Self Call

I wrote a little piece about the 2011 vintage in South Australia for a publication edited by my gorgeous friend Natalie.  Do check it out... the pictures are pretty :)

AHHHHHHHHH GROSS!

When I woke up this morning, there was a centipede crawling around in my sheets. 

I neglected to write last week about the sunny, beautiful morning when I woke up, stretched, looked happily out the window to the bright day, and was faced with the silhouette of a spider the size of my head.  It had gotten between the screen and my (fortunately shut) window pane.  I may never open that window again.  I took a picture, but it's blurry.  And then I tried to give the picture perspective by holding up my finger, and the disgusting beast jumped at me!  I screamed.... it went and hid in a corner where I'm sure it still lies in wait to terrify me again. 

This picture is neither my hand nor my spider, but it gives some indication of the monster that is the Huntsman species.  [expletive]ing huge.  I'm getting the willies again just thinking about it!

Note to Self

Bacio chocolate: Delicious and hazelnutty. Also includes neat multilingual quote. Wrapped in foil. Foil is sharp.

Slicing lip on foil while eating afternoon Bacio: Not conducive to Cinco De Mayo. Margaritas are best served with salt rim.

Sting!

STUFF!

After a long and extraordinary process, I have finally received the five boxes of personal items I packed and shipped from Florida in January. My closet overfloweth. Frankly, I don't have sufficient room for everything now, largely because I only have shelves, no space for hanging things like coats and dresses.

Then, in my wandering across the interwebs, I stumbled on this admonition:

"Stop buying unnecessary things.
Toss half your stuff, learn contentedness.
Reduce half again.
List 4 essential things in your life,
stop doing non-essential things.
Do these essentials first each day, clear distractions,
focus on each moment.
Let go of attachment to doing, having more.
Fall in love with less."

I choose the word admonition judiciously. It comes from the Latin "ad" (towards) plus "movere" (to move). Generally admonishment connotes a sort of verbal punishment, a result and reaction after bad behavior as in, "I admonished Fido for peeing on the rug," or, "Dad admonished me for failing my chemistry test." As I considered the perfect noun for this little web-based poem, I realized that it is not meant as indictment but instead as motivation to move towards something.

"Move towards" reduction of these material constructs. " Move towards" clarity and purpose. "Move towards" simplicity.

Now, I'm not much of an ascetic, and am not about to renounce my worldly possessions, but there's something to be said for the freedom and clarity that derives from having little. If you can pack everything that matters into a bag, you can go anywhere you please. For several years now, I've denied myself the comfort of home and familiarity, actively replacing that stasis with travel and new horizons. I've been unfettered and unattached as possible. I've consciously sought to collect a life in the form of experience rather than things, and I've been deliberately unemotional about leaving behind places and people over and over again. Frankly, it's incredible, even depressing, to me that living this way I've still managed to accumulate so much stuff, mostly clothing. It's even more frustrating to know how upset I was at the long delay in its arrival. I like to think I was just desperate to get warm clothing for the winter.

Maybe what this admonishment is driving me to move towards is a different awareness of what exactly I'm collecting. With less material items, the mind focuses more acutely on more ethereal spoils of the road: friends, education, collected tidbits of wisdom, sunsets that cannot be photographed. Of course these things have long been my goals, but how often do I really focus on them? How often have I lost a moment by thinking ahead to the next one? I could slow down, I suppose... stay awhile.

And I won't run off to the Salvation Army with my boxes tomorrow. I'm so grateful to have a diverse selection of t-shirts and warmer winter clothes that I have been spending the last couple days dumbly smiling at the closet. But let's be realistic: I'd do just fine and dandy with half of all this. Or less. It is, in the end, just stuff.

ANZAC Gambling

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.

(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?

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.

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.

The Cost of Living

I just bought a car! A good car! One that won't crap out on me in a week like the *ing Volvo. That is what we call it, me and my roommates, the "*ing Volvo." It is sitting in our driveway at the moment with plastic shopping bags over the window to keep rain out. It is absolutely distressing. I hope to construct a lawsuit starting next week.

Meanwhile, I've purchased a beautiful little blue Toyota Corolla. With much help from the parental units, I must note. I will name the car Peter. He's sort of a pastel color. I got him on Easter weekend. Easter... bunny... rabbit... Peter Rabbit... it makes sense in a loose sort of way.

