tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10828295829720519952024-02-19T12:34:12.420+11:00Phar Lap's HeartA brief history of my weird and (sometimes) wonderful adventures in real lifeEOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-45649911290694497712011-04-30T11:26:00.000+10:002011-04-30T11:26:22.840+10:00The Waiting is the Hardest PartMoving sucks. But you know what sucks worse than moving? Waiting to move. <br />
<br />
Right about the time I started ironing pillowcases, I realized I had a problem.<br />
<br />
The brown dog watched me with an expression that can only be described as a combination of confusion and panic, like that point right before your kid realizes you're taking him to the dentist, not to the ice cream shop. The white dog presented me with a dried-mud-encrusted ball. Clearly, the white dog is not offended by the moving process. However, over the past year it has become (painfully, annoyingly) evident that the brown dog considers the act of moving a personal affront which requires her strict, obsequious vigilance so that she will not be left behind.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1kRc1pZkE0g7qUHw0yKzLixyU31rMGIuv7b74L2pNpaUhauSG4v-VaLfWJyRPPPWHHsufwHbHGQ1BMxBLuaf3W7eAFLKewl_XgkC8L8h470Mu9mb3i4qLeUXd0OrfWe_1tJ1n5ewv8FTE/s1600/184918_989623444623_10232264_52217071_927362_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1kRc1pZkE0g7qUHw0yKzLixyU31rMGIuv7b74L2pNpaUhauSG4v-VaLfWJyRPPPWHHsufwHbHGQ1BMxBLuaf3W7eAFLKewl_XgkC8L8h470Mu9mb3i4qLeUXd0OrfWe_1tJ1n5ewv8FTE/s320/184918_989623444623_10232264_52217071_927362_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Dear Mom: Please don't forget to pack us. Thanks. </div><br />
Let's back up a bit.<br />
<br />
During the past few months, I've done more than my fair share of waiting. At first, it was waiting to hear back from the gazillion jobs that I'd applied to before the Christmas-New Year-Chinese New Year trifecta of holiday <strike>doom</strike> <strike>chaos</strike> joy hit. (News flash: I didn't get the jobs.) Next, it was waiting to find out which job offer within Husband's company would turn out to be the best one for Husband (and for me). Then, it was waiting to find out whether we would stay in Singy or haul ass to Portland. Then, I waited while Husband jetted first to Denmark and then to our new home in Portland. <br />
<br />
Finally, I waited for the movers to come. When they did, I witnessed a strange exasperation-inducing ballet as the movers ineptly packed our belongings to three times our allotted shipping volume, stared glumly at the sad lopsided square of overlarge packing material, and eviscerated several cardboard containers in an effort to reduce the size of their mistake. All while barefoot.<br />
<br />
The movers left with one cubic meter of our worldly possessions, and I returned to my sofa ass-groove to continue hitting refresh on people.com (in my defense, Charlie Sheen was just hitting his #winning stride). <br />
<br />
For a few days after that, there was not a lot of waiting. There was, instead, a glorious flurry of DOING: organizing, packing, vacuuming dog hair, throwing stuff away, tearfully parting with my beloved food processor (don't hate), vacuuming dog hair, vacuuming dog hair, and vacuuming dog hair.<br />
<br />
And, after 15 hours of virtually uninterrupted (and only mildly drug-enabled) stress, napping, Japanese airports, and yes, more waiting, and 5 hours of awesomeness chilling in a urine-soaked dog run at LAX, I arrived in Portland with one live brown dog, one live white dog, and one serious case of the munchies.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the end of all this waiting, what am I left with? Well, besides perfectly ironed pillowcases?<br />
<br />
<br />
I'll tell you what: I've got some great cliches to work with here. I've got a few good friends in Singy, BKK and Australia who I miss desperately. I've got two years of unforgettable travel and life experience. I've got a million memories of places and people frozen in time. I've got a greater appreciation for a part of the world I never imagined visiting, much less inhabiting. I've got a renewed appreciation of Indian and Thai food. I've got an ever-deepening love for Husband, who asked me to take a risk that I'm glad I took. And, perhaps most importantly, I've got the ability to haggle with a tuk tuk driver over the price of a $2 ride to the airport.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe waiting isn't so bad after all.<br />
<br />
<br />
(Just try to tell that to the brown dog.)EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-33108363449315252262010-12-17T18:37:00.006+11:002010-12-17T19:05:49.937+11:00Runnin' Down a DreamSometimes I think I might have a masochistic streak. Running is not something that I particularly enjoy, yet I keep signing up for races. Maybe I just like races. I'm pretty convinced, though, that mostly I just really like the free T-shirt and (new, welcome development), the finisher's medal. Although by "free" I really mean "paid for by my entrance fee."<br />
<br />
My latest adventure in jungle running was the Standard Chartered Half Marathon. The most interesting part of this story is actually not the race itself; it's how I got hold of a race entry. When we arrived in Singapore, the last thing on my mind was running outside. After my first day sweating it out here, I started planning a nice solid eight months of quality time with treadmills, ellipticals, and their ilk. This plan proved short-sighted when, a couple of months later, I decided that running was actually doable (albeit in a slow, zombie-like shuffle). By then, the entry period for this race (a legitimately cool half marathon that would allow me to have a reasonable training leadup) was over. Boo!<br />
<br />
So I stopped thinking about it and moved on to other, shorter races. But then, as the race date approached, I thought, hell, maybe someone will sell me their number. I asked Husband to ask around at work to see if anyone was signed up but unable to run:<br />
<br />
Day 1<br />
Me: Do you mind asking?<br />
Husband: No problem.<br />
<br />
Day 2<br />
Me: Did you ask?<br />
H: Oh... no, I forgot. I'll ask today.<br />
<br />
Day 3<br />
Me: Did you ask?<br />
H: Oh... no, I forgot again. I'll ask today.<br />
<br />
Repeat.<br />
<br />
On the fifth day, I got an email from Husband, who was at work: "I asked. Nobody here runs and they said to tell you that you're crazy."<br />
<br />
Point taken - except Husband forgot to ask the one girl in his office (our Finnish friend Raisa) who actually runs. I emailed her to ask. She didn't get back to me right away... but then about 2 weeks before the race she had an answer. She had a number for me! Here's how she got it: her friend was supposed to run but then she caught her nanny/maid stealing. The nanny/maid was summarily sent packing back to the Philippines. The friend had two infants, a large dog, and a husband who was planning to run the marathon portion of the race. The moral of this story is: always prioritize your race training over your husband's; otherwise, you'll be stuck watching the kids and the dog when your maid gets caught swiping cash from your dresser.<br />
<br />
Ah, Singapore... the place where every self-respecting expat has a multitasking maid called a "helper." <br />
<br />
... and that's how I trained for a half marathon in 2 weeks!<br />
<br />
Race number firmly in hand, I met Raisa at Harbourfront (a mall near the start point) at 5:30 am on race day. It was extremely early, but we saw lots of people milling about - people dressed for partying, not for running. We soon discovered why: there's a 24-hour McDonald's in Harbourfront. Fun fact: Singaporeans enjoy a post-clubbing McDonald's breakfast just as much as Americans love their IHOP (or Waffle House, if you swing that way)!<br />
<br />
Thus refreshed, we walked onto the bridge to the race start. The race ends in beautiful downtown Singapore, but it starts on Sentosa Island (well, if you can call a sandbar infested with man-made beaches, resorts and a theme park an island), which is just off the "main" island of Singapore. After about 10K, the race route crosses a bridge onto the "mainland," then skirts the southern shoreline before heading inland towards the CBD.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFcRTwa_ApPvO30jOrvJC1GLYsKb0eGWtIK6Ma99DQU8BKvARxrrgMDwcoGpKCXmMb4JX4bc1lCZuYOlzb4pcfvL4y1RlenQFpYXGiSt9cv-0kKukeE0Dan4m7cw8QfC1fuhcmEsyXFYnS/s1600/Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFcRTwa_ApPvO30jOrvJC1GLYsKb0eGWtIK6Ma99DQU8BKvARxrrgMDwcoGpKCXmMb4JX4bc1lCZuYOlzb4pcfvL4y1RlenQFpYXGiSt9cv-0kKukeE0Dan4m7cw8QfC1fuhcmEsyXFYnS/s320/Start.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Race start!</div><br />
The first half of the race - on Sentosa - went really well (except for the strangely numerous hills and the detour through a parking garage at Universal Studios). As I mentioned before, people here really get into a race: not necessarily by running fast and pushing themselves to the limit, though I'm sure some do, but by carrying cameras with them to take photos of the crowd, stopping to take random photos of the race route or of their own sneakers, posing with Shrek at Universal Studios, taking home movies of their friends running next to them making badass faces, etc. I saw more than one guy running with a full DSLR kit dangling from his neck. They also got into it by pinning handmade signs to their backs: motivational ("Don't give up!"), challenging ("Try to catch me"), informative ("Just married"), and... just plain unpleasant ("I ate many onions last night").<br />
<br />
The second half of the race, though, was not so fun: the sun was officially up and we ran on a baking, raised highway for many, many kilometers. No shade. My knee started to twinge. That pesky internal monologue started up in my brain:<br />
<br />
Me: Stop and walk. Just for a minute.<br />
Brain: No... push through to next water stop.<br />
Me: It'll be so comfortable...<br />
Brain: You ran the Boston Marathon. Stop being a pussy. [<i>Note: this is now Brain's standard response whenever I feel like wussing out</i>].<br />
Me: Oh my God, there's a guy on the side of the road puking his guts out from heatstroke! I have to stop and walk.<br />
Brain: Nah, you're several minutes away from heatstroke. Keep going.<br />
<br />
...the usual stuff. Sometimes I listen to the monologue and sometimes I don't. I was tempted to ignore Brain and side with Me. Unfortunately, though, I had a running partner with me. If you've ever run with a partner, you know the one crucial rule about running with a partner: you must run faster and farther than that person, otherwise you are a fucking loser. My monologue began to take on an annoyingly Finnish accent. (Just kidding, Raisa!)<br />
<br />
Well, my knee took matters into its own hands (knees?) after a while, and I had to slow down to rest it before continuing. Once it felt marginally OK again, I resumed my run (I've dubbed it the Singapore Shuffle) and made a triumphant comeback to about 100 meters behind Raisa. Then I slowed again, grabbed four cups of water from an aid stand, gulped two and dumped the other two on my head like a nomad who'd been stranded in the Sahara for weeks. Resuming my Shuffle, I gutted it out to 20K: only one more K to go! This is when your body is supposed to summon some elemental strength from within and propel you heroically across the finish line. Or, if you're me, your body says "screw it" and slows of its own accord (Brain was by this point no help whatsoever). The only thing that sustained me during that last kilometer was the fear of being passed by this guy: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLcD1Qr54XZcB2JW1vOUpm68XXgOhOGEpQ9FV7-lQ7qH1-tu5FrafGdu_QQmpkogiT_zVD3IvD1pVQMvK5XA3fkNYgUTThyphenhyphenZV-RxkTrEKt7c6ta45CVUAZAGbCk0Nx0tCY382uDcrPeoB/s1600/This+guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLcD1Qr54XZcB2JW1vOUpm68XXgOhOGEpQ9FV7-lQ7qH1-tu5FrafGdu_QQmpkogiT_zVD3IvD1pVQMvK5XA3fkNYgUTThyphenhyphenZV-RxkTrEKt7c6ta45CVUAZAGbCk0Nx0tCY382uDcrPeoB/s320/This+guy.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
Somehow I found the strength to pass him.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigT6ZztxCAXKrrLUuqApTfCEWwEQD8JDoJByUf7AW6rB3ADFci3VXpvisplL-M0cyFv6laIAMUAcb3oiO-8TGiiqDTVTrG0xhuQFkc_sBXB7XgWjEnX1tddeDfNuBPj6k7CJ-EOLD17oNC/s1600/Finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigT6ZztxCAXKrrLUuqApTfCEWwEQD8JDoJByUf7AW6rB3ADFci3VXpvisplL-M0cyFv6laIAMUAcb3oiO-8TGiiqDTVTrG0xhuQFkc_sBXB7XgWjEnX1tddeDfNuBPj6k7CJ-EOLD17oNC/s320/Finish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Finish!</div><br />
I found Raisa at the finish corral (she was only about 30 seconds ahead of me - whew!), and we collected our hard-earned medals and took a celebratory photo, which I've titled "Photo Finnish" because I'm hilarious like that:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg965dBfnjhaA0ci37r0FGuRADflqRvvkFpSn5Phhwo8K2RtAmCrJB5BNxzRgx6SFhFn00MCsc8hqHGjiNxyO2OFPBypP0RyRvQytkgyrIlxKgL0KQDEUHKH-jEkT9WZBe4WnUjPPoZ-mSh/s1600/photo+finnish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg965dBfnjhaA0ci37r0FGuRADflqRvvkFpSn5Phhwo8K2RtAmCrJB5BNxzRgx6SFhFn00MCsc8hqHGjiNxyO2OFPBypP0RyRvQytkgyrIlxKgL0KQDEUHKH-jEkT9WZBe4WnUjPPoZ-mSh/s320/photo+finnish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">She's Finnish: get it? </div><br />
Raisa: thank you for putting up with me and for being such an excellent running partner!<br />
Heli: thank you for the race number!<br />
Onion guy: thanks for giving me the motivation to pass you!<br />
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P.S. I am a nerd:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFuYY5-pGENeqcV79aNVeD7IHYaonvmzT_Vz9uIcVbmafQ91t4MUg3ukbgWQD-tkJYn8AhN-Iz27KkQKyd-NCFRB76kRqSGXm4YmsYMy1gwltRpa8Y81IRh0g7anISf77gvycaFISLSbK/s1600/IMG_3130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFuYY5-pGENeqcV79aNVeD7IHYaonvmzT_Vz9uIcVbmafQ91t4MUg3ukbgWQD-tkJYn8AhN-Iz27KkQKyd-NCFRB76kRqSGXm4YmsYMy1gwltRpa8Y81IRh0g7anISf77gvycaFISLSbK/s320/IMG_3130.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-53007831124369559092010-11-25T03:50:00.006+11:002010-11-25T14:39:39.425+11:00The Thing About Running Is... It Effing Hurts.Last weekend (well, 10 days ago now - time seems to have gotten away from me again in that delightful way that it has) I ran in a race. Not a big race, mind you - nothing that would inspire an <a href="http://eopayne.blogspot.com/">epic 7-month training regimen</a> and an underdog-makes-good video montage set to the Chariots of Fire soundtrack. Just a little race: 12 kilometers.<br />
<br />
This was not my first Singapore race: about a month ago, I ran in a 10K (Mizuno Something Or Other). It sucked, but not as badly as I thought it would. Or maybe I was just hallucinating from the heat and blacked out all the bad parts. It's definitely possible that, in my postrace jungle-humidity-drenched fever dreams, I somehow decided that I had won that race and was now invincible. At any rate, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to DO. IT. AGAIN. So I did. Only this time, I upped the ante to 12, count 'em, 12, kilometers. I know. I live on the edge. For the non-metrically inclined, that's 7.45 miles.<br />
<br />
