Playing Hooky

I really shouldn't try and write after I've been drinking - even just a little bit of wine with dinner, as my last short post shows, but I'm going to attempt to say the stuff I wanted to say then.

I've had a lot on my mind of late, what with running, challenging myself, changing jobs and all sorts of other things, it was time to get some clarity. For me, this meant getting out of Melbourne and playing hooky for a bit - but not too long as I have responsibilities - I have Glen Waverley's cat to look after for one. Also, as I'm still waiting for the paperwork to come though on my new job, the joys of large telecommunications companies and their lack of communication, it looks like I'll be having another week off - which suits me just fine.

Struck with the fact that I have a couple of weeks up my sleeve, the first thing I wanted to do was go away. Then I looked at the funds. And I looked at the funds again. And looked at my responsibilities, thought of the fact that I still have some stuff on in town and that I still haven't validated my passport and being Easter meant that a trip abroad was out of the question.

But it didn't stop me getting away for the night and paying hooky.

Using some Frequent Flyer points I obtained a return flight to Sydney. I also got onto a last minute accommodation website and found a decent hotel room at a bargain rate even for booking it the night before I left. They have some great mystery deals - so taking up the mystery offer, I was thrilled to find myself staying at the five-star Shangri-La Hotel for the night - something I never thought I'd do. Over the years, I've heard many things about this hotel and it's miraculous views of the Sydney Harbour.

Arriving at reception, I was chuffed to find out that I'd been given an upgrade, a harbour view room. This was what was out the window.

Along with a great view, a huge bed and a lovely big bath, being smack in the middle of the Rocks area of Sydney walking distance from everything.

Playing hooky has its advantages. No agendas. No responsibilities. No timetables.

I checked out of my life for 24 hours.

I told  precious few people where I was going. I was looking to go see the Picasso Exhibition at the Art Gallery, but stupidy forgot to check the  dates to find that I'd missed it by a week. I had a mooch around the gallery regardless visiting some wonderful, peace-inducing art. That was the first port of call after lunch.

The great thing about the Rocks is that there are all sorts of restaurants for the sampling. Rather than living on sandwiches and chips as I tend to do on holiday, I went up market. A lovely lunch of duck done a number of ways at a place called Baroque with great harbour views started things off nicely. Washed down with glass of wine and some macarons for after, I was more than happy - though the macarons weren't quite to the standard of my mararon shop down Hardware Lane in Melbourne.

 This is the first time I've been to Sydney without a real reason. I've been up for work a few times, visited friends on a number of occasions, did the City to Surf last year and that's about it. Sydney's never been a place I've liked that much, the killer humidity being a large factor in this, the brashness, the rudeness and the general melee just get me down.

This time, Sydney had a lot more to offer. Wandering the Rocks, taking in that this was the place that white Australia came into being some two hundred and twenty years ago, padding around the streets that would have been trod by all sorts, convicts, soliders and freemen alike. I was lucky with the weather too - a bit breezy, lovely and sunny and just a joy to wander around the streets with no plans in mind.

Dinner was taken at a Belgian Beer Cafe where a pot of mussels was had with one too many glasses of wine. Padding back to the hotel, I traipsed back through the streets to find a much needed holiday ice cream before returning to my room. After a long, deep bath and a good read and I was ready for bed.

This is where the Reckless clip comes into things (see last post). Ever had a favorite song for over twenty years? It's a song that has so many memories attached to it, it's a song that makes me sit, reflect and feel. Shoving my iPod on the docking station, cranking up the sound, there was something very, very surreal about watching the Manly ferry skate into the dock below. A feeling of the time continuum cracking came over me - tears streaming down my face, sitting on the window seat in the dark, watching and reflecting.

Maybe hearing this song all those years ago somehow lead me to this place, perched above the city, watching, checked out of my life, waiting for things to change. There was a feeling of completion about the moment. And a wish that I was sharing it with somebody.

The following morning it was off for a run, much needed after the indulgences of the day before. Strapping on the runners and the heart rate monitor I started on my planned route, somewhat annoyed that I'd left one piece of equipment home - the second level of industrial scaffolding needed to tame my breasts when I run. Setting a gentle pace, I walk/ran from Circular Quay, round the Botanical Gardens to Wooloomooloo and back again.

The run, albeit short and to overly fast, was dedicated to Caballo Blanco.

The runners around me have had quite a bit to say about his death. A man who embodied the quintessential runner. A man who demonstrated everything I know and love about running, especially the zen side of it that I bleat on about. The man was a legend. That he died on a run, doing something that he loved, is a blessing. The fact that they hauled his body out of the canyon to be picked over, autopsied and disposed with in a clinical manner - not so good.

If anybody should have been left to run off into the morning to be never seen again, Caballo Blanco was the man. Let him rot where he lay, the the coyotes and vultures have him for carrion. Let him blend back into the wide open spaces he loved so much. Don't dispose of him with the indignity of modern clinical indifference. Don't sing him off with hymns. Let the legend remain, the white horse that floats around the backwaters, to turn up on odd occasions free from any tethers.

Rest in peace, Caballo Blanco. Your legend will live on.

Coming back to Circular Quay, it was time for breakfast. Holiday breakfast of Eggs Atlantic and a big coffee with some charming breakfast companions.

After breakfast, another long bath spent reading my book (The Hunger Games - the book is fantastic - the movie not to much) I checked out, dropped my bag with the concierge and proceeded to spend another few well spent hours looking around the Powerhouse Museum.

Returning later in the afternoon, a decent steak lunch at Circular Quay restaurant, I made my way back to the airport for the flight home.

The 24 hours taken out of my life left me peaceful and rejuvenated.

It's something I hope to get the opportunity to do again - especially if I'm lucky enough to score a similar hotel room.

Right, I'd better get to spin class - burn off some of the indulgences of the Sydney trip.

Alone Time

Finally - I got some quality alone time.

Time for me to do absolutely nothing.

It seems to get me to stop being busy it takes a rather large hangover, a swanky hotel room and a rainy day.

I had plans of going for a run this morning, going around the Opera House, Mrs Macquarie's Seat and the Botanical Gardens round to Wooloomooloo.... but the copious amounts of alcohol imbibed the day before meant I was up half the night with the 'screaming dries', drinking my body weight in water between the hours of three and six.

Then looking outside, it was raining. Not conducive for running in a city I don't know that well.


Besides, the room was hot, the bed too soft, there was no fresh air... It was a lovely hotel room - but I would have been better off in my own bed, with a bit of fresh air coming in the open window.
 
Then again, I wouldn't have got my alone time if I was home.

Today reminded me that I'm so glad I don't drink to excess very often. Sometimes it gets done. Thankfully it's a very rare occurrence. I barely drink as it is - the odd bender will not hurt - it's just the next day that stings.

There were loose plans to meet a friend who'd emigrated in the last few weeks for brunch - but as she has moved house the day before, I never heard from her, not that I was upset by this. It would have been nice to see her - but I know what moving house is like. I'll catch her next time I'm up there.

So here I was. Feeling a little like a sump pit, with a day to myself. No chores to do - they're a thousand miles away in Melbourne, no exercise to be partaken of, no need to be anywhere until check out, no friends to visit - did that Friday night before I went to Sydney, going round to Blarney's for a cuppa and a chat.

I just had to get myself to the airport by two pm and the rest of the day was free. That was all that was on the agenda.

First port of call - a nice long bath. The room had this fantastic tub. I climbed in, book in hand, cup of coffee on the side for a long soak.

Bliss.

It got me thinking. There are three months left of this year. Time to set some real goals again.

This is what I came up with.

I want to have lost 20 kilos this year - I have put on a few over winter - so there's about seven to make my score. I can lose seven kilos in three months - I just need to focus. This started today. Watch this space.

I have a half marathon to run next weekend. I'd like to do it in as close to two hours and fifteen minutes as possible. I can't dwell on this too much - it will come down to the day. My best half marathon time is 2.32 - I'm running far better than I was then - it will be interesting to see how I go. One of the girls from the gym may be running with me.

