New Years Eve/Sydney, day 7

Tonight is the big New Years Eve fireworks show and Sydney is already buzzing. There's about 25 or more designated areas around town with views of the harbour that are already filling up. Each area has a maximum crowd size and once it's full, they don't let anyone else in. So some places fill by noon; others don't max out till 3. But the overall message is: Get your spot early!

As a consequence, we head to the Royal Botanic Gardens right away, minus a few digressions to look at restaurant menus. (Curt's still hoping to find a Salade Nicoise. What has gotten in to that guy?) The streets are already barricaded and our bags are searched multiple times. It's OK to bring alcohol, just as long as there's no glass bottles. Instead, people bring plenty of beer in cans & wine in boxes, along with a picnic basket full of food, and some blankets or beach towels. Fortunately. we're armed with our Aussie beach towel (purchased yesterday in Manly) covered with a pattern of road signs saying Watch Out for Kangaroos and Wombats Ahead. (see the photo of me sitting on said beach towel) We should blend right in.

We arrive about 1:00, which means we'll be here for the next 11 hours. We're sitting in almost the exact same spot where Curt sat to do his sketch of the bridge on Tuesday. That day, the grass was deserted except for 2 ibis birds who kept coming over to inspect Curt's progress. Today, the same grass is covered with blankets and towels and bodies. Not surprisingly, the ibis seem to have retreated to the depths of the park, away from the lively partiers.

Some of the more experienced people remember to bring a deck of cards and one couple behind us even bring a Scrabble game, which we covet. Curt LOVES to play Scrabble, and he and Byron have become experts to the point that they know all sorts of obscure words, such as ut and qat (would you believe that ut is the old word for do in the musical scale do-re-mi?) The only problem is that Curt's such a ruthless Scrabble player that I don't play with him very often because I end up in tears about half the time. We contemplate challenging the couple behind us to a game of Scrabble, but I feel it would be rather unfair of Curt to ask to play with them, and then beat the pants off them.

We bring along some snacks for the duration, but there are also food stalls available selling things like coffee, chips (French fries), ice cream, hot dogs, and other equally unhealthy options. The whole operation is amazingly well-organized with security, porta-loos, and rubbish patrol. There are 2 wheelie bins every 25 yards - one for rubbish and one for recycling. A few event staffers walk around offering rubbish bags and people periodically get up to take a load of beer cans to the recycle bin. Remarkably, throughout the afternoon and evening I hear people calling out things like "Hey Andrew, want me take your beer cans with me? I'm on the way." If there is such a thing as 7,000 polite drinkers in one spot, this is it. I am astounded at how well organized it is and by how well behaved everyone is. Nobody is too loud or boisterous and everyone seems to respect others' right to enjoy themselves. This goes on for the next 10 hours!

Most of the time, we feel like the only people over 30 in the crowd, but eventually a man (45ish) with 3 kids (10, 12, 18) settles near us and we strike up a conversation. He credits the authorities' excellent organisation skills with the experience learned by hosting the Olympics. It's nice to talk to him for a while because by this time, we've been here for 5 hours and I can only read, write, or do sudoku for so long before I go stir crazy. Plus my butt hurts from sitting on the hard ground. I'm really too old for this kind of thing.

One thing that surprises me is how many people in the crowd bring books to read. Most of the people here are in their 20s and are spending a lot of time on their cell phone, flirting, drinking, smoking, or giggling. It's hardly the type I would expect to be reading. But there they are, all over the place, buried in a book. Out of each group of 8-10 people, 3 or 4 will be reading. I can't imagine finding a significant proportion of American young people reading at a big drinking party/event.

Whenever Curt and I get bored, we just watch the people around us:
• Meet the Cuddly Couple, in their late 20s, who nap on the blanket while she gently caresses his cheek.
• There's also the Drunk Wife, about 25, who first catches our attention as she loudly tells the story of how her husband almost didn't marry her for some reason. She manages to get totally plastered soon after we arrive so we start placing bets on how long she'll last. There's no way she'll make it until midnight! I'm guessing she'll be out by 6:30.
• And there's Drunk Wife's Husband, who doesn't seem nearly as drunk as her (but makes up for it later).
• Behind us we have a young man with a Golden Voice. I have no idea what he looks like, but with his deep baritone voice and his accent, he really should become a newscaster. As the night progresses, I learn his entire life story - how his parents divorced, etc. But what he seems to be the most proud of was that he "shagged Lisa in the shower" which he repeats a number of times at great volume. We don't believe his claim for a minute. It seems like he has more imagination than facts.

At 9:00 there is a 10-minute fireworks show for the children, so they can go home and go to bed at a reasonable time, I guess. There's still 3 more hours of steady alcohol consumption left until the big show. But about 11:00, the nice man in front of us and his 3 kids depart. I think the kids are running out of patience. The youngest has been wrestling and rolling around for hours, while the middle one plays with her cell phone.

