America and Bust

Home or Bust (probably bust)

So here I sit, wondering again what the future will hold. I have crossed thousands of miles and warped both time and reality once again in my return across the Pacific. My plane left Sydney at 9:25 PM on July 28th and it will be arriving in San Francisco at 9:20 PM on July 28th. This means that as far as our conception of time is understood, for a brief few moments I will exist in two places at once. Between 9:20 and 9:25, I will exist both in America and in Australia. Perhaps, this is the most fitting and poetic representation of the past 8 months. As I have spent my time in Australia straddling the mindset of both an American and an Australia. Yet now as I find myself stepping once again on US soil I wonder if that is a mindset which will never leave me, or if that is even a bad thing.

Expanding one's view of the world is a good thing, and being away from home for so long allows you to see that home through new and unimagined eyes. Unfortunately, my first few days back within my own borders were not exactly paradise. As I soared over the Pacific I made one stop on the island of Honolulu, an idyllic and tropical land of warmth and happiness. I was only scheduled to have a little under two hours in this gateway to America as I changed flights... unfortunately that time span rapidly shortened as my flight from Sydney to Hawaii was delayed by nearly an hour. Which meant that I had approximately 45 minutes to change planes. Also unfortunate, was the fact that I had to go through US Customs and Immigration in this short time period, which also meant I had to collect and recheck my luggage. So as (my) luck would have it I apparently was traveling with a platoon of US Army soldiers returning from leave in Australia. This was interesting as I had a conversation with some of them, but it was also bad as since they all had military ID's they were practically immune to random bag inspections. So I was the only one left to be picked for a random bag inspection, which tacked on a good 20 minutes to my already hectic time frame.

So as random bag inspections go, it was hardly random. Still, I placidly endured the questioning and watched as the TSA representative rifled through my dirty towels and clothing to find absolutely nothing of any interest. To his credit he was very understanding and he tried to push the process along as quickly as possible, knowing that I was due to board a flight in 20 minutes. I realize such security inspections are necessary, but the whole thing was still a major time consuming inconvenience. It works under the same principle of driving behind old ladies or catching all the traffic lights when your late to work. Maybe it was Adam's Law just rearing its ugly head one more time to remind me that life is not always going to be perfect or smooth. We just need to make the best of what we have got.

After clearing immigration, I took my bag and sprinted through the 100 degree Hawaiian airport to make it to my next flight. I checked my bag in a mere 15 minutes before the plane was set to depart and then sprinted my way down to gate 33 at the other end of the airport. I arrived just in time to make the flight, thought I doubt my seat mates were happy, as I was profusely sweating and still wearing the sweater and light-jacket I had been wearing in Sydney. I hoped that was the end of my inconveniences and I sat back to await my arrival in San Francisco. I should have known it was never that simple.

I arrive in the Bay City a mere five hours later. As it was night time, I weary dragged myself off the plane and the the proper luggage carousal to await my baggage. So I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Finally when all my fellow passengers had happily received their luggage I realized that mine was not among them. All there was remaining was a discarded baby carriage and suspicious brown package with more duct tape than cardboard holding it together. It had finally happened. After many many months of travel, the airline had finally lost my luggage. The only clothing I had for the next two days was the sweaty dirty t-shirt and jeans I had arrived. (I was looking forward to changing into shorts, but that never happened.) So for my first two days in San Francisco I was sans-clothing.

I did eventually receive my luggage. It was dropped off at the hostel I was staying at and upon arrival I was finally able to have a shower (with soap and shampoo), shave, and finally put on a pair of shorts for my Californian summer. My luggage never made it onto the plane and thus it spent a few extra days in Hawaii. (My luggage gets to go on better vacations than I do.) Apparently, you cannot check your bags 15 minutes before departure and expect them to arrive on time.

Still, I suppose this was as fitting way as any to return to the country of my birth. It proved to me that challenges do not stop because you return to a familiar place. Obstacles and inconveniences are everyday occurrences and not anything to get too excited over. Lost luggage will eventually be found, and even random bag inspections cannot delay the inevitable. I'm home.

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish (and chips)

Reflection time: Yes its going to be one of
those blogs entries.