This race was held at MacRitchie Reservoir, which was part of the reason why I chose it: an easy way to get to see a part of the island I might not otherwise drag myself to (it is in no way close to our house and I am phenomenally lazy). It was also sponsored by Salomon, which I thought was cool because I think I used to own a pair of their shoes once. Maybe. <br />
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The morning of the race dawned: dark, damp, hot. Yes, even at 6:30 am here, it is not cool. I don't care what the locals try to tell you. The temperature here - at all hours - resembles nothing so much as being stuck in a steam room with the door locked. I was sweating before I got to the bus stop.<br />
<br />
The following is a list of things I learned, and pithy observations I made, during this race (helpfully recorded on my iPhone on the bus ride back for posterity):<br />
<br />
Lesson #1: When the race website says that the race will be a "trail run," this means that there will be an uninterrupted 4K of uphill on a 4-foot wide trail.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTdDkn91FhrSxwO419nFOgTYWJnElRE-NC9y8jeB_ob4Xx8V3cRlUHQF3tKD23CIrAcGLdFldoLHWEVZ2ki5LQeek1L4mtLpN7bcVW4VClH3kAx2WPQy5e5Bs86wUmmsZep9qRiFxJ7Hd/s1600/Uphill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTdDkn91FhrSxwO419nFOgTYWJnElRE-NC9y8jeB_ob4Xx8V3cRlUHQF3tKD23CIrAcGLdFldoLHWEVZ2ki5LQeek1L4mtLpN7bcVW4VClH3kAx2WPQy5e5Bs86wUmmsZep9qRiFxJ7Hd/s320/Uphill.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Uphill. Please note that I am not an asshole like the one I so eloquently excoriate in Lesson #9; all of these photos were taken by race photographers. So they get all the credit/blame.</div><br />
Lesson #2: When the race website says that the race will be an "out-and-back," this means the race officials will not have notified hikers that there is a FREAKING RACE on the trail that morning, so in addition to running single file UP, and dodging the super-fast runners coming DOWN, the average runner (read: me and 5,000 of my new best friends) will have to navigate around curious (and delightfully slow!) day-hikers out for a morning stroll. And did I mention the 4-foot-wide trail?<br />
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Lesson #3: When the race course is described in the race packet materials as a "difficult hiking trail," it would probably be best to train on hills beforehand. At least a little. In fact, it would probably be advisable to investigate the race packet a bit sooner than the night before the race.<br />
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Lesson #4: When the race program says that the men's race starts "promptly at 7:30" and that the women's race starts "promptly at 7:35," with a firm cutoff for both of 9:30 am, what it really means is that the mens's race starts promptly at 7:30 and the women's race starts at 7:55, and oops, I guess you ladies don't have that extra half hour after all, so you'd better move your asses.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQru7E5yH8XmK2wc9DIUCpatCam6HuQOAowuIaG_fzQN-0Oil9latERPVIwHMwzTCquBFHn3lOngxc-Ny1yvoxvsuIg6aXLdauNJEcWoHUt0uVShiiDrepSPSBu80JBeZzXXgR9wZOxi2/s1600/Womens+start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQru7E5yH8XmK2wc9DIUCpatCam6HuQOAowuIaG_fzQN-0Oil9latERPVIwHMwzTCquBFHn3lOngxc-Ny1yvoxvsuIg6aXLdauNJEcWoHUt0uVShiiDrepSPSBu80JBeZzXXgR9wZOxi2/s320/Womens+start.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ladies' start. Only a few minutes late...</div><br />
Lesson #5: Wear a poncho, because there's a lot of close-range spitting going on up in here.<br />
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Lesson #6: Bring your own water. Apparently Singaporeans are truly accustomed to running in jungle heat, because there were only 2 water stops.<br />
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Lesson #7: When running uphill in a single-file line because the trail is too narrow for more than 1 person to run in each direction, please yield to oncoming traffic. If you do not, I WILL CRUSH YOU.<br />
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Lesson #8: When running uphill in a single-file line because the trail is too narrow for more than 1 person to run in each direction, please do not pass someone only to slow down to a walk directly in front of that person. If you do this, I WILL CRUSH YOU.<br />
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Lesson #9: When running uphill in a single-file line because the trail is too narrow for more than 1 person to run in each direction, please do not pass someone only to slow down, stop, turn around, and start taking pictures of your friends coming up the trail behind you. If you do this, I WILL CRUSH YOU.<br />
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Lesson #10: When running uphill in a single-file line because the trail is too narrow for more than 1 person to run in each direction, and if you are faster than I am, please find a way around or wait for a gap instead of elbowing me out of the way to pass me only to immediately slow down because we just came to another soul-crushing hill. If you do this, I WILL CRUSH YOU.<br />
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Lesson #11: If there is a guy with a prosthetic leg in the race with you, it is always best to sprint past him at the finish line.<br />
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Lesson #12: Bring your own water (see Lesson #6, above), bananas, energy gels, carbs, etc. for the end of the race, because although the helpful and nice race officials waste no time in handing out finisher's medals, they don't seem to put as much stock in providing sustenance for exhausted racers dragging themselves across the finish line because they pushed themselves too hard at the end sprinting past the one-legged guy. Sure, the medal is awesome, but can it cure heatstroke? If I eat my medal, will it prevent me from stripping off my shirt and wringing droplets of sweat into my mouth in a desperate (and, some might say, humiliating) attempt to replenish my sodium levels? I ask you.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnzNRXruomSThqhrGrbZGeOvInuaAug51788FirjyMSxrpKP5O4b4BCo50uELv1EuKXtfgjuk-kmFvhK8afNilFFUtBmDSvr690roZ30WY06uXuh9Q7AcJtXsmr7Iw03LNaOTkGMeju9h/s1600/Finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnzNRXruomSThqhrGrbZGeOvInuaAug51788FirjyMSxrpKP5O4b4BCo50uELv1EuKXtfgjuk-kmFvhK8afNilFFUtBmDSvr690roZ30WY06uXuh9Q7AcJtXsmr7Iw03LNaOTkGMeju9h/s320/Finish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Finish: nary a water bottle in sight. </div><br />
All that said, however, the race volunteers were lovely and helpful and encouraging, and it was certainly a beautiful course. MacRitchie has some great trails, and I'm hoping to be able to get back there to hike (rather than run) some of them soon. I'd just rather look like THIS at the end:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ILP_pUWrbujiluH5KSc03in69QvDot8rdygukWj7z7v1Kn_eZGwMkq6gVL3nkwzdW9VD4TWD97h0e0P6tqvmW-S10InfAhVE2-UFUrRtxYp6HxIZjT89o3dnRjR4BeoeFwdCV8oa7Aaf/s1600/NOT+THIS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ILP_pUWrbujiluH5KSc03in69QvDot8rdygukWj7z7v1Kn_eZGwMkq6gVL3nkwzdW9VD4TWD97h0e0P6tqvmW-S10InfAhVE2-UFUrRtxYp6HxIZjT89o3dnRjR4BeoeFwdCV8oa7Aaf/s320/NOT+THIS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Middle girl: Yeah, I'm happy and ridiculously fit! That wasn't a run, it was just me turning over in my sleep! (Coincidentally, the guy on the left is the one with the prosthetic leg.)</div><br />
Not THIS:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissniG9vAKwyLtNoIL130KahOE7Yr9W7uDHGTz2GGdx5IX28gLHZBtdp09-8Gb3LmFBNwsd4Uhr8AjBdvvg-H_Bz1J_LcMQGdayYplnF0bXlwXV3incWqwE3ikrk0zNnjaQPJ8QXdHJIaC/s1600/THIS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissniG9vAKwyLtNoIL130KahOE7Yr9W7uDHGTz2GGdx5IX28gLHZBtdp09-8Gb3LmFBNwsd4Uhr8AjBdvvg-H_Bz1J_LcMQGdayYplnF0bXlwXV3incWqwE3ikrk0zNnjaQPJ8QXdHJIaC/s320/THIS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Ugh. Why? WHY?? Oh, the humanity! Screw it, I'm walking.</div><br />
Did I mention I got a medal? Yeah, I'm cool. If you're nice to me I'll let you try it on and take inappropriate photos with it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-32270138686548701092010-11-11T01:09:00.002+11:002010-11-11T01:23:59.302+11:00Happy Deepavali... to you...The Indian holiday of Deepavali (also called Diwali) was last Friday. In an attempt to be <strike>somewhat</strike> culturally aware of the most important annual festival for Singapore's third-largest population, I did myself a little research. Turns out Diwali is actually a pretty complicated holiday. I'm not going to go into great detail, but here are some fun facts I put together about this colorful, noisy, and<strike></strike> <strike>crowded</strike> popular event. <br />
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Fun Fact No. 1: Diwali marks the beginning of the Hindu New Year and celebrates the victory of good over evil, light over darkness. It is celebrated by lighting clay oil lamps, visiting family, making offerings, and eating special foods.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ha6x-Y-tjjJDr_vJFIo7YHmpl6x92l88TyycuP8uMyjNLAXnsZ-ry-CGHTuVP2O8WtMNevrx6oP1jrkvkvAWhwQC7RV0hyphenhyphencbjlxcrn4HXAKYnz5RYa6iNXZnUZcP09Y0Hcw1A20m3Fqv/s1600/IMG_2370.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ha6x-Y-tjjJDr_vJFIo7YHmpl6x92l88TyycuP8uMyjNLAXnsZ-ry-CGHTuVP2O8WtMNevrx6oP1jrkvkvAWhwQC7RV0hyphenhyphencbjlxcrn4HXAKYnz5RYa6iNXZnUZcP09Y0Hcw1A20m3Fqv/s320/IMG_2370.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4KIUfvNtmSORGEypyifImqJSn8otMjmax2GGhoeyhMQEFcv4uhxqL7lcYQAVS3MCd7js8JPwkjtmRARXek6JJJtg65qq-ZWggBFAK3AOl6j_BZB0qoPwMpNMMCo7LVu0uozBiO6WfAvQ/s1600/IMG_2378.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4KIUfvNtmSORGEypyifImqJSn8otMjmax2GGhoeyhMQEFcv4uhxqL7lcYQAVS3MCd7js8JPwkjtmRARXek6JJJtg65qq-ZWggBFAK3AOl6j_BZB0qoPwMpNMMCo7LVu0uozBiO6WfAvQ/s320/IMG_2378.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikSR2HUlKhyphenhyphenLANEFY6NMhbdXFDCN5iWLm6yGb65rVExM2akl5TTuP3ChJ_UIg4VyqjTlpJTfDcleUiOttmuwZF6mh0jK8GEqB39T0ZUGF7VayKsMWLH63t2awIrO7k96tir8MVAYT1OG2i/s1600/IMG_2374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikSR2HUlKhyphenhyphenLANEFY6NMhbdXFDCN5iWLm6yGb65rVExM2akl5TTuP3ChJ_UIg4VyqjTlpJTfDcleUiOttmuwZF6mh0jK8GEqB39T0ZUGF7VayKsMWLH63t2awIrO7k96tir8MVAYT1OG2i/s320/IMG_2374.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Fun Fact No. 2: Diwali decorations include dangling shiny things, mango leaves hung in doorways, aromatic garlands, and... Ganesh (obvi):<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUenQpmDcNHAKgJesD-6OgIDNa65UIgZZ6KKa1wqlTa9EJeZv8HPij9HaXWzGMPC8cxPqXxzU2bbaDoi_6m3P5TEPCHmvX-Ivbp-oWtClu__9HmwzZ3-cz_iF935tDBLSEI-6cCDOSIszo/s1600/IMG_2381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUenQpmDcNHAKgJesD-6OgIDNa65UIgZZ6KKa1wqlTa9EJeZv8HPij9HaXWzGMPC8cxPqXxzU2bbaDoi_6m3P5TEPCHmvX-Ivbp-oWtClu__9HmwzZ3-cz_iF935tDBLSEI-6cCDOSIszo/s320/IMG_2381.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAShPVwmW-E09zNT1Gs3FMskzwCc3ZQy9i6QzZ-8OeBEeT4vJi33lGJGmOB9OTxaiYC9QpEbbwEl-ij1GKPW1voNeNhxOc6PzH9TJ30Iwfv8TcC3rdFto0cl-u13Wm1mfuVSBIDf5fFsfk/s1600/IMG_2396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAShPVwmW-E09zNT1Gs3FMskzwCc3ZQy9i6QzZ-8OeBEeT4vJi33lGJGmOB9OTxaiYC9QpEbbwEl-ij1GKPW1voNeNhxOc6PzH9TJ30Iwfv8TcC3rdFto0cl-u13Wm1mfuVSBIDf5fFsfk/s320/IMG_2396.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Fun Fact No. 3: Everyone buys new clothes during this time. Too bad i have no idea how to wear this stuff without it looking like a Halloween costume (or a bizarrely inappropriate and offensive Hindu Barbie).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeGX6_SdMwex7OQ7FpiHyHgSrwrRHUDuA-eAgPl7GLI0skbWM5Qgfru-3rTlgyhV2dJ_Gz0KXdCVbc9dtMHa8SIYkeIZiLDYquywFS2Y6FrGM2OY3WsZH0K0eYFHd59vMN308c-5HGlfp/s1600/IMG_2358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeGX6_SdMwex7OQ7FpiHyHgSrwrRHUDuA-eAgPl7GLI0skbWM5Qgfru-3rTlgyhV2dJ_Gz0KXdCVbc9dtMHa8SIYkeIZiLDYquywFS2Y6FrGM2OY3WsZH0K0eYFHd59vMN308c-5HGlfp/s320/IMG_2358.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Fun Fact No. 4: in the days leading up to the holiday (which is actually about 5 days long), everyone goes out to party, light firecrackers, toss confetti, and generally hang out with 100,000 of their closest friends.<br />
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Fun Fact No. 5: Henna tattooing is also popular at this time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoy0tsjrkEPkA76I2Lj1MeVoqi6lcP33gyZ9t1EfBQZOFAwBiKqqQpN6MwCoG8ewiUoYOUnpSc-GTo1fIjojfmLRlmrX1RX17hXHYFSLF8X_i369Fs6BxCR9HqohUSW4__5V-hZ-tqv0s/s1600/IMG_2407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoy0tsjrkEPkA76I2Lj1MeVoqi6lcP33gyZ9t1EfBQZOFAwBiKqqQpN6MwCoG8ewiUoYOUnpSc-GTo1fIjojfmLRlmrX1RX17hXHYFSLF8X_i369Fs6BxCR9HqohUSW4__5V-hZ-tqv0s/s320/IMG_2407.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Fun Fact No. 6: There are a lot of interesting odors in Little India during Diwali: smoke from fireworks, incense, sweet jasmine, freshly cooked curry, spicy snack crackers, discarded food offerings, and, oh yeah, thousands of sweaty people crammed like sardines into Mustafa Centre and the Festival Market. People! Have you never heard the term fire hazard?<br />
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Fun Fact No. 7: Little India is one of my favorite parts of Singapore. In addition to being probably the most authentic "ethnic" district in this (mostly sterile and largely personality-free) city/island/nation, it's also the most interesting. There are always lots of people around, moving, fetching, building, praying, eating, buying. The word "bustling" comes to mind. It's got dilapidated (well, dilapidated for Singapore) buildings, stray cats, random groups of men chilling on sidewalks eating lunch and listening to Hindu pop on their portable radios, about a zillion great Indian vegetarian restaurants, stores selling $3 blue jeans and sandals, crazy-looking gold jewelry, stalls selling nothing but bindis and sequins, and of course the colorful ziggurat-topped temples with their riotously writhing statues of gods, goddesses, and... cattle. It just feels like a real place (albeit kinda surreal as well), which is pretty much awesome.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiul0K17NQjaongrhcmKyRRrrFWLE6pQEN2dxh1BM1F1W62mGKPcwLqwusp8nQmAr9qnvFXN2YICQXGUd4AHGxMQ5BN3WWrN7WnzZO7nmlYfAVXMkwQjgC1oN7zdQoRULsfboILoMM1jhWv/s1600/IMG_0435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiul0K17NQjaongrhcmKyRRrrFWLE6pQEN2dxh1BM1F1W62mGKPcwLqwusp8nQmAr9qnvFXN2YICQXGUd4AHGxMQ5BN3WWrN7WnzZO7nmlYfAVXMkwQjgC1oN7zdQoRULsfboILoMM1jhWv/s320/IMG_0435.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxTcKP8YenfKF23pQJz8c-Snsm0YS7neoKxXlF0IPsWA9GCM9ihQS1yeJcLXQTTEhr2DOWtrRuQPJi0Qe3S1JcoCio7g7tiMwvxiiDR3g3gtGYLeuGyHc99qPqzpH0hldMJDEmjV4eob2/s1600/IMG_2420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxTcKP8YenfKF23pQJz8c-Snsm0YS7neoKxXlF0IPsWA9GCM9ihQS1yeJcLXQTTEhr2DOWtrRuQPJi0Qe3S1JcoCio7g7tiMwvxiiDR3g3gtGYLeuGyHc99qPqzpH0hldMJDEmjV4eob2/s320/IMG_2420.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOs6LHaP43T4SG4poFTPRaTkwRoCOAYb7ccml0sw8jnSlla6N9r1OugUBneXxcj061OW6iFKqwtLx89VkK4O7vr3aQD3VxUXEeozmPXakQgS6-D4l9Gix0wbhSzIS-dkIRhzwFS65pTYq/s1600/IMG_2368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOs6LHaP43T4SG4poFTPRaTkwRoCOAYb7ccml0sw8jnSlla6N9r1OugUBneXxcj061OW6iFKqwtLx89VkK4O7vr3aQD3VxUXEeozmPXakQgS6-D4l9Gix0wbhSzIS-dkIRhzwFS65pTYq/s320/IMG_2368.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcT5WrstrA-pyUzDz0FFExAl8r0ZZtLS1k5jRnLaChrjxsSQNEclLIGzeMeXC5PnJkErdruAVMS5cyGCCBZwRly7rcOHBShdx9iBTvE8C82HErK7MGv9EymqeTWoLAgCO8MXJyHy41UQKI/s1600/CIMG1459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcT5WrstrA-pyUzDz0FFExAl8r0ZZtLS1k5jRnLaChrjxsSQNEclLIGzeMeXC5PnJkErdruAVMS5cyGCCBZwRly7rcOHBShdx9iBTvE8C82HErK7MGv9EymqeTWoLAgCO8MXJyHy41UQKI/s320/CIMG1459.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">* This particular temple is actually in Chinatown, but i like this photo because it shows the cows, gods, AND a blue sky. =)</div><br />
