The phone rang too early

... for it to be good news.

Crawling out of bed about to face a day, which I’m fully aware will be comprised of phone calls and emails, conversations with family members with whom I haven’t spoken to in years, repeating the sad details, planning the services. And then the long silences shared with my immediate family, holding hands, an empty tissue box, unsure what to say or mumble, because words cannot sew, or tape or glue together the void… facing a day like this is hard. Don't worry.... this entry will get happier...

People say losing grandparents happens, and it does, all my friends
have – but the hard part isn’t my loss, yes, I am grieving, but it’s
watching my mom lose her mom. My grandmother was in her seventies, she
was in pillates class a month ago, she was traveling to New York, and
she was sassy and full of life. She was too young to leave us – too
young even for the US Consensus, but for her the time was right.

There were too many obscure occurrences in the last 48 hours to
believe that her frail body couldn’t take any more IVs, or that she
quit fighting. Her body never gave up, but around 4am her spirit let
go.

People say, “She is in a better place, she isn’t hurting anymore…”
These statements are all true. Death is the predictable part of life,
right? The event we can count on, but can never prepare for. My mom
left Houston only two days ago, after being told that my grandmother
was on the road to recovery – there was scientific proof we were
allowed to hope. Enough so to give my mom permission to fly to Denver
only for a few days. She arrived home late at night, the next morning,
well this morning, she had an appointment scheduled, a day of laundry
and catching up and then she was scheduled to fly back to Houston to
root her mother on while she did physical therapy, to drive her to
doctor’s visits, to help her heal.

My grandmother had many visitors yesterday; she was lively, telling
stories and joking with the nurses; she convinced everyone she felt
well. She spoke on the phone with each of her children. She ate French
toast. For the first time in weeks she didn’t take anything for the
pain. We were convinced that she wasn’t suffering. Nobody thought
anything different than she was getting healthier. My grandfather
received a phone call around 2am. He drove to the hospital and he sat
next to her for two hours. She told him she loved him and then she
promised him she knew how much he loved her. And then she stopped
breathing.

When I heard the shaky voice over the telephone receiver this morning,
my first reaction was; when is the next test? What is the next
procedure? The new prognosis? But when I pressed the “End” button; I
realized there are no more nexts. Death is game over.

My mother has always said, “The day I lose my mother will be the
saddest day in my life. I don’t know how I will get through it.”

But as I type this, my mother is upstairs and sleeping. We chuckle
because she drives the same as her mom and pokes around in her
nightgown, she makes the same facial expressions and she loves us more
than anything – she is her mother’s daughter. My mom is curled up with
her head in my father’s lap. He loves her so very much. How can we
ever be sad when there is so much love? My brother and sister and I
have taken turns scratching her back and bringing her tea and kissing
her forehead.

Today is now over. Tomorrow there will be flowers and more phone calls
and funeral arrangements. There will be cleaning of closets and
heirlooms to divvy amongst the cousins. And then there will be
photographs to organize and photographs to frame and then we will have
choices.

Why her? I wonder… I’m a person who refuses to accept something
without attaching wisdom - a lesson, a skill, some takeaway to store
and tuck in my back pocket for later use. The phrase, “sunk cost”
doesn’t exist in my vernacular. Experiences and situations and
hardships must have meaning – I seek value. And even with all the
horror in our world, I have trouble understanding why my grandmother
had to leave us, so soon, too soon.

You see....My grandmother was at peace. She had closure – she was the
strongest and that's why she had to go first. Like most matriarchs who
keep traditions alive, who don't forget birthdays and the names of
boyfriends, she scolded us and she spoiled us - but she always
accepted us. When we think of her we're flooded with a desire to make
things right, tomorrow we can say “I love you” to all the people who
can pick up their phone.

She was more than a mother and a wife, she was also a philanthropist,
an only child, a Houstonian - she has friends from every walk and
every chapter of life - from the opera to the ballet, from bookclubs
and the Hillcountry, all the way down to the Christian halfway home.
Her family always came first – she came through with flying colors -
she was cheering - attending graduations, dances, weekends away - she
tended to us when we were sick and she threw the parties when it was
an occasion to celebrate. And although her calendar was abundant of
new acquaintances and old friends, overflowing with big trips,
organizations and charities; her life was still very simple.

Every moment she spent, she spent well. Every person with whom she
spoke, felt heard. A little woman of 5'2'' made so many hundreds of
people feel loved.

