All of Australia held a moment of silence Sunday morning for ANZAC Day, which honors the country's veterans and fallen soldiers. There was a beautiful dawn service at the war memorial downtown, and most Aussies celebrated the day with commemorative brunches and copious booze. In true Down Under fashion, the national holiday extends through the Monday workday, allowing everyone to take full advantage of ANZAC Day barbecues and bar specials.
I spent Sunday night with some new friends playing that traditional Aussie game, Texas Hold 'Em. Winner takes all, and I won! I credit a year and a half of sailing with card sharks whose nightly entertainment consisted of Whist, gin rummy, and cribbage. I must also thank dumb luck and a fortuitous pair of 10s at 2:30 in the morning. Regardless, I walked away with the money to pay off the damnable quarantine officers who stand between me and my personal belongings when and if the boxes ever arrive. Word from the freight shippers is my stuff will be in Adelaide tomorrow noon. I am far too beleaguered by the long wait to hope this forecast is true.
In other news, I have found potentially useful inroads to the Adelaide mafia network. There's this phenomenally wealthy regular at the restaurant where I work; we'll call him Blaine. He drives around in a 7-series BMW and, according to gossip, paid cash for a Mercedes to placate his wife when she found out about one of the mistresses. Blaine keeps separate houses for wife and mistresses. He has also run up a several-thousand dollar tab at the restaurant, and my boss is pretty irritated with the situation. I wondered at first why we keep serving Blaine, tolerating his smarmy requests for lap dances and endless need for whiskey and cokes. I didn't appreciate how he gets away with bringing his weekly girlfriends to our cozy neighborhood establishment. I sat down for a cocktail with Blaine on Friday night, out of boredom and amusement. Now the world is just a little less hazy.
Blaine makes all his money betting on horse races. He is -I'm told- Australia's wealthiest "punter," possibly in every non-football sense of the word. No surprise that he has access to some serious muscle, specifically in the form of a big guy named "Johnny." And of course he's familiar with the regional criminal hierarchy. He can, off the cuff, name the leaders of the "families" in Adelaide's suburbs, and I'll wager he's got special friends, lady and otherwise, in every major town on the continent. He wears a heavy gold ring with a massive diamond horseshoe and a horse head where the Superbowl insignia ought to be. I can think of a couple locals who would look good with that logo imprinted in their foreheads.
Not that I would wish for that sort of thing.
Showing posts with label tribulations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tribulations. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
(enter power tool noise here)
Good morning. My household has awoken to the piercing sound of the tilers. They've come to tile our front veranda. Rather, our landlord commissioned them to come rip out the existing tile and re-do it. Here's the warning we got 2 weeks ago from our disembodied landlord, whom we've never met in person and who has a habit of sending snarky emails:
"Hi [tenants],
A tiler will be coming to the house to re-tile the front verandah. I don't know exactly what date as it depends on his schedule but it will be any day as from now.
When the tiler is doing the tiling you will not be able to use the front verandah for a while - you'll have to use the side gate and enter the house through the back (keep the side gate open). When you leave the house you will have to keep the laundry door unlocked (but closed as if it appears locked) but certainly keep kitchen door locked.
When the tiler takes up the tiles there will be a lot of noise and when he's finished the work please do not walk on the tiles for a few days.
Regards,
[Landlord]"
Now we have jackhammers to replace our alarm clocks. Literally, jackhammers. We are in a state of agitation. Justified?
"Hi [tenants],
A tiler will be coming to the house to re-tile the front verandah. I don't know exactly what date as it depends on his schedule but it will be any day as from now.
When the tiler is doing the tiling you will not be able to use the front verandah for a while - you'll have to use the side gate and enter the house through the back (keep the side gate open). When you leave the house you will have to keep the laundry door unlocked (but closed as if it appears locked) but certainly keep kitchen door locked.
When the tiler takes up the tiles there will be a lot of noise and when he's finished the work please do not walk on the tiles for a few days.
Regards,
[Landlord]"
Now we have jackhammers to replace our alarm clocks. Literally, jackhammers. We are in a state of agitation. Justified?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Bureaucracy
It's that time! Taxes! Not for me, of course, but for my personal secretary, accountant, navigator, and psychiatrist, my mother. What a great mom to handle the affairs of her child abroad. In the process of sorting out the patchwork of my employment history so she could file my taxes, she emailed to ask what interest I earned from my bank accounts in the past few months.