As soon as this family leaves, their space is inhabited by a group who proceed to take pictures of themselves in all possible combinations. Curiously, one guy in the group has a really squeaky, nasal voice like Owen Meany in John Irving's book. A Prayer for Owen Meany is undoubtedly my favourite book; it's the only book I ever read from cover to cover ... and when I reached the end, I immediately read it from cover to cover again. In the book, Owen's growth was stunted and his voice was high-pitched and grating, so Irving always wrote Owen's dialogue in upper case such as "I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU WON'T COME OUT AND PLAY WITH ME, JOHN." As I read it, I could clearly hear a voice in my head that represented Owen's shrill delivery, and the guy who was now sitting in front of us seemed to personify it perfectly. Thank goodness they don't arrive until 11:00 because it would have been excruciating to endure it the entire time.

My prediction about Drunk Wife is turning out to be dead wrong - she remains totally plastered, but not passed out. She's been in this state for almost 10 hours so far. Now that's endurance. Drunk Wife's Husband keeps stumbling over Owen Meany's tripod so he wisely moves it to the other side. Meanwhile, Golden Voice is making good progress with the girl he was telling his life story to. Cuddly Couple light some incense which makes it smell like 1970 all over again. Drunk Wife's group is British, not Aussie, and they start singing (drunkenly of course) O Britannia, but they don't know any words other than "O" and "Britannia." So they switch to something about "... I know I am, I'm sure I am, I'm England till I die." Over and over. (Remember how I said that nobody is too loud or boisterous for the next 10 hours? It was during the 11th hour that people truly hit their stride.) It doesn't really seem like a good idea to start singing raucous British identity songs when you're vastly outnumbered by Australians, though. I was half expecting the other 6,990 people to counter with a blazing round of Waltzing Matilda to drown out the Brits. But they appear more bemused than anything, and manage to resist singing a reply, perhaps assuming that the Brits will get bored of singing the same 2 lines and will move on eventually. Meanwhile, this seems like a good time for me to make a trip to the porta-loos. When I return, everyone seems to have mercifully gotten over their urge to sing.

FInally, it was time for the fireworks to start. The organisers spread out the pyrotechnics around the harbour so different areas could all have a view. It starts with a big display off the bridge. It moves to a couple different spots, east of the bridge and west of the bridge. There are even fireworks exploding behind us from the tops of the skyscrapers in the city which worries me a little because it makes it look like all the skyscrapers are on fire. They explode some by the opera house, then back to the bridge and during the big finale, things are blowing up all over.

Here's Curt's impression of the evening - " If I had to sum it up in a few words, it would be: cell phones, cigarettes, boobs and booze. Boobs has a double meaning - in addition to the idiot factor fueled by alcohol, about 80% of the young women were falling out of their tops. It's a fashion trend."

Sydney, day 6

Today we are heading to the beach town of Manly, which involves taking a ferry from Circular Quay. This is our substitute for a tourist-style tour of Sydney Harbour since we're too cheap to pay for a ride on a real tour boat. We like ferries better. We walk along the pedestrian corso that links Manly ferry terminal (which faces west to Sydney Harbour) to Manly beach (which faces east to the Tasman Sea). There's even an arts & crafts market going on today that we peruse. Curt's mildly interested in buying some shorts while we're here, but honestly, we're just not very good shoppers. I have a Kiwi friend who came to Sydney with her two teenage daughters specifically to shop for a week. They'd be disappointed to hear how much shopping we've done on this trip, which is next to nothing. I'm pretty much a failure at being a shopper. It's just not in me.

As we wander down Manly's beach, Curt finds a modern sculpture to sketch. It looks a lot like the sculptures along the boardwalk in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico (which he also sketched). I dutifully assume my role, sitting on some rocks, dangling my feet in the water, and reading a book. Ahhh. That's what vacations are all about. I'm well into my second book already, and brought along a third one just in case.

After the sketch, we walk farther to Shelly Beach which is even nicer and more secluded than Manly beach. Despite our aforementioned ineptitude at shopping, Curt scores a major success at a small gift shop near Shelly Beach that happens to have a perfect black ceramic pot for our bomb collection. Before you report us to the elite anti-terrorism squad, let me tell you the story of our bomb collection: My brother gave us a black ceramic pot for Christmas 18 years ago, and as we opened the box, it looked just like the size and shape of a cartoon-type bomb (but without a fuse). One of our boys cried out, "Cool! Uncle Scott gave us a bomb!" Uncle Scott immediately zoomed to the top of the list of best uncles ever, because what could be better for Christmas than a genuine bomb when you're 8 years old? Ever since then, we've called that pot our "bomb", and we began to collect matching black pottery bombs on our all travels. We have to be extra careful these days not to call our pottery a bomb in the airport as in "Do you have the bomb in your carry-on honey?" or "Don't let the bomb break." This kind of slip-up could have catastrophic consequences.



After securing our most important purchase of the trip, we climb some steep steps to a lookout over North Head. It has another stunning view of the Tasman. We keep following more trails, through a hole in a rock wall, and ultimately into a couple of dead ends. We've been walking for 90 minutes now, without knowing where we are or where we're going. We are utterly lost. I have visions of us stranded in the bush for days. With no water. It's HOT out.

Who will ever report us missing? Nobody will even notice our absence until Curt doesn't show up for work Jan 8. I'm convinced we'll get bit by a poisonous spider or attacked by endangered bandicoots (whatever they are). I can see the headlines now: STUPID AMERICAN TOURISTS' BODIES FINALLY FOUND or STUPID AMERICAN TOURISTS LOST IN THE BUSH WITHOUT WATER. Well, we eventually find our way back to civilisation, head towards the ferry terminal and get some nice cold water. And chocolate milk for you-know-who. So I guess we won't be headlines this time.