Fun Fact No. 8: In preparation for Diwali, Hindu families spend weeks cleaning and renovating their homes. I actually got kind of excited about this particular tradition, because I figured I could use it as an excuse to get Husband on board with a full-scale apartment master cleanse (I'm anal that way), but all I really got was him, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a broom and looking confused.<br />
<br />
Husband: What's this?<br />
<br />
Me: A broom. Don't pretend.<br />
<br />
Husband (still pretending): I don't understand.<br />
<br />
Me: We need to clean all the things.<br />
<br />
Husband (eyes widening): Clean ALL the things?EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-45870731739801977702010-11-11T00:17:00.000+11:002010-11-11T00:17:46.084+11:00Sorry, Kids, No Jack-o-Lanterns This YearAnd this is why we didn't carve pumpkins for Halloween in Singapore:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2o0h5e-78ezK329TWYN6tKLNpSd6TO3-hiHaN-Tw69bzHyKfnoJXIEnZU7P-7ykKg_RR4eVu6NT5ZKwUOs09lIwaQtRS0rDYEDypXhR9gpB4Usax_1OedU7oWJ3-YOdftU-W8BqMirYm/s1600/IMG_2530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2o0h5e-78ezK329TWYN6tKLNpSd6TO3-hiHaN-Tw69bzHyKfnoJXIEnZU7P-7ykKg_RR4eVu6NT5ZKwUOs09lIwaQtRS0rDYEDypXhR9gpB4Usax_1OedU7oWJ3-YOdftU-W8BqMirYm/s320/IMG_2530.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-24056982316826338862010-10-25T17:28:00.004+11:002010-10-25T17:38:12.249+11:00Rumors of My Blog's Death Have Been Greatly ExaggeratedIt all started a couple of weeks ago when, in the middle of dinner, Husband stopped eating and looked at me beseechingly.<br />
<br />
Me: What?<br />
<br />
Husband: Your public needs you.<br />
<br />
Me: Huh?<br />
<br />
H: Your blog. You're losing fans.<br />
<br />
Me: I only have, like, three fans.<br />
<br />
H: All the more reason to keep at it!<br />
<br />
So here I am. Back from the dead.<br />
<br />
They say it's best to begin at the beginning. Actually, I don't know who "they" are, and since I don't know, and since I don't care, and since beginning at the beginning is basically impossible because I don't have a photographic memory and am basically too lazy to write down ideas when they hit me, I'll have to choose the path of least resistance and begin in the Middle.<br />
<br />
For those who are fuzzy on the concept, this is what the Middle looks like:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Beginning ------------ <b>Middle</b> ------------- End</div><br />
If only I was slightly more talented at photoshop I could have drawn an actual picture. =( But you get the idea. I am in the Middle of a lot of things: Husband's third rotation overseas, writing the Great American Novel, training for a race that I will eventually curse myself for running, treating the White Dog for her third ear infection in two months, deciding whether to put law on hold and try my hand at knife-throwing as a viable long-term career, etc.<br />
<br />
The Middle is kind of exhausting.<br />
<br />
One benefit of beginning in the Middle, though, is that it gives new perspective to things that happened way back in the Beginning. Case in point: a scenario that has come to be known around these parts as The Incident.<br />
<br />
At the time of the Incident, Husband and I were just settling into our shiny new apartment in Singapore. After what seemed like YEARS of looking, I had found a place I thought was pretty close to perfect: quiet neighborhood, modern furnishings, grassy areas for the dogs, walking distance to a dog park, and within radius of McDonalds delivery (Husband's requirement). We moved in, had several borderline-ADHD buying sprees at IKEA (sample dialogue: "Holy crap! They have Flognut!" "But over here - whoa, Sprocken! Nobody has Sprocken!" "Let's get five of each color."), and generally congratulated ourselves on being masters of the rental market.<br />
<br />
THE INCIDENT, PART I<br />
<br />
Conscientious employee that he is, Husband was up early to shower for work. Unemployed slacker that I am, I was still in bed, hoping that Husband would not wake me up by singing Michael Bolton songs while he splashed water all over the bathroom (he celebrates the guy's entire catalog).<br />
<br />
I prefer to picture the following scene through a lens of "Paranormal Activity"-level graininess for maximum effect.<br />
<br />
Husband: Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD.<br />
<br />
Me [under covers]: What?<br />
<br />
H: OHMYGOD!<br />
<br />
Me: Is it Gordon? [Gordon is the gecko who hangs out in our apartment and scampers silently - and unnervingly swiftly - across the walls when agitated]<br />
<br />
H: NO. IT IS NOT GORDON.<br />
<br />
Me [exasperated]: What is it?<br />
<br />
H: It's a FUCKING COCKROACH.<br />
<br />
Me [thinking, Michael Bolton would definitely be preferable to this]: Kill it.<br />
<br />
H [slight notes of desperation]: How do I kill it? These things are indestructible. Right?<br />
<br />
Me: Hit it with something heavy.<br />
<br />
H [voice rising]: I can't.<br />
<br />
Me: What? Jesus.<br />
<br />
[I get up to investigate; H points to top of shower curtain]<br />
<br />
Me: Wow.<br />
<br />
H: Yeah.<br />
<br />
Me: It's huge.<br />
<br />
H: In other circumstances I'd say "that's what she said," but I'm completely terrified right now.<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah.<br />
<br />
H[slightly offended]: It was STARING AT ME in the shower the whole time!<br />
<br />
Me [haha]: We have to get it off the curtain and onto a flat surface so we can kill it. Can you find a magazine or something?<br />
<br />
H: OK [leaves; returns with magazine, spatula, pot holder and large reference book]. Just in case. [Pauses.] Can they fly?<br />
<br />
Me: I think some of them can, but this one's probably too big. Just get it.<br />
<br />
H: [swipes frantically at shower curtain].<br />
<br />
Both: AAAAAAHHH!!!<br />
<br />
Me: Where'd it go?!?<br />
<br />
H: OHMYGOD. It's on the wall. It FLEW TO THE WALL!<br />
<br />
Dogs: Bark! Bark!<br />
<br />
Me: Hit it with the book!<br />
<br />
Dogs: Bark! Bark! <br />
<br />
H: No [exits bathroom rapidly, shuts door]. We can just board off this bathroom and use the other one. Good thing we got a big place.<br />
<br />
Me: Oh, Jesus.<br />
<br />
Me: [opens door, throws book on cockroach, checks to make sure cockroach does not have the Herculean strength necessary to survive such a blow]. I think it's dead.<br />
<br />
H: Just leave the book there and close the door.<br />
<br />
Me: What about the shower?<br />
<br />
H: I'm never showering in there again.<br />
<br />
THE INCIDENT, PART II<br />
<br />
Later that day, I got a very disturbing text message from Husband, who had apparently shared his own personal "Psycho" shower scene with some appreciative co-workers. The co-workers, however, had given him some unpleasant news. The text read: "If you kill them their family and friends will come to investigate."<br />
<br />
Fuck.<br />
<br />
So, hurrah, a trip to the nearest shopping center was in order to get some industrial-strength bug killer. No sissy organic, good-for-the-earth bug killer for this girl. I wanted the kind so potent that it makes unborn babies grow extra limbs.<br />
<br />
The closest store happened to be the Mustafa Centre, which is a 24-hour department store chock-full to the brim of awesomeness and cut-price Bollywood DVDs. It also has a grocery and hardware department. I asked the sales clerk where I could find roach killer.<br />
<br />
Clerk: For roaches?<br />
<br />
Me: Yes. To kill them.<br />
<br />
Clerk: To eat them?<br />
<br />
Me: No. To KILL them.<br />
<br />
Clerk: Oh, for eating.<br />
<br />
Me: No, for KILLING [makes knife motion across throat].<br />
<br />
Clerk: Oh, ok. Second floor!<br />
<br />
Me: Thanks!<br />
<br />
The second floor was the grocery department. FOR EATING.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-38499333342917190432010-09-09T01:29:00.000+10:002010-09-09T01:29:02.775+10:00Always Leave 'Em Wanting MoreIt's been a while since I wrote. Let's just say I've been busy. This whole moving-your-life-from-Australia-to-the-US-to-Singapore-finding-a-job-getting-two-dogs-through-quarantine-in-one-piece-and-navigating-the-ridiculous-Singapore-rental-market thing is kind of time-consuming. But rest assured: in my absence, I've been collecting lots of stories that I will soon unleash upon the world. Oh, and they're good. Really good. But because I don't have time right this second to get into too much detail, I'll just leave you with some tantalizing photos to keep you obsessively checking this website daily, hourly... until my return. <br />
<br />
(evil laugh)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8d0mj1vV0TplYFS0LNFBVCk5XXRT1-l8BwyLbOXsxVjx2NKtMdUBsmYSUgEamY8-DuWufN0IKwPOMuo7uZ2_OmNXIiEsR61GMl9cAa1N1Z3Mo7LwK7rbZQmMfFDb6Zmqhdea60CvcJDy/s1600/IMG_0369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8d0mj1vV0TplYFS0LNFBVCk5XXRT1-l8BwyLbOXsxVjx2NKtMdUBsmYSUgEamY8-DuWufN0IKwPOMuo7uZ2_OmNXIiEsR61GMl9cAa1N1Z3Mo7LwK7rbZQmMfFDb6Zmqhdea60CvcJDy/s320/IMG_0369.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8d0mj1vV0TplYFS0LNFBVCk5XXRT1-l8BwyLbOXsxVjx2NKtMdUBsmYSUgEamY8-DuWufN0IKwPOMuo7uZ2_OmNXIiEsR61GMl9cAa1N1Z3Mo7LwK7rbZQmMfFDb6Zmqhdea60CvcJDy/s1600/IMG_0369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>What is that? Seriously, what the hell is that?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9V0urH8h-r4whoaCe8iwXk6r5w9-QrkCjwKRGcxFBBy0Db8k4RRUX8GSMkqW9lHgjxfZA5sZSEpQuMhlkTVY7qJ6DqkjWg-zaZ1hyphenhyphenbTe-JyjH63S7Ij86CynsTFipJT3RGYhbHzuNxB9/s1600/CIMG1454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9V0urH8h-r4whoaCe8iwXk6r5w9-QrkCjwKRGcxFBBy0Db8k4RRUX8GSMkqW9lHgjxfZA5sZSEpQuMhlkTVY7qJ6DqkjWg-zaZ1hyphenhyphenbTe-JyjH63S7Ij86CynsTFipJT3RGYhbHzuNxB9/s320/CIMG1454.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Am I in China? What's going on?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtRwZf0PrJfo0mD_IuNMXk566YAu-wWoLpcIAbJglN8LkE50853tRd09qfYle5sLic0aFWsSUSwMOhJeuPP7BjJhjHk_yhbESkSZMsUDE_vlntOULD3gGJQi0YTcvz1VFRCUzYT3KC9vI/s1600/CIMG1368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtRwZf0PrJfo0mD_IuNMXk566YAu-wWoLpcIAbJglN8LkE50853tRd09qfYle5sLic0aFWsSUSwMOhJeuPP7BjJhjHk_yhbESkSZMsUDE_vlntOULD3gGJQi0YTcvz1VFRCUzYT3KC9vI/s320/CIMG1368.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">No, we moved to India, just messing with you!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyO9oaTsGAFB9H1Yklu4NMuKehulaz_hituI9LkugL-nRkeFBva5uXEvFOZNa1_Mr5-FHFqPWfe_DTIuwrNHnXXdztFdAotSRpwWCYJSobAPgW62USJTnMIIcCT7GerDFXyy4on74KvGZ/s1600/IMG_0381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyO9oaTsGAFB9H1Yklu4NMuKehulaz_hituI9LkugL-nRkeFBva5uXEvFOZNa1_Mr5-FHFqPWfe_DTIuwrNHnXXdztFdAotSRpwWCYJSobAPgW62USJTnMIIcCT7GerDFXyy4on74KvGZ/s320/IMG_0381.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ha ha, very funny, we really moved to Abu Dhabi. Let's go watch "Sex and the City 2" and laugh about how inappropriate it was for them to film a movie there!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKc6c-5iwxYfB5Fs_y1dkCKhDurXBbxXzaeBBTqKnhgFea6yrp-0K9usWcftUSQqUVDJS9GUhN40DaVcYv8cs648B0zt2a5efkrI6siQBc8nQqyAGHnGgSqwK0lFnaiXHQl_OqGSsOAcL3/s1600/IMG_0348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKc6c-5iwxYfB5Fs_y1dkCKhDurXBbxXzaeBBTqKnhgFea6yrp-0K9usWcftUSQqUVDJS9GUhN40DaVcYv8cs648B0zt2a5efkrI6siQBc8nQqyAGHnGgSqwK0lFnaiXHQl_OqGSsOAcL3/s320/IMG_0348.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Actually, I just wandered onto the set of "Best in Show 2: Unclipped"</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyf1L3DoScm6qX7r0HfhLKaoRMX8TSfq_DZ2-oPJwKYVoJSTW2yBYPMTiR8KzcbNbbrkA8U4_ihS57kYLIA2SdMifXAOlJGad96nkGFoSpsyJBV3kf88N5xqTXD3HDrjkJENSkNSBumpmQ/s1600/IMG_0366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyf1L3DoScm6qX7r0HfhLKaoRMX8TSfq_DZ2-oPJwKYVoJSTW2yBYPMTiR8KzcbNbbrkA8U4_ihS57kYLIA2SdMifXAOlJGad96nkGFoSpsyJBV3kf88N5xqTXD3HDrjkJENSkNSBumpmQ/s320/IMG_0366.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Is this supposed to be Spain? If so, I want to go to there.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfDSo8IfeqNSQ6So3SFNRbqmRMfmKcUoYd7RcSNh62mblLN22ufKnvxQL5LhLks1hUaaPazMSnYUA-Ci4RUJR2tvgnFsPa29zKv8vyLc42gCMH-7Y2Aa8_KV4V49WzVN4e3uSmF-KRo7M/s1600/CIMG1406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfDSo8IfeqNSQ6So3SFNRbqmRMfmKcUoYd7RcSNh62mblLN22ufKnvxQL5LhLks1hUaaPazMSnYUA-Ci4RUJR2tvgnFsPa29zKv8vyLc42gCMH-7Y2Aa8_KV4V49WzVN4e3uSmF-KRo7M/s320/CIMG1406.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">What the hell is THAT? (part deux)</div><br />
And finally...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVMx8U_uBM_gYUm0XtEUhJXkz93zljqTIQZ_Hje9tZ5yEUH4HRSCXGIHjGHWEWCtTo5QfQyn51Y148Cjv5m34itfCDbe8JetyjR4hF3OBKppy4LF-pO0EX04jnHEbWoOUnisDOsvaoIrX/s1600/CIMG1530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVMx8U_uBM_gYUm0XtEUhJXkz93zljqTIQZ_Hje9tZ5yEUH4HRSCXGIHjGHWEWCtTo5QfQyn51Y148Cjv5m34itfCDbe8JetyjR4hF3OBKppy4LF-pO0EX04jnHEbWoOUnisDOsvaoIrX/s320/CIMG1530.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Looks can be deceiving.</div><br />
Fin.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-16346513285650742732010-07-21T23:48:00.002+10:002010-07-21T23:57:04.745+10:00Belford. Beaten. Barely.When I started planning my trip to Colorado way back in January, I knew that I would be powerless to resist the siren song of the 14ers. For those who don't know, I've been hiking for a long time, and climbing for a slightly less-long time, and one of my goals is to eventually hike/climb/whatever-you-call-it all of Colorado's 14ers. There are 54. Since I moved to Colorado in 2003, I've hiked 30.<br />
<br />
To be fair, I did do my best to avoid them for over a week after I landed in Denver: I walked the dog, suffered through jet lag, ate Mexican food, drank margaritas, drank other alcoholic beverages, attempted to run on my gimpy leg, went to breakfast at the Buff, got my hair done, and had a slightly drunken table dive/slip-n-slide adventure in the backyard of friends who shall remain nameless for the good of their respective careers... In other words, all the things you do when you're in Boulder that don't involve hiking. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzUF0LJr03el9WSSLn7GCIyNAyIO2v6XrqKkm6eQFU2DGApknenMZC4xroTw_GiJCz6CocytxQQMHzH1s9Jla6s3g6UTpunXjcL8ALKR93mx-QooKLskbAmhNIgSAqTXBNPEvRxBkEAVP/s1600/CIMG1009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzUF0LJr03el9WSSLn7GCIyNAyIO2v6XrqKkm6eQFU2DGApknenMZC4xroTw_GiJCz6CocytxQQMHzH1s9Jla6s3g6UTpunXjcL8ALKR93mx-QooKLskbAmhNIgSAqTXBNPEvRxBkEAVP/s320/CIMG1009.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Friends who shall remain nameless.</div><br />
But.<br />
<br />
I also bought new hiking boots, broke them in religiously, hiked Mt. Sanitas once a day, and lusted after fancy new gear at REI. Now, why would I do that?<br />