My other running goal - I want to be able to say I can run ten kilometres in under an hour - I don't care if it's 59.59 - it's my goal. I've got the time to around 63 minutes at the moment if the City to Bay is anything to go by. It's something to train for and work towards.

Talking of work - another major goal is to keep myself employed. I'm feeling a bit better about things at the moment, but I'm putting it out there that I keep gainfully employed for the future.

At the start of the year I promised my friend Kath that I'd get two articles published before the end of the year. Better get cracking on that one too. Yes, this is down to luck and editor discretion, but I take pride in the fact that when I've submitted stuff to newspapers on the fly, the editors write back and say "no thanks." This is a good rejection. If you're crap you get no acknowledgement at all.

And I'd like to go on a date. Or two. I'm emotionally available for the first time in a few years, it's time. I'm not dwelling on this one either. It will happen. You can't plan these things - you just have to put it out there.

Seems my thinking time got put to good use.

After check out time, I left my suitcase with  the concierge and went for a walk. As there was no friend to meet, it was a case of look for things to do. Sydney's never been my favorite place, but given I had a few hours to kill, I went for a wander.

As luck would have it, being a Sunday morning, I thought of my cousins who live at the end of George Street. My cousin Joanie is married to Andy, the Rector of one of the Anglican Churches.

It was Sunday. They'd be around. But it would mean that I'd have to turn up to Church.

Finding the chapel, I entered, met with a haze of frankincense and what sounded like Latin being bounded about at the front (it was just a well pronounced High Anglican catechism) My stomach was growling under the weight of copious red wine from the day before - I had an empty coffee cup in my hand, purchased on the way there. This was going to be fun.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Entering the church, I genuflected, crossed myself and took a seat in the back pew, hoping to hell the building didn't fall down around me - old, well ingrained habits die hard.

At least I missed sacrament. I can't go up for sacrament, though if my cousins knew I was in the congregation, it would be seen as a bit odd if I didn't go up for a blessing.

The family aren't all aware of my conversion to the dark side of spirituality. Never to mind. These two are good folk. Andy and I are normally found behind the woodshed at family reunions having a cigarette. Andy changed denominations when he became a priest so he could have a beer on Sundays. Andy's a great bloke.

The service was over in about ten minutes. I found Joanie, who was thrilled to see me, and we caught up. We worked out last time I saw her was at her father's funeral - three years ago. This visit was a bit overdue.

It was great to see them again. I got a tour of the old church - one of Sydney's oldest and grandest.

Then it was time to go.

I made my way back down George Street, stopping at Wagamama for a quick meal and I found another coffee.

A train ride, a plane trip, a bus ride and a quick run on a tram and I was home.

And for the first time in I don't know how long, I got a day all for myself.

I hope it doesn't take another trip to Sydney and an overnight stay in a swanky hotel to get another day to myself.

As for the hangover. A small glass of the hair of the dog is drained next to me. The rather charming Bleasdale Malbec went down like silk - one small glass only. The bottle was purchased in a drunken haze as a traveller. I love Langhorne Creek wines. Always have. I just don't remember buying it last night.

I might donate the rest of the open bottle to my charming next door neighbour with whom I share a bottle every now and then. I can't see myself having the time to drink the rest of it over the next week.

If anything, this weekend's made me question how I live my life.

Hopefully this is a good thing.

Notes from the Road

It might be an Australian thing, but I love road trips. I really don't give a second thought to hopping in a car and driving near on a thousand kilometres in a day, by myself. It's just one of those strange Australian things that many other cultures just don't get.

I love to drive. And I love long drives.

As a nation, we're quite apt at driving a few hours just to get to a party. Oh yeah, party in a woolshed out the back of Woop Woop, no wukkas - haybales for seating, lots of beer and Bundaberg rum (or Jim Beam, depending on your taste), a big barby, white bread, a bit of salad, somebody's Mum suppling the pavlova and cheesecake, recipe straight from a Woman's Weekly cookbook. There's a good chance you'll be sleeping on a mattress in the tray of a ute, covered with a tarpaulin, but hey, that's what parties out the back of nowhere are about. Okay, I'm betraying my bogan youth here.

So yesterday, armed with my talking book (Margaret Atwood's "Year of the Flood") a bottle of water, lots of panadol for the sore throat, newly inflated tyres, a full tank full of petrol, a fully charged mobile phone and Shirley the GPS, I set off for the Adelaide. Or more correctly, Myponga, South Australia. According to Shirley, it was 785 kilometres away from my home.

Shirley and I had our first altercation when she directed me down Punt Road. I don't really need Shirley to get to Adelaide, but I like that she tells me when I'm going too fast or when there are speed cameras about the place. I really have to find the Elliot Perlman setting on the GPS, however. In Perlman's book, Three Dollars, the protagonist is trying to find words of wisdom for his newly born daughter - after three days of racking his brain, all he can come up with is "Darling, what ever you do, what ever time of day it is, avoid Punt Road." Sage advice. After half an hour, I was at the start of the Western Freeway, bound for South Australia, the burbs of Melbourne a dim haze in the rear vision mirror.

Shirley and the talking book provide company. Road trips are really best with somebody you either don't know, or get on with very well. The last real road trip I took was with Reindert, when we went to collect the Grounded Dutchman's Landcruiser from Newcastle and drove it 1500 kilometres back to Melbourne. We came home the long way, through such odd places as Dunedoo, Dubbo, Parkes (home of the Dish), Wagga Wagga before doing the obligatory wine stop at Rutherglen. Other than Reindert nearly losing his licence, that was a fantastic trip. We bonded on that trip.


On your own, you have time to think. Time to reflect. And lots of opportunity to play "What's that dead thing on the road?" I saw a couple of wallabies, an Eastern Grey kangaroo, a fox and various possums this trip. It's all in the fur colour.

This time, Andrew, my trusty Toyota Echo sat happily on the speed limit, glad to be out of the stop start of suburbia.

Once clear of Ballarat, the book was getting interesting and I was into the groove of the narrator, I started to look for signs of change. This time, first time in a long time, there are lots of changes.

This is the greenest I have seen the country in years. There is water in the lakes and rivers. After years of road trips, when passing over a signed waterway, there is a requirement to glance over and have a look. For the first time in years, I haven't glanced out and said "Nup, no water today." It's really lovely to see the Pink Lakes, the other side of Nhill, shimmering in it's full mother of pearl glory.

There are other small rituals of the road. The Keith BP Roadhouse, my petrol stop of choice, does the best traditional road food available. Milkshakes that come in tin containers - the way that the best milkshakes come - they even do green lime ones - not to my taste, but my friend Sam swears by them. Yesterday, I took a nostaligic trip and had a hot dog - with sauce. It tasted like the ones we had as a kid. Glorious.

I also love hitting Bordertown. After a swift stop to change my rego plates, I feel a bit safer. Since the "Kick a Vic" campaign there are many South Australians who make it a point to change their registration plates back to the Croweater variety when they get across the border. Victorian rego plates will get you run off the road or tailgated. I tend to do this at Bordertown - where I can also go into the service station and look at the rows of Farmers Union Iced Coffee, FrucChocs and Samboy Salt and Vinegar chips and I know I'm home. If I'm really feeling nostalgic, there's the option of the candied potatoes, made from coconut. I was on the lookout for Woodroofe's lemonade, the best lemonade in the world - nice and tart, not too sweet - but it seems that's been seconded to supermarkets now.

The only downer to this trip, the locusts. Not only are we having floods of biblical proportions here, there's also a plague of locusts infesting a lot of the southern continent. These things have no road sense to speak of. Just out of Horsham, the heat haze became peppered, a repeated banging on the windscreen and streaks of green and red - it was like this on an off all the way back to Adelaide. The stupid things are everywhere. Getting out at Bordertown, the front of the car looked like a bad Pro Hart painting, completely covered in yellow/green sludge, with bits of wings and bodies sticking out for good measure.

