An American Aussie Tourist

Home. A very surreal experience – In a strange way, I feel very much like a visitor in my own life. Maybe it’s because I know this really is just a ‘visit’ and I will be returning to Australia in 15 days.

Duty-free Shop at SYD

As expected, the journey home was not without it challenges. I was surprised to feel a little sad to leave the place I called home the past six weeks. Then I remembered – oh yeah, I’m coming back. I had a chatty driver (still Middle Eastern) who wanted to know my life story. After asking me where I was from, he told me he didn’t know Nevada and wanted to know if that was part of California. Sometimes I wonder about that myself.  He did manage to drop me off at the wrong terminal. It is just hard to imagine that someone is not flying Qantas.  Not a big deal. Once I made my way to the international terminal, I was faced with the usual dilemma I have with a foreign airport – finding United in a sea of other carriers. You see, they don’t have the signage that an American airport has. They have screens with information however they are so similar it is hard to distinguish one from another. I should have known it would be on the farthest end. I had about 90 minutes, was hungry and of course, still had a few gifts to buy so it becomes a question of before or after (going through customs and security). I opted to do the customs thing. The line was long, but I did have a special express pass as a business class passenger. The only thing better was to be a pilot or flight attendant – they have priority over everyone as they walk up, open his or her passport ‘book’ and get the obligatory stamp ‘Departing Australia.’ I had to laugh as I walked through the duty-free store upon leaving customs. It’s one thing to do that at a theme park when you exit a ride, but to be forced to walk through a store filled with perfume, liquor and chocolates? C’mon now! My favourite is the 60” plasma tele. I can just imagine walking through the store, getting ready to board my flight and think “wait a minute, that’s what I forgot! I really need to buy that TV… after all, I won’t have to pay any GST (tax)“ and then whip out the Visa and buy it. Just seems like a strange purchase to make at an international airport. Of course, I quickly figured out I should have eaten on the other side. There were 2 options, neither were appealing. Oh well, more time for shopping. Only thing is, there wasn’t anything I wanted to buy.

Best.Drink.Ever.

On to Sydney. The flight is short (55 minutes) but due to heavy traffic, we spent an extra 35 minutes going out of our way to delay our landing in Sydney. This was eating into my meal time and the last opportunity to buy those gifts. (Oh and I forgot to mention, during this time I was caffeine-free.) At least it was a scenic detour. I’ll never get tired of flying into Sydney, it truly is a sight to see the Harbour Bridge and Opera House from the air.  Upon exiting the plane, I headed straight to Gloria Jeans (the Australian version of Starbucks) got my Voltage and then remembered there are only two food options in Sydney’s International terminal as well. What’s the deal here? There is a full-blown food court in both Melbourne and Sydney’s domestic terminals. I guess they want you buying plasma televisions and liquor, not eating. I did manage to accomplish two out of three tasks so I was fairly happy.

But then it started. First was a plane change. Still a 747 but a different configuration – so it meant reassigning seats. I went from a window seat to a backwards middle aisle seat. Still, it is in business so I shouldn’t complain. Well, when the person next to you has the world’s smallest bladder, then maybe you can complain just a little. I swear I had to get up every 30 minutes. If it wasn’t to use the lavatory it was to get into the overhead locker. He actually dropped his bag on me once without so much as an apology. Of course now I realize I should have just swapped seats with him. DUH! Movie selection was subpar as was the food selection but there was little turbulence and we landed right-side up and when you fly, that’s what really matters. I certainly was more comfortable than the people stuffed into the back of the plane. Gotta keep it all in perspective.

Which is what I had to remind myself once I got to San Francisco… time and time again. I am alive, I am healthy, I have a great job, and I’m very soon I’m going to see my kids as I sit and wait for my delayed flight. After what felt like an eternity (3 + hours), we boarded our regional jet for the quick hop over to Reno. As luck would have it, I had an older woman sitting next to me who was wheelchair bound so I waited an additional 15 minutes after the last passenger exited  for the ground crew to get her an aisle chair. At that point I wasn’t concerned, after all I had been travelling for almost 24 hours so what was a few more minutes?

The kids (and Jeni) were waiting anxiously for me just past security. Both their faces lit up as they ran up to greet me with big hugs. Again, Murphy had to have the last laugh I realized that only one of my bags made the flight. Sigh. Fortunately for me, my second bag (the one with all the gifts) was on the next flight and was landing in 10 minutes. So we waited. 30 minutes later here comes bag number 2 and we’re off to Taco Johns. Next stop was Starbucks, as in ‘my’ Starbucks. It was a great reunion – it was a lot like Norm walking into Cheers.