So this is it. I'm on my way home, but before I click my heels and utter an often used cliche I find myself reflecting back on these past eight months. I have found myself plagued with challenges, triumphs, relationships, money problems, poor transit systems, and the general exhaustion of months and months of travel. However, I have learned many things over the past many months, lessons which will certainly carry me through the rest of my life. I have boiled this knowledge down to a few succinct points:
1. There is always at least one crazy man who lives in every hostel around the world. He is the one who owns hundreds of shopping bags that he keeps all his newspaper clippings in and sits in the cafeteria eating his can of tuna.
2. In every room in every hostel there is at least one person who snores. In my last hostel I not only found a man who snores, but he uttered nocturnal sounds which I have only ever heard coming from sleeping dogs, (and some awake ones too.)
3. Chocolate muffins are just as good and a full dollar cheaper at the supermarket then they are at any trendy coffee shop.
4. I traveled with two backpacks, and even that was too much at times. If I were to ever do this again, I have determined I can do it with only carry-on luggage.
5. Australian air travel is cheaper in the early morning. An added benefit is that if the flight is early enough you do not have to pay for a room for the night, you just sleep in the airport.
6. Life is change, and that goes double for when you are traveling. There is no such things as a permanency, but thats not always a scary thing.

Perhaps that last one (as basic as it seems) was one of the harder aspects of this trip to confront, especially when it comes to meeting people. I will admit that on my journey I have had my fair share of friendships and relationships, but regardless of who they are or the nature of the friendship there is always a part of your mind that reminds you that in a few days/weeks/months, eventually you will be moving on and it is very unlikely you will ever see them again. That is unfortunately means that in the end, it is only you. For the most part I did not always mind this. It allowed me to keep my own schedule, to work on my writing, and to generally explore the country as I saw fit. It also gave me a sense of self-reliance and resiliency I do not know I could claim a year ago. Yet, if I were to sit here and write that I was perfectly content being alone all the time, it would be a lie. I think the times it really affected me the most were as I would disembark from a plane at the airport. After spending X number of hours struggling through security, bag checks, uncomfortable seats on a plane, you step off and you get to watch your fellow passengers walk into the arms of others whom they care about. You watch them scream hello or jump excitedly as they are greeted by friends, lovers, and family. It is a perfect second of joy, where no thoughts or problems seem to be able to intrude on the momentary emotions of that rekindled friendship and love. I would often watch these joyous reunions as I walked by them laden down with my own bags, before turning my thoughts to the task of making my way from the airport to my next destination or the next flight I needed to catch. Yes, airports were the hardest.

Tony and Lina, my two closest Aussie friends.

Thankfully, though such thoughts of melancholy only lasted for small moments. As for the rest of my time in Australia I find myself with only few regrets. The biggest ones usually stem from the overspending I managed to accomplish because of a my ignorance of the culture and general bad purchase making. I also did not reach the fabled Australian west coast, but in actuality there is not much out there, except the most remote state capital in the world, Perth. I guess I'll just have to come back. As for my unaccomplished To-Do list which is conveniently (and glaringly) there on the right side-panel of this blog, I can only give the following excuses:
1. Try to Convince a Local I am Australian: In truth I almost accomplished this one. As I was leaving Melbourne I found myself told by more than one Australian that my American accent was slight, and I was even asked where I was from. Unfortunately the accent did not take full effect on me, )I personally believe it is due to my natural tone-deafness,) but it seems to have more of an affect that I would have guessed. It is still not enough to mark this as completed.
2. Box a Kangaroo: I did fight a kangaroo, but we used a form of mixed martial arts based mostly on Aikido and Ju-jitsu. Sadly there was no box moves involved.
3. Ski (fall down the Mountains of Australia: This one is not my fault. It has been one of the warmest winters in Australia and New Zealand, which meant that not a lot of the slopes (basically none) had any ski worthy snow. It was actually a big problem in New Zealand where skiing is one of their major tourist draws.
4. See if I can play Knifey-Spoony with a local: Apparently, this is actually a little offensive as it reminds them of the Paul Hogan-era when the world noticed that Australia existed. It is also hard to get the proper set-up. Mostly I tried to pull this out at restaurants, but no one has yet to offer me a knife.