This morning, armed with a hose, a sponge and a bucket full of soapy water, I removed the carcasses from Andrew. It took about an hour to go over him, paying special attention to the radiator which was half clogged as well.  After years of drought, washing the car on my parent's lawn still feels like an illegal act. They're on bore water - it doesn't really matter. The car is free of the dreaded green sludge - until next Tuesday, when I'll make the trip back.

The final part of this trip is always my favorite. Heading off the highway at Mount Barker, I take the back roads home. Winding back roads through some of the prettiest countryside in Australia, through Echunga and Meadows. It does remind me why I call myself a South Australian. A Croweater. Half an hour behind in time, fifteen years behind in fashion - with great wine. I don't care. This is home. Just like Frodo, returning to the Shire, I get that strange feeling of peace as I motor around the winding roads through the green tree lined hills.

Maybe being a South Australian isn't that bad after all.

Days Four, Five and Six: New England Dreaming

I'm currently living in a movie set.

When I think of America, I tend to think of some of my favourite films, most of which are set in New England. Mystic River, The Witches of Eastwick, Good Will Hunting to name a few, are all set in Boston. So here I am, in Boston, wandering familiar streets and scenes and feeling strangely at home.

Most of this is down to the wonderful hospitality of Reindert and Corazon. For regular readers of this blog, you will be aware that Reindert is an old friend from work who somehow got me into running. He's a bit mad, he's Dutch and he's possibly one of the most generous and kind people I know. His wife, Corazon, is of Mexican descent and is currently doing her PhD here at Harvard. Being around these two is like being around good family - the kind you love spending time with - and I don't know how I will be able to thank them for having me - because I don't know if I could show them such a good time in Melbourne.

Reindert and Corazon live just outside of the Harvard university campus in the City of Cambridge, which is really an inner suburb of Boston. The streets are lined with trees that give a dappled light to the wooden houses, most of which are two or three storeys high and made of wood. There is a bit of an austere air to the suburb which backs on to the university where Corazon has her lab. It's all very surreal to me - Harvard, a place I've been hearing about in books and films since I was a child is now here at my doorstep. It's all very exciting.

Boston has been a bit of a revelation. My Australian sensibilities are often baraged by what is perceived to be American, but this place is incredibly normal. The people here are lovely - okay, the natives are very friendly is what I'm trying to say. People are earnest, open, greet you with a smile and appear genuine when they bid you, "Have a nice day." American service is still something I'm getting used to - if we were to receive it at home we'd be asking what drugs the server was on. It's all a part of the culture - this is what America is about.

So far, Boston has shown me a far more genteel part of the country. The scenery is STUNNING. No other word for it. Being autumn, the leaves are falling, coming in every colour from bright yellow, through to burnt umber to a Botticelli russet and everything in between. I took the following shot on a trail run (well, fast walk) through the Middle Essex Fells National Park this morning. Reindert went for his normal psycho run round the park, I went out for an hour and nearly expired at the beauty.

Being leaf falling season, it also means that it's Halloween. Another strange concept for an Australian. Like why would you want to place a whopping great pumpkin on your doorstep for a few weeks. And why does it have to be an orange pumpkin? Why can't it be a Tasmanian Blue or a butternut? And surely it's a waste of food.... It's strange.

Reindert and I took a trip out to Salem, the location of the famous Witch Trials in 1692. That was a bit of an odd one.

If it's one thing the Americans have perfected, it's consumerism. $20 to park the car to wander this picturesque town. Being Halloween, the place was stupidly packed. There were ghosts and witches and skeletons and pumpkins as far as the eye could see. There were also lots of kooks, freaks and weirdos about the place. We went to a psychic fair - just my cup of tea you might think, but really, it all felt a bit jaded. We tried to get into the Salem Witch Museum but the queue went around the block and the three hour wait wasn't on either of our agendas. We ended up watching a recreation of the pre trial of Bridget Bishop, which was okay, followed by a leisurely stroll around the Peabody Essex Museum which suited both of us just fine. Also found a brillant set of tarot cards that are very Tim Burtonesque - quite taken with them.

After Salem, Reindert and I, on the way home stopped at this place called the Stop and Shop where we picked up three small, live lobsters for dinner. These were summarily cooked in boiling water and served with horseradish mashed potatoes and fried garlic green beans when we got home. Brillant they were, though I have been berated for not being able to throw my own lobster in the pot. Seems I have to let somebody else do my bidding and kill my food for me - though I am quite happy to eat it. And I was also berated for not naming my lobster. Hmm. Naming your food - haven't done that since my childhood when we had pet lambs called Breakfast and Chops.

It's a strange place this America. There is so much here, so many things to see and do - and Salem gave the best and the worst of tourism. Plenty of tat and tactlessness, but also a reverence to the history.

Revering the dead and their history is something the Yanks do very, very well. There are monuments to all sorts of people, everywhere. It doesn't end.

A few other discoveries:

The money is boring. Seriously. You have to look at what you're presenting to the check out person - it all looks the same. And the coins are strange. The ten cent piece (dime) is smaller than the five cent piece(nickel) and then there is the 25 cent piece or quarter. All a bit foreign to me - especially when they still have a one cent piece or penny. We got rid of the one cent piece years ago.

They use middle names a lot here, but only on official things.

The service is exceptional most of the time.

You can't escape the history lessons around here - it's like it's indoctrinated from the time you're born.

Everybody has a photo face. Watch people having their photo taken and they will put on a face. Reindert says that this is my over-reaction to my camera allergy, but it's quite funny.

Things are bloody cheap around there. The runners I normally wear are $270 at home. $130 here - I nearly fell over. Food is plentiful and good - when you get away from the street food, which appears to be pretty crap. Full stop. People who live on street food here probably have the inability to poo.

It cost to go to art galleries and museums. This really got to me - in Australia, the major art galleries and museums are often free to enter. Here, a twenty dollar entry fee is pretty normal, which I find rather sad as there is so much for everybody in these places and they should be there for everybody, whether they can afford it or not.

Oh, and most surprisingly of all - it appears that here, in this land of the loud and the brash - I come across as quietly spoken. People can't hear me. I seem to be about thirty decibels quieter than most of the folks around here. This is truly a revelation. Me - soft spoken. Geez.

Right, off to dinner. I have another day and a half in this lovely city with lovely friends before taking off to sunny Philadelphia.

Til soon,

Pandx

Days Two and Three: The Spoils of Singapore

I'm writing this from my very large, very comfortable bed in my very small New York hotel room on 26th Street. I'm exhausted, but happy.

It's been a rather strange forty eight hours, involving the head spin that is Singapore, the torments of travelling with a low level dose of food poisoning and finally, ending up in a city I haven't been to for eleven years and feeling quite okay about the lot of this.

Travel is about experience. Not all of it is going to be good experience. Sitting on a plane for twenty hours thinking that you're going to either pass out or throw up in equal waves, on top of stomach cramps, while having every drop of moisture is leeched from your skin, all the time surround by a hofbrauhaus of German Tourists- really isn't up there in my best moments. (What is the collective noun for German tourists?)

But enough of that. Singapore. A superheated Disneyland for dysfunctional adults with too much money? A place designed by Michael Jackson, only with more rules and lots of coffee houses? Stepford for those without a wife but the need to have everything controlled. It's not that I didn't like Singapore, it's just far too regimented, sterile and conformist for my liking.

The things I will remember most about Singapore, other than Evaline's monumental generosity, is its sterility. It's like a rich, petulant, precocious Malaysia with none of the soul. Leaves wouldn't dare fall from the trees in case somebody in the goverment would get mad.  Don't get me wrong, the manicured streets, even pavements, regimented distance between trees etc, etc are very calming the my Western sensibilities - but I do prefer the ramshackle side to Malaysia, some ten kilometres away as the crow flies. I like the open drains and pot holes, shaky electricity, blue and white uniformed school kids scurrying about, skinny cats and the personality of the place. Singapore has been planned and developed. JB just sprouted.