All the car talk got me thinking about the differences between American and Australian costs of living. There are so many things I took for granted in the States that are simply unavailable here. Everything costs. I go to buy shampoo that in the States would cost $4.50, and here it is $12.00. The eyeliner I buy in Florida for $6.00 cost me $18.00 at a Target here. My face moisturizer... $20 or so at a department store... $60 here. And shisha tobacco (for a hookah)? $90 here versus $12 in the States. Quite a disincentive, and there's no free lunch.

Even the little things like paper clips or pads of paper come at a cost. One never finds them simply lying around for the taking. Phone calls on a land line are $0.40 a pop. A couple weeks ago I was thoroughly thrilled over the discovery of a trellis in someone's bulk trash. You must understand this in context. There are no "extras" lying around in Adelaide. It's as if ants have descended on a picnic and snapped up all the crumbs. There are no scraps of paper for note writing. No buckets lying around to use as trash cans. No extra pens on offer anywhere. Of course it doesn't help that I'm building my world from scratch, but the mentality here seems to be: If you need something, you buy it. Often at a cost.

The only thing I've found to be reasonably priced in Australia is produce, provided you buy local at the market.
It is no coincidence that the bulk of my diet these days consists of vegetables.

Why I Haven't Written

I've been under the rock of academia, fretting about my personal belongings (which are still MIA, though they were shipped from JAX in January and due in Adelaide a month ago). Rumor has it that the company I paid has just recently put my boxes on a boat. I have a Bill of Lading. That's a good sign. And then, in my problem set for International Wine Law, I get this question:

Question 16
Bruce shipped three containers of wine to his agent Maureen in Basra. The wine was shipped aboard the Sedentary Duck, another ship in the service of RAFOFF shipping. In the straights of Malacca the Sedentary Duck was attacked and boarded by pirates. The pirates set fire to the ship. The damage was such that the Sedentary Duck needed to divert to Singapore for repairs. These occupied a month and delivery of the wine at Basra was delayed accordingly. While the ship was in Singapore the first mate unloaded and sold one of the containers and disappeared with the proceeds. On eventual discharge at Basra it was found that the heat from the fire had affected the contents of one of the remaining containers so that the wine shipped in it was unmerchantable. The other container was unaffected, but the wine was only saleable at half the price it would have brought the week before because of a sudden glut in the small Iraqi wine market due to the importation of a large amount of US Cabernet Sauvignon the previous week. Bruce had insured the three containers with All Risks & No Cares Insurance under a marine cargo policy.

The policy covers:
Loss or damage cause by perils of the seas, rivers, lakes, or other navigable waters, fire or explosion, stranding, grounding, sinking or capsize, collision with any external object other than water, discharge of cargo at port of distress, earthquake, volcanic activity, lightning, and any loss or damage cause by general average sacrifice, jettison or washing overboard, entry of sea or river or lake water into the vessel, hold, conveyance container, liftvan or place of storage, total loss of any package lost overboard or dropped whilst loading or unloading, piracy, barratry of master officers or crew, BUT IN NO CASE COVERS any loss or damage caused by willful misconduct of the insured, ordinary leakage or wastage, ordinary wear and tear, insufficiency of unsuitability of packaging, inherent vice, unseaworthiness of the vesel or unfitness of conveyance containers where the insured is privy to the unfitness at the time the goods are loaded, delay even if the delay is caused by an event insured against, loss or damage resulting from insolvency or financial default of the carrier, use of any nuclear weapon, civil war, rebellion or resulting strife, hostile acts by a belligerent power, actual or attempted capture or seizure or arrest or restraint or detainment (piracy excepted) or the consequences thereof, derelict weapons of war, strikes, lockouts, labour disturbances, riots, civil commotion, terrorism, or any any by a person with a political motive.

(a) Bruce wishes to know if he can successfully claim against the policy for the total loss of the two containers and the partial loss of the third.

(b) Suppose the wine had not been insured and the Australian amended Hague-Visby Rules applied. Would Bruce have any claim against RAFOFF? If so, then what would be the extent of RAFOFF's liability?

...................one empathizes with poor Bruce. As legal council, I suggest he pay closer attention to vessel names in the future.

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.

Scrounging Among Beauty

It was a rough day of classes. Yesterday was the annual Norwood Food and Wine street festival, a massive confluence of gorgeous boys in big sunglasses, gorgeous girls in flowing long dresses, amazing aromas, and plenty of vino. Perhaps I indulged in more wine than food. This morning hurt. The sun was supernaturally bright.

By 7pm when I arrived home, my physical discomfort had been offset by a foul mental state. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, too many acorns of random thoughts being chased by squirrels in my head. Life's been moving pretty fast recently.

