SpaceMika

Like Terry Pratchett’s trolls, I don’t do well in heat. As the temperature climbs, my brain starts to melt. Needless to say, I was not terribly productive when I visited Queensland.

I was in Melbourne for the hottest day in its recorded history (over 45C), the hottest three consecutive days in a century, and the hottest week on record. For a while I was sleeping cuddled with gallon juice jug of frozen ice to keep cool. I’d link you to an entry outlining my adventures during that time, but I was so sluggish and brain-melty that I couldn’t figure out how to work the keyboard and didn’t write anything.

Vancouver’s in a Vancouver-style heat wave. We had a remarkable lightning storm during the fireworks earlier this week, and temperatures are regularly over 25C (breaking records at over 33C). As a troll, I’m only able to hold coherent conversations in the early hours or late at night. But I’m not the only one:

Due to the extreme heat, the department office will close at 3 pm until
further notice. Only one staff will man the office from 2-3 pm

The Australians are so laughing at us.

I wrote this during my ridiculously long stopover at LAX (I was overly generous in allotting myself time for immigration, baggage claim, customs, re-depositing baggage, re-checking in, and security).

Being in the US again is really strange, yet comforting. The PA announcer voices are so nasal they sound like someone mocking the American accent. People speak Spanish, not Italian.

After getting spoiled by all-fancy-coffee-drinks-for-the-price-of-filter in Melbourne, I couldn’t bare to pay a premium for a coffee-based drink and got something tea-based instead. It was downright startling to realize tax wasn’t included in price, and I swear the American $5 bill has been updated since last time I saw one.

I’ve had quite a few pleasant conversations this journey so far. The man next to me for my long flight was mostly incredibly quiet, but we started talking when he asked for help reading his customs form (he spoke fluent English, but was more comfortable reading in French). He, too, is heading home after 6 months in Melbourne (with side trips to Sidney) where he was visiting extended quasi-family. We shared a giggle over noticing the absence of green visa-cards in all the rows surrounding us and the heavy use of “eh” and concluding we were a pack of misplaced moose heading home.

I’m falling into a practiced swing of explaining my journey, I’ve been asked so often. I’ve been in Australia for six months, exploring the country, playing with rocks, and meeting my boyfriend’s family. I had a great time, but I’m very excited to be home again, and to see my family. The gate staff for my final flight leg sympathised with my desire to get home, and seated me as far forward in the plane as she could, on an aisle seat, so I can be one of the very first ones off and through customs and get home those few minutes faster.

I’ve had some funny conversations with the customs officers. One was deeply curious as to why I was travelling with cleaned rocks of no economic value (“I’m a geologist! Collecting rock samples is what we do!”), another admired the handwriting on the address label of my box, and one wished me and my Monkey a safe journey.

My small plush Monkey is causing quite a stir. He’s been traveling by poking his nose out of my knitting bag, hands carefully tucked through the handle of my laptop case to prevent him from spilling out unnoticed. When I departed the Land of Oz, Elka commented on his pose being that of an exceptionally well-behaved child. On my intercontinental flight, he spent most of it perched on my lap, and at one stage attracted the cooing of a flight attendant who pet his tiny nose before moving down the aisle to attend to her duties. While checking in for the last leg of my flights, an elderly gentleman in line behind me asked permission to introduce himself to the Monkey; I think his poor eyesight may have deceived him into perceiving an actual small child or animal poking out of my bag. Un-dissuaded by the realization of Monkey’s plush nature, the elderly man called out a goodbye to us as we left the line for the upper reaches of security check-in. Finally, as I settled myself in my gate’s lounge to get some work done in the remaining five hours of my layover, an elderly woman initiated conversation with, “So, what’s the story with the monkey?” We then chatted about computers (she left the workforce right as they were being introduced, so knows nothing of them), knitting (our mutual dissatisfaction with the knitting-needle ban, and showing off finished objects), and the economic crises (particularly with the modern demand for her former profession, Collections).

Everyone is commenting on my hats. Some staff are asking why I have so many hats, others think the two-layer stack is one highly unique hats; most fellow travelers give me a double-take, then a nod of recognition as they figure out it’s a hat-transportation method. A lovely Canadian woman responded to my “classically Aussie” self-depreciating comment on the jarring style of my hats with my outfit by telling me that I looked lovely and it was a unique style. This was later reinforced by another staffer, who declared it would make people notice me which was always a good thing. I started a side conversation with fellow-travelers about how I didn’t think it was necessarily a good thing to stand out in a crowd, especially when airport security is concerned…

There are many ducks, but this is my duck. Marvin the Rubber Duckie has a long history of selfless service in the name of science. In January 1992, he was swept overboard during a storm and his eventual recovery helped scientists map ocean currents. Thrilled by being part of something bigger than himself, Marvin volunteered as a duckie in tracking glacier outwash. After all that cold and ice, he decided to warm up with a vacation in the sun & headed down under. Relaxing on the beaches, he saw the amazing job being done by the Lifesavers (seriously, those folks are amazing) and asked what he could do to help. And that’s how Marvin ended up in the Great Australian Duck Race.

I adopted Marvin, duckie #26746. I hope his vast experience with currents will serve him well, and that hot weather isn’t too much for him.

Today, I had a classically Melbournian adventure.

