Where a kid can be a kid . . .

My skin begins to crisp in the sun, I take a break in the shade, as a blue tongued skink searches for insects in the undergrowth of a purple flowering tree.

A pair of magpies land fifteen feet away and I keep a wary eye on them. One of the large, black and white birds rubs its beak against a metal railing. I imagine it sharpening its beak for better entrance into my retina. In a luscious, nearby park, a bird cries out in a guttural screech. By the sound of it, it must be a relative of velociraptors.

I take a deep breath and reacquaint myself with the strange sounds, smells, and warmth of Sydney.

I’ve spent weeks glued to my computer on 95 degree days looking for work. Job hunting is one of the most degrading / confidence knocking tasks on the planet. I feel capable of dealing with daily rejection calls one by one. But at the recent rate of twenty per day, well, I’d much prefer to get punched in the face by a chubby acne-scarred teenager.

While I may not be the best candidate in the world, I do believe I am indeed qualified to be a funeral attendant. I can easily produce an award-winning frown, giving me a natural and continued appearance of sadness and deep concern. Who wants a happy funeral attendant anyway? Would you really prefer to go to a funeral hall where, upon entrance a chipper young lass smiles and with a mirthful voice says, “Hi! Welcome to ‘Turn Your Frown Upside Down’ funeral services! Now don’t be a Debbie downer! Give us a smile! Your mate may be dead but hey- you’re still alive! Oh and fingers crossed! Maybe they left you something in their will! Cheers!”

Come on.

So after today’s interview and after looking through today’s new job postings I have decided to take a break and enjoy the outdoors. It’s a good reminder that while I don’t have a job, at least I don’t have a job in a nice location.

Fluorescent Marsupial

Flying back to Sydney after holidays in the States, I realized with one great sigh, that I was going to be warm again. While having a great time visiting friends and family back home, I came to one great, yet not earth-shattering conclusion - winter is cold. 

So it was with great relief that I flew into a sunny, green Sydney. To celebrate summer, Sydney holds a month long festival. 

Bob and I went to the opening Festival First Night where we enjoyed a multitude of free bands, artists, and fluorescent marsupial sculptures. 

This one is a Tasmanian Devil. 

Kids made the devil so I really couldn't make fun of it. The Tasmanian Devil Foundation was giving out devil horns with a donation, and I did enjoy seeing children show their true colors. No angels were in the crowd, just crazy, sugar-high, 3 foot devils.

Oh ... Christmas Tree???

Before Bob and I left for Christmas in the States, we decided to wander around Sydney in search of festivities. Back home in Chicago, this search would end with hot chocolate gripped in freezing hands, strolling along a festively cold Chicago night. We'd gaze at holiday window decorations in Macy's, continue to the outdoor Christkindle market for some frozen last minute shopping, then admire the massive pine Christmas tree in Daley Plaza. De-thawing would then commence at a nearby bar. 

Well . . . Sydney decorates the holidays a tad different. Bob and I walked to The Rocks district, where wreath-decked lampposts looked promising. 

We had heard there was a large Christmas tree there and wanted to take a look. I was imagining a beautiful pine tree gracing the old sandstone buildings in this historic district.

This was not what I had in mine. Behold, the Christmas Chair Tree. Apparently the city asked people to donate their old chairs to create a recycled tree. 

Now I'm all for recycling, but I found this monstrosity a tad disappointing. I did find some

 amusement in the rocking horse up top. 

But my general impression of the tree of chairs was vast confusion. This was not an uncommon feeling, as I saw several families with skipping children turn the corner, see the tree, and - even on a 3 yr old - I could see in their expression, "What the hell is that?!"

Bob and I moved on to Darling Harbour where Sydney boasted a massively festive tree. Well, if you can call a wire frame dressed in a projectile-electrical-vomit of lit madness a massively festive tree, then I suppose they did a great job.

However, for one desiring the scent and beauty of a pine tree, it was a tad disappointing. Even with the electrical kangaroos tastefully hopping up the side of the tree. Christmas in Sydney is unique, and they decorate uniqueness with gusto.

Hemispheres

A week ago, I was in the Southern Hemisphere.

Guess which hemisphere I'm in now?

