Life's A Beach: Chapter 6

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.

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.

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...)

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.

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.

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. (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.)

We did all the touristy stuff, including SkyRail, beaches, village markets and 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.)

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!

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!


(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?!)

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 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 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.



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.



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.

(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?)


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.

Otherwise, Mark and I have officially celebrated our two-year anniversary. Huzzah! 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.

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!

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.

In the meantime, my bloody Yaris lease has finally been taken over. Phew.

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.

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.

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.

Stay tuned to find out!

Kathryn

Life's a Beach: Chapter Five

Let’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 imagining 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 and the grocery store, I need all the help I can get to stay on track. Obvious solution: get on the bike.

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.

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?

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.

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 and 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.

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 you stay in this country?

Guess how well I’ve been sleeping these past few days.

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.

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.

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 should 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 chose 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.

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!”

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 smart 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 idiot smarty-pants.

“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.

“The bone in the upper arm, called” – femur! The femur! – “the humerus, runs from the shoulder to the elbow.” Oh, you said the upper arm. The humerus, obviously.

So it’s officially on: If You Don’t Know What You’re Talking About, Just Shut Up. We’ll see how I go.

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.)

*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.)

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, anthemic 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.

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.

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.

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.

I will leave you with two recent examples of four-year-old logic that I like so much:

1. Ellie has let Shaquanna wear her bracelet for the afternoon.
“Don’t forget to get it back when your mom comes to pick you up.”
“I won’t. One time, I woke up and I remembered that I had swimming.”

2. Ellie again, playing with little plastic jumping frogs, three of which are broken. So how many are still good? Ellie counts.
“Seven. And my brother’s seven, so there you go!”


Later skaters.

Kathryn

Life's a Beach, Chapter Four

I 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.

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.

Here’s what’s happening in my life right now:

WORK

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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...)

VISA

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.)

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.

*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!

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!

THE FUTURE...

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.



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.
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.

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?

TRIP TO BRIZZY

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.

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...)


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!)

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.

GUESTS

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.


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.

We also went to cascades that were somewhat fast and flowing before and that had turned into 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.

(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!)

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!

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.

HIKES

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.





It was a big drop down to the waterfall below - very exciting...



And even better for two!



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.

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.





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.













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.

Kathryn

Life's a Beach: Chapter 3

It’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!

But never you mind. Let’s do this thing.

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 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.

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 vaguely grey, 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.

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.



(Notice the street lights are on - it's 1:25 pm!)

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.

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.



(The guy jumping is to the right.)

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.





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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Speaking 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 no more adolescent skin problems?!



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.

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!

Kathryn

Life's a Beach, Chapter 2

My 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.

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.

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.


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.



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...)

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.

Skyrail: do it! It’s great!

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...)

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.



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.

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.)


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.

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.

Here’s how kangaroos do the deed: First he drinks her pee – or maybe not pee - I wasn’t involved enough to know;


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.


(His penis is shaped really strangely, though, and Mark got a great picture to prove it. Look closely!)

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?

Anyway, check out the pictures. It was very cool.

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 told), felt totally laid-back and zen about the whole thing. Maybe people really can change, you know?

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

Happy New Year to you all and here’s hoping that 2010 is the best one yet.

Kathryn