Mouse.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0knObZszK3RaZ1BuKxEfDow-c5li9C6Al-TiDQPstZV_6GZGjgqvS-CHUX0hVilYykoOY18YH4JEXp4QAkE1oL3MbNhhmaTYZSwRAUyHUtYzmY5aQ-WwokS1wT0chDwCN5-gcQZnPYs/s320/Pilliga_Mouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544055708096480610" /></a> of nice rodents, thinking about all the ways in which they’re really neat, then maybe going to pet store and holding one... I see where she’s coming from but am not ready to even consider such a program at present. I am trying to go with her “and if a mouse does run across your bed, so what?” idea – because logically, it’s not really a big deal, right? It’s just that the pit of terror in my stomach isn’t logically inclined.)<br /><br /><br />IX<br /><br /><br />So that’s where we’re at. The season has changed – quite suddenly, really: bare trees and brown leaves all over the ground one day, everything bright green the next. Quilt at night, then, all of a sudden, suffocating under a sheet. It’s too hot to even conceive of running before at least 8:00 pm (or after 5:30 am) and the rain has begun in earnest, moldy pillows and all. The strangest part of it for me is still hearing people talk about the Christmas season; the sweatier your back, the closer you are to Santa’s visit. I’ve been really sluggish this past week and am hoping that I’ll be able to adjust to the new weather and still function over the next months, instead of just sitting in front of the fan, eating popsicles and watching Oprah like when I first got here last year. No promises, though. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBUudEta4sLQLyZIYDdJgfPe54DI178Xf8nHJpYwmGCiZSCsWOxbZHBZCJjSUZqChIpDZhUJLulH46jhwW_zFbeDj7qQc1-dUa0-rpGu0_XsLI_7_aMTTVPx-79sggQ5YU3XKQqv5Ie0/s1600/2a+-+Mark+%2526+Katy+at+home+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBUudEta4sLQLyZIYDdJgfPe54DI178Xf8nHJpYwmGCiZSCsWOxbZHBZCJjSUZqChIpDZhUJLulH46jhwW_zFbeDj7qQc1-dUa0-rpGu0_XsLI_7_aMTTVPx-79sggQ5YU3XKQqv5Ie0/s320/2a+-+Mark+%2526+Katy+at+home+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544053176245794082" /></a><br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-3970563688066215972010-10-05T23:41:00.001-07:002010-10-06T00:01:38.404-07:00Life's A Beach: Chapter 7Hello hello! <br /><br />Things have been happening here, let me tell you. I suspect that most of them are had-to-be-there kinds of things – I find that my Absolutely Hilarious stories end up sounding a bit lame in writing – but I’ll try to find the ones that are worth sharing.<br /><br />WORK<br /><br />I got my visa, which is a relief. I think there’s been general confusion as to what my situation was and what I was waiting for, so: on the working holiday visa, I could only live in Australia for one year, with a maximum of six months working for any one employer – which is why I had to leave the day care, which broke my heart. <br /><br />In the meantime, having analysed the work situation and agreed that we need to stay longer in Australia than originally anticipated, Mark and I applied for a partner visa – common law is the same as being married for visa purposes. I had been told that it would take six months or longer, so I wouldn’t be able to go back to the day care until at least next year. That also meant that I wouldn’t be able to work in state schools past September 15th, so I started in with the Catholic board and told the state school where I worked all term (with remedial readers) that I was finished – and gave good-bye cards to my students and got roses from my colleagues and basically made a big fat deal out of the whole thing, only to get my partner visa a week later. Ahem. <br /><br />So now, I’m a resident in Australia, can get medicare, can work wherever I want with no restrictions. Immigration then checks in with us in two years and if they’re satisfied that we’re still a genuine couple and that I’m an okay person to have in their country, the temporary residency rolls into a permanent one. <br /><br />First things first, of course, I’ve been working at the day care [insert happy sigh here]. It’s been two months, during which babies can grow a lot – lots of them have moved up to the next age group, they’re taller and slimmer, they’re speaking more and developing senses of humour... amazing. <br /><br />Some funny conversations I’ve had or overheard recently: <br /><br />Katy: Oh, this air conditioning – I’m actually cold!<br />Alana: Well, you should get a jumper, like I have.<br />Katy: Can I borrow yours? Do you think your jumper would fit me? <br />Alana: No. ‘Cause I’m four.<br /><br />Jasper [with his drawing]: Can you fold this like a puppy passport? I need one, because my puppy goes everywhere on the airplane.<br /><br />Hudson: My dad works with Santa. He makes toys but I have to wait a long, long time for them. <br />Katy: So he has two jobs?<br />Hudson: Yeah. His work, and.... Santa. <br /><br />Katy: What’s your treasure map for?<br />Patrick: Treasure.<br />Katy: Yes. What kind of treasure?<br />Patrick: Good stuff. <br />Katy: Is the treasure at home?<br />Patrick: There’s no treasure at home – I don’t even have a spade!<br /><br /> [Zara has pulled her shirt down and is breast-feeding a doll.] <br />Katy: Hey - you’re feeding your baby!<br />Zara: Yes. This one has milk in it, then the other one is water. <br /><br />You want to be happy? Work with small children.<br /><br /><br />COMPANY<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaCF6jPxfP8-3e2ZqgyEmI4FVR7m-vpx0Xhdr-msBIjshxERN-PKkhSAQarctLa8DFfom7KRf5dmw726_RecYf5vsTkivV1ndSzwxSmsP27ySnDx94bwcBKOU0o7qycjAx11m4VDobK4/s1600/4+-+Bron+%26+Kathryn+at+rainforestation+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaCF6jPxfP8-3e2ZqgyEmI4FVR7m-vpx0Xhdr-msBIjshxERN-PKkhSAQarctLa8DFfom7KRf5dmw726_RecYf5vsTkivV1ndSzwxSmsP27ySnDx94bwcBKOU0o7qycjAx11m4VDobK4/s320/4+-+Bron+%26+Kathryn+at+rainforestation+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524823288429081986" /></a> Bronwyn decided to take advantage of my living in Australia and took a much-needed semester off of school to come explore this part of the world. Mark and I were both working when her flight came in at 10 am, so I had this elaborate system worked out with keys and instructions and though I felt bad that I wouldn’t be able to pick her up at the airport, I figured that she’d probably appreciate having a quiet house so she could have time to decompress after a long flight and not have to make conversation right away. Mark had some kind of bug that he couldn’t shake, though, and felt so lousy that morning that he called in sick to work – but he was willing to pick Bron up, which we figured would be a nice surprise. <br /><br />I, in the meantime, was also coming down with something but my contract was such that there was no one to replace me if I didn’t show up and I was stressed out about wasting the little time I had left with my low readers, so I hooked up with my carpool and went to school. This was what is known in some circles as The Wrong Decision, because within minutes of arriving at school, the full flu kicked in and I was so disgustingly sneezy and wretched that I couldn’t go near the kids – I had to call Mark, who was just finding Bron at the airport, and apologetically ask him, with his flu, and Bronwyn, coming off about 30 hours of travelling, to come pick me up in Mareeba, about two hours round-trip through the jungle and the tablelands. <br /><br />They came, which Bron good-naturedly claimed was an ideal way for her to immediately see some of Cairns, and just after we detoured to show her the golf course kangaroos, something kicked out in the car and we had to find a mechanic. One group was too busy, another guy couldn’t do it... We finally found someone who agreed to fix it up (the car was firing on three cylinders, in case that means anything to any of you) and so we wandered around Mareeba to find lunch while we waited. We sat in a veterans’ club, listening to the whir of the pokies behind us, all three of us fighting the dead exhaustion of either jet lag, flu symptoms or the anti-flu drugs that stop the sneezing but make you too tired to function. Whoop! <br /><br />Back out into the sticky, hot afternoon, over to the patched-up car and back down the range towards home, at exactly the same time as my carpool was leaving school – with me slouching down in my seat in case anyone saw me and thought I’d just been playing hooky to hang out with my friend. <br /><br />Welcome to Cairns, Bronwyn! Aren’t you glad we saved you from having to take a cab?!<br /><br />After that things got back on track, though, and we did all sorts of fun activities. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib2vYoCVQ3fYzRU4aa9jHkrI0-ExWnWUmUF2niDuG4JU63GcoF7IZweF2Xj3mEWPxJeDE8MP-v40pp70yE6EUQrvpBQbogo614B-nOLQvGTSnK8z0RzN-JnZ-qhm08baDZ6cZtZvDvNWI/s1600/18+-+Rainy+syrail2+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib2vYoCVQ3fYzRU4aa9jHkrI0-ExWnWUmUF2niDuG4JU63GcoF7IZweF2Xj3mEWPxJeDE8MP-v40pp70yE6EUQrvpBQbogo614B-nOLQvGTSnK8z0RzN-JnZ-qhm08baDZ6cZtZvDvNWI/s320/18+-+Rainy+syrail2+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524823629126849842" /></a><br />Bron loves the water as much as I do so I finally had a river buddy – it’s always too cold for Mark. We’ve had dim-sum (which they call “yum-cha” here – what’s that all about?), gone on the skyrail (in the rain), visited animal parks, hiked and sweated, gone to see movies, experienced the Cairns festival, parade and all (I almost got run over by the Pride float), eaten lots of delicious food (if you see Bronwyn, ask her to make you her chocolate ginger cake and change your life) and watched a lot of X-Factor. Bronwyn’s in Sydney right now, having driven down the coast from Brisbane, and she’ll be back up with us before she leaves in November. The problem with having a friend from home is that now I realize how much is missing for me in Cairns and have spiralled into an existential crisis, surely not unconnected to my imminent 30th birthday; I’ll have to make the most of Brony when she comes back, for as long as I have her. How many board game nights can I impose on her without threatening our friendship?<br /><br />FITNESS<br /><br />When we moved in, we had a lovely couple living across from us, Jay and Neil. (The bread man moved in when they left.) They are extremely fit – Neil looks like a fitness club poster – and are both police officers, or at least were both police officers but they hate it so much that they’re shifting into other fields. Neil works at a fitness club and is in the army reserves, Jay runs every day... Nice to chat with them in the pool but maybe not so much our perfect hiking friends, you know? <br /><br />One day Mark noticed that Neil had tennis rackets in the car; we mentioned it to them and they were relieved, since Neil gets frustrated having to slow down his game to match Jay’s lack of skill, so breaking off into two games would be the best thing for them... Which means that all of a sudden, I was involved in these big tennis plans. To my great relief, it kept not working out – with scheduling problems and the consistently wet weather – but a few weeks ago it was on and unavoidable and I was dreaming of humiliation and defeat on the tennis court on a nightly basis. <br /><br />Let me tell you, though, it turns out I’m not so bad. Or, at least, when Jay said she really can’t play tennis, she wasn’t being modest. I think I may have some kind of genetic thing – I was trying to channel my racquet-sport-champion dad – and while I am no Venus Williams, I held my own. On the other hand, while Mark and Neil were grunting and sweating and pulling muscles all over the place, Jay and I were volleying the ball around and chatting, like a more physical version of sitting down for coffee. We talked about the good restaurants we’ve found in the city, uni programs, visas, jobs, my mom’s visit... Tennis is fun! And we did play a doubles game for the last ten minutes, though Jay is so all over the place that it was mostly just trying to keep the ball in play. I managed to place a couple of excellent balls and briefly decided that I should really take lessons and become a tennis player, but when they all laughed at the “funny” “joke” I had just made, I realized that being able to approximately hold my own in a friendly doubles game does not a secretly gifted tennis player make. Venus can breathe easy for now. <br /><br />The big new thing is that I’ve started running. Well, jogging. Bronwyn and I followed the couch-to-5k program (courtesy of Jill – thanks!), which starts with a little bit of running and lots of walking and then slowly phases out the walking – I’m at 25 minutes of running now and while it’s not like I love it, per se, it feels pretty good and I’m really proud of the fact that it’s happening at all. Bron’s been keeping up while she travels; she was happy to do some running somewhere less humid and miserable than Cairns, which means that if I just manage to keep it up, some day, somewhere else, I could actually really enjoy it. I only go after the sun’s gone down, the problem being that I swallow about one bug per three minutes, but now that I’ve hooked up one of those cool kid arm bands for my i-pod, at least I have something to listen to other than the bats flying terrifyingly over my head. Which brings me to:<br /><br />FAUNA<br /><br />Once, Bronwyn and I passed under a tree just as a bat took off and flew low over our heads. The sound – how can I describe the sound? You’ll only have ever heard it in a movie, like a pterodactyl or one of those scary flying death things in Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, because in normal life, nothing is big enough to make such a huge wing flap. Except in Australia. They are like flying doom and the two of us practically jumped out of our skin – good inspiration to get you running, though; with one of those monsters flapping above my head, I’d run for days. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUbAygEtH1pjdjKKJL0ra-3MXZCiPLPVS7rzh5BQ4Ow1wo2TSTZ8r0aCS3zOsS9stRT9mzbB2U15lGhNBZpt3TvImPC8ouLlBh0mOxsZ_tBKWqbUucMAXV72V_X7lFjyetwOjcQUrPsY/s1600/Frog-mouth+in+tree,+looking+at+us+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUbAygEtH1pjdjKKJL0ra-3MXZCiPLPVS7rzh5BQ4Ow1wo2TSTZ8r0aCS3zOsS9stRT9mzbB2U15lGhNBZpt3TvImPC8ouLlBh0mOxsZ_tBKWqbUucMAXV72V_X7lFjyetwOjcQUrPsY/s320/Frog-mouth+in+tree,+looking+at+us+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524822127217065858" /></a>There’s a strange bird called a frog-mouth that we see in the wildlife parks, and a few weeks ago there was one in the tree beside our balcony! It stayed there for hours and even turned its head for a picture, which was a treat. <br /><br />Less of a treat is the big huntsman spider living on the ceiling directly above my pillow. We’ve tried to shoo it away somewhere, and it acts like it’s going along with the plan, but then it comes back. Why? I guess there are lots of mosquitoes, hovering around sucking the life out of me, but how is the spider going to get them without a web, which it can’t build on a flat ceiling? Does it just shimmy down on a string and hang there, above my sleeping head, killing bugs? Ew. <br /><br />Meanwhile, The Mystery of the Fourth Fish continues. We have a kind of zen pond at the entrance to the flat, very chic, and when we installed a real-live swamp lily pad in it, we got some goldfish to add a little pizzazz. There were already some fish in there, little black guppy-type things and one big one, but we generally ignored them – and vice versa. So I bought these four goldfish and they loved it in there, swimming around like crazy, except that the big fish kept bullying them and beating them to the food. And then one day, only three goldfish. I figured Bully ate the fourth one, Mark thought it must trapped in the filter or something, but we cleaned it out and there was nothing... Ooh, did I ever hate Bully and curse his name to the stars. I watched very carefully to make sure he left the others alone; I was ready to scoop him out and throw him in the swamp.<br /><br />Now, though, none of the other fish has disappeared, and Bully has stopped being so aggressive with the food, which makes me guiltily realize that he was just hungry, our having never fed him. (It’s too late to change his name from Bully but I say it apologetically, or with air quotation marks so he knows I’m being ironic.) So what happened to the fourth goldfish? Will we ever know? <br /><br />Just for your reference, I have included pictures of the “moat” and of the three who remain: Big Red, Jim and Talulah (with the fancy mouth). Bully’s camera-shy and I gave up trying to get him involved. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxYLx6DaFA0vbhAubwGZDIu-2HdEf_zkC6l0YmoVj0sKiN0eFTZsTpA_gCwTSNdZ6Ayys2G8KTpJC3470I4EV9PwHO7LI0O2bxuytj02DrwWgHh-II3nrn-eCmmIqJovQWiGCVj79s6A/s1600/8a+-Moat+from+behind+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxYLx6DaFA0vbhAubwGZDIu-2HdEf_zkC6l0YmoVj0sKiN0eFTZsTpA_gCwTSNdZ6Ayys2G8KTpJC3470I4EV9PwHO7LI0O2bxuytj02DrwWgHh-II3nrn-eCmmIqJovQWiGCVj79s6A/s320/8a+-Moat+from+behind+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524820802046718226" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCB9dwbGsiSlYTO9aQlouVALcmXDI34fJox_kPj0X-sIYi21a7232DwzF-30JYdM84On6wMA17A_mzVG_vgJ2YopUzO1ZvZex851aeH9sJGQfHfIppIxtBhl_ovtSdjvc9kO-18BLgfEY/s1600/8d+-+Fish+all+together.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCB9dwbGsiSlYTO9aQlouVALcmXDI34fJox_kPj0X-sIYi21a7232DwzF-30JYdM84On6wMA17A_mzVG_vgJ2YopUzO1ZvZex851aeH9sJGQfHfIppIxtBhl_ovtSdjvc9kO-18BLgfEY/s320/8d+-+Fish+all+together.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524821641207760594" /></a><br /><br />Now my horror story: it’s the middle of the night, everyone’s sleeping, and a rustling sound wakes me up. I’ve told you that there are no screens on the windows in our house, which is great for air and light and all that, but obviously means that creatures can come in, like centipedes and cane toads. Sleeping with the door closed is out of the question, though, as we will suffocate and die. <br /><br />The breeze tends to blow in and rustle the blinds, which make a clicking noise that we hear pretty constantly. This time, though, the clicking is a lot more persistent and focused. I’m sleep-confused and struggling to make sense of things but I’m absolutely sure there’s something in the room, rustling around in the corner – it’s hard to hear anything past my own terrified heartbeat, but maybe there’s a bell somewhere? And scratching sounds? I’m sitting there, paralyzed, squinting into the dark, when all of a sudden a creature jumps up on the bed. <br /><br />Now, imagine that you have just woken up into your own recurring nightmare and you’re confused and it’s dark and you’re convinced that a rat has jumped onto your bed to chew off your face – can you imagine what kind of sound you might make? I’ll tell you: a gut-wrenching scream that is so deep and loud and full of terror, I mean proper terror, that your throat will hurt for two days. And now imagine that you’re Mark, sleeping peacefully, and you are woken by such a sound – he thought that I was being murdered. I couldn’t explain what was going on – couldn’t speak – but he saw the shadow of something running off down the hall so while I shut myself into the shower, huddled and shaking, he went to slay my dragon. <br /><br />Um, it was a kitten. Which explains the bell, the curious rustling and the light pounce onto the bed – in retrospect, of course. He came back with it in his arms – poor thing all freaked out by my screaming – and we had a good laugh about it. Well, he did – I was still crying and shaking and thought I was going to throw up. I didn’t sleep soundly for a good week; I still wake up with a start about twice a night. <br /><br />All this to say: if there’s a crisis, you don’t want me around. Turns out I don’t handle fear well. <br /><br />As for joyful animal experiences, Mark and I did the koala picture thing. It was so quick and professional that I didn’t have time to get all weepy and emotional like last time, but it was just amazing. To hold the koala, you have to lace your fingers together and just stand there, no cuddling or anything; Mark is wonderful and made the sacrifice so that I could actually pat it. So fuzzy – like a teddy bear. Like a beautiful, achingly adorable Yoda teddy bear. I considered applying to work there so that I could become friends with the zoo-keepers and get to hang out with the koalas all the time. I might have to go back and do it again – maybe if I tell them I don’t need a picture, they’ll let me touch it for longer? I want a koala. Really, I want a koala. I don’t know what to do about it – such useless longing. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnsDSTangEfwJNkht0ivLc_7Q2LxgsLgQcQ2yce9bBWh-34XZo5-9mWc81X6HgP2W3QKD7AkaeyTFRvYXFhUU8SWP2e5NCexlVaSi2SwC255vIRTJR6Fff07f5wH32Ek6Fypf2kyoMmQ/s1600/Mark&Katy_Koala+(Large).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnsDSTangEfwJNkht0ivLc_7Q2LxgsLgQcQ2yce9bBWh-34XZo5-9mWc81X6HgP2W3QKD7AkaeyTFRvYXFhUU8SWP2e5NCexlVaSi2SwC255vIRTJR6Fff07f5wH32Ek6Fypf2kyoMmQ/s320/Mark&Katy_Koala+(Large).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524822971203020018" /></a><br /><br />DANGEROUS LIVING<br /><br />If I told you I got a bad motorcycle burn on my leg, you’d jump to the obvious conclusion that I was riding with Mark, right? Or at least that I bumped into Mark’s bike? Well, you’d be wrong. I dropped Bron off at a car rental place (she went and did the waterfall circuit that Mark and I have been trying to do all year! Dagnabbit!) and then was early for my carpool to work, so I went to have a hot chocolate at McDonald’s. I can only assume that the gods were punishing me for frequenting such an establishment, even if only for a time-killing breakfast drink, because when I reached into the back of the car to get my bag, my outstretched leg came into sizzling contact with the just-parked-and-still-extremely-hot motorcycle behind me and a maroon oval was seared into my upper calf. <br /><br />Now, luckily, my mom had just recently sent out a “home remedies” e-mail, including one about toothpaste on a burn, and my brother, enraged as only a health care professional can be, had replied that one must never, under any circumstances, put anything other than ice or cold water on a burn, lest the heat should be trapped and burrow deeper into the skin, creating a second- or third-degree burn where there was none. And if that’s true for sunburns, I could only imagine how true it would have to be for a big, fat, painful burn like this. I got ice from the McDonald’s, put my cold water bottle on it during the drive<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWz1hMx0wsFAtgo7DUN5pyzIrGC6K1MyWDjjJMFiPZTkJISv7hzvGbTWxsFQaekP7rpkvOyKYep9PcY4HJF2nRxqjM5KZ30d7SNh5b6F9QZQelmwEHoEugbIBcUAu0AA6ipUpec9hIvHo/s1600/Katy+burn+2+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWz1hMx0wsFAtgo7DUN5pyzIrGC6K1MyWDjjJMFiPZTkJISv7hzvGbTWxsFQaekP7rpkvOyKYep9PcY4HJF2nRxqjM5KZ30d7SNh5b6F9QZQelmwEHoEugbIBcUAu0AA6ipUpec9hIvHo/s320/Katy+burn+2+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524822561029595394" /></a> to school, and kept ice baggies on it all day, to the fascination of my students. It blistered, it looked really gross for a while – now, a few weeks later, and probably thanks to Michael’s sage advice, it’s fine. No real reason to tell you about it, other than because I like to think that you’re out there somewhere feeling a bit sorry for me. I’ve included a picture – Mark told me not to but what does he know?! I didn’t put in the gross one, or the one where you can see my hairy, chubby leg, but I wanted you to be impressed with what a big burn it was!<br /><br />MOVIE GOODNESS<br /><br />There’s a video store nearby that I never really went to because we have one right across the street. Getting a blood test for my immigration stuff, though, I happened to drive by it and noticed a sign about $1 movies. Wow, I thought, you can get old weekly movies for a dollar. Great. <br /><br />But no – it’s ever y movie! Every movie in the store is one dollar on a Tuesday! And then there are three for nine deals and two new releases for seven and whatever - deals, deals, deals. I’ve been watching five or six movies a week – yesterday I got NINE movies, which I may or may not get through. <br /><br />One dollar! Amazing! And they have Twizzlers there, too!<br /><br />WEATHER<br /><br />Well, it’s raining. Still. <br /><br /><br />Okay – that’s it! <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-62965954307403464872010-08-09T03:31:00.000-07:002010-08-16T00:57:10.865-07:00Life's A Beach: Chapter 6<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NA6bwZ_q5elA0Lh2WqfUlsh2g6iq9BEg6qFndyTe3i0LOEgcJSV5xv8aMPvMGMFdgeDVwrWReKGhOja4JhMbgevmYtqL_2KZdKnT0BFJiFDe31EKHvgnZZQVaO8icni8ck6aLRb6X9s/s1600/53+-+Katy+%26+Mom+at+Mossman%27s.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NA6bwZ_q5elA0Lh2WqfUlsh2g6iq9BEg6qFndyTe3i0LOEgcJSV5xv8aMPvMGMFdgeDVwrWReKGhOja4JhMbgevmYtqL_2KZdKnT0BFJiFDe31EKHvgnZZQVaO8icni8ck6aLRb6X9s/s320/53+-+Katy+%26+Mom+at+Mossman%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504054967260478210" /></a><br />Did you know that my mom was here? Well, she was. By now, a number of you have certainly heard how relieved she was that it’s actually pretty nice around here, with friendly people and beautiful things to see – even if it’s a kajillion miles, hours and dollars away from home – and that things are going well for Mark and me. The only problem now is that I’m really sad that she’s gone. <br /><br />Mom’s flight came into Sydney, so I flew down to meet her there. Great idea, except that I have the immune system of – well, I can’t think of a clever comparison, so suffice it to say that my immune system is crap. If I’m slightly tired, slightly cold or slightly undernourished, bam: sick. I was fighting something off the week before my flight – including chugging echinacea, zinc, vitamin C and all things orange-based – and seemed to be holding tight until a bad sleep, a super early morning flight and a freezing cold arrival in Sydney knocked me on my ass. (It’s the winter season here, which means going from a toasty 28 degrees in Cairns to only 10 and damp in Sydney; cold is a relative thing and it doesn’t matter whether or not I should have been cold, I just was.) Mom, of course, was coming off about 25 hours of travelling, so even with her considerably more robust constitution she was fighting against the odds. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFvmv96MpUbK9pTqg61NI-soLjivsnohIVZGU4iNC0zdwSashH2tCB4mES0D1rsK72oHD-NbYmjUNmg0AJnwYq1cI6gphaqZeWNyqvGUNM_g8S1vP1PWCJTczfonVD6rTwpp0dGrvvK0A/s1600/Through+gate+and+trees....jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFvmv96MpUbK9pTqg61NI-soLjivsnohIVZGU4iNC0zdwSashH2tCB4mES0D1rsK72oHD-NbYmjUNmg0AJnwYq1cI6gphaqZeWNyqvGUNM_g8S1vP1PWCJTczfonVD6rTwpp0dGrvvK0A/s320/Through+gate+and+trees....jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505909980685024226" /></a> The weather was beautifully sunny and crisp our first day and we had a great day of walking around the city, eating dim-sum, touring the ever-amazing Opera House and just having lots of good talking time, but by that evening we were both chilled and snuffly. The next morning Mom’s friend Bron picked us up to drive out into the country, where we stayed with a group of Bron’s friends and their kids for three days in a beautiful, rustic eco-lodge. Delightful people, great company, lovely kids, yummy food – too bad I was sick as a dog, sleeping it off under four blankets. I finally started to get better, just in time for Mom to succumb and crawl into bed herself... I think we really left a good impression on Bron’s friends: the two Canadians who can’t handle a bit of chill in the air. (Any of you who have heard me blow my nose can imagine how nice it must have been to have me around. So much for the peace and quiet of a mountain retreat...)<br /><br />On the way home I found myself getting super car sick and wondered if I truly was the single worst person to travel with – making Mom sit in the back so that I could stare queasily straight ahead – but it turns out that there was a major oil leak and I must have been inhaling the fumes. When the car broke down and we got towed to the nearest town, we thought it was going to be thousands of dollars in parts, plus trying to organize emergency transportation back to Sydney for our flight out the next morning. Our auto angels must have been looking out for us, though, as Bron had done exactly the right thing by immediately pulling over when the oil light went on so that after patching the hole with some kind of magic putty, the friendly, drinky, blokey-bloke mechanic sent us on our way. Crisis averted. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyFF0p8KzlN-0-bR1ylIm3WnKXbvQVYvqf5vmZFRy99qM7FuneV27-L1QUXgg7ghFMm80_qK4UhxDEW0dDtriS1pOR-x1my1hSBG2D8l3tmgntZNoC2yEgL45EAugFNoawZR-SJZJna8/s1600/5+-+Group+on+ferry.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyFF0p8KzlN-0-bR1ylIm3WnKXbvQVYvqf5vmZFRy99qM7FuneV27-L1QUXgg7ghFMm80_qK4UhxDEW0dDtriS1pOR-x1my1hSBG2D8l3tmgntZNoC2yEgL45EAugFNoawZR-SJZJna8/s320/5+-+Group+on+ferry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504059388871567170" /></a> Mom and I spent the night in the completely unglamorous Formule 1 by the airport, the easier to hop onto our flight to Townsville the next morning, where we met Mark’s family and had a really lovely week-end, including a beautiful day of walking and eating on Magnetic Island and the traditional Collins brunch at Sizzlers, where the whole lot of them – otherwise quite reasonable eaters – gorge themselves on all manner of tasty, fried foods. Mom hit it off smashingly with Mark’s parents (and the sister she met) and got to have a tour of my Townsville life, including the restaurant where I worked and the various neighbourhoods I lived in. All very exciting, at least if you’re a person’s mother. <br /><br />Our first week back in Cairns I had a grade one contract up in Mareeba, so Mom had some days to just wander around the neighbourhood and then came into school with me to meet the kids and get a sense of what it’s like to teach here, God help her. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAz-k5PEsDb1dssdU3tBoJDBUXS3LF3mWExhb9ETb3cnHdTpK1FEHTr-IHFjGhA40BlWemQDZRe6UjNTDtgS1Tpqq-enz6FLx-WlBm-KPn7PROVE7RGuVWJ6EmauNpmaWKoxF-gVZ4v98/s1600/29+-+Cool+dude+roo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAz-k5PEsDb1dssdU3tBoJDBUXS3LF3mWExhb9ETb3cnHdTpK1FEHTr-IHFjGhA40BlWemQDZRe6UjNTDtgS1Tpqq-enz6FLx-WlBm-KPn7PROVE7RGuVWJ6EmauNpmaWKoxF-gVZ4v98/s320/29+-+Cool+dude+roo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504060484312224082" /></a> (Probably much more satisfying than a day in a state school was going to the golf course with Mark to see the herd of kangaroos that lives there and just kind of hangs around while people tee off, leaning on their sides and watching golf. Very weird.) Mom also came for my last shift at my beloved day care, to meet the wonderful staff and delicious children that I’ve been talking about. Did I have a big cry? Yes, yes I did. Do I feel better about things now that a few weeks have passed? No, no I do not. Am I seriously considering a career in day care? I’m hoping that having my own kids at some point will be enough, but it might turn out that hanging out with three-year-olds is my calling. Who knew? (I knew.) <br /><br />We did all the touristy stuff, including SkyRail, beaches, village markets and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJumDxNMlBcKT25qISmL1ZxCeAnfuP3T04p6-S9i6euNHvcOIJs3Q00oFffZQPP26CpiRVp8hS1Ce0xwTJeogO-wF04h1HEhIeBcc87wDKSjCbW1vj6m1CIer_ww5M3T2NdHxbwCEIfsY/s1600/Really,+cooking!.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJumDxNMlBcKT25qISmL1ZxCeAnfuP3T04p6-S9i6euNHvcOIJs3Q00oFffZQPP26CpiRVp8hS1Ce0xwTJeogO-wF04h1HEhIeBcc87wDKSjCbW1vj6m1CIer_ww5M3T2NdHxbwCEIfsY/s320/Really,+cooking!.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504067930585861234" /></a> animal parks. I even suddenly got into necklaces – amazing! First cooking, now jewellery! (I haven’t managed to actually wear any yet because I still don’t really like them, but owning them is a first step, I think.) And of course we cooed over all the adorable baby things, imagining our new little grandbaby/niece/nephew wearing one-piece kangaroo pyjamas while cuddling a stuffed kookaburra. Everything’s better when there’s a new baby involved, isn’t it? (For those of you who didn’t know yet, Michael and Lindsay are having a baby! Obviously there are no words to describe the love bursting at the seams of my long-distance heart.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4jWVDWYZO8lF0ZtGDslUHjADFVU9sM73LurPp39OpOsGcacVPX60EZjSfWNpo-XRUdmgPhvfu-MjQvrmmimD9ySK7DdRohE1koxML7JJQdlPafpNN27VIXBPQJXIxoQ_5mWxFgbAEPQ/s1600/15+-+Honey+in+gardens.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4jWVDWYZO8lF0ZtGDslUHjADFVU9sM73LurPp39OpOsGcacVPX60EZjSfWNpo-XRUdmgPhvfu-MjQvrmmimD9ySK7DdRohE1koxML7JJQdlPafpNN27VIXBPQJXIxoQ_5mWxFgbAEPQ/s320/15+-+Honey+in+gardens.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504092042880169474" /></a> Some things were the way I had described - like the ever-lovely Botanical Gardens, pictured here - and others were completely off the mark, usually because of the weather. The beautiful, lush, green drive up the coast to Port Douglas was pretty dry and yellow; the rushing cascades and waterfalls were mostly just trickles. The beach was crazy, too: usually, the reef blocks the waves and the water is like glass, slightly undulating in the breeze but otherwise completely calm. Here, it was so windy and choppy that the life guard actually took his board out to surf in the waves! Unprecedented!<br /><br />Unfortunately, the crappy weather sometimes ruined our plans. Mark and I have been planning to do the waterfall circuit since we got here last year; we even bought a tent that we haven’t used once. So we booked some rooms in a lodge and planned this whole tour of Paronella Park and the waterfall circuit to do with Mom, but only got as far as the first stop, Babinda Boulders, where it was so rainy, cold and completely grey that we couldn’t imagine slogging through a whole miserable week-end of it and decided to just go back home and watch the rest of “Glee.” The waterfall circuit: foiled again!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3hcI3d3uVE0DeP-2cwMdl5XXKQsFp4Nm5FkvignlcoY9va2dwm-aZjbuvSq-sHtHkcPNOEXU7QucZQZlxPci2yYcCgwbHFuQWL4eaiteBbzAtP0UIFfl05pAbQji3JLkRVk4X3Dg6MU/s1600/9+-+Mark+%26+Honey+on+rock.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3hcI3d3uVE0DeP-2cwMdl5XXKQsFp4Nm5FkvignlcoY9va2dwm-aZjbuvSq-sHtHkcPNOEXU7QucZQZlxPci2yYcCgwbHFuQWL4eaiteBbzAtP0UIFfl05pAbQji3JLkRVk4X3Dg6MU/s320/9+-+Mark+%26+Honey+on+rock.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504094395908006642" /></a><br />(Mark & I took Mom to our beloved Stoney Creek, which was still peaceful, beautiful and perfect, but which doesn't seem that great in photos. But don't Mark & Honey look cute?!)<br /><br />One thing that was even better this time was the animal place where we fed kangaroos and saw a cassowary up-close (rather than hiding in its corner like last time.) My <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxK8GRyjoq55zTHw1f8CM2mjhNSmX65CyJcYvqa7xD5g2FGJzGy6n3DJBSDEmskolxvbNjw0nA3thpLsvJPN-bSt_1xvvnhgbiRutJaTb6saKFgmpRBdu5mSsGD0EyGzVuk4t27o1Ow8/s1600/34+-+Mark+chatting+up+roo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxK8GRyjoq55zTHw1f8CM2mjhNSmX65CyJcYvqa7xD5g2FGJzGy6n3DJBSDEmskolxvbNjw0nA3thpLsvJPN-bSt_1xvvnhgbiRutJaTb6saKFgmpRBdu5mSsGD0EyGzVuk4t27o1Ow8/s320/34+-+Mark+chatting+up+roo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504062678944268530" /></a>desperate favourite is the koala, of course, and just staring at it is usually enough, but this time we watched the photo session, where people stand there and the guy places the koala in their arms for a picture. I don’t know what it is about them, but I find them overwhelming and was completely in tears – like, making people uncomfortable kind of tears – just from being so near to them and thinking about how close to extinction they are. They don’t like being in people’s arms so I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56wjqya4WDAgQlh71AiQny288qMbRT3rVHoeKWL3YA5MC4QlqdZl7zyZITEBNaLdjfzsCzp5pPWD0c5YHbGMtBtzfoLuLjGHiKyjCL69BTCZl_dJL09QLRNmENmCyOhsxAr7WLpvhQng/s1600/32+-+Honey+patting.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56wjqya4WDAgQlh71AiQny288qMbRT3rVHoeKWL3YA5MC4QlqdZl7zyZITEBNaLdjfzsCzp5pPWD0c5YHbGMtBtzfoLuLjGHiKyjCL69BTCZl_dJL09QLRNmENmCyOhsxAr7WLpvhQng/s320/32+-+Honey+patting.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504061572061386402" /></a> feel morally torn between not wanting to make them unhappy and really wanting to hold a koala before I die. You know? I think next time I’ll have to just go for it – unless the crazy crying really freaks koalas out; then I’ll just stick to patting the snake. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipt8JFfRLQ1rAxyQ71vw_qPL4HX-xjoekkIgpXxgV3SRuBlDJouPb_5w5udheUu6ACMdmequ-G-fupY44eGXiq6VM2QR8dPsC1og6mXSRhidZIU3AdtNmV2opgx16zyte8mt8ZtdRztJ0/s1600/43+-+Guide+with+koala.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipt8JFfRLQ1rAxyQ71vw_qPL4HX-xjoekkIgpXxgV3SRuBlDJouPb_5w5udheUu6ACMdmequ-G-fupY44eGXiq6VM2QR8dPsC1og6mXSRhidZIU3AdtNmV2opgx16zyte8mt8ZtdRztJ0/s320/43+-+Guide+with+koala.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504063814701538658" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YIXR9nu-HIXybep83fROUtlGzF2o8pr1-CyKIIEdYshk4k0kHAw-iTQ31Fserk0RHAsfX9jxcXs3kMMVy7UUPsblDpREDcm5fqjsgT0gkVV0pI09csUq6A5sZrNlJ55L167za4WHRyg/s1600/21+-+Wallaby+boss.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YIXR9nu-HIXybep83fROUtlGzF2o8pr1-CyKIIEdYshk4k0kHAw-iTQ31Fserk0RHAsfX9jxcXs3kMMVy7UUPsblDpREDcm5fqjsgT0gkVV0pI09csUq6A5sZrNlJ55L167za4WHRyg/s320/21+-+Wallaby+boss.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504086654362167954" /></a> On Mom’s last day here we walked up to the neighbourhood field where a bunch of wallabies live. Stupidly, we brought the rest of our kangaroo food from the animal place. Why would we think this was a good idea? I suspected the wallabies themselves would never let us get close enough to reach the food, since they’re quick to hop away, and that was fine. But when I scattered the pellets in their general direction, one of the [very large] horses that grazes with them made a beeline towards me, apparently hungry for some roo snacks. That’s fine, nice horsey, say hello, eat the pellets, off you go. Except that he got really weird: even after he’d eaten everything I had for him to eat, he wouldn’t let me leave. When I’d try to walk away, he’d walk around me and kind of block me in. Strange behaviour, borderline scary – I’m not a horse person and don’t know how to be authoritative around them – but I figured I’d just wait until he was satisfied that there was really nothing more for him in our encounter and when he left it alone, I’d leave. Except that another horse then came towards us and blocked me in on the other side and I seriously wondered if I was being ambushed and if my mother’s last day in Cairns would have her witnessing me getting kicked in the head by some horse in a field. In the end, I threw the plastic container as far away from me as I could, the horses went after it and Mom and I high-tailed it out of there. Moral of the story: don’t go wandering up to large animals you don’t know with roo pellets in your pocket. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETfsC7adhDYWZGwatPNOqU6u54QxAPf022PQsLQ8EnDbAzllsfdZTABgtsP9pKBzDqune-edHsGYh2rZdf-rQgzWih0S1qnFFY_PJjPXB6-TbEUYBlAgWLCZQcyfJy9DRzHZMM2F2cjw/s1600/22+-+So+many+wallabies!.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETfsC7adhDYWZGwatPNOqU6u54QxAPf022PQsLQ8EnDbAzllsfdZTABgtsP9pKBzDqune-edHsGYh2rZdf-rQgzWih0S1qnFFY_PJjPXB6-TbEUYBlAgWLCZQcyfJy9DRzHZMM2F2cjw/s320/22+-+So+many+wallabies!.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504088916715721250" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXihnZ1deef9LTpol80uWayS-JPGp0DYufR-xVXWR8N_HazQWqNoEwqyatokRVjNcSZs-RBKRIH6mowdNWr-x8kBon07fqWNyS-qTwNux5TbfkIkMItsspnORwPRzq7QHHOrBFxds8dA/s1600/Huge+cricket!.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXihnZ1deef9LTpol80uWayS-JPGp0DYufR-xVXWR8N_HazQWqNoEwqyatokRVjNcSZs-RBKRIH6mowdNWr-x8kBon07fqWNyS-qTwNux5TbfkIkMItsspnORwPRzq7QHHOrBFxds8dA/s320/Huge+cricket!.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504066895567037218" /></a> That night, it was Mom’s turn to be scared of the local fauna. I was stupid enough to point out to her the giant cricket that was sitting on the curtain rod above the door – again, why would I do that? She hates cockroaches and big flying things, so why didn’t I just leave it? Obviously, once she’d seen it there was no way she was going to fall asleep until it was out of the house or dead. (There’s a rat living in the tree beside our balcony and my full-body terror at the thought of it coming into the house is severe enough to keep me awake in night panics; I pass no judgment on Mom and her giant-cricket phobia.) I tried shooing it out with a broom but that just made it flap around me in a panic – now, I’m not fussed about crickets but nobody wants one of these things flying into their face. As the chance of my quietly directing it out of the house became increasingly remote, I started trying to just whack it to death – which wasn’t so nice for our neighbours, or for Mark, trying to sleep just under where I was smashing the floor with a broom at eight-second intervals. The more I missed, the more panicky the cricket, the more frantic my mother and the more hysterically giggly I became. Shoving furniture around, trying to corner it... It was a total farce but eventually worked, with the poor thing ending up crunched under Mom’s sturdy sneaker (wielded by me, obviously.) Moral of the story: if you see a sausage-sized cricket sitting quietly and peacefully in your house just before bed time, don’t tell your mother. <br /><br />(On the other hand, another cricket – a little one this time – was trapped in the house yesterday and there was no way we could sleep until we found it (tucked into my guitar case!) and tossed it outside. How can something so small make such an outrageously big noise?)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJU8W-JdnD6c6Dc_lLSnXk9K4cGgbB6zuT3UIBcvSVvogUNqC8iSqhtY9rVvKf1bKtysD2rBMZm0I0EP4RDhdQ9qfOMQCloWUgiC16rbxHAqa_wr7cNUDOjWEFK67vQRpY5ulWJ_jA6A/s1600/3+-+Honey+%26+Katy+at+Darling+Harbour.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJU8W-JdnD6c6Dc_lLSnXk9K4cGgbB6zuT3UIBcvSVvogUNqC8iSqhtY9rVvKf1bKtysD2rBMZm0I0EP4RDhdQ9qfOMQCloWUgiC16rbxHAqa_wr7cNUDOjWEFK67vQRpY5ulWJ_jA6A/s320/3+-+Honey+%26+Katy+at+Darling+Harbour.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504096185799105778" /></a><br />The next morning, a tearful farewell at the airport. That part never gets any better and I don’t wish living far from your family on anyone who loves their family. Thanks for a lovely visit, Mom, and here’s hoping that the next one isn’t such a bloody long plane ride away. <br /><br />Otherwise, Mark and I have officially celebrated our two-year anniversary. Huzzah! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD1WQ64OI3WCiI734Vc1ZX-byzZq150JS72deFJrF19dSCz7erXXtJCrqQmnVdGvIr5a38OEUOYaIjZOHZ1y4dMhBEeIqyGdI55angHMFy06QN5-sunhdfeDPy30zYj4ysamZ2fX5k0U/s1600/54+-+Mark+%26+Katy+at+Mossman%27s.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD1WQ64OI3WCiI734Vc1ZX-byzZq150JS72deFJrF19dSCz7erXXtJCrqQmnVdGvIr5a38OEUOYaIjZOHZ1y4dMhBEeIqyGdI55angHMFy06QN5-sunhdfeDPy30zYj4ysamZ2fX5k0U/s320/54+-+Mark+%26+Katy+at+Mossman%27s.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504064819311395250" /></a> We went for dinner and a magic show, anticipating corny fun but finding instead the single most entertaining magic show in our collective history. Sam Powers: our new household hero. <br /><br />We also finally went up to do some camping at the famously beautiful Cape Tribulation – using the tent that we bought in December, you remember – only to discover that private camp sites are ridiculously expensive and fill up quickly, public ones require pre-booking (or on-the-spot booking, except when their computer systems are down, like when we called), lovely little lodges are booked months in advance, there’s nothing to do in the general area other than go to the beach, which is itself just a big, long beach and not really worth driving all the way up there for.... Right. So we turned around and drove home. Cape Trib: check!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQESYgF4XWQJYESXE2UAZf9ypNQn-ZLOwhKQUEeQRDOOPggCnEW4R-wBGRrvhs9cGKnPisPEU6xow7RudcWlSfukv2gOdmuZe67lOjCAs9bWX5J4RBCGF2C4CqAVKWIER5ZMIN8eEWXg0/s1600/Mark+on+the+Concubine+with+muscles.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQESYgF4XWQJYESXE2UAZf9ypNQn-ZLOwhKQUEeQRDOOPggCnEW4R-wBGRrvhs9cGKnPisPEU6xow7RudcWlSfukv2gOdmuZe67lOjCAs9bWX5J4RBCGF2C4CqAVKWIER5ZMIN8eEWXg0/s320/Mark+on+the+Concubine+with+muscles.