art of waxing

Once upon a time in a land far, far away lived a girl. The girl came from the north, but was living in the south despite the ongoing threat of deadly predators, lacklustre work, and an apartment sandwiched between a miserably untalented midnight bongo drum player and the screeching girls of the 80s-rock revival chorus (also of midnight affection). Though her habitat in the south occasionally induced eye rolling and cynical sighing, the girl was happy.

The girl lived with her friend, whose frequent use of hyperbolic, superlative compliments sometimes made her giggle. Together they scoured op-shops for secondhand finds to delight and praise. He often made meals from their bulging array of cookbooks and she practiced her hand at artisan baking to wild applause (even when undeserved).

In the south, the girl found it intolerable, after a time, to toil away in the offices where the caustic people and environments melted her soul, so instead she tended to other girl-friendly pursuits, such as her loves of walking, photography, people-watching, and the fine art of waxing poetic.

She also assembled wise and witty commentary with fridge magnets and dry erase markers.

And spent a lot of time at the library, because whether in the north or south, the girl was a member of the Curious & Nerdy set, gladly gobbling up all manner of information and tidbit.

Of course, she was also kept entertained and involved with her friends and family in the north and east and west (and even more southernly) by whatever means necessary. The girl’s life was full and lovely.

One cool winter’s morning, the girl woke to discover something new. This novelty resided in her heart and as she examined it over and over again looking for any sign of confusion, she eventually found it to be clear of misinterpretation and as such, she knew what she had to do.

The following morning, the girl, as usual, donned her walking shoes and headed downtown. Pulling a numbered ticket resembling a paper tongue from the red dispenser, she quietly waited nearly half an hour for her turn. When the woman at the desk finally asked her what she could help the girl with, the girl responded she would like to arrange her return to the north. The attendant happily assisted the girl and when it was done, the girl returned to her apartment to begin the process of leaving the south.

A few weeks later, after a sad farewell with her roomie, the girl boarded the first of several connecting flights bound for her home in the north. Travel-weary and with a sore left ear, the girl arrived late one night, almost immediately inducing shock in her mother (after the girl and her father conspired to keep her return a surprise) that seemed to last for a couple days. After the girl reset her circadian rhythms, she boarded another flight to the west coast to spend time with her sister and deliciously cute brand new niece. And now the girl is back in her hometown once again…for a little while anyway…

Canada called, the girl answered.
Her adventure down under is now complete.

wondrously fleeting

Some days the best thing that can happen is for the fog to roll in…

I climbed an old cedar beside the beach and watched the world grow darker beyond our limbs. The sounds of the city muffled effortlessly beneath the thickness of the air. This is the closest it’ll get to the wondrously fleeting silence of a city blanketed in fresh snow.

And in the haze I became clear.

parcel of green

One of the things I like the most about Australians is their vehement dedication to the picnic.

Indeed, our southern hemisphere comrades know how to put on an outdoor spread better than anything me and the teddy bears have managed to conjure up in 30+ years. And as a result of their madness for all things al fresco, an entire industry has been salvaged from certain apathy and ruin. Australians, I may also note, are mad for all things “Australian” (in a very whimsically self-obsessed, insecure, reeks-like-American-politics sorta way (one must dare not act unAustralian, lest they be burned at the stake)), so naturally a galactic assortment of picnic accoutrement is the result of Oz culture meeting Oz commerce.

And nothing says Picnic like picnic-sized and picnic-shaped food, so devout reverence continues in their grocery store aisles. No where have I ever seen so much shelf real estate dedicated to the likes of crackers and cookies (they call both ‘biscuits’), nor so much cooler space reserved for the holiest of all picnic snacks, The Dip (once you see their idea of dip, our sad attempt with pink-hued Philly cheese is as laughable as it is embarrassing).

Now, mocking tone aside, I am serious when I say I love this little ditty of down under culture. The picnic is Big on cool, intelligence, and fun in my books. Not to mention it lends itself to any of a wide variety of events from get-togethers with friends, dates with cute-in-the-slightly-nerdy-way boys (or girls, if that’s your pleasure), outdoor festivals for the likes of music and movie, and just about any other occasion you can think of (Bought a new printer? Picnic! Managed to shave your legs more than once this month? Picnic! Found a penny? PICNIC!).

Staking a claim on a parcel of green space by way of lined picnic blanket (so any ground moisture does not sog your party) and then laying out the spread from any of a number of options for full-blown picnic plans (a wicker basket ala Little Red Riding Hood, a on-the-go backpack, or a cooler stuffed with ice, beer, and a bag of chips) brings one back to nature….even when surrounded by four million other equally picnic savvy peeps.