<br />
In the end, it all got to be too much. So, on Sunday, I dragged my husband away from the above-mentioned slip-n-slide party and we pointed our shiny silver rental Mazda towards Buena Vista for some good old-fashioned pain and suffering. But first we stopped at K's, because a trip to BV would not be complete without a greasy burger. Then, in dwindling light, we headed out of town to our mosquito-infested campsite (a mini-adventure in its own right) and set up camp to prepare for an early start in the morning.<br />
<br />
The alarm was set for 4:30. Yes, that's right. Those who know me will appreciate how very much I must love the mountains, because usually it is a herculean effort to get me out of bed before 9. And guess what? That's not even the earliest I've ever woken up to hike! Try 1:30 am! It's almost stupid to even try to sleep at that point! But I did! And then woke up!<br />
<br />
Anyway. The snooze was hit a few times, so we didn't actually get moving until about 5:30. The mosquitoes were still sleeping when we packed our bags, threw some food on the ground for the dog, and drove the last few bumpy miles to the trailhead. We were on the trail by 6:30, a reasonable hour (but not, as it turned out, early enough for us to hit up our planned second peak, Oxford). I usually like to start at 5am (or earlier) for optimal storm-avoidance. Friends, shake your heads in awe. I actually PLAN to wake up early on MULTIPLE occasions! On PURPOSE!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOeP3SfM8aIVAC3C0p3Zl4XKaeiea9Xwh8Zz-kVUG_DSI2d4EcOViQ_bLzo4-yX8fTE_zgwJCCjzog3GlqbgInj4bOZu2hnX8vFD6IfKm5d48hsvyPAWWCJD4tZc5jsL2jNTgtMleq9ja/s1600/CIMG1101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOeP3SfM8aIVAC3C0p3Zl4XKaeiea9Xwh8Zz-kVUG_DSI2d4EcOViQ_bLzo4-yX8fTE_zgwJCCjzog3GlqbgInj4bOZu2hnX8vFD6IfKm5d48hsvyPAWWCJD4tZc5jsL2jNTgtMleq9ja/s320/CIMG1101.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Note the elevation gain chart on the middle left of the map.</div><br />
From the parking area, we started up the Missouri Gulch trail. This led us into the forest for about an hour or so before we hit treeline. Along the way we had a couple of fun stream crossings, as well as the always-enjoyable switchbacks from hell. Cody, at least, seemed ok with it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfwdmfYm1ihWKJ2KOt2fECGtNPf2N77WJWp5cqKE3KqCS4J2bx1s8ma8FB5JFM2rf9AWV2xy46G3xex_6SCoB9pcwaTBKP_CLoLiBZzeq5IQqaheJpCWfTXFIpqYl1Y72Ksu1T86vSrap/s1600/CIMG1023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfwdmfYm1ihWKJ2KOt2fECGtNPf2N77WJWp5cqKE3KqCS4J2bx1s8ma8FB5JFM2rf9AWV2xy46G3xex_6SCoB9pcwaTBKP_CLoLiBZzeq5IQqaheJpCWfTXFIpqYl1Y72Ksu1T86vSrap/s320/CIMG1023.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fun fact: this is the only known photo of the white dog without a stick in her mouth.</div><br />
Near 11,300, we finally got a good glimpse of the rest of our day. It was deceptively simple-looking. Look, a slight bump in the ridge! You can totally see the summit from here!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMHkCel2-Iz0N5mFo-dTqaSNI1eHMphCOIi6IwFFdS7ljuy-FHko99tOq7x-O88Tiypysr3YVSWiHANCE36kSRW9iVwsq9enK0f9aisc-5N7AMO19ijU_snV0RRWdtujNJKyvtXssEwGK/s1600/CIMG1036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMHkCel2-Iz0N5mFo-dTqaSNI1eHMphCOIi6IwFFdS7ljuy-FHko99tOq7x-O88Tiypysr3YVSWiHANCE36kSRW9iVwsq9enK0f9aisc-5N7AMO19ijU_snV0RRWdtujNJKyvtXssEwGK/s320/CIMG1036.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Mt. Belford in the center: you can see almost the entire route.</div><br />
As it turns out, that was only the beginning of a VERY long hike for two people who, not so very long ago, had been blissfully breathing in the salt-tinged air of a sea-level Melbourne.<br />
<br />
At around 11,600, we reached a trail junction. The following conversation then occurred:<br />
<br />
Me: I think we go left. <br />
Chris: There's a tent over there.<br />
Me: Yeah. We should have done that instead of camping at Mosquito Hotel.<br />
Chris: Do you think they'd care if we took a nap?<br />
Me: Look, they're camped right next to a "No Camping sign." Ha.<br />
Chris: Can we take a nap?<br />
Me: No.<br />
Chris: I don't like nature.<br />
Me: So do you want to turn around?<br />
Chris: No, let's see how far we get until we black out.<br />
<br />
We went left.<br />
<br />
A bit farther on, past treeline, we made the acquaintance of a group of marmots. They were pretty rude and made faces at the camera.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqN_olq4EZl4ExEdZox7HUP5QLUlweIi76EHakxs1EQf5GhtLVpYUVJdkmIoTpqJGO6RDSWHK1L0ZUt2sSeWT8xrDTCnvdejUNL2GYwdwbrjorjhg9kq7s-PBwtLtAtT7bfV8C45G4hkG/s1600/CIMG1049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqN_olq4EZl4ExEdZox7HUP5QLUlweIi76EHakxs1EQf5GhtLVpYUVJdkmIoTpqJGO6RDSWHK1L0ZUt2sSeWT8xrDTCnvdejUNL2GYwdwbrjorjhg9kq7s-PBwtLtAtT7bfV8C45G4hkG/s320/CIMG1049.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cody's new friends.</div><br />
After that, I pretty much blacked out for about 2,300 vertical feet. Fortunately my camera provided evidence that we had, in fact, physically walked up the trail under our own power.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubVvf1ayQ_ZN4-pCZuzxEDHuPgcaUQx-_ie1z1tirpDXhhZlFlwnvp03sSIJCxIG42xEE_IWwEwjzeZXz5y7ESuonQm9kYOJ2y6X-_vyLEs8lgk31rXsFV6F1pEXn3vTAYSk-WDvhQGue/s1600/CIMG1051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubVvf1ayQ_ZN4-pCZuzxEDHuPgcaUQx-_ie1z1tirpDXhhZlFlwnvp03sSIJCxIG42xEE_IWwEwjzeZXz5y7ESuonQm9kYOJ2y6X-_vyLEs8lgk31rXsFV6F1pEXn3vTAYSk-WDvhQGue/s320/CIMG1051.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioATP49WMjtDWuRVlxhRq6SJvg_w8gP7Y_Wzn-B1TC25fQWhO8pUVbJvRHTHzg4PkmgUTG5XAPM5QeRZvHXTAmxZmN84devIJISioV9CIpJGcY_jS-a3jdA2MttvExUCAvXpJ2WNhQvd2-/s1600/CIMG1053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioATP49WMjtDWuRVlxhRq6SJvg_w8gP7Y_Wzn-B1TC25fQWhO8pUVbJvRHTHzg4PkmgUTG5XAPM5QeRZvHXTAmxZmN84devIJISioV9CIpJGcY_jS-a3jdA2MttvExUCAvXpJ2WNhQvd2-/s320/CIMG1053.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYHLNvl70l7matHFJnuzeqZsp-NTwXNpwMtwFxv3G_ogh0ktarS2Fyi5stktAL1WOyd59iC-77GBgsG6ouY_wQMx57cmvgq9Ja-uAnNBqO52wcdrw4DN91pckaWdAFWSCNW8YZUcLtzpV_/s1600/CIMG1070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYHLNvl70l7matHFJnuzeqZsp-NTwXNpwMtwFxv3G_ogh0ktarS2Fyi5stktAL1WOyd59iC-77GBgsG6ouY_wQMx57cmvgq9Ja-uAnNBqO52wcdrw4DN91pckaWdAFWSCNW8YZUcLtzpV_/s320/CIMG1070.JPG" /></a></div><br />
At around 13,900, we reached a (relatively) flat spot. I took photos. We had another conversation:<br />
<br />
Me: I think this is the last false summit.<br />
Chris: No.<br />
Me: Yes.<br />
Chris: No.<br />
Me: If it isn't, let's turn around. The clouds are getting bigger.<br />
Chris: No.<br />
Me: Can you say anything except no right now?<br />
Chris: No.<br />
<br />
Finally, with less than 100 vertical feet to go, we spied the REAL summit. Joy! Rapture! Wheezing!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_za7U9Nm9rHJPYwQNlImOOmUdm0dCPcnn4AtBqAYxOZLTgKYUypi6E-CPfzc6WyMDUJVii0fMe3wvXqPHbCrxfgdgyinNDJv7EKYrgLiLG4Toz5w0qGKwO3Vaet0KVT09sdO4eLe3BZxN/s1600/CIMG1073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_za7U9Nm9rHJPYwQNlImOOmUdm0dCPcnn4AtBqAYxOZLTgKYUypi6E-CPfzc6WyMDUJVii0fMe3wvXqPHbCrxfgdgyinNDJv7EKYrgLiLG4Toz5w0qGKwO3Vaet0KVT09sdO4eLe3BZxN/s320/CIMG1073.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Thar she blows.</div><br />
It didn't look like much at first, but it was, in fact, an amazing summit. Know why? Because it was the top! 14,197 feet of rock! And we were at the top of it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyf74PHbRbNJMXy3khWh7KMAMkC1PNPBJLq_B65xply9e3RsOrX-4GWKZ_r5lix2QyolGM1lPFD1psofJnYXwZcQzrnDTJTYWqAbHHLnWTLrJIk8_4MuqnRcVKkBw3nRpyZTMV6-2F9pf/s1600/CIMG1087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyf74PHbRbNJMXy3khWh7KMAMkC1PNPBJLq_B65xply9e3RsOrX-4GWKZ_r5lix2QyolGM1lPFD1psofJnYXwZcQzrnDTJTYWqAbHHLnWTLrJIk8_4MuqnRcVKkBw3nRpyZTMV6-2F9pf/s320/CIMG1087.jpg" /></a></div><br />
What happened next? Well, we gave Cody some water, we gave ourselves some food, we took an obnoxious amount of photos, and Cody begged for goldfish. Now I'm not sure, but I think she might have gotten some.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6JWQrN_NQx8ZeJPgjtorceVbnpClFM8vpLUGBBvxRTb7g6tOsCifrkrYOH6gZ0e8-HGvnWezxF9-t1bdfonyOgFwtskQacE5nM9jNkovXY9LbTcdez0xzk8lI3p-_frTnLTvyJV2zE_F/s1600/CIMG1081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6JWQrN_NQx8ZeJPgjtorceVbnpClFM8vpLUGBBvxRTb7g6tOsCifrkrYOH6gZ0e8-HGvnWezxF9-t1bdfonyOgFwtskQacE5nM9jNkovXY9LbTcdez0xzk8lI3p-_frTnLTvyJV2zE_F/s320/CIMG1081.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Who could resist that face?</div><br />
The way down was about what you'd expect: steep, never-ending, and knee-punishing. When we are about done with getting down a mountain, Chris and I have a game we like to play:<br />
<br />
Me: So how much money would it take for you to turn around and climb this again? <br />
Chris: a lot.<br />
Me: How much?<br />
Chris: Let us never speak of this again. <br />
<br />
Fin.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-57727559755531165502010-07-09T16:34:00.002+10:002010-07-09T16:55:11.645+10:00Only In ColoradoWell kids, it's been an exciting few weeks in Colorful Colorado. And we're not done yet! After a series of setbacks, I'm back to writing. Ok, so the "setbacks" were mostly just me having too much fun to sit in front of a computer for more than a few minutes a day. Which is a good thing, right? Right? Bueller?<br />
<br />
I did want to point out a few awesome things I've seen so far in my travels around CO. I'm sure I'll discover more this weekend as I head off for another hiking extravaganza, but these few images were basically just too good not to share. Plus, posting photos with semi-witty comments is way easier than actually thinking about, and then writing, you know, blog entries and junk.<br />
<br />
So without further ado, I present my current three favorite photos from my time here (so far). Not that you needed physical proof of anything bizarre that I ever talk about (after all, my word is law), but I think it's pretty hard to argue with photographic evidence.<br />
<br />
First: I think this convincingly shows that Boulder is the most liberal city on the planet (San Francisco, prepare for your cage match! I've got front-row seats and a poncho). <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzpCWdMGI4afvfuf6q0Z_4RnihRRnksRY_eoQK4rgid4cKi3AKWuc6mO8PAlfpP9jFCpfAyb6vB7xZ-UsdfxJi0ZwUB2pU6V86m9sfxEdIRr3-4MT1126sR3vbZr9DRQ_wgMRLKXD79qq/s1600/bumper+stickers" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzpCWdMGI4afvfuf6q0Z_4RnihRRnksRY_eoQK4rgid4cKi3AKWuc6mO8PAlfpP9jFCpfAyb6vB7xZ-UsdfxJi0ZwUB2pU6V86m9sfxEdIRr3-4MT1126sR3vbZr9DRQ_wgMRLKXD79qq/s320/bumper+stickers" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please note the dinosaur devouring the Jesus fish (my personal fave).</div><br />
<br />
Second: proof that sometimes Boulder is just... effing weird.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiO2uJh4PTz2wMVH9iO3UdkpO994CPnKxcU1e_-SupyCEnZ5xCY4aUvFZrCPLOKdDcEwU8KdX4PVUqe6rhWUMfebu1N3Yg3YxWF-4oQQmABbdJh3u_mP-SFsnHePncJJoraQr_wP5Spbt/s1600/storage+sign" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiO2uJh4PTz2wMVH9iO3UdkpO994CPnKxcU1e_-SupyCEnZ5xCY4aUvFZrCPLOKdDcEwU8KdX4PVUqe6rhWUMfebu1N3Yg3YxWF-4oQQmABbdJh3u_mP-SFsnHePncJJoraQr_wP5Spbt/s320/storage+sign" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">So much is confusing about this sign. What is feng shui compliant? The sign itself? The circle of rocks surrounding said sign? Are patrons of this fine establishment expected to arrange their stored items in a specific north-south alignment? Full of consternation am I. </div><br />
<br />
Finally: ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this proves beyond a reasonable doubt that Colorado is AWESOME. Therefore, you must convict it of being AWESOME.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sMpA9A0TjKSLLxYiTE-3HqZ5ppawZBurbOOqdTE99SQq5pnoRg38X7H6o45x9CeqO4ESbTM2xx6jmWedKS72wGsfQLjtr4wbooEJS0YlX7zuU701CRJBY7mZqc_Qp3KVNjCggIgzih1x/s1600/CIMG1014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sMpA9A0TjKSLLxYiTE-3HqZ5ppawZBurbOOqdTE99SQq5pnoRg38X7H6o45x9CeqO4ESbTM2xx6jmWedKS72wGsfQLjtr4wbooEJS0YlX7zuU701CRJBY7mZqc_Qp3KVNjCggIgzih1x/s320/CIMG1014.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My work here is done. Good night.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-62893815157954463422010-06-19T14:27:00.000+10:002010-06-19T14:27:25.223+10:00Rocky Mountain HighI'm supposed to be sleeping right now. Somehow, however, jet lag hasn't set in yet (or maybe my body's just too confused to rebel), so I'm up, writing instead of drifting into an Ambien-induced slumber. <br />
<br />
Well, I made it! Yay Colorado! After 20 hours, five cups of (bad) coffee, four in-flight movies, three flights, two lonely apples sacrificed to the quarantine gods, and a partridge in a pear tree, I'm finally in the land of thin air. Couldn't be happier. I actually broke out into a huge grin when I walked off the massive A380 in L.A. That should tell you something right there - why else would I be happy to be landing in L.A. other than it's one step closer to CO?<br />
<br />
This is what I saw when I looked out my window:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0YRbSdJQx86tpTCc7AIUdSZ6zkYOUx8eVUZgPgFdsEzUvo_skDMZEAsMVBpnEBBUlpI_vDExRkMs-kUW4g9EmepoA3yaSmDE4Hw96AHHIn6t6AT_njwODLAfX859m_cxcqbLc6_6PFiK/s1600/IMG_0304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0YRbSdJQx86tpTCc7AIUdSZ6zkYOUx8eVUZgPgFdsEzUvo_skDMZEAsMVBpnEBBUlpI_vDExRkMs-kUW4g9EmepoA3yaSmDE4Hw96AHHIn6t6AT_njwODLAfX859m_cxcqbLc6_6PFiK/s320/IMG_0304.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Then, when I landed, I saw my fabulous friend Amy, who picked me up in her fabulous little red Audi and heroically drove me (in style) through rush hour traffic to the home of my other fabulous friend, Tetyana, who will be hosting me for the foreseeable future. Just kidding. Only until she decides to kick me out. Then we ate melons and went to the dog park and oh, it was wonderful.<br />
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More later. It's good to be back.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-63298727044345247632010-06-18T10:18:00.000+10:002010-06-18T10:18:29.854+10:00Tourist, Take TwoToday is officially my last day in Melbourne! I'm feeling a little bit happy and a little bit sad. Of course I'm psyched to be heading back to Colorado for a few weeks before moving to Singapore, but I'll definitely miss it here - it's a very easy and fun place to live. Great friends, great food, great coffee, great things to see and do... Ah, I'm getting a little misty now. Damn it!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UgMq-_82GJhkFsFHxfyIkukiR-Z4h8dDcBHx-ozGNyJKvXkeWrFQcUpWiSJwOUtrrorASXM2EH5odwA6uY12Mjl22uxYz7nWaRAi6etELQyPr43C9GLXb26gkLxLtKEwXVJ91M2mhQwi/s1600/CIMG0845.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UgMq-_82GJhkFsFHxfyIkukiR-Z4h8dDcBHx-ozGNyJKvXkeWrFQcUpWiSJwOUtrrorASXM2EH5odwA6uY12Mjl22uxYz7nWaRAi6etELQyPr43C9GLXb26gkLxLtKEwXVJ91M2mhQwi/s320/CIMG0845.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I'll save the emotional stuff for another time. Right now there's something even more important to document: my frantic last-minute attempt to do way too many random things I never got around to doing in the last eight months because "I'm living here so I'll have plenty of time to do it all... later." Well, it's later. Really later. And as I sat last Thursday night looking over my list, it occurred to me that this whole thing might be a tad ambitious. But then I ate some chocolate and the bad thoughts went away.<br />