In a few days the extended family will fly in from around the country
for her funeral and we will grieve. We will witness everyone at his or
her most vulnerable place. Men will cry and the children will wear
dresses and suits and won’t understand the eulogies until years down
the road when they will hear stories about the grandmother they cannot
remember. Her death has left a hole in our family and the only way we
can fill it; is by loving each other. We will have to take it upon
ourselves to organize family reunions; remind cousins of birthdays.

She took great joy in gift giving - it was a way for her to show
people she knew them, their needs, how she could communicate - and
the gift she left us with is time. There is enough time to love harder
than ever before and let go of the things that hold us down – that
waste our moments – that prevent us from relishing and experiencing
and enjoying the very stuff that life is made of – each other.

People keep saying that although my grandmother has passed, one day
we’ll join her in heaven. And while I believe that is true and that
will bring comfort to most; heaven still seems so very far away.

This morning, after the phone call and before I crawled out of bed, I
closed my eyes and prayed. I took a deep breath and felt her presence
protecting me, helping me navigate the future; I envisioned her
laughing and heard her telling me the sweetest things that put a song
in my heart. Now, whenever I miss her... I close my eyes and she is
with me. And that will last forever.

Perfect Weather is Invisible

It’s 4:52 pm in California.

I’m typing in a restaurant booth, surrounded by ocean. The weather is roughly a perfect 70 degrees. All elements are undetectable, except for the occasional warm ray of sun, or soft cool breeze to remind me to be grateful that the weather has chosen to be flawless.

I refer to myself as the “retired seatmate” for obvious reasons… some of the people who’ve randomly sat next to me on airplanes have changed; no, they’ve rerouted my life…

This time zone has maybe an hour before the sun will abandon us. The rest of America has already been dark for hours. And with December dusk also arrives a chilly front. But that won’t prevent me from relishing the view. There is pale light shining through the thick, plush, creamy and rose-colored clouds, suggesting there indeed, are heavens above.

On airplanes, I’ve met a man who saved my life. I’ve sat next to a woman, who is now one of my dearest friends, another woman who lost her leg to the same disease that nearly killed me. There has been someone from my past and someone who paved way for my future. And several days ago I sat next to a person who was desperate, no deserved for somebody, anybody to care. And I was too tired.

The glowing ball of fire will cautiously dip into the waves, but as soon as you blink, the sun will have vanished. The pink and yellow and azure blur your vision. The pigments of the buildings, cars, trees and sailboats weaken; the gravity of the ocean beckons the sky. The two will be enveloped by darkness for the next twelve hours and cannot be pulled apart until tomorrow morning.

December 6, 2009 will disappear forever and everything that happened with it. All those who have been born, all those who have passed away, the laughter, the tears, the firsts and the lasts, the choices and actions that dissect our lives, some more pivotal than others. Canonized and captured in photographs, facial expressions turned shadows, voices turned whispers. Just memories.

And before you realize today is over. It has past.

Empathy is a virtue- it is. It is much easier to be kind to strangers, because the assumption is that you’ll never see them again. In my aisle seat I am stressed and exhausted and frustrated. This man asks me how I am and my response is a single syllable “fine.” I’m chugging my then-cold Starbucks.

He asked why I am traveling. I spit out an effortless response, “a hybrid of travel and pleasure.”

Then out of guilt, I mumble, “you?”

Quietly, he says the word I hoped I wouldn’t hear, “family.” He stares at the seat in front of him with sad and empty eyes. He wasn’t waiting, but I could sense that he invited conversation. Myself, pop culture, business, bullshit, chatter, worthless nothingness… anything that wasn’t related to whatever misfortune required booking a plane ticket eight hours ago. But I voluntarily chose not to care. It wasn’t my problem. And so I put on my headphones and then fell asleep.

Now protected by large, gray… molecules of condensation packed tightly, the sun’s fever cannot reach me. Dusk is heavy with a freezing, angst. I’m shivering and my fingers are slow, taking longer to type, and this does not surprise me.

When the flight attendant walked by with the beverage cart I woke up. Completely forgetting our quick exchange I glance over to see if he wants anything to drink. But he is sound asleep. I understood. I’m an insomniac, and the only restful sleep tends to be on any mode of transportation, a car, a plane, and a boat, train. Any vehicle transporting me from then to now… I then wonder if he is dreaming. There are only two dreams for me – they consist of two plots – my family is in harm and it is my responsibility to save them. Or the other dream where I’m flying and the closer and closer I am to landing, the farther away the ground becomes. Maybe he has no dreams, no fantastical thoughts, playing in his head, I wasn’t sure.

