In recent months, I have had the joy of stumbling across and spending time with a superb individual, one of those types I knew at hello would be worth keeping in my life forever. Such a rare and precious gem is a true friend: someone who makes the day bright with their presence, and--as the cocktail-hour line quips--knows me and likes me anyway.
I am flattered and heartened that this friend emailed tonight to remind I must update my blog. He knows, perhaps better than I, that there are other equally wonderful people in my life who are interested in my comings and goings, and I'm blessed to have a community that cares about me, however far-flung we all may be. Thanks for the love and the emails... let me offer up a slice of the current life Down Under.
I've felt happily busy here in the springtime of Australia, awakening as it were from a strange several-year-long slumber of directionless curiosity for life. Perhaps that was the post-college slump the books warned me about. Thank heavens I made such a picturesque adventure out of it, or else the time might have been maddeningly sad. I feel now as if I'm really getting my head around a path and purpose, and I'm invigorated for the next steps.
Are you in the mood for music? Check out Stornoway. I can't get this song out of my head.
As for the updating...
Today was spent in the glistening sunshine of a spring day, serving wine to people at a croquet "match" (if you could consider it that organized) at a beautiful spot in the Adelaide Hills. This is my new job. Or a component of it, rather. I'm working at the cellar door/tasting room for a winery, and my responsibilities range from pouring tastes and selling wine on gorgeous sunny days in a warehouse full of (filled) wine barrels... to fixing broken, leaking, hot-water spewing dishwashers during a 120-person charity dinner. On any given day, there are hundreds of 40 lb boxes to move here and there and back again, thousands of glasses to polish, sales quota to be met, wedding seatings to set up, crowds to control, cash drawers to reconcile, port wine to siphon out of the big barrels into the little one, the winery dog to tame, company politics to interpret, over-exuberant drinkers to calm, flower arrangements to maintain, dishes to wash, group events to oversee, complaints to field, driving directions to explain, local attractions to recommend, bathrooms to keep tidy, recycling to take out, bread to bake, cheese platters to make, small children to entertain, olive pits to clean up from the floor, inventory to track... all (preferably) in a skirt... though today I wore a flouncy white dress to fit the croquet theme. Yes, I enjoyed the flouncing.
The bulletpoints on a resume never really do justice to the nuances of a position held. Let it be said that the best hire must be able to maintain good humor and think on her feet. And be on her feet from now until whenever. It's a little like being a mom, maybe!
(Thank you, Mom)
I actually love the job. The work is exhausting in all the right ways, and days pass amidst the splendor of nature. There is no shortage of ways to make other people happy, whether with wine, a smile, or a reference to the pretty sky outside. What a blessed way to earn some money and fill a day.
When I'm not making money, I'm working. School this semester has felt like a grind, not nearly as thought-provoking as it could be, and demanding a lot of grunt work to get the grades. To what end? For the degree... for the job... for the resume... yadda yadda... I look at these academic pursuits as a means to a very agreeable end. I've also started attending lectures outside of my major, which have added a fantastic dimension to my little world, both in terms of people met and knowledge acquired. Truly I would implore my current professors (on the really really off-chance that they're reading up on my blog!) to step up their game and invest some dynamic thought in their curriculum. Perhaps I've been spoiled by a lifetime of dedicated educators. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for your investment in my schooling. Logic doesn't have to strain itself far to see the value of a high-quality education versus simply "going to school."
What else? I'm afraid I'm maybe rambling. School, work, life, the weather. Covered the basic bases. Events? Spent last weekend at a beach house with my group of mates. Revelry was had. Sport? It's been a rather focused couple of months. Things to come? Major assignments due in the coming weeks. Should call home more often.
Really the update is the usual, but in a blissful way. I have some fantastic individuals to credit for all the happiness with the "mundane" things. It's a good time in Adelaide. Thank God for friends.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Sunday, October 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
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