However, my regrets are truthfully rather few and far between. Over all, I found my experience to be very positive. I met many amazing people, saw many unbelievable sights, and had more than my fair share of weird and daring adventures.
 

My little sister comes to visit.



So now it is time to look toward the future, and I will admit that I find myself coping with a certain amount of anxiety as I think about going home. There is a lot consider: How have I changed over the past months? How has the world changed in my absence? (Has the Eastern Seaboard been consumed in nuclear Armageddon?) Will anyone remember me, or will I be met only with looks of vague comprehension? Most of all, I wonder if this whole trip has been worth anything? Has it better prepared me for the next stage of my life (which I am going to call that Stage 3-3: Bowser's Castle)? I will have to struggle for the next few months as I again reestablish myself in the place of my birth. There is job hunting to do and the thousands of other small tasks that comes with becoming an adult. Yes, in a few months I will be 28 years old and adulthood is something I can no longer deny, however I have also learned that nothing (even the unknown) is as scary as we often make it out to be. Everything is what we make of it, and maybe I can make something positive of this whole adult thing as well.

 

What this is all boiling down to one question: What have I gained from my experiences. In the Joseph Campbell's Monomyth or Hero's Journey, throughout the course of the journey the hero acquires what is called a boon. It is a new understanding of the world, a special knowledge of something greater, or even a new supernatural power. I often find myself wondering if my own Unheroic Journey has furnished me with any such boon. Since I still cannot fly or cast lighting from my fingertips (much to my disappointment) I must wonder if that boon is something more internal. Truthfully, I do not feel very different. I feel just as clumsy and ordinary as I ever did. I am still me, but maybe now I am realizing that just being me is okay. In fact, maybe just being me is even a little better than okay. 

My favorite Aussie, Loz, hates pictures so I choose one where
she is hidden by Texans.

I heard an expression the other day, Find the life in meaning, not the meaning in life (Okay I didn't hear it I made it up.) As confusing as that seems I think it means that I shouldn't always spend every moment looking for some hidden meaning in the minutia of life and destiny. Life has the meaning we assign to it, and maybe its time to stop spending so much time wondering about my destiny and to go out and make it for myself. When you take control of your life, that is when you find what you are looking for. One of the biggest things I have learned is that even the wrong the decisions can result in positive results, and amazing things can happen. Personally, I have spent the last months hopping across two countries barely aware of what time zone I was in, yet I have I remained in control. I even managed to finish a novel and write a successful blog (at least in my mind its successful), and experience more than I would have ever dreamed of. Its funny, when you expand your comfort zone to half-way around the world, the world seems less big and even your hurdles seem smaller than ever before. I do not know if any of these qualify as a boon, but maybe that doesn't matter.

My last horrible proverb on all this is that: beginnings are easy, endings are always hard. After all, any idiot with half a mind can start something, but it takes a special kind of idiot to see it all the way through to the end. (At least I know I am that special kind of idiot,) but what is an ending if only another beginning? Maybe the unheroic journey is not a trip or a span of time, but maybe it is life as a whole, maybe it is an uncompleted work? I don't pretend to understand it (and I just made a promise that I would stop trying to breathe meaning into everything.) Still as the wise sages of the 90's once said: every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end, (and some blog endings come from conveniently stolen song lyrics)

Legacy of the Southern Cross

Official 1940's picture of the Southern Cross
Hero of the Empire

My name is Connor Mason, and my story started a long time before I was ever born, on 1 January 1901 to be exact. It is the day that Australia officially declared Federation, but to be more precise it is also the day my Great-Great Grandmother was born. Her name was Matilda Mason, though that was never her real name. My gran's true name was erased from history, like much of her past. When she was only a babe she was taken from her family and her people by the new government. You see, unlike other folks, my great gran was born to the Kurnai tribe, and during those times the Government could just take aboriginal children from their parents without any notice or reason. The government mistakenly believed that they were protecting the children from what they saw as the ignorance and abuse which they would suffer at the hands of their parents and tribe. As a member of the Stolen Generations she was brought to a place called the Ebenezer Mission, where she was given a new name and taught to forget her old ways.