He must be around fifty-five or sixty years-old? He seems like a nice, hardworking, family man. A father probably. His hands are intertwined and resting on his lap. He is wearing a wedding ring, it is worn, and I could tell hadn’t been removed in years.

The sun has long since left California. The goose bumps crawling on my arm are begging me to move inside, but this air, this fresh pacific oxygen is far more exhilarating than the electric heaters inside. So I will sit here freezing, calmed by the cadence of waves, and remember what this man said to me only 72 hours ago.

We landed in Los Angeles on time. The man was awake and quiet next to me. I didn’t desire to know where he was going and why. I didn’t have the emotional space, the empathetic room to take on the pain, the anguish of some stranger, it wasn’t my job.

“I hope you have a great trip. California is a lot of fun.” He said genuinely. Vicariously, maybe, maybe just polite. Not too sure.

“Thanks. Good luck with, wherever you’re going.” I said, the comment racing out of my mouth,
“I’ll need it.” He said. He played with the gold band.
“What happened?” And then the journalist in me got the best of me.
“My wife was in a car accident, a semi-truck hit her Volvo.” He paused searching my face to see if I wanted more. I revealed nothing.

“She was on her way to Arizona to pick up our son up from college. Anyway, she died last night. I couldn’t get there in time.” He choked. The truth, his nasty, cruel reality got caught in his esophagus.

“I’m so sorry.” Was all I could muster.

I wandered to baggage claim in a daze. The question screams, “Why do all these stories land next to me on airplanes?” For once, can’t a boring, silent stranger share my armrest, someone unaffected?

But airplanes are never that simple.

He walks ahead of me, carrying a small hunter green duffel bag, to his connecting flight, a steel tube to fly him to a nightmare beyond comprehension. A brutal kick of reality, and I was about to sit on a beach and write and share cocktails with friends. I was off to parties and glitzy experiences.

Life isn’t just unfair, it is bitter, unforgiving, a visceral uncertainty we cannot predict. Each moment encapsulated by the illogical, however pleasurable or painful. We endure. There is no choice.

It’s 5:53 pm and my pupils are wide. They are subconsciously searching for light in the black that has flooded the vibrant, rich sunset the coast was tasting moments ago. The moon has begun its crawl across the veiled horizon and the stars are starting to glisten. I can faintly make out the slices of silver touching the rolling current, illuminating the sound, as they crash onto the beach.

I cannot see the undertow.... the strength of moon's pull.... It is hiding underneath the waters surface. But I know once the wave hits the shore and the foam dissipates on the wet sand, it will be violently sucked back into the depths of the ocean.

It’s invisible. But nonetheless it’s there, waiting.

24 Hours

Our entire day can be remembered in a few seconds. It is funny how a day is comprised of twenty-four hours, but when we reflect on our day; filtering through the wakeup, the commute to work, the trivial conversations, eating, ordering Starbucks, the walk to the car, the traffic, the phone calls and text messages, the gym, the cocktail party, watching the news, or reading a book, it can be remembered in a few seconds. Which makes sense when people die. It is said, “your entire life flashes in front of you.” Apologies for being morbid. But it makes sense, right?

Maybe that is why movies and books appear chronologically logical. They only highlight the significant, life-altering moments, the choices that shift the direction of where we assume we’re going, the conversations paramount to our existence, the fears overcome, the connections made. The stories lure us in, tempting us to turn the page, hungry for a benevolent or happy outcome… but always the outcome, the ending. But we shouldn’t hurry to get there, because once we reach the end, it’s over.

But no, life isn’t that perfect, reality is what happens between the lines of a book, the scenes in a movie. We can’t cut, rewind, pause or erase. We must move forward…. And when we look back, we can barely remember anything at all. Words sometimes flow and other times they get stuck in my throat. I want to get as much out as possible, because my memory will quickly forget the details.

I found this little missive (circa 2005) and thought it was worth sharing.....



October, 2005

The weekend in New York was a blur, staring at the photographs of my friends and me laughing while throwing our scarves into the air, hit me as though that blond girl, FYI- me, decked out in a Burberry rain coat was somebody else. Puffing the cigar belonging between my girlfriend’s fingers; skimming the crowds for celebrities, pretending to be cool in a world so far away from childhood.