After that sweaty, nail-biting adventure, I'm ready for something safe. We take the ferry back to the city with three objectives: 1) Salad Nicoise 2) shorts for Curt 3) a movie.

1) Allow me to explain - Curt has been hankering for Salad Nicoise for days. We keep stopping at every restaurant and reading every menu, but can never find Salad Nicoise. (We actually do find it on one menu, but it's at a restaurant that is closed for 2 weeks during the holidays. Drat.) Don't ask me why he's so obsessed with finding Salad Nicoise, but he is. It's like he's pregnant or something and is having cravings. In the end, we settle for tasty exotic salads at David Jones Food Hall and I promise to make him Salad Nicoise when we get home to NZ.













2) We successfully purchase some shorts and two shirts for Curt so I guess we can say we did some shopping here after all. He did, anyway. The shorts are khaki, and the shirts are white and ... white. You have no idea how many white shirts he already owns! He's such an engineer. He wears white shirts and keeps a pen in his pocket - even while he's on vacation. I kid you not. Luckily, it's part of his charm.

3) At the cinemas, I want to go see The Queen. Curt thinks it's about Diana's death and he hates all that "pseudo-celebrity schlock" as he calls it.
Me: "But it's not about Diana's death. It's about the queen's reaction. And Tony Blair's."
Curt: "Mmm hmm." (pause) "Let's see what time James Bond begins"
Fortunately, James Bond doesn't start for 90 minutes and The Queen starts right now! So we buy the popcorn (this step is absolutely essential) and go watch The Queen. Even Curt likes it.

We end our night with a train-bus ride back to the hotel, and polish off the semi-melted ice cream bars we have in the room's mini-fridge that supposedly includes a freezer section but these ice cream bars aren't exactly frozen anymore. Still, that doesn't stop me. I eat it with a spoon. Tastes fine.

Sydney, day 5

Took the bus to the nearest train station, took the train to Bondi Junction, then took an express bus to Bondi beach. We're good at this public transportation stuff.

Bondi is a famous surfing beach, and it's where the beach volleyball competition was held for the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Think Malibu. We walk to the far north end and sit on a bench for a while to read/loll. We climb up some rocks to a promontory looking out into the Tasman. You can see the dark rock cliff in the center of the photo, in the distance. Supposedly, New Zealand is directly east, across the Tasman, but it's 1300 miles away! I used to think New Zealand was right off the coast of Australia, similar to Vancouver Island being off the coast of Washington state, or Long Island off New York. Boy was I wrong.

After our brief venture up the rocks, we return to the sand and walk all the way to the southern end. Here's what Curt's journal says about that afternoon: "We took off our sandals and walked through the last traces of waves washed up on the sandy beach, dodging gleeful children who can't resist the fun of playing in the surf and throwing sand at each other (and us when we get in the line of fire). We walked to the other end and then back to the central shop area as our clothes dried in the sun, having been licked by rogue waves advancing on inattentive strollers."

That evening, we return to our new hotel by bus-train-bus, walk along Brighton's beach and wander past their shops for the necessary fix of coffee (Curt) and ice cream (me). But first we need some dinner, so we decide on a Greek place selling "yeeros" which I guess is a good way to spell gyros if you want to make sure people pronounce it correctly. It is a difficult word to say, and I've heard plenty of Americans call them jyros which makes me cringe. When we were in Greece with the boys in 2005, I remember getting confused at the gyros stand because I ordered 2 gyros which cost 3 euros and "gyros" and "euros" sound the same. Our conversation sounded like something out of Laurel & Hardy's famous comedy routine "Who's on first."
me: 2 gyros, please
Greek man: OK. Here. 3 euros
me: No, I only ordered 2 gyros.
Greek: 2 gyros, 3 euros (I thought he was counting 2 gyros, 3 gyros)
me: But I only wanted 2!
Carlin: Mom. They're €1.50 each. Just give him 3 euros, OK?

Sydney, day 4

Today's plan: to the art museum. However, we got sidetracked along the way looking at St Mary's cathedral as a sketch possibility ... and Curt ended up sketching the Sydney Tower instead. It was an easy subject and only took an hour, so we still got to the museum by 11. I'm beginning to recognise names of some of the well-known Australian artists, and we're familiar with most of the European and American artists of course. This museum had a nice enough collection, but it can't really compare with others we've been to over the years. Our poor kids have been dragged to museums all over Europe and the US on our travels. Byron made his first money as an artist at age 10, sitting on the grand stairway inside the D'Orsay museum in Paris, sketching a huge clock above. (He wanted to be just like his dad who was nearby sketching a statue of a naked lady). Austin, the oldest brother who was always full of clever ideas, suggested that Byron should put his hat out next to him while he worked, and people would put money in it. Sure enough, people gathered to see what this little boy was doing, and dropped a few francs in his hat. I think he made enough money to buy himself some ice cream later in the day. We always thought he would grow up to be a professional artist eventually, and we knew this would make a great story about how he got his start in the art world. Well, at the moment he's studying engineering at the University of Washington which isn't exactly art, but at least he's still trying to be just like his dad.