It was in the care of the state-run mission that my great gran grew up. In 1919, she became pregnant with a son. As far as I can tell, no one was ever sure of who was the child's father, but it never mattered. By the end of the year my great grandfather, Matt Mason was born. He was the pride and joy of his mother and she did everything should could to make sure that he was loved and well cared for. Unfortunately, it was not destined to last, because when young Matt Mason was only twelve years old, his mother was assaulted and killed while on her way home from her job as a wool-washer. My great grandfather spent the next several years of his life in and out of government care. By all accounts young Matt Mason was a good kid, but he had a mischievous side with often got him into trouble.

On his eighteenth birthday, Matt Mason was released from care to make his way in the world. He held a variety of jobs, and he failed at all of them. Maybe that was why in 1939, at the age of 20 he enlisted in the Royal Australian Army. War had broken out again in Europe and Britain had called for all of its children to rally to arms. Australia quickly headed the call. Matt Mason saw heavy combat in Africa against Italian and German forces. Despite the prejudice he often faced at the hands of his fellow soldiers and even commanding officers, the Aboriginal born soldier fought with dedication and bravery, but like so many things in Matt Mason's life, his luck was not meant to last. On 21 September 1941, Sergeant Matthew Mason took a bullet to the shoulder while evacuating the fortress of Tobruk, near Egypt. The military doctors stabilized the wound, but the round pierced part of the young man's spine and it was understood that he would be partially paralyzed for the rest of his life. He was shipped back home to military hospital in Victoria.

There is an aboriginal saying: A thousand mile journey begins with a single step, and maybe this was Matt's first step. While in the hospital my great grandfather received a visit from an aboriginal man of the Kurnai tribe. He told the wounded soldier that Matt's grandfather, Gwarran, had been a great warrior and a great chief. The same blood that pumped through his ancestors pumped through Sgt. Matt Mason. He presented my great-grandfather with a marraga, a traditional shield of the Kurnai people. He said it had belonged to Matt's grandfather. According to Kurnai spiritual belief the shield held the essence of any warrior who used it, and bestowed its knowledge and gifts on those who were worthy. The old man, told Matt that his marraga was a special one. It had been passed down for countless generations from father to son among the great chiefs of the Kurnai, and it held the essence of countless generations of great warriors. He explain that it would give its wielder the wisdom and the power of its past possessers to anyone of the chiefdom bloodline.

Over the years the marraga, or shield of the
Southern Cross has changed in appearance, from
s simple Union Jack in the time of the first Cross to
the colorful paintings that adorn the shield to this
day.

Presumably, my great grandfather took in all that the man said with a respectful silence. Having never been raised to even know the name of his ancestral tribe let alone any customs or beliefs, he was understandably skeptical. The old man disappeared as quickly as he had come, leaving behind the simple wooden artifact. Matt kept it close even if he doubted what the old man had said. Somehow it reminded him of his mother. It was only a few days after that that my great grandfather regained his ability to walk again. In fact, not only did he make a full recovery but he realized that the more he kept the shield close to him the stronger he felt. Matt not only passed all the doctor's physical examinations but exceeded them. Some called it a miracle, but it was something else. It was something more, something old. It was like a hand reaching out of the past to touch the present. It was the awakening of something ancient, unfortunately such things do not go unnoticed for long.

When a man makes an unbelievable recovery from near-fatal injuries, alarms are raised, even in times of war. That was what happened to Matt Mason. Within days he found himself under observation by Australian and British top ranking officials. They studied him, they studied the shield, they ran as many tests as they could think of, but not a single scientist or officer could find an explanation for what had happened. The shield seemed like nothing more than plain old wood, yet it withstood everything from fire to bullets. More importantly, it only offered up its secrets when in the hands of no one, except my great-grandfather. With it Matt Mason was not only faster and stronger, but gave him power. The already veteran soldier was granted a deeper understanding of what it meant to be a warrior and a leader, and as adoriginal warriors used the design and make of the shield to distort the vision of enemies, so could Matt's shield cast great illusions and visions to cloud the mind and confuse the senses of whoever he wished.