From our hotel on the Orchard Road we walked into a bevvy of exclusive shops filled with luxury goods and expensive clothing. Sure, it's lovely to look at but where is the fun in the place. We did a river cruise at night and saw the sights all lit up for our enjoyment. Sure, it's really pretty but you have to seek out the substance. Evaline and I made our way to the Malay Quarter and Little India to see a more real side to this tiny island. Highlight of the trip to Singapore was a visit to the Hindu Temple in Little India, a richly carved building silled with devotees. The camera stayed in my bag out of respect, but I wish I could have taken some shots of the ornate carving inside. People streamed in and out of the building, prostrating themselves, kissing statues, leaving alms for deities... it was a fascinating human parade, all supported by years of prayer.

Maybe it's the colonial vibe that doesn't sit that well with me - I am an Adelaide girl after all. There is the hankering to go back and stay at Raffles next time. We had breakfast at the kopitiam or coffee shop at Raffles, but next time I want the full silver service affair. There is something completely over the top about this piece of history - home to the Singapore Sling and a dead tiger under the pool table in 1902. Made a promise to Evaline that next time I'm in town we stay here... better get that kids book off the ground.

Some of the gloss of Singapore was taken out mid afternoon on my last day there when the food posioning got me. I went from my normal rosy shade to a fetching grey-green. Aware something was up Evaline took me to the airport early, where I made a mad dash to the bathrooms. On checking in my bags and bidding Evaline goodbye I checked into the transit hotel for a few hours of rest and unfortunately more vomiting. I made my flight with the nausea abating, freshly showered but feeling totally wretched. Thankfully I was freshly showered - I think spending 24 hours on a plane smelling like upchuck would have made me suicidal.

It wasn't a pleasant trip in the slightest, but the cabin crew were helpful, plying me with icy cold towels and dry ginger ale. No sleep was had and by the time I got to Frankfurt the cramps were abating. The second leg was a bit better, though my sense of humour was out the window - it took every fibre of by being not to deck the creepy, fat German tourist who was taking sneaky photos of the female cabin crew EVERY time they passed by. That was just eww.

All is pretty much back to normal now. My appetite is back, the cramps, nausea and generally crappiness has gone, though my skin will take a few more days of intensive moisturising to get the plane air out of my skin. Even managed to eat something decent. Found that New York has Pret a Manger - a favorite haunt in London - on the streets of Sixth Avenue. I took a four hour walk after a three hour nap - it seems to have made everything better. Looking out over New York at night from the Rockefeller Centre is very cool too.
Right, I best off to bed. More about this strange and foreign land next blog. For all of the amazing sights, sounds and smells of Asia, this America place really is quite foreign.

Night, night.

Pandxx

Day One: Jahor Bahru

The man in the minaret has done his job. At 5.36 am, the cry goes out to the faithful and the five minutes of rhythmic, doleful sung prayer commences. In my hotel room there is a subtle arrow on the ceiling pointing towards Mecca. Melbourne time its three hours later so by rights I should be walking to work, so there is no drama in this.


But as this is downtown Jahor Bahru, the man in the minaret will be singing five times a day, and as Evaline has explained, after a while you don’t really notice it. Christians, Muslims and Hindus all go about their business mindful of each other’s beliefs but also giving them room to get on with things. Evaline, Chee and their children live in a Muslim area of JB, but she was telling me of how they had a ground breaking for their new church a few kilometres away, her husband, Chee, an architect, is designing the place.

No drama, no council refusals, they just get on with it peacefully and quietly.

I’m rather enamoured with this place. I love that there are four new stamps in my passport. The nice lady in immigration at Melbourne let me have an exit stamp. You only get one if you ask nicely these days. Then one for coming into Singapore, one for leaving Singapore received before heading onto the bridge that spans the Strait of Jahor, then one as we hit the Malaysian mainland. There will be two more stamps in it as Evaline and I make our way back to Singapore this evening.

The last time I was in Malaysia was nineteen years ago, which I related in my last blog. Maybe I’ve grown up and travelled the world and also, Malaysia sees so many more tourists now, but there is no more the sense of being a pimple on a pumpkin. No stares, no car horns, tourists are regulars around here. Like everybody else here, you’re allowed to get on with your business.

Evaline has changed little in this time. She’s still has the most amazing smile from within – something I’m so pleased she hasn’t lost.

After a day on the plane and the short trip back to JB, we had dinner at a local Hawkers Market – amazing food – satays tender and sweet that melt in your mouth, fried oysters, which is a mix of egg and oyster – divine, the eponymous Hokkien Mee, barbecued pork dumplings and some sugar cane juice to wash it all down with. Evaline and Chee come here once a week with the children for dinner. There is no real decor to speak of, plastic stools, formica card tables, plastic plates and chop sticks. None of that matters, the food is honest and good and the eating communal.

Evaline explains that this is what her life, and her family’s life is about. Communal living, sharing, family. They like being together, talking with each other, caring for each other, it’s what families over here do.

Certainly given me a lot to think about.

We had a look around town. That everything is written in Malay, Chinese and English, though often flawed English adds to the charm. We might visit the Fizzio for a foot massage later today. Chee said that an English friend always laughs when he passes How Ars Fook Street in the centre of town. I was amazed that at ten ‘o’ clock in the evening, so many people were out and about – but then again, it’s hot and sticky all day – you can be more productive in the cool of the evening.

Another anomaly of the tropics – at home sunrise and sunset go on for an hour. Here it appears to get light and dark very quickly. Or maybe I’m just noticing things differently now I’m away.

Right, I’d better get up and showered, Evaline will be here soon to pick me up with the promise of breakfast in a traditional Malay coffee shop, with noodles and sambal among the skinny cats that haunt your legs while you eat.

A little bit of simple bliss before hitting the very different country of Singapore tonight.

Three Countries in One Day

Tomorrow its the rather magical tenth of October, 2010  or 10/10/10.

May this prove to be as auspicious as I hope it will be.

At ten past eleven my plane takes off for Singapore.

About eight hours later, my old friend Eveline, with whom I went  to university and have not seen for nineteen years, is picking me up from Changi Airport and then we're off to her home in Jahor Bahru, Malaysia for a few days.

Three countries in one day. W00t!

The last time Eveline and I spent time together she gave me some of the best insights into this fascinating country.

In 1991, I moved to England for what I thought would be a two year stint. I spent a week in Malaysia with  couple of old uni friends who put me up and showed me round the place. In 1991, Malaysia wasn't the country it is today. Nineteen years ago, Malaysia was very much second world.

For a recent graduate who'd only ever been to New Zealand, it was a complete eye opener. At the time I wore my hair very long and dyed it red. I'm about 15 centimetres taller than the average Malaysian woman. And solo female travellers were not very often seen back then. In other words, I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. After a day I was completely over being stared at, beeped at, and called out to. It was intimidating. I made sure I was dressed modestly at all times, but still, the stares, beeps and shouts got to me. This was nineteen years ago - tourism and Asia's view of single women travellers is much more understanding and tolerant twenty years on.

Near the end of my stay, Eveline took me down to meet Chee, her then fiancee's parents in Malacca, halfway between Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. The trip down there was one of my best memories - Chee's parents were market traders who lived in a two bedroom apartment in central Malacca. From the humble dwelling there came three kids - now a doctor, a dentist and an architect - all educated at foreign universities. The sacrifices of his parents really hit home. I was blown away - and felt very, very fortunate for my mostly government paid tertiary education.

After a tour of the Malacca wet market it was off for breakfast - at a noodle bar, found under a piece of shade cloth, just outside the market, filled with cats and smells and odd cutlery and bowls of sambal. I thought this was just brilliant.This was how the locals did things. Fantastic.