It is strange being back in the states. Sunday I drove for the first time in over six weeks. I realized then that I didn’t miss it at all and how nice it is to jump on a train and not worry about traffic. I found myself more stressed and swearing (sorry, mom) than I ever was in Australia. I find myself comparing everything to Australia and I have to say it is much more relaxing for me down under. If only everyone would move with me, I’d be content to stay there forever. In fact, when anyone asks me when I’m going back, I kept saying “I go home on September 13.” Then I remember. I AM HOME. Oops! Really, it is good to be home but I look forward to returning to Australia soon.

Six Minutes

Today I experienced the longest 6 minutes of my life is waiting for a train. I'm a timely person. I allow for the unexpected. With this in mind, I leave 55 minutes before a scheduled meeting with a colleague. I get to the train station and see there are two options. One leaves in 6 minutes goes straight to Flinders Station, closer to my destination. The other is the City Loop train which leaves in 8 minutes that goes through Southern Cross, a station that is further away from my destination. So I opt for the 6 minute wait (I used up 10 minutes walking to the station so better safe than sorry). I pick a good waiting spot - this is important particularly when it is crowded (which it wasn't but still) - and look at the sign one more time. Still 6 minutes. Okay, no worries. A few minutes later I notice something strange as I gaze across 6 platforms. First, the City Loop train comes and goes. No worries, my train is sure to be here straightway afterall the signs are usually 'more or less' so I wasn't concerned. Then I notice a train going to Frankston that was scheduled 12 minutes after my arrival comes and goes. Huh. I look at my sign again. Still says 6 minutes. Next a train that was 15 minutes out and then 18 minutes out... So now I'm suspicious. Wait a dog gone minute! Why does my train still say 6 minutes? MURPHY, WHAT ARE YOU UP TO? I look at the time. 10:57 and I realize the Flinder Express train arrival was 10:11 6 minutes. That's not good. I look over and see there is another City Loop train coming. In 2 minutes. The race is on - I have to go up the ramp, go across the bridge and down the other ramp. I, along with a few others who decided they couldn't afford to wait 6 minutes, make it onboard. (At least I'm smart enough now to wear walking shoes and put my dress shoes in my backpack.) I look over as we pull away and there are still several people who were standing there when I first go to the station 20 odd minutes ago. I'm guessing that they experienced an even longer 6 minutes. 


Once you get on a train, the rest is fairly predictable. This is a good thing. You get on, you sit down, you arrive at your destination. You get off. There are a wide variety of passengers from all walks of life. You have your business people in their suits, loafers with their bulky briefcases or backpacks. They usually have a look of resignation - it's going to be another long day at the office. You have your group of young adults with their skinny jeans, hoodies pulled up over their head with cell phone in hand and music blaring through their headphones. You wonder if they should be in school. The students are easy to pick put. They all wear uniforms.They also have their cell phones and music but actually make eye contact and even smile occasionally. It is not uncommon to find a bicyclst riding the train with their bike or a mother with her pram. These individuals can make it challenging to board if you happen to pick the wrong spot to board (you don't have a lot of time to change your mind and go to another car, hence the art of picking the right spot to wait). The young and the old, they shuffle on and off at each station in an orderly fashion. There is no pushing or shoving like other countries. It is truly a civilized process and my preferred method of travel within the city. If only they would extend the train out to the airport. Then I could avoid the $80 cab ride to the airport with some man from the Middle East who will invaribly ask me for directions. Like I sound like I would know where I'm going! I kid you not - there has been two times that I wasn't asked for directions. The first time was the week I arrived. The bellhop hails the cab, I get in and give him the address: 500 Bourke Street. He turns around and asks me for directions. Never mind that Bourke is one of the main streets within the Central Business District. Then he asked me how to spell it as he typed it into his GPS. You would think knowing the main streets would be part of the job training. Apparently this is not the case. It would be helpful if they at least spoke English. This would be why I prefer the trains. No translator needed.

Doors, Lifts, Boots, and Other Nuances

I am living in a foreign country. I get it. Or I thought I did. Down to the smallest of details, things are different. We all do things without thinking about them; whether by instinct or familiarity many tasks are done without any brain power. That all changes when you leave the comforts of home.

Doors – easy enough, right? Nope! Where we pull they push, and vice versa. Not a big deal but a little frustrating as you continually pull instead of push or push instead of pull. Sometimes this is noticed by others. You can see it in their eye as they shake their heads (just a little). Crikey! Can’t even open a bloody door! The worst example is my shower door. After being here five weeks I discovered that the door works both ways – you can pull it or push it. As you can imagine I’ve been pulling it open (the American way) and managing to soak the floor mat. Today I figured out if you push it, you avoid the big puddle. Huh! Good to know. Problem solved providing I remember to push instead of pull.