The officers understood that they had stumbled upon something. It was still late 1941, and the war was going badly. Even though America had just officially declared war on the side of the allies it was still unclear how much the presence of the Yankees would influence the final outcome. The British were looking for an advantage and many believed they had found it in Matt Mason. Since his powers could not be duplicated Matt was instead used as a symbol. Costumed heroes had been appearing in America since the 1920's and it was rumored that some even served the country's war effort, but neither the British nor the Australian government had lent much thought to the idea, until then.

So it was that Sgt. Matt Mason was given a new uniform emblazoned with the Union Jack and the new codename of The Southern Cross in honor of his homeland's flag. From that point on he lead troops from the front, not only using his powers to fight the enemy but to inspire those that followed. The costume also served a dual purpose in the eyes of the British and Australian officers. The bright red mask effectively hid the face of the man they were holding up as a new national hero. After all, there was no telling what the outcry might be if the man they were billing as "the new hope of the Empire," was found out to be nothing more than a black Aboriginal.

My grandda, the Second
Southern Cross

So it was that The Southern Cross served the British Empire and the Commonwealth of Australia faithfully until the end of the war. With the surrender of Japanese Emperor The Southern Cross was given an honorable discharge and retired quietly. The world wanted to forget about war and there seemed to be no more use for the likes of the costumed warriors like the Cross in the post-war world. As far as my great-grandfather was concerned he was more than happy to lay down the shield and his weary war-torn life. He soon married a French woman named Colette who had worked with the Marquis during the war and they retired to a small house in the suburbs of Melbourne. Within a few years they had a son named Matt Jr, and it seemed like the history of The Southern Cross would be nothing more than a footnote of the Second World War.

At least it would have been so, if it wasn't for my grandfather, Matt Mason Jr. The way he tells the story, he was drawn to the attic and the old war chest of his father, but knowing my grandda it seems more likely that he stumbled across the chest while trying to set up some elaborate prank or joke. Regardless of how he discovered it, buried in that locked chest underneath an old uniform was the shield of his father. It was forgotten along with the dust and memories of the past, but Matt Jr. felt its power almost immediately. Before he could resist the marraga was in his hands and telling him its secrets. It was 1966 and my grandda was only 16 when he discovered the shield, but when he took it in hand his age no longer seemed to matter. When one holds the shield you do not see images or distinct visions, just feelings and impressions. It is hard to describe, but that was the sensation my grandfather experienced when he lifted it from the old leather-bound chest. He knew that no longer was he just Matt Mason Jr. He was meant for something more.

Matt Jr.'s father was not too happy when he discovered what his son had found, but being the understanding type he told him the story of The Southern Cross. My grandfather says it was a story that inspired him for the rest of his life. Much like the expensive and hard to find American comic books he treasured in his youth the story offered him the possibility of excitement and courage. His mind was made up even before the story was ended. His father tried to persuade him from his course, but by 1970 The Southern Cross was a household name on the lips of everyone in Melbourne and soon after that, everyone in the country. His colorful costume and the news reports of his daring adventures captivated the minds and hearts of all Australians. He wore the flag of his country proudly and in a time when Australians were once again trying to forget the woes of war and economical depression he was a beacon of hope. Unlike his father, Matt Jr. wore a half-mask, and even though my grandda was the off spring of a black Australian man and a white French woman, his complexion was light. He was often considered passable for a white person, and no one ever seemed to know that the man they praised was in fact of Aboriginal heritage.

The second Southern Cross had a career that spanned more than 25 years, and even to this day when many people hear the name, Southern Cross, it is my grandda they think of. Yet, Matt Mason Jr. was more than just a hero in a mask, he was also a husband, a father, and a mentor to his own son. My father, Matthew Mason III, was born in 1971 and almost from the first moment his father held him, it was assumed that he would one day take up the mantle of the Southern Cross. Young Matthew was trained almost from the moment he could walk for one purpose and one purpose alone, to be a costumed hero. I have to imagine that the added stress of rigid training schedules, high expectations, and living in the shadow of his own father could not have been easy for the young Matthew. Maybe that is part of the reason why he rebelled as he did. The mischievous streak that so gave my grandda and my great-grandfather their unique humor turned to a mean streak in my father. I am told he was an angry and moody child, often running away or using his training and physical conditioning to intimidate other children. My grandda said he once had to pull his twelve year-old son out of a bar fight. I was also told he was winning.