(Plus, no Melburnian would be caught dead noshing on the green without a fabulous bottle of wine (or three) and champagne. Even I, the unwitting teetotaler, have managed to get caught up in the thrill of picnic so much so that a half bottle of bubbly absolutely went to my head! Ahh…the things you do in the name of experience…)

And I am only going to say this once……

Cheers!

stuff that is old

Every city thinks they have one…

It has been a busy couple of weeks and posting has been sacked as of late to compensate. Details to come…

But first, I want to time travel back a bit and fill in some of the stories that got missed along the way when my mistress, the internet, was merely a fuzzy cloud of dial-up dreams.

Many months ago on the way to Melbourne I got to spend a day in Singapore.

Now, if you’re familiar with Singapore you’ll know that a day is plenty of time to explore because even given the fact it’s a country, it’s also basically just a city — and not an enormous one at that! I had heard different things about Singapore before heading there. Some said it’s sterile. Others found it exotic, just as they did other Asian cities.

My Singaporean knowledge spanned exactly two pieces of information: they were fussy about chewing gum and there was some sort of sea creature sculpture (Merlion) that defined the place and was on a postcard once sent to my office many, many years ago.

Oh, and I guess I knew about, but had not had a Singapore Sling. So there were exactly 3 things I knew about Singapore. (How embarrassing!)

Upon arriving in Singapore after some 30 hours of travel, I was delighted to find the following: foot massagers in the airport and a free city tour.

Singapore is on the equator (nearly) and as such has basically the same weather everyday all year long. To someone who had just escaped the frigid clutch of winter, this sounded most appealing. It also has 12 hours of night and 12 hours of day, every day, all year long. Though I’ve long detested the predictability of routine, the contents of Singapore’s routine sounded rather enticing for some reason I’ve even yet to understand (because frankly, I like the different seasons).

On the tour that is offered free for all passengers en route with 6+ hours of layover one learns about the many different aspects and the history of Singapore. Of course the tour is bias in that it exists to bring in tourism and otherwise paint Singapore a wonderful place, but I couldn’t help but love the tour guide who was a firecracker obviously smitten with her hometown/city/country! And though I’ll admit to being rather freaked out by the pods of machine gun-toting militia that tour the Singapore airport (seriously, OMG!), beyond that I found Singapore to be truly enchanting and (oddly) not the least bit sterile, despite the fact nearly everything gleams with new-new-newness or revamped-with-paint-and-kept-to-a-brilliant-glowness. It is a true cosmopolitan city filled with the vibrancy of an abundance of cultures and history — enough, in fact, to turn my travel-soaked heart into a flitter of whimsy.

And no, I didn’t pay $12 for a Singapore Sling at the bar named Raffles (where it was invented), and lucky that, as it turns out I don’t even like them anyway!! (Shocker, I know, given my entirely unsuccessful effort to become an alcoholic!)

And though I do typically reserve my love for stuff that is old and in some form of decay (particularly whilst photographing), something about the well-keptness of Singapore won me over. Or perhaps I was just too travel-weary to have any sense to discern at all…

similarly canadian

But seriously, am I the only person who thinks dust is just the most bizarre substance ever? Dust. It’s just…..so……indescribable….yet so everywhere and on everything….

Last weekend was art weekend, where I went to the Melbourne (unofficial) version of MOMA. Modern art, I’ll be honest, sorta bugs me. I expose myself to it for that reason…because if all I ever experience is that which is acquiescent with my personality, I won’t grow or learn, but I rarely, rarely, rarely enjoy modern art or feel it is anything but some hilarious coup to see what the most ridiculous thing possible is that can be given a spotlight. I feel this way about it when it’s in museums and I feel the same when it’s parading around the city trying to get noticed for being different; as if being different is some amazing feat that only a privileged few are blessed with. Anyway, suffice it to say that while the collection may have been grand by some people’s standards, I found it mostly pretentious and lacking any real depth or feeling.

This is my soapbox, after all.

After the museum, though, was a trip to an old convent converted into artist studios and small offices for the healing arts and charities.

THIS was COOL.
And a veritable buffet of photographic joy

once I knew what door to go in…

Perhaps the best part was that you could just roam around unfettered. Unlike the museum, which was sterile and equipped with the most ridiculous rules I’ve yet to encounter (no pens in the museum?!?!), the convent had way more life — stories creeping out of every corner just begging to be told.

Little gems like handmade glass windows that make your view outside wobbly.

And places to just sit and dream as the world passed by hurriedly below.

And then, of course, on Sunday it was Canada Day.

I woke up to a house littered in Canadian ephemera that roomie had picked up during his travels a few years ago when we met.

