My God, has it been a Month?!

The teasing, mercurial weather-makers here! The day will dawn sunny, rain ten times before noon, then blossom as a gorgeous midday before deteriorating into a torrential afternoon downpour that clears for a stunning sunset to offset the full-on evening storm. My window is coated with sheets of water as rain blows sideways and whips around the house. It makes for a melancholy night, particularly given the oppressive continuing chill, offset by a candle on my desk and Pavarotti singing through iTunes. My roommate calls this season of unpredictable, frustrating, moody, and evocative weather "the female days."

The funniest anecdote of the week explains how I got two holes ripped into the seat of my favorite jeans. A few evenings ago, I spent the night on the couch at a friend's house. I woke up to find the house empty. My friends had all departed for work, locking the doors behind them. In a brilliant feat of fire-escape-prevention, whoever did the doors on the house installed deadbolts that require keys to unlock. Inside and out. The screen door? That too required a key. So, I opened every window in the house (upstairs and downstairs... not sure how the upstairs was going to help me) looking for one that opened wide enough for my head to fit through. The best I got was one of those crank-open things that creates a jaunty angle between the brick mantle outside and the interior window frame, which was about four feet off the ground. If successful, I would be standing in a flower bed in the front yard. If unsuccessful, I'd be a good story for the local fireman, and my back would be contorted in a brand new way. Ten inches to make my escape. I tried calling all three members of the household, but they were at work, forty-five minutes passed, and I needed to get to class.

The scene that ensued is eminently qualified for YouTube. After taking out the window screen, I took off all excess layers of clothing, did some rudimentary "I'm about this wide" measuring, and tossed my belongings outside in hopes it wouldn't start raining before I was able to collect them. I rockclimbed up onto the ledge, and--feet first--started to slide out towards freedom. I got stuck at the hips. I wasn't too big, mind you... it's just that between the odd muscle contracting (stabilizers engaged), and the sort of wedging of ass-cheek and pelvic bone while doing a full back bend and trying to support my upper body without pulling the top window down on myself... well, I was a little cramped. It was nothing that a little wiggling and thrusting and cursing couldn't supersede. Boobs got stuck too. That just took some jamming and gradual stuffing- inside to outside, like a medieval mammogram. And then I just did the limbo out the rest of the way, nicking the chin only enough to jerk my head back and whack it into the brick behind me. Freedom! And torn jeans! I do wish someone had taken a video so I could apply for my dream job with the Cirque du Soleil.

The rain outside has stopped. Stars are out... for now.

Winos hit McLaren Vale

Sunday was spent with the University of Adelaide Wine Club on a mini-trip to McLaren Vale. It was a gorgeous, crisp fall day, the vineyards are turning golden yellow and the sky was that aqueous light blue that makes you want to be a bird so you can go swim in it.

Our first stop was the cellar door (tasting room) of Samuel's Gorge, a rustic old stone home set on a hill overlooking vines. We tasted through their current offerings, including a stellar 2008 Grenache and one of the most restrained, structured, and elegant Shiraz's (2008) I've had from this region. Really atmospheric all around, and a great way to kick off the morning. Plus, they had a dog! I'm a huge proponent of animals at cellar doors. They give such life to the place, and I for one remember the pet long after I forget the taste of the wine. The Samuel's Gorge dog will forever stick in my mind because he perfectly resembled my childhood family dog, incidentally named Sam....


Those of you who knew and loved Sam appreciated his innate ability to turn a tennis ball into a slobbery sponge, smiled when you heard about his adventures at the local construction sites, wondered why he so liked banana bread... you would have been smitten with the winery's big hairy Retroodle. What a dog.

Next stop was Alpha Box & Dice, whose winemaker Justin Lane is famous for being edgy and innovative. The decor of the cellar door certainly fit the unique character of the wines. There are a couple working pinball machines, kitsch from all sorts of antique sales, modern art clearly created during a drunken all-nighter, black and white with accent colors, '60s furniture, a ladder in the rafters, and so on.