Recovering from our deliciously fun Friday night, rendezvousing with old friends and drinking champagne into the wee hours, we were having dinner at a restaurant. I neglected to bring my purse in the stall with me. I left it on the counter where my girlfriend was standing and talking on her cell phone. Washing my hands, and grabbing my satchel my eyes scanned the crowd outside the restroom where she had left to finish her phone call. Scampering to catch a taxi, my watch reminding and that if I didn’t hurry I would miss the Amtrak train to Boston.

The first car that pulled over was a regular sedan, the man hunched over the worn leather of the steering wheel demanding where to drive in a bulky Arabic accent.

“Penn Station, please sir.” I stammered. The Beatles starting belting “yesterday” from my cell phone, my sister had downloaded the new ring, when the music hit the drivers ears the cab nearly collided with a bus next to us, as the bus driver shot us the finger with one hand, and pounded the horn with the other.

A profanity or two escaped the mouth of the Arabic man in the front seat. Catching my apologetic expression in the review mirror for my boisterous phone ring, he softened.

“ So, why are you visiting New York?” He questioned.

“Just visiting some girlfriends.” I explained.

He nodded. Probably not the first time he’d heard that answer.

The traffic from Chelsea was a nightmare; twenty minutes later pulled up to the train station. Rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I frantically discovered an empty space. My wallet was missing. How was I going to pay for this cab, get on my flight home without my id? The innards of my stomach began to turn inside out; nausea hit me as the vision of me laughing in the stall, and abandoning my purse by the soap dispenser with my friend, who had walked outside. There were a dozen girls in that restroom, the vision quickly entered my brain, and sobs began to exit my mouth. I quickly called information and then the restaurant; the manager said that no wallet had been turned in.

Gulping loudly, I began to cry, “Sir, my wallet was stolen. I’m so sorry I don’t know what to do, I need to catch my train to Boston.”

An angry, thunderous voice responded, “Are you sure, do you want to look again.” He thought I was lying. I wasn’t telling some counterfeit excuse to avoid the fee, how was I supposed to get on the airplane if I didn’t even have a license. Sweat mixed with tears stung my cheeks, and I pleaded. “Sir, I’m just going over to that policeman over on that corner to explain the situation.”

Fuming with frustration at my inability to pay the forty-seven dollar cab fee, I was freaking out… My two girlfriends were already en route to Connecticut and I didn’t know of any banks that would get wired money on a Saturday night. I sprinted in my three inch boots, not conducive to running, toward the uniformed officer. Bewildered by my construed appearance, he patiently listened. “I don’t know what to do, my wallet was stolen, I have to pay the cab fee, I have no credit cards or cash, I just have a train ticket waiting for me at will call.” The police officer was trying to piece together my story with the minimal information I had spat at through my mangled sobs.

A cumbersome figure dressed in a turban appeared next to me, towering over the police officer. “This girl has tried to rip me off, she thinks she does not have to pay for her fee over here.”

Blubbering into my cell phone to my mother, who was trying to hear me over the loud voices of the policeman, cab driver, and the sirens and street merchants, the line suddenly went dead. The demise of my battery had just ended any hope of wiring cash. Besides offering my earrings or watch to this beastly driver, who wouldn’t accept my offer to send him a payment the next day, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

Through the dark night, the streetlights illuminated gentle eyes. A guy in his twenties stepped into the Bermuda triangle of confusion (the police officer, driver and myself). Me, lugging my red valise, watching the Good Samaritan quietly slice the tension.

“I’ve been listening to the situation from over there,” pointing only a few feet away, where a few people stood, clearly interested in the scene I had caused. “It sounds as though this girl, uh woman, needs to catch her train to Boston, how much is the fee for the cab?” He then looked toward me for approval.

Unsure if we heard correctly, the three of us collectively responded, “huh?”

“Well, it appears this girl will miss her train, so I would like to pay for her cab since she had her wallet stolen, is that correct?”

“Yes, Yes, I left my purse sitting on the counter, where I thought my friend was standing, and wallet with my credit cards, cash, and ID was stolen.” I confessed, wishing anybody would believe me.

His kind face nodded with understanding; he reached into his overall pocket. Wait overall, yes overall. This twenty-something stranger was wearing overalls, even in the midst of crisis; I noticed his out-of-the-ordinary appearance.