After the museum, we thought it would be appropriate if we went to the Sydney Tower to ride up to the observation deck since Curt had just sketched it that morning. Alas, the queue was about a half-mile long so we opted out. Instead we wandered over to the waterfront area called Darling Harbour which was a little too Disneylandish for us. However, I did stumble upon a Lindt Chocolate store & cafe so I indulged in some dark chocolate gelato. Mmmmm. That made it all worthwhile. We sat on a bench and watched little kids play in a long fountain. It's nice the way Australia encourages people to actually use the water features, rather than just look at them. Parks in Europe can be a bit stodgy when they don't allow you to sit on the grass or play in the fountain. But here, there was a sign at the gate to the Botanic Gardens that asked people to please sit on the grass, hug the trees, and smell the roses. I like their attitude.

Next we entered the Chinese Garden which was an oasis of beauty and tranquility in the middle of downtown Sydney. I was thinking Curt might find something sketchworthy here, but he wasn't inspired.
Me: How about a sketch of the lily pads? Monet liked to paint lily pads.
Curt: Nah.
Me: Ooh. Look at that arched stone bridge. And there's a bench right here with a perfect view.
Curt: Nah.
So we walked along the paths, around the ponds, over the stone bridge, and admired the giant koi fish swimming by the lily pads. It was a nice quiet break from the crowds at Darling Harbour and the throngs of bargain hunters who are still sardined in the shopping streets of Sydney.

Speaking of Chinese, it's time for a rant. Here's what Curt said in his journal: "There are a lot of Asians taking pictures of family and friends standing in front of any statue, building, sculpture, or viewpoint which might be photo-worthy except for the person posing just like they did for the previous gazillion photos." As a Westerner, I just don't get it either. I was trying to understand this habit, so I pondered if maybe they believe that a photo has more interest in it if there's a person in it. And I can agree with that. But the photo album of their trip would NOT be interesting because photo after photo would be mind-numbingly repetitively made of the same composition. So there goes my argument that people do it to make the photos more interesting. My next theory was that perhaps people pose in front of everything to prove that they were there. Honestly, won't their friends believe them? Anyway, I'm stumped. If anyone can enlighten me on this curious habit, please do, because I just don't understand. That's enough ranting for now.

Our last job today is to switch hotels. You see, it was next to impossible to find any hotels in Sydney this week, and there are absolutely NO rooms left for New Year Eve. Besides the fireworks, there's the big cricket match against England so all the rooms are taken. Consequently, we could only find a room downtown for the first 3 nights, a room 10 km south of the city for the next 3 nights, and no room at all for our last night, New Years Eve. We're figuring that we'll be staying up and watching the fireworks till 12 or 1 ... and then we have to be at the airport at 5 the next morning, so we'll just hang out at the airport or something. Anyway, today's the day we switch hotels. We get our bags and take a bus to Brighton (on Botany Bay) which is pretty easy. We like to use public transportation on our travels, so we bought a 7 day pass when we arrived and use it to hop onto subways or buses or ferries whenever we want. By the end of the week, we're pretty good at taking the bus from our hotel to the nearest train station, riding the train downtown, and then doing it all in reverse at the end of the day. No problem.

Our day finishes as it usually does: more walking, more coffee, more ice cream, a nightly foot rub, and lots of sleep. Zzzz.

Sydney, day 3

Curt went running this morning but I stayed in bed. I'm the lazy bum of the family. Still, we were out the door by 8:30 which is pretty good for us. There's a Lindt Chocolate store/cafe on the corner that I had my heart set on, but they didn't open until 10. What is wrong with those people??? Don't they know there's a chocoholic in town who needs her chocolate pronto? So we end up at Starbucks for the mandatory crappuccino ( a word Austin invented 10-15 years ago and is always pronounced with a high pitched parrot-like squawk "CCRRAAPuccino") for Curt while I pig out on a muffin. Then we're off to sketch the opera house. OK, I'm using the word "we" loosely. Curt will sketch while I will sit/read/etc.

While we walk, he tells me of his adventure this morning: running through the trendy/seedy neighbourhood called Kings Cross (like Capitol Hill?) and seeing a prostitute (male? female?) dressed in full gear (pink lingerie) after a presumably busy night. Hmmm.

He's found a shady bench with a great view of the opera house and gets right to work. Annoyingly, there's a little red tourist train that passes by every 15 minutes, and we get to hear the same spiel over and over "... and the design for the opera house was inspired by orange peels ..." After a couple of hours, Curt's masterpiece is finished, and the tops of his sandal-clad feet are beginning to turn red. It must be time to stop.

After a quick lunch at a sandwich kiosk (and the obligatory ice cream bar), we take an official tour of the opera house. Curt is in his element here. He gets to hear all about how many roof tiles there are, how many tonnes of reinforced concrete were used, and he especially likes the pre-cast, post-tension ribs. Don't ask.
He also seems quite taken with the story of the Danish architect, who quit halfway through the project after too many cost overruns and 14 years of delays. Apparently he refused to compromise on quality so he left. And he has never returned to see the Opera House completed! Forty years later, it appears the Australian government is attempting to patch up relations with Mr. Utzon (who is still alive), and in response his son travelled to Sydney to help with some modernisation plans. Curt admires the way Utzon stuck to his principles, and never sold out.