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504090362977217026" /></a> Major household news is that Mark, looking to be more independent at work and not have to rely on a carpool (and end up missing classes or even exams when the carpool can’t be bothered leaving on time), has bought a motorcycle, which I named "The Concubine" for obvious reasons. It’s blue. <br /><br />In the meantime, my bloody Yaris lease has finally been taken over. Phew. <br /><br />Our inconsiderate neighbours suddenly disappeared one day and a very nice father and daughter have moved in instead. She goes to the neighbourhood school and I see her there sometimes when I’m teaching, so I have to be careful about what I say and do around the house... Other than that, it’s a relief to have quiet, clean, normal people sharing the neighbourhood. No more blasting music or other confrontational behaviour will be needed, I dare say.<br /><br />The neighbour we would like to have stay, on the other hand, is moving. Johnny drives a bread truck down to Townsville a few times a week and always brings us left-over loaves of delicious multi-grain bread. The job is almost over anyway, so it probably wouldn’t have lasted, but it’s going to be hard to go back to actually buying loaves of bread like every other loser in the grocery store after such an extended period of having it delivered for free to our door every week. Life is hard, you know? Really. <br /><br />I have a contract for three days a week doing “intervention,” which is basically remedial work with kids whose reading levels are so low that I could just sit and cry at the thought of what their futures will hold. We’re talking about non-ESL ten-year-olds who don’t know the alphabet. I don’t know how much I can really help in the six weeks until my visa restrictions kick in and I have to stop working at state schools, but I guess anything is better than nothing. Other than that, I’m doing relief work and trying to figure out what to do in September when I have to find a new employer. Mark is busy and stressed with a full-time course load on top of his full-time job, but this is the worst month and then it will be a little more relaxed. And, of course, there’s an MBA at the end of the tunnel, and he’s in the process of looking at follow-up job possibilities. Perth was thrown on the table this evening – look out! Who knows what will happen next. <br /><br />Stay tuned to find out!<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-9269871489198137322010-05-29T06:31:00.000-07:002010-05-29T06:56:14.114-07:00Life's a Beach: Chapter FiveLet’s tell it like it is: I tend towards the chubbier end of the body spectrum. I don’t actually eat fast food or greasy snacks, but am most definitely one of those unlucky bastards who can gain weight just by <em>imagining </em>how good some Lindt chocolate would taste right now – and, let’s be frank, I don’t always stop at just imagining. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will always have an exaggerated appreciation of sweet, yummy foods, but I try not to overdo it; now that they’ve started selling my beloved Milka Swiss chocolate at K-Mart <em>and</em> the grocery store, I need all the help I can get to stay on track. Obvious solution: get on the bike. <br /><br />Not so obvious, though; Cairns throws a lot of curve balls at you when you’re trying to convince yourself that bike is better than car. For the most part, I’ve overcome whatever challenges have come my way: bloody hot? Bring a water bottle. Don’t want tan lines? Wear a tube top. Too sweaty when you get there? Pack a shower kit and change of clothes. Shower pack too big? Get a basket. Raining too much? Take some plastic bags. Highway too aggressive? Take the back paths. Horrifying dead things all over the back paths? Um... don’t ever get on your bike again. <br /><br />Want to hear about it? Wednesday I rode out to do some grocery shopping (and to buy new tweezers, much to my dismay – nothing worse than getting used to new tweezers) and I took the back paths, which I had recently discovered will get me all the way to the shopping centre and thus spare me having to deal with freeway traffic whizzing past. Within five minutes I passed my first dead kangaroo, lying half over the bike path – sad, but freshly enough dead that there wasn’t any smell. Flies, but whatever. I felt a bit bummed out, a little shaken, but was ready to move on. Five minutes later, kangaroo number two: definitely not fresh, hugely smelly (which explained the desperate shutting of windows whenever we drove by that spot on the highway), covered in dark fuzz and pretty much melted into the pavement. Yuck, right? Who wants to see a kangaroo like that? <br /><br />On the way back, I decided to go the long way so that I wouldn’t have to ride by these awful sites/sights (/smells!) again. The long way is not only long but also very hilly, keeping in mind that I was carrying heavy groceries and riding under the one o’clock tropical sun. All to avoid some dead kangaroos. And what did I get for my trouble? Rats! Two of them! Giant, horrible, bloated, dead bush rats – which are roughly the size of beavers – rotting by the side of the road. I figured that people were exaggerating when they talked about how hideous these things are, but I was wrong, my friends. (And when I say “people,” I mean “the people I work with,” since these repulsive beasts apparently hang out in the kiddie bike shed and their pee made Todd hospital sick – needless to say, I’m never going near the kiddie bike shed again.) I think you’re all pretty clear by now on how I feel about rodents in general and rats in particular, so you can imagine my state by the time I got home and I think I deserve a big pat on the back for even leaving the house again, not to mention getting back on the bloody bike. <br /><br />Which I did yesterday, riding back from dropping the car off at the mechanic’s. Not about to go the long way, rats and all, so I figured I could handle the kangaroos, since at least this time I'd be prepared. Just hold my breath, right? Except that from this side, I could see the thing’s petrified, leathery face, a horrifying death mask that would fit right into pretty much any nightmare I can imagine. I was so overwhelmed that I had to stop my bike and vomit – literally, vomit – on the side of the path. (Which means that whoever goes by next will have to deal with my vomit <em>and </em>the nightmare roo... Sorry, mate.) I obviously decided that I would skip back over to the highway rather than riding past the second carcass, but before I had a chance to do that, something caught my eye and I looked up to see one of those monster bats I hate so much hanging over my head, having been electrified on, and trapped in, the wires, facing down toward me with its wings spread out behind it. <br /><br />I mean, seriously? Two dead kangaroos, two dead giant rats, one dead giant bat. What the fark is going on? Is this some kind of biblical shit? A test? Am I a modern-day Job? Would <em>you </em>stay in this country? <br /><br />Guess how well I’ve been sleeping these past few days. <br /><br />Luckily I have the weekly pre-natal class to keep me feeling positive about life. And good thing I’m there, since I’m the only person in the room who isn’t completely freaked out, other than the midwife teaching the class. The pregnant women are getting increasingly stressed out as they imagine the things they see in those pictures actually happening to them in a few months, while their partners just sit there in a trance, slightly green, looking really uncomfortable every time a picture has blood in it. Or at least, they did when they were there; this week was the first of however many State of Origin footie games – where everyone plays for their home state team – so half of the men didn’t show up for the class and three more left early to be home in time for the game. When I got home Mark and I played a game called “Guess How Katy Would Feel If Mark Chose Rugby Over A Pre-Natal Class.” It was great fun. <br /><br />Meanwhile, in one of the rare moments when I was not weeping over some birth picture or other, I realized that it’s time for me to start up a new project. You already know about Mark’s and my Know More Stuff project, and of course there’s the lifelong Eat Less Chocolate project and the increasingly futile Stop Picking At Your Bloody Eyebrows project, both in full swing. But here’s one that I’ve only recently put my finger on: the If You Don’t Know What You’re Talking About, Just Shut Up project, otherwise known as project Stop And Think. <br /><br />The key to IYDKWYTA,JSU was when Jo the midwife was talking about different hormones that go through women’s bodies and either help or hinder the labour process. There’s Oxytocin, the happy hormone, there are endorphins – all helping loosen up and relax so that gravity can do its job. And then there’s a bad one, since it makes us tense up and can be counter-productive during labour. Does anybody know this hormone? It makes us anxious... It starts with “a”... What I <em>should</em> have done was either decide that I didn’t know what she was after and shut up, or at least give myself a few seconds to figure out that the only “a” hormone I can think of is adrenaline, which makes sense because a rush of that would definitely un-relax you. What I <em>chose </em>to do was to just play word association - “a” and a frowny-face drawing on the board - and shout “anxiety!” Of course – everyone’s favourite hormone, anxiety. <br /><br />You know? Just shut up. Stop and think for a second. I thought back to last week when Mark and I were watching a show about the U.S.S.R. and they said something about Lenin’s successor as Russian president. I could have just let them finish their sentence, right? Isn’t that what people do, just shut up and listen? Instead, I shouted out: Putin! As in, Vladimir. The no-shirt-in-a-canoe guy. If I stopped for even a second, would I really think that Putin came after Lenin? No, I would not. If I stopped for a few seconds, would I have sorted through my brain fuzz and pulled out “Stalin”? Yes, I would. Very probably. Or at least maybe. But instead, through basic word association (Russia... president...) and this apparent need to show off, it was “Putin!” <br /><br />These are only two of many examples that are coming back to me in increasingly humiliating waves. Bronwyn said that I’m a smarty-pants, which I had never realized about myself but can no longer deny in the face of such damning evidence. Though that’s really the lesser problem; at least if I called out something even vaguely accurate, I could be smug and self-satisfied, a <em>smart </em>smarty-pants. My thing is to just call out the first word I think of, which is pretty much always completely off the mark. An <em>idiot </em>smarty-pants. <br /><br />“The largest planet in the solar system,” – Pluto! – “Jupiter is 2.5 times larger than all the other planets combined.” Ah yes, Jupiter. Of course.<br /><br />“The bone in the upper arm, called” – femur! The femur! – “the humerus, runs from the shoulder to the elbow.” Oh, you said the upper <em>arm</em>. The humerus, obviously. <br /><br />So it’s officially on: If You Don’t Know What You’re Talking About, Just Shut Up. We’ll see how I go. <br /><br />Then there’s something that I’ve been thinking about, with all this talk about war (Know More Stuff! It’s working!), and that started on Anzac Day. (That’s the Australia/New Zealand Army Corps and it’s like a second Remembrance Day, since they do that one too.) <br /><br />*Incidentally, I didn’t realize it was coming up and had been planning to make the delicious Anzac cookies for which I had just acquired a recipe, only to discover that there was not a package of coconut or rolled oats to be found anywhere in the Greater Cairns Area – aha! Anzac Day is upon us! (I think it’s really nice that people actually do make Anzac cookies on Anzac Day.) <br /><br />There was a sunrise service at the beach and Mark suggested we hop on our bikes and go. (Of course, it’s a whole different story when the alarm clock actually goes off at 5:20 am and it’s drizzling and dark outside... I kicked up a real fuss until we took the car, couldn’t find parking and pretty much had to walk the whole way anyway, and of course it stopped raining so I was a big fat whiner for nothing.) Even before we got close enough to hear anything, I was moved by how many people had turned up. I was pretty weepy through “In Flanders Fields,” struggled through the raw and scratchily-played Last Post and completely lost it when some old men in uniforms laid the first wreath. I thought that having a blatantly Jesus-based prayer was a bit weird but none of my business, but I have a real bone to pick with whoever thought it would be a good idea to play a jungle-dance version of the National Anthem. I mean, if there’s ever a time for the solemn, <em>anthemic </em>version of the anthem, it’s at a war memorial. This one made me want to grab my Zumba rhythm sticks and get down – not a very dignified end to the service.<br /><br />Now here’s what I’ve been thinking about. The send-off was a parade up and down the esplanade: soldiers, veterans, marines, school kids, cadets... Wait a second, school kids? What are they doing there? What are we paying them our respect for, exactly? But then, I guess they’re what the whole thing is about, right? People fight in wars because they want things to be better for their children. When I thought about it that way, the children in the parade represented everything hopeful and bright about the world, rather than the little monsters who make my life as a relief teacher miserable. But then that train of thought got me to thinking: is that why kids are the way they are now? Is bad behaviour and a complete lack of respect the result of growing up without war? Maybe our generations are just spoiled and have never had to think about our place in the world, not to mention making sacrifices for it. Maybe a little bit of hardship would do today’s kids some good. Even if that’s a completely simplified way of looking at it – there are obviously generational shifts and new ideas in education and parenting and so on – couldn’t that be part of what’s going on? Am I a horrible person for thinking like that? Should I just hand over my teaching license? Please share your thoughts. <br /><br />Then there’s my own personal war against the next-door neighbours. They have loud, late nights on a regular basis. They watch crappy machine-gun movies that keep me awake and give me panic attacks. They smoke on the balcony – even though they have awful, hacking coughs that would make any sane person pay any amount of money for any product to help them quit – and it comes into our house. They get obsessed with a certain song and play it on repeat for literally hours at a time – right now it’s k.d. Lang’s “Hallelujah,” which I didn’t like in the first place and can’t stand now that I’ve heard it forty times. <br /><br />But the last straw was the other day when they got some new speakers. I assume that’s what happened because they kept blasting music for a few seconds, then turning it down, then back up, etc. I figured that was the deal with new speakers and I could wait it out, but then they settled on a volume (earsplitting) and genre (saxophone jazz from hell) and after a few songs, deciding that letting the air out of their tires would be passive-aggressive, I chose to be more direct: I blasted Maria Callas singing “O Mio Babbino Caro,” letting it play through to the end even though they had long since turned theirs off. It was actually quite thrilling – this is rough and tough North Queensland, don’t forget, and I wondered if I was going to get punched in the face next time I left the house – but nothing’s come of it and so far the volume has stayed somewhere closer to a reasonable level. Since they seem to understand this kind of communication, I’m trying to think of something that I could blow into their house next time they smoke into ours... Again, please share your thoughts. <br /><br />I will leave you with two recent examples of four-year-old logic that I like so much:<br /><br />1. Ellie has let Shaquanna wear her bracelet for the afternoon. <br />“Don’t forget to get it back when your mom comes to pick you up.”<br />“I won’t. One time, I woke up and I remembered that I had swimming.”<br /><br />2. Ellie again, playing with little plastic jumping frogs, three of which are broken. So how many are still good? Ellie counts.<br />“Seven. And my brother’s seven, so there you go!” <br /><br /><br />Later skaters.<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-53042130031431745142010-05-19T19:28:00.000-07:002010-05-20T03:25:57.056-07:00Life's a Beach, Chapter FourI recently discovered that very close friends and family members have no idea what’s going on in my life – like, no idea – and it turns out that it’s been three months since I last wrote! Ay, caramba! The problem with that kind of lapse is that so many stories build up that the prospect of sitting down to write an update becomes overwhelming and I keep putting it off. <br /><br />So. I’ve decided to forget about trying for any kind of linear progression or entertainment value and just give you some news. Hopefully this will be a short one and then in a few days I might feel like doing another short one and I’ll work myself out of the habit of writing a novella each time – especially considering how many of you are reading on some hand-sized device or other; I can imagine how miserable it would be to get an epic e-mail on one of those. <br /><br />Here’s what’s happening in my life right now:<br /><br />WORK<br /><br />Yes, I’ve been doing some supply teaching, but let me tell you, it isn’t the best. The schools around here are pretty rough and I’m doing a lot of “be careful what you wish for” thinking. What if I got a full-time teaching job? How miserable would I be? How important is quality of life compared to regular income? Now, obviously, some of the things that make supply teaching so completely crap would be better with a regular class, but most of the problems would be the same – like the kid who reached up and snapped off a ceiling fan – and then I’d be stuck. Food for thought. <br /><br />Luckily – and really, I think I was so lucky to find this particular job at this particular location – most of my working hours are in a day care down the street that fills me with such joy and squishy love that Mark’s been checking my pill pack to make sure I don’t just throw caution to the wind and go through with making babies of my own. (I guess it’s fair that he should at least be consulted in these matters...) After the stress of classroom management and the complete lack of having-a-good-time-with-kids that school provides – other than one music teacher gig where I just played the guitar with them all day – it’s so nice to show up at the day care and have all this one-on-one time with bright, funny, beautiful children. <br /><br />At school, if a kid has a big long story to tell you about where he or she went fishing, you can only listen to so much before you have to get back on track with the lesson or before one of the psychopathic kids in the class breaks or throws something and you have to cut the fishing story off and deal with it. At day care, you just listen until the story’s finished. Then the child, having been properly listened to, can wander off and find something else to do and you can go hear someone else’s hilarious story: everybody wins. <br /><br />I love the curiosity that kids have, as they figure out how things work. Endless how-come discussions are generated simply by my wearing a different colour shirt than usual or heading over to return a library book on my break. If ever I mention that my mom’s birthday is in January too, they freak out at the idea that I, ancient as I am, have a mommy just like they do. They ask me if I have boobies, if I brush my teeth, if I’ll come to their house and watch Transformers. Also, little kids are just really excited about pretty much everything. If the new sand in the sand pit had them all losing their minds, you can imagine how they reacted to the Easter Bunny passing through the centre and leaving paw prints along the path. I get to play make-believe all day – like yesterday with Maddy, the smartest little 2-year-old (her mom’s Canadian – I’m just saying) who found out about how birds keep their eggs warm and spent the rest of the day roosting. I covered for her when she went in for nap time, but she didn’t want me to do it for too long, since my bottom is so much bigger than hers and she didn’t want her little chicks to overheat... See? Even the hurtful things that kids say are good fun. (Like Musou, who complains about my prickly legs and now checks them before he’ll sit on my lap for a story.)<br /><br />Then, of course, there’s all the time spent cuddling them and patting them to sleep – try spending hours at a time with a little ten-month-old angel snuggling into your neck and see if your inner clock doesn’t go into overdrive! I went to a pre-natal class with a pregnant friend of mine and it just tipped me over the edge. (Poor Mark: how about we wait until we have a home first, maybe a long-term job...) <br /><br />VISA<br /><br />I’m here on a working holiday visa, which means that after six months I have to change employers and after twelve I have to leave the country. (Or apply for a six-month visitor visa and not be allowed to work.) This was the best option when I was looking to hurry up and get over here, since Mark taking the Cairns job was all a bit last-minute. Now, though, his company’s willing to subsidize the MBA courses that he’s finishing up, which means that he’ll owe them one or two years in exchange – which is great because that’s a work guarantee, not so great because all of a sudden we’re staying in Australia for longer than anticipated. (The best birth-control argument I can think of.) <br /><br />So in order for me to a) be able to stay, b) be able to get a proper job and not have to do short-term and supply teaching, and c) be able to come back to Oz down the road if that turns out to be what happens with Mark’s work, I am in the final stages of preparing my Partner Visa application, based on Mark’s and my de facto relationship. It’s long and painful – and I had to sort out a Canadian passport renewal application at the same time, so I’m basically on a first-name basis with the JPs around here at this point – and of course, ridiculously expensive and non-refundable, so we’re hoping that it’s accepted. I’ll keep you posted. <br /><br />*Incidentally, I’ve put down a whackload of names of people who know us in case the immigration department wants further proof than we’ve provided, so if they call or e-mail you, just tell them how great we are – please and thank you! <br /><br />The sad thing is going to be in July, when I definitely won’t have the new visa yet but based on the old one, will have to stop working at the day care – I suspect I’ll just go in and volunteer, since it makes me so happy to be there. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get on the supply lists for the Catholic and private school boards, and otherwise will have to waitress or something while I wait for it all to get sorted. Bloody immigration! Bloody international relationship! <br /><br />THE FUTURE...<br /><br />Meanwhile, if we do stay on, it will probably be in either Brisbane or Gold Coast (an hour further South), where Honeywell’s head office and next project are, respectively. When Mark went down for a work thing in Brisbane, I found a cheap flight and went with him, to take full advantage of having a free hotel and car (whoop!) and to get a feel for the place and hopefully open my heart to the possibility of living there. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31tj68WPfCMzG6Rl8oovp7VEd0sSswm1zZq4K0WozYb-JgH-6jh-BQxTcEb5loKYnktxa9JfaRwyPBpVC5U1Qr_SU2ADj3fi8fJXiLj4H8Y614oKlizQ-ipSl6hPnH_0QIpf9T9rZmgg/s1600/4+-+Brisbane+from+Hotel.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31tj68WPfCMzG6Rl8oovp7VEd0sSswm1zZq4K0WozYb-JgH-6jh-BQxTcEb5loKYnktxa9JfaRwyPBpVC5U1Qr_SU2ADj3fi8fJXiLj4H8Y614oKlizQ-ipSl6hPnH_0QIpf9T9rZmgg/s320/4+-+Brisbane+from+Hotel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473175637910727682" /></a><br /><br />You know what? It’s really nice. A really nice city, good size and with a curvy river through it that means the best way to get around is on the public transportation ferry, easy breezy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hkB0YSpK06-Kut91aw4VXeZUulL0ZAVBZuHWQ0Iz-FXU8KVy5W4ZRfUhjlrD-0326e09Nc0tzWJFaPZO7Y0CL-f_XtwKFuW1tv5gPX6vYOc0qj-7RFU4jacdJ8brlvYBwRn4KR-w7Ec/s1600/19+-+City+Cat,+full+view.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hkB0YSpK06-Kut91aw4VXeZUulL0ZAVBZuHWQ0Iz-FXU8KVy5W4ZRfUhjlrD-0326e09Nc0tzWJFaPZO7Y0CL-f_XtwKFuW1tv5gPX6vYOc0qj-7RFU4jacdJ8brlvYBwRn4KR-w7Ec/s200/19+-+City+Cat,+full+view.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473176484934673682" /></a><br />Lots of green and flowered walkways and garden areas, and of course the climate is great most of the time. The real estate options for us, though, are looking pretty sad – especially after the gold mine we found here in Trinity Beach. Having been spoiled with this beautiful, furnished, beach-accessible, garden-heavy and pool-side house, anything we could afford in Brisbane would be like moving into a cheap, stained van. In the basement. Smelling like pee. <br /><br />Gold Coast, on the other hand, is super touristy – that’s where Surfer’s Paradise and all those beaches are – so there are people who come through for short-term rentals like in Cairns and there are a lot of similar properties available, including furnished ones. I don’t know what the teaching scene is like down there but hopefully I’d find a job, and Mark would finally be finished his uni work and would actually have some free time outside of work, so all we’d have to do is live in our airy, resort-style flat and learn to surf. Could be a lot worse, right? <br /><br />TRIP TO BRIZZY<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfmPKszn7anOgY5z-cQ_hd3Y_DlbQvi9zL3wP8k5YMvBXp9o-96hTgwU_3R-bED6AjpvO256wpUSORXEglPtNWPMSJ5WQ9bs89MEC3PEWNQRRXqgow2vMzjV8fOWGBIjlVCI2D0LpsSng/s1600/2+-+Gold+Coast.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfmPKszn7anOgY5z-cQ_hd3Y_DlbQvi9zL3wP8k5YMvBXp9o-96hTgwU_3R-bED6AjpvO256wpUSORXEglPtNWPMSJ5WQ9bs89MEC3PEWNQRRXqgow2vMzjV8fOWGBIjlVCI2D0LpsSng/s320/2+-+Gold+Coast.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473267948529496882" /></a> For the record, though, surfing isn’t going to happen any time soon, as I don’t like big waves and can’t stand to have salt water in my throat. Yet another way in which I’m a wuss. Mark’s friends Jason and Mia picked me up from the airport when I landed in Brisbane and we all drove down to Gold Coast, which was fun because they’re so nice to be around, but holy crap was I not a fan of the beach! In Cairns, it’s peaceful water, rocking you like a lullaby, because the reef calms it all down. In Gold Coast, just standing upright in the water takes amazing core strength, between the giant waves and heavy undertow. The lifeguard kept whistling at me and telling me to stay in the flags – I’m trying! I’m using every muscle in my body and still am getting pushed off to the side – get off my back! The water is beautifully clear and a the perfect temperature, but it’s so stressful that if we live there I’ll have to pay for a pool membership to get some swimming time in, since I’m certainly not going to be beachy.<br /><br />We had dinner with Jason and Mia at the Sushi Train, thinking that it would be so great to finally have some good sushi again, being in a capital city that presumably has a considerable Asian population, but it was nothing special. Though very expensive. Hmm. (It being “nothing special” didn’t stop us from pigging out something fierce, though, which makes me question our approach to food in general...) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7i4Oo5JF30rXo6sMPtrVy5oWiFuFTPWXCmde-byfRK3JKWOzWAxmL1xQ4HhKnaK_S7oE6ehq-bb6P-ACm66d1O2fLAROErfpeb-KaY9Wo2JHwuBx0rL-isE91Z6BvC83qVATHZzSmoF0/s1600/6+-+Katy+%26+Mark+after+pigging+out.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7i4Oo5JF30rXo6sMPtrVy5oWiFuFTPWXCmde-byfRK3JKWOzWAxmL1xQ4HhKnaK_S7oE6ehq-bb6P-ACm66d1O2fLAROErfpeb-KaY9Wo2JHwuBx0rL-isE91Z6BvC83qVATHZzSmoF0/s320/6+-+Katy+%26+Mark+after+pigging+out.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473177355057703458" /></a><br />We're trying to look nice but we feel like death - check out how many train dishes we went through... (But look at Jason's and Mia's pile - we weren't the only ones!)<br /><br />The highlight of the trip for me would have to be when Mark was convinced that the planetarium we’d passed at the bottom of a big drive to the look-out was named Sir Thomas something Brisbane, rather than just Sir Thomas Brisbane, as I said. He was so sure of himself that he drove all the way back down and into the planetarium, only to discover – of course – that I was right. I was kind of a big jerk about it, but only for a few minutes – we stayed friends. Plus, my in-car version of the “you were wrong, LOSER!” dance was such a hit that it can only be a good memory for everyone involved. <br /><br />GUESTS<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVm2HLLFYaAFhh6kxqYq8qwQaLaOxyGPkwFy4ksVvP45vMhT9TfOYfs1SieQIyJtT66CrK_McKOgXH7jpP-AWgDEFwTIsLFpMCENaqzg8GQTBBWsh1WtR4NUZOnqHalhUh2UeSCxnlI4A/s1600/2+-+Goliath+squished+in+the+corner.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVm2HLLFYaAFhh6kxqYq8qwQaLaOxyGPkwFy4ksVvP45vMhT9TfOYfs1SieQIyJtT66CrK_McKOgXH7jpP-AWgDEFwTIsLFpMCENaqzg8GQTBBWsh1WtR4NUZOnqHalhUh2UeSCxnlI4A/s320/2+-+Goliath+squished+in+the+corner.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473178438851723234" /></a> We’ve had lots of people come through since this year, which was sometimes fun but mostly stressful because the weather was so consistently awful and we couldn’t do anything about it. One guest extended his trip in the hope that the bad weather would pass and ended up staying almost two weeks with nothing to show for it except some rainy jungle pictures. We did manage a trip to the Rainforest Dome above the casino, which turns out to be a waste of time except for the up-close (through glass) crocodile experience with their huge croc, Goliath. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEgwTpw3WOw6CVDf3oihiv-uoiAC3fy_FHTliNJdWBLVnm_vdJXMb3uxpGLm8XzxPLTDMaziHIm8BupmSfxnIow1VRVujFn6WU-IeDA3LeviAAbHNPkEAa6FOcqKrlhUCUQNV77SHGk4/s1600/3+-+Mark+growling+at+the+croc.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEgwTpw3WOw6CVDf3oihiv-uoiAC3fy_FHTliNJdWBLVnm_vdJXMb3uxpGLm8XzxPLTDMaziHIm8BupmSfxnIow1VRVujFn6WU-IeDA3LeviAAbHNPkEAa6FOcqKrlhUCUQNV77SHGk4/s320/3+-+Mark+growling+at+the+croc.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473269399703662034" /></a><br />It started as a joke, but you wouldn't believe how intimidating and all-out freaky it is to stare into this thing's eyes. <br /><br />We also went to cascades that were somewhat fast and flowing before and that had turned into <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PGwTVn_hEkFKYeCJggrBQ3wfU501R6Le8NNmC10qt6bTef8BX_mguEKGJAfYVQGkZhECLWqDa5LbrzstgFc87aVsFJ9AK7rnid-2Bn2egmySjret-f895QUCI6SnpMDHCbLffEOvLoM/s1600/IMG_0644.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PGwTVn_hEkFKYeCJggrBQ3wfU501R6Le8NNmC10qt6bTef8BX_mguEKGJAfYVQGkZhECLWqDa5LbrzstgFc87aVsFJ9AK7rnid-2Bn2egmySjret-f895QUCI6SnpMDHCbLffEOvLoM/s320/IMG_0644.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473272283969265538" /></a> huge, swirling torrents, the water coming up to cover the stairs to the swimming holes – but we still swam, after finding some out-of-the-way corners, and we were sure to hold on tight. The pictures don’t do it justice – you’ll have to come to Cairns in the heaviest rainy season and see for yourselves. <br /><br />(Some of our rainy nights were spent playing Trivial Pursuit, which I thought would be the worst but was actually good fun, and which has inspired Mark’s and my project to Know More Stuff, with daily fact-finding and -sharing duties. So far we’ve covered the Mayans/Incas/Aztecs, the Cold War, leopards, bees, Guatemala and so much more! We’s getting smart!)<br /><br />Mark’s dad was here for a few days, too. As well as just being a great visit, he helped Mark fix the toilet (hooray for dads!) and told us that the droppings that we figured were from possums were actually from cane toads, which prompted Mark to head straight out and buy a little bamboo barrier for the door, not too high but how high can they jump? We’ve only ever seen one since, a little baby one that was so scared at our sudden presence that it peed all over the floor. Hard to hate them, isn’t it, the poor little things? It’s not their fault they were introduced and ruined everything – blame the scientists, not the toads! <br /><br />We had a young, beautiful Swiss couch surfer who made me reconsider the wisdom of having young, beautiful Swiss people around when you’re not feeling so hot these days in the first place and now you’re all wearing bathing suits. I need to make some pale and dumpy friends. <br /><br />HIKES<br /><br />The advantage of crappy weather is that if you decide that you’re tired of waiting for the rain to stop and you go out for a hike, you’ll be the only ones there. Stoney Creek: my new favourite place in Cairns. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zitNhPOEHmJe-Z0w2QVJ_sTOjfNmoQILBhhENg0KA1gDdz3uw__YF_9n3-vioIqwy-585Nmt_Zd3PyJj1wtuYWEnKtOIXHE7UFiB-4npqWuBQ5cTfNyxarYVlg1SnBExzVMFueynB_s/s1600/6+-+Swimming+hole.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zitNhPOEHmJe-Z0w2QVJ_sTOjfNmoQILBhhENg0KA1gDdz3uw__YF_9n3-vioIqwy-585Nmt_Zd3PyJj1wtuYWEnKtOIXHE7UFiB-4npqWuBQ5cTfNyxarYVlg1SnBExzVMFueynB_s/s320/6+-+Swimming+hole.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473179383943423970" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJoPjgLW0lkuM_qAHmaJ5cImoQ29FsEdMxqzMGeWP8WXRzTnKegFIwlfnlR6-hUDGFkCiznCINGbcB-QeXqBjZ5mEWGhuB-wfY64JgUJN8sLplcrysdfQWPN29L3P3hKuhl7rZg9RwZE/s1600/8+-+Falls+through+trees.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJoPjgLW0lkuM_qAHmaJ5cImoQ29FsEdMxqzMGeWP8WXRzTnKegFIwlfnlR6-hUDGFkCiznCINGbcB-QeXqBjZ5mEWGhuB-wfY64JgUJN8sLplcrysdfQWPN29L3P3hKuhl7rZg9RwZE/s320/8+-+Falls+through+trees.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473180256622285570" /></a><br /><br />It was a big drop down to the waterfall below - very exciting...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpntHly6QrB4fZLyR9zN-_d9eirdImUwP6gLzrDc4DyeSPLq_EM6fwOM1-E7Dn75U3sjJ6fHAHENTwKtsewiK83hkN4BDNpLvBIJmjcHij30fBN9UHNG0JmGlNh6llgwFhNXHR73b1mZw/s1600/14+-+Exciting!.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpntHly6QrB4fZLyR9zN-_d9eirdImUwP6gLzrDc4DyeSPLq_EM6fwOM1-E7Dn75U3sjJ6fHAHENTwKtsewiK83hkN4BDNpLvBIJmjcHij30fBN9UHNG0JmGlNh6llgwFhNXHR73b1mZw/s320/14+-+Exciting!.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473275955457456066" /></a><br /><br />And even better for two!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHeUct-n72VFwZiGGpkp6o-ifP_ybYkkhJzoEpVLhz9Ixa3eIuQce9E4g0fDUDHTy1Mz1v4tjDQYgW5uSb6SiHXeJomcZwmyT_Em9Spi2fAJK-F_wFrPaEKSKUNN0b8So_dUgOz4w40U/s1600/16+-+M+%26+K+hanging+over+the+falls.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHeUct-n72VFwZiGGpkp6o-ifP_ybYkkhJzoEpVLhz9Ixa3eIuQce9E4g0fDUDHTy1Mz1v4tjDQYgW5uSb6SiHXeJomcZwmyT_Em9Spi2fAJK-F_wFrPaEKSKUNN0b8So_dUgOz4w40U/s320/16+-+M+%26+K+hanging+over+the+falls.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473277254466132066" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEd_FpwnLx5NnKAyd2heO4S40U9EyvpxPWFIcSVUZjJFjYN7ieq8ii4omZPLt4u0XqdvYqy4OhS5JfTwGP0LJofEy0_QAw5KOXb8p05vwlggH7mSyFugE5dmxzl0NlFJpZCoizq1xx_M/s1600/20+-+Katy+smiling+in+freezing+water.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEd_FpwnLx5NnKAyd2heO4S40U9EyvpxPWFIcSVUZjJFjYN7ieq8ii4omZPLt4u0XqdvYqy4OhS5JfTwGP0LJofEy0_QAw5KOXb8p05vwlggH7mSyFugE5dmxzl0NlFJpZCoizq1xx_M/s320/20+-+Katy+smiling+in+freezing+water.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473279142025938226" /></a> One of the trails in our hiking book was unfortunately a no-go, as we literally could not figure out where we were supposed to follow – each time we thought we were onto what could be the trail, we’d hit a dead end. I didn’t want to give up and we got into increasingly precarious positions along the side of a waterfall – I felt like the biggest jerk ever when Mark, the one who doesn’t like to swim in cold water, fell in and had to hike around in soggy shorts the rest of the day. There were also tricky parts with the mud, our shoes sinking in and making me think of Atreyu and his horse in The Neverending Story – don’t let the sadness get you, Mark, it’s going to pull us down! – but generally it was such a beautiful and people-less place to be that I can’t wait to go back. Mark wouldn't swim, but I braved the ice water and it was worth it. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnArE5UN2aK4QbIEaPvXBd5eoW73YBvwzPXA0M0PV2OEFqtcHVQ2nur2MkHJIvFp9FxRoE9xKb7MSIhptqIU2g9evfU7FHRoEKeQgOOOc_ZvRSj8FoPa-ykCiFCMya8b-7B_Oqbtw1o10/s1600/8+-+%27Steep%27+-+you+think!+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnArE5UN2aK4QbIEaPvXBd5eoW73YBvwzPXA0M0PV2OEFqtcHVQ2nur2MkHJIvFp9FxRoE9xKb7MSIhptqIU2g9evfU7FHRoEKeQgOOOc_ZvRSj8FoPa-ykCiFCMya8b-7B_Oqbtw1o10/s320/8+-+%27Steep%27+-+you+think!+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473288344285749234" /></a> One of the hikes in our book was labelled “moderate,” so we figured we’d do it in the morning before meeting friends for a big afternoon one. Well, we almost died. There were signs all over the place about how crazy steep the climb was, so at least the council seems to agree with us that it is a VERY DIFFICULT hike, but the book said it was 40 minutes round-trip and had nice views. There was one look-out and you couldn’t see anything from it, there were climbs so excessively steep that they’d set up ropes for pulling yourself up – thank god there was a creek at the bottom, which we jumped into in our underwear, so desperate were we for any kind of relief. Well, I jumped in - Mark splashed around a little. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5gyiBBgi0XxNFDN2WWQiNs6TxoDLR5CpgOxauzfcz4oEFoDMnu9xhsQuD22vwl-HylojCZ4bv2sI8u23gbon56zGJmh00RIaXgMKUSSH4RF0jFuYUaA5ip6yvfPMsQd26AweH9rdUVs/s1600/5+-+Mark+sort+of+in+the+creek+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5gyiBBgi0XxNFDN2WWQiNs6TxoDLR5CpgOxauzfcz4oEFoDMnu9xhsQuD22vwl-HylojCZ4bv2sI8u23gbon56zGJmh00RIaXgMKUSSH4RF0jFuYUaA5ip6yvfPMsQd26AweH9rdUVs/s200/5+-+Mark+sort+of+in+the+creek+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473288729824832146" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuTohRdzcgYccD1RDmU-Lt30LG4uUDbHOe7El66wsELO0kaGsw0s8VGNB4OTkJflQA2kjTB98UfmRqsn9GNrwhrSxDtVZULW5VNtm-99S0IPuA9ZEPC7KimlDd7cQo9bmTbj8SQv50ro/s1600/7+-+Katy+completely+in+the+creek!+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuTohRdzcgYccD1RDmU-Lt30LG4uUDbHOe7El66wsELO0kaGsw0s8VGNB4OTkJflQA2kjTB98UfmRqsn9GNrwhrSxDtVZULW5VNtm-99S0IPuA9ZEPC7KimlDd7cQo9bmTbj8SQv50ro/s200/7+-+Katy+completely+in+the+creek!+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473289129727763090" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJxJ9Mxj5xPVZjGNovvsvsX9rnFOjI_I8JFbkjQH6xY_MceGJ7fcsHiefbLMyagg9YJKl8EDkvGA3P51xYrpv963pT_MUiemCr2crG5ZLrDPEzGb3-bCf4mIqJQdhq3mBnIHujOydgyE/s1600/7+-+Katy+%26+Mark,+jungle+shot+2+(Large).JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJxJ9Mxj5xPVZjGNovvsvsX9rnFOjI_I8JFbkjQH6xY_MceGJ7fcsHiefbLMyagg9YJKl8EDkvGA3P51xYrpv963pT_MUiemCr2crG5ZLrDPEzGb3-bCf4mIqJQdhq3mBnIHujOydgyE/s320/7+-+Katy+%26+Mark,+jungle+shot+2+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473289664189722594" /></a> We’ve also been exploring the Atherton Tablelands, which are beautiful – no story to tell, other than our shock at how completely freezing cold it was, to the point of my not being able to sit and finish my sandwich at a picnic table, but running back to the car instead. The area is known for its waterfall circuit, but we want to camp and we’ll wait for nicer weather, so we went to the lakes, the amazing fig trees, some falls and lots of green, rolling hills. It’s a good spot. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoeaiSGJEx489yCvvc9ziBICwdTKyLdB7-140yPVylbiP41lvWk0-jNbwwkZaKZ-HhUT0mw6ZtKLoVufYkMdcj8_upRJnxnSX0edjjcIkPa-AZY_3FuAZpFArqeUgGEgqA4m9wvCYF0g/s1600/10+-+Shady+lake+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoeaiSGJEx489yCvvc9ziBICwdTKyLdB7-140yPVylbiP41lvWk0-jNbwwkZaKZ-HhUT0mw6ZtKLoVufYkMdcj8_upRJnxnSX0edjjcIkPa-AZY_3FuAZpFArqeUgGEgqA4m9wvCYF0g/s320/10+-+Shady+lake+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473290044361766674" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkJsBRAPSqYGakLdJe7cBafwEN3MDmtoEiJwjEFOE7BrUtLZlIGh-A6QBG1QXD41txjcoJm1pDriyk0vJVz3CzNT2y1IR1Ivow7zGq8vifeO4cEqaLOMd3LO7WZsjZTTsvU87DpmcIeA/s1600/29+-+Lake+Eachem+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkJsBRAPSqYGakLdJe7cBafwEN3MDmtoEiJwjEFOE7BrUtLZlIGh-A6QBG1QXD41txjcoJm1pDriyk0vJVz3CzNT2y1IR1Ivow7zGq8vifeO4cEqaLOMd3LO7WZsjZTTsvU87DpmcIeA/s320/29+-+Lake+Eachem+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473293077973957906" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqKpkNnR10mduxXEp1MGWcLpEHcpg5WeGGYGT3hbkD-fC1AIYxCJF85TXZwLA_mjkks8BSwh9zG0pM0_IG75Q8nD8fxQTpmFTuCHKsETEPQgLARD1CrvKyQFr3GT01HvbvHnboF4ujFU/s1600/32+-+Grey+Lake+Eachem+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqKpkNnR10mduxXEp1MGWcLpEHcpg5WeGGYGT3hbkD-fC1AIYxCJF85TXZwLA_mjkks8BSwh9zG0pM0_IG75Q8nD8fxQTpmFTuCHKsETEPQgLARD1CrvKyQFr3GT01HvbvHnboF4ujFU/s320/32+-+Grey+Lake+Eachem+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473293326422203842" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMEtWLTu3d2rSdNGt-c_cJ2KNseFoZCqkGD8INAkS_fQufQs15oz1pCWNicmrghd2sEpjLt86ck5-pfr24TtG0WepCIlH9iV4idNVqYVQVxqIEz-6qK_6Nm24qZx5FITfz_8t0rXCWjo/s1600/37+-+Through+trees,+close+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMEtWLTu3d2rSdNGt-c_cJ2KNseFoZCqkGD8INAkS_fQufQs15oz1pCWNicmrghd2sEpjLt86ck5-pfr24TtG0WepCIlH9iV4idNVqYVQVxqIEz-6qK_6Nm24qZx5FITfz_8t0rXCWjo/s320/37+-+Through+trees,+close+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473294558149358322" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3p7R1Rtb1BFoF6tFGZCpJaJgeKje7yO30eLOEUbvjmHUJgUuofXR6Et15DKNwaQ1PhSJZYmd4d7spuUNuVSaBRBwjxZ9S7WE3i46s9pUUU8XqKoWkyX2Ew9TEn4lM2xeSYXNxQUGdHc/s1600/23+-+Katy+%26+Mark+in+fig+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3p7R1Rtb1BFoF6tFGZCpJaJgeKje7yO30eLOEUbvjmHUJgUuofXR6Et15DKNwaQ1PhSJZYmd4d7spuUNuVSaBRBwjxZ9S7WE3i46s9pUUU8XqKoWkyX2Ew9TEn4lM2xeSYXNxQUGdHc/s320/23+-+Katy+%26+Mark+in+fig+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473296288368769010" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA5hms_WwQQjgdyFDZRLawTPtwNCOLUKf94BIpqWHakqvKHNE_wvCasdRpMTjs4vW2QFillFOHw08eJD2jCdpYQUImKHY4Owg3pKrToy_ttGodzj7gIIVPzBYYZ7nboXO4IjZKmHDZWw/s1600/13+-+Braid+up-close+(Large).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA5hms_WwQQjgdyFDZRLawTPtwNCOLUKf94BIpqWHakqvKHNE_wvCasdRpMTjs4vW2QFillFOHw08eJD2jCdpYQUImKHY4Owg3pKrToy_ttGodzj7gIIVPzBYYZ7nboXO4IjZKmHDZWw/s320/13+-+Braid+up-close+(Large).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473295982793011522" /></a><br /><br />How about we give it a rest, hey? So much for my short update, but since it’s been three months, it only seems fair... I still have more on my list, so hopefully I’ll be more on top of things from here on in. For now, fingers crossed for the visa (please send good vibes), I’m still stuck with the Yaris in my mom’s garage so if you know ANYONE who’s even SLIGHTLY interested in taking over a lease, PLEASE send them my way, and I hope May 2010 is treating you well. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-84062900850105082252010-02-17T22:20:00.000-08:002010-03-28T05:28:30.860-07:00Life's a Beach: Chapter 3It’s been ages since I last wrote, so you’d think there would be lots to tell, but on average we’ve had rain five days out of every seven; I’ve mostly been doing jigsaw puzzles, reading crappy books, watching TV and eating popsicles. (Incidentally, if you want to know what’s been happening on Oprah, who won the Australian Open or just how quickly they promise you’ll lose inches off your waist with the new abs-omatic – amazing! - I’m your girl.) Kind of unfortunate, really, how I came to Australia just in time for the insufferably hot season and the cyclones, while not being able to teach because it’s summer holidays. Ta-daa! <br /><br />But never you mind. Let’s do this thing.<br /><br />Cyclone Olga is the one that hit North Queensland last week, and though it did some damage up in the Port Douglas area, it was actually pretty tame and quite anti-climactic after how much everybody (including myself!) talked it up. Mostly, what we got was major amounts of rain and the inevitably resulting house full of mouldy <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwUGWBfYlp-yP1d1bWFmOzdovDSwHDNSw1wEmASeuvC1lJipwP4VVjZak35JATHme0rN5YSxwfTS1SZ1cb37-CCGzaFmFqH-R3hRi1-UAzhz1JbnP5qEiZI5onG4ut5OlP9mKrrUhJqw/s1600-h/centipede%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIwUGWBfYlp-yP1d1bWFmOzdovDSwHDNSw1wEmASeuvC1lJipwP4VVjZak35JATHme0rN5YSxwfTS1SZ1cb37-CCGzaFmFqH-R3hRi1-UAzhz1JbnP5qEiZI5onG4ut5OlP9mKrrUhJqw/s320/centipede%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439465640009312594" /></a> shoes and books. Also, lots of bugs everywhere, including this massive centipede that crawled out from behind the garbage can when I was in the bathroom! (As in, the toilet – you can imagine my horror.) I always thought centipedes were sweet, wormy little fuzzy things, but this was huge, black, shiny – shellacked, really – and aggressive. Something of a military, tank-and-hard-helmets kind of vibe. Google has assured me that it’s not poisonous, so I’m less concerned about finding one under my pillow, but it was still pretty gross – especially after I half crushed it with the garbage can and it was decapitated but still squirming around. Cheeky little bugger, I’ll tell you what. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7MI0FcfflZBm0E-7Y4hy5N3wNePg-PoBaXmCdlD_NdVtTXQBaHXx_a4tLNUekVmKKvL7Zq7ju5Vs_0PMJdq_TlfnKPUunDGSdizTMTFhPmgZ8FbwOWwKxY3UvRkZogVtvNdDZUWfMws/s1600-h/4+-+where+we+walked+and+got+drenched.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7MI0FcfflZBm0E-7Y4hy5N3wNePg-PoBaXmCdlD_NdVtTXQBaHXx_a4tLNUekVmKKvL7Zq7ju5Vs_0PMJdq_TlfnKPUunDGSdizTMTFhPmgZ8FbwOWwKxY3UvRkZogVtvNdDZUWfMws/s320/4+-+where+we+walked+and+got+drenched.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439465403477574178" /></a> Having been stuck in the house for so many days, Mark and I jumped up at the first sign of a dry spell and went out to explore the neighbourhood. We checked out the beach at Yorkey’s Knob and while the pictures only make it look <em>vaguely grey</em>, it was actually super gloomy, all troubled waters and dramatically stormy trees; perfect, really, for a long walk – except that after we had walked for about half an hour, the real storm moved in and we had to walk the whole way back with the wind whipping rain and sand into our faces. Stormy beach walk: worst idea ever. <br /><br />We made it back to the car and drove home through the heavy storm; funny, isn’t it, that we sat in the house for days and days while it just rained, then chose the one day the cyclone actually appeared to go out for a joyride. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kM94P9gvKl7_UUNIPuwzOeAiJlwUGhrytrDgKVUAaZRePYBqMahacVqwRjC2wKWmQDus_aXqEng-x07pwi7YwPSlarH0AbXzJxmX267TbTW_PQmcyi1YmbAeK5s9xqnkxIcLDts3ojo/s1600-h/7+-+storm.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kM94P9gvKl7_UUNIPuwzOeAiJlwUGhrytrDgKVUAaZRePYBqMahacVqwRjC2wKWmQDus_aXqEng-x07pwi7YwPSlarH0AbXzJxmX267TbTW_PQmcyi1YmbAeK5s9xqnkxIcLDts3ojo/s320/7+-+storm.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439468073336275810" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-h_nDYXzp__YKk03QdJfNhZa44UGgXOyA-1sMAZMFjkHWlSnIqB7zYyx-W8SV9I68_f3bLq0yTVvZbbku1mEdKZ2wAlGgdiCo9P83yWo53pjUTSTAy8Fp7fmlPLJnbZ2nb5Z9aVmGUY/s1600-h/6+-+lights+on+at+2pm.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-h_nDYXzp__YKk03QdJfNhZa44UGgXOyA-1sMAZMFjkHWlSnIqB7zYyx-W8SV9I68_f3bLq0yTVvZbbku1mEdKZ2wAlGgdiCo9P83yWo53pjUTSTAy8Fp7fmlPLJnbZ2nb5Z9aVmGUY/s320/6+-+lights+on+at+2pm.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439468653760191602" /></a>(Notice the street lights are on - it's 1:25 pm!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Lbpc-zqfX_g6r8vuiRBlklu5oYTw3e5Hwog-2-m77XXl25_aFuUTqwZJ0wqVZ-2jY6voDiASGeP6WM_vDKDyPILMU48aysO1JYAF0aBsBcqtFuVfJrcZ38DLrjqNU-uIeICR0EVVaOU/s1600-h/2+-+falls,+tree+foreground.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Lbpc-zqfX_g6r8vuiRBlklu5oYTw3e5Hwog-2-m77XXl25_aFuUTqwZJ0wqVZ-2jY6voDiASGeP6WM_vDKDyPILMU48aysO1JYAF0aBsBcqtFuVfJrcZ38DLrjqNU-uIeICR0EVVaOU/s320/2+-+falls,+tree+foreground.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439469481394038514" /></a> The next day we tried again and were rewarded for our efforts. Back up to Kuranda (where our favourite store with the yummy freshwater lollies is conveniently located) and to the Barron Falls, which we had seen before the rain as part of our Sky Rail day, when the “falls” were a little trickle down toward a stream. Now, they’re huge and gushing and we would have stayed and just gazed all morning, but for the endless succession of tourists getting off the scenic train and elbowing us in the face in their efforts to get the perfect, peace-sign-flashing pictures. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyT12d2lI4CX5enbnNnv9yAIgkCOGEp_2H5Xklfcm3KhLTzDpwrfpnEc8uHnWqwwMJ4LygOYbk7jzOyymtjBgwl_fRe_dIra-j-4igz9ANFEhFogGnK5LDrk0_2EN9p1JScG166v4MwM/s1600-h/21+-+cascade+through+trees.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyT12d2lI4CX5enbnNnv9yAIgkCOGEp_2H5Xklfcm3KhLTzDpwrfpnEc8uHnWqwwMJ4LygOYbk7jzOyymtjBgwl_fRe_dIra-j-4igz9ANFEhFogGnK5LDrk0_2EN9p1JScG166v4MwM/s320/21+-+cascade+through+trees.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439471611153858786" /></a> Off instead to the Crystal Cascades – you understand that these places are all within thirty minutes of where I live, right? – where we witnessed a kayak lesson gone wrong (up the creek without a paddle isn’t so funny in real life) and the necessary Stupid Teen-age Boys doing jumps into the rapids off of slippery rocks. There was a dad-aged man sitting on the rocks with all the boys, though, watching it all go down, and I found it really hard to resist letting him know what I thought of his lack of responsibility. (Mark encouraged me to mind my own business...) The cascades are as pretty as you would expect and will certainly be a favourite swimming spot in the more swimming-friendly seasons.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-dudu1r9O8DgizO1uDYgYymbTaOpBKPDpiYScGaEp_J2laB3RLI-y0AMXNx9OrfHXtA5FCPv_TwNSu9c6wKqKEd69aitQDRWc1wciEsLmZsIQnNI6X14gls89UjCURSmQITCEyCG5ZI/s1600-h/15+-+jumping.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-dudu1r9O8DgizO1uDYgYymbTaOpBKPDpiYScGaEp_J2laB3RLI-y0AMXNx9OrfHXtA5FCPv_TwNSu9c6wKqKEd69aitQDRWc1wciEsLmZsIQnNI6X14gls89UjCURSmQITCEyCG5ZI/s320/15+-+jumping.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439470726146102802" /></a><br /><br />(The guy jumping is to the right.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2xrm7OXqAsBnf_kGofMDnrV_jL_09apOD7hDcqdetK01N9tqwqPgCvVhFeISsXbjbMQIq2N1elVo_33d4HuJjV84wTrwDJOGhg5FWfeqSg8DQrPCnITErpwNu6UeUhS6V3FLJHuCPH8/s1600-h/4+-+beautiful+koala.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2xrm7OXqAsBnf_kGofMDnrV_jL_09apOD7hDcqdetK01N9tqwqPgCvVhFeISsXbjbMQIq2N1elVo_33d4HuJjV84wTrwDJOGhg5FWfeqSg8DQrPCnITErpwNu6UeUhS6V3FLJHuCPH8/s320/4+-+beautiful+koala.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439472513216249618" /></a> We also – can’t remember if it was before or after Olga – went up to visit “Rainforestation,” another wildlife park in the area. The kangaroos were even friendlier than at the other place, the koalas were GORGEOUS, the crocs were huge – it was worth the trip. Their fancy thing is that they have these WWII army DUKWs (pronounced “ducks”) that go on land and in the water. I’m not sure why they have them, but no matter: we had a fun ride with a wacky driver/guide. My ears are still ringing from the noise: I don’t think I was ever made for the army. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7cXUJ6IjP2VdyQHEH2RNdrJO6wU5Zn2qYgl5RJ78qkoEQyOeumgBWgaINDPpnxsFPONxDB8M7orh2WshlqVan9L403a5dCCyhZNAOaa5ymLBshbJYy1jkek9PFRnNpVTTbbjxdeRnp0/s1600-h/19+-+DUCW+in+garage.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7cXUJ6IjP2VdyQHEH2RNdrJO6wU5Zn2qYgl5RJ78qkoEQyOeumgBWgaINDPpnxsFPONxDB8M7orh2WshlqVan9L403a5dCCyhZNAOaa5ymLBshbJYy1jkek9PFRnNpVTTbbjxdeRnp0/s320/19+-+DUCW+in+garage.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439473270686717154" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRuxS1n252eAYOIWgk1TL7yznfPaIdAig_5Ot-WzTy4gxyopOS5N7s3gubz9_ynf_lWxCEInh3AsfX3eg2bclaIclzm0uTpzMsJUXLBO8_66HvKNQbdzPvhWipspiX_rqte3LsAdASx0/s1600-h/25+-+K+%26+M+in+DUCW.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRuxS1n252eAYOIWgk1TL7yznfPaIdAig_5Ot-WzTy4gxyopOS5N7s3gubz9_ynf_lWxCEInh3AsfX3eg2bclaIclzm0uTpzMsJUXLBO8_66HvKNQbdzPvhWipspiX_rqte3LsAdASx0/s320/25+-+K+%26+M+in+DUCW.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439474445862188386" /></a><br /><br />With all the rain, of course, it’s hard to get out and get the exercise that I hoped would be a natural part of daily life here, so I’ve been settling for indoor activity: instead of going for walks around the neighbourhood, I do squats and planks and lift soup cans while I watch crappy daytime television. (I’ve also tried a belly-dancing dvd – do you have any idea how hard it is? You should see how they move their butts around, one cheek at a time.) It’s all pretty miserable. <br /><br />So one day when I was heading out to the grocery store, it didn’t look like it was going to rain and I decided to take my bike instead of driving. It was such a long and overwhelming ride that I timed it on the way back, just so I could boast about how hardcore I am – except it was only 20 minutes! I’m a wimp! I guess I’m out of bike shape, and I was riding along the highway, which is a bit nerve-wracking, and it was about 45 degrees with the humidity (115 fahrenheit, for the Yanks out there) – and it was noon. Which makes me seem like an idiot, but it just turned out that way. <br /><br />The major trauma, though, was when I was crossing over a bridge and only had about two feet of space, as the cars were whipping past me on the highway. I saw something coming up ahead, something gross-looking with flies all around it, and of course swerving into traffic was out of the question, so I had to just ride over it. What was it, exactly? I’m not sure – maybe a small possum, maybe a donga, maybe a rat. Whatever it was, it was dead, bloody and gross and I was terrified that it would somehow get caught up in my tire and fly up onto me. It didn’t, obviously – as if that would happen! – but it took the rest of the ride for me to stop having the major ickies and I was very, very focused (and anxious) the whole ride home. <br /><br />Then there was the problem of being majorly sweaty in the grocery store. I had considered carrying my bike helmet around with me but decided that would be a shallow and self-conscious thing to do, so it was just me in my butt-sweaty yoga pants and tank, wandering around the yoghurt aisle, feeling really tough. (This was, of course, before I discovered what a short ride it had actually been.) No problem, until I went to the check-out counter and the cashier said “wow – you look like you’re really feeling the heat!” I told her it was because I’d come on my bike and she said “oh, okay,” which made me realize that as far as everyone was concerned, I’d driven here in an air-conditioned car and was just really out-of-control sweaty and inappropriately dressed for the grocery store. I don’t care if it’s shallow and self-conscious: next time, I’m strapping my bike helmet to me so that everyone can see that it’s legitimate. I’ve just ridden over a dead RODENT, people – don’t judge me! <br /><br />A majorly unexpected change this year is that I’ve suddenly started cooking. Like, proper cooking: buying ingredients, reading a recipe and having something tasty come out at the end – and not just omelettes, lentils and bean burgers like before. I’ve even been making things that involve puff pastry, including this great grilled veggie thing that we had to finish on the barbecue by mosquito-torch light when the power went out for two hours. (And yes, it was still delicious.) I’ve even watched a couple of cooking shows. Cooking shows! I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m really enjoying being domestic – there may be hope yet; too bad it took until my 30th year of life to happen. <br /><br /><em>Speaking </em>of my 30th year of life, how bloody old do you have to be before you stop getting surprise zits? Sciatic nerve problems, identity crises, changing dietary needs, wrinkles and receding gums - shouldn't the trade-off be <em>no more adolescent skin problems</em>?!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxUaQ1L_hSqcVyNbMZOegJKDw6uepnQ4mzqaZc5v7i_0Bu6WwbT5Rgv4LJHDLiNkDtLJxrVO9Kejdl_vsm0NDhkVeH1dTopngwGTWKFPtvuCM078VAokr-iZJoXU-zoumXG4Z1bi1GFvo/s1600-h/P1150003.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxUaQ1L_hSqcVyNbMZOegJKDw6uepnQ4mzqaZc5v7i_0Bu6WwbT5Rgv4LJHDLiNkDtLJxrVO9Kejdl_vsm0NDhkVeH1dTopngwGTWKFPtvuCM078VAokr-iZJoXU-zoumXG4Z1bi1GFvo/s320/P1150003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439476260292224562" /></a> <br /><br />On the work front, I’ve been working in a local day care, super cute, and waiting for my registration to be complete for Education Queensland. (The latest glitch is the supply teaching service e-mailing to tell me my Queensland registration has expired, my replying that it hasn’t and attaching copies of my very much up-to-date membership papers, and then my not hearing from them for three days. I do love red tape.) So nothing really to report, but I haven’t given up hope. Though I pretty much hate all school boards, everywhere. No exceptions. <br /><br />For the record, those of you who seemed concerned: the croc I touched in the last update was small, maybe a metre long; they don’t let you pet the big killing machines! Stop worrying!<br /><br />Kathryn<br /><em></em><em></em>Kathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-35081450970052078512010-01-14T19:53:00.000-08:002010-01-16T05:01:30.664-08:00Life's a Beach, Chapter 2My first week-end here, a work friend of Mark’s was up from Brisbane and we met her in Kuranda, a little hippie town in the mountains, to spend the day. Apparently it used to be just a market and a bunch of people camping in the jungle, but now it’s super touristy and ridiculously pretty, with free shuttle buses taking you around and a huge, labyrinthine market, where you can buy crappily-made hippie dresses for $85 a pop and bottled water for $6 – consider yourselves warned. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwZJBkuZ0pSdouh-MBwIbaC2LrBXmlNpEvKWSWQ2xAF85ZewqsBpE4GhVlRpIy_ZSuFHUGmfHtGGzOKzQKGGNOhI4G2W3Ao3jb94znOuWGrqSvRhrSiMeQO7OEi-6i5-1Kl6KzyjToQU/s1600-h/Rainforest+View+Cafe.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwZJBkuZ0pSdouh-MBwIbaC2LrBXmlNpEvKWSWQ2xAF85ZewqsBpE4GhVlRpIy_ZSuFHUGmfHtGGzOKzQKGGNOhI4G2W3Ao3jb94znOuWGrqSvRhrSiMeQO7OEi-6i5-1Kl6KzyjToQU/s320/Rainforest+View+Cafe.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426811475260659090" /></a> We picked Lee up from the scenic train she had taken up from Cairns and our first mistake was listening to me: I had seen a really cute restaurant in a brochure and we went there for lunch, where I paid $16 for a “turkey sandwich,” which was two slices of store bread, not toasted, smeared with butter, some cold turkey and a slice of processed cheese. Not even a bit of salad on the plate. The view was as lovely as promised (“Rainforest View Cafe”) – I think they were wise not to advertise based on their menu; good marketing strategy. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4vAgClsbAOclScZMVKQ9QWtGJllN1UUypoS64UowXMdDYC_LKrnXUGmqsJtCj2Bx5BHnx3QKpjNQUVCwwdzEIimenqeWV4cM15FxClk64MSQD-LuOF4Qwr2d280siWa-PWKpkZR100Y/s1600-h/Falls+with+skyrail+pod.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4vAgClsbAOclScZMVKQ9QWtGJllN1UUypoS64UowXMdDYC_LKrnXUGmqsJtCj2Bx5BHnx3QKpjNQUVCwwdzEIimenqeWV4cM15FxClk64MSQD-LuOF4Qwr2d280siWa-PWKpkZR100Y/s320/Falls+with+skyrail+pod.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426812237117346130" /></a> After wandering around a bit and deciding not to go to the butterfly sanctuary (read: the bastards vetoed my desperate request to go the butterfly sanctuary), we took the Skyrail down the mountain and back. There is no good story to tell; the reason I mention it is so that anyone reading this who ever passes through Cairns will know that this is a must-do. <br /><br /><br />You can fit up to six people in each little space bubble thing, which takes you through the middle of the mountains, with a waterfall on one side, a river on the other, lush green canopies all around you – just gorgeous. None of the pictures will do it justice, as amateur point-and-shoot pictures of trees are never big sellers, but believe me that it is the lushest, most peaceful space bubble trip you could ever take, as if you're flying through the forest. Sometimes the trees scrape the bottom of the space pod. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRQ4wQFccuqIxztDkBkrhRgYpODIQv8VOj_MK6v8OK49gLo7DyeIhxEO-ZHkmsFzR9bVEmIGh0ic7OBtGcKwvRiE4gT4BC8asRk3WjPE8a1lPcJ5DscjB8o4upTVBtqLY_lK04yofFb8/s1600-h/Lush+green+forest.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRQ4wQFccuqIxztDkBkrhRgYpODIQv8VOj_MK6v8OK49gLo7DyeIhxEO-ZHkmsFzR9bVEmIGh0ic7OBtGcKwvRiE4gT4BC8asRk3WjPE8a1lPcJ5DscjB8o4upTVBtqLY_lK04yofFb8/s320/Lush+green+forest.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426812868247214226" /></a><br /><br />Lee was pretty freaked out for the first good twenty minutes, as well as every time we’d pass a transfer point and our little rail car would bump and swing – I don’t think her green face was just the reflection from the trees – and I’m sorry to admit that Mark and I still speculated out loud on how solid the rail cars were and what would happen if someone fell out. (Trying to reach out and comfort her just made the car swing more, so it wasn’t really helpful – sorry again, Lee...)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tv71S4-jHS99hgbT9Yyh2gsw17tLYCgXI3dVwCtZ97kd84LfILithXCBeSDDlHXEaQ6OySrmA_J7JCFf6zfNBLLDR47YeRon3hHWjfQnZX2Sjuth_PqQCqOioEzjV3V8XYPDcQPU7Wg/s1600-h/Snake+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tv71S4-jHS99hgbT9Yyh2gsw17tLYCgXI3dVwCtZ97kd84LfILithXCBeSDDlHXEaQ6OySrmA_J7JCFf6zfNBLLDR47YeRon3hHWjfQnZX2Sjuth_PqQCqOioEzjV3V8XYPDcQPU7Wg/s320/Snake+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426813577371381074" /></a> There are a few stops along the way, including a mini jungle walk – where we saw a huge, beautiful, blue and purple boa constrictor sitting in a tree just beside a look-out point – and an information station that smelled awful but had great information on rainforests. (Really, it smelled awful.) At the bottom we discovered that the base station is about five minutes from our house and we could have just parked there, rather than driving up, going down and up on the Skyrail and then driving back, but I guess you learn as you go. <br /><br />Skyrail: do it! It’s great!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9urCxc-AX0Qv70cAjthwLSqS6woXYrvAzrqdnS4Hc1JFJ8ZY_62D_2ZkCKwcwoi1HWtBiW0saOPEMTAXzk1qlIrb-Rf98qySc7uBihtP7MtEZys7JOmKyloT6qpLrL1t5Q5bObfTWks/s1600-h/8+-+Christmas+tree.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9urCxc-AX0Qv70cAjthwLSqS6woXYrvAzrqdnS4Hc1JFJ8ZY_62D_2ZkCKwcwoi1HWtBiW0saOPEMTAXzk1qlIrb-Rf98qySc7uBihtP7MtEZys7JOmKyloT6qpLrL1t5Q5bObfTWks/s320/8+-+Christmas+tree.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426814408487693234" /></a> For Christmas we drove down to Townsville, where Mark’s entire family had gotten together, which doesn’t happen often. I can never really believe that it’s Christmas when I’m sitting in a sundress, sweaty and hot and barefoot – because my humidity-swollen feet won’t fit into my sandals – so I mostly just considered it a nice visit. Yes, there may have been a Christmas tree and lots of gift-giving, and Andrew wearing a Santa hat and doing a lot of shouting, but if you’re too hot to eat dessert, it’s just not Christmas. (Our big lunch was a heavily air-conditioned seafood buffet, though we did have Christmas crackers on our plates...) <br /><br />One of my personal Christmas Day highlights is that Mark and his nephew happened to be wearing pretty much the same clothes, so Ewan looked like's Mark's mini-me. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSb-LqIN_KG0wZcp67aB_wb3d5vtyPSf1lR_eVfeF3SONGFNEEqNyKxohR-2E3-bo9zAc8ylQYZBoWa9dvKGL9W2WFGmlT4OgHZ0HPLjh51cZGck3BklDp9X4sJfGLsMLlC_qnGBezQmc/s1600-h/15+-+Mark+%26+Ewan.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSb-LqIN_KG0wZcp67aB_wb3d5vtyPSf1lR_eVfeF3SONGFNEEqNyKxohR-2E3-bo9zAc8ylQYZBoWa9dvKGL9W2WFGmlT4OgHZ0HPLjh51cZGck3BklDp9X4sJfGLsMLlC_qnGBezQmc/s320/15+-+Mark+%26+Ewan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426815992638265666" /></a><br /><br />Cairns is supposed to be hotter than Townsville, as it’s 300 km up the coast and in the jungle, but Townsville was SUPER hot, very sticky (everything brown and ugly and sad) and if you didn’t have air conditioning on, you felt sick to your stomach. It was about a week after getting to Trinity Beach and I thought I’d settled in, gotten past the immediate shock to the system, only to start all over again with the wishing I were dead. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNmAVbFWe19dO1U2gXfi17quZ1yo0BT4Ze9YCZZx8hMQAvVkctR9nJvPTDIUmIn0m4A9GTHWUnt5X5lCeG6ozl2rVbGynv80lJO24p3plnjH-qxJWQbj4c5F6QGAghY-Dp4GNGAeiCGk/s1600-h/45+-+Mark%27s+wallaby+up-close.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNmAVbFWe19dO1U2gXfi17quZ1yo0BT4Ze9YCZZx8hMQAvVkctR9nJvPTDIUmIn0m4A9GTHWUnt5X5lCeG6ozl2rVbGynv80lJO24p3plnjH-qxJWQbj4c5F6QGAghY-Dp4GNGAeiCGk/s320/45+-+Mark%27s+wallaby+up-close.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426817205556661474" /></a> Mark and I drove back up to TB, followed the next night by Anna and Nathan, Mark’s sister and her husband, who stayed for a few days. One highlight of their visit was a day spent up in Port Douglas at one of many wildlife places, hand-feeding kangaroos and gazing at koalas, which really are the cutest creatures on the planet. Man, would I love a koala. (I’m less enamoured of the crocs, which are super cool – I touched one and it mostly feels like a snake – but not so great to have around.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1jMAWpGnju1AZg-32SPt36p9IQjvX7gqzPh5Loceo8KDxmdhiwFQvARQrNKlC9e5FhqfFXyNOZfTK7ycr5zrkubO2rWbZ3YVgEeBTrCCGkReaAXFbEiuhTrSKOmt-V52cvuFQuqKjYK4/s1600-h/32+-+Croc+with+mouth+open.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1jMAWpGnju1AZg-32SPt36p9IQjvX7gqzPh5Loceo8KDxmdhiwFQvARQrNKlC9e5FhqfFXyNOZfTK7ycr5zrkubO2rWbZ3YVgEeBTrCCGkReaAXFbEiuhTrSKOmt-V52cvuFQuqKjYK4/s320/32+-+Croc+with+mouth+open.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426820854835621666" /></a><br />We did have a pretty intense, real-live nature moment: we were among all the big kangaroos, after so many little ones and wallabies, and were disappointed that they weren’t interested in the food we were trying to feed them. Suddenly, one of them came down towards us. Great, we thought, this kangaroo is looking for some snacks and some love, and we’ve got both. <br /><br />Except that an even bigger one followed the first one down and as they passed right in front of us and his very dangly balls dropped and swung back and forth as he chased after the pretty lady, we realized there was probably something fishy going on. And oh, there was. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfQ7cnYOs-XXy388EVPqEGhlZgazOs23fWNdXFLAkEwaOGpqNCtREp0vBzRtXvBzaqYFMJ919y5SGxnpiqsPwXReAaDcb2rBBEGdGkA-ryovsI8OzTsC0TjAwYtBR6140ztHJA0YteIY/s1600-h/15+-+Tasting+her+pee!.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfQ7cnYOs-XXy388EVPqEGhlZgazOs23fWNdXFLAkEwaOGpqNCtREp0vBzRtXvBzaqYFMJ919y5SGxnpiqsPwXReAaDcb2rBBEGdGkA-ryovsI8OzTsC0TjAwYtBR6140ztHJA0YteIY/s320/15+-+Tasting+her+pee!.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426821528693792098" /></a> Here’s how kangaroos do the deed: First he drinks her pee – or maybe not pee - I wasn’t involved enough to know; <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RguI1x2-OCcK5G2dgHRBWJNPnhZsqRroMEBZiJ2xryQrVyD2ln_l07BGDScr6OiFZzHptkrAGl3cSsIffsGii5OrFqlWYTZGgrrPGvE4_diW2DKzlLcX6xoyFw8R3-_gNkQQdr-CmnY/s1600-h/16+-+Chasing+her+down.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RguI1x2-OCcK5G2dgHRBWJNPnhZsqRroMEBZiJ2xryQrVyD2ln_l07BGDScr6OiFZzHptkrAGl3cSsIffsGii5OrFqlWYTZGgrrPGvE4_diW2DKzlLcX6xoyFw8R3-_gNkQQdr-CmnY/s320/16+-+Chasing+her+down.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426823152132199218" /></a><br />then he follows her for a bit, stands on her tail, presumably to block her escape; and then he does the pretty standard move that we’ve all seen on nature shows. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UMqeROHjtp4MO8L9IH9wXKmScarr0PzhYzwwkVrUGJ-TD6JaLsIXFbmR7ehpaJeEi616vz_GkksKvnsyMAyRpzew21uQudMFWip_PqRkWlmAO7i6gB7g9yNlXsyEakYN6O6Lu2UItsc/s1600-h/20+-+View+of+twiggy+penis.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UMqeROHjtp4MO8L9IH9wXKmScarr0PzhYzwwkVrUGJ-TD6JaLsIXFbmR7ehpaJeEi616vz_GkksKvnsyMAyRpzew21uQudMFWip_PqRkWlmAO7i6gB7g9yNlXsyEakYN6O6Lu2UItsc/s320/20+-+View+of+twiggy+penis.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426825465742298914" /></a><br />(His penis is shaped really strangely, though, and Mark got a great picture to prove it. Look closely!) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWSo622ZSj7O05t-RwHgI7ZxZcX6aGK5zdb-oqXnkZJIe8M6EQH3taK49zXkZsP_59NeQMitWT8QRXGN6G1QEHSAtMZQW6PS7fVUOJiu2WPBPAFlRrAnHSqpDaf5sCoyXoPNkFrtNFUo/s1600-h/21+-+Face-off.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWSo622ZSj7O05t-RwHgI7ZxZcX6aGK5zdb-oqXnkZJIe8M6EQH3taK49zXkZsP_59NeQMitWT8QRXGN6G1QEHSAtMZQW6PS7fVUOJiu2WPBPAFlRrAnHSqpDaf5sCoyXoPNkFrtNFUo/s200/21+-+Face-off.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426826249099946402" /></a> Keep in mind that all this was about three feet from where we were standing, which was crazy enough, but then this other male came in and started growling at the first one, the two turning circles around the other while the female came straight towards us, maybe looking for somewhere to hide? Anna and Nathan moved pretty quickly but Mark and I wanted to see the story unfold – until, that is, the two males started moving their fight towards us, following the lucky girl, and we decided that we didn’t need to get kicked in the face by horny and aggressive kangaroos. Maybe another time, you know? <br /><br />Anyway, check out the pictures. It was very cool. <br /><br />Another fun time with Anna and Nathan was our pretty intense game of Taboo, which we had gotten them for “Christmas,” and in which we were all surprised at Mark’s and Nathan’s competitiveness. I, usually known for being so competitive in these games that it stops being fun (or so I’ve been <em>told</em>), felt totally laid-back and zen about the whole thing. Maybe people really can change, you know? <br /><br />Less successful was when I decided to be "Helpful." I noticed that Nathan had a hole in his shirt, his favourite red t-shirt, some kind of New Zealand lamb wool fabric that supposedly breathes really well and thus never smells bad. A hole in the front of your shirt? No problem – give it to me! And off I went with my sewing kit, thinking that this hole would be like every other hole I’d ever sewn, where you turn it inside-out, hold it in a tight line and do it up. Right? Who’s with me? Except that – and we’re blaming the weird fabric here – it puckered up the whole front of the t-shirt and it looks like hell. And Nathan is polite to a fault and would not admit that I had butchered his favourite t-shirt, so he kept thanking me for my “help” while I named all the various items of holed clothing I’d fixed over the years... Lame. And lesson learned: mind your own business, always. <br /><br />An update on the bird situation: I hate cockatoos. Think of the worst possible alarm clock sound you could design – would hundreds of squawking birds do it for you? Every morning at 7:00, then again in the evening. I hate them. <br /><br />I am very pleased, on the other hand, with the beautiful green parrots that come to munch on the tree beside the balcony. They’re quite discreet – so much so that we didn’t notice them until very recently – and just so pretty. Unfortunately, they’re<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-4gdSiZapN5ssZLV5wp4yoNxWRX8RZz2vHXzDhL9fN4JfKfHa815YIv_SExA4KwPr0oYz6yZ9VDnZECNHza_0pyCfigensOkyeVrfZQGrdLwa5ZDRwVGzN9GDQMrrfZz9sg3pO2UAAU/s1600-h/Parrots,+one+focused.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-4gdSiZapN5ssZLV5wp4yoNxWRX8RZz2vHXzDhL9fN4JfKfHa815YIv_SExA4KwPr0oYz6yZ9VDnZECNHza_0pyCfigensOkyeVrfZQGrdLwa5ZDRwVGzN9GDQMrrfZz9sg3pO2UAAU/s320/Parrots,+one+focused.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427321854673008882" /></a> resisting my attempts at friendship and have actively ignored me (and my sunflower seeds) for three days running. I make all sorts of noises that I see no reason for them not to love, I offer them the seeds, I move my head around a little from side to side, parrot-style, to let them know that we’re on the same track, but they’re just not interested. One might even use the word “disdainful” if one were so inclined, but I’m choosing to go with “not yet fully engaged.” All in good time, my sweet parrot friends, all in good time. <br /><br />As far as how stupid a person can be, how many times have I lived in tropical climates? How aware am I by now of how painful and dangerous the sun can be? Might I remind you that the big, famous hole in the ozone layer that we’re all so worried about is pretty much directly over my house? And yet – and yet. Off I went to the beach to get some sun. <br /><br />I'd been using lots of good sunscreen and therefore remaining quite white and pasty, so I figured that if I went in the morning, until no later than 9:00, then I would get good sun but before it gets dangerous, and if I did that enough times I might start to have a general tan. Except that I’m someone who dawdles, pretty much always, our washing machine was broken, the laundromat was not open when it said it would be, everything got moved up in the day – long story short, I fell asleep on the beach and was lying in the sun until about 10:30, when I woke up, thought “well, I didn’t get any colour but I don’t want to push it” and went home. <br /><br />Now. You can never see that you’re getting burnt – it only comes out later. I stepped out of the shower and was a lobster from the neck down, except for the blinding white of my bathing suit lines, like I was painted red and wearing white underwear. And it’s not like I can ask for sympathy, right? Because everything here is about slip, slap, slop, panicky covering up of skin, staying out of the sun... to have gone sun-bathing in the first place is pretty much a guarantee that nobody’s going to have anything to say except “look at the scars from the various melanomas I’ve had cut out of my white, Irish skin. You should know better.”<br /> <br />It was incredibly painful for two days, then nice and brown for two days (I dared get my hopes up) and now, of course, comes The Great Peel. You know those plastic-type face masks that you peel off? That’s the entire front of my body. It’s fascinating (or incredibly gross, if you’re, say, Mark) and also heartbreaking, because of course under the peel, I’m just as white as ever. So not only was it dangerous, but it didn’t even serve its shallow, superficial purpose. I’d like to say “lesson learned,” but who knows – sometimes I’m just an idiot. <br /><br />Otherwise: Mark and I are continuing our war against the ants (and losing); the washing machine has been fixed; schools are closed for another week and I’m not sure whether to try to find another job or to just wait and get good money; they don’t have the feta dressing that my dad mixes with cucumbers and I when I tried with herb dressing and pieces of feta it was revolting and I don’t know what to do; our friendly neighbours are a cop and a soldier, respectively, which has exciting potential; immigration has confirmed that if I want to stay for 18 months, I’d better get fruit-picking (or fishing/pearling, which the lady said was actually lots of fun - ?!!?) and I really don’t want to; and finally, after over three weeks of waiting, they connected our internet – only to cancel my phone plan so that there is more work to be done. <br /><br />Happy New Year to you all and here’s hoping that 2010 is the best one yet. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-12616676461881436792010-01-08T22:56:00.000-08:002010-12-02T17:57:03.110-08:00Life's A Beach: Chapter 1Hi everyone!<br /><br />So here's the blog version of the updates. I don't know how it works yet, how much space I have or how many pictures I'll be able to add, but for those of you who are happier not receiving e-mails, here's another way to follow my life in Northern Queensland.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_07KuwfTlk8N-bonZEpzTOqz09Frxi033y94XSUoO3RBbhkcovjGlLSK7xjbYleQb0QVdBjge_UeJEjfE3RtnGojAIhffDTmF8F8Kbdg0g4Lq9oA67bjhRP_4kM8JajFCF_S2wKRt10Q/s1600/5+-+Trin.+Beach+pier+with+palms+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_07KuwfTlk8N-bonZEpzTOqz09Frxi033y94XSUoO3RBbhkcovjGlLSK7xjbYleQb0QVdBjge_UeJEjfE3RtnGojAIhffDTmF8F8Kbdg0g4Lq9oA67bjhRP_4kM8JajFCF_S2wKRt10Q/s320/5+-+Trin.+Beach+pier+with+palms+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546265407886459842" /></a>As for the name of this series, I’m living in Trinity Beach, which is in North Queensland, near Cairns. I was trying to find something about the Holy Trinity or some kind of queen joke, or even a word play with Cairns (they pronounce it “cans,” in case that helps you come up with something that I couldn’t), but then I thought that “Life’s a Beach” would be the right attitude to be putting forth this time around. (I’ve decided to be actively positive and pro-active in my life here, rather than just complaining all the time... We’ll see how long it lasts.)<br /><br />For anyone who doesn’t know the back story, here it is: I was in Townsville (also in Queensland) last year for teachers’ college and I started dating my house mate, Mark. He was working as a financial project manager for Honeywell Australia, who are currently installing or upgrading security in Queensland prisons. He came to Canada with me and stayed for the six months his visa allowed, during which time we looked for jobs in the Caribbean without much success. Then Honeywell asked him to come back to Australia for their next project, which is on Lotus Glen prison, about an hour inland from Cairns, and we figured it was our best bet for the time being. He’s been here since early November and I flew in this week.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv0v1uPXqFRmxvZGI5QUJAPk2BFn17E7XQhN1xch2o4j5H40jw_TpRdcl_sf7HE8lsPsvbfpw8jogmeMdZQN_qAXF2bpTpSlDzM9GEMFyx87q3kSdtlBW6-HwWZV14yXCsMZMXeK9Hx0/s1600-h/35+-+Katy+%26+Mark,+self-portrait.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv0v1uPXqFRmxvZGI5QUJAPk2BFn17E7XQhN1xch2o4j5H40jw_TpRdcl_sf7HE8lsPsvbfpw8jogmeMdZQN_qAXF2bpTpSlDzM9GEMFyx87q3kSdtlBW6-HwWZV14yXCsMZMXeK9Hx0/s320/35+-+Katy+%26+Mark,+self-portrait.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424646062184585458" /></a><br /><br />Our together plan is to stay for 18 months, enough time for him to complete his MBA and the maximum time my visa will allow, before moving on. My own plan is tricky because the visa requires that I not spend more than six months with any one employer, so I’ll have to keep moving around. Also, if I want to extend to the year and a half (the visa itself is only one year at this point), I have to spend at least three months doing something like picking fruit or working in the forest – the details are foggy but suffice it to say that I will have to be crafty and open to whatever jobs come up.<br /><br />Now. The trip itself was a bit dramatic because I was lucky enough to fly on the staff travel card of Mark’s pilot friend, Jason. (Who is a dead ringer for Jon Livingstone and happens to be one of the all-out nicest guys I know.) The deal with staff travel is that you save oodles of money but fly on stand-by, which means you can be bumped from your flight. Not a big deal, right? Except that in the moment itself, it’s depressing as hell.<br /><br />It had been a long day, starting with a 5:30 wake-up, because I had to fly to LA first (via Minneapolis.) I’d had a bad cold earlier in the week, so my ears were in rough shape and the two descents were incredibly painful and left me headachy and hard of hearing the rest of the day. I got to LA at 1:20 and hung out all day in LAX (which is a miserable airport under any circumstances), checked in for my big flight and was informed at 7:30 that I wasn’t making it on and would have to go see the check-in staff to be put on the list for tomorrow’s flight. There were a few other people who had been bumped from stand-by so we all hung around during the four hours it took to get re-scheduled and collect our luggage; even better, we shared hotel rooms so no one had to pay too much.<br /><br />It occurs to me that missing the flight, exhausting a day as it was (5:30 am until 3:00 am, Toronto time), was probably a blessing, as I needed a good night’s sleep and some time away from pressurized cabins. I hung out in LA with my new friends, resigned to the possibility of it all happening again that night; at least knowing what to expect would make it easier.<br /><br />We went back for check-in as soon as they opened at 3:00 and we hung around the airport again, fingers crossed and trying to talk about anything other than our chances of making it on the flight, since we were making ourselves crazy with uninformed speculation. (And also informed, as legitimate ticket-holders who had missed their flight kept showing up, which meant that they would get priority on our flight and our chances were diminishing by the minute – a very tense situation!) Among other things, we brainstormed possible new career paths for Shannon, who spent the last six years working for Disney in London, found alternative travel arrangements for Saad, whose missed flight meant no possible connection to New Zealand for at least a week, and decided that if I had a baby I should name it “Mozzie.” We were briefly convinced that Nicole Kidman was on the flight when we saw excited people flashing cameras and I remembered seeing her in a BT interview that said she was heading home for Christmas, but it turned out to be Aussie singer Deltra Goodram. Very anti-climactic. Mostly, we stressed about what would happen if one or two of us got on the flight and not the others, since everyone had such a good reason to go home. (Especially this Mississippi couple whose son moved to Australia 9 years ago and has only come home twice since – get these people on a plane!) Would any of us be generous enough to give up our spot? Probably not.<br /><br />And then, just like that, we all got on. It was incredibly exciting and I was glad to have people to jump around with and hug, rather than being all happy by myself. The flight was long and my ears were bad (I was also really nauseous and couldn’t eat anything – what’s with my crappy immune system?!) and I thought I was going to get bumped from my Sydney-Cairns flight, but I wasn’t and Mark was at the airport and everything was smooth sailing from then on. Oh, except for my bags still being in LA, but they were delivered yesterday (by an elderly man who really shouldn’t be carrying people’s oversized luggage) so after wearing the same sweaty dress for two days, I’m all unpacked and clean and ready to roll.<br /><br />Mark and I had already agreed on an apartment (via online real estate sites) and he had moved in on the 11th, so it was nice for me to move straight into our apartment. It’s actually a two-storey townhouse, absolutely beautiful – airy, spacious, hardwood floors, great furniture, gardens out the windows, clean and modern – AND it has a pool, which we didn’t think was the case from the web site or from Mark’s first, quick tour of the place. I spent the day yesterday picking up extra sheets, towels, garbage bins, light bulbs, organizing baskets and other such household items, and we re-arranged the furniture right away, so now I think it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived and I just keep wandering around and smiling at how nice and clean everything is.<br /><br /> Tropical jungle pool<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11clZURhSWLU4gL10vgb0MYf0NFWChYorn8FAGctI4TH-eNCsobRQ-s5rlcDPsuXMYqIy2-jTmJQ3kLT7mznRYETQ2rgBnSOTm2WnnRAL-1ieOFL7H-MlFRysSLhGqlL4Cwpzs_tGmwM/s1600/5+-+The+pool+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11clZURhSWLU4gL10vgb0MYf0NFWChYorn8FAGctI4TH-eNCsobRQ-s5rlcDPsuXMYqIy2-jTmJQ3kLT7mznRYETQ2rgBnSOTm2WnnRAL-1ieOFL7H-MlFRysSLhGqlL4Cwpzs_tGmwM/s320/5+-+The+pool+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546266947649113026" /></a><br /><br /> Nice big windows out to the upstairs deck<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadzIbI-2ox6QQIVET2-miXVsJyyQKx-jsCLBLK-G8kJYQaW1jk1kORiGO0S-Bi67sCIFaxWrhCHQC5kN2QVszLKFUStZ9myHi_tL9HjgrxBEral69GWMnt19oFeqGE0G9j665tgog_MI/s1600/17a+-+To+patio+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadzIbI-2ox6QQIVET2-miXVsJyyQKx-jsCLBLK-G8kJYQaW1jk1kORiGO0S-Bi67sCIFaxWrhCHQC5kN2QVszLKFUStZ9myHi_tL9HjgrxBEral69GWMnt19oFeqGE0G9j665tgog_MI/s320/17a+-+To+patio+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546267306980775202" /></a><br /><br /> View from guest room over main entrance<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ZY-4PhU07dU2yjehHYRuwGmU_htiAzOET-6WbY8cn2QLG1AELkkJ3c6M8LRIjDVegnlANNJbrVD5CCJSkXkO-0tN1RHaQJnlHVHQJLyMoFsdX_YML6e38zcvD0q2pcDYBn1LpVymMYM/s1600/18d+-+View+from+room+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ZY-4PhU07dU2yjehHYRuwGmU_htiAzOET-6WbY8cn2QLG1AELkkJ3c6M8LRIjDVegnlANNJbrVD5CCJSkXkO-0tN1RHaQJnlHVHQJLyMoFsdX_YML6e38zcvD0q2pcDYBn1LpVymMYM/s320/18d+-+View+from+room+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546267587967226242" /></a><br /><br /> Garden outside main bedroom<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRbv98Lee4c890Lbni6htTrvTdsenXCETFB3LWSIyBB4-c3AY3OzgSII5p8m5VpRbocr8_KD54xV-_daekbcM6n2FhP_8XYTYwL7C1ggtT-qcfAY3TO-tNkRIxG8WY9otvF5nwBx5142Q/s1600/25+-+Garden+outside+bedroom+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRbv98Lee4c890Lbni6htTrvTdsenXCETFB3LWSIyBB4-c3AY3OzgSII5p8m5VpRbocr8_KD54xV-_daekbcM6n2FhP_8XYTYwL7C1ggtT-qcfAY3TO-tNkRIxG8WY9otvF5nwBx5142Q/s320/25+-+Garden+outside+bedroom+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546267860619665362" /></a><br /><br />What I had forgotten about the tropics is how noisy the creatures around you can be. The frogs are incredibly loud, the geckos make this weird little barking noise and there’s this creepy, whispered “hey” outside my room in the early morning. The worst, though (other than our loud neighbours with their totally screechy saxophone jazz and raucous parties) are the wild cockatoos that fly around in packs and squawk like they’re trying to raise the dead. It’s amazing and completely miserable, but it doesn’t last long – some kind of evening thing they have going on.<br /><br />As for poop, I was sitting at the table yesterday when something hit my arm – I figured it was a bug of some sort but eventually noticed some lizard poo on the table. There’s an overhanging bit of ceiling, you see, and one of the many geckos running around on it had let loose right above me – luckily it bounced off my arm and not into my hair. I sit in a different chair now, though apparently it’s good luck when a gecko poops on you.<br /><br />Less charmingly, Mark said that the other morning he found some possum poo right inside the big sliding door to the bedroom, which you have to leave open because it’s too hot to sleep otherwise, but which doesn’t have a screen door. I’m not that concerned about cleaning up the occasional little deposit, but I’m not feeling so hot about possums coming into the room and am trying to come up with a plan of action in case I ever wake up to see two little shining eyes staring at me in the night. I guess if you’re going to be all thrilled to be surrounded by trees, you have to deal with the tree dwellers as well.<br /><br />Now for the best part. Better than a beautiful apartment with a pool, you ask? How is that possible? Better than being surrounded by lush, green mountains? Better than having a corner plaza with a goodwill, a post office, a Thai take-out restaurant AND a Brumby’s bakery?<br /><br />Check it out: Jason (the pilot who looks like Jon Livingstone) happened to have a flight up to Cairns yesterday so Mark went and rescued him from a staff-hotel-room-and-partying-cabin-crew evening to come have a barbecue with us. They were chatting so much that he missed the turn-off and had to circle back, which meant that they passed a couple of big fields that are past Trinity Beach and pretty much right behind our house. Guess what lives in those fields? A herd of kangaroos! Kangaroos!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzAUUuSMxsvhMWNLPLQiswWkepc_AlOzXO_IrnItATY8kgVMdsDoDE_-apwNXpg5eTwiyM0FHYkg1kbIk23hO7CLy3fWEwq8Tt1O6OkPfZQ1v7MpEhZuvUok-aowiyzeILVweSTfsWWo/s1600/20+-+Neighbourhood+wallabies+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzAUUuSMxsvhMWNLPLQiswWkepc_AlOzXO_IrnItATY8kgVMdsDoDE_-apwNXpg5eTwiyM0FHYkg1kbIk23hO7CLy3fWEwq8Tt1O6OkPfZQ1v7MpEhZuvUok-aowiyzeILVweSTfsWWo/s320/20+-+Neighbourhood+wallabies+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546268677624814850" /></a><br /><br />Like, maybe eighty of them, just hanging out in this grassy spot, munching away and completely unconcerned if you go right up close to them. So having never managed to see a proper kangaroo during the whole thirteen months I lived in Australia last year, I’ve landed in a house that is two minutes from their operational headquarters. I am so pleased.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8AKSPL0lFmWrTuzxNJ0fDSTxeU3B63tfgxwYzzIjUa0rql05BnrLbr2XKBpd_1xGDd5N9iSuYjkkgcvkSrvgEUtGJ1Rhdd8Gqj_s39R779b05VxrY8DJtQBiLAeMpw7gz2pO_QVHgjA/s1600/23+-+Wallabies+eating+%2528Large%2529.