The large Arabic man turned to the young savior, “It was forty-seven dollars, without the tip,” in a flat, nonchalant voice.

“Without hesitation, he pulled out two twenties and a ten, placing the cash in the palm of the angry man.”

Speechless and still sobbing, I threw my body into the arms of overalls, proclaiming, “I don’t know how to thank you, oh my gosh, thank you, thank you. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, give me your number and address, wait what is your name?”

Watching the drama unravel, the police officer ushered the pulsating crowd aside, gave the guy a pat on the back.

“My name is Matt. You’d better hurry if you want to make your train.” The guy in pinstripes said.
Not having any paper with me, I handed him the book I had been reading; begged him to write his address in the back, so I could compensate properly.”

As he scribbled his information on the last page, I gathered my belongings. I looked up at this man in pinstripes, so curious as to what persuaded him to do such a nice gesture?

Giving him one last, uninvited hug, I ran off into the autumn night. To the train terminal, I was determined to make it to Boston.

Settling into a warm booth in the economy section of the train, the man checking tickets began to wink at me, until he noticed my smudged eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was desperate to crawl into a happy dream that didn’t include an angry taxi driver.

Before my sleepy brain could succumb to the gentle cadence; the hum of the train on the train tracks, I remembered Matt had written his information down. I fumbled to find my book; my puffy eyes fell onto the last page.

The words scrawled in black ink read, “It’s Karma. Good luck with your travels.”

Goosebumps quietly crawled against my shoulder and every hair on my arms stood erect. I had no way to reach this man, to thank him. A soft smile spread across my face realizing that Karma was in my hands. A situation would soon arise, a scene would soon unfold where I could hand it off to somebody else....

Blond with a Shotgun! OY

While the weather remains a reliable seventy degrees in Texas this time of year, its inhabitants (I'm a native) can’t locate sushi or savvy with a ten-foot pole and a shotgun. That is why I absolutely LOVE this state. It's authentic, American, southern folk who aren't afraid to tell it like it is, and open doors for the women.

I was acting a bit barmy this morning as the snow wouldn’t shut up. Even though I’m tightly wrapped in cashmere I’d prefer to be sunburned and wasting away in margarita Ville, than tripping through Rocky Mountain slush. But then there is skiing this weekend….

Oh the exotic trips that leave me with glossy photographs tucked away in messy corners around my apartment. This was a quick jaunt to the panhandle to eat BBQ, shoot skeet, write three articles, and figure out a strategy to have the magazine outsmart the recession, oh yeah, and relax!

Upon arriving at the Austin airport, greeted by hundreds of professional Frisbee throwers, I mean players; the smell of Schlotzsky's hits my olfactory senses and SHE IS DOWN. Nibbling on my delectable sandwich I mosey over to the Hertz rental car counter to pick up my keys and find my designated vehicle.

Did I check the weather before departing? No, that would require planning. Myers Briggs has argued that my “creative and free-spirited personality” wouldn’t reach its pure potential with directions, or so I convince my lazy self.

“There was a hail storm and the hail was the size of golf balls, no, more like baseballs, and well MAM, there just aren’t any cars left for you.” This woman suffering from a 1980s hairspray commercial croaked. Her accent a dwarfed cross between drawl and monotone.

With every rental car company completely bereft of automobiles I began to panic. What was I to do? It wasn’t although I’ve never been stranded in Brazil with a one-eyed man, who "got" (operative word: got) squatters in the rain forest for a living. (Yes, yes I had.) Or in Nice, abandoned with my second cousin thrice removed (and we have bets on if she is adopted) who is boy-crazed as she is crazy. But this was different. I had to get out of the airport, and a cab sure as heck wasn't going to drive me three hours through the Texas hill country.

With no antidote other than courage, I put on that thinking cap (world series Boston redsox pink hat) and calmly walked to the ACE rental car counter. It was a lone counter with a pathetic sign barely hanging onto the wall. A man in his late thirties either half asleep or all-the-way bored stared at me, waiting for me to say something profound.

“Do you have any cars.” I plea.

“Yes.”

“Huh? No you don’t, really, seriously?” I shout with jubilant excitement.

“Yes we do lady.” A face hollow of expression smirked.

As he handed me the keys and I rushed out into the humidity I spotted my friend for the next four days… do you know those Euro cars that look like toy cars that got dissected and only the front end survived? It was the newest Suzuki, a lawn mower on steroids. And that was the start to an unpredictable weekend.

