Back in the Game

Well hello.

I know it's been awhile.  I'm embarrassed.  I've also been bogged down and busy, and the inertia of non-communication set in.  Let's not dwell on the past.

A quick update:  I've transferred to a new University: The University of South Australia, where I'm continuing on towards a Masters in Marketing focused on Wine.  I've started playing basketball for the school team, my aim being to improve dramatically between now and the end of the season.  I'm at a new job, a new winery, new people, nice wines.  Future career planning has begun in earnest, I've published a couple little pieces, and I'm open to all suggestions.  Life moves fast.


Last night my basketball team won its first game of the season against my former university... very satisfying victory, personally as well as for the team.  My South African buddy was kind enough to come along as the support section, and he's become pleasantly intrigued by the nuances of the sport.  He didn't realize there was so much strategy!  Next time an NBA game is aired here, we'll have to get some popcorn and analyze.

When my game was over, I sat in on the first few minutes of the men's game... also being played against my newfound rival school.  In short order, one of our guys went for an aggressive rebound and accidentally came down with his elbow on the face of an opponent, breaking his nose.  Blood everywhere.

When I was about 14, an identical accident befell me in a high school game, so I felt for the guy.  He didn't have a car and his teammates were obviously busy with the game, so I volunteered to take him to the hospital and sort him out.  Turns out the guy is an American from New York, so we had something to chat about on the way to the Royal Adelaide Hospital where I turned him over to the good care of an emergency room nurse.

Feeling chuffed with my "good turn," I was making my way out of the hospital into the drizzly cold night when I passed a young man who, from a distance, looked as if he was bundled uncomfortably in a white sweater.  As I got closer, I saw both his arms were in full casts and his face was deeply lacerated, stitches around his eyes.  "Hey if you can catch that old man I just talked to," he said, "tell him North Terrace is the other way.  I thought he wanted the North Wing and I sent him in the wrong direction."

I very nearly blurted out, "What happened to you?" but was able simply to agree and jog off down the sidewalk to catch the old man.  From behind I noticed he was carrying an IV back attached to him by a tube and he was still wearing hospital slippers and a gown beneath a ratty red robe.  Again, the night was chilly and wet; the man was entirely disoriented.  When he turned toward me, I saw the whole right half of his face was red and stretched as if he had been terribly burned.  I stammered out the directions, trying to look at him directly without staring at his bulging, unnatural eye.  He mumbled thanks and shuffled around to change course.

It was hard to feel pleased at all with myself for this good deed.  Well to be reminded of how lucky--and fragile--we are.

Bragging? Maybe. Only a little.

I am so very, irrepressibly pleased with the newest development in my life: a job at a gorgeous winery in McLaren Vale.  For those of you tracking my progress, this means I have two jobs... both fantastic in their own ways... to keep me busy all summer.

The general theme of this blog has been not to name names or specify places (protect the innocent), so I'll follow suit here.  I will however, show off a picture from the winery's website, just to emphasize what I mean when I say 'gorgeous:'

It's such a great feeling to have a position for the right reasons, at an organization where the philosophy jives perfectly with passions I was already developing.  The winery is very keen on sustainable development, organic growth (of the business and the vineyards alike), and honest creation of quality.  And the wine is definitely quality.

The whole place resonates with a lovely purity of spirit and practice.  Sheep and cows graze in pastures alongside the vineyard, cover crops grow freely between rows of grapes, fish swim in the reservoirs that provide irrigation to the property, a pile of natural fertilizer sits in the sun with its earthy rich stink filling the air.  The winery dogs are as adorable and friendly as can be.  The winemaking philosophy is a modernized, hands-off approach: wild-yeast ferments, natural malo, aged oak regimens.  And there's a window in the cool, dark barrel shed that looks out across the vineyard, so it's impossible for workers in the cellar to forget that this product--which demands scientific attention and will be shipped to all points of the globe in glass bottles--this wine actually comes from a real place... right up there, where the sunlight is hitting the crest of the green hill.