Interesting question (pun!!). Here's what I learned:
My checking account is not interest bearing.
On my savings account I earned a whopping:
$1.08 in December
$0.98 in January
$0.71 in February
and.... wait for it...
$0.40 in March
The only thing more excruciating than having zero assets is having a bank statement silently taunt me over the fact I have zero assets. Forty cents? I think that bought me a bus ticket back when I was using my second grade student discount.
Also on today's highlight reel was a trip to Australian Customs and Quarantine. These are not, as logic might dictate, contiguous offices. They are located 15 kms away from each other in very different parts of town. Thus set up to ensure that new migrants wanting to retrieve their long awaited sea freight have no bloody chance of sorting out paperwork in a timely fashion. I was among the fortunate. Being white, I promptly got shuffled to the right desks and offices. I was not, like some of my compatriots in the struggle, sent away to "fill these forms out right. IN ENGLISH, you understand??" My sea waybill and Unaccompanied Personal Effects documents (UPEs in customs slang) were stamped with relative alacrity.
The lovely Quarantine officer who assisted me looked over the papers and glanced at my declared packing list. "Fine, all fine," she said. "There should be no problem with any of this. You're importing a bicycle? Did you use it to ride in wooded areas or farmlands?"
"No, it's a roadbike. The only time it got close to anything wild was when I took a detour and ended up in East Cleveland."
(I didn't add that last part... she wouldn't have understood the joke. They profess ethnic sensitivity in this part of the world.)
She nodded on, "Yes, this should all check out just fine. We'll just send two officers over to inspect the goods when they arrive. Should be very quick and easy, no problem."
Me: "Great, so I'll just call and set up an appointment when I know the shipment is here?"
Her: "Yes, and so we'll just need to charge you $170 for that."
Me: "Um..."
Her: "The Australian Quarantine Authority is a cost-recovery organization. We charge importers for our services."
Importer? Services? The service of showing up at a warehouse in Port Adelaide and watching me unpack my clothes and bed linens. If I pay extra will they have a doggy come along to sniff my underwear? And, let's be real here... I am not an importer. I am a very naive student from the US who foolishly thought it made more sense to ship over the copious clothes I already own than to buy a new wardrobe for 1.5 years of grad school. Silly, under-informed me.
The woman was almost apologetic. "Australia is pretty strict with importation," she said. "I'm sure when you send your belongings back to America it won't be such a trouble."
Oh no, lady, in America, we have plenty of our own bureaucracies to pay off. I almost said that out loud. It occurred to me as I was opening my mouth that she might not appreciate that line of humor either. I would have been backpedaling like mad to compliment her pleated khakis or government-issue abstract-kangaroo-pattered scarf/tie thingy. "Florescent lighting does marvels for your skin tone!"
I'm a little proud at myself for biting my tongue. For realizing I needed to bite my tongue. Maturity does bring some benefits. Less discretion, and my skivvies may have found themselves in indefinite, solitary-silence-treatment quarantine. With a salaried guard dog.
Interesting question (pun!!). Here's what I learned:
My checking account is not interest bearing.
On my savings account I earned a whopping:
$1.08 in December
$0.98 in January
$0.71 in February
and.... wait for it...
$0.40 in March
The only thing more excruciating than having zero assets is having a bank statement silently taunt me over the fact I have zero assets. Forty cents? I think that bought me a bus ticket back when I was using my second grade student discount.
Also on today's highlight reel was a trip to Australian Customs and Quarantine. These are not, as logic might dictate, contiguous offices. They are located 15 kms away from each other in very different parts of town. Thus set up to ensure that new migrants wanting to retrieve their long awaited sea freight have no bloody chance of sorting out paperwork in a timely fashion. I was among the fortunate. Being white, I promptly got shuffled to the right desks and offices. I was not, like some of my compatriots in the struggle, sent away to "fill these forms out right. IN ENGLISH, you understand??" My sea waybill and Unaccompanied Personal Effects documents (UPEs in customs slang) were stamped with relative alacrity.
The lovely Quarantine officer who assisted me looked over the papers and glanced at my declared packing list. "Fine, all fine," she said. "There should be no problem with any of this. You're importing a bicycle? Did you use it to ride in wooded areas or farmlands?"
"No, it's a roadbike. The only time it got close to anything wild was when I took a detour and ended up in East Cleveland."
(I didn't add that last part... she wouldn't have understood the joke. They profess ethnic sensitivity in this part of the world.)