I went downtown, did some emergency yarn shopping, then walked down towards the free tourist tram. I got highjacked along the way by a Sidney man looking for directions; I couldn’t provide them but I had a map & we started chatting. He wants to move to Melbourne, had been to Vancouver (and done the Grouse Grind), and only parted ways when I insisted that no, I was not available for lunch… or dinner. I found my way from the far side of the river under the bridge and into the gardens, where I realized that I’d really rather sit and read than join the knitters in the cafe. There, I was stopped twice more by people asking directions; I must look knowledgeable!

I then attempted to board a tram, and got yelled at for not signalling appropriately that I wished to board. My thickest “sorry” did not move him; there is no sympathy for bemused tourists. I hopped back off again at Federation Square, and attempted to ask the ticket-sellers which tram would get me to the corner of Whitehorse & Burke. He snarled at me, and pointed at a map that I’d already studied fruitlessly before approaching his counter. From there I fled to the tourist-information center, where better maps assisted me. A little old lady studying the same maps took me in hand to make sure I had my routes planned right, and collected me a help ticket, and sent me to the help ladies, where two of them loaded me down with photocopies of maps and exact tram instructions. It was very cute.

Coming back above ground, I promptly disobeyed them and headed to the trains & hopped off at Camberwell station, where I read in the chocolate shop, the back alleys, the center of a mall, and in a bookstore. I also browsed for books forever, did a bit of shopping, and concluded that I wasn’t in the mood to spend money (which failed to damp either my browsing or shopping, but did limit the actual purchasing step). Eventually I hopped back on a final tram home, appropriately signaling that I wished to board, but earning my third yelling of the day for not noticing the end of the line & disembarking fast enough.
I felt quite victorious when I finally made it home, and deeply understanding of why everyone told me that although the bus drivers are sweet, the tram drivers are a bit more lacking in the courtesy department.

I was reading on the back porch when a few large damp drops made me look up at an incoming wall of dark storm clouds. Feeling pleased and clever, I moved the drying laundry indoors and went for a walk in the rain with the Cute Boy.

…the rain never thickened beyond a few large splats, sparse enough that the sidewalk didn’t even look wet. My lesson of the day? When it rain in Melbourne, there’s no need to take in the drying wash.

I’m back in Melbourne, taking it easy & catching up on the digital heap of email. I have extensive notes and about 4 gigs of photos to sift through and write up for your reading pleasure. To hold you over until then (and to make Chris even more jealous), I present one more photo from the Kangaroo/Wallaby feeding set:

Mika feeds Mama Wallaby, who feeds her baby. One degree of separation for infinite cuteness!

The night before I fled the rains, I channel-surfed dreams while an avatar of the Cute Boy riffed in Polish, adding incomprehensible Mystery Science Theater commentary to the dreams as they flipped past.

The theme of my journey was “synchronicity.” My father made standby on our first leg, meeting us at LAX for a departure dinner before continuing on his own trip. Going through security, we were swarmed by yellow-breasted high school boys returning to Sidney from a rugby tournament. Irrepressibly curious, they asked me question after question with barely pauses to breath and none to hear responses. On the flight, we were in the bulkhead seats for luxurious quantities of legroom, and well-behaved polite Mormon missionaries guarded the rows behind. The stewardess was deeply intrigued by my knitting (I’d cast on a hat on the drive from Vancouver); the skill is not as widely practiced in Australia as in the cold lands of the north. In-flight entertainment systems allowed for intra-seat instant messaging and arcade games, although none of the other 400 passengers joined our tetris tournament. The only hiccup came at baggage claim, where a full third of bags were misdirected for a joyride around the airport. The quarantine puppy was intrigued but unalarmed by my chocolate, and the inspectors delighted by my impeccably-cleaned geology gear. They were even kind enough to snip the lock TSA had added to my backpack. (Dear TSA: wtf? Love, a bemused passenger)

Outside the airport, I’m surprised with how familiar Melbourne is — the colours are remarkably similar to southern California, sun-baked earth tones of olive and brick red set into fields of gold. The birds are uniformly vocal and brazen. I snuck up on a rainbow lorikeet, an impromptu wildlife photographer as the Cute Boy protected me from oncoming traffic.

I’m having the same challenges in conversation as I did in France years ago. I loose words, staring blankly as I  frantically try to interpret sounds into meaning and failing completely. In Canada, I’ve developed the habit of giving a one-sentence cultural background when the Cute Boy joins a conversation in progress; in Australia it’s his turn to give me the topic so I have better odds of identifying keywords. I have learned the danger of making non-committal positive noises when in doubt.

My “sorry”s have become even more Canadian, dropping into an accent so thick there are localized snowfalls to accompany the word.

My first day in Melbourne was cold, a mere 27C. At one point I held the camera over my head and took a photo; Vancouver’s smothering grey skies seem unreal already. We went for a walk in the sunshine, and so deceived were we by the bright light that we barely made it home in time for dinner.

The Cute Boy is very, very happy to be home.

I’ve met several new varieties of eucalypti, shorter gnarled parents of the ship-mast groves of Californian eucalyptus trees.

By the time I can get online, I will be in the rainforest (not jungle) north of Cairns. Armed with new sunglasses, my floppy field hat, and bright green sunscreen (and even more colourful zinc-sticks), I will remove my watch and have a thoroughly unplanned adventure.