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8AKSPL0lFmWrTuzxNJ0fDSTxeU3B63tfgxwYzzIjUa0rql05BnrLbr2XKBpd_1xGDd5N9iSuYjkkgcvkSrvgEUtGJ1Rhdd8Gqj_s39R779b05VxrY8DJtQBiLAeMpw7gz2pO_QVHgjA/s320/23+-+Wallabies+eating+%2528Large%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546269028125432450" /></a><br /><br />I guess that’s it. My body is all puffy and panicky from the sudden heat, but I’m not that concerned because I have nothing better to do than just hang around and wait for it to work itself out. I’ve been driving a lot and was surprised at how easily I got back into the system; the opposite side of the road is actually a whole lot less of a problem than Mark’s big sedan, since I’m used to small cars. My old cell phone even still works! And I won’t even think about job searching until after Christmas, which will be a family visit period for us and during which everything’s closed anyway. In other words, now that I’ve finished with the household errands and my luggage got here in one piece, I’m ready to hit the beach or the pool as soon as the sun comes out; this is the rainy season here, so I’m happy to have nothing to do so that I can take advantage of the nice days when they occur. The rest of the time, it’s nice to sit and read with the shushing of the rain all around.<br /><br />I hope you all have happy holidays and that 2010 is full of good stuff.<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-53887625673868625712009-03-18T19:16:00.000-07:002010-11-28T19:42:11.557-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter Nine: Hawai'iI like to feel that I've wrapped things up, and since I get on a plane bound for Toronto tonight, now's as good a time as any to end the series. <br /><br />When I last wrote, I was heading out to Hawaii. I made the mistake of assuming that Tahiti would have a modern, happening airport, with fancy features like toilets and phones. I checked my luggage, emptied my could-be-a-bomb water bottle and headed through the point-of-no-return security check to the big room where all the boarding gates are, which turned out to be under construction. No water (which they didn't mention when they made me dump mine out), NO TOILETS - for a three-hour gate-wait - and no phones, which was the biggest crisis of all, since I had just received bad news from Australia and needed to call. Also, no air conditioning, fans or open windows, but lots of smokers. (Tahiti is French, remember.) <br /><br />By the time we boarded the plane at midnight, I was so nauseous, dehydrated, shaky and depressed that I had no strength left to fight the meat-freezer cabin temperature and arrived in rainy, five a.m. Honolulu with a cold and some kind of stomach bug. (The cold didn't last long, but the bug wreaked havoc on my sight-seeing.)<br /><br />The reason I went to Hawaii was to visit my friend Molly, who is in med school there. (It was nice to finally meet in person, having been pen pals since she replaced me as an English teacher in Guadeloupe.) I hijacked most of the first day with my sniffly-sneeziness and an epic nap, but on the second day we kicked off the tourism week and went whale-watching. I got sea-sick and there were no whales, though there was a group of dolphins that jumped along beside the boat and then hung out while everyone took pictures (except me; too sea-sick…) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUap0Mr5rVEI2-x_HAV-ZZQZfF5m7250ADVoEQL57oA8BNKnO41cFtLa2zAD53wI2f69P1D5mZfu1__zpIuLyyqayr0eliwtm6BP6FR7lPmqK64s2ly9-A1Iiwj_JC6ZsiPCmq-FVT_M4/s1600-h/Diamondhead+from+boat.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUap0Mr5rVEI2-x_HAV-ZZQZfF5m7250ADVoEQL57oA8BNKnO41cFtLa2zAD53wI2f69P1D5mZfu1__zpIuLyyqayr0eliwtm6BP6FR7lPmqK64s2ly9-A1Iiwj_JC6ZsiPCmq-FVT_M4/s200/Diamondhead+from+boat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427087780513048642" /></a><br /><br />Molly was probably wondering what kind of a loser she was stuck with for the week, but when we went back out with our try-again voucher, it was beautiful and sunny with not too much choppiness and I felt like a million bucks - and we saw whales. While they were beautiful and it’s moving to think of them just being there in the water, though, the boat wasn’t allowed to get too close so we mostly saw puffs of water, slippery backs and the occasional tail. (The dolphin sighting was actually much more satisfying - unfortunately, neither whale nor dolphin appears in any of my pictures, so you'll have to just use your imagination...) <br /><br />The really entertaining thing turned out to be the many Japanese tourists on the boat with us, who gasped and clapped at every single water spurt. Now, it’s definitely exciting the first time, the second and maybe – maybe – even the third. After that, it’s nice to watch but it stops being surprising; you can just stand there, scanning quietly for signs of movement and smile at the thought that you’re looking at whales. No need to keep ooh-ing ah-ing, right? Apparently not. Sometimes the gasps were so huge that I thought something really important was happening and tried to spot the whale leaping out of the water or the shark attack, but it was only ever another water puff or a glimpse of a back. <br /><br />(There was briefly some serious action when two pods met up and started showing off for each other, with some fin-slapping and general broo-ha-ha; interestingly, that’s when the group stopped gasping, many going back inside to sit down because they were apparently over it.) <br /><br />On one of Molly's full days of class, I took the bus over to Hanauma Bay, which is known for its amazing snorkeling. I didn’t realize that it was the biggest tourist attraction in the area and that there would be a beach entry fee, an mandatory educational video (don’t walk on the reef, don’t pee in the water, etc.) and a gazillion people, but once I had taken so long to get there, I figured I could just find a quiet spot to read my book and go hang out with the fish when the crowd started to dwindle. <br /><br />The thing about Hawaii tourism, though, is that the crowds never seem to dwindle. There were 140 seats in the video, which played every 15 minutes, and every single one was full; imagine 560 people an hour coming to swim at a beach that is about 500 metres long. I didn’t bother getting snorkel gear and trying to shove my way into the group, since I figured I would mostly have great views of other snorkelers but not so much the fish themselves. (Especially after the near-deserted beaches in Tahiti, it was hard to share my water space; tourism is tough-going when you’ve been spoiled!) The water was also pretty icy, so just going in for the occasional cool-down was more than enough for me. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqpR2WkjVnA0FYMseg0rVwymqJNKPJl6wJLbG7SYrQnnvEk1ytVm-glAJNzkBklKWtUA58Vk2OSoMWpH8AyfbxHYZQMMPl9uFqPgVDOQFmEbR_0XSB3woZh3XQVD_Z5UCYFhQdQPHrxI/s1600-h/To+the+right.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpqpR2WkjVnA0FYMseg0rVwymqJNKPJl6wJLbG7SYrQnnvEk1ytVm-glAJNzkBklKWtUA58Vk2OSoMWpH8AyfbxHYZQMMPl9uFqPgVDOQFmEbR_0XSB3woZh3XQVD_Z5UCYFhQdQPHrxI/s320/To+the+right.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425348307050684834" /></a><br /><br />My favourite moment was when a girl was adjusting her bikini top and it slipped down, exposing a breast for maybe one eighth of a second, before she gasped and pulled it back into place, looking mortified and apologetic. A woman sitting nearby was fully scandalized, huffing indignantly about there being children on the beach, and the family next to her joined in the cause, hoping to god that their children hadn’t seen such filth and there you go, you can’t even go to a public beach anymore without risking exposure to pornography. While they fretted and fussed over the possibility that their eight-year-old may have seen a flash of a human breast and may therefore be scarred for life and turn away from the church to take up prostitution and star in adult movies, I imagined the tan lines that were undoubtedly working their way into my own skin and wistfully remembered the beautiful Tahitian beaches where you can get as naked as you want and get brown all over, just as god intended. (Apparently we aren’t all talking about the same god…)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxit2D5RULCZauZZDtHjcgQX-4OFFguZtSfOMNlGajJ4CJJb4_JsdRqwC3lNWn08OGuWMSFPCgTSHtL7L0HN_dRGWFHQ4wx9wgaMCQR1F69FyJth5QvRu9PPSv3Z6O9b5OGubYFuId-yU/s1600-h/Clear,+clear+water.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxit2D5RULCZauZZDtHjcgQX-4OFFguZtSfOMNlGajJ4CJJb4_JsdRqwC3lNWn08OGuWMSFPCgTSHtL7L0HN_dRGWFHQ4wx9wgaMCQR1F69FyJth5QvRu9PPSv3Z6O9b5OGubYFuId-yU/s320/Clear,+clear+water.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427088752058932322" /></a> <br />On Wednesday night, Molly and I took a bus through the mountains to do full moon yoga on Lanikai Beach. We ran into some problems upon our triumphant arrival, having followed the directions of both the bus driver and some friendly locals, when we couldn’t see yoga anywhere and were informed that this was actually such-and-such beach and the one we wanted was way over there, up the road and around the corner. We set off over the sand through the increasing darkness, Molly being convinced that set-backs are good, as they make an event more memorable, and I being highly suspicious of the lack of a full moon – or any moon, really – and wondering if Molly hadn’t confused the dates. <br /><br />(Incidentally, even before we saw it for ourselves, the full moon-ness of the night was confirmed by the man we encountered in a beach-access alley, just as I was standing up out of a “private moment” squat; he was going to the beach to see the full moon and was disappointed that it wasn’t out yet, though Molly pointed out to me that he did see a full moon of one kind, if not quite the one he expected. I was mortified.)<br /><br />We ended up finding the beach and the yoga, still in the dark but with the soothing sound of the sea (and the less-soothing sound of a big group of friends having a beach pow-wow about ten feet away from us, apparently not interested in choosing a spot somewhere else on the huge, empty beach). At one point it started to rain, which the yoga instructor called “blessings” and which Molly and I called “a long, wet, cold ride home on a severely air-conditioned bus,” but it didn’t last. Eventually the moon came out and was gorgeous, so low and huge and a warm, cheesy yellow; the only thing missing was muscle tone, and we all know whom I have to blame for that. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o1aXyra2RpGcvNH6LLKm1TxuDoRfF1EbUsx-f20Qe3VdqE7YKgu_jVFOhKUOMOBqAG2uaTq4bfRyWTbLQZbTIbU0WuUhtc5dk19dgg42arwcO37jbt2Blg_wBeuFQGGVL5OynnbmuL4/s1600-h/Bamboo+path.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o1aXyra2RpGcvNH6LLKm1TxuDoRfF1EbUsx-f20Qe3VdqE7YKgu_jVFOhKUOMOBqAG2uaTq4bfRyWTbLQZbTIbU0WuUhtc5dk19dgg42arwcO37jbt2Blg_wBeuFQGGVL5OynnbmuL4/s320/Bamboo+path.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425347544627568018" /></a> Otherwise, we had a nice – and tourist-packed – walk through the forest to Manoa Falls, including an off-the-beaten-track jaunt through some unexpectedly beautiful bamboo, and we spent my last morning at Shangri-La, the fancy-pants estate of a rich, eccentric lady named Doris Duke. This particular house (she owned several) was decorated in an Islamic theme, with gorgeous mosaics and tapestries and all manner of beautiful things. I love mosaic patterns and tile work, so I was pretty much jealous for most of the tour, wondering if I could find a way to recreate some of her fabulous rooms in my own home. It’s never going to happen, but it was a nice way to fantasize the morning away. <br /><br />We had a rainy stroll around Waikiki-at-night, which is quite chi-chi and pretty much completely out of my league. Even finding stickers for Karine (they don’t have that kind of thing in France and I had confidently assured her that it would be no problem) took two hours of walking around the shopping centre and cost me more than I would have expected to pay for a manicure and skin treatment. You’re not in Kansas anymore…<br /><br />It was a nice week, a nice break from family life, and now I’m back in Tahiti, having had one storm day, one beach day and one more day at school (giving out Canadian stickers and tattoos made me even more of a superstar on campus than I already was), and tonight at the airport I’m not going into the gate until the very last minute, onward and upward. <br /><br />Thanks for reading along and… see you soon.<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-12458949140683803282009-03-08T19:06:00.000-07:002010-11-28T19:43:04.077-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter Eight: Tahiti<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-zJvVbRq6HXYUFbUReQHwjYzv5MXSkVqtTahskay35K9HSImC7O3Rq6CbP9VS2vtcfjER3srJd_qn3f1tN7zMjfZS9k32KqAtJhLHk2bjE3pKi9kehuaPAla5H3gFouChvSqiTXd-dQ/s1600-h/PK+17+et+demi+entrance.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-zJvVbRq6HXYUFbUReQHwjYzv5MXSkVqtTahskay35K9HSImC7O3Rq6CbP9VS2vtcfjER3srJd_qn3f1tN7zMjfZS9k32KqAtJhLHk2bjE3pKi9kehuaPAla5H3gFouChvSqiTXd-dQ/s320/PK+17+et+demi+entrance.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427090164164978306" /></a> I’m actually no longer in Australia, but am writing from Papeete, Tahiti. Phone and internet are so slow here, information so difficult to come by and everything so seemingly distant that it’s hard to focus on anything outside of my immediate surroundings. I’ll try, though, so that I can wrap up Townsville and put it all behind me. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Part One: Good-bye, Townsville</strong><br /><br />After our hot and tropical Christmas, the rain started - it hadn’t stopped when I left and it hasn’t stopped now, as a cyclone hit Queensland yesterday (no details yet on the outcome.) Mark and I headed up to a holiday apartment in Trinity Beach over New Year’s, a Christmas gift from his parents. Our pre-departure plans consisted of exploring the area, enjoying the pool and lying on the beautiful beach, baking in the summer sun - but that was before the rain. <br /><br />The reality was that we spent five out of the seven days stuck indoors, watching movies and doing jigsaw puzzles while the storms raged around us. (Though, to be fair, we were also very excited about having a couch for a week, so at least that wasn’t wasted by our actually leaving the apartment on a regular basis.) Every once in a while there would be a patch of clear sky and we’d run down to the beach, but it was closed every time because when any North Queensland beach finds a stinger in the stinger net, all the beaches close for the rest of the day. Apparently that was a bad week for stinger nets. (We did spend as much time as possible in the pool, though, not least because it featured a very exciting - if hygienically suspicious – sauna option.) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwitnRq6fQei9KiPZnGIy4B32z3ZML6UZRTyF8QDDb5Nh_SMKwI6dhnKSwgCMhhz6K6_4QV3wKphhQ_WspxDpEBU5CTzXXfR-oFbm8vnU3TFtNqokUVopDA3Wuuu-O-ZIuJHXqyUC8Ys/s1600-h/Croc+with+underbrush.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwitnRq6fQei9KiPZnGIy4B32z3ZML6UZRTyF8QDDb5Nh_SMKwI6dhnKSwgCMhhz6K6_4QV3wKphhQ_WspxDpEBU5CTzXXfR-oFbm8vnU3TFtNqokUVopDA3Wuuu-O-ZIuJHXqyUC8Ys/s320/Croc+with+underbrush.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427091108813915506" /></a> We did have one sunny morning that we spent on a crocodile-sighting tour of the Daintree River and one fully sunny day of snorkeling at Green Island. We had a rough start, including not being able to find the boat departure, getting severely sunburned on the ferry (you know when you find yourself pulling thick, dead flakes of skin out of your hair for the next week?) and battling the epic crowds on this tiny little tourist trap island.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-F9XOVE7skTtYLaeQw9_nVO85stE-5Ezx4cXnTobJhyWrMxoNyPNYproJbnBF2c0ZtEk9ClgJr0vU87V7Kfsuyq8pSL3swTdJHrscG5JRSPMjAARgzZktR0bjaI001xHv6xIw2vCQD8/s1600-h/An+island+seen+from+the+ferry.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-F9XOVE7skTtYLaeQw9_nVO85stE-5Ezx4cXnTobJhyWrMxoNyPNYproJbnBF2c0ZtEk9ClgJr0vU87V7Kfsuyq8pSL3swTdJHrscG5JRSPMjAARgzZktR0bjaI001xHv6xIw2vCQD8/s320/An+island+seen+from+the+ferry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425339622987951442" /></a> Ultimately, though, we had a beautiful, calm day of snorkeling, which ended abruptly when I saw a shark swim past me, about three feet from my face - a shark, you understand - and booked it out of the water with the speed of an Olympic swimmer (or Olympic scaredy-cat), only to stand anxiously on the shore, shouting at Mark to get out of the water but unable to break through his fuzzy snorkeling sound shell and too much of a coward to go back in and pull him out. (He eventually surfaced to de-fog his mask and bore unfortunate witness to my frantic near-hysteria. “A shark?” he said, “where? I want to see it.”) As for the shark, it obviously couldn’t care less about our presence in the water, being either very well-fed or simply one of those sharks that isn’t into people, which is something I would have liked to know ahead of time. <br /><br />Back in Townsville, I had a good long stretch of not working: it’s hard enough to find office-type work in a blue collar town at the best of times, so during the panicky beginning of a recession, it wasn’t happening. I did a few more promotions and worked the bar at some basketball games, as well as having some more hours with Angus just before I left, including going on-site with him and doing construction work. Go figure. <br /><br />Mostly, though, I endlessly re-created the Trinity Beach week, only alone. I read, I watched movies, I did puzzles, I baked. I couldn’t leave the house most days because of the rain (most of you probably saw footage of the horrible fires in the South of the country, but I don’t know if you were up on the flooding situation; this has broken all records for being the wettest, most flooded year in Australian history.) It was bad enough in a car - though I was always grateful for even a ride to the grocery store, just for a change of scenery - but on foot or by bike it was obviously out of the question. When I was working, we organized elaborate carpool plans; the rest of the time, I sat in our moldy apartment in my moldy clothes and watched my skin turn pale. <br /><br />(After two weeks of not having a day of work or sunshine, Angus called and I went in three days in a row, all three of which were hot, glorious, sunny days. The fourth day, the rain started as I was packing my beach bag and didn’t stop until the next time I went in for work. I know that a lot of people had real problems and I had nothing to complain about, but doesn’t that sound a bit unfair?)<br /><br />The lack of work was frustrating, but it did give me time to sort out my teacher registration stuff, take care of paper work like bank accounts and taxes, sell my stuff and spend lots of time with Mark while I still could. (Especially when he couldn’t go to work because of the floods, so we got to read, watch movies, do puzzles and bake - together!) And if anyone’s going to be stuck in the house for weeks at a time, it’s probably best that it be me; I can do absolutely nothing for a lot longer than most people before I start to get depressed. <br /><br />The last few days were sad the way that last few days are wont to be, but a definite highlight was my first trip to a real live casino. After watching the movie “21” and wondering how the whole card-counting thing works, Mark and I started playing Blackjack and decided that since we were just so good at it, we should head over to the casino sometime. In our game, though, the non-dealer’s hand was not out in plain view, so there was some bluffing involved. I like to think of myself as having a particularly excellent poker face (Mark, misguided as he is, claims that this is untrue), at least for the first few minutes of the game, before I get the giggles. I figured that I could quickly make a couple of hundred and take off as soon as I felt my focus starting to slip. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZF1RU2M1780Fqb4BXfpSvPrsMstUWXjH8LkSc1hr1c5nbGKqXKQPq3TZH-gVAI8YYSt6Mvl8aXoOclB7dFwfQPN7hgTt6LzyOYOnfAXWi9wey2yAo2sJFu_JBagaHbWCO5JU2q_tmoZ4/s1600-h/Mark+%26+Katy+pre-casino.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZF1RU2M1780Fqb4BXfpSvPrsMstUWXjH8LkSc1hr1c5nbGKqXKQPq3TZH-gVAI8YYSt6Mvl8aXoOclB7dFwfQPN7hgTt6LzyOYOnfAXWi9wey2yAo2sJFu_JBagaHbWCO5JU2q_tmoZ4/s200/Mark+%26+Katy+pre-casino.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425342038353362322" /></a> It turns out, however, that it’s all open on the table! Dammit! You can’t bluff, you have no control over the situation, you can just sit there and watch them take your money away. I watched a few people laying down chip after chip and losing it all and was too intimidated to play, but after sitting in on Mark’s game for a few rounds, I decided that you only live once and I traded in my twenty dollars for some chips. I was a very responsible gambler, putting aside whatever I won and only ever playing my original bet, so that at the very least I would walk out with my original twenty dollars, except that… wait for it… I ended up with eighty dollars! Sixty dollars profit! My casual plan to make hundreds of dollars was maybe aiming a bit too high, but within my own comfort level I’m actually a hot mama at the Blackjack table. I can’t wait for round two, for which I intend to wear extravagantly high heels and possibly draw a dark beauty mark just under my lip. <br /><br /><strong>Part Two: French Polynesia</strong><br /><br />My trip home is all international flights, where you’re allowed two bags at 23kg each. After spending over a year in Townsville, I culled through everything I owned, made some hard decisions, gave eight bags to good will, packed only what I really loved or needed and got it down to about 50kg total. At the Townsville airport, though, they informed me that no, in fact, for domestic flights (Townsville to Sydney) I’m only allowed to have 23kg. If I tried to bring everything I had, it would be about $250 in overweight charges. <br /><br />Now, a tearful morning at the airport is never fun, so finding out that I had to go through my “bare minimum” and get rid of half of it was unsettling, to say the least. Even I, who love a good cull, was pretty weepy about having to ruthlessly abandon anything that wasn’t immediately necessary in my life. (You know that great Chinese bathrobe? And the sexy cleavage top with the lace along the straps? Gone. Feel my pain.) <br /><br />Mark got some bags out of the car and we filled them up with all of the discards, all the shirts and bras and shoes that were lying on the floor of the airport, and I got my overweight charge down to my casino winnings. And we agreed that having that kind of situation to deal with was a good distraction from the sadness of saying good-bye.<br /><br />My night in Sydney was uneventful, in a Formule 1 hotel (where the bathroom is so tiny that they ask you to close the door while the shower is on, lest you flood the whole room) at which I paid $7 for the “continental breakfast” that turned out to be a selection of white bread, jam, coffee and tea. And not even nice tea, just tea. <br /><br />Air Tahiti was very exciting because the flight attendants changed outfits three times, so that we were greeted by shoulder pads and heels, then served by traditional flower dresses, then sent off by cute little enjoy-the-breeze dresses. And they gave us those yummy-smelling flowers during the flight, then blasted Tahitian music as soon as we landed, so we were all in full tourist mode before even setting foot in the place. <br /><br />What would you most want to know about Tahiti? It’s not necessarily as you picture it, for one. Papeete is full of people and noise and litter, though there is definitely a stunning mountain backdrop and once you go up the coast in either direction it gets a lot calmer. <br /><br />There are hens everywhere. And chickens and roosters and all manner of loud, freakish farm birds. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQEi86YGBGRr68HN8c06fU3Kh2WrEX4jB-UR1nQ9B8Ox9-LR7c8zEAkpObqLi3z4Nt_qALgDQw_yBJ1nvwCrkF9_ostgX2tNibgXus5b_P3lWKEHLsFKeHe6dlq_yJPBdgvRO6kqKYX4/s1600-h/McDrive.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQEi86YGBGRr68HN8c06fU3Kh2WrEX4jB-UR1nQ9B8Ox9-LR7c8zEAkpObqLi3z4Nt_qALgDQw_yBJ1nvwCrkF9_ostgX2tNibgXus5b_P3lWKEHLsFKeHe6dlq_yJPBdgvRO6kqKYX4/s320/McDrive.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427093117483993426" /></a> Those beautiful Tahitians, all slender and curvy with coconut boobs and a long, black braid? Fictional. People here are quite big, kind of a sumo vibe. The official reason for this is apparently that they went from having zero money to lots and lots of it when France set up the military. So they suddenly have lots of money, which means that every third car (not an exaggeration) is an SUV, they eat horribly and they don’t get any exercise. At this point, sixty per cent of the 18-35 population suffers from diabetes/heart problems/cholesterol type health problems, to the point where they can’t work past 40 years old. SIXTY per cent! The implications on the health system and the economy are really scary, but they aren’t doing the kinds of health-and-fitness education initiatives that everyone else is. Pretty scary. <br /><br />I walked Eva to her junior high and was completely intimidated by the aggressive stares of the kids sitting outside, smoking: not only are they huge, but they also aren’t the soft, gentle people they are stereotyped to be; they’re pretty tough and very hostile. And they walk around with ghetto blasters, ‘80s style. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTDQSUYitag4yuy8Izi-yFAoFelEGJEJvHXxkNsutWxLHuCYj5H0QqYLRSVH9Ke6NUmnH2XfNaqWbi6dgvKYnPEi-yCBIx-QofyHzs29iKgyOQzr9boyRfl6RrOVSFqnj2WzlDGZ0uPg/s1600-h/Library.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTDQSUYitag4yuy8Izi-yFAoFelEGJEJvHXxkNsutWxLHuCYj5H0QqYLRSVH9Ke6NUmnH2XfNaqWbi6dgvKYnPEi-yCBIx-QofyHzs29iKgyOQzr9boyRfl6RrOVSFqnj2WzlDGZ0uPg/s320/Library.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427094239827557874" /></a> <br /><br />Lots of tattoos, thick and usually full-arm or -leg, usually symbolic. They look really good. <br /><br />Here’s an interesting one: there are boys who are raised as girls, called “les rérés.” My hosts claimed that it was just at random, like Catholic families who decide that the first son will be a priest, but a local guy I met told me that it’s only boys who are a bit effeminate in the first place, raised to be women so that nobody will give them a hard time about it. Some of them are like drag queens, tall and gorgeous and much more womanly than your average woman, plus with great legs. But most of them are dumpy and heavy with moustaches and sailors’ muscles. Isn’t that an interesting societal decision?<br /><br />The accent is lovely, with a rolled “r” instead of the throaty French one. And they only say “tu,” never “vous,” which is VERY hard to get used to. Imagine talking to an old man for the first time and saying “est-ce que tu sais quand le prochain ferry arrive?” <br /><br />Pretty nosy. I pay my bus fare, she says “voilà, madame. Or is it mademoiselle?” A few people (as in, total strangers, on the bus or handing me the drink I just bought) have asked me my religion. <br /><br />As for my own situation here, I have found it a bit exhausting to fit into a family routine that is not mine. The teenage hormones, for one. The very specific way of doing things, for another, so that when I try to help I’m actually not helping, but what am I supposed to do, sit around and not help? <br /><br />And then there’s just the Frenchness of it all, which I miss when I’m away but which drives me a bit crazy when I’m in it. The way that women flutter around their men, with their voices going up really high and full of baby talk; the way the men explain things to you (even things that you know a lot about, like, say, the country you’re from) as if you were a child, indeed a moronic child; the stress about good grades and this one getting .25 less than his school rival, so maybe he should be studying harder… <br /><br />Here’s my least favourite word in French: allez. It means “oh, come on” and can be “mais, allez” or “allez, Kathryn” or any other variation, but you have to say it a certain way. “Mais, allez” is pronounced “meh ah-leh,” except that you really drag out the “leh,” with your lips pursed and the tone of someone who is speaking to the biggest asshole they’ve ever encountered. <br />Katy: “I don’t like mountain biking; it makes me anxious and afraid.”<br />French person: “Mais al-LEZ, Kathryn,” meaning “oh, come on, of course you want to come to the race we’re running in and mountain bike behind us. Why would anyone not like to do the things that we like to do? If you don’t like to do what we like to do, then you are obviously wrong.” <br /><br />Once at the race, on the mountain bike, I certainly felt smug when all these die-hard runners came gasping along the trail, hot and exhausted and looking like they were about to throw up. They made comments about the heat and looked at me for sympathy - forget it! What kind of idiot runs in a mountain race in the middle of the summer in Tahiti? Of course it’s hot! Get yourself to a water source like anyone with half a brain, or suck it up; just don’t live your life pretending that you’re still in Bordeaux and then look at me for support when the sun starts to burn. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4yghaDeyP5RAQWzYBE4vpK5pPfelMT4zMlv6k5kG1QD1meko7uFFLpNY-rOqmPoHdC0pBS-V91hMLizFtBl7inj2eNsesBsrj0thlxWjV7CFgGrtnirZEBJDHvXdxfWDHUiWmXD-PM0/s1600-h/10+Little+Indians.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4yghaDeyP5RAQWzYBE4vpK5pPfelMT4zMlv6k5kG1QD1meko7uFFLpNY-rOqmPoHdC0pBS-V91hMLizFtBl7inj2eNsesBsrj0thlxWjV7CFgGrtnirZEBJDHvXdxfWDHUiWmXD-PM0/s320/10+Little+Indians.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427095204238526130" /></a> I went into school with Karine a few times to speak English with the kids, most of whom do languages through a computer program and were just off their tits excited to have a real, live English person in the classroom with them. When I took them outside for games they looked at me like I was the Messiah and when I brought out the guitar they practically passed out with joy. It was very worthwhile, not least because it reminded me of what the French school system is like and how much I would never want to put my kids in it, so it might make my future life decisions easier for everyone involved. We may not have their delicious food, but at least we don’t make our six-year-olds sob all over their workbooks because they didn’t underline the date with the right pen. <br /><br />Is that enough negative? Let’s talk about the good times, too: the best days have been when I’ve gone out on my own schedule and done things alone, so that I had a better feeling of the local lifestyle. After a few creepy encounters at the beach, for example, I met Matahi (which sounds more like Mat-HAY-ee, as they’re quite percussive with their “h”s), an interesting, curious, funny guy who took me around to see different beaches and local sites and was just a lot of fun. <br /><br />I had some hilarious (and sometimes surreal) conversations on buses and while hitch-hiking, and when I’m not with a whole group of white people, the locals seem less resentful of me and are willing to take a chance. Maybe because when I’m alone I look more like a tourist, rather than with grocery bags and a family of four. <br /><br />I went over on the ferry to neighbouring island Moorea, which is much smaller and more authentically Polynesian, hardly any French people (other than the hotels) and, of course, so beautiful. (The water here is unbelievable, to the point where you can just stand there and watch all these amazing, colourful fish swim around you and you don’t even need a snorkeling mask.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7zx7g6Y1mKWTvmyWPYtSKuXgDykhSbndCzRCUMEb2b5Xkd_om34JUgJVXyZUdeM2g90MEaDl8x_hrwOQF67UD_XghcMoL4KOPT4DHXgqC8h2ZxOZADtq8P8BOGxg9AXYuJMogxreofs/s1600-h/Turquoise+fish.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7zx7g6Y1mKWTvmyWPYtSKuXgDykhSbndCzRCUMEb2b5Xkd_om34JUgJVXyZUdeM2g90MEaDl8x_hrwOQF67UD_XghcMoL4KOPT4DHXgqC8h2ZxOZADtq8P8BOGxg9AXYuJMogxreofs/s320/Turquoise+fish.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427096081483272242" /></a><br /><br />On the ferry ride over to Moorea I got quite boat sick, to the point where I got off and puked my guts out into the nearest garbage can, thereby missing the one bus that leaves for every ferry arrival. I would have to wait two hours for the next one but luckily was able to hitch-hike (which isn’t really done here, apparently) with this little old man who insisted on taking me all the way to my destination, way past his house, so that he could keep giving me a tour of his beloved island. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZ-86kzwHvGgJVzRMxJQ_Jyk_F4qFeAITLoI6FlUwavkRf5cimlXtouK_T3tbUJH-HV0Jh_DM0N24Dbv8jV6kzU2kxAaSR5uPFn22upuKvh45x5gWfj7BjCNDymY7v20yP836ZfB9G04/s1600-h/Dolphin+at+walkway.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZ-86kzwHvGgJVzRMxJQ_Jyk_F4qFeAITLoI6FlUwavkRf5cimlXtouK_T3tbUJH-HV0Jh_DM0N24Dbv8jV6kzU2kxAaSR5uPFn22upuKvh45x5gWfj7BjCNDymY7v20yP836ZfB9G04/s200/Dolphin+at+walkway.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425343651237013986" /></a> The destination was the Intercontinental hotel, where they have dolphins. I couldn’t justify paying for the swim-with-dolphins package, but even sitting beside them was awesome. (Really awe-some, for those of you - ahem, Papa - who think I overuse the word!) I stayed almost two hours, occasionally chatting with the concierge who kept coming around to hang out with me, before finally tearing myself away, with the promise that someday - preferably when I’m not by myself - I’ll swim with them. <br /><br />(Hopefully as a guest of the Intercontinental, which is just beautiful and has those little huts on the water so that you wake up, accept the fruit that someone has kayaked up to your door, then step out into the turquoise sea and watch the dolphins play as the sun rises. Sigh.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi6WHyqpWS5N5CW-4pOGbGjibfcXmffI2VP6Ko2q3dT6_6ZoS1GUgT7_GTJEd5RVAJSXa_Z9iSkUcTJ8rS5tnyDR0urmsk94-YyU3Qh4dlSM2NRzxoHkMpvHdu6eNBoylY1oT7_zw8Xk/s1600-h/Intercontinental+bungalows.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi6WHyqpWS5N5CW-4pOGbGjibfcXmffI2VP6Ko2q3dT6_6ZoS1GUgT7_GTJEd5RVAJSXa_Z9iSkUcTJ8rS5tnyDR0urmsk94-YyU3Qh4dlSM2NRzxoHkMpvHdu6eNBoylY1oT7_zw8Xk/s200/Intercontinental+bungalows.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425342798707867106" /></a> <br /><br />I walked to the Tipannier public beach, but the access to it is private. Right. Feeling very devious, I snuck around the back, slicing my leg open on some kind of scary vine, and made it through to the beach, only to discover that the boat that takes you across to the tiny snorkeling islands wasn’t running because the guy wasn’t there that day. His dad was, though, and offered for me to take a kayak across for the same price. Great! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj9k5CYudG1XwOLArZnmTPQ1r2YEnXR7fgP9PPRNB7SAaBE20O-RbNPJMWk8CMvobXxU95oeyLFUWUZWc1KZzY1bfSpWg6ZhyphenhyphenNznGAVgDf7Vxi00-bq_SsaN5k4sHBQP6xAR1TEPFy9c/s1600-h/Katy+with+kayak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj9k5CYudG1XwOLArZnmTPQ1r2YEnXR7fgP9PPRNB7SAaBE20O-RbNPJMWk8CMvobXxU95oeyLFUWUZWc1KZzY1bfSpWg6ZhyphenhyphenNznGAVgDf7Vxi00-bq_SsaN5k4sHBQP6xAR1TEPFy9c/s200/Katy+with+kayak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425344599673597282" /></a> Off I went, a pretty hard row but that’s okay, because apparently there are rays that swim up over you and beautiful fish. I got the kayak up on shore and got into the water, then when I tried to stand still to put my mask on, the current dragged me away. It was so strong that I couldn’t get anywhere and had to hold on to the big rocks in the water if I wanted to stay still, but why bother because the current was too strong for the fish - of which I saw literally two in half an hour. I eventually gave up and tried kayaking around the mini islands, which wasn’t a go, tried walking through the islands, but they were full of brambles and painful, scratchy things, so I got back into the kayak and headed back to the beach. In a windstorm. Where did it come from? The twenty-minute ride took me over an hour on the way back, as I was constantly tossed up on the shore (at people’s houses) and couldn’t get back to the beach. Very exciting stuff. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUPAfg8YupPimeA9OPACtAvQS9OrJVRRurKoTCd9pBJGc7pDoaXftu_PTxA0tFkI8HgCB6fm8tADn3D3KCSlamtZiSsJL901jpdDrFCUF7uVKXxZDZTEeqfx643yH4VdWBEU-qItHn_g/s1600-h/Kayak+and+water.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUPAfg8YupPimeA9OPACtAvQS9OrJVRRurKoTCd9pBJGc7pDoaXftu_PTxA0tFkI8HgCB6fm8tADn3D3KCSlamtZiSsJL901jpdDrFCUF7uVKXxZDZTEeqfx643yH4VdWBEU-qItHn_g/s320/Kayak+and+water.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425345327747549026" /></a><br /><br />(Moral of the story: choose your own activities, rather than doing what someone told you was great, because they were there in a different season and under different circumstances and when you do it, it kind of sucks.) <br /><br />I had a really long chat with the dad, who is from Pays-Basque and definitely one of my new favourite people, then missed the bus, hitch-hiked back to the ferry and got sick again on the way home. Moorea: check. <br /><br />So that’s where I’m at. It’s really quite beautiful here, I’ve loved my beach days, I feel sunned and soothed and will be sad to leave, I’ve had a warm welcome from my hosts and although it’s rained half the time I’ve been here (which meant lots of frustrating games of Scrabble in French), it’s been a really nice holiday so far. Lots to see and do and think about, lots of interesting conversations and unexpected discoveries, AND they have my beloved Milka chocolate. It will take a lot of will power not to pack eight kilos of it into my suitcase.<br /><br />Tonight I leave for a week in Hawai’i. This is the life!<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-25928301375772633512008-12-26T18:59:00.000-08:002010-01-15T14:59:04.578-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter SevenHoliday Greetings! <br /><br />Who's up for some news? It's Boxing Day and the cricket is on – God help us all – and while I'm trying to be a good sport and get into the holiday spirit, I can't sit through an entire day (or two or three or five) of this mind-numbing game. I've already finished my jigsaw puzzle, painted my toenails, washed the floor, done the laundry and sewn hems on two shirts. I'm out of excuses not to be sitting in front of the television, which happens to be where the internet plugs in, so it looks like it's time for an update...<br /><br />***For those of you who skip the reading or who don't make it to the end, let me wish you lots of joy in this holiday season. Best of everything in 2009!***<br /><br /><strong>Teachers' College</strong><br /><br />Done! Ha! Never again!<br /><br /><strong>Work</strong><br /><br />Interesting situation that I find myself in. I quit the restaurant, see, having had enough of crazy long shifts, angry staff, absentee management, total mayhem most of the time, and of course the constantly and excessively drunk customers. Done and done. And why not? I'll just pick up some office work, get some temp stuff until my papers come through and I can do some supply teaching – no problem. <br /><br />Turns out, though, that in blue-collar army/mining towns like this, the only temporary work is in manual labour – other than some office work for government/army organizations, but then you need to be an Australian citizen. I thought it might actually be a good idea to get my construction site blue card and a pair of steel-toe boots, as doing some digging and hauling and lifting would make me strong and fit (and rich) – but even that fell through because you have to have your own transportation to get out to construction/farm/mine sites way out of Townsville, and my bicycle -- though excellent -- just won't cut it. <br /><br />But no need to panic. First, I've found this guy who runs a construction company from home and needs office management help, such as typing up project bids and e-mails and letters to sub-contractors and anything else that needs to be done around the office. <br />He even lets me unleash my organization skills, including furniture re-arrangement – look out! Cash-in-hand, super casual (jean shorts, tank tops and bare feet tend to be my work uniform) and a nice family vibe, as I get to chat with his teacher wife and coo at their eight-week-old baby. <br /><br />Second – and less satisfying but we all have to pay our bills, right? – is working for a promotions company, which I thought would be dressing up in ice cream costumes and handing out popsicles at the beach and that kind of thing. It's not. So far, in a series of increasingly inappropriate-for-me-and-everything-I-stand-for promo jobs, I've been:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWIhs5hv56c0utrvq2eyQfnOPPHNgLHJeR4Zl3o7bhpqdCD-sqECFWDGmH_8HVF3Q1CxKXSPUW-eLaoxN1G8zj2u-72khyl9gFl_j4qXDJRI-6UFY-I-CsilQsU_wVCdc0kPFIf7EnEw/s1600-h/Katy+cooking+pork.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWIhs5hv56c0utrvq2eyQfnOPPHNgLHJeR4Zl3o7bhpqdCD-sqECFWDGmH_8HVF3Q1CxKXSPUW-eLaoxN1G8zj2u-72khyl9gFl_j4qXDJRI-6UFY-I-CsilQsU_wVCdc0kPFIf7EnEw/s320/Katy+cooking+pork.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427098881821777090" /></a><br />1. The pork lady, setting up a stand in the supermarket to cook and hand out samples of "moisture-infused" pork;<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6qWNkWVPr36fc8zNsADREf0G_wyG4-_vDIBBEdfZQI8Zg-sMyxYTzrl2ZwNoQX2nDkLmq8e7h2bkZ81La_ZYyPCFyiSETqPvgd6eGc7HdopmEUsk1tDCr5b8rNJNN0E8tTE1cu2Alv0/s1600-h/White+Stag+3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6qWNkWVPr36fc8zNsADREf0G_wyG4-_vDIBBEdfZQI8Zg-sMyxYTzrl2ZwNoQX2nDkLmq8e7h2bkZ81La_ZYyPCFyiSETqPvgd6eGc7HdopmEUsk1tDCr5b8rNJNN0E8tTE1cu2Alv0/s200/White+Stag+3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427099675691256930" /></a><br />2. The White Stag girl, standing in drive-thru bottle shops (oh yes, they have drive-thru alcohol stores), handing out samples of Toohey's latest low-carb beer to people in cars; and <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAv2xY3FvIWKvt1NuESGNnnr-Wxl9uDvREdbgoDVsrIUMd8INwn02tOOyE95_P3JP49t5TM6PGDnMqZsF0HShRPefOkmuaqtifuihsQZFP9WMJKUIaZoivKniFLa1VlJkeW7iHl5G7Zc/s1600-h/Katy+serving+beer+2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAv2xY3FvIWKvt1NuESGNnnr-Wxl9uDvREdbgoDVsrIUMd8INwn02tOOyE95_P3JP49t5TM6PGDnMqZsF0HShRPefOkmuaqtifuihsQZFP9WMJKUIaZoivKniFLa1VlJkeW7iHl5G7Zc/s320/Katy+serving+beer+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427100342804787122" /></a><br />3. The Beer Promo Chick, setting up kegs of Pure Blond Naked and serving it out to drunk soldiers at the local army base's end-of-year parties. (You can't see the high heels and cleavage hole, but it was hot!)<br /><br />They were desperate for staff and super grateful that I showed up when I did, but I'm not exactly what they're looking for in a promo chick – which I should have figured out from their being called "Casting Couch" and having a web site full of pictures of girls in slutty costumes and coquettish (read: whorish) poses. As it happens, they're so disorganized that I was mostly left to my own devices for the first few weeks, just wearing more or less conservative black, depending on the venue. I chose to disregard the army base uniform of "high heels, short black shorts and baby tee," for example, opting to wear pants and a fitting top and let my sparkling personality make up for the rest.<br /><br />I was a bit suspicious when I opened the bag for the first White Stag deal, surprised to discover that a ten-year-old child would be accompanying me on this beer promo and then realizing that, in fact, I was supposed to be wearing those tiny little munchkin-sized short shorts. I started to think that maybe this wasn't going to be the best job for me. Now I've seen the doll-sized one-piece Kahlua overalls and the bra-and-short-shorts standard "uniform" for anything pub-related and I think I'm going to look into a different line of work in the new year, though no one can take away the memories. Ah, Casting Couch. <br /><br /><strong>Teaching</strong><br /><br />Grade six was great. I was all stressed out about going back to pre-teens after having such fun with the littlies, but forget it – grade six is a fantastic age and I'm hoping against hope that one of the grade seven teachers gets sick in January so that I can have my class back for a few weeks. <br /><br />I'm not such a great basketball coach, is the only thing. I mean, I'm a terrible basketball coach. But other than that, we did so many interesting things, had such good talks – about racism, relationships, community, travel, kindness, politics, xenophobia, "lie" vs. "lay" – you name it – did rich tasks and integrated activities, including everything from yoga and aerobics (for the mandatory half-hour of exercise a day) to folk singing and mock elections. Awesome. <br /><br />They went a little wild for my birthday, decorating the classroom with balloons, bringing me gifts and chocolates (no complaints here), writing me cards... and then two days later it was my last day and they did it all over again, only with tears and promises and lots of hugs, even from the boys. What do you with all the overwhelming love that you feel for a group of kids? I went back to see the plays they performed for the parents and some of the shyest kids were up on stage, everyone so excited and nervous and the whole thing so dear – I could hardly stand to watch it, I was so choked up with it all. How could anybody not want to work with kids?!