As every good Canadian knows, it is essential to always have on hand a hockey puck for impromptu games whilst shuffling from igloo to igloo, a totem pole bottle opener to be reminded of our ancestors approval of Pilsner, and a bear bell…because the first thing I’m going to do when faced with an animal that can shred me like cheddar is ring the dinner bell to get the saliva pouring!

Here’s hoping all of you had a similarly Canadian day and no one was made into a tasty treat.

the marquee

In my neighborhood, there is a venue where a lot of the medium-sized acts that come to town play. I’ve yet to go inside, though a number of delicious artists have played there even since I’ve lived here. Live music is such a hit or miss thing and at $100 a pop, one must do some serious soul searching to gauge if it’s worth it.

But I digress….a few months ago as I was walking home from a work gig, I noticed a lot of people walking around sort of all looking the same. The Australian term for this particular look is “bogun” but we all know such a look to be “banger” or “trailer-park”. Long hair, mullets, tight black jeans, dark eye makeup, band t-shirts. The works. As I approached the growing mob, I realised almost everyone had a KISS t-shirt, hat or bandana on. Looking up to the marquee, I saw that Paul Stanley was playing that night. Suddenly the scene made a lot more sense. As I continued through the throng of black-laden, poofy-hair, mellowed-out-by-a-few-cold-ones-in-the-parking lot concert goers, I pondered the fact that although these people were attending the concert of one person from the band KISS, their fandom clearly resided with the whole band.

What would Mr. Stanley think of such a display? Is that loyalty or the opposite of loyalty?

Not being of a particular group that follows the whos and wheres of 70s and 80s rock bands (especially ones that looks scary) (I’m a sensitive girl), I have no idea why Sir Stanley is touring alone and not with KISS. Perhaps it was just time for them to take a break. Maybe they did the old ‘amicable split’. Maybe their creative differences got the best of them or perhaps buddy just woke up one morning and thought, “to hell with this group thang, I’s gonna get me some solo love!” I have no idea.

In any case, this is really just a long way of stating my current rhetorical conundrum: would it be in bad form for me to wear my Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt* to the screening of Blades of Glory tonight?

*no, not that lame-o ‘Vote for Pedro’ one that everyone and their grandma owns!

on earth

Winter in Melbourne, as best I can tell so far, looks a lot like a soggy version of fall back home.

When it’s nice, it’s great and when it’s not nice, you feel like inventing weather missiles just to break up the monotony of gray, gray, gray. The clouds roll in and lay over you like a lead blanket…weighing down your heart and making it hard to breathe (that was today). But on the weekend it was beautiful, so with roomie at the wheel, off we went to investigate a platypusary.

A platywhatary?

A habitat for platypuses. Platypii? Platypiis?
Here…I’ll prove it…

We went to a wildlife sanctuary where I saw lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

Maybe not.

But I did see lazy roos soaking up some rays

itchy pelicans

and camo tree frogs (why are there so many….songs about rainbows….and what’s on the other side….?)

There were, of course, platypuses in the platypusary and they were the cutest of cute! Sorry no pictures, they don’t like the flashes.

And these guys are too snuggly not to mention

The trip was also, of course, educational, because who would have otherwise known that koalas do it sidesaddle in a tree?

Which wouldn’t be worth mentioning, except that after I walked in on the humping goanna lizards, I suddenly felt a bit pervy…

and had the distinct impression that after hours this wildlife sanctuary turns into a raunchy brothel.

But actually, the visit was great fun. Did you know there’s a bird called the Lyer bird that can imitate other bird’s calls? And if that’s not impressive enough (and it was), it also mimics things like cameras, cell phones, and kids crying. Okay, that last one nobody needs, but I swear, when it made a perfect shutter sound, I was sold on the fact that this bird is kicking the asspants off evolution!

It’s like the bird equivalent to that guy off the Police Academy movies or the very cool (and more modern) Umbilical Brothers.

And to top the visit off, I bought the best pair of sunglasses ever produced on earth and proceeded to wear them around my apartment all night.

Because sometimes I just feel that cool.

on the road again

Let me just start by welcoming you all. Today we’re visiting Moonee Ponds, so I want to thank you for joining the tour and if there’s anything at all that I can do to make your time with us more enjoyable, please don’t hesitate to write it on a fiver and pass it up to the front here.
[laughs and snorts at hilarity of ownself]

My name is Crystal and I will be your guide today through the wonderful little gem we call Moonee.

Now, our first (oh alright, our only) street today is Main Street.

Despite our fantastical name, the town is not what you city folk would call “hip or groovy”. Our population has held at a steady 12,000 since the late 1700s. Okay, that’s a lie. Moving On!

Now, if you care to look just over to your left, you’ll see our charming beauty parlour, where one can procure any number of painful and expensive procedures.