Eating in makeshift noodle bars, seeing how the locals do things, finding different experiences, this is what I love about travelling.

Nineteen years on, Eveline is a lawyer, happily married to Chee with two lovely kids who I can't wait to meet.

I rather hope Eveline has good memories of me too. Eveline and I met at university residential college - Lincoln College to be precise. She was one of the people who introduced me to chilli and spice and all things different and exotic - and her friendship was always very valued, though unfortunately we lost contact soon after I moved to England. Thankfully facebook allowed us to reconnect last year. She was always a person I wished I'd kept in contact with.

When I told my mum that I was staying with Eveline and Chee she said to say hello. Not a Christmas goes past where she doesn't mention the year Eveline came for Christmas.

In our second year, Eveline came home with me for the year end festivities. Mum still talks of how she sat in the kitchen watching her cook. "What are you doing? Is that traditional? Does everybody do that?", were Eveline's repeated questions. Our family doesn't do the traditional Christmas thing, more Australian seafood and salad, but both were fascinated with what the other did at this time of year.

I just remember that as a good christmas. Things were going to change pretty drastically soon after that.

So nineteen years on - our lives are so different. But I have the sneaky suspicion we won't run out of things to talk about.

With everything packed, ready to go, all there is to do is do the last load of sheets and towels before Alice picks me up and takes to to Melbourne airport early in the moring. I feel incredibly, wonderfully blessed.

Which is just how I should feel at the moment.

Also, my friend D is running his first marathon tomorrow. If I wasn't going abroad I'd be doing it with him - or running a few kilometres behind him anyway. For an engineer he can put together some great words. D's blog gives you an insight into the long distance runner. Hats off to you D - will be sending you energy - you're my hero and I'm incredibly proud of you. My running dreams are being lived out vicariously.

Tomorrow's going to be a big day.

Night,

Pandx

What wins you a round the world airfare?

The best thing about this trip - I won the airfare.

Work had this competition, open to the 1000 Australian staff - 100 words or less, what will the National Broadband Network do for our fair country. Be creative. Winner gets two tickets to anywhere that Singapore Airlines flies to.

Now, at Tin Can, String and Whistle, 95% of the working population are engineers. Asking an engineer to be creative normally entails the use of duct tape, WD40 and fuse wire. Asking an engineer to write something creative normally sends them into an Asperger's frenzy. (We have a bit of a saying around here about the engineers here - if they don't have Asperger's Syndrome they're mildly autistic.) So being one of the two percent who have an Arts Degree and published short stories, being creative on paper comes a little more naturally. Also, as there were only 70 people who entered the competition, the odds were okay at winning this, not that I was to know any of this. Also in my defence, the entry was written in 15 minutes one lunchtime.I thought I had Buckleys.

So here is what got written. They said they liked the fact I was using new technologies and thought things out past the norms.

I just thought I'd tapped into my inner nerd....

This is what won me my ticket (reverted the two return tickets to one round the world)

Invitation:

Mikayla Tennenbaum of Peppermint Grove, Perth and Duncan Rossglen of Abbotsford, Melbourne, invite you to their holographic wedding  on 15 December 2020, 5 pm AEDST.

Guests arrive via NBN Holographic Portal 589.849.28 for logon, bio-imprinting, avatarisation and virtual seating by 4.45pm on the day.

The Griffhippos, eclectic band from Yuendemu are providing holographic entertainment and dancing after linking takes place.

Food: Scent imprints of Melbourne coffee, food and wine from McLaren Vale will be virtually sent for avatar consumption. Cakepods will cater for dietary requirements.

RSVP: 1 December 2020 with biometric information, ensuring no virtual gatecrashing on the night.

Go on, say it.

BIG NERD!!!

Today's Dilemma: Packing

When did packing become so hard? Why is packing so hard? Why can't I be a bloke who just has to shove a couple of pairs of jocks and jeans, a toothbrush and a razor in a bag and take off for a year?

Hell, the Grounded Dutchman rode from India to Holland with 12 kgs of luggage, half of which was parts for his motorcycle. I will also add that the Grounded Dutchman doesn't smell that good at the best of times, but I envy his packing style.

I'm not a heavy packer. I'm not a light packer either - I think I fall somewhere in the middle.

As the doctor told me not to go to work today - something to do with the 38 degree temperature and the starts of a hacking cough he witnessed yesterday, I'm having a dry run at packing today inbetween hours in bed.

Phah. I'm horrified.

My control freak self is making lists and getting all anxious. Thirty five days away, five long haul flights and weather conditions spanning from tropical Singapore to galacial Holland and England in November.

How am I going to make a 11.50 pm flight from tropical  Singapore only to land 24 hours later in icy New York after a day of sightseeing. Do I have some clothes in a bag and grab a shower and change into warmer clothes at the airport? Or do I turn up in my thongs and shorts at JFK and hope my tits don't freeze off and break my toes.

There are also other eventualities I need to cater for - like a set of running gear, something that can be dressed up in case I go out to dinner, my swimmers, nightware and a light dressing gown as I'm staying with friends (and I'm very much aware of how dreadful I look in the morning) and the obligatory set of slob clothes for when I'm with family in Philly.

Other things to make their way into the bag - a travel hair dryer (necessary) three adapters (US, UK, Europe), phone and camera chargers, the small spare address book, an RSI mouse to be returned to Jan Pieter, five Australian/Europe power adapters for Jan Pieter (should send my step dad over to change the plugs like he did for me...), a spare book, my Lonely Planet Guide to Spain, a copy of the last Artemis Fowl book for Annika, a copy of Underbelly III for Reindert, my heart rate monitor, a jar of vegemite for my uncle (though by rights it's not allowed in the states - something about it being poisonous.) oh, and of course, my tarot cards.

I also know I'll repack on Saturday - taking out about a third of what I have in the bag with the expectation that I'll buy some stuff on the way and post some stuff home. I have a bit of a strict rule about wearing everything in my bag at least once, so I'll consider the number of stockings and socks in the bag, take out the fourth long sleeved top and remember that the Australian Dollar is nearly at parity with the US equivalent... and clothes are good and cheap in the US.

In the mean time - the last bits to do. Register on Smarttraveller.gov.au, have a think about what I want to do where. A Turkish bath in Granada might be on the cards, contact a friend of Gloria's in Madrid, ponder the joys of seeing places through other people's eyes.

Oh and the killer. Reindert asked me what I want to do when I get to Boston. How am I going to break it to him that I want to go to Salem - where the witches were. I mean, I'm a witch, I grew up with Elizabeth Montgomery on the telly and I'm passionate about witches rights - witches like me - and the midwifes, healers, herbalists and tarot readers - we misunderstood women who tap into our feminine side. That's going to be fun.

I can't complain - very small difficulties and worries in which to have fun resolving.

Drink, Think, F*ck

I'm sitting at home with a cold. I leave for Singapore in five days and I have an effing cold. Crap. Actaully, I'm tucked up in bed with my travel netbook, typing from bed. I could have been at work, but my dear boss, Popeye has the tendency to march you out of the office when you turn up sick citing , "This is why you have sick leave, moron!" Also, the common cold also freaks me out a bit, as they have the nasty habit of settling on my chest, turning into bronchitis and having me on courses of antibiotics for weeks.

Then again, since working through a lot of my anger issues, losing some weight and getting fit, I've been lucky. I've gone from having six or seven bouts of bronchitis, to one or two a year.

So here, I sit, praying that I don't get bronchitis, taking the panadol, echinacaea, magic green horse pills and hot lemon drinks to try keep this at bay. I should stop moaning, but I know how uncomfortable it is flying with a cold. And as I have nine flights in the next forty days.... well yeah. I better find a decent god to pray to to ensure this doesn't happen.

Speaking of prayer, I was lucky enough to score a ticket to a preview of "Eat, Pray, Love".