After the tour, we walk to the Sydney Harbour Bridge and climb another 200 steps (we already went up 200 steps in the opera house tour) to the top of the pylon for the view from the overlook. Naturally, this jaunt includes lots of information about how the bridge was built, how much steel was used, how long it took ... Look at the size of those girders! He loves this stuff.

As we head back to the hotel, we notice a crowd sitting on the grass in a park, watching a giant screen TV. You'll never guess what's on. Cricket. It's a competition between the Aussies and the Poms (English) and people are riveted to the games all week. Each game lasts 3-4 days, and there's 5 games. I swear I've been trying really hard to understand the game of cricket but it's just baffling if you ask me. I love the way they break for tea halfway through the match, though. The cricket games are broadcast on screens all over the city, and the scores are constantly updated on the ticker-tape style news display in downtown Sydney, just like the one in Times Square in New York City. But every time we passed the news ticker here, all the news was about sports: which boat was winning the yacht race (Wild Oats?), which boat had broken its mast again (New Zealand's), how badly the Aussies were beating the Poms (absolutely annihilating them), and the retirement of one of the Aussie cricket stars (bad boy Shane Warne). There really wasn't any "hard" news to report, which is actually rather comforting. One day they added a line about Gerald Ford's death, but then the news returned to yacht racing and cricket. As it should.

Boxing Day/Sydney, day 2

There's a big yacht race from Sydney to Hobart that begins today so the harbour is full of boats watching and escorting the yachts. It's quite a sight.

I happen to have a perfect view of all the boats because I am sitting ever-patiently while Curt does a watercolour sketch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Yesterday, we scoped out a perfect spot for him to sit and sketch, which always must include some shade to sit in. He eventually chose a spot on the lawn of the Botanic Gardens under a giant tree, with some curious ibis birds who keep him company. So today as he settles in for the next 60-90 minutes, it's my job to 1) keep myself occupied 2) keep admirers from bothering him 3) swat bugs away 4) go fetch some lunch or cold drinks occasionally and 5) don't try to talk to him because he's too zoned out to have a conversation while he's painting. I love this part of our travels because if affords me the opportunity to lie around and read a book or maybe even catch a short snooze, two of my very favourite activities. When I'm feeling really sassy, I offer my opinion of his work-in-progress, such as "I think it needs a little more purple." That always goes over well.

Once the masterpiece is complete (and it's ALWAYS a masterpiece), we walk through more of the Botanic Gardens and are especially creeped out by the zillions of bats hanging from the trees in one area! Eewww.

Then we are even more disturbed by the crowds on the streets. In contrast to yesterday, the streets are absolutely packed today. Boxing Day is traditionally a day of huge post-Christmas sales and all the stores that were closed yesterday when we walked through the ghost town called Sydney are now open and full of throngs of bargain hunters. The Pitt St. pedestrian mall is shoulder-to-shoulder. Good grief. We duck into David Jones department store and head to the 7th floor to look at digital cameras. There's even a queue to get on the escalators, but as we go higher at least the crowds thin out.

The reason we're looking for a digital camera is that I broke ours last week: I inserted a memory card but then couldn't get it out. Eventually I yanked it out in 2 pieces and after that, I couldn't get any other (unbroken) memory cards to go in. After looking at repair costs, we decided to buy a new camera.

Once we finished our mission on the 7th floor, we went to the Food Hall in the basement for dinner, then off to the cinema to see a chick flick: The Holiday. Isn't it sweet that Curt agreed to go to a chick flick rather than making me go see James Bond? For the last 20 years, whenever we went to a family movie, I always got outvoted by the 5 men in my life (4 sons and a husband) and we always seemed to end up going to a testosterone-laden movie like James Bond. It's nice now that there's only two of us and I get to choose the movie occasionally.

Finally, we end up back at the hotel so he can rub my feet, like he does every night. What a guy.

Christmas/Sydney, day 1

We awoke early - not to open presents (there weren't any to open), but to get to the airport for our flight to Sydney. We actually got there too early which was fortuitous because it gave us time to get the visas that U.S. passport holders need for travelling to Australia. What? I had no idea we needed visas!?! New Zealanders don't need visas to enter Australia, but I guess Americans do. Fortunately, we can do this at the airport. All is sorted. Phew.

The three hour flight was uneventful. I think I was expecting a little something special since it was Christmas Day ... perhaps the flight attendants would be wearing Santa hats or something? But no. We had a great view of Sydney Harbour as we landed, though!

Arriving in downtown Sydney was like walking into a ghost town. The whole city was eerily silent. After checking in at the hotel, we eventually made our way to the more touristy waterfront area called Circular Quay where there were a few places open, but the commercial center of the city was definitely deserted. It looked like some post-apocalyptic scenario where the entire population has bizarrely died, and left behind block after block of abandoned skyscrapers and mile after mile of deserted streets. Spooky.

Of course it is Christmas Day, after all, and it makes perfect sense that everyone in this city (except us) was home with their loved ones eating a big ham dinner and Christmas cake. I'm still feeling a little down about Christmas - mostly about not having any family around, but also about the lack of cards and presents. It just doesn't feel right. So I think coming to Sydney was a great idea because I'm hoping it will prevent me from becoming too sad about Christmas.