<br /><br />As for the littlies, I kept going in when I could and got to witness some pretty excellent six-year-old moments, like funny little Leita saying to Clay, who had just let her use his ladybug eraser: "You're the greatest friend I've ever had." Or Harley, part of some in-joke that I was not in on: "Hello, Hannah. Or should I say, 'Lulu.'" <br /><br />My favourite one all year, possibly ever: Georgia is a little girl who's having a pretty rough time of it all, generally quite bright but totally disengaged and can sit for an entire day and get nothing done, other than distracting everyone around her. I think she's super cute and was lucky to have a really good connection with her, as some kids just respond better to different teachers. (Greta wasn't a big fan of Georgia's, but she loved the kid that I would have paid money to remove from the class. Go figure.) Georgia just thought I was really great and always worked hard when I was there, getting completed-work stars for the first time all year. <br /><br />Now: Peter, a funny-little-old-man-though-only-six, sees Georgia's sticker card, which suddenly has all these gold stars. He says: "Georgia, is that your sticker card? Are those all your stars? Wow, Georgia – you're only two stars away from a tuck shop voucher! Well done, Georgia! You must have really been working hard, to get all those stickers – that's just great! Good on ya, Georgia! You must be so pleased with yourself – well done!" With Georgia just standing there, beaming.<br /><br />**And let's not forget the lesson in that: model positive behaviour and language with the children in your lives, because they really do pick it up and use it. And so earnestly! <br /><br />They wrote me messages during a computer lesson and Greta e-mailed it to me. This was Georgia's:<br /><br />Halomrstomesm<br />Iyvbenwiliygoodforthelast3weiyweksbutimissyoulovegeorgia<br /><br />And some of the other ones, just because it's funny to see how they write at that age (don't think they haven't been told – and told and told and told – about spaces between words!):<br /><br />-Hellomristomeshowareyougoinglovedaniellefulton<br /><br />-Haloo mess tomes from Harley<br /><br />-Deatomes tomsmarrychrtmasnadahaveahappynewyearfrombrysonn<br /><br />Seriously, though – how could anyone not want to work with kids? <br /><br />*You know how people say that baseball is too slow because a game can take up to three or four hours? The same cricket batter, this one guy, has been going for four hours – FOUR HOURS – and the game is not finished until every batter on both teams has had a go. Four hours! He's had a total of eight different people pitching to him so far! There is a morning tea break, a lunch break, an afternoon tea break, and then they come back tomorrow and keep going. They won't let it go longer than: five days. That's about 30 hours of game time. Even just having Mark try to and explain the rules makes me hostile, anxious, bored, aggressive and depressed. All at once. Am I just being close-minded or is this the single most absurdly ridiculous game on the planet? Who ARE these people? <br /><br /><strong>Nature</strong><br /><br />So here's something that's a problem for me in Australia. I'm here because I love the tropics, right? I can accept that there are ants EVERYWHERE, in all the food, without exception. I can accept that there are giant flying cockroaches and that my fingers swell up and ache in the humidity. I can accept that there are huge and terrifying storms that cause major flooding and take out all the power for up to seven or eight hours, melting the ice cream and keeping the laundry perpetually moldy and damp – even though it isn't officially cyclone season yet. I can accept all the less-fantastic things because they're in exchange for water holes and beautiful beaches and a real return to nature, right? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyp7OzVYkYXhXsbKGD7H0TzpcG-G80RNHMu2rQGmGZKv0R8maDKnadQTm8_q2iL17wn7XPDaOn81VVIK51XA5HxnHiiQBEWuKXgCIUIM5Gn6w813prJ_bIzslDCij89105dQy8DbXxHD0/s1600-h/Jourama,+calm+water.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyp7OzVYkYXhXsbKGD7H0TzpcG-G80RNHMu2rQGmGZKv0R8maDKnadQTm8_q2iL17wn7XPDaOn81VVIK51XA5HxnHiiQBEWuKXgCIUIM5Gn6w813prJ_bIzslDCij89105dQy8DbXxHD0/s320/Jourama,+calm+water.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427102385293501778" /></a><br /><br />So it's irritating that even nature is a bust. To wit: Mark and I drive out to Jourama, a water hole/creek that he remembers from a few years ago and wants to revisit. A beautiful day, perfect for a nature walk, a peaceful break from city sounds and smells. Can't wait. <br /><br />We set off through the forest, which is probably pretty but who knows, since we're concentrating so hard on swatting away the monster flies – horse flies? deer flies? – that are taking chunks out of our skin. <br /><br />We arrive at the first swimming spot, slow-motion tip-toe our way over the treacherously slippery rocks and, sweating profusely from the sun and the forest mugginess, jump into the water. It's just as cold as expected, knock-the-breath-out-of-you cold, delicious mountain-water-cold – but there are little crab things that are chomping away at our flesh and it's more stressful than it's worth. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QuAyi5w0RCXzHIewkoouO7XNHPIrf0whUH0NJb711yNQXClZ5BlPc59vCDcn_e26ubzGDh9Y3Rhy6kMq_duR8aSyR_0jMgzZC7WHzhSjtLV4H23G1Rq6WX8ltKerc28NCCdP5_B5kk8/s1600-h/Katy+swimming.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QuAyi5w0RCXzHIewkoouO7XNHPIrf0whUH0NJb711yNQXClZ5BlPc59vCDcn_e26ubzGDh9Y3Rhy6kMq_duR8aSyR_0jMgzZC7WHzhSjtLV4H23G1Rq6WX8ltKerc28NCCdP5_B5kk8/s320/Katy+swimming.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427103428655230370" /></a><br />When we try to warm up in the sun, though, we are so completely swarmed by the monster flies that we can't even take the time to dress or pack. In our dripping bathing suits and carrying clothes, shoes, cameras and sandwich bags, we slip and slide back over the rocks (which really are dangerous if you're distractedly running away from giant mutant flies) and scramble up through the forest until we escape the hub of the swarm – though by no means escaping the flies altogether. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uWoD9hvTB1csjuRQ0gJAbcgcma145UR5Xkbimda9O-2fEO10is2hETuHNIjLeqfjtwMU8aH8GzCeqnbN6f1uC1lJ_diQKSmVi6AcC0kqshmeF8dbuV8LHJD3U1k7v6sEle6b8Oe9dNg/s1600-h/Jourama+from+lookout+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6uWoD9hvTB1csjuRQ0gJAbcgcma145UR5Xkbimda9O-2fEO10is2hETuHNIjLeqfjtwMU8aH8GzCeqnbN6f1uC1lJ_diQKSmVi6AcC0kqshmeF8dbuV8LHJD3U1k7v6sEle6b8Oe9dNg/s320/Jourama+from+lookout+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427104770779061378" /></a> We climb up to the look-out, gasping for breath in the humidity and the direct sun, and when we reach the end point, the big prize with the nice waterfall view, Mark turns to make a comment and I can't hear a word he's saying. He tries again, but he's too exhausted to raise his voice higher than the ear-splitting roar that is surrounding us. What is this noise? Well, it's crickets, cicadas, frogs, birds – any number of creatures, all sitting in the trees and making a hideous, overwhelming symphony of sound. <br /><br />And as we stand there, panting, sweating, swatting the monster flies away from our itchy, red bodies, deaf to everything but the piercing car-alarm-like cacophany of the forest, we think: what are we doing here? This is hell. If we had to design hell, this is how we'd do it. If we wanted peace, we should have stayed in the apartment with the ceiling fan on; neighbours' squabbles and loud music have nothing on the misery of a nature walk. <br /><br />We tried other water holes but the damn flies are relentless: either it's winter and it's too cold for ice swimming, or it's summer and you can't get near the water for the flies. You can't go near the beautiful beaches because there might be crocs and sharks and there are definitely stingers. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F89gb4MOzdxNbG7GvX4P10GubDc4-8-Now7Qe2isa-rhRUBBNXmrpw9jGcSCRFClQ9z-2-I46PR5eFeu6RKiw2-2TzgPGR2n-mCwuviT0X2MWZP1Ofv1QO7vnDm_jE9lWin6TqIvVA0/s1600-h/Falls+from+the+Bottom.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F89gb4MOzdxNbG7GvX4P10GubDc4-8-Now7Qe2isa-rhRUBBNXmrpw9jGcSCRFClQ9z-2-I46PR5eFeu6RKiw2-2TzgPGR2n-mCwuviT0X2MWZP1Ofv1QO7vnDm_jE9lWin6TqIvVA0/s320/Falls+from+the+Bottom.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425337706710994194" /></a> We went camping at this gorgeous waterfall on Christmas Eve and on the endless Christmas day hike down through the rain forest, we had warning after warning of the various poisonous plants to avoid (all of which are green and leafy, possibly with berries – thanks! That really narrows it down!) and how to be safe in croc country... It's hard to just enjoy the scenery around here. <br /><br />I mean, it's beautiful - there are some beautiful places - but you don't really have access to most of it. Unfortunate, is all I'm saying. <br /><br />(And when you do find a good one, like Crystal Creek, you take a picnic, you marvel at the beauty, you enjoy the clear, refreshingly cold water, you start to feel like things are maybe better than you thought, and then some dag-o, redneck, trashy, drunk hick, there with his group of dag-o, redneck, trashy, drunk friends, starts horking and/or stand-up peeing in the water and it's so gross that you can't even conceive of going back in and your "let's spend the day at Crystal Creek!" plan becomes "let's drive all the way to Crystal Creek, go in the water for eight minutes and then get the hell out before the yobbos' taunting turns into an attack." They go on and on about crocs here, but it's the locals you actually have to look out for.)<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />So there it is. The cricket game is going strong (looks to me like they're all standing around, but Mark informs me that there's a lot happening) but I might have to take a break to play with our beloved little neighbours' cat, Nugget, who is looking for someone to wrestle with. God bless Nugget. <br /><br />Mark's parents gave him (and me, by extension – score!) a week in a hotel North of Cairns (= extremely tropical), so when we've had enough of nature day trips where we can't do anything, we'll have our choice of pools and general leisure activities. I can't wait. It's not like I've been very busy these past few weeks and particularly deserve a break, but it was pretty non-stop February through November, so I'm decided to be completely okay with just being pampered. <br /><br />For all that I'm shut down on cold winters, I'm not a big fan of the tropical Christmas, at least not when they follow cold weather traditions. The Caribbean carnival thing was fine, because it was totally different from my sense of Christmas, but here, with their mall culture and fur coat Santa and "Let It Snow" and "Winter Wonderland" playing in the supermarket, it just makes me want to either go home or go very, very far from people. So I wish you all a very merry Christmas (or Boxing Day, since Christmas is over) and Happy New Year, and hope you're making the most of wherever you are and whomever you're with. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-17346211376726451142008-09-24T18:54:00.000-07:002010-01-15T15:07:23.790-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter SixI'm still here. Haven't jumped ship, as some of you seemed to think, am not on a beautiful beach in Thailand or working in the mines – just trying to keep my head above water and wait until it's all over. But here's an update, for those of you who are concerned about my disappearance from your inboxes: <br /><br /><strong>Uni</strong><br /><br />It's probably best that I not talk about teachers' college; no need to bring you all down with me, right? Suffice it to say that I'm counting down, desperately, and if you ever hear anyone say they're thinking of spending a year at JCU in Townsville, you just send them to me. Maybe I can convince them to go somewhere less damaging to the soul – like, oh, I don't know, Chernobyl. Or maybe Guantanamo Bay. <br /><br /><strong>Travel</strong><br /><br />Last time I wrote I was just back from Sydney, and I thought I had all these stories to tell. On reflection, though, it was a great trip because of all the excellent people we met (through couch surfing), and that doesn't make for very good story-telling. ('And there was Jeremy, and he was really great... Then there was Kiko, a really great guy, oh, and Sam, our favourite host, was just so great!') <br /><br />Sydney is definitely a beautiful city, but ultimately it's like Toronto, only with a much better use of its harbour. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBDwVzLN0Rcwlz546JJcMhpGBZhD0-0uRyXlqdzUIqVLQwFeQtyhyWBKBEmvxR2g_yNUauV3hV1e_Wdcga9C_A58We09YyCwArtzlaiS3H8akb3nu_yOZy-5GpX75hmVKhdwOKl52uBo/s1600-h/Katy+at+opera+house.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBDwVzLN0Rcwlz546JJcMhpGBZhD0-0uRyXlqdzUIqVLQwFeQtyhyWBKBEmvxR2g_yNUauV3hV1e_Wdcga9C_A58We09YyCwArtzlaiS3H8akb3nu_yOZy-5GpX75hmVKhdwOKl52uBo/s320/Katy+at+opera+house.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425331578940490626" /></a> And with Lindt stores! Stores! Full of Lindt products! Including liquid-Lindt-hot-chocolate – needless to say, we stopped in a couple times a day. And good thing we did, because we needed all the warming up we could get; it was bloody freezing the whole week. Even after we went to K-Mart to buy socks, shoes, leggings and thermal underwear to add to our flannel pyjamas and sweatshirts, we still had to huddle together in our sleeping bags every night and invariably woke up with stiff, achy backs, chapped skin and cracking feet. But whatever. It was just a relief to be back in a place with different languages, colours, smells, sounds, foods... Even going to the pub was fun, because there were interesting people to talk to. I guess it's just tiring being in a small, white, drunk town for months on end.<br /><br />Whitney and I, high on the Sydney trip and figuring the solution was to explore [warm] Queensland through couch surfing, drove up to Cairns and Port Douglas for a tropical tourist adventure. P.D. is quaint and quite charming, and there were some <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aJHFjnYxqZBk3zry-LLOAsexJgos_nyZRgssyevaO86nsxUDEKgmWeLq-nPQSeEaAo9dbHzZeGbvMZq4aZWFQ-mOXcBKmsDH7DIAmmKM2897UMTtyU788QntqQVbMi5WZI20WH9rZUY/s1600-h/Mission+Beach.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aJHFjnYxqZBk3zry-LLOAsexJgos_nyZRgssyevaO86nsxUDEKgmWeLq-nPQSeEaAo9dbHzZeGbvMZq4aZWFQ-mOXcBKmsDH7DIAmmKM2897UMTtyU788QntqQVbMi5WZI20WH9rZUY/s320/Mission+Beach.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425332315725228562" /></a> beautiful coastal driving views, but it turns out that the Beer, Boobs and Army Guys thing is Queensland-wide. It's best to just accept it, get over it and enjoy the sunshine. <br /><br />The best part of the trip was definitely the soundtrack – once we'd made our way through the dodgy world music cds I'd picked up at the library, that is, and Whitney thought to plug in her i-pod. Are you all familiar with Mika? If not, then get on it! He makes for a good road trip, I'll tell you what, and 'Big Girls, You Are Beautiful' quickly became our theme song – and became increasingly appropriate as we chai latt-ayed our way through North Queensland. 'Get yourself to the butterfly lounge, find yourself a big lady': pure gold. <br /><br /><strong>School</strong><br /><br />For my most recent prac, three weeks of full-load teaching, I was blessed with the most beautiful grade one class in the history of grade one classes – and I think I actually want to be a teacher again. Huzzah! <br /><br />It was at a Catholic school, which – of course – I made a big fuss about, but in the end I discovered that they pay for Catholic school here, it isn't tax payers' money, so I don't really have a legitimate objection. I did have to lead morning prayers, throughout-the-day prayers, end-of-the-day prayers and a daily religion lesson, but I used it to talk about nature, the universe, human values and all the things that religion should be about. Plus, they light candles, which is always a good time. <br /><br />I also got to sing, play phys-ed games, talk about sea turtles and saving the planet... grade one is the best! The best, I tell you. And they're so earnest, jumping fully on-board with whatever you're talking about. After a lesson on good lunches and bad lunches, as far as plastic wrap and bags versus tupperware and lunch boxes, I had all the parents coming in to thank me for turning their kids into little enviro-nazis. 'You can't wrap my sandwich in plastic, Mom – Miss Thomas said that it isn't biodegradable and it's piling up in the earth!' <br /><br />There were such tears on my last day (mine and theirs!) that Greta, the teacher, asked me to come hang out from time to time. I've been going in for reading groups and general help, and even scored a field trip to the aquarium, which is the coolest place in Townsville (like being at the reef but without the sea-sickness or the hundreds of dollars.) I go back to grade six for all of October and it's going to be hard, but knowing that I get to go back to hang out with the littlies in November will make it easier to bear, I think. <br /><br /><strong>Work</strong><br /><br />Man, hospitality is the worst! I'm a supervisor at the restaurant now – not because I want to be, but because there's no one else to do it – and that means that on top of having to try to please whoever's sitting in my section, I then have to shmooze and grovel and smooth over whatever goes wrong in everybody else's section as well. My coping strategy is to remember that people who feel so small in their own life that they feel it is acceptable to verbally abuse the complete strangers who are serving their food are too pathetic to deserve anything but my pity; they certainly aren't worth getting upset over. And, as you may have already picked up on, Townsville isn't the classiest place out there, and Island Man Sam is a diner/steak house, so we get some pretty rough-n'-rowdy guests – I can't expect people to be their most elegant when they're drunk (everyone here is always drunk – everyone, always) and riled up because their team lost the footie match. <br /><br />People have commented on my complete serenity in the face of abusive customers, which makes me suspect that the months I spent dealing with snooty Club Med parents taught me some valuable skills, as far as smiling kindly, saying 'I can see you're upset,' never saying 'I'm sorry' and just thinking of something else (grocery lists/unit plans are great) while they get it out of their system. You want to vent? Go ahead, vent. Feel better. Now get the hell out of my restaurant. <br /><br /><strong>Romance</strong><br /><br />Ha HA! In the face of a town of drunk rednecks, a job in hospitality, a uni program that is sucking my will to live and the mountains of useless-but-impossibly-time-consuming work that our so-called teachers assign us, romance saves the day. I don't like to talk about personal things in these updates, but it's become a fairly central feature of my Townsville life, so it makes sense to at least catch you up on the basic situation. Which is this: I'm dating my housemate! Boo-ya! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QMIjYF_2k6UTM2tOLP5IBItsMHIRmLx7beW4nJ8-142eiejTKt3_ghzhoyRX-bbghDImGA-RnzZquUGR028U1GJfEvIq1N_g2-FF6BVQ97cYZ-6MFQT7H9dLJ3Pkw_prmA0atEPSGz4/s1600-h/Mark+%26+Katy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QMIjYF_2k6UTM2tOLP5IBItsMHIRmLx7beW4nJ8-142eiejTKt3_ghzhoyRX-bbghDImGA-RnzZquUGR028U1GJfEvIq1N_g2-FF6BVQ97cYZ-6MFQT7H9dLJ3Pkw_prmA0atEPSGz4/s320/Mark+%26+Katy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425333101290404514" /></a><br /><br />Kind of a strange set-up, as you can imagine, and it has certainly sped up the dating progression (we used the same bathroom to get ready for our first date), but it's been great having someone to vent to and then have fun with. He's taken me to see a lot of the beautiful natural stuff around Townsville that you need a car to get to – that's right, he has a car! He's a real grown-up, with a job and everything! Unprecedented! – as well as dinners out, romantic get-aways, drive-in movies (don't see Dark Knight! Horrible movie!), family outings (he's from Adelaide but most of his family has moved up here over the last few years), all sorts of good stuff. He's even signed us up for dancing lessons because he feels bad that I love to dance so much and he's so desperately lacking in body rhythm. (Oh, that famous White-Guy Syndrome. Sigh.) <br /><br />**Or just White-People Syndrome in general. Take our salsa class last Monday, for example: isn't salsa supposed to be sexy, easy, fun, natural, here's the basic step now off you go? Not in ballroom, it isn't: put your head like this. Pinky out. Arm straight. A bit higher and to the left. Back straight, but leaning away from each other. Don't move your hips, just your legs. Where's the joy in it? Where's the rhythm? What's the point?<br /><br />But I digress. I'm having a lot of fun with Mark and am grateful for the silver lining he provides against the dark, gloomy, pain-in-the-ass Townsville cloud I was getting used to. Oh, and he cooks – no more yoghurt-and-muesli dinners for me!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiBA6RZ_iLf_q4fmekL3x2gMptEndZ1Ui8KyIjMR2bSNQT4vD9HJp8rDuv6ZOSYAzoFqoiJhkeVW_0oRzv_AO4pMeAQQfXa6BgcVq_G7SS0L1f9gK38S_f_InjwnC2uGQhQ_PHYFgn9Y/s1600-h/Mark,+checking+out+his+shot.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiBA6RZ_iLf_q4fmekL3x2gMptEndZ1Ui8KyIjMR2bSNQT4vD9HJp8rDuv6ZOSYAzoFqoiJhkeVW_0oRzv_AO4pMeAQQfXa6BgcVq_G7SS0L1f9gK38S_f_InjwnC2uGQhQ_PHYFgn9Y/s320/Mark,+checking+out+his+shot.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427106449504605746" /></a><br /><br /><strong>And... We’re Done</strong><br /><br />Not a lot of good stories – sorry about this year's lame up-dates – but there you have it. Just two months to go and then I'll never have to set foot in JCU again, unless it's to drop of hate-mail packages to some of this year's star players. <br /><br />Wish me luck with my grade six prac – I'm sure I'll be out of touch again for a while, trying to figure out how to teach an extended unit on Australian government, but I do have internet access, so please keep me up-to-date on all your adventures up-over. <br /><br />Still sober,<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-7088681852063828342008-06-16T18:47:00.000-07:002010-01-15T15:11:26.640-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter FiveOkay, so it’s been a while. It hasn’t been the best year ever (read: a total bust and a waste of my precious youth…) so I haven’t exactly felt inspired to write and tell you all about it. However. Things are on the up and up, I think, and I’m starting to feel a bit better about the whole situation – I’ve stopped with the daily mantras of “Suck it up, Princess” and “Well, it can’t get any worse,” which I think is a good sign – so maybe this is the perfect time to bring you all up-to-date on the rip-roaring good time that is Townsville 2008 (before it gets bad again and I decide not to write after all…)<br /><br /><strong>Teaching </strong><br /><br />Teachers’ College is still total crap, but I loved my first placement and am looking forward to getting back in the classroom for the next phase – some time in August, not sure of the details. I’m supposed to be sent out into the bush somewhere, so hopefully they’ll let me know where I’m going sooner than later so that I can set up some kind of living arrangements… Or whatever. I have a sleeping bag, I can figure it out. <br /><br />Wallaboo is a beautiful school with really lovely kids and no real dress code, which is the definition of a good job as far as I’m concerned. I didn’t have to go out and buy dorky “professional” clothes, but could just wear whatever skirts, jeans and tops I felt like, and the students were endlessly pleased with having what they described as a hippie teacher. (They could barely contain their excitement the day I brought in my guitar for a musical send-off – apparently hippies are back in? Or at least, faux-hippies?)<br /><br />As well as thinking that I was fabulously bohemian, the kids were convinced that I was having an affair with Mr. D, the funny seventh-grade teacher who is the only permanent male staff member and thus the only possible candidate for such a scandal. What were the events that prompted these rumours, you ask? Two things: first, I was assigned to Green House for the full-school track-and-field day, as I happened to be wearing green, and so Green-Captain-Mr.-D and I spent the morning leading cheers and rounding up groups of sweaty, confused, dehydrated Greenies. Then, that same afternoon, we stood together at the awards assembly, as our classes sit next to each other and this was the only place we could stand, and we talked for about thirty-five seconds about how things had gone for our sad, defeated Green House, before hushing up for the assembly and monitoring the kids. <br /><br />Doesn’t seem like much, but apparently this is more than enough material for upper primary students to work with; by the end of the day Mr. D and I were in love, possibly secretly married, definitely dating, and the kids were giggling madly into their hands if we were spied anywhere remotely in the same vicinity. (My classroom directly faces his and the staff room – and only washroom – is in-between the two; we were, by definition, in the same vicinity pretty much all the time.) They asked me if I played love songs for him on the guitar, they told him that sunflowers are my favourite so that he won’t go wrong on our next date, they wrote Mr. D loves Miss Thomas on the blackboard in my room, they advised me on which clothes make me look prettiest (one boy: “if I were you, I’d wear a lot of green because it makes your eyes look like cats’ eyes”)… it was a very exciting week, to say the least. I’m back at Wallaboo for all of October, so it will be interesting to see if the time away has diminished or aggravated their commitment to this Very Exciting Situation. I will keep you posted. <br /><br /><strong>Theft and Bicycle Assembly </strong><br /><br />Now, if my bike was stolen from the beach, in broad daylight, while I was having a little swim-and-read, how likely is it that I had locked it up properly? I SUSPECT that I was distracted by something, possibly by my discovery that the left brake had come apart, and didn’t actually lock the bike <em>to </em>anything. Locking the handlebars to the basket isn’t necessarily the best security strategy I could have come up with, is all I’m saying here. <br /><br />Whatever the reason for the grand theft cyclo, I went back to K-Mart to buy a new bike – and helmet, lock, basket, lights and pump, bloody hell – and none of the assembled ones looked very appealing, so I chose the one I wanted and decided to just assemble it at home. I thought I’d take everything out of the box, just to see where we were at, and I saved time by pulling off all the taped-on packaging as I went. Then I looked at the booklet of hieroglyphics that claim to be assembly instructions, I turned the various bike parts around a few times, hoping for a clue, and ultimately I stuffed all the now-unprotected parts back in the box, drove back to K-Mart and paid the sixteen dollars to have the thing assembled, which took a week and did not, apparently, include putting air in the tires. In case you were wondering. <br /><br />Adieu, my fair sky-blue Turbo bicycle, and god speed. Hopefully the punk kid who stole it discovered that the brakes were shot by crashing into a tree, or something karma-appropriate like that. More to the point, hopefully the kind of punk kid who steals someone’s bike won’t want to steal my new pink one; I’m considering getting handlebar tassles and those little clicky things for the spokes to further deter possible punkage – though then I might not want to ride it myself, which I reckon would defeat the whole purpose. Besides, I have a fancy new lock, with a KEY. I just need to remember to use it. <br /><br /><strong>Waitressing </strong><br /><br />Waitressing is generally a good time, as there are all manner of shenanigans going on in the kitchen. Also, sometimes I get free mud cake. Yum. <br /><br />The drawback: waitresses get asked on dates, usually from within the safety of a group of dining colleagues/friends. This might actually be a bullying strategy, because I find that I don’t want to embarrass them so I say yes, and then I end up on these totally lame dates, listening to some yobbo jock tell me about the car he uses for drag racing and how much money he makes and all the clever ways he has of not spending it. <br /><br />Remember how I was going to meet Ben, my funny, clever and interesting marine biologist? Well. I have met more marine biologists than I can shake a coral reef at, and let me tell you something: they’re a bunch of frat boys who care about the planet about as much as I care about drag racing. <br /><br />I suspect I’ll keep getting suckered into these awful dates – at least I get a free dinner out of it, right? Thursday is taking me for Indian food – but I can more than abandon the charade that I’m going to meet any kind of successful romantic match here in Redneck Central, where there are no men, but only little boys in men’s bodies. Nothing like a whole year of me-time; some healthy introspection can only be a good thing. <br /><br />(Who am I kidding? I’m chomping at the bit here! Where are the real men? Send me a man, dammit!)<br /><br /><strong>Netball</strong><br /><br />I do love a good epiphany, and one Wednesday night, halfway through the game when the whistle was blown for maybe the eighty-sixth time, I realized that I fully and completely hate netball. Worst game ever. Any time you build up some kind of rhythm, you’re booking it up the court and feeling really good about whatever cool move you just pulled, they whistle you out for something – obstructing, stepping, holding, blocking, itching, scratching, whatever. The worst is when I have to defend, because my feet have to be three feet from the person with the ball. This is pretty irritating for anyone, but at least the seven-foot tall women on my team can reach across the three feet and still kind of – kind of, at best – block the ball. Me? I got nuttin. I basically just wave my hands around people’s shoulders while they stop, get comfortable, take aim and score, and I usually still get whistled out for obstruction because I can only stay leaning forward on my tippy-toes for so long before gravity takes over and I step forward, breaking the three-foot rule and getting them a free shot. <br /><br />No more netball: I thought you might like to know. <br /><br /><strong>My New Home</strong><br /><br />I have been blessed with the friendship of my pal Jess, a fun girl at the best of times and a life-saver at the worst, such as when I need her help (and her utility vehicle) to move my stuff yet again. By now we’re almost professional: we can take my bed apart in under four minutes and load the ute in under twenty, and nothing even gets touched by bike chain grease. <br /><br />Living with my bosses, Jim and Millie, was a lot of fun, and I still miss that beautiful, swanky apartment and its bean-shaped pool. They moved into a two-bedroom apartment, though, and I would have had to live on the couch, besides which living with the bosses meant that I was even more the go-to girl than usual and was working crazy shifts, as it was hard to say no when I was part of the family. (Being the only staff member who does not suffer from three or four hangovers a week, I’m their official Reliable Employee and end up picking up a lot of slack at the best of times, not to mention when we share a bathroom…) <br /><br />I stayed a couple of stressful months with a girl I knew from uni and her housemate before I found the place where I’m living now: it’s two seconds from the nudist beach, my favourite place in Townsville (I didn’t come all the way here to have tan lines!) which makes it five minutes from work and forty minutes – down from fifty-two! – to uni. Roommates are Steve, who works at the museum and seems fussy but is actually hilariously funny, and Mark, a business guy who gave me his extra laptop to use and has been a fun garage sale and cooking buddy. (He even made lamb palatable – no small feat, I assure you.) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAM-Up_19BYB8VrBAb2sRSShQeEMGexj5Gc-T4iIZqF7TYGU96QYyN6Z4Hwu18hlbvVU2LdpYDsUkhMpJ5bHJP9uTTSTJXdrk1b8Cb_7fxz2zozFjcvHLx4KhCL6pCEBkJC1zI4Qnr2AU/s1600-h/View+from+my+room.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAM-Up_19BYB8VrBAb2sRSShQeEMGexj5Gc-T4iIZqF7TYGU96QYyN6Z4Hwu18hlbvVU2LdpYDsUkhMpJ5bHJP9uTTSTJXdrk1b8Cb_7fxz2zozFjcvHLx4KhCL6pCEBkJC1zI4Qnr2AU/s320/View+from+my+room.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425330321521010354" /></a> I got milk crates from work – strapped four of them on to my body with my bike lock and rode very slowly home – and a side table from St. Vinnie’s, and the landlords and I got along so well that they brought me their extra wardrobe. My room looks AWESOME, just for the record. This is a picture of the view from my window.<br /><br />I worried about being a busy-body, coming into an apartment and OCD-ing my way around the place, but when I suggested a possible re-arrangement of the living room furniture, they jumped right on it and were quite pleased with the results. So… I decided to get comfortable. I borrowed some bar stools from work – another fun bike ride home, only this time a police officer pulled me over because he thought I was stealing public property; I had to show him the text messages with the okay from Jim, which I bizarrely and providentially hadn’t erased – and got some baskets and things to help keep things tidy in the bathroom and kitchen. Pretty turquoise baskets, a woven floor mat for the kitchen…? Great, said Steve and Mark, we love it! Sunflower pictures hanging in the kitchen and bathroom? Have I gone too far? Beautiful, said Steve and Mark; why don’t you hang some in the living room, to complete the theme? <br /><br />Steve and Mark: best roommates ever! <br /><br />Mark and I donned our skulking-around-garage-sale jackets and caps and set out on a Saturday morning patio furniture mission; we also found a mirror for my room, a book shelf for his and a bunch of giant plants that have turned the balcony into a jungle and will make our poker games into a tropical adventure. (I lost the last one and have to make dinner, so I’m going to make crepes; eating Nutella makes everything okay, even losing at poker…) <br /><br />It’s been a bumpy road, but I think it was all meant to get me to this apartment, these roommates, this location and this jungle patio; if I’d been less miserable in the other places and had stuck it out, I wouldn’t have met Mark and Steve, the heroes of Townsville 2008. See? Everything for a reason, my friends. Everything for a reason. <br /><br /><strong>Funny Australianisms</strong> <br /><br />We all know “no worries” – but had you heard “you’re alright”? As in, I bump into someone and say sorry, and they’ll say “y’ar-right” instead of “that’s okay” or similar. Kind of weird, isn’t it? <br /><br />I like this one:<br />“Can I get another schooner of Heineken?”<br />“Too easy, mate.” <br /><br />The only people saying the word “sheila” are foreigners who try to sound Australian. What the Australians say, it turns out, is “hey, doll, can you pass me that side plate?”<br />And even though they say it to everyone, I feel kind of lovely every time. I’m an easy sell, it turns out. <br /><br />The plural “youz”? Totally acceptable here. <br /><br />As for dangerous slang, the Canadians have all been warned about wearing any Roots paraphernalia, as our great Canadian clothing line is the equivalent of the f-word, as in “whose leg do you have to root to get a drink around here?” Anything to do with reggae music or taking the bus suddenly becomes very tricky indeed. <br /><br />And here’s a funny one: my friend Whitney and I spent a couple of days in the Blue Mountains. Our couch surfing host, Sam, picked us up at the train station and asked if we were hungry, but we had spent the train ride snacking on almonds and pitted dates. I said “we’re good, we’ve just spent the last hour sucking on dates” and he almost choked on his gum; when he stopped laughing, he explained that “date” is a slang word for – ahem – bum hole, so our train ride sounded a lot more daring than it actually was. Tee-hee! <br /><br /><strong>Concluding Paragraph</strong><br /><br />I just spent a really great week in Sydney but that will be for another day; now that I have a lap-top, I can write whenever I want to (if I can tear myself away from Minesweeper…) and just pop it on the internet when I get the chance. You’re going to have updates up the wazoo, you lucky ducks! <br /><br />See youz, <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-58137818982901135962008-03-28T18:37:00.000-07:002010-01-15T15:18:11.255-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter FourI just read over the first chapters of On the Townsville and couldn't believe how long they are and how much unnecessary detail is included in each story. So my project for chapter IV is to become a better self-editor. Here we go:<br /><br /><strong>Island Man Sam</strong><br /><br />A few young Americans were recently hired and have created a frat party vibe in the restaurant. Chris and Shane in particular are a hit with the ladies, as we get lots of parties of young women -- bachelorette dinners or just girls' night out -- and they're so drunk and so excited by these cute, young, flirty men with yankee accents that they're barely able to contain themselves. They get their pictures taken with them, they write their phone numbers in lipstick on the table -- there was even an attempt to stuff a tip down Chris's pants. It's mayhem. <br /><br />The tables were turned on Sunday, however, when there was an all-afternoon-and-evening reggae thing with a really good live band. I hadn't understood the hugeness of the event and suddenly found myself running drinks and getting cat-called like a cocktail waitress in a night club. The frat boys didn't have any problems because all the drunk women had their eyes on the waiter-trumping musicians -- or on themselves, as they were so clearly enjoying being 'crazy' and 'original' and dancing their rhythmless hippie dances in flowy pants and beaded head scarves. As the only female staff person, however, I got a whole lot of attention from the slobbering, moronic, drunk-off-their-tits men who seem to populate the Townsville social scene. Embarrassingly, one of them told me I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and I was all giggly and blushing until Shane pointed out that the guy was literally drooling into his schooner of Victoria Bitter and could barely sit upright on his barstool; looks like I'm starved for compliments these days. I'll take what I can get!<br /><br />The sad news is that Doug, one of the managers, is leaving. He's worked for ages in hospitality and has owned a restaurant for six years, so he's ready to move on. (This is obviously very hard on Jim, the other manager, who has been Doug's business partner, roommate and best friend for six years; it's pretty much like a divorce.) Doug is originally from Trinidad and is a gorgeous little leprechaun of a man; everyone is sad to see him go. <br /><br />But since Doug is leaving Townsville, and since I'm looking for a place to live...<br /><br />Wait for it....<br /><br /><strong>Katy and Jim!!!</strong><br /><br />I packed on Wednesday, rode out to uni on Thursday morning, rode back home to finish packing, rode BACK to uni for my afternoon class, and then my friend Sarah came with her car and helped me move into Jim's swanky bachelor pad -- before I rushed out to work. An exhausting day, but after a little housecleaning and putting my stuff away, I just sat and enjoyed the peace and quiet. Maybe this afternoon I'll do the same thing, only in the pool! Huzzah!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLAvoKSPtdvoeWIlWVXphpgSUldmCwdF0GDzdjHtlhqwtiiNxiVjjXv75MbYZnj9XaOcNtVGyho3hoBR3YgH3KV6Xs8IbZkMJL976P2OMrtuY0yC8Wb4y0JAl5ZdUGpKpwCH2sQF8prQ/s1600-h/Watermark,+pool.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLAvoKSPtdvoeWIlWVXphpgSUldmCwdF0GDzdjHtlhqwtiiNxiVjjXv75MbYZnj9XaOcNtVGyho3hoBR3YgH3KV6Xs8IbZkMJL976P2OMrtuY0yC8Wb4y0JAl5ZdUGpKpwCH2sQF8prQ/s320/Watermark,+pool.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427109459743472082" /></a> It's not as great as I originally thought because he's bought a condo and will be leaving April 10th, but that gives me two weeks to find something more permanent, and during those two weeks I will be in a clean, nice-smelling, quiet apartment in a ritzy part of town with an ocean view and the mountain behind me. Most importantly, during those two weeks I will get some sleep. No more all-night parties with drunk British back-packers snorting horse tranquilizers off the living room table. No more drunken, raging, 3 a.m. lovers' spats. No more smelly little dog yapping me awake every time a car passes on the distant street. No more wet, moldy towels on the bathroom floor; no more ants all over the counter because nobody can be bothered to rinse the barbecue sauce off their plates; no more strangers going into my room and taking my pillows to use as couch cushions; no more pee on the floor or on the toilet rim (the wooden toilet seat snapped in half two weeks ago and has not been replaced). No computer? No land line? I don't care. I just need some sleep. <br /><br />I will definitely miss my nightly routine of sitting on the front step and looking at the stars with Joogsie's head on my lap and my home-made juice popsicle dripping on it. I will miss my comfortable, forty-minute bike ride, as it now takes over an hour and includes two steep uphill climbs (though with the fun downhill swoop that follows) and I'm feeling the burn. <br />I would have missed Rico's home cooking, but it never ended up happening; when I tried, after a disastrous attempt to cook chicken for myself, to strike up a partnership wherein I buy the food and he, the professional chef, cooks it, he thought I was asking him to make a big dinner for us all some time. The more I tried to explain, the more he thought I was pressuring him to step up to the task and he tried to set a date so that I'd leave him alone. I guess it was never meant to be.<br />(I've collected some easy recipes from the chefs at work, so maybe this will be the year where I finally learn to cook properly for myself...) (Probably not, but maybe.)<br /><br />So there it is: I'm staying for two weeks and wishing it were longer, and the apartment hunt is on.<br /><br /><strong>Netball</strong><br /><br />I'm not coaching as much as before, as it's hard to get there in time after school. I'm also not umpiring, as so far they've managed to find people and [knock on wood] they won't need me. What I am doing is playing every Wednesday night, among amazon-sized women who just reach over my head and drop the ball in the net. What I am not doing is improving; I played a lot worse this week than last week -- but I'm hoping it's just a juice-belly thing and not a trend. <br /><br />I sure get a lot of exercise, though, hopping around trying to steal the ball off of people who are two heads taller than I am; luckily it's a friendly league, so it's lots of fun and I get to try different positions every quarter. Interestingly, I'm a much better attacker than defender; maybe because I can deek around and find my own system, instead of having to block someone whose bra clasp is at my eye level. Sometimes I even get the ball in the net! Really!<br /><br /><strong>Magnetic Island </strong><br /><br />It's no secret that my favourite demographic is middle-aged men, probably because I am pretty much middle-aged myself and I like their rhythm. Should I pretend to be hipper than I am? Why deny the glaringly obvious? <br /><br />A friendly dining foursome very quickly became my favourite table and I sat down with them when my shift was over and had a drink. (Raspberry cordial; my fave!) We'll call them the Spy Guys because they work for some top-secret organization and can only tell me certain details. Planes are involved -- they are pilots and engineers -- and they're here for four months. That's all I know. Maybe something with the government? or the military? They are being lodged in gorgeous apartments on the boardwalk, so it's someone with money. (They have promised me that they are not involved in bombing North Korea or similar; I have to take their word for it.) (And I obviously can't publish any pictures of them, so you'll just have to look at what I've got and imagine it with four Aussie blokes with really white feet.)<br /><br />They came back to eat again the next night and invited me to spend a day with them on Maggie Island, which I hadn't yet had a chance to visit. (When I had free time it was raining; when the rain stopped, I had a job.) Off we went on the ferry and I am disappointed to report that I got boat-sick. On a ferry. Just the last two minutes pulling in, which is apparently a notoriously bad section, but still; it was pretty lame. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHHPUjtb7RPPcpHlDu0q4wyh2rx55xJsPOaOju5ziSTAF7xF1GolcrkCObQOmzscA2cVWnJKxFaCqsLnFgMyCVX1LTZN6E7WAuJY2u8sc52blwdIQRSEw9stwPpiTS0k6vB1_Rue3yW4/s1600-h/Katy+in+barbie+car.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHHPUjtb7RPPcpHlDu0q4wyh2rx55xJsPOaOju5ziSTAF7xF1GolcrkCObQOmzscA2cVWnJKxFaCqsLnFgMyCVX1LTZN6E7WAuJY2u8sc52blwdIQRSEw9stwPpiTS0k6vB1_Rue3yW4/s200/Katy+in+barbie+car.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425326621840419442" /></a> Once we got to shore, we rented some funny little barbie jeeps and go-Karted around the island. We all know about boys and their toys, but with a group of men whose lives are spent designing, fixing, testing and flying planes, you can imagine how much fun they had racing up and down the mountainous coast. ('Racing' might not be the right word, as the cars couldn't go much faster than 50 km/h... everything's relative.)<br /><br />Other than my being a boat sissy, it turns out I am also a wallaby sissy. The island is famous for its wild wallabies who live in the rocks and come out to eat out of people's hands. Up I went with my palmful of seeds, and out came the wallabies -- including this rough-and-tumble one who had clearly been around the block a few times. I suddenly had visions of giant rodents gnawing at my hand and I couldn't take it. I threw my seeds on the rock and was out of there in a flash, then sheepishly took a picture of someone else feeding them so that I'd at least have the memory. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4ZwDZ-7xK_-P2ZQWDOgcDpPusWQc0p6rhIicpKrn2Fl6BlBk2dFe_MPTrPibiBfQB4WhioJhDdZ9iA-FD8LEr2ZdeE1qiqamNVbPtGJjk5eHry1G5iG1gTYih730NdQFxiz52Z2-DDg/s1600-h/Katy+scared+of+wallabies....JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4ZwDZ-7xK_-P2ZQWDOgcDpPusWQc0p6rhIicpKrn2Fl6BlBk2dFe_MPTrPibiBfQB4WhioJhDdZ9iA-FD8LEr2ZdeE1qiqamNVbPtGJjk5eHry1G5iG1gTYih730NdQFxiz52Z2-DDg/s320/Katy+scared+of+wallabies....JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425328756965292834" /></a><br /><br />Grade Six <br /><br />And finally, I did my first teaching practicum and it was a lot of fun. I have three more weeks with this grade six class (after a two-week university segment -- blech) and then will come back in October and spend a month with the grade sixes on the other side of the pod. Both the teachers are fantastic and I think I'll learn a lot. <br /><br />Now here's the complaint. (You didn't think I was just going to be unabashedly positive, did you?)<br /><br />Wallaboo State School, not Catholic or private. Funded by the good tax-payers of North Queensland and teaching a state-wide, if not nation-wide, curriculum in order to make good citizens who will contribute to society. And yet, what is this block on my weekly schedule -- does that say 'religion?' Is that possible? Carol, my prac teacher, assures me that it is non-denominational. And come to think of it, that's pretty neat, to be teaching a comparative religion course in grade six. It's a 'values' class, and I think that having a block of time to discuss values and morals and social things like that is really important. Good on you, Wallaboo, I can't wait to see what this Thursday class will be like. <br /><br />The day arrives, and with it comes Gavin, a huge, blond, highly entertaining Baptist preacher from North Carolina who has been living here with his missionary wife for seven years. It was a forty-minute session, and I can't remember most of it because I was so fully in shock that I didn't understand what was happening for at least the first half. (Is this performance art of some kind? When is he going to break character and talk about how dangerous it is to have loony Southern preachers set loose on elementary school classes?) <br /><br />As the shock wore off, however, I heard that: <br />-we sin all the time, we're probably sinning right now, but we're covered because Jesus died for our sins -- remember when he was spreading his arms out on the cross? That was him saying 'I love you THIIIIIIIS much!', just like Mommy and Daddy say to you, boys and girls;<br />-God wants blood in return for sin and sometimes cutting a lamb's throat just isn't enough; <br />-there's nothing we will ever be able to do to live up to what Jesus did for us. <br /><br />Then, after choral-calling back ('Who loves you?' 'Jesus!' 'And why did He die?' 'For our sins!') the students coloured a picture of Adam carrying JC's cross for him while Gavin invited me to Thanksgiving with his family. (You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy...)<br /><br />Sandy, the next-door teacher, added to my disbelief when she sat down with the two classes for their daily novel-reading. In response to a comment that I didn't hear, she asked if anyone knew how old Jesus was when he died. When the kids started guessing, she said she hadn't asked for them to guess, but had asked if anyone KNEW. Because there is documentation, there is an official age, it is a fact to be acquired. I thought she must be talking about the flesh and blood Jesus and whatever historical documents and back-tracing she had heard about, but she continued, 'he was thirty-three. It is documented; it is written in the Bible. It's a fact.'<br /><br />See, now what am I supposed to say? How is it possible that she is officially announcing to a double group of eleven-year-olds that the Bible is a factual document, while at the same time warning them about using Wikipedia for their countries project because you can't always trust its sources? <br />This is PUBLIC SCHOOL, for Christ's sake! It's a FACT that he was thirty-three because it's written in the BIBLE???!!! Is it a FACT that some people lived to be six hundred years old and that Noah built an enormous ark and filled it with animals? You can have whatever beliefs you want at home and at Sunday school and you can be scared of God and filled with sin-guilt and have crucifixion nightmares; that's your cross to bear. (Tee-hee.) But public, tax-funded school? I can't stay in this country. <br /><br />So much for self-editing. Wish me luck in the bachelor pad -- maybe I'll be such a good roomie that he'll want to take me along to the new condo... Who wouldn't?<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-28469367307397286432008-03-04T18:20:00.000-08:002010-01-16T04:39:20.080-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter ThreeChapter 3: Gainful Employment and a German to Boot<br /><br /><strong>The Strand</strong><br /><br />Hey everyone! I've been to the beach! There was a day where it didn't rain -- crazy, I know -- so my London, Ontario friend (and Railway Estate neighbour) Nicole and I walked to The Strand -- then kept walking because we had to get to the stinger nets -- and Nicole-of-Irish-heritage was roasted before we even got across the bridge. I also got too much sun, but I seem to have more of a base tan than I thought, possibly because I have so desperately willed it to be so. (Though my butt hasn't gotten any <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlsVqT9o6pE2exQPdb3TlEXDq-KwY50jOQ0OFKtPTAf2edWGBTJqy4Wkva-4Uze0sSsWwwvvNW0r9eZT07-f69fcFsNIj4YqRA4-i7ldcSVMqxKGIcoP48Kcu_WHBJ08Mys7DXKxl4mE/s1600-h/Stinger+net.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlsVqT9o6pE2exQPdb3TlEXDq-KwY50jOQ0OFKtPTAf2edWGBTJqy4Wkva-4Uze0sSsWwwvvNW0r9eZT07-f69fcFsNIj4YqRA4-i7ldcSVMqxKGIcoP48Kcu_WHBJ08Mys7DXKxl4mE/s320/Stinger+net.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427314022833708498" /></a> smaller, so this might not be a sound theory.) And I only got the shoulder burn because the water was so gorgeous and the day so perfect that I couldn't bring myself to get out of the ocean and cover up, for fear that I would never see the sun again. (So far, my fear is completely justified.) So it was worth it.<br /><br />The problem with getting a burn on your shoulders, of course, once the rosiness fades out, is the inevitable dead-skin peeling that follows. Frankly, Nicole's was worse than mine and possibly the grossest thing I've ever seen -- don't tell her I said that -- but mine was definitely noticeable and highly unattractive on Friday when I volunteered at a netball tournament. The kids, who have had the fear of cancer drilled into their little heads, were openly disapproving of my irresponsible sun behaviour. They would never allow any part of their body to stay out in the sun for longer than it takes to get from the car to the front door; by Australian standards, I am a terrible role model. (One six-year-old said to me, "melanoma is not a trifling matter." They're good with the sun smarts; maybe need to work on not making people feel like jerks.) <br /><br /><strong>Volunteering</strong><br /><br />Netball, you ask? Well. One Friday I suddenly had an overwhelming (and largely unprecedented) craving for a hamburger. Jenny took me down the street to a little grocery store/diner and while we waited for our burgers to cook, we saw hundreds of kids and their parents in a field full of basketball courts. I thought this would be a great chance for me to get a first volunteering project going (we need fifty hours for teachers' college), working with kids and getting some exercise. And they obviously needed all the help they could get; the poor bastards couldn't even afford backboards for their nets. <br /><br />I found the president of the association and discovered that there's a sport called netball, which is like basketball but you can't move with the ball. Kind of like basketball-meets-ultimate-frisbee. And no backboard, which means that pretty much nobody ever scores. Every player has a specific title and has to wear the jersey with the corresponding letters: Goal Attack, Goal Defense, Centre -- and others, but I can't remember them, and they don't matter because the kids all clump together and run after the ball, regardless -- and each position can only be in certain zones. <br />You can pivot, but only on one foot. Once you catch the ball, you can take a follow-through step, but a second step will disqualify you. It's very fussy and detailed and I can't really keep track of who's supposed to be where, so obviously they've asked me to be an umpire. I suggested that it might be a good idea for me to get to know the rules a little first, maybe watch a game or two, do some scoring at the next tournament... <br /><br />So. I'm co-coaching a team of 11-year-old girls and I ran the concession stand on Friday, which was a lot of fun. (Once the kids had finished lecturing me about using minimum SPF-60, checking the expiry date and buying some long-sleeved cotton shirts, they were fun to hang out with -- which kids usually are.) They're going to give me a rule book this week and they're really wanting me to umpire at the next tournament. It's kind of ridiculous, but then it's nice to feel needed. What would they have done if I hadn't turned up? Do they realize how unlikely it was for me to have a hamburger craving? Do they have any idea how LUCKY they are to have me? <br /><br /><strong>The House</strong><br /><br />Several changes here on Second Street. The first is that we went bed-hunting because we had a new roommate moving in, and Jenny found an almost-new bed for only $50. Then when we went at the end of the day to pick it up with her dad's truck, the people said we could take the other one as well, since no one had bought it. So instead of a crappy little wire-frame bed with boards digging into my side all night, I now have a<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZRZlmDgspNEQBu805Iv8H8NQhMyCFZiF0fi2P3ITP4j31Y0d7vbuzNqi7MMmLPtx0QA9eAQlnqaIincgz2AsJgB2CfHLF-1ScUDhvODlh3ckahtn8pn8NUB0HwCHUwkaaMoLptRg7Oo/s1600-h/Front+hall+towards+Katie%27s+room.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZRZlmDgspNEQBu805Iv8H8NQhMyCFZiF0fi2P3ITP4j31Y0d7vbuzNqi7MMmLPtx0QA9eAQlnqaIincgz2AsJgB2CfHLF-1ScUDhvODlh3ckahtn8pn8NUB0HwCHUwkaaMoLptRg7Oo/s320/Front+hall+towards+Katie%27s+room.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427315173399665442" /></a> posturepedic, top-of-the-line bed that would be the most comfortable bed in the world if only it didn't have wheels that roll across the floor every time I shift positions. (I never know where I'm going to wake up; usually it's on a jaunty diagonal with my head wedged under the doorknob. But no matter -- nothing wrong with shaking things up a bit.) <br /><br />The idea was actually for me to get a futon and then I'd give the new guy my bed, but the futon was sold by the time we got there and I decided to jump on the good mattress, even if it is a single. Doubles are more comfortable, sure, but let's tell it like it is: the only extra bed space I'll need this year will be if I decide to make a collage and I need room to spread out my magazine clippings. I've checked out the scene, I've done my analysis, and it doesn't look like I'm going to have to put up with anyone's snoring, unless you count Joogsie the cattle dog. If you catch my drift. <br /><br />The new roommate, meanwhile, has moved in. His name is Rico, which makes sense, as he is -- wait for it -- German. Hm. Tricky. He claims that his mom just like the name, which is Italian -- which is not true (about the Italian, I mean, not his mom; I don't know that I'm in a position to judge how she feels about one thing or another), but then it's possible that he meant to say Spanish. He speaks very little English -- maybe 32 words? rough estimate? -- and it isn't always easy to get information across. (Needless to say, explaining "Rico... Suave..." was a long, tortuous and ultimately unsuccessful undertaking.)<br /><br />Super nice, though, that Rico. I like his commitment to life. And really friendly, which is sometimes a pain in the ass because you aren't always in the mood to sign-language your way through conversations (and I use the term loosely) about where you were last night, but of course I have no business being impatient, considering how supportive and encouraging everyone was when I was working my way through broken Spanish. Let's hear it for karma. <br /><br />My favourite thing is when he talks to someone on the phone and I get to hear him function in German. Remember in Waiting for Guffman when Corky says something about Germans with that "muck muck muck muck" thing -- and you think, "that's not what German sounds like, you nutter!"? Well, whether it's a Dresden thing or just a special Rico thing, that's what he sounds like. You hear all the "shtein" and "schwarz" and "aufden" type sounds that you expect to hear, but then there's a whole lot of "muck muck muck muck muck." It's pretty exciting. <br /><br />Also, he's a chef and has promised us a home-cooked German meal one of these days -- he claims to have really enjoyed the lentils-and-dumplings I prepared but I think it just made him want meat. <br /><br />My least favourite thing, however, is his earthy European approach to personal hygiene. He rides his bike to work, spends eight or nine hours in a hot kitchen and then rides home, all in the context of muggy, stormy, 35-degrees-celsius Townsville. Maybe you should take a moment to imagine how much sweat might be produced under these circumstances. Okay? Now do you think it might be a good idea to have a shower? Thirty seconds, forty seconds, no big deal. But let's get some soap involved here, ya? Nein. Not so much for Rico. His course of action is to take off his shirt, scratch a lot (though this is by no means restricted to sweaty moments) and plop down on the couch, while his sweat seeps into the cushions. Needless to say, that couch and I have become estranged. Who needs contaminated cushions when I can just as easily sit on a hard-backed chair, right? <br /><br />The sweat, the pee on the bathroom floor, the jar of cigarette butts on the deck -- these things would be annoying enough in a happy home. But these last few weeks Flomby has become a live-in boyfriend, even showing up when Jenny's not here because he wants to watch cable tv, and Jenny's party-hardy British friend Maggie has been desperately trying to get everybody to go clubbing with her, so there are people here all the time. Loud, smelly, crass people. All the time. It was getting so that I was taking long, complicated detours on my bike ride home because I was so reluctant to walk in the door and find people sprawled all over the furniture with the smell of beer and greasy food in the air and the tv blasting "Girls of the Playboy Mansion" or "Britney: The Life Behind the Scenes" or "America's Hardest Prisons," as my regression into the student life I wasn't willing to live in the first place continues. <br /><br />School is so shitty (yes, for those of you who have asked, it is still awful and clearly will be for the rest of the year; I have resigned myself to this fate, as I have made my bed and must now lie, squirming and clawing my eyes out, in it) that I really need home to be some kind of sanctuary, and these days it is anything but that. <br /><br />However. While I feel a bit as though I've been duped, paying a higher rent so that I wouldn't have to live residence-style in a house full of dirty, messy idiots and somehow ending up doing just that, and while I will keep my eye out for any available single rentals (they don't really exist in Townsville but I'm hoping the karma thing works both ways), I think things will be better when I get involved in more volunteer activities with interesting people, as a big part of my crisis was just being in such a shallow, knowledge-free environment. I felt myself getting stupider by osmosis, between the vacuous readings and discussions at school and this household's appalling absence of basic facts -- including, but certainly not limited to: where is Haiti? Doesn't Canada have the same president as the States? Who is Al Qaeda? What is communism? What exactly is colonization? (I AM NOT EXAGGERATING - these are actual questions. I am an amazing, all-knowing genius in this house.) Hopefully, a bit of intellectual stimulation will come my way. Clearly not at university, but maybe elsewhere. <br /><br /><strong>My New Job</strong><br /><br />And the other thing that made the last few days better was that I was working. This is good for the bank account and for the morale, and since it's in a restaurant, it keeps me on my feet. I saw a posting on the career website at school and thought I'd drop by to hand in my resume, since my work permit had finally come through. The manager didn't even look at my resume, but complimented me on my green eyes and asked me to come in for a trial the next day. My trial became "you're hired. Here's your section, and we need you to run drinks from the bar, too, and can you stay tonight and work a double shift?" In like Flynn, my friends. In. Like. Flynn. <br /><br />The restaurant - which I will call Island Man Sam - is an open, breezy restaurant/bar on the beach - with a great view of Magnetic Island - really busy most of the time, and the clientele is laid-back and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxYDAVcRhxanfRQgfEX3UofBsp1Klv8wdAuXGFvvALE83UoNUC696rkJ-Ys22euqh4q1zdu3RSu0Oz6-0TG0upLQwjEKBkB3OyMzLfh4uJwB_8YEqwstKjc0Y1zp_87ULhNmLDD1TDk0/s1600-h/View+of+Maggie+from+JJ.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxYDAVcRhxanfRQgfEX3UofBsp1Klv8wdAuXGFvvALE83UoNUC696rkJ-Ys22euqh4q1zdu3RSu0Oz6-0TG0upLQwjEKBkB3OyMzLfh4uJwB_8YEqwstKjc0Y1zp_87ULhNmLDD1TDk0/s320/View+of+Maggie+from+JJ.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427315993111496290" /></a> friendly because they've just wandered in from strolling hand-in-hand along the beach or playing Aussie football in the park. The staff is great and surprisingly affectionate towards my Canadian self (though that might get old) and the manager is not as sleazy as he sounds, but rather funny-sleazy. He's from Chicago, he's good-looking and he likes the beach and the ladies. Funny. Sleazy. I like it. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-bu6JzRw95GPfnk7uJH7VFGLqbKksKpghuFSXcnQuQUKfBuoM-eYo-cfYScvw38_JT47VbNwUPJxDYrlfN0LIJhtherLyoPRlskRSEdFUUVNEGJbcDxSi66aCU0iHmaMUvqPKnMXH2M/s1600-h/Katy+as+waitress+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-bu6JzRw95GPfnk7uJH7VFGLqbKksKpghuFSXcnQuQUKfBuoM-eYo-cfYScvw38_JT47VbNwUPJxDYrlfN0LIJhtherLyoPRlskRSEdFUUVNEGJbcDxSi66aCU0iHmaMUvqPKnMXH2M/s200/Katy+as+waitress+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425323747178729234" /></a> I am pleased to report that the Townsville policy of "no shirt, no shoes, no problem" -- which includes the grocery store, where people just wander in, barefoot and wearing only a pair of shorts -- does not apply at Island Man Sam. There's also really good live music and the food is yummy. The shirts we wear are an unfortunate and unflattering grey-beige polyester, but you can interpret your denim bottom however you choose, so it's okay. And I'll do exciting hair things to make up for it: a fun project. (Let's play Barbie!) <br /><br />And when the rain stops (they swear it will be any day now), I can go to the beach before work. Everybody wins. (Well, I win.)<br /><br />So there you have it: the ups and downs of Townsville. I think, on the whole, that we're moving in an upwards direction; interesting things are appearing on the horizon, just under the rain clouds. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-17187898488144137182008-02-16T18:17:00.000-08:002010-01-10T20:08:03.012-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter TwoHi everyone. Life here in Oceania continues -- and will be broken down into sub-sections for easy audience navigation. Read whatever interests you. But maybe at least read the beginning and end of each section, so that if I ever mention something in conversation you will have at least a passing idea of whatever I think you know off by heart, and my feelings will be less hurt. But that's just a tip. <br /><br /><strong>Technical</strong><br /><br />I'm writing this from the home computer, as Jenny got a screen last week, just in time for me to get started on the six assignments I had to do over five days -- funnily enough, and it really was funny, the computer blew out just as I was about to finish the third one and I lost my work and all access to whatever had been saved. Ha! Hilarious! (Luckily, or perhaps geniusely, I had already e-mailed myself the first two in order to print them at the school library, so I only had to redo the third one [and of course the other three] in the computer lab.) <br /><br />Now we have the computer back. They're saying it had nothing to do with the storm, which makes me feel better about being irresponsible and doing computer work when it's raining. To be fair, though, it poured rain for three days in a row -- the only other time I've seen wind like that was during tail-end-of-hurricane storms in the islands, the difference being that this time I have the added bonus of a coconut tree banging on my roof all night and scaring the bejeesus out of me -- and I had to get these assignments done and needed access to the computer because half the readings were online. It's all very tricky, this modern university cyber-life. <br /><br /><strong>Physical</strong><br /><br />Jenny got me her grandmother's bike for what she said would be a fifteen-to-twenty-minute ride to school. She and her boyfriend Flomby (based on a complicated last name) geared up on the Sunday before my first day and we all went together so they could show me the shortcuts. It took us fifty-seven minutes to get to the university entrance, at which point we were so sweaty and miserable that we didn't even go into the actual campus. <br /><br />We took a different shortcut on the way home, Flomby's idea, and added fifteen minutes to the ride, giving me plenty of time to resign myself to a year of waiting at bus stops and paying $4.72 each way. (I see your poorly-subsidized Toronto transit and I raise you: no schedules, no bus shelters -- despite frequent and long-lasting tropical storms -- and unregulated fare increases!)<br /><br />But I left super early my first day and it only took 45 minutes -- it's cooler in the morning and there's no one on the path to slow me down -- which I have worked down to 37 minutes on a good day. (Though now that the river is severely flooded and there's no path, I have to find ever-changing alternate routes and my timing is off.) I bring clothes, shampoo and a towel and have my shower on campus, which is fun because then I cruise serenely into the education building and everyone is amazed at how fresh and clean I am after such a long bike ride. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPJZ5SWNsUe5O7U0zwQ6MHZgnhWDyiArUtKPuYStPX-M_riQsElFyaAgggch6UBWAXgLEsj5kNkkxxjRtBnFjByCsR2WMBlbmJdCmvlekssRPYuch-3_dpGmvW8-ns2RhGRqbbbB9Gik/s1600-h/Along+the+Nile....JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPJZ5SWNsUe5O7U0zwQ6MHZgnhWDyiArUtKPuYStPX-M_riQsElFyaAgggch6UBWAXgLEsj5kNkkxxjRtBnFjByCsR2WMBlbmJdCmvlekssRPYuch-3_dpGmvW8-ns2RhGRqbbbB9Gik/s320/Along+the+Nile....JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425320066506906290" /></a> I've broken the trip into segments, which means that I feel a sense of accomplishment about nine times each way, and I obviously have songs for each segment -- I will include some of them in the post-script for those of you who want to sing along (Mom, I'm counting on you!) -- which makes for a fun ride. (With the daily route changes, I am constantly having to come up with new songs to adjust to the new scenery and street names; it keeps me on my toes.) So I'm getting heaps of exercise, saving heaps of bus dollars and having heaps of quality Kathryn Time to boot. (Aussies say a whole lot of "heaps" and "actually" -- I dig it.)<br /><br />Among all this positive forward-movement, though, disaster is bound to strike. There have been two terrible bike rides since I began this whole adventure.<br /><br />1. I stayed late at the computer lab to get some work done, not leaving until about 6:30, which is officially dusk. (They don't have long summer nights in the tropics, which is too bad; who doesn't love a long summer night?) The best route I could figure out was along the streets that run parallel to the river, most of which were not yet flooded. As I rode, I noticed how many mosquitoes were out and briefly allowed myself to think that there's nothing worse than mosquitoes. Then, suddenly, the sky went dark and I wondered how it was possible for night to fall so quickly. I looked up and saw what looked like a black blanket flying through the sky -- a blanket with wings and furry bellies and pointy teeth; a huge, fast, screeching blanket of doom. <br /><br />Ah yes, I thought, terrific. The bats are out. <br /><br />Some of them are little, like the ones at home (I've only ever seen them in Katie's backyard in Mississauga but I'm sure they exist elsewhere) whose place in the sky I have learned to accept. But most of them -- and when you're dealing with thousands of bats, most is a lot -- are enormous. I had previously likened them to flying chihuahuas, which was bad enough, but the big ones are more like flying raccoons. Huge. They look like those winged monkeys in The Wizard of Oz (and I look like mean Mrs. What's-her-face on my old lady bike with a basket -- the irony is not lost on me.) And since they were out for dinner, and their dinner was swarming around me (if there's one thing mosquitoes love, it's me), they kept swooping down and pinging my helmet with their hideous, terrifying wings. I was sure that a mosquito would land on my face and one of these flying monkey-chihuahua-raccoon monsters would dive in to collect. And then all the money I spent on coming here would be for nothing, as I would spend the rest of the year in therapy, curled up in the fetal position, whimpering. <br /><br />I made it home, slightly hysterical, and gradually talked myself down. I was fully calm by the time my mom called, and remained so until I saw a big, hairy snout push in through the doggy-door. I almost had a heart attack, but when I realized it couldn't fit through the little space, I laughed at my foolishness and went back to the conversation, becoming increasingly convinced that it was just Joogsie, the cattle dog, who has that same coarse hair and always wants to come inside. After we hung up, I turned off the light and started to cross the living room to get to my room, when I heard rustling from the garbage corner and saw that the back door was open. I prepared my stern, "bad dog" face and turned on the light, only to see -- wait for it, wait for it -- a boar. A wild pig, munching away at an apple core. In the kitchen, ten feet from where I was standing. <br /><br />Who knew I could move so fast? I leapt up on the counter, maybe screaming or maybe not -- my heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that pretty much anything might have happened and I wouldn't have heard it -- and when the pig started doing this weird jig with his back hooves, along the same lines as the funny little skunk warning dance before you get sprayed -- I reached around for a pot and banged it with a spoon until he left. (When he was gone and I was standing, stunned, fighting off my convulsive shudders, Jenny, the famously heavy sleeper, came out for a pee break and said "what are you doing in the kitchen?")<br /><br />Do you want to guess how well I slept that night?<br /><br />2. On Thursday, when I was about thirty minutes from uni, I rode over something and got a flat tire. I spent the rest of that ride -- and then the ride home -- pulling over every six minutes to pump up my back tire and then pedalling like hell as it deflated. So Friday I took the bus to school so that I could buy a bike on my way home. (I'd heard they were super cheap at K-Mart.) We had our last lecture of the week and then a "mid-term exam" (after one week of class... they're cramming a full semester into six days, which has been hectic but it's good to get it out of the way), so we were finished by 1:30 -- perfect time for K-Mart. Except that it was one of those storms again, so I hung around at school and waited for a break in the rain before going to a bus stop. <br /><br />There is no bus schedule, as I mentioned, but also no system -- or at least none that I have figured out yet. No matter which side of the road you stand on, they tell you "oh, you need to be on the other side." The 1A turned me down on both sides of the road, something about looping around -- so who's going to K-Mart? Can anyone let me on a bus and get me out of the rain? I gave up and just got on the bus that takes me home, the 2, except that he was somehow re-routed and went completely in the opposite direction -- obviously -- so when we passed by nowhere-on-the-2-route-except-for-today K-Mart and the rain had let up, I decided to go ahead with the bike shopping, since I was already so far from home. <br /><br />It was fairly fast and painless, as cheap as promised, and they let me take the floor model so I could just ride it home and know that the brakes worked, rather than assembling it myself. I had forgotten my helmet, which is strictly against the law, but I thought I'd take a chance this one time. I was also wearing a pretty dress and flip-flops, and had two bags with me, neither of them backpacks. (Too late, I remembered with dismay that the new bike wouldn't have a granny basket.) But whatever. Onward and upward, just get home and the next ride will be better. <br /><br />I had about two minutes of riding, enough time to wonder what the hell the springy seat was all about, before I heard a giant "ka-KRACK" and about a gazillion tonnes of water dropped from the sky. I was immediately and completely drenched, head to toe, with rain whipping into my eyes, flip-flops too wet to grip and cutting into my toes and dress clingy and completely see-through. For all intents and purposes, I was riding around in my underwear. I haven't been honked at like that since Guadeloupe! And little old ladies giving me dirty looks, the hussy flaunting her lacy bra for all of Townsville to see. Did they think this was planned? Did I really look satisfied with how things had turned out? Yes, you're right: I sat around and waited for the rain, then hopped on my bike for a forty-minute ride along the highway in impossible clothes for riding, with heavy, textbook-laden shoulder bags bouncing around me and no helmet to keep the rain out of my eyes. It was all an elaborate plan. You figured me right out, you sneaky devils. <br /><br />I pulled over a few times to see if I could wait it out, but ultimately, you can't get more soaked than soaked; might as well get it over with. But yay! I have a new bike! It's called Turbo-something (couldn't read it properly through the sheets of rain) and I think I might be able to make the bouncy thing work for me. I gather it's a shocks system, and considering my sore butt, it's probably a good idea. <br /><br /><strong>Education</strong><br /><br />I have gone on for too long! I realize that this is not normal. I have a problem. But everyone's been asking about school, so for those who want to know (and who like reading excessively long e-mails), it's pretty much as expected: teacherspeak and buzz words -- we are not students, but "pre-service teachers;" we do not make rules, but rather, "we grow children; we fertilize children" -- lots of touchy-feely and too many damn Canadians in the class, most of them sorority girls who are here because they couldn't get into teachers' college in Ontario. Not the cream of the crop, but then you don't really need the cream of the crop when your lectures are titled "What Makes a Good Teacher?" and "Why Do We Teach?" Apparently, all you need is people who feel totally comfortable saying "I think we should conversate," "our group was the first to presentate" and "between you and I," and who end most sentences with "and stuff like that." <br /><br />Unfortunately, my Mexican friend dropped the course because her written English didn't meet the mark, but there are lots of friendly and nice people in my class, especially the Aussies. Our teacher for this course was really good, too: funny, smart, interesting and thoughtful. She never pretended the fluff was more than fluff, but she pulled some good ideas out of it and just made it all much more palatable than I expected. I'm not sure if she's teaching us again but I hope not, because I want to hang out with her and I don't want it to be a conflict of interest!<br /><br />Next, we have a week of "Professional Development" workshops and field trips, then the official semester starts (which means other students -- not just our program -- will be on campus and all the uni activities will start) and I think there will be some useful stuff, preparing us for actual teaching. Lesson plans and subject-teaching, for example. And then, of course, we're in the schools, which is what it's all about. Kids are just so much better to hang out with than grown-ups, you know? <br /><br />So I'm determined to make the most of this year and not expect my courses to be particularly stimulating. There are wallabies all over campus (small kangaroos -- amazing) and when it isn't raining, it's quite beautiful -- mountains in the background and gorgeous greenery everywhere -- so I'll have to remember that that's why I'm here and teachers' college is kind of crap by definition.<br /><br />And I have a personal project, based on an epiphany I had during a time management/stress workshop. The presenter was telling us that there are those people who are super organized and need to know where they're going, and those who drift happily and will see where they're going when they get there. And I realized: I am a neat-freak and a compulsive list-maker -- I'll even add a to-do item after I've done it, just for the satisfaction of writing it down and checking it off. Presumably, if we follow the model, I am the type of person who needs to know where I'm going. But then, I have no idea where I'm going! I can't stop drifting, I'm never satisfied in one place, I don't know where I want to live or what I want to do. I compulsively need a plan, but I am unable to stick to one. No wonder I get panic attacks! Eureka! <br />I don't know how to fix the problem, but I feel that putting my finger on it was a key first step. Onward and upward. <br /><br />Later, mates.<br /><br />Kathryn<br /><br /><br />p.s. Here are the musical highlights of my ride to school:<br /><br /><em>By the golf course, to the tune of "Three Blind Mice"</em><br /><br />Rich white men, rich white men. <br />See how they golf, see how they golf.<br />They don't bring their wives and I guess that's okay;<br />There isn't a more boring game you could play; <br />They all look the same and they're here every day, these<br />Rich white men. <br /><br /><em>In the forest, to my own tune:</em> <br /><br />The one-minute forest smells so nice: <br />Fresh and clean like springtime spice; <br />The one-minute forest's so green and lush -- <br />I wish that I could feel my tush. <br /><br /><em>(It's fairly far into the ride...)</em><br /><br /><em>By the river, to the tune of "Down to the River to Pray"</em><br /><br />As I ride down by the river to school --<br />Wearing ugly helmet, not so cool -- <br />I see my future calves of steel; good Lord, show me the way. <br />Oh muscles, don't stop now -- don't stop now, no, you can't stop now. <br />Come on muscles, don't stop now, <br />Down by the river to school. <br /><br /><em>On McQueen St, to the tune of "Dancing Queen"</em><br /><br />I'm on McQueen; I'm frankly no longer seventeen. <br />On McQueen -- no worse than other streets I've seen, oh yeah.<br />It's a sham, but here I am,<br />Learning the QCT Standards, [Queensland College of Teachers]<br />Oh, keep your head on the scene, <br />You're on Street McQueen. <br /><br /><em>And when I finally get on the university road, to the tune of "Day-O":</em><br /><br />Home stretch, home stretch: <br />Almost there and I can't feel my ass.<br />Home -- me say home, me say home, me say home, me say home, me say home stretch: <br />Almost there and I can't feel my ass.<br /><br />Get up early and I grab my bike. (almost there and I can't feel my ass.)<br />In my country we drive on the right! (almost there...)<br />So many cars have almost run me over. (almost there...)<br />I'm still alive thanks to my lucky clover. (almost there...)<br /><br />A hideous bunch of juicy bruises, (almost there...)<br />While beside me, fast car cruises. (almost there...) <br /><br />Home stretch, me say home stretch (almost there...)<br />Home -- me say say home, me say home, me say home... <br /><br /><br /><em>When I'm on Queens Street I sing whatever Queen song comes to mind, usually "I Want to Ride My Bicycle," which is just so appropriate to what's going on in my life. Or "Fat-Bottomed Girls," also appropriate but in a less satisfying way. "We Are the Champions" has been overused and "Somebody to Love" just bums me out.</em>Kathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-53058574139548489102008-01-31T18:06:00.000-08:002010-01-16T04:55:12.036-08:00On the Townsville, Chapter OneHey everyone, <br /><br />I have arrived in Australia, safe and sound, and will answer all your e-mails in one swoop. (Limited internet time until my housemate's computer screen is up and running and I don't have to sit in cyber cafes that charge too much, which is currently the case.)<br /><br />And so here begins the Australian series of Kathryn updates. If you are on this mailing list, it is because you have expressed interest in hearing my travel details; this may have been a mistake on your part and you must at no time feel obligated towards me or my rambling letters. If it's clogging your inbox, you just let me know. (Unless you're in my immediate family, in which case you can just suck it up; that's what family is for.)<br /><br />For the record, from what I've seen so far, there probably won't be a lot to write about. I might have to resort to making things up to jazz up my life here, which is looking pretty farmy and low-key. Let's bring you up-to-date:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwz_4p5eFG4Hx4_UTs_rZUkBeM04GmoIxBeJD5T4_hpCwKJObOZSh_GlfWslFcpY0ehkmnj7yloTa3lXkzsotTcV0bhXlgvprDCA1-kwfVPMQPd1J9au_PNGQ-TyjhZtOcY4xwctH1as/s1600-h/River+from+the+bridge.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwz_4p5eFG4Hx4_UTs_rZUkBeM04GmoIxBeJD5T4_hpCwKJObOZSh_GlfWslFcpY0ehkmnj7yloTa3lXkzsotTcV0bhXlgvprDCA1-kwfVPMQPd1J9au_PNGQ-TyjhZtOcY4xwctH1as/s320/River+from+the+bridge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427318489389239234" /></a> I have become obsessed with living in the tropics since Guadeloupe and decided to do my teachers' college in Australia, where it's warm and sunny all the time, rather than Toronto, where it is not. I chose Townsville because it is tropical and because James Cook University had the best information package of all the universities. And was the cheapest. <br /><br />My trip over here was pretty crappy. My already-delayed Toronto-L.A. flight (ice on the wings) had to perform an emergency landing in Las Vegas when the man next to me, with whom I had spent the first half of the flight chatting, suffered something between a seizure and a stroke. Everyone was really grumbly and angry, since obviously it's very inconvenient to miss their next flight and why couldn't he have just waited and almost died once we'd landed, the inconsiderate bastard. (For my part, I was shaky and traumatized and nauseous for the next few hours and was ashamed to think how much my medically-competent brother would have handled the situation.) <br /><br />Obviously, I missed my next flight, and since people who have no idea what they're talking about love to pretend that they are highly informed, I was sent from terminal to terminal and told that I had to be there at 4:00 a.m. when the Qantas counter opened for business. Needless to say, it opened at 2:00 p.m., so my night on a hard bench, freezing cold with the air-conditioning blasting on my face, turned out to be just for kicks. <br /><br />But who cares, because I made it here, and the hours of sleeping in my seat and shivering through the night screwed up my internal clock and eliminated my jet lag. I am now right on schedule and am my usual sleepy -- but fun! -- self. <br /><br />The house is beautiful: it's a Queenslander, which means that it's up on stilts and really open and full of windows. My housemate, whom I will call "Jenny," is really lovely, very open and easy-going and welcoming. The dogs I was so excited about are kind of stinky and loud, but apparently they kept a snake at bay a few nights ago, so I appreciate them in a very big way. The town seems pretty slow and boring so far,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCMRYfborHVijEe8bYKCUeI5QetR7lgkFQsyCFoP-Chy0OJUYP6jCzvWX9jswz5vBYKFxr1kLIjKRV_d2DWVXQROX8bhHx5GZw879fq5ftC5YuY4UV_Nz41GpXcCiRm8zAG1IIp9AjwQ/s1600-h/Through+the+window.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCMRYfborHVijEe8bYKCUeI5QetR7lgkFQsyCFoP-Chy0OJUYP6jCzvWX9jswz5vBYKFxr1kLIjKRV_d2DWVXQROX8bhHx5GZw879fq5ftC5YuY4UV_Nz41GpXcCiRm8zAG1IIp9AjwQ/s320/Through+the+window.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427320277068540770" /></a> but I'm hoping that things will pick up when I start school and meet people who aren't exactly like the parents in Muriel's Wedding. (More people will probably show up if the rain ever stops -- the good news is that there's no drought in Townsville.) I have successfully activated my bank account and shopped for lots of good fruit and peanut butter -- I'd forgotten what it's like to not have Franck/Mom/Club Med cooking for me and I'm in kind of a panic. I would like to start making some big money so that I can just eat out. All the time. No exceptions.<br /><br />As for my life at the beach, it turns out that: not so much. You see, most of this area is full of large and deadly - or small and deadlier - stingers (jellyfish, I gather), so you have to go to this one netted-off spot. This fits in nicely with the salt-water crocodiles that Barb and Pierre-Yves told me about the eve of my departure and the endless series of deadly snakes. (Incidentally, you'd be amazed how many things look like snakes when you're paranoid and walking alone; I keep breaking into a run and then realizing that it's just a piece of hose or tire or someone's flip-flop. If anything here kills me, it will undoubtedly be my own sissiness.)<br /><br />Remember how my feet never smelled bad in Guadeloupe or DR, despite my living in sandals and walking everywhere? Turns out that's not the case this time around. As I just discovered, right here in the cyber cafe. <br /><br />What else is there, let's see... well, I passed three dead bats on the side of the road on my way into town today. Bats whose bodies are about the size of giant water rats, which are also a famous feature of Townsville. I think you can imagine how pleased I am to discover that my one and only true phobia is here in double, including one that can FLY through the AIR and SUCK MY FACE OFF. I say, bring on the deadly snakes, and keep their bellies full of rodents. (Do I sound flippant? I am not flippant. I am terrified.) What I've decided is to just trust that everything will be okay and that night sounds -- such as whatever scrapes endlessly on the roof and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaaSCLjmVtliI-1kVTUnn8e2pMqDq9jLAsF6HWbQarqj0KJj64dfekMGOvBsOx17pbSq3DeNYYEWFdZlfYfCQ7ZRPYxc57IJtkEKVNWbWZQzdCqkQQhkz-eH-yZx_UHMa444LQ6IkeG4/s1600-h/Rooty+tree.