We did this book at book group last year to very mixed reviews. The chick lit haters pretty much refused to read it, others enjoyed it as a chick lit fantasy, the lit heads were rather put out by this sort of light weight, nimby namby book on spirituality, others thought it was just okay.

Me, I loved it. And I'm normally the lit head of the group.

Here was a woman who was walking a path similar to mine, and I don't see this very often on paper.

Okay, I don't have Elizabeth Gilbert's life - I've never spent time on an ashram, or partied the night away with a hot Brazilian in Bali, nor been divorced. If I'm honest, I've never been in a relationship long enough to be married. I don't write for New York Magazine.

But I understood her searching, her need to find herself, her need to take herself away from everything she knows and find new things and experience more of life. I also got the bit in India, the part that got slated more than any other at book group. To me, this book describes what it is to find your truth and what it is like to meditate better than any other I have read. She put it better than anybody has every put it in my eyes.

I know what it's like to struggle with meditation. I have this fight with myself every second Saturday as I sit through my kabbalistic meditation class. Some days I hear every word. Other days I have no clue what went one. I remember one very special day when I turned into a large, blue third eye chakra and that was all I was aware of - my body had literally disappeared.

So I was really pleased when an old workmate said she had a free ticket to go see the film. Javier Bardem. Num num num. I was also pleasantly surprised by this eye candy of a movie. My expectations had been lowered, I wasn't expecting too much, but I was glued to this film. Here was an alternate version of my life. Somebody got me for a change.

Okay, the film won't win any Oscars, but it is glorious to look at - I've been to Italy and Bali and they are just as wonderful as I remember. The India bit was great too - though rather cut down from the book - but the bit I found so special is the part most people flick over.

I told the Grounded Dutchman  about the film - which he thought was quite silly. "If I was to do a tour like that it would be called "Drink, Think, F*ck." That's what you do when you go on these tours."

I wasn't in the mood to disagree, mind you, I disagree with most of what he says - just easier to go "Whatever, GD." In his time, Grounded Dutchman has rode a motorbike from India to Holland, driven an old Citroen van across the Sahara - not unlike Top Gears Fifteen Hundred Quid Challenge. He's gone on all of these journeys. But he rarely talks about them. I know the India trip changed him, he's said it was one of the most transformational trips of his life. But he rarely talks of his travels, which annoys me no end. he says that theire his stories. I call that selfish.

Not that I get to take a year off to find myself, but I wander what words will be used to describe my five weeks away through Singapore, the US, Holland, Spain and the UK.

I can't wait to see what these words are.

The movie also had a bit where at a dinner party they were talking about how each place has a word - London - constrained, Paris - Romance, Italy - food, etc. Then they started talking about what eachother's words were. For Liz, it was the Italian word for all encompassing.

I wonder what my word will coming out of this trip.

Something to think about as I sit on a plane anyway.

The Address Book

There is nothing like a trawl through an address book to make you feel nostalgic. It's also had the added effect of making me realise just how things have changed over the last few years.

I'm slowly getting ready of this trip overseas. As I'm taking off in twelve days there is quite a bit to do, but being the anal, spread-sheeting harpy I can be, I'm ticking things off the list. It's nearly finished. There's still a few things to do - like organise my money, pack and finally get on the plane, but all the arrangements are pretty much in place.

There's very little to do really. The only things I'm having difficulty preparing is the England leg of the trip. Five days at the start of November. It's not that bad really, I'm just being an anal cow.

So far, England is looking like this. Catching up with friends on the first two days, Gareth and Georgina, who were in Australia earlier in the year - that will be fine once can get hold of them on the phone.They know I'm coming, I'm pretty sure they have the dates, I just have to get the pick up details in order  - do I go to St Albans Station or will Gareth pick me up - not too hard at all.

Day Three, I'm off to Bath, no dramas there, the hotel is booked for the night, just have to rock up to Paddington Station - maybe look at the timetables before I go so I'm all set for a not to long a wait.

The last time I was in Bath was about fourteen years ago. I'd gone for a long weekend with Gareth, as friends. I don't remember that much of the trip though I know I wasn't good for much as my father had died in the month before. I just remember being numb and eating Sally Lunn buns and thinking the place was pretty. I'm hoping to get some good memories this time around.

Day Four, back to London in the afternoon, again, booked into a hotel near Waterloo, so that's sorted. Rather than get into an argument with friends this time over where I'm staying, I've gone the four star hotel option. I might try catch up with friends, or go see a play, or mooch around, or have a bit of a rest that afternoon, I don't know - it's my second to last day abroad and I'm going to enjoy.

The last day will be spent with a friend down in Surrey, just south of the M25. Verity and I have been friends for over fifteen years. She lives in this wonderful 400 year old cottage and she used to have a cat that though the sun shone out of my bum. We've seen each other through a lot and though we don't talk that often, I always make the attempt to see her when I'm over there.

Verity's been having a rather rough trot of late, so when I called earlier in the year to tell her of my pending visit, she cautiously said that she may not be able to meet. That was fine with me, no drama, and said I'd call nearer the time, see what's going, if it happen it happens, if not, next time. Getting her life sorted was more important.

As it's about a month out until I get to England, I made the call last night, just to see if she was able to meet. Things are on the improve for V. We'll talk when I get there, but it looks like I'll be heading down to hers for the day and she'll drop me at Heathrow for the flight back.

Thing is, when you don't call somebody very often, you have to dig out their number. For me, most of this sort of information is kept in my diary for 2003. A tome I don't delve into very often.

Other than my own phone number there are only three I know by heart. My mother's. My sister's. And Lachlan's - though I never ring it. Everybody else is programmed into my phone.

Flicking through the pages of this book, I see the remnants of what turned out to be a seminal year. I can't believe that who I was is so not the person I am now. The 2003 version of me was moving to Greece. There are notes in Greek throughout the diary. Numbers of people I've never seen again. The bloke from Wonthaggi I was seeing on the side for a bit, never to be heard from after I got back, the birthday of a fellow I last saw a traffic lights a few years ago, the number of a friend who's had two husbands since.Some people had moved countries, moved houses, or moved on from my life. Others are still where I left them. It was an interesting experience in memory.

The 2003 version of me didn't have much of a clue.

Looking at the dates, March 2003, fly out, stay with Lachlan before flying to Athens. Oh dear, that time, where I'd moved to Greece for six months as a holiday rep on Santorini and the company had neglected to sort a working visa out for me beforehand, which meant staying more than three months was out of the question - let alone getting paid. The European Union had kicked in for the first time in Greece (though some say it still flaunts many of the rules)

Oh, and Lachlan has played with my head back at this point. Give him a few months he said. We were supposed to be together. Just wait. When I got back to England in October 2003 we would be together.

I left Greece in June after three months of bumming around Mykonos where the company had sent me, free of charge, while they worked out what to do with me. Back in England for a few days, then back here to Australia. I only got to speak to Lachlan as I was leaving the country.

Eight years later, I'm still waiting for him to front.

Not.

The 2003 trip taught me so much. How not to compromise. How to not go back. How to get myself out of sticky situations. And most importantly, how to behave when somebody treats you badly - which is to not give them an inch.

Strangely, this trip on which I'm about to embark has a similar feel to it as that fateful trip in 2003.

Though there is no Lachlan playing with my heart and no dodgy job offer in a beautiful paradise (saying this, I'm not that fond of Santorini - it's a vapid beauty. Give my Mykonos or Naxos any time) it feels like this trip will have me walking through another gateway.

May it be so.

Taming the Inner Control Freak

I am a control freak. There, I've said it. It's out there for all to diseminate, masticate and digest. I, Pandora T. Behr, have that most annoying of modern conditions, that being the need to control everything.

This is something that I am learning to deal with, sometimes well, other times completely unsuccessfully. I am aware that there are times that I have to relinquish control, and I can say "Okay, you take the reigns for a bit. Go for it. I will let you have your will. I have stated my preferences, you make the decisions, there will be no reprisals for bad judgement. I trust you."