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I've decided to document some of the the things I did this week - as well as some things I didn't get around to doing. Just for laughs. Also, because I have been informed that I owe it to my public (a.k.a., my husband and my mom and the possibly three other people who read this thing) to blog. So blog I will - packing be damned. <br />
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Here's my list. I've also included whether I got around to doing the thing on the list, and some notes on how the thing did or did not get accomplished. Also, if I felt like it, I graded the experience.<br />
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1. Dandenongs. Mountains east of town. I use the term "mountains" loosely. Pretty, though - smelled like eucalypts, one of my new favorite odors. Hiked the Thousand Steps and ate scones with multitudes of cheerful Indian tourists. Also, inexplicably, visited a puppet shop. Unfortunately, did not purchase any puppets.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sz84i9IUzUn4MMOBzO02fDSvStKygD4ubmqtjB_ckOux0HogEFjnMO0mu3f_t0xH9_wj48wYfkmqXmUkR55baEk7KLVOFY0BpLLNT_KNlZifkN7Z_ggjOWJYNVjuUQqkQxFaGpSxjxhQ/s1600/IMG_1061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sz84i9IUzUn4MMOBzO02fDSvStKygD4ubmqtjB_ckOux0HogEFjnMO0mu3f_t0xH9_wj48wYfkmqXmUkR55baEk7KLVOFY0BpLLNT_KNlZifkN7Z_ggjOWJYNVjuUQqkQxFaGpSxjxhQ/s320/IMG_1061.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Kookaburra!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jpHyzQe56fzO2fOzZC2LDPj9LblOrWRfc3g_z679mMUQtoNHcitAjuyccQMhwD9UGxSF_PmhfxNt1Klxw2CSE3GqA_xO1diVHNxOUsXTStbA_9SJuMA6v58j4jy_D3NIFy8Qx34sFA8c/s1600/IMG_1075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3jpHyzQe56fzO2fOzZC2LDPj9LblOrWRfc3g_z679mMUQtoNHcitAjuyccQMhwD9UGxSF_PmhfxNt1Klxw2CSE3GqA_xO1diVHNxOUsXTStbA_9SJuMA6v58j4jy_D3NIFy8Qx34sFA8c/s320/IMG_1075.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Thousand Steps!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_bG9zMrmjzCScFULmPpxQDYiG-fTPcpzLM1Cx4h5pF5cmP9MiGi-iifmVUQGCvfwU4XuRrRwVLb6-t9B2I_7m2zvWeMOIQFKU5818C4R52jvOyFajGEu8vsuHut95W6_8GKvDrizHraN/s1600/IMG_1097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_bG9zMrmjzCScFULmPpxQDYiG-fTPcpzLM1Cx4h5pF5cmP9MiGi-iifmVUQGCvfwU4XuRrRwVLb6-t9B2I_7m2zvWeMOIQFKU5818C4R52jvOyFajGEu8vsuHut95W6_8GKvDrizHraN/s320/IMG_1097.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Puppets!</div><br />
2. Melbourne Laneway Commissions. Hint: look up. More street art. My fave laneway has been redecorated. I still love it. Grade: always an A+.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1SEtdKqgCqGyxtLQKuQGaG_gpRDpd10PFZG9wPsZ2jM7GOE0vuH7uwrj4Arylk4jDtf1uvqWNmv1x7CDhc9Cw2Ta8IW_bIXSHcZeZM3wd6TguklFCKOAnDEzB-V218rPhb48wnMrJT3z/s1600/IMG_0293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1SEtdKqgCqGyxtLQKuQGaG_gpRDpd10PFZG9wPsZ2jM7GOE0vuH7uwrj4Arylk4jDtf1uvqWNmv1x7CDhc9Cw2Ta8IW_bIXSHcZeZM3wd6TguklFCKOAnDEzB-V218rPhb48wnMrJT3z/s320/IMG_0293.jpg" /></a></div><br />
3. Sensory Lab (a.k.a. one of the millions of coffee shops in Melbourne that I have grievously neglected, despite my best efforts). It is no longer neglected. In fact, they now have $6 of my husband's hard-earned money. Good coffee. Just the tiniest bit pretentious, but that was ok because of said magnificent coffee.<br />
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4. State Library (inside). I say "inside" because I've been "outside" the library lots of times, but never actually stepped through the doors. I went inside this time. There were guards. One guard asked me what I had in my bag. I said "gym clothes. Is that OK?" He said as long as i wasn't going to eat my clothes, it was fine. Dodged a bullet there! The library is large, parts of it are creaky, parts of it are modern, and parts of it are actually an art museum. With red paint and very dead people hanging on the walls. Verdict: Library: A (I have a soft spot for libraries); Museum: C (meh). No photos inside, unfortunately. <br />
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5. Mr. Tulk (inside the inside of the State Library). You guessed it, another coffee shop. I liked it better than Sensory Lab, mostly because I got a piece of orange cake along with my coffee. That's not really Sensory Lab's fault, but whatever. Yes it is.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMhFGiw8kSO6TjMEuHucOpt4cl-HmcQ70J9e1Jk3a1QfNWywSN4ZW02U11sBbmwkVKX-yegmHwGEqzErZYgoMXnL_qX8TeR8sshYOisEnlsEzzO9cfOsxvkhqX-WvNjyWMfaDdrtt2AI6/s1600/IMG_0287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMhFGiw8kSO6TjMEuHucOpt4cl-HmcQ70J9e1Jk3a1QfNWywSN4ZW02U11sBbmwkVKX-yegmHwGEqzErZYgoMXnL_qX8TeR8sshYOisEnlsEzzO9cfOsxvkhqX-WvNjyWMfaDdrtt2AI6/s320/IMG_0287.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC76iz_b7CzTy_vB5HVegRY4FNfHZcC-KwABTAewOKdNU2KgzB9F6mPfCgdIBIKB2qnGgzxp3Jcv4RFTz_YcN8UEpIbmKuY-G-cWaqR3C3sGkLdSgNOKB5tvTdhSJT-gkczTQvMus7gyVm/s1600/IMG_0289.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC76iz_b7CzTy_vB5HVegRY4FNfHZcC-KwABTAewOKdNU2KgzB9F6mPfCgdIBIKB2qnGgzxp3Jcv4RFTz_YcN8UEpIbmKuY-G-cWaqR3C3sGkLdSgNOKB5tvTdhSJT-gkczTQvMus7gyVm/s320/IMG_0289.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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6. Ian Potter Museum. At Melbourne University. Yeah. I got halfway there on the tram and lost interest. At this point... fuck museums. Moving on!<br />
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7. Black Light Mini Golf. Rumored to have "one of Melbourne's most amazing holes" (clearly the selling point in this scenario). In Docklands. Therefore, was deemed unacceptably far away. Reluctant fail.<br />
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8. Eat a meat pie. I've been here for 8 months and haven't tried one. So, I tried one today at a shop whose sign said that its pies were "legendary." Can't get much better than that. Because I simply could not get past the image of mucous-y peas mixed with a few gristly lumps of gray meat, I got a "Chicken, Leek & Swiss Cheese" pie instead of beef. Verdict: crust was good. Chicken was ok. Cheese was mucous-y. Grade: about what I expected. No grade necessary; I just won't be eating pies. EVER. AGAIN.<br />
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9. Victoria Market. Had to revisit this one to pick up some crucial last-minute supplies. Otherwise known as the most vulgar Australia souvenirs ever - think plastic boomerangs and continent-shaped ashtrays. Or, you know, a mankini. Friends: get ready for some awesome gifts!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvEG70NFf3YcYPnqyZ3AhSZ-cdBUTQEe2yUJLQnfpZAxUV4QOYKHKOhNmX2fIvDM3sSgPgxmmVUMGyqrMZ3zmLXQz0LtMGL2SNg_n0PWTks7N_DX2Rx7MsY4NmK2puzVTRDv-lfXay1m8/s1600/mankini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvEG70NFf3YcYPnqyZ3AhSZ-cdBUTQEe2yUJLQnfpZAxUV4QOYKHKOhNmX2fIvDM3sSgPgxmmVUMGyqrMZ3zmLXQz0LtMGL2SNg_n0PWTks7N_DX2Rx7MsY4NmK2puzVTRDv-lfXay1m8/s320/mankini.jpg" /></a></div><br />
10. Burger Monster. Supposed to have the best burgers in town. However, I gave this a pass for two reasons: first, it was in the Docklands and, really, I couldn't be bothered even trying to figure out how to get there; and second, let's face it: Aussies don't do burgers. Decided to wait (impatiently) for some quality at Southern Sun. <br />
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11. The Public Purse. Kind of hilarious meta-sculpture outside the General Post Office, which has been converted into a high-end mall. The sculpture was fun. The mall was too expensive. Boo.<br />
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12. Brunch with Erin. Yes, we got that done! Yay! Chris and I met up with Erin, Peter, and Peter's three adorable children at a place called the Blue Plate in Hampton. Amazing food. Got to see my good friend (and fellow nicnkamee) E. Chris got to show off his latest gadget, and the kids got to tell us all about the latest Shrek movie. Also, the food was amazing. Did I already say that?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHfQM55gtJwvj79EnZSulpK5FpnNTn1qsWANZ43Jq_ZT2YaKrFtc4DQYVni82624DB6zxz5RyufajVbzerwL6vLZE9HiPIzF_83mW7Bb9KXvU0LQGI7Arrn3KDBTmT2FhGRJb6DhXRFQ8/s1600/IMG_1056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHfQM55gtJwvj79EnZSulpK5FpnNTn1qsWANZ43Jq_ZT2YaKrFtc4DQYVni82624DB6zxz5RyufajVbzerwL6vLZE9HiPIzF_83mW7Bb9KXvU0LQGI7Arrn3KDBTmT2FhGRJb6DhXRFQ8/s320/IMG_1056.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEish7qO8sSnalCqcc5DUviOfnT-Wh5l0AlOGBAIW7zfMxSSEu_6OL51rc2YQjJubFdvewH0Ps_J1PfWo2C959V2Qty7q19SNxaVVZP9vAEyd8Le53aHSJ5ums65iPw8aBrTUF5G2d8YW4xx/s1600/IMG_1057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEish7qO8sSnalCqcc5DUviOfnT-Wh5l0AlOGBAIW7zfMxSSEu_6OL51rc2YQjJubFdvewH0Ps_J1PfWo2C959V2Qty7q19SNxaVVZP9vAEyd8Le53aHSJ5ums65iPw8aBrTUF5G2d8YW4xx/s320/IMG_1057.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Yum!</div><br />
So what have I learned from this experience? Without descending too far into cliche, that's more than I can possibly fit into this space (and I don't even know if I can actually describe it all anyway). Maybe that's best discussed over time, over beers, over a campfire, over roasted javelina at Canyon Ranch... who can say? I do know that I did learn something from my list: you can spend eight months in a place, trying to be a resident instead of a tourist, and at the end of it two things are evident: first, you will always have a little bit of tourist in you; and second, you can live here for years and still discover, almost daily, little (or big) things about this city that surprise and - just maybe - delight you.<br />
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Melbourne: it's been a privilege. I already weep bitter tears over the thought of having to drink Starbucks for the foreseeable future.<br />
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PS. Contrary to popular belief, I am NOT obsessed with food (as the photos above might seem to indicate). Just coffee. That is all.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-91313902728996353972010-06-11T15:04:00.002+10:002010-06-11T15:04:57.670+10:00Told Ya!Just in case anyone didn't believe my previous post about obedient Melbourne doggies waiting outside for their owners...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM9j01Ig6rplrN8cLK5Jenh0jawFlSSwT0Wx7xrbuhlX4DtPxDz0jbcXWkBd5KnOWiix4XSV1dzqSG0Xqu9sqLcw4Z0bZPU0-c30kx7I1sFGnRdbDh7DiqogsHCK7Aza6TEuWrQ_2rGZE/s1600/IMG_0255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM9j01Ig6rplrN8cLK5Jenh0jawFlSSwT0Wx7xrbuhlX4DtPxDz0jbcXWkBd5KnOWiix4XSV1dzqSG0Xqu9sqLcw4Z0bZPU0-c30kx7I1sFGnRdbDh7DiqogsHCK7Aza6TEuWrQ_2rGZE/s320/IMG_0255.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Ha!EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-77649006927455725182010-06-11T14:32:00.004+10:002010-06-11T14:37:33.496+10:00Let Them Eat Cake (etc.)Let's talk about stress, baby.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCxuFm85baLEowayXtV6IQp_laxmMq0dTQ8OnUyzAnbE6Nv75bM1vGq56BNFUlvWcCJgg5X98jdnZ-DNmsT26StScyCebzTYOfBFtXebc2P017VJcc4meNPs3j7Wqy2dJXkdhvBb4QOz5/s1600/panic+button.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCxuFm85baLEowayXtV6IQp_laxmMq0dTQ8OnUyzAnbE6Nv75bM1vGq56BNFUlvWcCJgg5X98jdnZ-DNmsT26StScyCebzTYOfBFtXebc2P017VJcc4meNPs3j7Wqy2dJXkdhvBb4QOz5/s320/panic+button.jpg" /></a></div><br />
People have different reactions to stress. Some people eat. Some read insipid women's magazines (BTW, do they really have to be filed under "women's interest" when everyone knows they end up as bathroom reading material for men? Discuss!). Some exercise obsessively. Some troll the internet for vacuous articles about celebrity weight-loss secrets. Some nap. Some shop (or fake-shop by visiting stores over and over again, bitterly, without actually buying anything). Some drink frightening quantities of Cabernet Sauvignon. Some burst into tears in the middle of a crowded noontime city bustle. Some glare at smokers until they toss their cigarettes on the ground and scurry away in shame. Some take craploads of Valium. While I can't claim to be innocent of many of these particular vices, I also can't blame stress for them (let's face it: these are just regular daily activities for me).<br />
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When I'm stressed, I bake.<br />
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That's my dirty little secret. And it turns out that emotional baking can actually lead to stress - especially if one consumes the end product of said baking frenzy in one evening/for breakfast/while on the phone to one's nutritionist. See above re. obsessive exercising.<br />
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I try not to make the same thing twice, but (unfortunately for my non-chocolate-loving husband) I'm a sucker for all things chocolate. There have definitely been encores of certain brownies and cupcakes. My most recent endeavor is a repeat: yes, I'm talking about chocolate cake. Doesn't need frosting. Just needs to get in my belly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLujVrgbd27XJK714jvmje4Da6kApXyHxxxs_aAQWow91r9N5U7KCRHKhP_SqLdXTEzxAQVobgjVTxYxBFey-AHTvKUQ9lBqbCRxLNgrqCmkTJRYSM7lueQ2DK9y3koylF95ttwKmvFt-n/s1600/IMG_0269.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLujVrgbd27XJK714jvmje4Da6kApXyHxxxs_aAQWow91r9N5U7KCRHKhP_SqLdXTEzxAQVobgjVTxYxBFey-AHTvKUQ9lBqbCRxLNgrqCmkTJRYSM7lueQ2DK9y3koylF95ttwKmvFt-n/s320/IMG_0269.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The picture doesn't really do it justice, but who the hell cares?<br />
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I think my next project will be <a href="http://goop.com/newsletter/38/en/">chocolate chip cherry cookies</a>. Why? Two reasons: (1) I need some serious stress relief right now (screw yoga); and (2) um... look at them. <br />
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Why do I need stress relief? Stay tuned: I'm still trying to figure out how to make it funny enough to post here.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-69038460424409035142010-05-31T14:48:00.005+10:002010-05-31T23:15:58.149+10:00Off Leash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUmeavT5Jq-4wYrUieizrhupRqqevwY3MUBvHP3bxZInwe5XDij38sPfsu6IOJCp-7ALvdnKI1ZBG1t6th2GXXPYmQBh4uQuxMPpYc19mhWQUpHkIsfLKICMiPs1GMPP4HH3yMLs1vqKk/s1600/IMG_4540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUmeavT5Jq-4wYrUieizrhupRqqevwY3MUBvHP3bxZInwe5XDij38sPfsu6IOJCp-7ALvdnKI1ZBG1t6th2GXXPYmQBh4uQuxMPpYc19mhWQUpHkIsfLKICMiPs1GMPP4HH3yMLs1vqKk/s320/IMG_4540.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Gratuitous Cody/Layla photo</div><br />
Dogs have been on my mind a lot lately. When we first learned that Chris' job would send him to Australia for 8 months, I knew, I just knew, that we couldn't bring Layla and Cody with us. For one thing, the Australian quarantine period is six months. For another thing, it is ridiculously expensive to get one dog overseas, let alone two. So it was with a very heavy heart that I shipped Layla to my parents in Boston and drove Cody down to Denver to live with her new temporary family (Amy, Adam, Diesel, and assorted felines - who were probably not fully prepared for "The Full Cody", and for that I say, bless you for what you've done to help us out). I might have shed a tear or two. I tried not to dwell on them too much, because it made me sad.<br />