I highly recommend the full body wax. It hurts like a mo-fo, but you’re just so darn aerodynamic after! Why I cut nearly 18 seconds off my walk to the post office yesterday!

And now, next to charming Novita is our very own Vincent.

Vincent has no idea at all what his profession should be called and prefers to cover all the bases with appropriate signage.

Now over on your right, you’ll see we’re just coming up to Moonee Ponds’ most famous clothier–

Where a gentleman can find an array of burlap sacks to meet all his everyday dressing needs. (And might I say, this is also a very popular shop for the savvy scarecrows in town!) [more laughing and snorting at self]

Trust me. The less-than-average ones end up here.

[uproarious laughter and snorting ensues, much to the dismay of the tour folk]

Ahem….Well, that concludes our tour of the metropolis of Moonee Ponds. Thank you for joining us, we hope you’ve enjoyed the last three minutes. Please feel free to have a coffee at the shop just opposite the van as you exit. Be sure to mention this tour at the time of ordering and they’ll throw in a free squirt of Grand Marnier flavouring! You’d be a fool not to.

We hope to see you again real soon. Bye!

queen of hearts

Okay…I know in the last post I implied it was a bit strange (willy-nilly even) the way Australians decide when their seasons start, but I was willing to let it go after a bit of a chuckle. After all, they say to-mah-to and I say to-may-to, so we’re obviously coming from different viewpoints at times.

But to-may-to, to-mah-to, po-tay-to, po-tah-to is quite a world of difference from Queen-we-know-it-isn’t-your-birthday-today-but-we’ve-decided-
we-need-a-long-weekend-in-June-so-we’ll-just-say-it-is.

Let me introduce to you to our Queen.

Quite fetching in her younger days wouldn’t you say?

Well, this Queen’s birthday is April 21st. Today is June 11th, the celebrated holiday in Australia called ‘The Queen’s Birthday.’

Now, being bright little whipper-snappers, you’re probably thinking, as I did, “oh, they’re probably referring to another Queen.” A comment which, while making fabulous sense, is entirely unfounded. They are celebrating Queen Elizabeth II’s birthday, nearly two months after the fact.

Perhaps they got confused by the time change??

Maybe we can blame it on hemispheric disassociation?!

Whatever the reason, if I were the Queen (what do you mean if…?) I’d be all, “off with their heads” over this particular lunacy.

of winter and nanas

Well, it’s official: It’s winter.

Australia has the quirky tradition of choosing otherwise completely arbitrary days to make things official. In this example, they choose the first of day a respective month to declare a change of season instead of the usual equinox and solstice days that I’m accustomed to. Therefore, June 1st is the first day of winter. Just like that. No fanfare. No shortest day. No nothing. It’s June. It’s winter. Shut up about it.

And yes, I know you’re all reveling in your spring/summer glory now. Probably dancing around half naked in a cozy rendition of Billy Idol’s Hot in the City. Sarcasm aside, I’m happy for you. Back in February when I was roasting at 36 degrees celcius and your nubs were all frozen and falling off, I sympathised and tried not to rub your runny frostbitten noses in it.

Other fun tidbits about Australian winters so far are that although it’s not technically cold, it’s still cold. There’s no damn heating in these apartments and I’d say about a dollar’s worth of insulation, not to mention the wood floors, so suffice it to say that warmth is a temptress in her many forms. Blankets, hot water bottles, tea, space heaters, fat socks, showers, did I say blankets? Oh, and sweaters, sweaters, sweaters. No, I’m no grandma—I’m cardigan-hip, not cardigan hip-replacement! Fingers and noses and toeses are cold. It’s not unlike camping where you wriggle around in your sleeping bag putting your clothes on because it’s just too darn frosty to risk it in the open air. In Japan I had this crazy heated table thing (called a kotatsu for anyone who cares) that you sat at and kept warm by…no Australian equivalent thus far. Contrary to popular belief, a sunny disposition actually does not produce any heat.

And I think I might be slowly drowning myself from the inside with soup. I can’t get enough of it. And it’s warm. I will say it’s glorious to finally have some fruit to eat though. Ah, apples and oranges….I have missed you like a limb. Exotic and delicious though they may be, I am not seduced by the passionfruit, nor am I smitten with the pineapple. Give me a Granny Smith any time of day. And a big hurrah for root vegetables that are now back in season! I know we’re now meant to call all squash and gourds “pumpkin” in this land, but I resist and know in my heart that pumpkins are big and orange and are grown strictly for mutilation and jiffy marking. But squash and sweet potato and regular potato and turnips and parsnips, we will have many warm and happy days together when I put you in my belly.