Across the miles

It's kinda weird being overseas for Christmas. I definitely notice when my Christmas experience isn't the same as it used to be. For instance, I notice that there's only one present under the tree. This is because a) there's only two of us here and b) one of us is morally opposed to Christmas shopping. I already bought presents for our 4 boys, my mom, and my two brothers' families, and mailed them by Dec. 4. Done and dusted. I got Curt an olive tree for Christmas which he already found (six-foot trees are notoriously difficult to hide). The boys won't be mailing any cards or presents to us because they're boys and because they're always broke. My mom says she sent me a package and it might be here by Valentine's Day. I don't know if my brothers are sending us anything. Probably not. And Curt? Well. I gave up on that years ago. So we have exactly one present under our tree. It's from our neighbour. It's small and round and light. I'm guessing it's a Christmas ornament or something like that. Oh wait, all the choir members got a little present from the minister this morning. but I already opened mine and ate it because it was chocolate. Mmmm.

Also, it's Christmas Eve already and we only have 8 Christmas cards. One is from the postie (mailman). One is from the realty company that sold us the house (not very personal). One came with the present from our neighbour. One is from a church family. And we have four cards from relatives in America: my mom, two uncles, and Curt's brother. That's it. It's pretty sad when an email from your credit card company wishing you a happy holiday is the highlight of your day. Come on, people!! You'd think we died or something. No, we're very much alive. And we sent Christmas cards to all our friends and relatives back in the States including our address. Well, fine. I won't let it make me feel too sorry for myself because I don't associate the number of cards we receive with how many people love me. Really.

Besides presents and cards, here's a few other differences I've experienced:
• Christmas pud (pudding), Christmas cake, and mince tarts are traditional Christmas treats here. The closest American traditional Christmas food might be the ubiquitous fruitcake/brick, but even that is more of a joke than an actual food that is consumed. As for mince tarts, Curt was a bit confused when we were given 12 little mince pies by our neighbour. You see, in NZ "mince" usually refers to ground beef. So he thought we got 12 little meat pies. But actually, they're minced pecans and raisins and brown sugar ... what Americans would call mincemeat pie. (and that fact that mincemeat has the word "meat" in it when there's no meat in it just makes it doubly confusing!)

• I used to wear Christmas sweaters all the time in December in the States. But here, it's too hot to be wearing sweaters in December (besides which they're called jumpers). Trust me, I tried. Once. I wore my Christmas sweater to church last week and thought I'd be OK because it's always freezing in that big old building early in the morning. But by the time church was over, I was roasting, and I had to strip off a layer in the car on the way home. Let's say I learned my lesson.

• Stores and offices close for a few weeks during the holidays. Curt's engineering company will be closed from Dec 22-Jan 8. There's nobody in the office. No engineers, no bosses, no secretaries. I thought maybe a few guys might go in to catch up on a project that's behind schedule, since they've been getting flack for it being so late. But no. The clients understand that nobody is going to do any work over the next 2 weeks. NOBODY. I also went to my favourite bakery to buy my favourite bran muffins but they were closed from Dec 23-Jan 17! The American/capitalist in me wonders how a business can afford to go without income for that long. But the newly emerging Kiwi in me says "good on them" for realising that time off is more important than money!

• Since Christmas happens during everyone's summer vacation, people's holiday traditions tend to involve being gone at the beach house or being gone camping. I don't think there's the same notion that you need to be HOME for holidays. Our neighbours left on the 20th for 3 weeks at their vacation house in Whitianga. They must have taken along all the presents and will open them there. Do they also take along the stockings? I wonder if they put up a tree at the vacation house?

• I haven't heard as much Christmas music playing in the grocery stores, malls, doctor's offices, etc. In Portland, there was even a radio station that played ALL Christmas music from December 1-December 25. There's really not that much good Christmas pop music around, so you can imagine that a lot of the airtime was filled up with tunes like Jingle Bell Rock performed by Neil Diamond or Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire sung by 'N Sync.

It's also weird to see how my Christmas experience is still the same as it used to be:
• For instance, last night we watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. That was always a favourite holiday movie with our family especially when Clark Griswald put a gazillion lights on his house.

• Speaking of lights, people do decorate their houses here, but not nearly as many because ... 1. It's summer and it doesn't get dark until quite late. 2. Most people go away camping for Christmas so they're not home anyway. 3. Christmas isn't as over-the-top commercialized as it is in the US. The local newspaper showed photos of a few of the more decorated houses, but I couldn't help but be thankful that NONE of them had Santa flying The Traditional Christmas Helicopter or riding The Traditional Christmas Alligator like my next door neighbour in Portland had on his roof. I am not making this up.

• People still do PLENTY of shopping, and still worry about what to get their sister-in-laws, etc. Men still put off the shopping until the last minute and still don't know what to buy. Some things are universal.

Overall, the Christmas experience is definitely different here. Some parts are better than in the US - like the weather - and some parts are worse - like not being with family. If the sun comes out, we may go walk along the beach promenade like we did last night. If not, I think I'll make some popcorn and watch sappy Christmas movies and open my present. I can't decide if I'm sad or not ... but I think I am a little. I miss the family.