ANACONDA IN BRAZIL

I was seventeen and spent the summer before my senior year visiting my uncle (ex-marine, fought in Kuwait) in Xingu Brazil. His wife Kika’s father has a large cattle ranch he took over… long story short they have American investors visit them for chunks of time, buy the land to preserve rain forest. On this particular day we’re on a rafting trip with a bunch of businessmen, who instead of wives/daughters all bring their 20-22 year-old sons, who all happened to be SAE’s at UT. Okay, to my chagrin- they were that rugged cute, (rugged as spoiled twenty-two year old guys can be), but riddled with egotistical obnoxiousness! So suddenly my summer with extended-family-fun was hijacked by mascara applications and avoiding subjects about anything that didn’t make me cool/terribly desirable by frat boy standards. Damn cowboy boots do it every time.

We’re on this excruciatingly long rafting trip and I had the speedo my aunt offered to load or my cute (zebra print) bikini, and although my SUPER conservative aunt/uncle mildly suggested the ugly suit, I wore the bikini (duh). Three rafts. 1) Aunt (her Brazilian brother- gay) eight-year-old cousin Ella, six-year-old cousin Roberto and myself 2) My uncle, two of the dads and two of the sons. 3) Two of the dads and the other two sons.

It's early afternoon, we're halfway down the river, and well... let's just say there is not an "accessible" powder room. Since my aunt is Brazilian which automatically qualifies her as wilderness expert, she says we’re nearing a shallow end, and we can pull over quickly so I can hop out… I quickly jump out of the boat, swim over by the shallow area ready to find cover behind some brush so none of the boys/men/uncle will see me, plus they are still a few minutes behind us.

The rapid is too quick and around the corner I hear the men and their beer and suddenly my uncle sees me in the water. He doesn’t know that I’m desperately trying to hide myself, and he assumes the boat has capsized (which is ridiculous because my cousins and aunt and half-uncle are pulled by the side of the river waiting for me). He paddles his raft toward me standing behind the brush in thigh-high feet deep water, and then yells, “Auna GET IN THE BOAT NOW!” At this point I cant paddle over there - because of well, obvious reasons.

He screams again (this is a man who has spent two weeks in a 10 x10 x10 hole in the desert) AUNA THERE IS AN ANACONDA UNDER THE BANK OF THE RIVER. SHE IS MOVING. GET IN THIS BOAT NOW.

So I tug on my bikini, shaking as I swim over to his boat – knowing full well there is a twenty-foot water snake yards away from me. All three rafts are watching this entire scene unfold – my aunt holding my cousins, the smaller raft with both the guys and their dads. And then my uncle who is so furious, his facial veins are pulsating, all because my small bladder happens to coincide with a location of an evil angry river snake, not exactly my fault. He grabs my arms and pulls me up into the raft. My body is convulsing, so much so, I don’t notice that my swimsuit is twisted and I've made an utter fool of myself, simply because I don't like the way speedos look.

The Sinister Wittiness of Australians!

So as I continue my ramblings while abroad… I must apologize for any incoherency you might find in this letter- it is 4am here on St. Patrick’s Day and for some odd reason I’ve decided it’s imperative I inscribe installment 3 right now- while my brain is a ticking!

St. Patrick’s day in Sydney isn’t all that different from any other large city- except one in Ireland, bustling with people attempting to claim they are 100% Irish and feigning terrible Irish accents. I wonder what spending St. Patty’s day in Ireland would be like? Similar to mardigras in New Orleans?

Regular Nourishment:

The food here is delish/questionable. The Thai is amazing! Our main street is lined with various BYOs (bring your own wine!!!) A few nights a week my girlfriends and I stop off to purchase a ten dollar bottle of New Zealand Sav la Blanc- and cozy ourselves into our favorite, The Spicy Box. For the interesting part: The 3am food of choice is a meat-pie. Yes- I know- us Americans associate pie with fruits or crèmes- dessert yumminess. Occasionally we think of a quiche or very rarely we remember the pock-pie from Boston Market eons ago, but a meat-pie? Heavens No, it sounds like a punishment for prisoners. So just like Aussies and Europeans call the “loo” a toilet- the term “Meat-pie” doesn’t render a sour expression here at all! There are little shops dedicated to the meat-pie, cooked with mystery-beef/pork/???? The guys gobble these hand-held delicacies by the dozens, which is repugnant to the girls (aka: Me!) who avoid hot-dogs, even at fourth of July.