She nodded on, "Yes, this should all check out just fine. We'll just send two officers over to inspect the goods when they arrive. Should be very quick and easy, no problem."
Me: "Great, so I'll just call and set up an appointment when I know the shipment is here?"
Her: "Yes, and so we'll just need to charge you $170 for that."
Me: "Um..."
Her: "The Australian Quarantine Authority is a cost-recovery organization. We charge importers for our services."
Importer? Services? The service of showing up at a warehouse in Port Adelaide and watching me unpack my clothes and bed linens. If I pay extra will they have a doggy come along to sniff my underwear? And, let's be real here... I am not an importer. I am a very naive student from the US who foolishly thought it made more sense to ship over the copious clothes I already own than to buy a new wardrobe for 1.5 years of grad school. Silly, under-informed me.
The woman was almost apologetic. "Australia is pretty strict with importation," she said. "I'm sure when you send your belongings back to America it won't be such a trouble."
Oh no, lady, in America, we have plenty of our own bureaucracies to pay off. I almost said that out loud. It occurred to me as I was opening my mouth that she might not appreciate that line of humor either. I would have been backpedaling like mad to compliment her pleated khakis or government-issue abstract-kangaroo-pattered scarf/tie thingy. "Florescent lighting does marvels for your skin tone!"
I'm a little proud at myself for biting my tongue. For realizing I needed to bite my tongue. Maturity does bring some benefits. Less discretion, and my skivvies may have found themselves in indefinite, solitary-silence-treatment quarantine. With a salaried guard dog.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Nightly Noises Above
Did I mention we have a possum living in our ceiling? We do. His name is "Will Smith." (I'm not entirely sure why.)
Australian possums are much cuter than Floridian possums, so we're not too terribly concerned, though the landlord might take issue with a non-paying tenant.
Happy Easter!
I wish lots of chocolate and bunny love to everyone on this beautiful Easter Sunday. It's is a highly secularized holiday in Australia, notable for public holidays on both Friday and Monday. Shops have been closed since Thursday, and many people left town to enjoy the final warm weekend before cooler fall weather sets in. Yes, it does get cold here.
I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.
The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.
Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.
At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.
Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.
I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.
I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.
The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.
Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.
At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.
Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.
I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Privacy and Insanity
Mom sent my brother and me an article from the New York Times yesterday. It was yet another tome about the perils of our lives online. Apparently some motivated scholarly types mapped Facebook profiles and friendships, concluding that they could predict with high accuracy personal facts that weren't necessarily shared online. For example, they could say with 76% certainly that a man was gay simply based on the network of friends he maintained.
Shocking, right?
Not really. I could tell you a lot about 76% of the people who use Facebook without tapping MIT's statistical analysis computers. Most people put too much information online.
And here I am, blogging. The thing is, I want this stuff in the public domain. I am self-aggrandizing enough to think others (mom) might want to read about my misadventures. But keep in mind, there's a high degree of censorship going on. I haven't written all that much recently because life has been a slog, less than noteworthy.
I did find a job; that is going well. I am enrolled in some pretty awesome classes; I am phenomenally behind in my schoolwork. I am morose about my financial situation; one hit after another has rather drained my resources.
Did I tell you about my car situation?? I do want this to be online. I want this story to be searchable to the point that it becomes Google's top hit whenever someone is looking for Best Buy Motors in Adelaide South Australia. That's right, Best Buy Motors in South Australia, proprietor Michael Dundon, salesperson Andrew Lockhead. These gentlemen have personified for me the caricatured image of the smarmy, dishonest used car salesman. I was, no doubt about it, an absolute fool to buy a 1994 Volvo off the Best Buy Motors Lot, but I did ask the right questions. For example, "Can I take this car to an independent mechanic for examination?" No, came the answer... for insurance purposes.
"Can I see the service history?" Oh, it's all in order.
"Is this car going to break down on me in a week?" Nah, it's a good little car. Last owner was a doctor!
So yes, I am officially a sucker. The car broke down in exactly one week. The timing belt snapped while I was driving at 45 mph. For those of you who, like me, are not mechanically savvy, the snapping of a timing belt leads to the misalignment of all pistons in the valves of the car. Basically the engine requires major overhaul and repair. The cost to get this car back on the road is higher than the cost of purchase. Not running, this car is worth less than nothing to a salvage yard. Even scrap metal collectors want to charge me for the cost of towing the hunk of junk (my housemates call it "The Blue Runner") to a car graveyard.