<br />
Then, when I got to Melbourne, I saw dogs everywhere! Trotting down Chapel Street, romping with children in Victoria Gardens, guarding baby carriages, lazing next to their owners' chairs at outdoor cafe tables... it was like a kind of torture. A very adorable torture. I have tried to resist the smiling doggy faces - I can't really bear to pet them. Chris takes the opposite approach and fondles every dog that crosses his path (it's getting a little disturbing, actually). Basically, it's been difficult to avoid them. If something's on your mind, then you tend to see it all the time. Like when I bought a Jeep a few years back (the Cherokee, NOT the Grand Cherokee, thank you very much), I suddenly started noticing how many Jeeps there were in Boulder. Same thing, only furrier.<br />
<br />
So, despite my best efforts, since we found out that we're moving to Singapore, I've been forced to think about our own dog situation: like, how are we going to get them to Singapore? Is it too expensive? Would it be cruel to make them travel that distance? Would their quality of life be better with us in Singapore or with friends/family in the states? These are tough questions that I've struggled with. I feel a little selfish in admitting that, yes, I want them to come with us - whatever it takes. So we've started that process. <br />
<br />
Although not quite as stringent as Australia's, Singapore's quarantine rules are still pretty strict - it's an island, after all. I've been doing a ton of research on import rules, figuring out the timing of getting the dogs vaccinated and blood-tested, scoping out pet-moving companies, etc. There's a lot of red tape involved. Picture Lady Gaga in the "Telephone" video - only except for yellow police tape, it's red. And instead of her being naked and strategically bandaged with said tape, writhing around sexily in a jail cell, picture me wearing pajamas and screaming silently at the computer while trying to Skype at 1am Melbourne time with unhelpful and cranky Masshole veterinarians. OK, maybe that analogy doesn't work. But it's the same general experience: profoundly weird, kind of demented, and mostly just confusing.<br />
<br />
One thing I quickly learned about Singapore is that it is not the most dog-friendly city. Although there are many parks and beaches, they don't all allow dogs, and they all require dogs to be leashed (there are dog parks around, but they seem few and far between). Most cabs will not allow dogs, so you have to either (1) have a car; (2) walk everywhere; or (3) hire a special "pet taxi" to deliver you and your dog to your destination (yes, they have pet taxis). Not only that, but certain breeds have to be muzzled when they're out in public, even if they are on a leash. Then there's the cobras. Shudder. Anyway, bottom line: leashes will be mandatory about 99% of the time for Cody and Layla. The good news is that there is a beach where they can play in the water (that's the rumor, anyway). They (read: Cody) should like that.<br />
<br />
The funny thing about all this leash business (and btw, are leashes really a metaphor here for a lack of freedom or feeling somehow prevented from doing what you actually want? Discuss!) is that here in Australia, leashes don't really seem to exist. I mean, I've seen them in pet stores, but it's actually pretty rare here to see a dog actually attached to a leash. Those touching scenes I described earlier? All those dogs were off-leash. As in, trotting down the sidewalk of a busy street with no leash. And sometimes, apparently, with no owner. I'll see a dog wandering aimlessly and look around for its owner: nowhere to be found. Then a block later someone (the owner?) will stop and look back to make sure the dog is still following. Or there will be a dog waiting patiently just outside a 7-Eleven, staring intently inside, so close to the entrance that the automatic doors don't close. It was a little strange at first, but now I'm used to it. It's extremely entertaining to see a Pomeranian and a Pitbull wandering down a sidewalk, the smaller dog taking about 8 steps to match the bigger one, both following some phantom master like lost baby ducks. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure Cody would never sit still (or follow) for that long. She'd either be off playing in traffic or pop in to the local butcher shop (yes, they allow dogs in some of the markets). Since Layla is perfect, I'm sure she'd do just fine.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping we can get a house/apartment with a yard in Singapore (minus the cobras). If not, i think the pet taxis are gonna be making a lot of money off us. Maybe we should just start our own pet taxi/portable dog park business. I need a business model, stat.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-82034909292897642912010-05-21T17:28:00.001+10:002010-05-21T21:32:23.839+10:00On Pins and Needles, Part IIWe've been waiting for MONTHS to find out where Chris would be placed for his third rotation. On pins and needles, if you will. First, we thought it might be Denmark. Then it was Singapore. Then it was Denmark again. Then, Australia. Then Tokyo. And that's just in the space of one day!<br />
<br />
Well, the verdict is in. And the lucky city that will be hosting us for the next 8+ months is...<br />
<br />
Singapore. We're excited to live in a place that's pretty different from anything we're used to. It's all part of having crazy fun adventures, right? Here are some photos i snagged from the interwebs:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkWaOmWfUkOTqfBpDq8b0ny7kQbCMKIA8jqxNipyuiIdhL7C7TdfP8oi-URi-I0iQGDAXJyfr8m14iYPF-s3Yz4XixD6MHUXA9ua5BoFxVrjHkpO3Yjagz1q5C7DlR-YR-_sG0G_IEYlt/s1600/Skyline" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkWaOmWfUkOTqfBpDq8b0ny7kQbCMKIA8jqxNipyuiIdhL7C7TdfP8oi-URi-I0iQGDAXJyfr8m14iYPF-s3Yz4XixD6MHUXA9ua5BoFxVrjHkpO3Yjagz1q5C7DlR-YR-_sG0G_IEYlt/s320/Skyline" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYHhvyKr0ZoKkwWxlDFVuDd1EH0tNfc4WjyKiJ2tf-_-dgoFxwaFcNLt0NAtxT0EM4x59TS9GPepv9HnhtYxBFPJEV2SuTgH5-o2WzAhmlpTaH5cACS2RA0TtUr0x4QYIWuOycw2NAVn6/s1600/Singapore_map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYHhvyKr0ZoKkwWxlDFVuDd1EH0tNfc4WjyKiJ2tf-_-dgoFxwaFcNLt0NAtxT0EM4x59TS9GPepv9HnhtYxBFPJEV2SuTgH5-o2WzAhmlpTaH5cACS2RA0TtUr0x4QYIWuOycw2NAVn6/s320/Singapore_map.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Now, I know a total of five things about Singapore:<br />
<br />
1. It is an island nation/city bordering Malaysia.<br />
2. The weather is extremely hot.<br />
3. It is home to the Equatorial Black Spitting Cobra, which resides in the forested areas (?) of Singapore.<br />
3a. We will not be living in the forested areas of Singapore.<br />
4. Singapore Airlines is supposed to be awesome. <br />
5. Vestas has an office there.<br />
<br />
A little help, people? Can anyone give me some more firsthand info about our wonderful new home? As an incentive, I'm proposing a contest. Whoever submits the best (a.k.a. most useful/fascinating) bit of Singapore intel will receive something of his/her choice knitted by me. Because, really, what's the point of wearing knitwear in a place that never dips below 90 degrees? Contest ends June 15. Hurry!EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-18945218783674894122010-05-21T17:10:00.000+10:002010-05-21T17:10:10.959+10:00On Pins and Needles, Part IIt's that time of year, folks. <br />
<br />
Nope, I'm not talking about May sweeps. I'm talking about two (slightly less) significant events: (1) learning (finally!) the location of Chris' next rotation and (2) the inevitable annual disintegration of my right tibia (a.k.a. stress fracture).<br />
<br />
It all started innocently enough. I convinced Chris that, instead of just going to the gym and working out with no real purpose other than to burn off the excessive calories we consume whenever I have one of my emotional baking episodes, we should both train for a half marathon. That way, we could eat whatever we wanted (including brownies made with two entire sticks of butter) and still stay in shape (more or less). Plus, we'd have a GOAL. Very important, these things.<br />
<br />
Well, training went well for the first month or so. Then, when i started hitting the 8-mile mark on long runs, I felt that old familiar feeling - a really annoying and persistent twinge in my right shin bone. And all I could think was "Nooooooo!" (Just like on <i>Lost</i>, when Jack looks out at the ocean after losing three of his beloved fellow castaways and weeps in frustration at the pointlessness of death, life, and the end of the series. Curse you, <i>Lost</i> producers! Curse you! What am I going to DO with myself after this Sunday?) <br />
<br />
Anyway, the last time this stress fracture thingy happened, I was in the middle of training for the Boston Marathon. Treatment involved hours of physical therapy, pointless bone scans, hours in the pool with a floatie around my waist "running" in the water and looking like an idiot, and stupid conversations with stupid doctors who really didn't know anything (for which I paid a $50 copay per visit, by the way), and a bone stimulator. That's right. A bone stimulator. And at the end, when I'd finished the marathon without any pain, I thought, that's it. I'm healed! I ran 26.2 miles without pain in my right shin! Granted, I won't be able to stand up from a seated position unassisted for weeks, but that's normal!<br />
<br />
Guess I wasn't healed after all. Oh well. The good news is, after waffling for months about going to the doctor to get it looked at, I finally sucked it up and went last week and got a diagnosis. This week I started going to PT. And guess what they did? The first day, they sucked me in by just doing a little massage and whatnot. The second session - well, in the immortal words of Naughty by Nature, "that's not that simple." Check it out:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVNOvApcCHQY0NquoB5WQRvvpLkp9kkhni6_JWUqRlIWM6vYbpxi6cZ34tI7ljlTL8r0r6MEXZU1qDIbQ-6xhkRFwnrByWtz_qe4BHXppv-nnX3H_8OzEm0Ng97cqOnktJqv5_M2xROAI/s1600/IMG_0247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxVNOvApcCHQY0NquoB5WQRvvpLkp9kkhni6_JWUqRlIWM6vYbpxi6cZ34tI7ljlTL8r0r6MEXZU1qDIbQ-6xhkRFwnrByWtz_qe4BHXppv-nnX3H_8OzEm0Ng97cqOnktJqv5_M2xROAI/s320/IMG_0247.jpg" /></a></div><br />
They stuck pins in me! I have officially been acupunctured. Pretty cool. I have no idea if it's going to work, but it sure looked impressive (and kinda hurt). I'll keep you posted.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-21386605516605866892010-05-10T01:14:00.001+10:002010-05-10T01:18:08.036+10:00Temptation, Thy Name Is Apple<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a1ySsHlYGJPjfXss4BA4CFTNow7NFjpNaSeMb21gXWBAPUijRzyW2on2xuynvgI6j44hroeDOvhtXCKuPt9Tjr1lmT_qAj5WgNqOHoN6F2qpOnsvB1dhVKgeNyVQC6J-J5yK-zBQRQXo/s1600/IMG_0969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a1ySsHlYGJPjfXss4BA4CFTNow7NFjpNaSeMb21gXWBAPUijRzyW2on2xuynvgI6j44hroeDOvhtXCKuPt9Tjr1lmT_qAj5WgNqOHoN6F2qpOnsvB1dhVKgeNyVQC6J-J5yK-zBQRQXo/s320/IMG_0969.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This is really a story about two accidental city slickers going apple-picking. However, the following is an actual conversation that occurred during the car ride on the way to the "farm" in the "country." Seemed to fit the theme.<br />
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A: I want a new iPhone. And an iPad. And a MacBook Pro.<br />
<br />
B: I'm pretty sure you don't actually need any of those things.<br />
<br />
(Lengthy, heated debate ensues.)<br />
<br />
A: ... So that's why I'm right.<br />
<br />
B: What about when they all become obsolete in July and you end up as nothing but another early adopter? I know that's a dirty word to your kind.<br />
<br />
(Silence.)<br />
<br />
A: Whatever, I'm getting them.<br />
<br />
Aaaaaaand... scene.<br />
<br />
Back to the original story... <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOg2D3MyjXaK-jUexZBFtl5iVqKKL00UYHvRmAqBuztraveN_vukY8TsVebag0Pq92FRp79IJDvmHzpFiBnPkGvnR9aYMu3N4bevS6NFnTfkhN9iVvfN9WyvPbsXxGkh8V5-smJwltEBBp/s1600/IMG_0961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOg2D3MyjXaK-jUexZBFtl5iVqKKL00UYHvRmAqBuztraveN_vukY8TsVebag0Pq92FRp79IJDvmHzpFiBnPkGvnR9aYMu3N4bevS6NFnTfkhN9iVvfN9WyvPbsXxGkh8V5-smJwltEBBp/s320/IMG_0961.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It's autumn here. Chris and I were about to unpack our sweaters, make some hot chocolate, wear scarves for other than pretentious fashion reasons, and go watch a Pats or CU game (or, in his case, an unholy, detestable Broncos game). We got through the first three things OK, then remembered that football was out and that the Sox season had just started and... well, it kinda went downhill from there. Not cool with the whole opposite-seasons thing, people. I don't care how awesomely delicious it is to watch dozens of sweaty men in short-shorts chase each other around a big field in a seemingly random fashion (and believe me, Aussie Rules Football IS fun) - it simply can't compete with a New England autumn. I've got a fever, and the only cure is...<br />
<br />
MORE...<br />
<br />
APPLES!<br />
<br />
Ha, I bet you thought I was gonna say cowbell. <br />
<br />
Since it's officially fall here, and since we were both feeling a little homesick for fall things (no small feat when all your Northern-Hemisphere friends are getting psyched for summer), I decided that what we absolutely NEEDED to do was go pick apples. At an actual orchard. They taste so much better than the store-bought kind, or even the Prahran-Market kind. Or so I tried to convince Chris. He was very skeptical. I got him to relent by promising to make him a pie. Surely there's a joke in there somewhere about how easily men are swayed by the promise of food...<br />
<br />
We don't have a car (oh, how I miss my wonderful, shiny Jeep). So we had to rent a car to get out of the city. Then we had to go to McDonald's (a McDonald's trip is a tacitly understood prerequisite for every road trip involving Person A (referenced above)). But my McDonald's hatred is a subject for another day. <br />
<br />