The Sinister Wittiness of the Locals:

Assuming us abroad students are dull and foreign to humor entirely- the study abroad guys (all handsome Aussies searching for the gorgeous American gal- to be their pal for a definitive 6 months) heave sarcasm at us, while at the same time incessant compliments! These guys are so smooth and tell stories and Australian with such sincerity and vigor- how would we know they are just gauging how gullible we are?

So last night I learned (wink-wink) during the dry season the Koala bears get drunk on Eucalyptus trees- the Eucalyptus leaves produce an alcohol, so the poor Koala bears get hallucinogenic, tumble to the ground from their perches, and tall Aussie’s are hired to put the fallen ones back on the trees.
All of us girls oohed and ahhhed at the empathy of these Koala caregivers… until one of the guys could not contain his laughter, spoiling the image all of us had of a Koala in the strong arms of an Aussie. Erupting in sinister chortling- us American’s were a lost cause and targets of their arid sense of humor. And because I’m SO not in the market for a 6 month Aussie boyfriend (I’m quite complacent with my amazing boyfriend at home) I’ve made it my goal to retort in a spicy tongue- giving these Aussie’s a taste of their own malicious sarcasm.

An example I’m very proud of occurred yesterday: When telling an Aussie I was from Denver… he exclaimed in a very interested voice, “Really? I actually have a good friend that is from Denver.”
Trying to formulate a strategy that would leave one of these Aussies aghast of my ability to outwit them… I reply to his comment with a fabricated fascination, “Who is it? I might know them?”
Naively saying the name, “Brian Walters.”
Taking a stab, I thought of the most common looking guy, “Wait a second . . . is he sort of tall with brown hair???”
Gleefully buying that I actually knew his friend (Come on in a city of 3 million) he grew excited, “Yes, Yes, That is him.”
Remorsefully staring off into space, I slowly whispered, “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Wait, Wait… what are you talking about?” He slowly pieced together what I was saying.
“Didn’t you know that Brian died?”
“Wait What?”
Feeling the triumph of my successful jaunt, I fessed up, “Ha-ha I don’t actually know your friend…come on, can’t you take a joke?”
Without guilt I sauntered into the next room… my inner dialogue asking, “Auna who are you turning into? Is this country really bringing out this horrible side in you?” And then I thought again… that was hilarious!

Outdoor Activities:

Clouds have lately taken residence in the sky- covering up any sun. I believe my skin is paler here than it was in Colorado, in the dead of winter. All of us study abroad students are rather confused there is a lack of sunshine- we believed when coming to Australia laying out would be a daily ritual, whereas toting an umbrella was not!

Beach sitting is really fun mostly for the people watching. I am unsure if there is anything more entertaining then watching an older couple in their usually matching swimsuits walking down the beach together (most likely a couple that retired here) totally smitten. Or there is always innocent couple in their early teens… sort of holding hands… nervous that maybe they shouldn’t like the opposite gender quite yet. Reaching over to pick up the random seashell, shining it off with his hand and presenting to her as a small gift. My second favorite is seeing the children sometimes naked, kicking sand with tiny feet. The parents always parents trying to relax, yet watch their playful children with angst. Whenever tiny kid voices speak with squeaky Australian accents, they seem to sound so smart and well behaved. How I reached this conclusion: I haven’t a clue.

Drum roll. . . . My all time favorite beach pastime: I think its uber fun to watch the Europeans (usually German) throw a Frisbee in itsy bitsy Speedo’s. I enjoy watching them not for any pleasure derived from watching the rock hard figures flex and flaunt much pampered muscles, but because they are men with shaved heads that take this Frisbee tossing ridiculously seriously. Weaving and skipping through the labyrinth of basking bodies… these guys run after that plastic plate similar to how a lab would run after a bone. And, so the entertainment value is high when they miss or trip into the sand, yes slightly disgusted with myself… I promise if any of you would see these Frisbee tossers on “German’s funniest home videos” it would be difficult not to chuckle.

On to the academia at University of New South Wales:

The population 40,000! The campus is so large I often meander the matching buildings, like a lost pup, searching for my classrooms. This being my fourth University and by far largest- the maps with arrows, helping you locate your attempting location by red “you are here” are life-size! The tropical trees and immense flowers remind me of Rodeo drive… although the immense focus required to understand my professors Australian enunciation has reminded me of my actual whereabouts.

Cheers!