Aussies speak English, I speak English yet there are many times I have to stop and figure out what they are trying to say. Boot = truck, shopping cart = trolley, lift = elevator, robe = closet, biscuit = cookie, brekkie = breakfast, chewie = gum, docket = receipt, ute = truck, unit = apartment, petro = gas. You get the picture.

Then there is security. To get into any office – large or small – usually requires a magnetic card. If you, as a visitor require entry you will have to use a buzzer to gain entry into the building, stop at a concierge desk, show identification, answer several questions about who you are, the person you are meeting, and when you will be departing. You are then given a neon visitor pass that you MUST wear around your neck. Every meeting I’ve had so far has been on the top floor and usually means a 15 minute ride. Even express elevators… err… I mean lifts… means stopping on at least 80% of the levels (floors). The worst is when you stop at level 21 and someone gets on and then gets off at level 22. Seriously? Take the stairs! It’s good for your heart and for mine (because I get impatient stopping at every level when people could walk up or down the stairs).

Last week was my most challenging week since my arrival. I needed to go to Brisbane (“briz-bun” or “Brissie”) to observe a couple of pilot programs. Sunday morning I’m up early to depart Melbourne at o’dark thirty so I can arrive mid-morning and take advantage of the sun and warmth of the tropical north. I digress a moment to discuss airport security. It is recommended that you allow 30 minutes to check in your baggage and get through security. When I first arrived and departed for my Sydney flight, I scoffed at the notion you would allow 30 minutes so I allowed 90. Way too much time! In fact, you only have to allow 30 if you are flying Monday morning or Friday afternoon. You walk up to a self check-in kiosk, enter your information, and print your boarding pass. If you check in online and can print your pass, you skip this part and proceed directly to bag check-in. You show your boarding pass put your bag on the belt and it is promptly tagged and whisked away.  Then you proceed to security. The longest line I have ever seen is 10 people. Usually there are one or two people. You walk up, put your laptop in a tray, put your bag on the belt, walk through the metal detector and pick up your belongings. They do not check your ID, they do not check for a boarding pass, and you do not have to remove anything that is not metal (shoes, coats, liquids, etc.). So you can basically get through the airport with no documentation yet you cannot even enter an office building without going through a laborious process. I’ve asked several Aussies about this discrepancy but they simply shrug their shoulders and say “that’s just the way it is.”

Two adventures to share from last week’s trip. Monday late afternoon. After a long day, I’m walking the 4 blocks back to my hotel (uphill) wondering why on earth I didn’t bring my walking shoes. As I’m climbing 10 sets of stairs up the hill in a part, I twist my foot just enough to cause me to fall upstairs (yes, I’m THAT talented). Instinctively I stuck out my right arm and let’s just say that wasn’t my finest moment. Graceful I am not.

Wednesday. Lunch time. Lunch for Aussies is sandwiches. Just sandwiches. Always have interesting sauces and other veggies that are not appealing to a picky eater like me. I was very tired after being on the phone with my boss until midnight. I decided I needed coffee desperately if I were to make it until 5… on second thought I’ll save that story for another day.

Warning: Do Not Use Blow Dryer While Immersed in Water

Don’t we all laugh at stupid warning labels? Warning: this sleeping pill can cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery. Like what idiot would do that? Well…

First of all, I’m fine. Really. Fine. I guess you should consider a sink with water in it to be a hazard if you are blowing drying your hair and you drop said dryer … and well, I’m fine. Really. Last time I felt a shock like that tinsel was involved. Obviously that was a long time ago because who uses tinsel anymore? If they did they should have the warning “don’t plug in lights with tinsel in the middle as it will give you a pretty good jolt, dumb ass.”

So that’s how I started my day. It was bound to get better. It did not.

Just when I thought I had mastered the public transportation system, I found out that I really only figured out to get from point A to point B – not from point A to point E through C and D in the rain. See, the trains aren’t your normal trains. There is no Blue line, Green Line or Red Line. There is only one two colours in this Metro system: Yellow (zone 1) and Blue (zone 2). All I know is stay in the Yellow, do not – I repeat – do not cross into the Blue zone. Again. I’m fine. Really. Every train goes through the city loop (which is misleading and ultimately led me to believe that I had, in fact, mastered the satanic PTS or the “plan on being tardy system” as I have now renamed it). You have to be able to determine exactly which station on the city loop that will take you to your next train AND make sure that it is travelling in the RIGHT direction. Tricky! I finally arrived at Bill Lang’s Office (the group that introduced Miller Heiman to our client) soaked to the skin but feeling a small sense of victory because I did. Arrive, that is.