Justin challenged us to a blend-off. We split into groups and used 15 or so red wines to make our own blend. Choosing from different styles of Shiraz, Cab Sav, Barbera, Sangiovese, Durif, etc. we put together a wine meant to be a result greater than the sum of its parts. I must say, the final wines were pretty impressive and cool. Hard to go wrong starting from such strong bases, but it was a cool experiment. Our mouths were uniformly purple, and the competition got a little rowdy. I perhaps wasn't my best behaved. I'm a vicious smack-talker when I get excited.

After a bbq lunch, we tasted through the Alpha Box & Dice portfolio... totally impressive through and through... I broke down and bought a couple bottles. Sadly, that was the end of the day, due primarily to the 4pm closing time of most cellar doors. I feel highly motivated to get back out to the wineries ASAP. That is, after all, why I'm here!

Dalat

A six hour bus ride turned into an eight hour journey over an extraordinarily potholed highway. We arrived in Dalat after midnight the night before last, and although the bus company provided a free taxi to our final destination, the hotel gates were closed and lights were off at the two places where we'd requested rooms. Finally the taxi driver suggested his friend's place, and we settled into the sorta clean twin beds of a pretty sparse, relatively overpriced ($10!) room. It was clean enough. Never mind the peephole in the bathroom door. I was tired, limping and bleeding enough that I would have slept on a comfortable moss patch.

In the morning we set out to find better housing, and under the influence of several Panadol, I felt competent to tackle the adventure. Dalat is a hill station, initially established by the French as a cooler respite from the heat of Saigon. Back alleys evolve into narrow stairways winding from road to higher road. There's a large dammed lake in the center of town, which was probably quite pretty when it had water it. This year it is a mud pit because they opened the dam to facilitate a bridge expansion project. All over are signs of an eclectic local spirit. There is a huge radio tower that has been lighted and outfitted with a ball to resemble the Eiffel Tower. Cafes cater to artsy tourists, and adventure companies offer rock climbing, hiking, and abseiling trips. I was looking forward to a bike ride to a trail head to hike 5 dormant volcanic peaks. By the end of the afternoon, it was clear I would be doing no such trekking.

We did manage to crawl and climb all over the "Crazy House," built beginning in 1990 by a Vietnamese architect who wanted to bring her people back to nature. The house is a 30,000 square foot exploding plaster tree, with branches and limbs providing the stairways and overpasses that allow you to navigate from pod to pod. Rooms (which you can book for $35 a night) are about as kitchy as can be. There are mirrors on all surfaces, ceilings especially, and creepy plaster animals with glowing red eyes serve as chimneys. I've attached a picture to jog your imagination, and I encourage a Google-image search to get a better of idea of just how nuts this place is.

We found ourselves fantastically clean and modern accommodations in the Dream Hotel, aptly named. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Dung, are wonderful people who run a tight operation. I was happy to hobble home to clean sheets and a well-appointed bathroom. I was even comfortable enough to make the dreaded call home: "Mom, don't worry, but I got hit by a motorcycle."

When I woke up the next morning I learned that my resourceful mother, had used scanty information to track down contact information and email Mrs. Dung. After breakfast, she instructed me to go get dressed; we were going to the hospital. The government-run hospital here in Dalat is tidy and bright, full of locals, many minorities hill tribes, all wide-eyed and strained-looking. They appraised my situation and couldn't figure out what was so dire about my situation that I was dragging my leg around like a ghoul. Mrs. Dung is an absolute saint. Without her translating, the whole attempt at medical aid would have been crazy. The doctors spoke little English, and the system for triage and patient handling seems as random as the use of accent marks in Vietnamese writing. I got an x-ray to verify the patella is intact (it is!), and then they ushered me into a little room for stitches. I've watched people get stitches in American emergency rooms. They don't look happy. I watched the clouds pass in the window as the doctor stuck me with the lidocaine syringe and I thought, "Well. Now I've really done it."

If there's one medical procedure I might trust in the developing world, stitches are it. Doctors see a lot of lacerated skin, and this particular man made quick work of the four stitches binding my knee back together. He iodined the wound, and sent me on my way with gauze and a prescription for painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatory drugs. And, I was surprised to learn, the whole experience was free, paid for by the Vietnamese government. I'm still limping pitifully, because the knee joint is swollen and bruised, but a few more days of sending Andrew on all my errands, and I should be functional again (thank you, Rew!).