Christmas caroling

Our choir went caroling to three rest homes where long-time church members now reside. My first goal was to NOT get lost, because the last two times there were choir outings, we got lost. Both times. This time, we finally got smart and rode in someone else's car (thanks Lucia), had a map with directions (thanks Beth) and had a navigator (thanks Wendy). Things were looking good.

As we walked through the halls of the first nursing home, inhaling the antiseptically sweet, warm air of an old folks' home, I was having second thoughts. Why did I agree to go caroling? I don't even know these people who we're visiting. I've never liked nursing homes. Or old people, for that matter. These places are always so sad and depressing, as if they are a depository for old people who have become too inconvenient to be part of their former lives any longer. The country music that was piped in throughout this institution didn't help.

We arrived at the selected church member's room, crowded in, and our group of well-wishers, aging from 7 to 70, began to sing. Apparently this patient had been a choir member for decades so she knew all the words to all the verses of our carols. It was sweet. Although her body was contorted and she remained perfectly still with her eyes closed, her mouth was moving with the song. Clearly, she enjoyed the familiarity of the music. It must be enormously soothing to hear the same songs that you used to sing 80 or 90 years ago. Ah, the timelessness of Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

On our way out, we walked past a lounge area with a few residents, so we decided to stop and sing a little for them, too. One of the workers sat down to enjoy our performance, and I then I began to hear her singing along ... in harmony! As she sang, she stroked what little hair remained on a female resident's balding head. What kind of people work at rest homes? The kind who stroke an old lady's thinning hair while she sang Christmas carols in her ear.

It made me think of my own father, who is nearing the end of his life. He is still at home (in America) with the help of visiting hospice workers and my mother (a.k.a. the saint), but has lost mobility and has little awareness of the outside world. Two of our grown sons live in the same town as Grandma and Grandpa, so they've been visiting almost daily, often to transfer him from bed to wheelchair or back. In return, Grandma feeds them home-cooked meals every Sunday night as a respite from the usual junk food diet typical to single men in their mid-twenties. This inter-generational arrangement began about five years ago, when the boys would mow the lawn or clean the gutters in return for Sunday night dinner. Slowly it has evolved into care and feeding of Grandpa as his condition worsened. Whereas Grandma and Grandpa used to babysit our sons 20 years ago, now our son babysits Grandpa so Grandma can attend church. Our boys have always had a close relationship with "G-ma" and "G-pa" because we lived next door to them for 15 years when the boys were growing up. Grandma's house served as a handy refuge whenever your brothers were picking on you, or your mother wanted you to clean your room. You could just head next door where Grandma would give you cookies and you could lie on the carpet, use the dog's belly as a pillow, and watch a baseball game with Grandpa. All would be well again. They were fortunate to have Grandma and Grandpa as part of their daily lives and even if the boys don't realise it yet, they're fortunate to be part of this stage of Grandpa's life. My dad is also fortunate to have support from them and from the rest of the children and grandchildren who have visited. Most of all, my dad is fortunate to have my mother, who is probably singing Christmas carols into his ear and stroking his thinning hair as we speak.

Off we went to the next rest home - without getting lost, thanks to the fine navigating skills of our mapigator. We had acquired a few more carolers by now, including our conductor who managed to bring some order to our chaotic musical skills. Without him we started Silent Night way too high at the last place. It's a terrible feeling to start singing the first 2 or 3 notes, and then realise you're going to sound squeaky tying to get all the way up to "All is calm."

We arranged ourselves in a lounge where there were about a dozen residents, and we started singing. During the third song, a little old lady came hobbling in, waving her arms as if she was conducting the music. She called, "Is that my husband?" If she was disappointed to see our conductor instead of her husband, she didn't show it. She sat down with some difficulty, and continued to conduct every song. She was not just some joker waving her arms around, trying to imitate a conductor. No, she knew what she was doing and clearly had a background in music. Perhaps her husband had been a choir director ages ago. Perhaps our music took her back to those days.

As we arrived at the third scheduled nursing home, we acquired about 5 more singers including two teenage boys, their dad, and their grandmother, and filled into their lounge area to sing. You'd think that most Christmas carols would be familiar to me and Curt, but being American expats in New Zealand, we keep discovering (belatedly) that familiar titles are actually different tunes. We're used to a different version of O Little Town of Bethlehem which is in a minor key, but the version here is peppy and upbeat. The NZ carol songbooks had two versions of Away in a Manger, but neither of them were the one we were used to in the US. It keeps us on our toes. For our final song at the nursing home, we decided to sing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Easy enough. Everyone knows that song, right? Wrong. This version is a round, lickety-split like a fugue, and about 12 pages long. We're sightreading it and it feels like we're riding in a runaway sleigh, which seems strangely appropriate in spite of the 75º weather outside.

After singing at three nursing homes, we still have one mini-performance to go: we have to sing for our supper at the parsonage. Curt and I managed to find the parsonage all by ourselves(!) without getting lost, we all entertained our hosts, and then everyone started munching. I looked around at this group of people who have taken us into their lives, invited us into their homes, and shared their goodwill with us, and I was filled with emotion. This morning at church, I kissed the downy head of a 2-week-old baby girl born to our conductor and his wife. This evening I saw music trigger deep memories in 100-year olds. Merry Christmas.