The idea that I would get out of my small studio apartment and be amongst the people seemed appealing. Flashback – working in an office does not necessarily mean you will get to work. Oh yeah! I forgot what it was like to work in an office. There are 4 people who work at Bill Lang’s Office: Brendan, Noel, Martina, and of course, Bill. After settling in at a desk in a rather smallish one room office, I looked out the window with the satisfaction that I would get a lot accomplished. Nope, didn’t happen. I did however answer a lot of questions so obviously I helped others but alas, did not get anything done that I needed to do.

At 2:45 I get a message: can I chair a call at 4:30. Quandary, do I stay at Bill Lang’s office and risk getting lost in the dark and disappear in the throes of the evening rush? Nah, I have had enough adventures for one day so I decided to head back to my place. At least it stopped raining. The walk back to Victoria Park station seemed shorter. The sun came out. Things were looking up. And then it happened. I hear several footsteps behind me and incoherent yelling. As I turn, a large black man ran into me. Full force. Yep, landed on my butt. In a puddle. Then he proceeded to step on me. Once. Twice. Ouch. The good news is was under arrest by the time I was able to get up. The not so good news is I am bruised and feel like I got hit by a Mac truck.

You cannot imagine how happy I was to get back with 9 minutes to spare as I walked in the door. I managed to change quickly into dry clothes, turn on my laptop and plug in my Australia mobile phone (which was almost dead). 4:30 exactly and I am chairing the call. Dave joins. Glad he got my message. So we wait. And wait. And wait. At 4:40 we get an email from the person who wanted the call. She was unable to make it. Sorry. Sorry?!

Sigh. Today was not my best day. But I am fine. Really.

And Bob's Your Uncle!

I’ve been living down under now for three weeks and every day I find myself becoming a little less American and a little more Aussie… I guess one can’t help adapting to one’s environment. The assumption that Australia is a bit more ‘Americanized’ than other countries may stem from the fact that we both speak English (but don’t tell the Aussie’s that – like the British they believe we speak a more vulgar dialect of the Queen’s proper English). But I am finding that life down under is more different than one would imagine.

I won’t even get into the fact that it is August and the Melbourne Winter Festival has started… Now I know the seasons are opposite in the Southern hemisphere but it is still hard to grasp the thought of winter in the middle of what should be summer. [Side note: only saving grace is that I will be here at least until Thanksgiving and will be back at the end of January. Trust me; you will not hear any whining about it being summer in the middle of winter. Just saying.]

For anyone who thinks I’m on some kind of cushy work assignment – it’s not as glamorous as you would imagine. I work long days, staring early in the morning to get caught up with the folks back in the states before the end of their day and then end up working late into the evening to make up for the meetings I was likely in all day. But the good news is I am enjoying the work and I’m getting way outside my comfort zone and my self-confidence is growing. I’m pretty sure I can be CEO of the company by the time my assignment is over (not that I want to be).

This past week, I spent three glorious days in sunny Sydney.  For once, Murphy let his guard down and I showed up just in time to experience a warming trend after they had gone through a week of cold, windy and wet weather. Seriously, that kind of thing rarely happens to me. In fact, did I mention that this is the coldest winter on record for Australia? Do you see what I mean?

Wednesday evening I went to dinner with some colleagues (including one from Reno). We went to a local pub called The Oaks. It’s a great place to unwind after work for a cold beer or glass of wine (or a Coke, which is what I had). What makes it ‘fun’ is you cook your own meal. One goes to the counter, picks out your meat of choice and sides and they send you to the grill. Great concept if one knows how to cook. No need to go down that road either.   With a little help from my friends, I enjoyed a nice steak and baked potato. The conversation was even better and I laughed harder than I had in a long time. We shared a lot of language nuances between the UK, Aussie, South Africa, and the US. It led to some interesting comparisons. I had never heard the expression “and Bob’s your uncle” which Michael (a Brit living in Australia for over 20 years) said meant “everything’s okay” and he proceeded to tell a story of a client from China who didn’t understand the saying. Then Martin pipes up and says it’s like “abracadabra.” HUH? I guess you probably had to be there but at least you will know what the saying means if you ever hear it (and it has nothing to do with magic).