In what I think was a valiant attempt at conciliatory bargaining, I went back to Mike Dundon, owner of Best Buy Motors. I explained the untenable financial situation his fraudulent salesmanship (and my bad character judgment) had put me in, and I told him that I was quite certain he deliberately screwed me over. I told him that I was positioned to take legal action against him for misleading me into a purchase. I offered to work out a trade, an exchange, or some variation on a refund. He laughed in my face and insulted me (details need not be recorded here). Incensed, I left the lot and have been plotting a lawsuit ever since. Alternatively, I'm thinking of throwing a raging car bashing party, wherein $10 will get participants a beer and 3 minutes with a sledge hammer. Everyone can relieve their angst, as well as support the charity case that is my current life. Two-hundred fifty angry car-bashing people, and I could completely recoup my losses. A brilliant plan, no?
Did I mention that I've got four assignments due in a week and a half? Two 15-page papers, one accounting problem set, and a collection of legal opinions. I am in the coolest masters degree program ever, but heavens it's a lot of work in a short period of time. On top of the car. On top of the "money earning" table-waiting work. And the shipping conundrum. And the... oh, right, privacy... there are some things that shouldn't be posted online for all eternity and all readers.
Oh, don't feel sorry for me. It's all a grand adventure. But what a mess.
Shocking, right?
Not really. I could tell you a lot about 76% of the people who use Facebook without tapping MIT's statistical analysis computers. Most people put too much information online.
And here I am, blogging. The thing is, I want this stuff in the public domain. I am self-aggrandizing enough to think others (mom) might want to read about my misadventures. But keep in mind, there's a high degree of censorship going on. I haven't written all that much recently because life has been a slog, less than noteworthy.
I did find a job; that is going well. I am enrolled in some pretty awesome classes; I am phenomenally behind in my schoolwork. I am morose about my financial situation; one hit after another has rather drained my resources.
Did I tell you about my car situation?? I do want this to be online. I want this story to be searchable to the point that it becomes Google's top hit whenever someone is looking for Best Buy Motors in Adelaide South Australia. That's right, Best Buy Motors in South Australia, proprietor Michael Dundon, salesperson Andrew Lockhead. These gentlemen have personified for me the caricatured image of the smarmy, dishonest used car salesman. I was, no doubt about it, an absolute fool to buy a 1994 Volvo off the Best Buy Motors Lot, but I did ask the right questions. For example, "Can I take this car to an independent mechanic for examination?" No, came the answer... for insurance purposes.
"Can I see the service history?" Oh, it's all in order.
"Is this car going to break down on me in a week?" Nah, it's a good little car. Last owner was a doctor!
So yes, I am officially a sucker. The car broke down in exactly one week. The timing belt snapped while I was driving at 45 mph. For those of you who, like me, are not mechanically savvy, the snapping of a timing belt leads to the misalignment of all pistons in the valves of the car. Basically the engine requires major overhaul and repair. The cost to get this car back on the road is higher than the cost of purchase. Not running, this car is worth less than nothing to a salvage yard. Even scrap metal collectors want to charge me for the cost of towing the hunk of junk (my housemates call it "The Blue Runner") to a car graveyard.
In what I think was a valiant attempt at conciliatory bargaining, I went back to Mike Dundon, owner of Best Buy Motors. I explained the untenable financial situation his fraudulent salesmanship (and my bad character judgment) had put me in, and I told him that I was quite certain he deliberately screwed me over. I told him that I was positioned to take legal action against him for misleading me into a purchase. I offered to work out a trade, an exchange, or some variation on a refund. He laughed in my face and insulted me (details need not be recorded here). Incensed, I left the lot and have been plotting a lawsuit ever since. Alternatively, I'm thinking of throwing a raging car bashing party, wherein $10 will get participants a beer and 3 minutes with a sledge hammer. Everyone can relieve their angst, as well as support the charity case that is my current life. Two-hundred fifty angry car-bashing people, and I could completely recoup my losses. A brilliant plan, no?
Did I mention that I've got four assignments due in a week and a half? Two 15-page papers, one accounting problem set, and a collection of legal opinions. I am in the coolest masters degree program ever, but heavens it's a lot of work in a short period of time. On top of the car. On top of the "money earning" table-waiting work. And the shipping conundrum. And the... oh, right, privacy... there are some things that shouldn't be posted online for all eternity and all readers.
Oh, don't feel sorry for me. It's all a grand adventure. But what a mess.
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