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaaSCLjmVtliI-1kVTUnn8e2pMqDq9jLAsF6HWbQarqj0KJj64dfekMGOvBsOx17pbSq3DeNYYEWFdZlfYfCQ7ZRPYxc57IJtkEKVNWbWZQzdCqkQQhkz-eH-yZx_UHMa444LQ6IkeG4/s320/Rooty+tree.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427317850131646722" /></a> whatever hisses outside the bathroom window -- should simply be ignored. If anything comes up, I'll deal with it then; I can't keep imagining the water rats and breaking out in panic rashes. Especially since I'm bloated and blotchy from the humidity to begin with and don't need extra uglies to add to my hideous "adjustment period." I must also trust that the rivers I walk by to get pretty much anywhere, and that are plastered with "Danger! -- Achtung! -- Crocodiles" signs, are only dangerous to swimmers. Jenny assured me that "those toothy buggas" never scamper up the bank for a snack, despite what I have seen on every nature show featuring crocodiles. (Townsville theme song: Never smile at a crododile, never tip your hat and stop to talk awhile...) She also claims that red-back spiders can only kill children and that they would never be somewhere that you use regularly, such as your bed. Definitely shake out your shoes and don't explore old cupboards with your hands, but other than that, no worries. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1F7adr6IEcwUlLiXVD1mLw1s8Yq2AIoc2ldZV8uPsU9uJ7OUAatXucIx5IYYco3sr4aCkvKnh_p57NCbwvnusq8CO5rfxMmegeo0hmRH5gb_3imF_llr4nsUoeOBUw2rqpL_o9hJS8k/s1600-h/Beach+with+stinger+net.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1F7adr6IEcwUlLiXVD1mLw1s8Yq2AIoc2ldZV8uPsU9uJ7OUAatXucIx5IYYco3sr4aCkvKnh_p57NCbwvnusq8CO5rfxMmegeo0hmRH5gb_3imF_llr4nsUoeOBUw2rqpL_o9hJS8k/s320/Beach+with+stinger+net.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427319220441572658" /></a> So what will this year be like? Hard to say. Possibly a terrifying nature adventure, most likely just low-key. I had planned to fall in love with a beautiful, dark-skinned marine biologist named Ben and begin a life of traveling from fantastic island to fantastic island, tracking the dolphins and recording manatee behaviour. I think, now, maybe, it won't happen that way. I guess I'll have to just roll with the punches and make friends with lots of big white guys named Bill.<br /><br />I decided against risquee series titles (too many obvious Kathryn Goes Down variations) and couldn't think of anything cute with the Wizard of Oz, so On the Townsville it is. <br /><br />It is quite pretty, the streets lined with palm trees, and when we went out for Thai my first night I found the main out-on-the-town strip really nice. So even if it's not quite what I expected, it's warm (bloody hot!) and nice and clean. I just need to get my hands on a bicycle to get around more easily, and then things will be much more interesting. And if not, Jenny has a giant tv with lots of channels, so I can just watch M*A*S*H* and rent movies and get a library membership and make it a year for introspection. Do a lot of crunches and work on my Spanish. You know, a Me year. <br /><br />My project will be to spot a croc and send you a picture. Game on!<br /><br />Hope things are good Up Over,<br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-61590221071024172172007-08-14T19:52:00.000-07:002010-01-14T16:11:28.217-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter NineThis is it, folks, the wrap-up. (There isn't really room for sentimentality in these updates, but if I sound cold then rest assured that I'm feeling excessively sad about having to say good-bye to the people I've come to love so much and I think the whole situation kind of sucks.)<br /><br /><strong>FOOD </strong><br /><br />I have taken on a new position at Hotel Fun: I am the head of Market Research in the restaurant. It's not TECHNICALLY a real position here, I will admit. And no one else really knows about it. But I think it's an important job and I'm doing really good work and coming up with terrifically important results. I can tell you which is the best dessert each night (Tuesday's chocolate-coconut cake and Sunday's raspberry millefeuille go on to tie for first in the category of Overall Best Dessert) and how many chicken fried tacos is too many (three). I can tell you that guacamole and nacho chips is not, ultimately, your best choice for a pre-show dinner and that raspberry-geleed chicken may sound good but is actually dag-nasty. I can also tell you how much chocolate powder you need to add to a latte to make it drinkable by me, but I admit that there is little outside interest in that particular field of study. (Incidentally, the answer is two-and-a-half teaspoons, which makes the whole coffee-drinking activity rather pointless.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBbnqObebyVGiD7cMvTLxRt5wWOrhrdA0J-Ddw5oFXOJb7Z_UYwlKx5WAVD-o4zEMlK960ewCzN2fH-oVNbO23YTGyhqviCdWHVYCXBqoX4LRPgmuBXNVRfXYpiaFe19k1BwAVaEPrI0/s1600-h/dessert+table.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBbnqObebyVGiD7cMvTLxRt5wWOrhrdA0J-Ddw5oFXOJb7Z_UYwlKx5WAVD-o4zEMlK960ewCzN2fH-oVNbO23YTGyhqviCdWHVYCXBqoX4LRPgmuBXNVRfXYpiaFe19k1BwAVaEPrI0/s320/dessert+table.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425699670396796978" /></a><br /><br />Here's something else I learned, though I think everyone who set foot in the restaurant on August 1st has the same information: Swiss raclette is the single stinkiest thing on the planet. They had a big party for the national holiday and the whole restaurant and surrounding area smelled like a dead animal of some kind, combined with rotten feet and possibly poo. Unbelievable. And I spend a lot of time with a G.O. named Petit Suisse, as I translate the coffee game for him every afternoon (bar game that can be trivia, group Scrabble, name-that-tune...) and write out the sports activity board every evening. He was in charge of this Swiss dinner and I think he didn't wash all of his clothes that night, or he had carried the smell home with his bag, or I don't know – but the guy stank for three days and he kept giving me big thank-you-for-your-help hugs (which smell boozy and smoky to begin with) and spreading the smell. I would go into the bathroom and scrub all my exposed skin with gallons of soap, but I still had to leave early to go home because I couldn't stand it anymore and had to change out of my contaminated clothes. <br /><br />I can also tell you that yoghurt grows on you. I don't like yoghurt, never have, but I'm a girl living in a tropical country and spending too much time in wet bathing suits, so I have to be careful. Eating yoghurt is the best way to get those good acidophilus bacteria cells into your stomach to fight off the bad ones, is what they say. (Why can't there be acidophilus in Nutella, hmm? How hard could it be to pull that off?) And so, motivated by my acute fear of yeast infections and following the prevention-not-correction theory, I've been eating yoghurt twice a day for the last month. It was a miserable beginning but I eventually found this mixed-berry one that was less awful than the others and started hiding a couple in my little Baby Corner fridge every morning. Sometimes it has lots and lots of fruit chunks in it, which I take as good omen for the day. (Sometimes it's just smooth, which is such a crushing disappointment that I have to pep-talk myself out of my inevitable berry-less slump.) And now I can't get enough of it. Plus, if I just tuck a yoghurt in my bag, I can leave the restaurant and eat somewhere quietly and I don't have to eat with G.M.s. Maybe that's why I suddenly like it so much, is because I associate it with solitude. <br /><br /><strong>DISGUSTING PEOPLE IN MY LIFE </strong><br /><br />The assistant to the head chef in my restaurant is Halim. How can I describe him? I can't. He is revolting. He's slimy and creepy and just the way he looks at me is enough to bring vomit up in my throat. He's gross with pretty much all the women, but has taken a special shining to me – lucky girl – and is always after me. (Alas, there is nothing surprising in this, as the creepos have always come knocking on my door.) Whatever you're picturing, it isn't gross enough. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidklgj4n28H3XO-clN-qPReBtHaTw7OpV_0bix0Wi8E9zqU74kqTIC9wDPz6e78cbWWZRBzUVWneltkVarJGQqWTXV7ZTKWiUi5WjDEsDlYpMHvC3YAn___2W8zw0AJ0yWT7BQRcvjrmE/s1600-h/Raul+at+work.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidklgj4n28H3XO-clN-qPReBtHaTw7OpV_0bix0Wi8E9zqU74kqTIC9wDPz6e78cbWWZRBzUVWneltkVarJGQqWTXV7ZTKWiUi5WjDEsDlYpMHvC3YAn___2W8zw0AJ0yWT7BQRcvjrmE/s320/Raul+at+work.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425706351160608722" /></a> Meanwhile, my best buddy here was Raul, a chef who transferred from Ixtapa. He's super funny, kind of looks like a hedgehog – a Mexican hedgehog, which is even better – and helped me keep my sanity around jerks like Halim and the crazy head chef, Bayram. (I hope to meet really nice Turkish people soon because the five or six I know here are hideous and I am developing a serious prejudice.) <br /><br />Raul obviously didn't get along with Halim, the one being a cute and funny hedgehog and the other being a power-hungry lunatic, and it only made it worse that the two of us were so close. Halim was unabashedly and publicly bitter, saying fantastically childish things like "well, if it isn't the lovebirds" when he'd see us talking and going on and on to the kitchen staff about how I really lowered my standards when I chose Raul. (He was convinced we were dating, obviously, as he is unaware that it's possible to be friends with a girl without constantly doing disgusting things with your tongue when she walks by.) We linked arms once in the kitchen area – where both of us work and are allowed to be, and away from all the food – and Halim freaked out and said "no more fooling around! There have to be limits!" and threatened to ban me from the kitchen if it happened again. (Oh no! Not be able to come and make eight different kinds of vegetable purees for all my asshole baby-parents? But it's my favourite part of the day! Please don't ban me from making purees!) <br /><br />Needless to say, Raul got transferred to Turks and Caicos last week. Ultimately, it's better for him because a) any Hotel Fun is apparently better than here, and b) he's got a really good head chef and is happy with the move. (Except that his chiquita bombon isn't there.) (That's me.) And I'm leaving this week anyway, so while I am INCREDIBLY SAD to have to spend my last days without my favourite friend, I'm glad that he ended up with a better location. However. Halim now seems to think that, with Raul out of the way, the doors are open for him. His latest attempt at seduction was to show me (and the guys in the kitchen, whose names he doesn't know even though he's been their boss for eight months) how strong he is by putting his finger on the table and smashing it with a can of beans. I thought I was going to throw up, and that was before he said "and if my finger's this hard, just imagine the rest of me." <br /><br />He's continued with his leering and lip-licking and other generally lewd behaviour (he can only go so far, as he has a warning from Bayram, with whom I issued a formal complaint – though that doesn't mean much because the only two people sleazier than Bayram are Abdel, who hates me, and Halim himself) but today was the first time he came right out and asked me on a date. He was alarmed that I'm leaving so soon and asked me to go to Mangu, the infamous local nightclub, with him. He said that he'd talk to Bayram and get me off of my morning restaurant shift so that we could stay out as late as we wanted. I couldn't help myself: I laughed so hard I had to lean against the wall for support – which he tentatively took as encouragement, possibly my being blown away by his charm and good looks, but then he understood that, as hell has not yet frozen over, I would not be attending Mangu in his company. <br /><br />Then there's another kitchen person, Jocelyn, who arrived a few weeks ago and moved in to the room that shares my bathroom. The first day she smoked and I went to tell her that it came into my room and she'd have to stop. I was expecting a fight but she was all apologetic and said she wouldn't smoke in her room anymore, so I figured that was that. Except that she's just kept smoking, pretty much all the time. My room actually isn't too bad; I only smell it every once in a while. But the entrance, the toilet and the shower smell like a bar – what am I supposed to say to her? Isn't it kind of bizarre to say "oh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea! I'll stop right away" and then just keep doing it? I guess since I'm leaving so soon I'll just let it go, rather than issuing a complaint and getting the chefs de service involved. (They all smoke, without exception, so I don't know how helpful they'd be.) What's good is that now I don't owe her any respect, so I can play my music as loudly as I want and slam the door on my way out every morning at 6:50. Maybe I'm a coward, but it makes me feel better. <br /><br /><strong>SPANISH </strong><br /><br />Meanwhile, I think it might not be so good that I'm learning my Spanish here. The conjugation is all weird and they make a lot of grammatical mistakes in a very casual way. They don't bother with "vosotros," but say "ustedes" for all second-person plural. And they aren't fussed about gender: they say things like "todo la vida," which I wrote last time because I'm used to hearing it, and when I doubted myself I asked Raul. He said of course it's "toda," but I've asked Dominicans since and they still go with the masculin. It seems to be that people can personally interpret grammar as they please, so you're just as likely to hear "tu estas" as "tu esta" and "tu estan." And don't even go near the past tense. I'm going to need to sit with a grammar book and undo all of the things I have in my head, in case I want to go to another Spanish-speaking country and don't want people to think I haven't learned anything. <br /><br />Incidentally, the Quebecois are easy-going with gender and grammar as well. ("Je va voir," "Te-vas-tu au piscine?") It works in their accent because it's part of the deal, but I have to be careful not to be influenced by their funny words and stick them in my French, as in my accent it will sound: wrong. <br /><br /><strong>ANIMALS </strong><br /><br />I have noticed an increasing number of rat traps around the back room of the restaurant, where I have to go all the time for my baby food and milk boxes. Sometimes the cheese has been nibbled; clearly the rat traps are highly effective. (I've suggested peanut butter but they're determined that rats only like cheese.) So now I have little waves of panic every time I open that door. Dios mio, please don't let me see a rat with my baby food. <br /><br />And I have no problem with lizards or with their poo, which I understand is a necessary part of life. But the other day I pulled back my covers and there was a big lizard poo ON THE SHEET. Isn't that weird? I make the bed normally, as in tightly, and I can't imagine how or why a lizard would be crawling in the sheets and pooping. Maybe it was on the outside and bounced in when I moved the covers? Or maybe it was while I was sleeping and I didn't notice it while I made the bed – which is kind of weird, too. I like lizards. I don't need them crawling around my body while I'm sleeping. <br /><br /><strong>VILLAGE LIFE </strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguDiO1bgQtLRZyzgsp8HojEsnCgAgCs39egBRpEK0eWT2fMxkWf8pj8o90ObmIz8RxdDIKsa7075rDf3bDZsldqArLhWZl3v9Wn6L3a2g4eXWPlzAxmoaLoJXOz01E2PqlCTJ_YGrntI/s1600-h/path+to+beach.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguDiO1bgQtLRZyzgsp8HojEsnCgAgCs39egBRpEK0eWT2fMxkWf8pj8o90ObmIz8RxdDIKsa7075rDf3bDZsldqArLhWZl3v9Wn6L3a2g4eXWPlzAxmoaLoJXOz01E2PqlCTJ_YGrntI/s320/path+to+beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425700009442146898" /></a> The chefs de service have bicycles, which is how you can tell them apart from the rest of us sorry bastards – that and their giant, giant heads. So the latest game in the village is bicycle-thieving – how funny is that? People steal a bike from outside of wherever it's parked and leave it somewhere on the other side of the village. It can't be easy because we all know who is and isn't supposed to be on a bike and if you get caught riding around, you're in big trouble. So kudos to whoever is clever enough (and juvenile enough, quite frankly) to be pulling this off. <br /><br />Remember that tooth-sucking thing that Guadeloupans do to show you their displeasure? That thing that makes me want to stab my own eye out? It turns out that Haitians do it too. <br /><br />I'm trying to take pictures of all the people I care about before I go, and I don't have a digital camera so each picture actually matters. (I know I have to specify because there are maybe two people reading this who still use a real camera – my problem would be easily solved if I could go home and erase everything I didn't want.) The thing is that people around here love being in pictures. If you take a picture of someone, someone else you don't even know will come over and ask for you to take one of them – why, exactly, I'm not sure. They'll never see it. I'll throw it out. But oh, they want me to take their picture. And they don't want to be in the group photo, either; they want a full-length shot, preferably leaning on a tree. So I have to be super crafty about it and isolate the person whose picture I really want. Also, if I ask someone to take one with me in it, I automatically have to take one of them - I've learned to just shut the lens cover and then "take the picture," which they don't notice but which has probably saved me a roll and a half so far. <br /><br />French men: they're all about wearing a t-shirt and a cute pair of khaki shorts, looking all beachy and fun, and then loafers. Some with pennies in them. Why?<br /><br />The other night, after the first few numbers of the Mini Club show, with six hundred children onstage, backstage and around the theatre and their bajillion family members in the audience, there was a power outage that lasted over thirty minutes. We couldn't let anyone leave because it was too dark and we had to wait it out – and ultimately went on with the show, which then ended after 11:00 p.m. – so I will just let you imagine the hell and chaos of that many children, pumped up on performance adrenaline and stuck in a hot theatre in the dark for half an hour. If ever I am sent to war, I will consider myself prepared. <br /><br />The latest joke in the restaurant is to stand on someone's foot when you're both talking to a GM so they have to act like there's nothing wrong. It might only be funny because everyone's so tired and so sick to death of being eternally friendly to rude GMs, but no matter; it cracks me up. The foot-stander makes the conversation drag on as long as possible, which is in itself a difficult skill and very funny, and stands there, kind of swaying back and forth on the person's foot – hoo-wee. Hilarious. <br /><br />Funny kids in the restaurant: <br /><br />1. Two eight-year-old boys came up to me the other night and said "table for two, please" and then sat and had a quiet dinner together, like old friends. (I took away the wine bottle and one boy said "do you have any cognac?") <br /><br />2. The restaurant entrances are always decorated to fit the dinner theme. On Tex-Mex night there's a whole sombrero-and-cactus scene, with hammocks, Mexican ponchos, stuffed iguanas and a sunset in the background. Last Wednesday I noticed that there was a boy standing in the middle of it all, leaning on one hip and alternately pointing a finger out at passers-by, finger-gun style, and taking a break to finish his ice cream cup. "What are you doing?" "I'm being a cowboy." <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgqhIlIOe02pmCnuNDBZ3Yz1JEvgCI8CCOY4sn9W1pnwkocw3i9E-Vnau_IwAsdsvKHYZEa7RS3BbL0HMoZk2d9U7_bFJMkobEfz_yF3ElT8eXrzq5CPnDhav1AVXHpTdSnRbvPef5jA/s1600-h/Camareros+in+orange.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgqhIlIOe02pmCnuNDBZ3Yz1JEvgCI8CCOY4sn9W1pnwkocw3i9E-Vnau_IwAsdsvKHYZEa7RS3BbL0HMoZk2d9U7_bFJMkobEfz_yF3ElT8eXrzq5CPnDhav1AVXHpTdSnRbvPef5jA/s320/Camareros+in+orange.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425700720227825746" /></a> The camareros have said they're going to miss me when I go and asked for a picture of me that they can blow up into a life-size cardboard cut-out and prop up in the restaurant entrance/baby corner intersection where I stand for hours a day. I think it's the best idea ever and I'm trying to make it happen before I leave – though getting Abdel's "okay" might be tricky. One of the camareros said "but it won't be squishy like you" and I didn't know if that was a cute thing to say or just really, really irritating. Squishy. Hmf. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexEBsylfkgJdtV-GbgRyWbeR-EmWyYqUikkAmZyxxTVBM-PTtw4ZBth4Vmcs-EUYE_ACq5sKLVXK2WhIH9Vk9CijO8TSprU2kW-OiBC5Iko5HhGiz2wJf_GUU9EEhw2b-BBThIZNuZhM/s1600-h/Camareros+con+Katy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexEBsylfkgJdtV-GbgRyWbeR-EmWyYqUikkAmZyxxTVBM-PTtw4ZBth4Vmcs-EUYE_ACq5sKLVXK2WhIH9Vk9CijO8TSprU2kW-OiBC5Iko5HhGiz2wJf_GUU9EEhw2b-BBThIZNuZhM/s320/Camareros+con+Katy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425700950178750578" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>HARRY POTTER </strong><br /><br />I mentioned to my G.M. friend, John, that I was afraid some punk kid would casually give away who dies at the end before I'd had a chance to read it, as happened at drama camp for the last major death. So what did he order for me from Amazon when he went home? Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows! Hooray! <br /><br />I always read them in one sitting and was nervous about breaking it up and losing the precious Harry Potter atmosphere that I love so much, but it was actually fun to read in bits and pieces when I had time and have something to keep sneaking home to. I was halfway through when I had to do the circus show and I couldn't concentrate because I was obsessively thinking about horcruxes and hallows and duels to the death. I am pleased to report that exactly what I thought would happen is what happened. I am less pleased to report that she did a "nineteen years later" epilogue, which is the thing I hate most in books and movies. Don't give us a cheesy wrap-up, let us figure it out for ourselves. You know? <br /><br />And I was greatly envied for having received the best on-record G.M. gift, but it only confirmed people's ridiculous idea that I am having an affair with a 50-year-old New Yorker who was here with his teen-age daughter. Though I also had someone ask me if it was true that I had had a fling with Abdoul and that's why we weren't on friendly terms anymore – what can you do. People will talk and it will be ridiculous. <br /><br /><strong>PARENTS </strong><br /><br />Just something I learned about parents: they really are blinded by their love for their children. A kid was standing in the middle of the restaurant, staring into space and holding a chocolate-covered fruit-kebob without a plate or a napkin, while people bustled around him with their food. His mother saw me watching him – I was wondering if there was something wrong and I should go wake him up from his dream – and came over to tell me that he's quite a thoughtful boy, sensitive and even brilliant. And not because she's his mother, she assured me, but just because that's the way it is. ("Je constate, c'est tout.") Then she called him over and when he got to us, he saw some of the chocolate drip down onto his filthy, mud-caked sneaker. He bent over, wiped it off with his finger and ate it, too quickly for his mother to realize what he was doing or to stop him. <br /><br />And there it was. I thought: I'm standing here with a total moron of a kid, a complete space cadet with no manners and no sense of hygiene, and his mother, witnessing the same behaviour, sees artistry and thoughtfulness verging on brilliance. There you have it. <br /><br /><strong>CONCLUSION </strong><br /><br />I know it was long, but it's been a while and it's my last one. I'm trying to have the best time ever this week and I'm eating so much fruit I'm afraid I'm going to get sick. (I know how sad I'll be when I get home and the pineapple is twelve dollars a pound and pale yellow, not to mention the bitter mangoes. And can we even get papaya?) I'm also trying to spend as much time as possible with the people who have been so kind with me, these camareros that I love so much I find my heart aching when I think about it. And I know that there will never be any way to describe them without sounding predictable and cheesy - they were just so warm! - but they were so wonderful that I hope I'm able to pay it forward someday. Too bad the people in charge here are such royal asses, since there are so many good people but you're too pissed off and overworked to appreciate them. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_xSgUIQgM_yJMOEE_uLvCale5x5Pak_KiT9QIKTEOCCyZbJeg9AC4IkbgLZ4uP67hopgfWaZLxnnBfqm6twTzxCEL4Jq3qrm2uaJ1zcfqAyFerVeRdeFX38NSzvvVXEHS3CqWT2Ulmw/s1600-h/sunset+beach.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_xSgUIQgM_yJMOEE_uLvCale5x5Pak_KiT9QIKTEOCCyZbJeg9AC4IkbgLZ4uP67hopgfWaZLxnnBfqm6twTzxCEL4Jq3qrm2uaJ1zcfqAyFerVeRdeFX38NSzvvVXEHS3CqWT2Ulmw/s320/sunset+beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425698991145033666" /></a><br /><br />Thanks for following along and see some of you soon, <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-19576977482239092562007-08-14T19:44:00.000-07:002010-01-16T05:14:38.796-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter EightI'm winding down my time here – leaving sometime this week-end or just after – and my list of "Things to Mention in my Update" is too long for me not to send out an e-mail. I think I will use subject headings because that makes the whole thing tidy and pleasing. <br /><br /><strong>RIVER DAYS </strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMk1oyQ7nfh1TY9dAiucxPWSATTBGRi58W9mUqoe0Q47jDl5UlUGu52FLtZlyYImtU-1MBETyrUx6YN5hYhKQqmouUlH9DnsCJZICMjUVDeyHFiCIWumKN-9zRPEbCbz5zUkcOfns9GI/s1600-h/Emmanuel+%26+Katy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMk1oyQ7nfh1TY9dAiucxPWSATTBGRi58W9mUqoe0Q47jDl5UlUGu52FLtZlyYImtU-1MBETyrUx6YN5hYhKQqmouUlH9DnsCJZICMjUVDeyHFiCIWumKN-9zRPEbCbz5zUkcOfns9GI/s200/Emmanuel+%26+Katy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425694866558548258" /></a> We went back to the Maimon a couple of times, where I experienced the deepest peace and tranquility I have felt since my arrival in Punta Cana. Clear, warm, beautiful sun-sparkling water, good friends, mangoes and sugar cane to munch on – and not a GM in sight. Paradise. The only thing to slightly dampen the perfection of those days was the knowledge that they would soon be over. <br /><br />I spent a lot of time working on my underwater handstands – which are now so good that it's downright suspicious how bad they are on dry land – and somersaulting back and forth, to the endless amusement of my friends. They are, it would seem, incapable of doing a somersault in the water, however clever or generally able-bodied they may be. The kids playing in the river also couldn't figure it out: they'd say "Katy, mira asi! Mira asi!" and kind of wiggle around a little under the water, then come spluttering up and ask me if that was it. Eventually I started saying "good! you did it!" because they were getting so disappointed. (Quote of the day from one of these boys: "Katy, are you a gringa?") <br /><br />Yesterday we got to the Maimon and found that it was muddy and dirty, whereas the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSotkNtNbZ-Uh_OFGVaMt4GAnja6ntIfiPghFVkXh0qjxX-eUDie1fNuZkIrKjqw3Qjdmf-4C5H0O87edMMTt63Yi9l-pE1_WPsJ-krfYGtenGMWi1vN6ZoOiEL9wMkJlo6OEt537KbyE/s1600-h/La+piedra+de+Katy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSotkNtNbZ-Uh_OFGVaMt4GAnja6ntIfiPghFVkXh0qjxX-eUDie1fNuZkIrKjqw3Qjdmf-4C5H0O87edMMTt63Yi9l-pE1_WPsJ-krfYGtenGMWi1vN6ZoOiEL9wMkJlo6OEt537KbyE/s320/La+piedra+de+Katy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427323828687633218" /></a> nearby Boca de Yuma was not, and at first I was sad not to spend my last day off in my favourite river. Then I went for a quick squat-and-pee in the long grass and only realized afterwards that the group of German tourists on the bridge could see me – and, indeed, several of them were watching me, interestingly enough – and I felt really uncomfortable and was only too happy to get back on the bike and boot it out of there. <br /><br />And this time, I was the one driving! Emmanuel has been trying to get me to learn to drive since my first river day, and I keep saying no, I am perfectly happy to just hold tight and enjoy the ride. But the others go home early to catch the bus to work and he's right that I should know how to drive in an emergency, when it's just the two of us in the mountains. <br /><br />(He bizarrely used the example of a bear attacking him and wounding his leg, though your chances of finding a bear in the Dominican Republic are almost as slim as your chances of finding a Dominican man who is faithful to his wife; don't count on it.) <br /><br />So whenever we're on quiet roads – where there's no chance of somebody avoiding a pothole and driving straight towards us at top speed – I drive for a bit. It's never a very smooth ride, let's tell it like it is, but I get the job done. Bring on the bears. <br /><br />We often stop in to play pool, though it's hard to know when they're going to be open because they don't even pretend to respect the hours of operation they've posted on the door. The neighbours sitting around don't tend to have much information, but will talk you in circles about the fact that yes, sometimes it's open, and you should come back, we have no idea when. (Carlos: "Sometimes I hate Dominicans.") My biggest challenge is figuring out how to say "wow, I can't play billiards for shit" in Spanish – no luck so far. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqz3bnEUKd82X9v6q453eEcwCzm9Yd02EQsyIQZ_9RupSnJh1Nnu3IZM2wzUfus8KVY2-nU0gYd7nwSXjSvHQaIj57n_sSfMmwdxrIRvh9WfZjYc8OjXXjICGjbR_J4Gwa9t25BfiwIQ/s1600-h/Rio+Maimon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqz3bnEUKd82X9v6q453eEcwCzm9Yd02EQsyIQZ_9RupSnJh1Nnu3IZM2wzUfus8KVY2-nU0gYd7nwSXjSvHQaIj57n_sSfMmwdxrIRvh9WfZjYc8OjXXjICGjbR_J4Gwa9t25BfiwIQ/s320/Rio+Maimon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427325224084392418" /></a><br />We also stop in every week for a visit with Emmanuel's family, including a bunch of children who are so excited by arrival that they run around, jump off of the fence, hide their faces, come up and throw themselves in my arms and then run off screaming and giggling – it’s wild. Apparently they talk about me all week and are so worked up by Monday afternoon that they just sit outside the house and watch the road, waiting for us to arrive. And then they're terrified of me! Only one girl has the courage to talk to me, though she can hardly answer my questions through her uncontrollable giggling. One little boy was so excited yesterday that he peed. Wild. <br /><br />Emmanuel takes a different route back to Higuey each time to show me the countryside, on dirt-and-rock roads that make for a bumpy, if beautiful, ride. He has suggested that I shouldn't complain about getting a free bum massage. (I'm always pleased when bums come up in conversation, since they're called "pompi" and it's my favourite word here. I try to talk about bums as much as possible.) Yesterday's ride was the roughest yet and at one point I think I almost died: I accidentally chose to let go of Emmanuel and root through my bag at the exact moment that we bounced through a giant hole and bucked up on the other side. I flew up so high off the motorcycle I almost didn't land back on it – what can I say, I needed some lip balm – and when I did land, I can assure you that I felt it. As did my pompi. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8cdU8wDRSLnbdPH4QYg5uQyMZ5xiTWQbVSgDqLbpxIOmzA4sfBA70sidPfzmU8f3y6O8euepnSJGf6STUPIgysbQUB_KPRmsvr3y-v3rJjsZnCBPu-36V90x2Jmy3-jC4wz16OZ-e00/s1600-h/Emmanuel+on+bike.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8cdU8wDRSLnbdPH4QYg5uQyMZ5xiTWQbVSgDqLbpxIOmzA4sfBA70sidPfzmU8f3y6O8euepnSJGf6STUPIgysbQUB_KPRmsvr3y-v3rJjsZnCBPu-36V90x2Jmy3-jC4wz16OZ-e00/s200/Emmanuel+on+bike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425695600103953378" /></a><br /><br />The bus ride home was long and difficult, as there was some kind of strike action over making the bridge wider. It involved machine-gun-toting police and excited cameramen (giggling as they ran along with the crowds), as well as some kind of spray <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrprQYNU2NlHdaqS5wqTWwU9Sf1MfN89spoePMzOcFWjq9RN8m87dvx4EKAD8Gy0yuLTPxwYnE_KRJIuTIMX_I6GZxSuhee8wLxS060icNett173zKopGjadzWJ_gKeD3E7IMwuySy_bg/s1600-h/Bridge+strike.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrprQYNU2NlHdaqS5wqTWwU9Sf1MfN89spoePMzOcFWjq9RN8m87dvx4EKAD8Gy0yuLTPxwYnE_KRJIuTIMX_I6GZxSuhee8wLxS060icNett173zKopGjadzWJ_gKeD3E7IMwuySy_bg/s320/Bridge+strike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427324466323825314" /></a> that the protestors were getting in people's eyes (especially in the eyes of other protestors; this group seemed to be lacking in organization). We sat dead still at one point for almost thirty minutes, which is an eternity when you're on a packed bus, in the afternoon sun, with the windows shut against the mystery spray and the rocks being thrown at said bus, with a hot child on your lap because there's no space anywhere. And as far as I could see, they were doing construction on the bridge to make it wider. Why all the fuss? <br /><br /><strong>STUPID BABYSITTERS </strong><br /><br />We have crazy, impossible parents here – I won't even go into it – and had to hire <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF00LLCllG_taRxDOd-Y7_7i3jFP37NDxaK47xiM9ZdpdQtlcpl4UUoB3kDFTyyL7oShCpqqOGrgALfSik38aQe70RS_b-ClbqFwh1g3Sg1mtX9Z0FL5S40jdLVL720NzwmzwJiHMLEoI/s1600-h/Ceny,+Katy+%26+Carmen.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF00LLCllG_taRxDOd-Y7_7i3jFP37NDxaK47xiM9ZdpdQtlcpl4UUoB3kDFTyyL7oShCpqqOGrgALfSik38aQe70RS_b-ClbqFwh1g3Sg1mtX9Z0FL5S40jdLVL720NzwmzwJiHMLEoI/s320/Ceny,+Katy+%26+Carmen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427323140579156146" /></a> extra babysitters because so many families want full-time care. (Hotel Fun parents don't actually like their kids and have no intention of spending any time with them: when mini-club is over for the day, they have a babysitter waiting at the hotel room.) The babysitters we already had are awesome, really sweet girls, smart and capable. (They're the ones in the picture.) I assumed the newly-hired ones would be the same, but have had so many problems since they arrived that I wonder if there's any point in their being here. <br /><br />One girl stands out as being even dumber than the others, the one who couldn't figure out on the schedule if she had to come in at 7:30 a.m. or p.m. (This is a regular work-hours schedule, a chart with the sitters' names at the top and the hours down the side, starting at 8:00 a.m. and moving down the page until 1:00 a.m. I put a square where they're working and write the hours again, but apparently that's not enough for Fiordalisa, who didn't know what I meant by 7:30 to 10:30 p.m. – that's the kind of understanding we're dealing with here.) <br /><br />I write their next day's schedule on a paper for them to take from the binder so that I won't have to call them, and I've started bringing it into the restaurant with me because I always see them in the Baby Corner at dinner. On Sunday I saw Fiordalisa and told her that I had her paper and to come get it when I got back with the baby food, unless she missed me, in which case I would put it back in the binder. Seems simple enough. <br /><br />I didn't see her, I figured everything was okay. Then, at the end of the circus show, when I was at the front of the stage, in the spotlight, in front of our 600-person audience, wearing my nightgown, with Bazz taking my hand to lead me back to sleep – CLEARLY in the middle of something – I felt someone tapping my leg and saying "psst, Katy!" Would you like to guess who it was? Why, Fiordalisa, of course, looking for her paper. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Hotel Fun. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-56688303982568133982007-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:002010-01-16T05:18:37.947-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter SevenI have today off and decided to just stay in the village and sleep, which means that I am both enormously refreshed and severely depressed. Staying here on your day off is a bad idea. I have a buddy this week, though, a funny New Yorker who's here with his daughter – and whom everybody thinks I'm dating, which is so widely impossible that I can't even defend myself – so I'll be able to stomach my GM contact over dinner, as I'll go to our usual table for two and hear the latest in the news and whatever stories about his father's Greek restaurant he feels like telling. (He's leaving tomorrow and has been really fun to hang out with, so I feel generous with my free time for a change.) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuteG2qUOLmqgihASsHwx2zPs1ftCYXtsNe6ICrqApjY5X7RW82TGF3xsyWPvTTHs748eAWFgzr0ACHSugpJRjwslDzJd1AXA4bBRQAa2kIClD8BIY3E2zA7Ha01LNWoXJtU7H-s1Azm8/s1600-h/River.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuteG2qUOLmqgihASsHwx2zPs1ftCYXtsNe6ICrqApjY5X7RW82TGF3xsyWPvTTHs748eAWFgzr0ACHSugpJRjwslDzJd1AXA4bBRQAa2kIClD8BIY3E2zA7Ha01LNWoXJtU7H-s1Azm8/s320/River.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425691409470807922" /></a> I'm looking forward to getting back on track with my Day-Off-Local-Adventure next week, though, as they are so much more fun than anything I can think of to do in the village. Two weeks ago the boys took me to another river – this one with both rapids and giant, calm pools – and I knew it would be a good day when I got off the bus in the morning, turned around and saw the four of them pulling in to meet me on their motorcycles, Swingers-style. (For any of you who don't know what I mean, I won't describe it because you really should have seen Swingers by now.) <br /><br />We started with a thorough tour of the city, stopping at the houses of various friends and family members so that I could be paraded around, their prize foreign girl – and they all love the Blue Jays, which makes them the only people I've met here who aren't hostile about Toronto – until we finally busted out onto the curvy mountain roads, stopping a few times to pick fruit or say hello to the cows on our way to the river. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOU70LkekCvs_WseD5SnoUvwwEDjmdXiV7lAMoUSlOdrBFuI0uYitp8zYs-6L-MvB3sLPJ2oFI6-8h41wzdgk2xLxi6tLY9DYbW_FlYkJFA7E4mbtAbNI2OMDn9BYmFZ27PoAmZXZ6NUE/s1600-h/En+la+casa+de+Ambioris.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOU70LkekCvs_WseD5SnoUvwwEDjmdXiV7lAMoUSlOdrBFuI0uYitp8zYs-6L-MvB3sLPJ2oFI6-8h41wzdgk2xLxi6tLY9DYbW_FlYkJFA7E4mbtAbNI2OMDn9BYmFZ27PoAmZXZ6NUE/s320/En+la+casa+de+Ambioris.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425691800568159682" /></a><br /><br /><br />Having initially been terrified of anything to do with motorcycles and my being on them, I am pleased to report that I am a bike convert and want nothing more than to spend all my days riding around the mountains, preferably with a long scarf so that I can stream it out behind me, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert-style. (Again, I won't explain further; see "Swingers," above.) That being said, it took me a while to get completely comfortable, as illustrated by how quickly I earned the nickname "Watch-the-Road!", inspired by the boys pulling up beside me to say nice things or make funny faces, which I JUST don't think is appropriate behaviour when you're on a quickly-moving vehicle. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLe1UxD7n6sjFjJmKZNDr46e4e4pZyHjk-mLCBbHNpqKDMxhyphenhyphenBL_vyOXzWzTcTx2L1CvjBLfE6owpsbczLblGc7c9zdmuko4BtIuzUBmSWcqnhKoGpIZadURWrqlSAfCiORQT3bSKqLM/s1600-h/On+the+bike.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLe1UxD7n6sjFjJmKZNDr46e4e4pZyHjk-mLCBbHNpqKDMxhyphenhyphenBL_vyOXzWzTcTx2L1CvjBLfE6owpsbczLblGc7c9zdmuko4BtIuzUBmSWcqnhKoGpIZadURWrqlSAfCiORQT3bSKqLM/s200/On+the+bike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427326092176018818" /></a> To be fair, though, we were never moving that quickly. I rode up to the river with Emmanuel, who was extra careful to keep his speed down, to the point where the others had to keep pulling over to wait for us – the mango and cow stops, you see, being only because they had nothing better to do. Sometimes he would speed up a little tiny bit – he must have been losing his mind with frustration! – or swerve to avoid a pothole, and once he told me that he was torn between wanting me to feel safe and secure and wanting me to get a little scared so that I'd hold him more tightly. Cheeky! <br /><br />Then, when I rode back to Higuey with Dujaric, who is shorter than Emmanuel and over whose shoulder I could see the speedometer, I saw that when I felt that we were going unreasonably quickly, we were actually moving slowly towards sixty – which means that Emmanuel must have been driving at approximately twenty-three kilometres an hour and our forty-five-minute drive to the river should have taken eleven minutes, including the mango and cow stops. Sorry, boys. <br /><br />There was too much rain to go to the river last week – all dirty and super-fast-current – so I went into town a little later and met up with Dujaric, who has the same day off as I do. (The others just come out for the morning and then head back for the 2:30 bus to the hotel for their afternoon/night shift.) He took me out to the country to one of his favourite beaches, only on the way we stopped in at the houses of all his relatives and friends. My favourite thing was how the women always said "oh, a skinny blond!" (which, I'm sorry to say, is just not true!) and then asked me how many Dominicans I'd slept with because they wanted to know if sex really was better with their men than ours. (Awkward silence ensues...) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PPWNe15Wt5VoUOCI6XZTsigw2YialL8TYI2Lv57tGFWdVEP4CV-O_RqPfWH-T4N03LvbDBMV_psee5drgWupeYbLNrePf6OtTJmFsM288heUNMIP7XKas003LoggisR7Wl-nj3M-o74/s1600-h/Dujaric+in+sand.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PPWNe15Wt5VoUOCI6XZTsigw2YialL8TYI2Lv57tGFWdVEP4CV-O_RqPfWH-T4N03LvbDBMV_psee5drgWupeYbLNrePf6OtTJmFsM288heUNMIP7XKas003LoggisR7Wl-nj3M-o74/s320/Dujaric+in+sand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425692605546067090" /></a> When I couldn't take being stared at any longer, we drove out to the beach. It was pretty wild, like the Guadeloupan beaches with mountains in the background that I loved so much, and dark packing sand, perfect for being buried alive. I think we literally spent two hours burying and unburying each other. (I also had the stupid idea that we should rub sand into our skin as a natural exfoliant, and five days later I'm still finding the grains in my clothes at the end of the day. And my skin doesn't feel any softer, for the record.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLidvtzT6tfvHiaMrWIn11AEkqtgARtMaabPPjK-FAJGgXgj5vD1fLwwCi6l7ag16Jv3V2gjd0VNKotJ5mXqvKsN5JSACr7qpWBY2pIOfGXFKw36r9DGil06ZshUOMZ9_Z4DKHHJ416F4/s1600-h/Katy+in+sand.