Other times, there's such a nagging hatred of having no control. I feel like this about the nagging pain in my stomach. I am having another ultrasound the week after next. After that it's back to my doctor, then off to a specialist, then who knows what. I just want this fixed NOW! I'm over being woken by the dull ache in my side at four a.m..I'm angry that I can't run because it makes the pain worse. At least all the blood tests have come back negative - something to be very thankful for.

The opposite of this is the sabbatical. I'm taking six months off from my normal work - I have no idea what I will be doing, where I will be working, how much money I will be making or when this will occur. And I love this feeling. I have control over how I look for work, the rest is up to the universe - and this I love. I have the confidence I can get work. It's all a bit of an adventure and I very much have the control over how I go looking for work, making plans etc. I also have enough money in the bank to know that I can survive six months very, very frugally if I have to - but it will not come to that.

It was pointed out to me rather bluntly on Wednesday night at Dream Group that I have not been enjoying the journey so far, expecially with the gifts the universe has bestowed on me over the last few months. Who else wins a competition that gives you two tickets to anywhere in the world? Who else works for a company that gives you paid sabbaticals? Who else do you know can travel around the world and have a bed in every contintent?

Okay, well my cousin Mal won a trip to Europe about fifteen years ago - never a more deserving person won that trip. Mal currently works in a hospice and she's been working the cancer wards of Canberra as a nurse for nearly twenty years. Hats off to that one. And I know lots of people who have mates all over the world. One of the joys of living overseas and working for international companies and people an expat for a long time is you have friends all over the globe. As for the paid sabbaticals - yeah, well that one is a bit of a find.

It was a bit hard to hear. It was my dream that we picked over on Wednesday. Here I am, standing at a crossroad, watching Ngaire Dixon-Smythe run around in her underwear, moving house in a complete strop. Ngaire Dixon-Smythe was somebody I went to high school with. She's now a QC with three kids living the life amazing in an ultra posh Adelaide suburb. Anyway, Ngaire Dixon-Smythe was in the moving house competition in which she stood to win a million dollars. There I was sitting with some wise friends having coffee, watching the world go by. In the end, the moving competition ended in a tie and both the movers, and a rather stroppy Ngaire both won a million. Finally I sit in my third floor flat watching the sun go down and the sunset is AMAZING. The other dream I was playing the piano, freestyle, no music. It sounded incredible.

I don't play the piano. I've never had a lesson. I can pick out scales and a tune at a basic level, but that is it. I did music in my leaving year at high school - you can do things like this - but as I kept stressing to dream group, I did the composition and theory option, not the practical one. They scoffed at me.

Dream group put it too me that what ever happens now, it's going to be amazing, incredible - and I have to start enjoying these blessings, rather than running around like Ngaire in my dream and just pissing myself and others off. It was time to slow down and enjoy. Stop fretting. Stop trying to control everything.

I suppose they're right.

I'm trying to keep my "Let's control the world" moments to fifteen minutes a day. In that time I can send my CV off to job agencies, plan my railway journeys through Spain, organise my week, plan the shopping list, wonder what I will do for my birthday....

And then, after this, I can sit back, relax, and try to let the universe do what it has to do.

Well this is the theory.

All I can say is that I know the universe is supporting me. And I also know now, as it was also pointed out to me on Wednesday night, that just because things were one way in the past, doesn't mean they have to be like that in the future - and for this I am truly, truly, overwhelmingly grateful.

Watch this space.

Pand

Reconsiderations, Anti-Gravity and Why I'm not a Jedi

90 Days to the Mount Desert Island Marathon.

Reindert and I had a heart to heart on Sunday. After the stress of the day spent in the Emergency Room and the realisation that this pain in my side is more than a muscle strain, I'd been working out what to say to him. The words came more easily than I thought.

At the end of May I cruised throught the Williamstown Half Marathon - well - I did my best time and came out really well. A week later I'd nearly torn my calf muscle, putting me six weeks behind my training schedule - and now this. It hurts to walk. Joy.

We had a pleasant afternoon. On hearing that there was a place near Hanging Rock that was somewhat magical, where you could roll your car uphill - something to do with magnetic forces or anti gravity - Reindert was sold and we made the return trip to the rock to hunt out this place.

It was truly amazing. Your set your car into neutral at this one point in the road - and sure enough - it rolls uphill! We tried it four or five times. Reindert's engineering brain was about to explode. "It has to do something with magenetics. I reckon if you were in a horse and cart it wouldn't work." he explained to me.
"Why can't some things just be left unexplained?" I asked in return.
"Because everything needs an explanation. It's science."
"Atheist!"
"Hippy."
"Spiritual Agnostic, thank you."

The lovely German doctor at St Vinnies had remarked on my notes that as a religion I'd put down Agnostic.
"Why did you put that down?" he had asked me.
"They asked. I'm not a Christian. I'm not an atheist, as I sort of believe in God. I'd put down Freemason if I wasn't in a Catholic hospital. Kabbalistic Wiccan just sounds wanky. I was tempted to put Jedi down just out of spite."
"We get lots of Jedis here." he smiled back.
If I had put down Jedi as my religion and things got messy it turns out they would have called upon some guy in Preston who turns up in robes and talks to you in the language of Tatouine to adminster last rites. Hmmm.

Back to rolling cars uphill. We finished our trip, happy that we'd found this freak of nature place.

On the way back, after a lovely coffee in Woodend we started talking about the marathon.
"I'm all in a quandry."
"About what?" he asked.
"The marathon. At the end of May I was travelling well. Then came the calf - and now this. I can barely walk without pain, let alone run. I just thought I'd done a groin muscle for a bit."
"You walk alright."
"It hurts. I doesn't hurt too bad, but it hurts. And I'm not going to whine about it. But I can't run at the moment. I can't train. It shits me."
"I can imagine."
"I don't know how long this will be going on for."
"Yep."
"And the marathon is three months away. I don't know what to do. It feels like I've put most of this year into getting myself ready for this only to fall over now."
"I've been thinking about this too."
"You have."
"Yep - and you have three choices. Run - and see how you go. Run/walk, and see how you go. Or bail. And there is no dishonour in bailing after a bit in your situation."
"That's how I see the options."
"And what do you think?"
"See how I travel over the next week or so  and go for the Run / Walk / Bail option. I'm not a piker, but to run a whole marathon in October is lunacy.Walking is an option - and I'm still considering contacting the organisers and starting with the walkers and then see what happens."
"Then I think you're doing the right thing."

So, it comes down to wait and see. Wait and see if I can't run at all, run a bit of it, or if I'm lucky, be able to get back into training soon and complete the 42.2 kms, albeit at a run/walk pace.

Never would I have guessed that in two years I've transformed from this occassionally gyming slob to this running person. Somebody who misses the joy of movement as I traipse around the streets, somewhat red faced, but free.

I saw a doctor at my regular practice today - asked her to check up on all the results and the ultrasound pictures from Tuesday, half comforted by the fact that no matter which way I go, getting to the bottom of this will take a few weeks, not just days. She said to take it easy - and no running until the pain had gone.

So, I am without running for a while. What shall I do?
Finish that Certificate IV in Workplace Training and Assessment?
Finish that Greek Travel writing job.
Get into Pump class again?
Ponder my five weeks abroad in October.

There is plenty to do. I just know I'd prefer to be out on the Yarra path - training my body, puffing away, adoring the feeling of achievement and freedom.

The Slap,The Scream, The Silence - Part Two

I received an email this morning which read "The Mount Desert Island Marathon is 95 days away."

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Okay, let's have a look at this:

I'm nearly over a rather nasty injury.
I've had six weeks on the bench doing nothing more strenuous than swimming anda  light jog.
As a grizzly bear by nature, getting up in the morning to run is as foreign to me as wearing pink and calling myself Talullah.
This means in ninety days I will be taking off for the chilly climate of the North Eastern USA  - for a start.