Perhaps I'm obsessing a little bit, but perhaps that's as it should be.  I feel incredibly lucky to be included in this business and in this industry, and am thrilled to get to work.  I've been pooling my talents, honing the resources for a good long while now, and finally I'm in the position to use it for a good cause!  And there's more to learn!  Always ways to grow!

Then too, this position finally gets me on track towards a happy future that I've been blueprinting for some time now: working hard to cultivate, sustain, and promote a beautiful little piece of the world... (somewhere!)... hopefully one day adding in the blessing of my own beautiful family to raise, take care of, and proudly send into the world.  Its a profoundly fulfilling and edifying dream.  It's all about living in the now, for the betterment of what is to come.

I don't think it's totally crazy to think of wine as a savior against a robotic and soulless future.  Really now:  What better product than wine--with its hedonic peaks and scholarly valleys, its modern growth and ancient roots--to draw the everyday consumer into its nuances?  A lot of people want to get geeky and proud about wine knowledge, but I think wine lovers revel in yammering on about wine because it's fundamentally a glorious, unanswerable mystery.  Every vintage, every vineyard, every bottle offers a new opportunity to marvel at what nature has produced and man has harnessed for a moment.  How is it possible to drink wine without honoring the grapes, the vines, and the land from which it is born?   Nature--given her own way--never fails to awe those who are still, and quiet, and looking out across the landscape.  There's a beautiful, inexplicable flowing continuity of life bound up in the land, and wine invites us simply to bask in it.  

Or get nerdy about it, or pay too much for it, or share it with friends on the beach, or simply unwind.  What a gorgeous, happy life!

Family, I love you

A friend and I were bantering this evening about our relatives. Or rather, we were one-upping each other with stories about how wonderful our respective families are. At some point talk turned to the subject of gratitude... The difficulty of expressing "thank you for raising me" and "thank you for loving me" puts such a barrier between us and the words we need to say to the people who need to hear it.

Over lunch today (laksa in the central market!) a different friend sighed as she mused, "So few people are in touch with themselves, who they really are and what they want." And that deficit of self-introspective thought launches so much terrible turmoil between the non-mind-reading classes.

And with these thoughts swirling in my mind, a quick, heartfelt shout-out is in order. Thanks, family (and friends, who count among family), for the emails and calls and facebook notes and well wishes. I've broadcasted some distress in recent weeks, and you have done much to remind me of the ties that bind me beyond the present, fleeting moment. In all honesty, I'm doing just fine, though I am ready for winter to end and resume a happy pattern of productive, inquisitive days. Australia has still got me scrambling through the liminal lifestyle of a non-committal ex-pat. I don't know how to do my taxes here, and I'm rather bored by the prospect of figuring it out when I'm just going to have to go back to America and figure them out there too. This is the same philosophy behind my refusal to learn how to work television remote controls. The day I figure out all the buttons and menus, they'll just update the damn things to new technology. There's always so much to be done, and it's irritating when life gets in the way of more important things (like... say... life? it's a vicious cycle).

Much too philosophical. I should go back to storytelling...

In light news....
This past weekend we all piled on a bus and went up to the Gourmet festival in the Barossa Valley. Silliness ensued. Much wine was bought and enjoyed. New friends were made, and deep conversations were had. Details are fuzzy. Highlights included the glorious sunshine, aforementioned new friends, and a piece of chocolate-shiraz-ganache cake. I've come away with an important message to my fellow Americans: drink more Shiraz! (look beyond $10.... there's some glorious stuff bouncing around in the $15-30 range)

Backtracking: Danang Shrooms

As I endeavor to pull my life together in Australia, I think back to the weird and exciting events of my recent travels. There's a particularly good story that took place during the exodus from Hoi An.