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLidvtzT6tfvHiaMrWIn11AEkqtgARtMaabPPjK-FAJGgXgj5vD1fLwwCi6l7ag16Jv3V2gjd0VNKotJ5mXqvKsN5JSACr7qpWBY2pIOfGXFKw36r9DGil06ZshUOMZ9_Z4DKHHJ416F4/s200/Katy+in+sand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425692920458402658" /></a><br /><br /><br />We spent so much time buried up to our necks that we suddenly realized it was almost 5:00 and I was going to miss the last bus back to Punta Cana, so we booted it back to the city – and I loved it! It turns out I'm a speed demon! I needed to get past the shaky part, where I think maybe I'm scared, to realize that I'm not scared at all and I want to go faster, faster, faster. (No, Katy, says Dujaric, this is plenty fast enough.) And everything is just so green and lush, fertile and natural, which inspired the unlikely song loop of "To Life, To Life, L'chai-im" in my head for the entire ride home. Driving past the green pastures ("to us and our good fortune...") and through towns full of people sitting outside of their houses to watch us go by ("be happy, be healthy – LONG LIFE!"), I came to realize that this was actually the perfect soundtrack for this moment in my life ("and if our good fortune never comes, here's to whatever comes") and frankly, it's a shame that more Russian Jews didn't think to settle in the Dominican Republic in the first place. What a missed opportunity. <br /><br />I had a couple of moments of significant self-doubt when Dujaric dropped me off at the bus, as I realized my Spanish isn't always so hot after all. First, an old lady was literally yelling and yelling at me – I thought because she was telling me that she really liked my dress, but it turned out that the dress had blown up on the bike and everyone could see my underwear. Ahem. Then I was moved by a man's pity speech on the bus and gave him money for the students he was organizing on some kind of a trip, not realizing that I was actually purchasing about five kilos of smelly chicken wraps that he insisted on my taking and which I had to hold on my lap the whole way home. <br /><br />As for work, things here are the same. <br /><br />-Baby Welcome: sucks. <br /><br />-Circus show: I still look like an ANGEL. <br /><br />-Yoga: a yoga instructor from California came to thank me for the ideas I gave her for her course – and then asked me about my qualifications and where I had learned those moves and I had to tell her that I came up with them based on my sore calf muscles and the stretching that I was in the mood for and that I have zero qualifications as a yoga instructor but took dance classes a long time ago... And you know what? She was okay with that. <br /><br />-Health: I had been playing soccer three or four times a week for a while – there's a G.O. vs. G.M. game every day – but it stopped being fun when all these young Italians came and turned it into a France/Italy World Cup rematch; the mood has been spoiled ever since. (That first game, incidentally, ended with three injuries, including a split head that the guy refused to have stitched up. I know this because, as the only girl, I was sent to the infirmary with him even though I don't speak Italian and he was a son-of-a-bitch whom I had no intention of helping in any way. Because girls take care of split heads while boys keep playing soccer – case in point of how it stopped being any fun.) It also stopped being good exercise, as I ended up stuck in the net for forty of the fifty minutes and the whole notion of "fitness challenge" disappeared. So, despite the fun fact that the G.O.s had started calling me "Pele," I abandoned el futbol and started doing the Body Sculpt and Pilates classes a few times a week and I don't know if it's making much difference, but I definitely have a harder time doing the yoga class when my butt muscles are too stiff for me to quite sit down properly. We'll see how it goes. <br /><br />-Snorkeling: I did it a second time and got sea-sick again, which seems to indicate that it was never a question of having been sick and dehydrated, but rather just a question of my body not handling boats very well. Good thing I discovered motorcycles in time to cancel out my disappointment! <br /><br />-My identity: first, Katy in French is "Kah-TEE" (and in Spanish "KAH-tee"), so when people say my name in English it becomes "catty" and I'm just not a fan. Second, a significant number of the camareros have this funny speech thing where they add "s" all over the place – even though Dominicans in general cut them all out and it's hard to figure out what's going on. So "como tu estas" (how are you) becomes "como-tu-ta" in Dominican and then this special group says "como stu ta." This means that "catamaran" becomes "castamaran," "toda la vida" becomes "stoda la vida" and "Katy" becomes "Kasty." There is no one called Kasty here, so I always know it's me, but it has morphed into "Castille" for some of the guests who heard the camareros talking to me and misunderstood what they were hearing. Two G.M.s have now sent letters to Hotel Fun to say that Castille at the restaurant was really helpful and made their stay more enjoyable. (They couldn't figure out who the first letter was talking about, but then the second one mentioned babies and it all came together.) So someone posted the letter on our G.O. notice board and now everyone calls me "Castille." Or "Pele," or "Watch the Road!" or "Katy Judiciaire" (Judge Katy, from my anger at their homophobic comments or their sexist talk or their general xenophobia.) <br /><br />And I guess that's it, since this e-mail is much, much longer than I had planned. It turns out it's a good thing when people are in the office watching me type because I feel guilty and cut it off really quickly; tonight there's no one here and apparently I can't shut up. <br /><br />I hope things are going well for you all. <br />See you soon, <br />KasthrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-85125507088825338382007-07-08T19:23:00.000-07:002010-01-14T15:56:22.136-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter SixMy biggest disappointment with Hotel Fun life (if it's really possible to choose the biggest...) is the lack of contact with the country in which I'm supposedly living. Having come here as an attempt to relive Guadeloupe, I've been getting itchy for rivers and jungles and mountains and all the things that you're supposed to have in the tropics, more than just pretty beaches – and the same pretty beach every day, at that. <br /><br />So when Mateo, a painter with the maintenance team here, invited me for a day at the river, I was torn between my desperately wanting to go and my not so much wanting to hang out with Mateo all day. Which turned out to be exactly the right way to feel; the river was gorgeous and soothing and all manner of good things, and Mateo was irritating and heavy and couldn't go five minutes without coming back to how pretty I was and how much he would love to have a girlfriend like me and how he knew I wasn't looking for a relationship but (sigh) it sure would be nice to give it a try and see where it could lead... <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiIa4_BAV4d7k71p65F68c2i2H7mMGG3vYL80I1Vhi-XG5oOhO8FgmrLkNuS_ZheFH3gRHGQd-5Ltv63AUHKWIXZ6mwa-AS6hRendJXJubuyToWBwNx7JQ4bvhDxChCi5r5nUMch7RIU/s1600-h/Emmanuel,+Katy+%26+Cristobal+on+bike.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiIa4_BAV4d7k71p65F68c2i2H7mMGG3vYL80I1Vhi-XG5oOhO8FgmrLkNuS_ZheFH3gRHGQd-5Ltv63AUHKWIXZ6mwa-AS6hRendJXJubuyToWBwNx7JQ4bvhDxChCi5r5nUMch7RIU/s320/Emmanuel,+Katy+%26+Cristobal+on+bike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425689388627355074" /></a> So this week, I went with Emmanuel and Cristobal, a couple of buddies from the restaurant – it’s hard to co-ordinate because we don’t have the same day (or days, for them) off, but they start their night shift at 3:00 p.m. so we met bright and early and did a river morning instead of a full day. I knew it would be perfect from the moment I saw them, waiting at the ugly basilica for my bus to pull in, wearing their regular clothes instead of uniforms (obviously, but it's a change for me), holding an assortment of fruit that they wanted me to try; sometimes I have so much love for these guys that my heart feels like it's going to burst out through my skin. (I don't think I can explain it properly to you – I certainly can't explain it to them – but there it is. Giant, aching love for people I'll never see again after August.) We went all three on Emmanuel's motorcycle, which I thought was really pushing it but turned out to just be really cozy – when Ambioris met up with us and we went two and two, it actually felt kind of lonely! – and drove through hills and jungles that looked like Guadeloupe and filled my heart with even more desperate love. <br /><br />The river was wide and calm, more like a lake, really, and I was glad to be there with boys: they had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest, who could swim the farthest or fastest, who could jump from the highest point or do the best dive – all the stupid things that stand-around-and-talk people like me never feel compelled to do. I'm more of a chicken than I thought, and was way too scared to jump off the platforms like they were doing, but I did some twisty jumps and an impressive handstand dive that none of them could do and I might be able to psyche myself up for the big jump next time, since they asked me to switch my day off so that we could do a whole day, picnic and all. I think a little bit of exposure to idiot behaviour can only do me good; I definitely need to loosen up a bit. (But next time I'll be more careful with my swan dives, as I scratched up my chin, chest and foot and got so many pebbles in my bathing suit that I almost lost my top to the extra weight. The boys were torn between trying to be gallant and show concern for me and my injuries, and falling over laughing with how wussy I turned out to be.) I do love a good day at the river. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQQbiRMrhhvERPDAP_idJWcmS5ymgi-vqKz5H5LXJjXoW2q4mXgqiLgW6Wpa-nfeaFOKNyDDc8vOovdbRqYdP7APiypRPjlHRhfM3CeNAEjwPRTVDcsII2aB5_ACe1laS6_HEJaKYxIE/s1600-h/Boys+at+the+river.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQQbiRMrhhvERPDAP_idJWcmS5ymgi-vqKz5H5LXJjXoW2q4mXgqiLgW6Wpa-nfeaFOKNyDDc8vOovdbRqYdP7APiypRPjlHRhfM3CeNAEjwPRTVDcsII2aB5_ACe1laS6_HEJaKYxIE/s320/Boys+at+the+river.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425689796564545010" /></a><br /><br />Otherwise, things are good and bad here, as per usual. Good, for example, because I'm now in the circus show as the little girl who dreams of all these magical performances around her. They kept having one of the acrobats act as a character, sort of off and on between his or her own numbers, and when I suggested that they should bring someone in from the outside, they asked me to do it. (Which made sense because I know the show and I hang out with them all the time.) I wear a babydoll nightgown, carry a teddy bear and have my hair up in ribbons, and the G.M.s are all saying that I look like an angel. An angel! At the end, all the acrobats lead me to my bed and put me back to sleep, at which point the audience, who has been eating up the story, always gives a collective cheer. They love the magic of the circus. <br /><br />And Abdel, who hates me almost as much as I hate him, has to stand on stage at the end and introduce me with all the others – possibly the most beautiful moment of the week, as he looks so miserable and squirmy to hear my applause. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZsjcdRqJVIduI0NJETgpWFwJ6uLjaIry4SxQSp8ZBodZmhwngbVoAM-5M4LcA5n9epANou8MIdDBBorozvoXpv7jZLmvXyisTfXzYdGgW5jvY2w_pxGhLZa2eaymNzpZmLgdONdgzRE/s1600-h/Katy+as+yoga+instructor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZsjcdRqJVIduI0NJETgpWFwJ6uLjaIry4SxQSp8ZBodZmhwngbVoAM-5M4LcA5n9epANou8MIdDBBorozvoXpv7jZLmvXyisTfXzYdGgW5jvY2w_pxGhLZa2eaymNzpZmLgdONdgzRE/s320/Katy+as+yoga+instructor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425704907989117250" /></a> Also good because I've started teaching the yoga class a few times a week and it feels really good to stretch and breathe in front of the ocean. Stephanie, the fitness instructor, does about six fitness classes a day (don't forget how hot it is here) and can use any break she can get, and I obviously am not in any kind of shape to lead her kick-box or body sculpt class. So yoga's kind of the default, but I teach it well and it's just a beginner class so people are easy to please. There have been enough special requests for me that they've now made it an official weekly schedule and I'm teaching eight classes, enough to vary a little throughout the week. I love the peaceful 9:30 class because it's 45 minutes – still short but long enough to do a thorough warm-up and some good poses. The 5:15 one is only half an hour, which I find to be a frustrating length, and there's a lot going on at the beach at the same time, so that we have to try and focus against the volleyballs bouncing into our class, the children screaming in the ocean and The Thong Song playing at the beach disco while we hold the warrior pose and send our breath out to the water. I think there are some details to be worked out. <br /><br />The biggest bad thing is that Baby Welcome is sucking my will to live. I'll give you just one example: though we have an infinite variety of baby food (any combination of fruit, vegetables, meat and beans that you could imagine), many of the parents want me to make fresh baby food every day. So I've been making five or six bowls and labeling them: potatoes and chicken, carrots and beans, beans and carrots and broccoli, what-have-you. And one little girl was having digestive problems, so her mom asked me for just carrots and chicken, which I put in a separate cup and labeled with her name. So then the other moms said, "why does Gabriella have her own cup?" and I explained that she could only eat certain things. Now, all of a sudden, all these babies who have been eating everything, with no problems, for however many days, absolutely need their own special menu. I am officially making nine specialized food cups today, not to mention however many new requests I'll have tomorrow. (I was off yesterday and they all ate the baby food jars and had no problems, in case you were wondering.) Can you imagine being jealous of another baby having a diet requirement? The parents here are petty, selfish, rude and obnoxious. Not all of them, obviously, but the ones I end up dealing with. <br /><br />And that's without talking to you about my boss, possibly the ugliest human being I've ever met, the restaurant bosses, the hectic Baby Corner Gala Dinners, the babysitting crises, the mistakes with Reception that I have to fix... this job has turned out to be ass. I quit three weeks ago and they said they'd find me a replacement and then I could go work with the teens, where they don't have a single French-speaking G.O. and are desperate, but then Abdel vetoed the whole thing last week – apparently I'm doing too good a job and I can't leave – so now I'm stuck. In some ways it takes off the pressure: if I'm irreplaceable then they can just get the hell off my back, and I've made that much clear. But it also means that I'm facing down six more weeks of these demon parents, and that's hard to stomach. <br /><br />Wish me luck. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-53165532028915196582007-06-10T19:04:00.000-07:002010-01-16T05:30:05.034-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter Five<strong>ITALIA GO HOME: </strong><br /><br />This week was another private reservation, but instead of being a fun, outgoing, friendly group of American lesbians who didn't need too much G.O. involvement, it was a snobby, uptight bunch of Italian bankers who didn't speak a word of English, Spanish or French but somehow still wanted us sitting uncomfortably through meals with them. <br /><br />We got off to a rough start at The Big Arrival when Abdel said to us, as the first of sixteen buses was pulling in, "okay – from now on, everything is in Italian; it's important to make them feel comfortable right away." This would obviously have been a good time to refer to the crib sheet of Italian phrases we were promised, except that no one ever made one. Which means there were six G.O.s who spoke Italian and two hundred who vaguely knew how to say "hello" and count to five. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjat9tCr5nVs6xfhgJ7ryuIXU9iFHhKXAYkoSY6gb_AtKxiI17JV-on1352E8ecmSWyV5Dev_k1hTBIVUjz3obx2sbrf9TGP06j4eYTkId1XCovjMeL5vQrBPBLU5fZu_crRzDvhJqJNBM/s1600-h/crazy+signs+at+bar+--+crouching.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjat9tCr5nVs6xfhgJ7ryuIXU9iFHhKXAYkoSY6gb_AtKxiI17JV-on1352E8ecmSWyV5Dev_k1hTBIVUjz3obx2sbrf9TGP06j4eYTkId1XCovjMeL5vQrBPBLU5fZu_crRzDvhJqJNBM/s200/crazy+signs+at+bar+--+crouching.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427327302460604994" /></a> There were hardly any guests at the show that night, as most had succummed to their jet lag (or were off somewhere chain-smoking cigars, which is all I ever saw – or smelled – them do), and those who did show up slowly wandered out throughout the performance until there were exactly four people sitting in the theatre. Meghan and I, who, as restaurant hostesses for the week, worked bizarre hours and were generally out of the G.O. loop, were the only ones who showed up for Crazy Signs – and they still made us do it! Henri the Chef de Loisirs, Meghan, me and four Italian bankers who obviously wanted to leave but felt guilty about sneaking out right in front of us. Yukking it up to "Hands up, baby, hands up." Henri <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-UDBRU9m37ULDfkJInI6SNlDLThtHYQxUioWj0SBbKfjXhqni3jmnZ-0HjSIQ2A6fFQlBxJ4r2tvo1On1lo-7p4hRZMjrIJuK-J5ICqeo1PVDxvSQJ7STcsSWD3Fxk0e66VZhRREHAU/s1600-h/crazy+signs+at+bar+--+standing.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-UDBRU9m37ULDfkJInI6SNlDLThtHYQxUioWj0SBbKfjXhqni3jmnZ-0HjSIQ2A6fFQlBxJ4r2tvo1On1lo-7p4hRZMjrIJuK-J5ICqeo1PVDxvSQJ7STcsSWD3Fxk0e66VZhRREHAU/s320/crazy+signs+at+bar+--+standing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427327029403406482" /></a> went all out on the microphone – “are all the G.O.s in the house?!" and the two of us had to go "whoop!" <br /><br />**I don't have any pictures of that awful night, but these ones are just to show what Crazy Signs are usually like, with lots of people and general laughter and fun. <br /><br />**I think I look nice in that beige-and-white-dress-code outfit, too, so here's a chance for me to be vain and sneak some pictures in!<br /><br />One of our audience members decided that this was the best possible way to spend his first evening at Punta Cana and came with us to the bar, where the G.O.s had gathered for more Crazy Signs. The whole thing pooped out fairly quickly, what with there being only a handful of guests and their only speaking Italian, so Henri put on the salsa music and left us to our own devices – which meant that I was stuck with this guy from Milano. He must have taken a salsa class somewhere and now had a hugely undeserved confidence in his dancing ability as he whipped me around the dance floor with zero sense of rhythm or grace and refused to loosen his grip around my waist. (I had bruises the next day! Bruises!) I finally got out of there after three more dances ("ooh, merengue, my favourite!") and limped home, my toes throbbing from being crushed under his fancy Italian shoes, and avoided the bar the rest of the week. <br /><br />We were all especially disappointed at the level of frumpiness that this group brought with them. When you hear Roma, Milano, Venezia, you think the women are going to be elegant and fashionable with beautiful curly hair and nice perfume. Well. I haven't seen so many one-piece sequined leotards since – well, ever. Black dresses with white satin bows all over them. Giant poof things and boas and weird hats. It was upsetting, to say the least. And bitchy! These women were awful! Can you actually give me cut-eye when you're wearing a cat suit with neon do-it-yourself paint on the front? Apparently you can. It may be because their husbands came in and went straight for our chests – maybe that was the problem – but when we're standing there as restaurant hostesses for three hours at a time, saying "ciao, ciao, bon appetito" ad nauseum and smiling for all we're worth, can't you at least be civil? <br /><br /><strong>LE GASTRO </strong><br /><br />And here's why it was so hard to stay standing for three hours at a time: I caught the stomach bug (which the French call "un gastro," possibly my favourite expression) that was going around and my system was pretty much empty for five days. The first day I had it was the worst, as I was throwing up and unable to leave my bed, but the nurse couldn't come to see me because she had it too. I had to just suck it up. (Or spit it out, more like.) When you're super sick like that you really want some sympathy from someone – anyone! – but it's hard to find when everyone around you is sick and people can't keep track of who has what and you're all working different jobs because of the stupid bankers so nobody even knows where to look for you and find you gone. "Hey, I haven't seen you around these past few days," all casual, when you thought that the whole world had surely ground to a halt in your absence, G.O.s and G.M.s alike wandering around aimlessly, head in hands, wondering what to do without you. "Hey, Katy, you weren't at the meeting." That's the best they could do. <br /><br />Here's what I discovered: when you're still sick but you need to eat something because or else you're going to pass out, don't go for peanut butter. (That unfortunate choice may have been what gave me the distinction of being the only person to stay sick for five days instead of twenty-four hours.) And if you do the soda-with-lime thing that all the Dominicans insist is like magic, stay close to the bathroom. <br /><br />My friend Manuel Ali brought me this homemade concoction that is like mamajuana with medicinal herbs, said to clean out a sick stomach within hours. He said I should have some right away but didn't warn me about its potency; I took one chug, surrounded by all the camareros on their dinner break, and literally crumbled to the ground, unable to move. It's supposed to be rum and honey and whatever herbs are brewing in there but it tastes essentially like lighter fluid and let me tell you, it burns. How could it not clean out my system? It was like being fumigated. And I had literally no food in my stomach and was dehydrated and you know what? Maybe it wasn't the best time to try a ninety-six-per-cent-alcohol mix in a public place. These are the lessons one has to learn oneself. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4aC96_Ltnksy25IU2pm-ud01HbEOqAhOtQHbEbT1EAqRdi0Ev8MiObPuoHK2gNPS6mrOG2fOaLUl8Pbm8ZwPM8PDMdSlO6UfHPmTxYRCVf4ePz98JBADntAUabxZ6llt4P8h7s2fets/s1600-h/Camareros+at+the+Hispaniola.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4aC96_Ltnksy25IU2pm-ud01HbEOqAhOtQHbEbT1EAqRdi0Ev8MiObPuoHK2gNPS6mrOG2fOaLUl8Pbm8ZwPM8PDMdSlO6UfHPmTxYRCVf4ePz98JBADntAUabxZ6llt4P8h7s2fets/s320/Camareros+at+the+Hispaniola.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427328658624272354" /></a><br />One of the guys started to give me a foot rub because he was worried that I was going to pass out and foot rubs are apparently the way to go. Another one took my head on his lap and massaged my temples. The other thirty of them stood around and watched, comparing stories of the worst pass-outs they had seen and the biggest throw-ups and all sorts of fun things, and I had so little strength that all I could do was lie there and focus on the strange sensation of fire spreading slowly along my limbs. <br /><br />And then I was better the next day. From the antibiotics, the mamajuana or just the end of the virus? Hard to say. Either way, I needed a system clean-out, as I was in an eat-my-face-out phase that once saw me consume nine puddings in two hours – AFTER eating a full breakfast. (And before getting in the pool and jumping around with babies and their pudding-free parents.) White chocolate bread, raspberry tart, pear flan, you name it. I think this "virus" was actually my body staging a revolution against itself, and it didn't come a minute too soon. <br /><br /><strong>EL CIRCO </strong><br /><br />And then when I was feeling better I did some more trapeze and I am now officially a high flier. But it wasn't easy, and here's why: <br /><br />There's a new circus guy, Fabrizio, who was the designated catcher, so after doing a couple of practice runs (and bruising the hell out of my legs), I went up to be the first catch of the day. Kevin was doing the ropes, Mona was on the platform, and they were both calling out instructions, which is usually the catcher's job – they said it was because he wasn't used to their system and it was easier if they were in charge. Wrong! The first time he swung me back crooked and the bar was nowhere in my vicinity – a harmless free-fall down to the net. The second time he threw me so hard and so far that the ropes got tangled with the bar and Kevin almost dislocated his shoulder pulling my ropes so I wouldn't crash into the side pole. The third time he sent me flying up so high that I smashed my hand onto the bar, which was beneath me, which I couldn't hold onto, and so which smacked me on the head on my way down. I decided to call it quits after that one. <br /><br />Wrapping my hands up after, putting my shoes back on, and what do I discover? Sure, Fabrizio knows how to catch, but he hasn't done it for four years! I was his guinea pig! He wasn't sure if he would be able to do it, but now that he had a few practice runs he feels much better about it... Meanwhile, my hands are bunged up, my forehead has a big bar-size lump on it – wow, I'm so pleased that you feel better about yourself now. Thanks, team. <br /><br />(I did it again with Kevin and made every catch, so the problem was clearly not me and my trapeze skill. I think I'm this close to becoming an acrobat once and for all.) <br /><br /><strong>EL WILDLIFE </strong><br /><br />There are snakes all over the place, usually little skinny black ones, really pretty and shiny and quick to get out of your way. Just a nice little addition to the tropical flavour of this place. Then, recently, everyone started talking about the big snake in the vine tree near behind my housing complex and I figured they were exaggerating, as the locals are terrified of snakes and it was probably a little garden guy blending in with big branches. <br /><br />Okay. This snake is, like, three metres long and about as thick as a Kevin the circus guy – who is about as thick as Mister T. It is huge, it slithers around the tree and just kind of watches us through the day. And now it has disappeared. Which makes me think that it's better to have a huge and scary snake in a tree than a huge and scary snake at large behind my bedroom. Am I right? I think you should be calling my room from time to time to check in on me, because I might be dead by snake within the month. <br /><br />Then there's the shark, which I am convinced I see out the window of the sea-side restaurant. Just when I convince myself that I'm imagining things and it must be a trick of the waves, I look again and I'm sure it's a shark. The camareros are divided – mostly against me, but there are a few solid votes on the shark team. And Bayram, the executive chef and also a total nutbar, goes out and fishes big and scary sea creatures for dinner – baracudas and such – including the occasional shark. Small-ish, not like my champion shark out there, but a shark nonetheless. I'm just saying. Room number 718. <br /><br />And what does he do with the fish he catches? He hangs them up or lays them over the table at the entrance to the restaurant so that everyone can admire them before they're hacked up and served as sushi. They are often longer than I am – I am not <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhZIUdpmfZQ1Ym5bvPRNhL4OW2V_jSOWF7Bh0wDbIVTPOGWK10g-9xC5V06eZzQYpWQEYrsixIpm3NzI2xU5QB6iKDjPiSALOg4VgYOQ_nW-4FQ9soGhHXIRX6IuRVYt6SfzZfnwBdNA/s1600-h/shark.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhZIUdpmfZQ1Ym5bvPRNhL4OW2V_jSOWF7Bh0wDbIVTPOGWK10g-9xC5V06eZzQYpWQEYrsixIpm3NzI2xU5QB6iKDjPiSALOg4VgYOQ_nW-4FQ9soGhHXIRX6IuRVYt6SfzZfnwBdNA/s200/shark.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425687647988194146" /></a> exaggerating; we did a test, with me lying beside the table, and the shark won by a good half a foot. And they smell like: giant dead fish. I stand there every night for minimum two hours, don't forget, waiting for the babies to arrive, and I have to actively focus on not throwing up as the waves of fish-and-fish-blood stench wash over me. ("Ciao, bon appetito, ciao, bon appetito...") <br /><br />(It's hard to have your camera around when you're working, so I have to use the pictures I have rather than the ones I want. The shark in this picture is definitely one of the small ones.)<br /><br /><strong>NEW BEGINNINGS </strong><br /><br />The big restaurant is being renovated (read: they're fixing the bajillion holes in the thatch ceiling so that our esteemed guests will no longer be drenched during rainy dinners) and we only have 250 G.M.s this week, so every meal is in the sea-side restaurant and the whole team is back together. (Except for all the people who were laid off until more G.M.s come, but I'm trying to focus on the positive.) This means that we're having breakfast there for the first time, which is a pain in the ass for the restaurant team – far from the bakery, crazy heavy blinds to put up and down – but glorious for the rest of us because it's blue sky, sun on the water, everything shimmery and lovely and dreamy while you eat your croissant and papaya. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWD4a1OcmyJN2nyf4PXSE_OP5AVAOohe3Tp5-HTHqVeQZgtfTyZk92occw-_RKIPDtSIiQ1Xi5wWKhWZ0uU-3xy-9i8fnOMN8EQ51i_gk62ruC-uhpFNUOHBQxvIPGeE1LF-YBulPmbI/s1600-h/rocky+shore.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWD4a1OcmyJN2nyf4PXSE_OP5AVAOohe3Tp5-HTHqVeQZgtfTyZk92occw-_RKIPDtSIiQ1Xi5wWKhWZ0uU-3xy-9i8fnOMN8EQ51i_gk62ruC-uhpFNUOHBQxvIPGeE1LF-YBulPmbI/s320/rocky+shore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425687213121101538" /></a> <br /><br />The problem is that the bacon and eggs counter is right beside my Baby Welcome. The bacon smell comes straight out to where I'm standing and I'm suddenly craving this food that I normally find categorically revolting – I even snuck a piece this morning and went out to eat it in the bushes like a desperate woman. My plan is to go in early tomorrow and eat a hearty bowl of oatmeal in the hope that it will dull my bacon lust. Can I count on a full stomach outweighing a craving? Hard to say. Hard. To. Say. <br /><br />I also stand in front of the orange juice station. This morning a woman came up to the table, where Victor and Nelson were standing and squeezing oranges into pitchers, and she asked "is this fresh?" They said "yes, it's fresh" – where they should have said "can you not see us squeezing oranges in front of you for your Hotel Fun pleasure, dumb-ass?" – and she asked "what is it, mango juice?" Crates of oranges all around the table. Crates. Oranges on the floor, on the cutting board. Yes, it's mango juice. Thanks for coming out. <br /><br /><strong>PRINCESS KATY </strong><br /><br />My most touching moment since I've been here: I'm in the restaurant, waiting for babies. A little boy walking in with his mother stops dead in his tracks and points at me in wonder: "look, mommy, a princess!" He comes up and touches my arm, gazes at me until she pulls him away to find a table, and says "bye, princess, bye..." <br />Now, possibly there's some kind of good lighting effect, maybe something shimmery happening in my hair or making my eyes twinkle. And he obviously has a storybook at home with a princess who's wearing a similar skirt so he thinks I'm the same girl. But I don't care: it's magic and I feel like a princess. Best night of my life. <br /><br />Keep it real. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-577500360759168720.post-85916779222973263232007-05-22T18:52:00.000-07:002010-01-16T05:37:17.002-08:00Kathryn Goes Republican, Chapter FourInternet has been down for a few frustrating weeks, but now it's back and we have TWO computers and they have high-speed service. It's just so exciting. But what should I tell you about? How can I keep you up-to-date without writing so much that you all start to hate me? <br /><br />Let's start with my new job. And let's make headers for each section. Yes. <br /><br /><strong>MY NEW JOB: </strong><br /><br />I defected from Mini Club because although I love working with children, and I really do love working with children, I couldn't take being sick all the time and exhausted all the time and having a bunch of self-important colleagues telling me what to do and treating me like an idiot, even though I'm older than most of them and have many more years of experience with kids than they do. Call me crazy. My friend Sarah left for the Hotel Fun in Florida and she suggested that I take her job at the Baby Welcome – which I did. <br /><br />(I also moved into her room, since my neighbour smoked and I smelled like I lived in a pub; anyone who wants to call me can now try room 718.) (I know you won't call, I'm just letting you know your options.) <br /><br />Baby Welcome: everything to do with babies under two years old. I'm at the restaurant during breakfast, lunch and dinner to wash bottles, get baby food, put various things in the blender to create baby food, get high chairs – and just be an extra set of hands for the parents in general. Frankly, I spend a lot of time chatting them up so that they feel they have a key contact person; Hotel Fun guests love to feel important. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiKyRB3nGqa_SybRVZXa0VW06_5CuzI_36kdNxDDxi9dEcDkKpIa_CrM62AhVewFyNEpBGnqnOeTs6pQ9vKuv0UrKkrC7dkdAPNPAyDlsAG-tKdC3kSdYLNuvAGmhvgEdEeIoynIiDQI/s1600-h/Katy+%26+Minna+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiKyRB3nGqa_SybRVZXa0VW06_5CuzI_36kdNxDDxi9dEcDkKpIa_CrM62AhVewFyNEpBGnqnOeTs6pQ9vKuv0UrKkrC7dkdAPNPAyDlsAG-tKdC3kSdYLNuvAGmhvgEdEeIoynIiDQI/s320/Katy+%26+Minna+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425681796609819218" /></a> I also run a couple of activities each day, which means that I'm in the pool with little babies, in the sand with little babies, going on walks around the village with little babies... my biological clock has clicked into overdrive and I'm worried I'll want to just go home and have babies instead of going to school as planned. It's risky, this Baby Welcome. <br /><br />And I've met some really interesting people, including television reporters, a Fox News cameraman, a guy who manages the film company started by Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, another who runs a music production company, a pair of architects... Good stuff. I'm not supposed to talk about very interesting or risky topics with the guests, but when you're sitting in a pool for an hour with someone who covered the Tsunami, Hurricane Katrina and the war in Iraq (he told me they aren't allowed to call it a war, but a "conflict"), you aren't just going to talk about little baby Jimmy's poop schedule. <br /><br />I manage the babysitting service as well, which would be okay except that bookings are through reception. It turns out the reception staff isn't so good at things like "reading the instructions I type out for them" or "calling me to signal any new bookings or cancellations as I have repeatedly begged them to do." Which means that I often have babysitters not showing up when they're supposed to (because reception accepted a last-minute booking and then didn't tell me or the babysitter) or showing up and having no job, as their booking was cancelled. You can probably guess who takes the heat from the parents in these situations, which maybe isn't my favourite thing. <br /><br />On the other hand, the babysitters only speak Spanish, as does all the kitchen and restaurant staff, so it's a good immersion program for me. The Spanish here is really hard to understand, which was confirmed for me when the five new Mexican G.O.s showed up and couldn't understand a word – and this made me feel much better about my own abilities. I'm even starting to crack jokes in Spanish. Not so much at 6:45 a.m., though, which is when I start every day; is it worth it? I haven't decided yet. Yo espero que si. <br /><br />So if you have any questions about babies, let me have 'em. Or, more realistically, if you have any information about babies that could help me in my job, send it along. I don't actually know anything about them, it turns out. They smell good and have soft heads and .... that's about it. <br /><br /><strong>THE LESBIANS: </strong><br /><br />I was wrong in my indignation. This was the best week of my Hotel Fun life and I'm still sad that they're gone. 950 women who are thrilled to be here, supportive of each other, funny and loud and enthusiastic and sporty – we all had a great time, including the "tee-hee, lesbians" G.O.s who learned an important lesson about acceptance and open-mindedness. <br /><br />We started with a very hectic arrival day – 950 guests in five hours is a logistical nightmare – during which we were all waiting for the usual complaints (the luggage is taking too long to get to our room, the view isn't good enough, the closets smell moldy, we have to walk too far to the restaurant, the ice machine isn't close enough, the air conditioning is noisy, the pillows are too flat, we're too far from the tennis courts, we're too close to the tennis courts and the games are loud during our afternoon nap...), but they never came. Everyone was friendly and chatty and completely understanding that things were taking longer than usual. And I can't complain about running around all day because after showing one couple to their room, I ended up staying for an hour and a half, the three of us sitting on the bed and chatting like at a slumber party; I don't think anyone else got a 90-minute break. <br /><br />I loved doing the activities that week – and I had a lot of time, since they didn't want too much G.O. involvement, male or female – because there were groups of women everywhere to cheer you on. First time windsurfing? They'll make you feel like a champion. Trying the trapeze? They'll encourage you and talk you out of your fear until you feel like you were born to be in the circus. (I'm not scared anymore but I still appreciated it when they told me I was graceful like a real acrobat; I think we should install a moral support team at the trapeze so that everyone can feel as pretty as I did.) They had their own entertainment, a line-up of stellar comics for the week, and the laughter coming out of the theatre every night was unprecedented here at Punta Cana. Not to mention how nice it was to have real entertainment instead of just G.O. cabarets. <br /><br />I was lucky to be sent on an excursion within the first two days, where I met Robbie and Trina, my good buddies for the rest of the week and my dinner dates more often than not. (We were allowed to hang out with them if we were invited.) I had been looking forward to a week of G.O. meals, finally a chance to just talk amongst ourselves, but then I discovered that the G.O.s are generally a bunch of idiots and I was desperate to break free and go find myself a G.M. No matter which table I chose in our sectioned-off part of the restaurant, I could be sure to hear boys giggling about boobies and sex – and by "boys," of course, I mean G.O.s in their mid-to-late twenties. <br /><br />DISCOVERY TOUR: <br /><br />For this excursion we got in the back of an army-tractor-type vehicle and bounced along scary dirt roads for an hour to get to a guy named Christian's house. It's in the mountains, deep in the jungle, and is all stone and straw and super cute. There were cocoa beans roasting, stirred round and round by twelve-year-old boys in cut-off jeans, and various things brewing, and then suddenly Christian was there before us, on horse-back, in all his Fabio-like splendour: long curly hair and an open shirt with bead-and-shark-tooth necklaces hanging on his leathery chest. And he was very excited to see us. He picked fruit off his trees and hacked them open for us to taste the most amazing coconut, pineapple and papaya of our lives; he sang traditional Dominican songs for us; he invited us to stir the beans and he kissed us all profusely. <br /><br />We then wandered around the house and up to the gift shop, where Christian and his Belgian wife (whose parents must spend all their days just shaking their heads in bafflement at their daughter's life decisions) served us home-made coffee and hot chocolate, both so strong and bitter that I believe I am still making that scrunched-up face, two weeks later. One of the mystery brews turned out to be Mama Juana – and whatever jokes you feel compelled to make, you aren't the first and certainly won't be the last – this rum-honey-lighter-fluid mix that had me passing out from the smell alone. <br /><br />I had a good time hanging out with the tour guides and was especially fond of my new buddy Franky, who now brings me fruit every time he's here to take out an excursion group. I wasn't too thrilled about our stopping in at a school to gawk at the multi-aged children in their little classroom, but most of the ladies left money, which is obviously desperately needed in this education system. And I was most definitely thrilled when we stopped in a sugar cane field and Franky hacked up pieces for us to suck on; the whole day had reminded me so much of Guadeloupe, with the jungle and the fresh fruit and the smell of rum, and then here was my beloved sugar cane – I actually had tears in my eyes at my first taste and I think Franky thought I was a total loony. (But he's brought me sugar cane twice, so I'm not fussed.) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3j8SA4anAyXioThff-B0yTlFcYHK3RqyRB-2uG-12Yn07BmM1dx2gsmxCXutrp5-j74S_Zp45VCvJD1MDU_JymiJDyGjyx28DwA6mBmkhCafgGdCbCBzhewlu4cgzRCAVblusG-tkgg/s1600-h/Favourite+valley.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3j8SA4anAyXioThff-B0yTlFcYHK3RqyRB-2uG-12Yn07BmM1dx2gsmxCXutrp5-j74S_Zp45VCvJD1MDU_JymiJDyGjyx28DwA6mBmkhCafgGdCbCBzhewlu4cgzRCAVblusG-tkgg/s320/Favourite+valley.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427330751947550578" /></a><br />All things considered, a great excursion and a great week. I asked the women in charge if you had to be a lesbian to go on an Olivia tour and they said no, not least because it's not like they can test you before you sign up ("Oh, really? A room for two? Let's see you kiss."), and so I think my next holiday will be the cheapest Olivia extravaganza I can find. <br /><br /><strong>HIGUEY: </strong><br /><br />Our nearest town is not necessarily the prettiest place you've ever seen, but it's good if you want to buy shampoo, eat delicious chicken empañadillas or visit a remarkably hideous basilica that must have been built in 1974, because or else there is no excuse for its flagrant overuse of grey concrete. <br /><br />The thing is, to do your shopping you have to get off the bus and onto a moto-taxi, which I had adamantly refused to do since arriving in Punta Cana. I had to get over it because I was really out of shampoo, so I went with my security guard friend, Edie: he chose a moto-taxi for me, helped me on so I wouldn't burn the hell out of my leg on the EXPOSED ENGINE, and then got on behind me! Three of us on this little rinky-dink borderline mo-ped with no helmets and no street markings, where there's vaguely a sense of the right and left sides of the road but everyone mostly does whatever they want to get where they're going... I couldn't decide whether to be scared shitless or simply fascinated by the fact that we weren't dead yet. <br /><br />A few days ago I was back in Higuey to hang out with Victor, my favourite restaurant camarero. The best thing on the bus ride is the money-collector: he stands on the step and basically hangs out of the bus for the whole ride, including when it's going at 90 km/h on the open stretches of country roads. Half the time he jumps off while it's still moving, or it leaves without him and he has to run and jump back on – never laughing, never acting like it's a joke or an inconvenience or anything other than The System. This is my job, I hang out of a speeding bus with a wad of cash in my hand and the driver leaves without me every third stop. <br /><br />I also had a nice little chuckle over the Dominican mama walking through town with children all around her, wearing a shirt that said "I [heart] Farmer Tans." Now THAT'S comedy. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3YZ8_sNvlBVXupqbwA1mdnq-NeN23FI2uber4Q8PvgppCpgfA_qsOvc1WKT7wCgDcgr2-9ohI53-906EFbREsnwvCz7o9YqNZh9ZE-CSDhiNgtZt372KZlX2OzrTm1N6MJOBJX678mE/s1600-h/Victor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3YZ8_sNvlBVXupqbwA1mdnq-NeN23FI2uber4Q8PvgppCpgfA_qsOvc1WKT7wCgDcgr2-9ohI53-906EFbREsnwvCz7o9YqNZh9ZE-CSDhiNgtZt372KZlX2OzrTm1N6MJOBJX678mE/s320/Victor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427330167738194018" /></a> Victor picked me up at the basilica on his motorcycle, and maybe because I know and trust him, or maybe because he's a good driver, or maybe just because you're less uptight the second time around, I loved it. I would like to look into purchasing a motorcycle of my own when I get home. We whipped through the streets on our insider tour of Higuey, zig-zagging around potholes, going up on the sidewalk to avoid women with strollers, screeching to a stop when someone came zooming in from a side street somewhere... awesome. <br /><br />AND I found the prettiest polka-dot dress in the world for red and white night, which is tonight, and just might make this entire experience worthwhile. <br /><br />THE MUSIC: <br /><br />Maybe you won't find this as funny as I do, this complete lack of irony in so many people here, but my friend Michelange really likes the Aladdin soundtrack – you often hear it blaring out of his room when he's in the shower – and has recently changed his answering machine to "A Whole New World," which gets cut off twice and then finally plays through. When I'm feeling kind of blue, I call him up and listen, just to have a good laugh. <br /><br />Oh, and my voice is back! After three months of scratchy throat and pharyngitis and not even being able to hum in the shower, my few weeks away from Mini Club have given me just the break I needed to heal my voice. It's like finding an old friend: I keep running home when I have time and whipping out the guitar – I think my colleagues think I'm having an affair. <br /><br /><strong>CONCLUSION: </strong><br /><br />Alright, that's it. There's so much more, but I still do have at least a minimum of self-restraint. I hope all is good with you and see you in the fall. <br /><br />KathrynKathryn Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09594997876575269289noreply@blogger.com0