Calm down, Pandora.

After last night's missal I've made a few decisions.

I'm going to be nice to myself. No more beating myself up, what will be, will be.
Eat good.
Exercise safely and daily.
Drink nothing stronger than coffee.
I can run walk the 42.2 kilometres. I'm going to contact the organisers and shift to the walk. Reindert can start with the runners and catch me up. It will be okay. I'm a warrior woman.
Breathe more.
Worry less.
Spend twenty minutes a day meditating.

With these decisions the sore throat began to abate.

Next fix, work.

This is a transient period. Keep busy. Don't stress. What ever happens, I'm employable, and I've only ever been unemployed for six weeks of my life. There's a few tarot and writing jobs coming up to keep myself occupied. I'm safe, even if not fully engaged.

There, that feels better. See, the throat is nearly mended. Just the last bit to go.

Lastly, Lachlan.

What does one say to somebody who appears to take great delight in messing the other person around?
Something like this:

Dear Lachlan,

We've been tippytoeing around eachother for the last fifteen years. For the last ten of those years you've been keeping me on a long leash, coming and going as you please, making empty promises for visits, forever asking when I will be coming over, never actually keeping your word, but also never actually letting me go.

Well, stop it - I'm over it. You know where I live. You want to see me? Come find me - I'm sick of being at your beck and call.

I deserve better. People who don't like me treat me with more respect. I'm not a toy which you can pick up and put down as you please.

Sort yourself out, decide what you want, but don't drag me into your despair any more - I don't want it and I certainly don't need you if you're going to persist in treating me like a whipping post or unwanted Christmas puppy.

I've plenty of other people to spend time with in England when I get there.

And I swallow, the sore throat has gone away. I can breathe calmly and deeply.

Existential crisis over.

Pand

Three National Parks

I miss running. Not being able to run has robbed me of my thinking time, my goals, my dreams and my sense of overcoming adversity. Finally, the gastrocnemius is mending. It only gets strapped when I do exercise and other than regular stretching and the odd bit of deep heat, it's coming good. Running still hurts, but it's now a dull ache rather than the harsh warning pain of a few weeks ago. Liz the Myotherapist has said that I could go back to exercise cautiously. Running one minute out of five on the treadmill is very doable. But this is going to take time - and patience. Not something I'm known for.

By cautiously, she probably didn't mean going and scaling the 1000 Steps in the Dandenongs National Park...

Well what was I supposed to do? Reindert... yes, let's blame Reindert. At dinner, after beer club he said he was going up to the Dandenongs for a run. I sort of asked myself along. The trek up the 50 % incline would be fun. He could go off running, I could gently scale the steps, come down again and then go back to the car and read my book. Save him train fare and get me out in the fresh air.

It was a great move. A wonderful thing to do. The Kokoda Memorial Trek, up 660 steps to the summit, and seriously not for the faint hearted. I was pleased. Taking it easy to make sure there was no undue pressure on the leg, I made my way up the hill - thrilled that my recovery and CV fitness was holding out. Then the scary bit - coming down.

As a child I spend a lot of time in hospital having my legs fixed. Born knock kneed and with short Achilles tendons meant spending time in callipers and plaster boots at regular intervals until I was twelve. It was during this time I developed a fear of falling. While Reindert can fly down these hills, I have to carefully pick my way down. I wish I was sure of foot - but anything going down - stairs, escalators and steep hills normally fills me with dread. I even get nervous going down Anderson Street on the side of the Botanical Gardens. I love scaling the cathedrals of Europe - I hate crawling my way down - petrified of falling. It's a problematic, sort of embarrassing phobia.

Regardless, I made my way up and back in just over fifty minutes and felt great for it. Reindert gave me a good hour an a half to read my book before returning, muddy, but happy. Freak. Only Reindert would love running up and down these near cliff faces.

The following day, as a treat, Reindert and I joined the Grounded Dutchman on a wine tour of the Macedon Ranges. We say wine tour when really it was more a day trip. We planned on a visiting a few wineries, going to have a look around Hanging Rock, find a nice lunch and go home.

Reindert and the Grounded Dutchman have been regular day trip companions for ages. They're good company. They've also allowed me to see more of the state I've lived in for the last ten years. Until these guys turned up I rarely ventured out into country Victoria. As I child, we never went camping as a family and other than a few visits to places before I was eight, I don't remember visiting national parks - that was a thing for the campers and hippies to do.

The guys have been a blessing to have about. How wrong have I been?

The first stop was the Organ Pipes National Park. "Never heard of it." I said, but Reindert assured us it would be worth a visit.

For a small national park, Organ Pipes it packs a lot of wallop. The actual organ pipes are this natural wonder - just off the Calder Freeway, blink and you miss the turnoff. You can hear the gentle hum of the traffic in the far distance, the sites about a kilometre from the road. They're really cool. You just stand there and think 'How did that happen?".

 There was also this natural wonder called the Rosette Stone at the park - not the one that helped translate the heiroglyphs that got robbed by the English and now sits in the British Museum. This would be too big for the colonials to take back to brag about. Another natural WTF moment.

Then it was off to Hanging Rock. Another place I've heard about but never been to.

Another big hill to scale. Joy. Thank goodness I was wearning my calf strap and runners. It was already aching from the day before and my quads were feeling like concrete after picking my way down Mount Dandenong. Never to mind, can't have the boys think you're not up to it.

It's an amazing geological wonder - a fantastic place to wander. Silent and ethereal. You can see why Peter Weir made the film about it. Of course on the summit you have to cry out "Miranda!" and you listen hard for the pan pipes that George Zamphir is expected to play when you get to the top.

Explaining this to two Dutchmen was a bit difficult. Another missed cultural reference.

I look at this shot of Reindert and Grounded Dutchman under Hanging Rock, looking very Dutch, hands in pockets, rather earnest. I look at his and think it would make a great album cover. "Hurdy and Gurdy Sing the Greatest Dutch Football Anthems Volume One." I can see it now.

Grounded Dutchman made sure he climbed over every rock he could find, despite shattering his pelvis 15 months ago. I'm certain that man was a cat in his last life. However he climbed down from each rock with a huge grin of triumph on his face. Proof of just how far he's come.

The uneven ground made me rather cautious. I stuck to the track. Reindert could be spyed looking out into the distance.

The place also made me rather melancholy. Why hadn't I been there before? What had I missed? Why had I allow myself to forgoe days like this? Being single and rather isolated, I've really done myself a disservice. Time for that to change.

But there wasn't time to drown in self pity - there was wine to be tasted, food to be enjoyed and winery dogs to pat. Three of my favorite things.

And even better, as the Grounded Dutchman has to behave himself around alcohol - a designated driver!

Hanging Rock Winery was first off the ranks. Some pleasant drops which may have been nicer if the man behind the desk had half a personality. Next came Curly Flat, (http://www.curlyflat.com/) where the Pinot Noir's are velvety smooth and the winery cat, Chewbacca, a 10 kg orange moggy kept us entertained. The Pinot's were lovely, but the cat stole the show, using Grounded Dutchman for a sofa for the time we were there.

Lastly, after a fine lunch at the pizza joint in Kyneton (highly, highly recommended) we made our way to Big Shed Wines. (http://www.bigshedwines.com.au/) where we were entertained by the unflappable Felix and the three Border Collies who sat at your feet and demanded a pat. Felix was the find of the day, with a long wine list to taste, great prices and an interesting way of handling the stock. Since the mountains are so cold, the cellar door is not the best to store stock. So the reds, normally drunk around 12-14 degrees at a minimum needed warming. Seven seconds in the microwave did it.... Felix kept us entertained by the wood fire for well over an hour.

We trundled back, replete, content after dark. Only seven bottles of wine in the boot between us. A small haul for a great day.

And for me, a new love of Australian National Parks - more of which I will have to explore in the very near future.

Pand