Without further ado, we drove to the orchard. We acquired some buckets. We learned the difference between Pink Lady and Granny Smith (hint: one's green). And then we skipped down the rows of stunted-looking trees, giggling like children, picking apples, taking one bite, throwing the once-bitten apple in the dirt because the first bite is always the best, then picking another apple and repeating the process over and over in a glorious orgy of wasteful consumption and nostalgic fervor and... oh, no. That was just me. Chris stood there with his bucket and looked at me like I was insane and asked, "How do I pick these things?"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJpPjX03yo7iVAsM1GwMHnMIQUr2RbRt1aQNSN2UCIZeREo3-lPI_GPy8pveOa1u4iHbDAqO_IFXkIrMRaCW1QTGWwDPADLKqOtqNgL_I3bMb37ZLfiWq1DpWyNtm4lCZrsEMoxSb44YX/s1600/IMG_0962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJpPjX03yo7iVAsM1GwMHnMIQUr2RbRt1aQNSN2UCIZeREo3-lPI_GPy8pveOa1u4iHbDAqO_IFXkIrMRaCW1QTGWwDPADLKqOtqNgL_I3bMb37ZLfiWq1DpWyNtm4lCZrsEMoxSb44YX/s320/IMG_0962.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Gus was a quick study. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C8WSKjG50YUzEEkCjM2VJmEe84rikEjqZ_lRJnNXZnbE-K3p-igME9GKrkvLAT235DsXiwqcM5w9Y7hH5Eu3XDFV0Q5UyNCh8z1aA06T5B3rFcVoCQAZyie315NLZGiBmT0MKA0bYthT/s1600/IMG_0972.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C8WSKjG50YUzEEkCjM2VJmEe84rikEjqZ_lRJnNXZnbE-K3p-igME9GKrkvLAT235DsXiwqcM5w9Y7hH5Eu3XDFV0Q5UyNCh8z1aA06T5B3rFcVoCQAZyie315NLZGiBmT0MKA0bYthT/s320/IMG_0972.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Yep, we went to Payne's Orchard.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_N7V-cGNm16NCxklGmoMPHOTe34YvUkZP7sJ_9SohcmOo1vyCGLNPQRFVZSDAkofqWEnoGiCFHOL9EZnQF4bgB14ktMmhWcxnEAalfq2ftxB-rEM8SY85sRy43FDKBHmB5XQs5Qg2Uk2O/s1600/IMG_0989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_N7V-cGNm16NCxklGmoMPHOTe34YvUkZP7sJ_9SohcmOo1vyCGLNPQRFVZSDAkofqWEnoGiCFHOL9EZnQF4bgB14ktMmhWcxnEAalfq2ftxB-rEM8SY85sRy43FDKBHmB5XQs5Qg2Uk2O/s320/IMG_0989.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">High on apples.</div><br />
So we picked. It took a lot less time to fill up two buckets than I remembered from my sepia-tinted childhood days. We were done in no time at all, and I have to admit I was a little sad about it. To make up for it, we stopped at a strawberry farm on our way back and picked 2 kilos of those bad boys. That made me feel slightly better, since the strawberry picking took much longer than the apple picking. I felt that, combined, the two experiences created the perfect ratio of picking-time to end-result. All in all, it was just extremely satisfying. And a bit pricey (renting a car in Melbourne ain't cheap, kids!). And we made pie. Life was good, despite the conspicuous absence of Halloween and tailgate parties.<br />
<br />
One week later, our apple harvest has dwindled to about ten percent of its former glory (Chris has developed an almost unhealthy obsession with "the green ones"). I asked Chris if he wanted to go pick some more next weekend to replenish our precious supply. I even offered to make another pie. His response: "Hell no. Those were the world's most expensive apples."<br />
<br />
Huh. Apparently there ARE some things that men like more than food.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-89307231680686922352010-05-03T01:13:00.003+10:002010-05-03T11:42:37.395+10:00The Evil Bean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhan59dMwoJHEhtcH7d6aTyZyPQMQ-Pv98yrlfniGT2vp2uZy_KH7-CS_NatLN-2LP0zrwTyEYSGjd8fA8Q5ix0a1MK1VR9pdu9NwgfJRowgDT4TCMzoL39FNuzXam2N-R6uHFxfaaNAPGO/s1600/IMG_0234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhan59dMwoJHEhtcH7d6aTyZyPQMQ-Pv98yrlfniGT2vp2uZy_KH7-CS_NatLN-2LP0zrwTyEYSGjd8fA8Q5ix0a1MK1VR9pdu9NwgfJRowgDT4TCMzoL39FNuzXam2N-R6uHFxfaaNAPGO/s320/IMG_0234.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hooray for caffeine! As part of our homework, my creative writing teacher asked us to write a poem about - wait for it - coffee. Knowing a fair bit about the subject of expensive espresso, I had a bunch of ideas, and some extravagant (and, blessedly, fleeting) ideas about being the next Emily Dickinson. Here's what stuck on the paper when I threw words at it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Gleaming monster rattles</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">whistles</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">squeals.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Comfort, it soothes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Chatter clink</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">glass on china.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Drink the world</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">here's a den.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">News rustles in impatient hands.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Overheard</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">dinner plans</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">last week's meeting</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">first dates</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">then, of course,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">the chairs scrape.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Foam hiss frothy peaks</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Buzz</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">electric hum</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">a hive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Sounds like quiet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">A tethered dog whines </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">outside</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">lowers his head</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">sighs.</span></div><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Erica/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List" style="font-family: inherit;"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-20342756002725835962010-04-21T19:25:00.005+10:002010-04-21T21:40:23.216+10:00Graffiti = The New Black<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoefJv2N9_o-R0etWNCfsDPWGuIFGEOyJDMyHJ89YVWQ0R8ntmGpBtOrgjtBcKMLYmuN8bmF2ebqGouDM09bY6deDc6JII-bG25jUmlF7p3TtK9TAYYZlYnIvHntBOYdEF9Raq5ShsJEL/s1600/IMG_0921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoefJv2N9_o-R0etWNCfsDPWGuIFGEOyJDMyHJ89YVWQ0R8ntmGpBtOrgjtBcKMLYmuN8bmF2ebqGouDM09bY6deDc6JII-bG25jUmlF7p3TtK9TAYYZlYnIvHntBOYdEF9Raq5ShsJEL/s320/IMG_0921.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It's official: I've been tagged. I'm now a lover of street art. I've discovered that the artists-armed-with-spray-paint around these parts are not only talented but mighty prolific. When I moved here in November, I started noticing huge, colorful (and basically indecipherable) tags on the sides of random buildings as I zoomed past in various metro trains. At first I didn't really think anything of it - I just lumped it in with the stuff I'm used to seeing in the States (mostly just ugly crap defacing rocks or buildings in shady parts of town - no real genius there). <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-h6QiOoJ4UzQTe-BqDQPOeuqnZWltNedPUjn6kUX6g-PtcHYZ4sTiCR7VeRenEnCVyhb9F6X6GvfP9uXeV-_M9YTayg2QcW5are2RxS8re0KPpJCrzUAXj-kGNo8dA1cgiHP-I7F1wm3q/s1600/IMG_0793.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-h6QiOoJ4UzQTe-BqDQPOeuqnZWltNedPUjn6kUX6g-PtcHYZ4sTiCR7VeRenEnCVyhb9F6X6GvfP9uXeV-_M9YTayg2QcW5are2RxS8re0KPpJCrzUAXj-kGNo8dA1cgiHP-I7F1wm3q/s320/IMG_0793.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But... as I slowly (ever slowly!) work at peeling back the layers of this city (starting with the hard, shiny touristy exterior and working inward towards the unattainable-but-fun-to-aspire-to Chewy Tootsie Roll Center of "local knowledge"), I'm discovering ever more interesting spectacles. Case in point: graffiti as art.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7w3IZKupgMXGYfVSxKJ1nF261jtPBxUPVsDnuaPbo8sj0Ui00bdeqN7Xe_vPXqOPZDffPRxoPrp6tprQAIdXVRmt2octoM8OhP-of9f376qLD2ydluzTNv2A_tUQoqKFxEmxc5i8URfo/s1600/IMG_0825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7w3IZKupgMXGYfVSxKJ1nF261jtPBxUPVsDnuaPbo8sj0Ui00bdeqN7Xe_vPXqOPZDffPRxoPrp6tprQAIdXVRmt2octoM8OhP-of9f376qLD2ydluzTNv2A_tUQoqKFxEmxc5i8URfo/s320/IMG_0825.jpg" /></a></div><br />
There's a not-so-underground culture of street art here. Aside from the outlying suburbs, which boast an impressive and ever-evolving number of amazing, oft-hidden graffiti zones (basically any semi-flat building surface not facing a main street), the Melbourne CBD has designated some "legal" spots for graffiti-ing. I visited two of them today. Let me say right off the bat that I know the CBD's spots fall under more of the touristy side of things than on the cool local side, but I was lazy and didn't feel like tramming it all the way to Carlton or Collingwood. Maybe next time.<br />
<br />
Long story short, after enduring the super-fun smells of piss and garbage, and getting heckled in Hosier Lane by a crazy woman who wanted me to help her dumpster-dive under the green snaggle-toothed monster (I wish I was kidding), I emerged with what may actually be some pretty decent shots. And anyway, I love the smell of spray paint in the morning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-oyJHhKr-kpXEjgMvi8n_bnO6pwQyDF485ZXCxrFLoDwYpxmqJ9z_rIS2cwJLYBKoE2123rcD-OIklrCzPIxPyTs6V0mfE6DdZVY8faAnI0r7y5V3mBPDnh1QMiHX5CxFcT6hVlXa70W/s1600/IMG_0828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-oyJHhKr-kpXEjgMvi8n_bnO6pwQyDF485ZXCxrFLoDwYpxmqJ9z_rIS2cwJLYBKoE2123rcD-OIklrCzPIxPyTs6V0mfE6DdZVY8faAnI0r7y5V3mBPDnh1QMiHX5CxFcT6hVlXa70W/s320/IMG_0828.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1SmHj87NvFORmLhCMr6ySwvK9dubrm3E41SHhP41QkOs9yDKLDGZF3bXuSM-bz3ssKIQWn_49xECHoK2Sq8xGoBE87XWwMTtwwH30TeeLcGpZvXEe5wPGgWEpTfsAxvo1ZPOW-VU7XPW/s1600/IMG_0836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1SmHj87NvFORmLhCMr6ySwvK9dubrm3E41SHhP41QkOs9yDKLDGZF3bXuSM-bz3ssKIQWn_49xECHoK2Sq8xGoBE87XWwMTtwwH30TeeLcGpZvXEe5wPGgWEpTfsAxvo1ZPOW-VU7XPW/s320/IMG_0836.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1tQAnPFkovmeiTDkOtYVplayb0hLZoVvVgOdpbCGKrNbfHa56wv3RDF9-LKz5FRJA33z3l3s_G4Q46XUo-S2Qbjq-EWeUjWDBcnxpIgMl0pIgajervYgKLP6HPLF4G9YjvvGwatacrNw/s320/IMG_0922.jpg" /></a></div>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-62117781453449534112010-04-20T21:58:00.001+10:002010-04-21T09:29:18.352+10:00How to Grieve (Australian edition)<meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Erica/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Yesterday, a shady “gangland serial killer” (their words, not mine) was murdered in a maximum-security prison near Melbourne. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The murder is big news around here. There seems to be an almost hysterical interest here in “underworld” (drugs, prostitution, organized crime, general assholery) activity. They make TV movies about it. Only problem is, because they’ve got such a small pool of actors to work with, they apparently have to poach actors from the primetime soaps. It’s got to be a little surreal to watch a guy – who, five days a week, can be seen sensitively mooning over some girl with perfect hair – knife someone in the back in a gritty crime drama. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Anyway, as Snoop would say, back to the lecture at hand. Newscasters camped out at the dead man’s father’s house, desperate for a sound bite. While a somber voiceover explained that the family was in mourning, news footage showed family members and friends entering the house bearing SEVERAL CASES OF BEER (Victoria Bitter, from the looks of it). Naturally. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The newscaster reporting the story then announced that the prison was taking extra measures with its maximum-security inmates, including giving them individual exercise sessions with their own personal guards. Although these measures seemed a bit extreme, the reporter remarked (with an admirably straight face), “there have been no murders today, so that’s something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span> EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-11205401126558751632010-04-16T13:33:00.003+10:002010-04-16T13:41:23.177+10:00How BazaarIt may come as little surprise to you that I’m a big fan of junk shops. Huge, in fact. Fortunately, Melbourne does not disappoint. There is some serious awesomeness going on in this city, not least of which comes in the form of Old Shit That’s Already Been Used. The Chapel Street Bazaar has to be my all-time favorite such place. It’s an enormous warehouse-space tucked smack in the middle of one of the trendiest streets in the city. When you walk in, your nose is assaulted by the smell of Vintage Stuff. You know the smell. And if you don’t, well, just picture walking into your grandparents’ attic (minus the odor of mouse droppings). Multiply that by a hundred and you have some idea. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOojjT7dTMxZST8eevmn6kue7UETBwOUhCpnHBETTv4QMUnko6888Xder9KaJZpg-J3JycSEkL-WvBTerkt2ix1cruYFtSdhn1HbZSH87eiIugKyw7I_dEjniTNJtfvOo9BaZ1Xj0G3Fxe/s1600/IMG_0072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOojjT7dTMxZST8eevmn6kue7UETBwOUhCpnHBETTv4QMUnko6888Xder9KaJZpg-J3JycSEkL-WvBTerkt2ix1cruYFtSdhn1HbZSH87eiIugKyw7I_dEjniTNJtfvOo9BaZ1Xj0G3Fxe/s320/IMG_0072.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">We are legion</div><br />
And we’re talking a vast selection. It’s divided into sections, but not helpfully so. Instead of, say, an area for crazy old lady jewelry, another for records, another for vintage toys, the entire shop is divided into individual “stalls”, each of which is rented out by someone with his or her own private collection of random stuff to sell. So you might have a selection of bottle openers and jackknives perched next to a stack of rainbow-colored melamine teacups, or a pair of kangaroo salt-and-pepper shakers jockeying for position beside an army of Smurfs. Plus a few vintage cameras on the side. And if you want a cigarette lighter from the Nixon administration, you can find it here. Basically, it’s a whole neighborhood of Grandma’s attics all housed in a huge maze under one roof.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpg4v56QNHllBsoUno-j16YJvItVVsIt_NHHWoBdNxBj53dFABXssFFWeYzgTtCldJxd9RVxCBiL7y_nzboLfQfUVqFjpBhtoOCjUwZihU25o2qUXUdWcEFATQjNmdCkCKki6zENgMKwQ/s1600/IMG_0077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpg4v56QNHllBsoUno-j16YJvItVVsIt_NHHWoBdNxBj53dFABXssFFWeYzgTtCldJxd9RVxCBiL7y_nzboLfQfUVqFjpBhtoOCjUwZihU25o2qUXUdWcEFATQjNmdCkCKki6zENgMKwQ/s320/IMG_0077.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Typewriter love</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvn5oH6Iw150EqTvBkri9WJjnz09dHgYr34r6GihMfwLoWLEU_qpoEDn1lAHCIhLW1Enu9dtOPyNv13vTYkM6dOpxrolQ0H0i2dzSwfXoyu3SfAVsdLxpLoJpOvDOM5d3j_VuUs1gQJLl/s1600/IMG_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvn5oH6Iw150EqTvBkri9WJjnz09dHgYr34r6GihMfwLoWLEU_qpoEDn1lAHCIhLW1Enu9dtOPyNv13vTYkM6dOpxrolQ0H0i2dzSwfXoyu3SfAVsdLxpLoJpOvDOM5d3j_VuUs1gQJLl/s320/IMG_0075.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Going somewhere?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WGFgdcR7LcoZbwIqWDX2IPuWiL1ExULbUOkuFBInxpBsHuMkHhGorypyeXjuPHYA0O5QSM695RAMRVIc8Yppp4IRZ4Lw38-U7awjKO6Hwph4aqOokDNoTqMA0LjCmuoLrzTVjuaaiQVT/s1600/IMG_0078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WGFgdcR7LcoZbwIqWDX2IPuWiL1ExULbUOkuFBInxpBsHuMkHhGorypyeXjuPHYA0O5QSM695RAMRVIc8Yppp4IRZ4Lw38-U7awjKO6Hwph4aqOokDNoTqMA0LjCmuoLrzTVjuaaiQVT/s320/IMG_0078.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Crazy old lady jewelry</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The only downside that I can see to this arrangement is that finding something that you want to actually buy (as opposed to just trying on, which can result in excessive squealing and picture-taking, which has only gotten me kicked out once) requires an almost photographic memory: it’s virtually impossible to re-find something once you’ve moved on to stare at another crazy random thing. I once discovered a fabulous cocktail ring that I was apparently desperate to own (it had a giant picture of Elvis on it, c’mon), only to realize mere seconds later, after I’d absently wandered across the aisle to examine a collection of dog-shaped teapots, that the ring was gone. Not bought by someone else, just gone. It had disappeared into the Black Hole of Lost Things, swallowed up by the Bazaar. It was clearly punishing me for not purchasing it immediately. I searched for it for about half an hour before I gave up. So I adopted the philosophy that I often adopt when shopping (and which usually ends up saving me money): I decided that if the universe wanted me to have Elvis on my finger, it would let me find it again on another trip.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqS4yQQ_JHi2_AKlctFroAntQP7vZLtFS-2g2OYg2okOg_dbSnpb09ZRiANvFR2rpLHsnTwSBNvuw5VnBvkGW5FRUfPll2aRmgNLB9xkrUUM6YL1mlzvwpESgZN9dfb0gReW2AygBnalK/s1600/IMG_0086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqS4yQQ_JHi2_AKlctFroAntQP7vZLtFS-2g2OYg2okOg_dbSnpb09ZRiANvFR2rpLHsnTwSBNvuw5VnBvkGW5FRUfPll2aRmgNLB9xkrUUM6YL1mlzvwpESgZN9dfb0gReW2AygBnalK/s320/IMG_0086.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Doggy sugar bowl... I think</div><br />