We left Hoi An in a rush so that I could attend a hastily scheduled doctor's appointment at a Western-quality, Western-doctor-staffed medical clinic in Danang. I had forwarded my parents a number of horror pics of my engorged leg, and their distress quadrupled when Jacksonville-based doctors said the leg was in a state of cellulitus (ick) and I was probably harboring a staphyloccocal infection that could cause permanent disfigurement or amputation. These are awesome things to hear about one's leg while one is trying to enjoy the charms of the developing world.

Dad emailed to remind me that I'd be uglier with an indefinitely mottled leg. Mom emailed to tell me that she'd researched every medical facility within 500 miles of me. Their scare tactics worked. Thank you, Parents. Off to a doctor I went, knowing nothing they could do would be as harrowing as getting the first stitches of my life on a newspaper-covered "operating table" in a government hospital from a doctor who spoke nothing like English. As it unraveled, a cool $114 (US dollars, please) got me in with a doctor who confirmed the Jacksonville diagnosis and out with two weeks' worth of knock 'em dead antibiotics.

Multiple choice: Complete this sentence.

Moms are always:
(a) right
(b) omniscient
(c) badgering
(d) irreplaceable
(e) all of the above

We had several hours to kill before our plane to Hanoi, so we asked the nurses for a restaurant recommendation, and were soon in a taxi headed to someplace called Ashira or Asima or something like that. They had said something about mushroom soup. Sounded appealing. We walked in the door to find no less than thirty waitstaff occupying a space that could accommodate maybe 60 wealthy customers, of which there were currently five, plus us. Picture that we are carrying our backpacks, dressed for a morning of milling around Hoi An. We don't smell particularly bad, but I'm not exactly wearing strappy heels that show off my perfect pedicure. And we certainly can't communicate. Andrew mimes scooping out of an imaginary bowl to indicate we want soup. We are seated on the second floor.

When the manager came to deliver our menus and our peanuts (appetizer? garnish? to be eaten with chopsticks?), we learned that the restaurant had opened the night before, hence all the bustling fanfare with the waiters. There were no less than four people servicing only our table, and no less than ten guys at anytime lined along the wall staring, watching, waiting for us to flinch so they could whisper comments to one another. My nerve-wracking travels in India herded themselves into my mind. We opened the menu, and found... mushrooms. Page after page of pictures of mushrooms. When I master wines, then cheeses, I'll have to turn attention to mushrooms. Apparently there is huge variation and variety, and certain Asian restaurants revel in it. When it came to ordering, we were befuddled. The manager helped us to select a "very nutritious broth" and three different types of mushrooms, as well as some cabbage. I ordered a bottle of wine (which was terrible).

The meal proceeded thus: A huge steaming pot of broth was placed in the center of our table over a purpose-built burner. Plates of mushrooms and cabbage arrived at intervals. A waiter whose sole purpose was to watch us eat mixed the shrooms into the broth, and theatrically ladeled this soup into our individual bowls. Three sips later, when our broth levels got low, she scooped more in. In case there was a moment this dedicated scooper couldn't handle, there were also individuals devoted to refilling our wine and water glasses at least once every minute. Thus the next three quarters of an hour passed: Bite, bite, scoop, flourish, guys along wall snicker, bite, sip, eat a peanut while wine is topped off. Andrew, who embraces awkward moments, enjoyed himself thoroughly. I tried to focus on earthy flavors.

Oh, but it wasn't over. After the broth went away and our dessert of fresh pineapple was gone, the bill came. And not only was the bill breathtakingly high by Vietnamese standards, but we didn't have the cash to pay it. The restaurant did not accept credit cards. I start to imagine what it would be like to spend some time washing dishes for this place. Once again we summoned the manager and explained our predicament. Ten minutes later, Andrew, I, our backpacks, and the manager were all cozy together in a taxi, combing the city center for an ATM. One that would take an American bank card.

We arrived at the airport with time to spare, thank heavens, and as I hobbled onto the Hanoi-bound plane, I could almost hear South Vietnam breath a collective sigh of relief that my bumbling self was headed out.