For those of you who were wondering if I have met any Aussie guys, I actually did meet one great guy at the Pahran Market (a place to buy fresh fruit and veggies). I was perusing the produce when a man looked up at me and said “Hi beautiful” (I did look around to make sure he was in fact, addressing me). I should have known better because he followed up with “would you like to buy two mangos for $5? They are on special… normally it’s two for $6 so you save $1” (maybe he could tell that I’m mathematically challenged but I’m fairly sure I would have been able to calculate the savings without getting my iPhone out). Guess he wasn’t making a pass after all. So the answer is no – I have not met a great Aussie yet. Safe to say I won’t be moving down under permanently so no worries there.

On a positive note, I figured out the public transportation system here in Melbourne so I am mobile and not solely reliant on my feet to take me where I want to go. The best news is the closest Starbucks is only a 15 minute train ride away, located right at the Southern Cross station… And Bob’s your uncle (and hopefully he will be your uncle again tomorrow)!

Even in Australia Grocery Shopping Sucks

Note: What appears to be spelling errors, in fact are not. It is ‘proper’ English (so I’m told).

Grocery shopping: Even under the best of circumstances I dislike it immensely. Factor in a foreign country and I hate it that much more. Yes we all know that I am a picky eater. I was not born with a wide palate and despite my best efforts to expand it, I just don’t like a lot of gourmet-type food (like vegetables). So shoot me…

Now that I have officially moved into my 'apartment' (and I use that term very loosely), I decided to do the dreaded chore of grocery shopping so I head out to Woolworth's, or Wooley's as the Aussie call it. As I wander aimlessly up and down the aisles, I find myself eyeballing the same items – you know – the stuff that isn’t particularly good for you. It’s not like I don’t like healthy food. I do. It is just more challenging to find because it is in a different form, different brand, or it simply isn’t available here. During my meandering, I found myself wondering how expensive it would be to have someone shop and ship me food that I actually like. I found myself daydreaming about my local Wal-Mart (who I detested before but now decided I love - absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder!).

Okay reality check... it's not feasible for many reasons, but I'm still liking the fantasy of receiving care packages from home of my favourites which include oatmeal, applesauce, lean cuisine (what can I say, I’m single), and other ‘fast’ single serving food. Let’s start with the brekkie items: I typically have a 100-calorie coffee cake, applesauce, oatmeal, cereal, peanut butter toast, or fruit with my morning Starbucks. No coffee cake (not low-cal at any rate) so that is out. Thick raisin toast is quite popular but not really a good diet option as a regular staple. Peanut butter, better known as nuts smooth, is either Kraft or Nestle (I'm thinking Nestle should stick to chocolate). Oatmeal – yes they do have porridge here, however; it comes in one flavour (honey) and it is quite expensive. I did discover that applesauce is called puree and comes in a wide (yet strange) varieties but I am willing to be a bit more adventurous here. Cereal – well, again the choices are a bit off but tolerable. Thank God for chocolate (another area I’m comfortable being adventurous). Speaking of trying new things, I did purchase Apple Rhubarb jam. Checking out was another experience I won't bore you with the details but just know that as great as the Aussie accent is, it can be hard to understand. Poor mate had to repeat himself more than once. Sigh.

As I was busy not filling my shopping trolley (love that word), I was shocked to see a particular item – Nature Valley’s oat and honey granola bars. Seriously?! I almost was arrested for bringing the very same item down under just last year. Most of you will remember my granola bar incident when I was on holiday in 2009. Upon arrival in a foreign country, you are required to fill out a customs form. Although it is a common to enquire about items you are bringing into the country – such as animal products, fruit, plants, large amount of cash, liquor, or cigarettes – it is not common to ask about food in general. Being an upstanding and honest person, I disclosed my rather large stash of goodies: oreos, a variety of chocolate, gum, wint-o-green lifesavers, a wide variety of 100-calorie packs, and unbeknowst to me contraband in the form of granola bars (that happens to be a great snack to take on the go). Suffice it to say, honesty is not always the best policy. After intense interrogations by custom officials (trust me, I’m not exaggerating at all), it was decided that I wasn’t a national threat to New Zealand granola producers and wouldn’t cause an economic crisis or decline in granola sales, they decided to let me keep my granola bars – however I was advised to leave them on the ship as I would not be permitted to carry them onto shore when docking (and yes, they did check every bloody time we left the ship). Because I don’t want to put anyone in a position to testify against, me I will not disclose the demise of the said granola bars (but I could have a future career in smuggling).

Once I returned home (still makes me chuckle to say that as I live in a postage stamp sized studio) and stored my few but precious rations, I decided to make raisin toast for dinner (and my apple rhubarb jam was delicious). Let's just say that the smoke alarm works very well and it allowed me to a few of my neighbors this evening. Oh, and I also learned how to open the window (although it was too little, too late).