Still haven’t found that damn ring again, yet.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-61745706881395713192010-04-12T23:52:00.000+10:002010-04-13T00:03:46.403+10:00Love Your Trams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FQ0PXb815H0gjZGHWnhdaB6o7K201QwvHV7BWWCEbgk7LHWYYnZabbtHpK3TTvvrIS_sl8ssTuF7S3-Xb8isNOIpB-IHKstkhw5rKGneBNYMkBMrSo5jsAXR05jibb9RwAYdos_4iEcG/s1600/IMG_0644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FQ0PXb815H0gjZGHWnhdaB6o7K201QwvHV7BWWCEbgk7LHWYYnZabbtHpK3TTvvrIS_sl8ssTuF7S3-Xb8isNOIpB-IHKstkhw5rKGneBNYMkBMrSo5jsAXR05jibb9RwAYdos_4iEcG/s320/IMG_0644.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This weekend I dragged Chris to the tram museum. I know that sounds about as much fun as a trip to the dentist, but wait. It was, in fact, awesome. Picture this: it's in the middle of nowhere by Melbourne standards (aka Hawthorn); it's (ironically) difficult to get to by tram; it's only open once a month for a few hours; it's in a big, drafty warehouse; and it contains nothing but discarded relics of a much-maligned public transportation system. What's not to love?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The reason for this trip was ostensibly so that I could take some photos of these dinosaurs (I'm on kind of a photography kick these days), but really, I just wanted to ring the bells and sit in the drivers' seats and play with the hand brake. No, that's not dirty. And because Chris is such a devoted husband he came along to ensure my safety in the wilds of suburban Melbourne. Also, I think he secretly wanted to ring the bells and play with the hand brake (possibly in a dirty way).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54kWYp4AmNz0Jq4Ruzb9vlY92JWQFQaCIyCV_fhQVyfXDP9aA_3XBodx8FKLL5T8AvsBLO-TaU-IvxjdUIvpRNQR_AdrDqaL4IgeqSYWSyeetehY51MaC1892oBRsj-vOvvExs7JgtGYz/s1600/IMG_0642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54kWYp4AmNz0Jq4Ruzb9vlY92JWQFQaCIyCV_fhQVyfXDP9aA_3XBodx8FKLL5T8AvsBLO-TaU-IvxjdUIvpRNQR_AdrDqaL4IgeqSYWSyeetehY51MaC1892oBRsj-vOvvExs7JgtGYz/s320/IMG_0642.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">My devoted husband waiting for the tram to take us to the trams. </div><br />
(Our friend Kristina wisely escaped this madness, only to find herself staring at paintings in a nearby museum and then, overcome with fright at the NGV's scary glass ramp/staircase of doom, promptly (and sensibly) returned to her hotel to pass out in what can only be described as an art coma. So although she missed out on the tram-a-palooza, at least I was able to get a good paragraph out of her anyway. Thanks, K-WOW.)<br />
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When we got to the tram museum, we made an absolutely (non-)shocking discovery: all of the museum volunteers were octogenarians! I know, right? (Non-)shocker! I asked the gentleman at the front desk where I should pay (a gold coin was the suggested price of admission). He replied with a stern scowl, "Young lady, I'm not too sure if we're planning on opening for any additional days this month. We're usually open only one day a month in the winter." Huh. Well, we left a couple of dollars on his desk (which he accepted with a rather surprised expression) and headed into the tram hall, where no fewer than three additional old men were eagerly (desperately?) waiting to ask if we had any questions about trams.*<br />
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What an amazing place! A huge, echo-y chamber, kind of like an airplane hangar, full of trams sitting perched on temporary tracks, one behind the other. Arranged in rows like dominoes. It was kind of like going to the Children's Museum in Boston: everything's your size; there are lots of bright colors; you can play with all the moving parts; and nobody cares if you run around screaming your fool head off. Chris immediately disappeared. A few minutes later I heard a tram bell ringing merrily near the back of the building and knew he would be pleasantly occupied for quite some time.<br />
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I was sitting in the driver's seat of a jolly green and yellow beast from the 1920s, fiddling with the hand brake (it looks like a steering wheel but makes an awesomely annoying loud clicking noise) when I heard a dour voice behind me: "Did you know that Melbourne's first female tram operator died a few weeks ago?"<br />
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I turned slowly and realized that the Dreaded Thing had happened: one of the ancient volunteers had sidled up and was eagerly waiting to Dispense Tram Knowledge to me. He was practically bursting with excitement. I realized then that there was probably a good reason that the museum was only open one day a month.<br />
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About 20 minutes later, after learning about how Australian women had protested their lack of equality in the tram-operating arena by gathering in the streets of Melbourne and complaining loudly, and how they had finally won the right to drive trams ("until one of them has an accident - then it's back to the kitchen where they belong!"), I politely escaped by jumping from one tram to another, Indiana-Jones-style, scurrying down a side row, and looking busy by taking what ended up being about 500 photos.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQfkJTld3eigeZ1zzGIBRK9ynLUt9lF94eofRw9lVJ19oMOX3Z2jjF7M9sV3AF_ZQSeSAaDq8PvumGzktRgGieFAWuhXjkJWPc-YufDr2QBU1r_jkk35spmhFvxYNNgNY2NDNYBlSGl9g/s1600/IMG_0682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQfkJTld3eigeZ1zzGIBRK9ynLUt9lF94eofRw9lVJ19oMOX3Z2jjF7M9sV3AF_ZQSeSAaDq8PvumGzktRgGieFAWuhXjkJWPc-YufDr2QBU1r_jkk35spmhFvxYNNgNY2NDNYBlSGl9g/s320/IMG_0682.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The aisle-maze, my savior.</div><br />
I spent a significant amount of time lying on my back, staring up at one particular tram's smiling face, and playing with the different features on the camera. Is this how it feels to be Herb Ritts?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9jPN8DyY_PzkZorJ7H1RG5b5yaLJK_eSRH0Rnno2-oUPd6qJWA08l2wsliWwfspUTF5dGQV0Q93MFNL3OXlIpEE2gjKdONzwuQMU9I52QJgzzY7RoEguTn8Ng8-aSDX1C__rEUIBHm6C/s1600/IMG_0744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9jPN8DyY_PzkZorJ7H1RG5b5yaLJK_eSRH0Rnno2-oUPd6qJWA08l2wsliWwfspUTF5dGQV0Q93MFNL3OXlIpEE2gjKdONzwuQMU9I52QJgzzY7RoEguTn8Ng8-aSDX1C__rEUIBHm6C/s320/IMG_0744.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89H0DwZYHJ9rJsVB7ZOWvyuhNSPGrAvLiiHeRTWdd6oncNeWzE5AbQehUezmbHFX__U-afEp5eFfxGE96zNPDsMIDgdkkYWPsyQQ2RYXfnhu_QMfuI39Kok2UzwwxjQTC_JgbwBIrVEnJ/s1600/IMG_0751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89H0DwZYHJ9rJsVB7ZOWvyuhNSPGrAvLiiHeRTWdd6oncNeWzE5AbQehUezmbHFX__U-afEp5eFfxGE96zNPDsMIDgdkkYWPsyQQ2RYXfnhu_QMfuI39Kok2UzwwxjQTC_JgbwBIrVEnJ/s320/IMG_0751.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The green beasties.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHuvYQyfrQFa_txQ4Vy1sZ6ZiEQmro0QaMpCfoVjsobCZt-uD4582VtE6rhDq-IRJcg_LJ3Skg0NXgyB3VlgiA7kLsvN8fkd9-pAT6ifOaIJ3Cw5Wsg-LQeD4WMQqyUiQMpbe_RGRmTGH/s1600/IMG_0786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHuvYQyfrQFa_txQ4Vy1sZ6ZiEQmro0QaMpCfoVjsobCZt-uD4582VtE6rhDq-IRJcg_LJ3Skg0NXgyB3VlgiA7kLsvN8fkd9-pAT6ifOaIJ3Cw5Wsg-LQeD4WMQqyUiQMpbe_RGRmTGH/s320/IMG_0786.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Alas, all good things must come to an end. We wound up our visit with a friendly hello to yet another elderly gentleman who was lovingly polishing the handrails of No. 431, St. Kilda Beach. All in all, a very satisfying day.<br />
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*NB: all of the volunteers at the tram museum were very friendly and knowledgeable; any negativity implied by the author is for humorous purposes only. The author sincerely appreciates their graciousness, hard work, and dedication to the preservation of history.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-85616115937712178832010-04-09T17:36:00.000+10:002010-04-10T00:17:22.027+10:00Mamasita!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFErmL7Ui029buAUwFDNUq6h30LY_uq1O8qk0MBbrD18eqi7VKGnjFQRY_HckK5xvnVST4WhcUtS1VAff1XAtA7IdqWsoeCSg0X4iY519Y1jA8SVMEAhwlxYaHh_LoBPi-_BDnBHM-vUd/s1600/IMG_0126.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFErmL7Ui029buAUwFDNUq6h30LY_uq1O8qk0MBbrD18eqi7VKGnjFQRY_HckK5xvnVST4WhcUtS1VAff1XAtA7IdqWsoeCSg0X4iY519Y1jA8SVMEAhwlxYaHh_LoBPi-_BDnBHM-vUd/s320/IMG_0126.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458043190708672178" border="0" /></a>There's very little decent Mexican food in Australia. Now, you may think this is a strong statement, but consider this: only about 3,000 Mexicans even live here. In my opinion, this is nothing short of a tragedy. I never realized how much I love Mexican food until it was rudely snatched away from me over the course of one 14-hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Melbourne.<br /><br />Well. After months of searching, lots of making-stuff-from-scratch-with-questionable-results, some fruitless searches for basic things like cornmeal and black beans, and throwing up my hands in disgust over sweet spaghetti sauce masquerading as salsa, I found THE PLACE. Mamacita, a tiny upstairs restaurant on Collins Street in the CBD. You walk in an unassuming doorway, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into pure sweet deliciousness. My friend Erin and I went there today for lunch. We were so excited to find amazing Mexican food that we promptly got wasted on micheladas and inhaled some amazing tacos. We also destroyed a huge basket of homemade chips and salsa (why do Australians and New Zealanders like sugar in their salsa? I will never understand this). They have soft tacos. They have quesadillas with "Mexican truffles." They have ceviche. They have tamales. They have Don Julio. Y.U.M. So giddy with delight were we that we bared our souls to the bartenders. Well, not really. But we had a really interesting conversation about state capitals and how lame they are. Seriously. It wasn't the booze.<br /><br />I will now be eating there at least once a day. Possibly more, if we can keep entertaining the bartenders, thereby earning free food and/or tequila.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-10026485960840802692010-04-09T17:12:00.001+10:002010-04-09T18:11:22.834+10:00The Telltale Heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9k8t4LFfSY2vr7VYpwYyJ-jjjE-FAE_mtOKnFUvgS4Ntak5MiFfodWgYYWaMECm0wvlHc-PsdDDWPDgTNtnpNDOxwf_23Vs7OdUGXzlMXnCJKp6cnuuO_1fsTmRxA7-QuR9K2cNarNOr/s1600/PharLap'sHeart.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9k8t4LFfSY2vr7VYpwYyJ-jjjE-FAE_mtOKnFUvgS4Ntak5MiFfodWgYYWaMECm0wvlHc-PsdDDWPDgTNtnpNDOxwf_23Vs7OdUGXzlMXnCJKp6cnuuO_1fsTmRxA7-QuR9K2cNarNOr/s320/PharLap'sHeart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458032428418811730" border="0" /></a>Here it is, in all its 6.35 kg glory. For the record, the average horse heart weights about 4 kilos. In case you were wondering.<br /><br />Another fun fact: there's currently a debate raging in the Australian racing community about whether to transport the heart and skeleton of Phar Lap from their respective locations to reunite them with the hide in Melbourne in time for the 150th running of the Melbourne Cup. However, the heart is apparently too fragile to travel. So, sadly, it looks like PL's heart will miss out on the whole anniversary hullabaloo. Which means that eager Melburnians will only get to gaze upon two bizarrely separated parts of the horse, rather than three. And they'll just have to make do with looking at a photo of a heart floating in formaldehyde. I heart Australia.EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082829582972051995.post-19693597674843015972010-04-09T11:16:00.000+10:002010-04-09T17:11:46.562+10:00Why "Phar Lap's Heart"?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwc4aqQ5Nnjwwtbe-YdAYGIlvPw8LcHFuvQCPl5JZYtAHcbXpFZ8KoDoGwWOl51H_361lLEHwHzi0qwTCz7pTLa1Nzbpj1rpsiThLzrM_lUgtKZR9g0r0AmmVI3jraNeIa_Bf4XBetTqI/s1600/famous-horses-phar-lap.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwc4aqQ5Nnjwwtbe-YdAYGIlvPw8LcHFuvQCPl5JZYtAHcbXpFZ8KoDoGwWOl51H_361lLEHwHzi0qwTCz7pTLa1Nzbpj1rpsiThLzrM_lUgtKZR9g0r0AmmVI3jraNeIa_Bf4XBetTqI/s320/famous-horses-phar-lap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458031819369900578" border="0" /></a><br />"The racehorse Phar Lap is one of the legends of Australian sporting history. His unusually large heart, weighing 6.35 kilograms, is one of the icons of the National Museum of Australia's collection, a testament to the great affection with which Phar Lap is held by the Australian people. <p>Phar Lap's victory in the 1930 Melbourne Cup, in the midst of the Great Depression, elevated him to the status of national hero. Two years later, Australia was stunned at the news of the horse's death under suspicious circumstances in the United States.<br /></p> <p>Phar Lap's remains were dispersed across the globe. His mounted hide went to the National Museum of Victoria in Melbourne, the skeleton to the National Museum of New Zealand in Wellington and the heart to the National Museum of Australia in Canberra."</p><p>- Quoted from the National Museum of Australia's website. </p><p>I chose this as the title/theme of my blog for a couple of reasons. First, I'm living in Melbourne right now and, as a racing fan, I clearly had no choice but to make the trek over to the museum (by way of Lygon Street, naturally) to see Phar Lap's hide. Great preservation work, guys. Second, I was really fascinated by Australians' fierce devotion to this horse. They were so devoted, in fact, that they cut him open and displayed parts of him in different museums. This is awesome. Mostly, though, I thought it was a good way of showing what I'm looking for in all of my traveling. As you may know, I'm kind of a new expat wife (yep, with all of the anti-feminist stuff that implies). It's been about five months since I left the States, and I haven't written much of anything about my experiences abroad. But I've seen and thought about a hell of a lot since I've been away. So I figured it was high time to start writing. Those who know me will probably understand that I like to seek out the strange and bizarre (and the hilarious). Well. I think this fits the bill.<br /></p>EOPaynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11430420132516687343noreply@blogger.com2