Fun with Words

My apologies for using so many Kiwi-isms in our Christmas letter, but I just have too much fun playing with language! Our family has always liked to play with words. When the boys were little, they liked to call me Marm instead of Mom (they still do), and then they started making words rhyme with Marm such as possiblarm (possibly) and taking a schwarm (shower). Austin also used to claim that since the plural of octopus was octopi, then the plural of bus was bi. Twenty-five years have gone by, but we still enjoy using our made-up words. On Saturdays, Curt always lows the mawn (mows the lawn). We go to the grocerary store. We wash the launderary. We wear soxes and we eat grapeses. We try not to talk like this in public, or people might think we're mentally challenged. But it is our family lingo.

Well, you can probably imagine how much fun we're having in a new country, trying to learn new words and phrases and pronunciations!

Sayings:
I'm reading a book of Kiwi sayings. It's a relief to see that some sayings (like hissy fit) are used in both US and NZ. Other US sayings will be incomprehensible to Kiwis, such as "out in left field" which is a baseball saying, and nobody plays baseball here. I recently learned the saying "That's not cricket!" which means "that's not fair" or that's not how it's supposed to be done." I've also noticed how US sayings - but not NZ sayings - have been influenced by Spanish words and by Jewish culture (such as schmuck). Instead, New Zealand has Maori words mixed in. At my school, the student commons or student lounge area is called the whanau space which is Maori for family.

Pronunciation:
• In NZ, they pronounce the H in herbs. And vitamin is pronounced "VITT-a-min." They say "ba-NAH-na" and "to-MAH-to" but potato is still pronounced "po-TAY-to." Don't ask me why. Lat week I actually said "to-MAH-to" during a conversation, and my colleagues got all excited.
• I've also been trying to get them to teach me to say scone properly, because we get scones for teatime every Wednesday. I explained that I pronounce it "scone," rhyming with "phone" and "throne," right? I thought I'd proved my point. But then Lara said "scone" rhymes with "gone." What??? English is such an impossible language. Why doesn't "gone" rhyme with "phone"? Good grief. So every Wednesday I try to pronounce it like "sconn" or "scunn." Then I ask, "Did I do it right?" Their response is to bust out laughing. Apparently I need some more practise.
• Another noticeable difference is the pronunciation of su as shu. For instance, peninsula is pronounced "pen-IN-shu-la." If you're trying to sound hoity-toity, you'd say it more like "pen-in-SYU-la," but most people shorten syu to shu. Other examples are: "con-SHU-mer" (consumer) and even "SHTU-dent" (student). This all seemed very strange to me until I realised that American English does the same thing in issue, sugar, and insurance. Do you hear the sh sound? I remember learning how to spell sugar when I was little and wondering how on earth the sh sound was supposed to be spelled su! Well, 40 years later, it finally makes sense. It probably used to be pronounced "SYU-gar." These are things only an English teacher like me would contemplate.
• You've probably heard the British-type pronunciation of secretary as "SEC-re-tree" with only 3 syllables instead of 4. Well, the same applies for library - it has 2 syllables: "LI-bree." And I work in a LI-bree. Every time I answer the phone, I'm supposed to say "Hello. LI-bree. This is Megan." I'm trying to say LI-bree, but let's face it, I'm not very good at saying it like this. So the person on the other end of the phone usually takes an extra second to process what I just said and whom they might be talking to. They often hesitate and sound as if they're worried they may have dialed a wrong number.
• I haven't been able to figure out any pattern to New Zealanders' pronunciation of foreign words. New Zealanders butcher the foreign pronunciation of pasta, saying it "PA-sta" instead of the Italian "PAH-sta" while Americans maintain the original Italian "PAH-sta." But New Zealanders maintain the original French pronunciation of debut as "day-BOO," which Americans butcher into "day-"BYU," Who can keep these things straight?
• Curt often gets in trouble in choir when he sings "planted" real loud instead of "plahnted" or "master" instead of "mahster." (I'd get in trouble, too, but I don't sing as loud as Curt.) But our choir director is happy when we sing "oh" because the Kiwi o sounds more like "ow." Think Eliza Doolittle before she met Professor Higgins.

Words:
• In America, students take tests. In New Zealand, students sit exams. When you think about it, nobody really "takes" a test. It sounds like you grabbed it off the teacher's desk, stuffed it inside your coat and ran out the door with it. On the other hand, sitting an exam sounds like you put the paper on your chair and sat on it, which makes about as much sense as stealing it. So neither of these verbs are very accurate. Oh well.
• When you do something well in NZ, people say "good on you!" In the US, we would say "good for you." The Kiwi version still sounds funny to my ears, but neither preposition makes much sense when you think about it (and I obviously do). Does it mean the speaker is bestowing some goodness ON you because you did something good? Or that there will be goodness FOR you at a later date ... perhaps in heaven? Who knows.

As you can see, one of the things that I love about living overseas is that there's constantly new things to learn. I guess immigrating wouldn't be such a good idea if you were the type of person who is set in their ways. No, you have to be someone who is willing to adapt. And I truly love noticing all the cultural differences. Perhaps it keeps me young ... well, at least it keeps my mind sharp.