I realized that I could use a good run. Unfortunately, when I packed my boxes and bags back in January, I used the same sort of crap decision-making that led to today's hangover. For some reason, I put my tennis shoes (useful ~4 times a week) in one of the boxes entrusted to a freight shipping company, and put my sexy stilettos (useful ~2 times ever) in my carry-on luggage. I have no idea when/if I'll see those freight boxes again, and the freight company offices are temporarily snowbound in Boston, so can't even provide tracking information. For all I know, my sneakers are at this moment kicking the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Until I receive confirmation, though, I absolutely refuse to pay $150 out of my dwindling bank account for new treads.

So I put on flip flops (thongs!) and went strolling. It turns out that my heretofore unexplored neighborhood is gorgeous. Just south of the little web of streets where I live, the suburb becomes an upper-upper-middle class wonderland. Manicured gardens meander prettily around the terraced, clean architecture of tasteful two story homes set among shady green trees. Light plays through the leaves as the cool evening breeze bustles down streets named "Elm," "Cedar," "Hatherly." I stumbled upon the very house which, without a doubt, is the dream abode that's been floating outside of fixed reality in my mind for years. It exists! I wanted to go sell my soul to start mortgage payments this very instant.

The evening detox walk had a secondary motive. Tomorrow morning is "hard rubbish" day, which means the city garbage collectors will pick up any larger trash, construction materiel, old furniture, etc. For poor students, it is a good time to watch the curb. I still need a bedside table, after all. I've also been on the lookout for an old, paint-stripped window frame. I think it would make for a neat look on my mantle. So I was vaguely, surreptitiously eying trash piles. Slowing down just a bit, but not enough to make the other evening walkers think I'm the sort of person who looks through trash piles.

And then, in a pile of doors and rotting 2x4s I spotted a metal trellis. Maybe 6 inches wide by 8 feet high. Wire. Not too rusty or bent. It had potential. It would be perfect to hang on one of my very bare bedroom walls. I could clip photos to it! Postcards! I can't live without decor for long; I have a real need to get creative with my living space. It's been almost a full week in this room, and I have paltry little to show for it. This other man's trash was looking like an absolute treasure. But picking scrap metal out of a trash pile is not something I do often. And walking a mile home with it under my arm is awkward enough. Nevermind that I'm passing lawyers arriving home from their Mercedes-powered commutes and well-heeled young couples pushing their perfect babies in thousand dollar prams. There's a gorgeous sunset happening, and I'm lugging home an unwieldy wire checkerboard. I assured myself that my find was just as worthwhile, precious, and normal as the showbreed white dog leashed to a stunning young man in casual loafers. I considered explaining the situation. "It's for art," I would tell the guy. And he would be bowled over by my offbeat beauty, whisk me away to one of the nearby bistros for a bottle of wine and a chat about eclecticism. He would be cultured and wealthy, interested mostly in my mind, and he'd ask me to all sorts of swish cocktail events where I could show off my hot stilettos. Alas, he didn't even invite my banter with a double-take. I swear his dog snorted at me.

So I have some doing to do before I'm ready for that gorgeous house on Northgate Street. At least the wall of my comfy little bedroom looks cooler than it did this morning.

Adelaide at Last

I give up on Vietnam. I've been out of there for a couple weeks now, I've been to Australia and New Zealand and back to Australia again. Customs officials don't know what to make of me. Let's not try to relive the past, but instead move forward with gusto.

Adelaide is a lovely city. Steamy hot this time of year and roaring good fun with lots of artsy things. The Fringe festival going on at the moment rivals Edinburgh for size and scope, so there's lots of good theatre, comedy, music, and the like. I myself am partial to the "Garden of Unearthly Delights," a nightly carnival that takes place in a dusty, enclosed park-cum-fairground that is generally filled to the brim with young irresponsible types getting drunk and checking out buskers. The trees are all strung with big colored lights that make the place feel like something out of the 1930s. On Friday night I had the good fortune to dance for hours in the otherworldly space while Ben Walsh (famous in musical circles... I was only there out of sheer luck) beat his mind out on a drum set.

I've found a house, plus four housemates to share the places. It's an older Victorian style place with thick sandstone walls that help take the edge off the summer days. Really quite beautiful. There's even a rose garden and claw foot bathtub.

Wine courses start in a week or so. Oh right, the wine glasses... I mean classes... That promise in a short year and a half to turn my casual wine snob self into a full blown, fully employable wine geek. I anticipate much suffering. But at least I'm enrolled in "Managerial and Financial Accounting" to keep my sanity.