I'll be taking a posting break while I attend holiday celebrations and try to survive the cold weather. I'll be back with weekly updates once I defrost in the warmer hemisphere. Happy Holidays!

Pigeon Hunters of the Southern Hemisphere

 

Oh December, month of Christmas,

of chilly days and frigid nights, 

cumbersome coats and fireplace lights, 

naked trees and streets of ice,

where snow falls silently in the night

... or not.

December in Australia means one thing - summer. Days are longer, the sun bakes the Earth to 90 degrees F, and flowers continue their assault of color. Fully aware of how lucky I am to be in warm weather right now, I am taking full advantage - mainly, working outside and tanning while I write. I know, it's a rough life. So to warm those of you getting buried in snow, here are some pretty pictures.

 

Bounty Hunters of the Southern Hemisphere

Two kids slowly stalked a flock of pigeons with their water guns. Besides the fact that they were trying (unsuccessfully) to spray the birds, I wondered who was smarter. Because honestly, have you ever had to "stalk" a pigeon? The birds are oblivious ... apparently so were the kids.

The Birds and the Bees

Last Wednesday I went to the grocery store to get food for Thanksgiving dinner. It was a perfect sunny day as I walked back to my apartment with a full backpack and bags of groceries in both hands. Passing a row of purple flowers, a bee landed on my left arm.My hands were full so I couldn't brush the bee away. So I thought, "Well bee, I'm not a flower. Once you realize this you will fly away, so until then I'll just let you stay on my arm."

Fifteen minutes later, the flower-challenged bee was still on me, and had moved up to my shoulder. I arrived at my apartment and needed to take my backpack off to get my keys. So I said, "Okay bee, times up. I'm taking off my backpack, I'm not trying to hurt you, so please don't sting me, just go find a flower or something." I carefully took my backpack off and the freakin bee stung me. 

Now I was angry. I pulled the stinger out of my arm and looked at the dumb bee, sadly rolling on the ground, in what I thought was its death throws. I always heard they die after they sting, and it sure looked like it was dying.

I felt bad for it, so I picked it up, brought it to my porch and put it on a flower so it could die in a pretty place (I couldn't bring myself to step on it). Well the next morning the bee was still there. Then I saw it fly off - looking like a perfectly healthy, yet stinger-less bee.

Thursday dawned. I went to pick up my turkey from the butcher's and there was a crested pigeon on the ground by the wine shop. Crested pigeons aren't like the city pests, but dainty native birds from Australia that have a distinctive mohawk. I like to think of them as pigeon punks. Here's an illustration from "Birds of Australian Gardens."

I looked at the pigeon and it seemed stunned. I left it alone, hoping it would just fly away. But no, of course not. I came out of the butchers with my 10 pound turkey and the pigeon was still there. I took a closer look and it seemed like its wing was broken and I thought, "What the hell is going on?!"

I grabbed a box from the wine shop and after some pigeon wrangling, got the bird in the box. And so it was indeed an odd Thanksgiving, walking up hill to my apartment with a 10 pound turkey in one hand, and a crested pigeon in the other.

It was a week of injured critters. I better be working my way up to a pony or I'm going to be very upset!

Goats can't read

A few weeks ago, Bob and I rented a car to explore the Hawkesbury River area, about an hour north of Sydney. A wide river cut through rolling hills, trees flaunted their bright new foliage, and I got to ride a pony! 

During my teenage years, my Dad gratefully took me to horseback riding lessons. Though I was no horse-whisperer, I learned enough to look somewhat graceful while trying not to fall off the horse. So, when I got to the stables in Hawkesbury, I figured I'd do pretty well. 

Well, I managed not to fall off. But grace was no factor in the day. Still, I was on a horse so I was happy. The stable was quite nice. They even matched your horse to your hair color so you didn't clash . . . well not really. 

After my lesson, Bob and I stumbled upon a small county fair. It's a good thing goats can't read.

The sign says "Red Meat Tastes Good, Goat Meat Tastes Better!"

This strapping lad is about to perform the "bush-castration-technique." 

And that's about all I have. I spent most of today cooking an "Aussie" Thanksgiving day feast. The kitchen is not my domain. It made my brain hurt. I retire with the utmost respect to kitchen and its confusing concoctions. Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!