My father, the third
Southern Cross

When Matthew Mason was sixteen he got very heavily involved in Aboriginal culture and ideals, specifically the story of his own grandfather and the shame he was forced to endure even while he was held up as a hero. Matthew was only a quarter Kurnai, but he quickly embraced his lost heritage. It was a sore point between him and his father, as Matthew often chided my grandda for selling out by wearing the flag of a nation that had so long repressed their people. He often accused my grandfather of dishonoring the memory of his own father by wearing a mask and the colors of the corrupted Australian government. He said that the original Southern Cross was forced to wear a mask and the colors of his oppressors, but that my grandda did so willingly.

Despite all the harsh words, fights, and arguments my grandda never stopped loving his son, and in 1992, the second Southern Cross retired his mask and officially handed the hero's mantle to his own son, Despite all my father's protests he willingly accepted the responsibility given to him, but he did so on his own terms.

The third Southern Cross was very unlike those that had come before him. Where his grandfather was a war hero, and his father had been a national icon, my father chose to become a hero of the shadows. He covered his face in a full mask in honor of the first Southern Cross and from that moment on he struck terror into the hearts of all criminals. People quickly realized that no longer was the Southern Cross a colorful hero of the people. No longer did he walk among them, pose for pictures with the police, or even stop to rescue a lost kitten from a tree. No, the new Cross was an avenger who cloaked himself in darkness. By the time his enemies realized he was among them it was too late, and as quickly as he appeared he was gone. In the 90's the Southern Cross was a creature of the night. It was a name whispered with equal terror and awe among anyone who walked a dark alley or caught the glimpse of a rooftop shadow. Unfortunately, my father's career was not to be long lived.

I was born in 1992, only a few months after my father took the mantle of the Cross. Breaking tradition he named me, Connor Mason. My mother disappeared when I was still very young. My father never said so, but I can imagine it must have been a strain for him to be a single parent. Of what I remember of those early years, I spent a lot of nights with my grandparents. They often watched me while my father was off risking his life, but every morning he would pick me up and bring me happily home. Then came one morning when he never arrived. I was only seven, but it is a day I will never forget. One of my grandfather's old nemsis' The Bushranger had come looking for revenge. He found it in the form of my father.

For the costume of the fourth Southern Cross,
I returned to a more classical look, but updated
for the modern time.

I never had any illusions about the dangers of the family business, but somehow you never expect it to happen. Maybe the media and all those American movies teach us that the hero always wins and that the good guy will find a way to survive, but its not always true. I suppose when it comes right down to it, my family has chosen to live by the sword and sometimes that means you have to die by it as well.

My grandparents received custody of me and raised me as their own. I was never without love or kindness in my life, but I missed my father. I could tell that my grandfather did too. I think it was when I was 10 years old when I started asking if I could become the Southern Cross. Grandda often ignored the question and changed the subject. He seemed more content to let the legacy of the Southern Cross die with my father, but I was a persistent kid. I do not even know how I ever got it in my head that I wanted my grandda to train me to be the Southern Cross. Maybe I felt like I had a responsibility to honor my father, or maybe I just had that same curious mischievous streak as my grandda, but for whatever reason I kept on asking. When I was 16 I stole the shield from my grandda's safe and practiced with it in secret. A few months later, while wearing a paper bag on my head I used it to stop a mugging a few blocks away from our house. My grandda was furious when he found out, but I think it was the final straw. After that he agreed to train me.

Two year later my grandda passed away. The doctors said they caught the cancer too late. It was the night after his funeral that I first put on my costume. The world has been without a Southern Cross for over ten years now, but even though I am still inexperienced I made a promise to my grandda, to my father, and to myself that I will not turn my back on anyone who needs help. I will always try to honor the past and my ancestors even as I look toward forging a new future for everyone, despite color, race, or culture. After all, this power was passed down from ancient times for a purpose. It was not given to win a war but to forge an understanding. Much like me, Australia is still young, but it is also strong. As long as there is one who wears the five stars of the Cross than it will be a country of justice. That is my story and that is my promise.

Fire and Rescue

Melbourne Metro Fire Brigade

For those of you that do not know, Firefighters date back to colonial times when Benjamin Franklin accidental set his Philadelphia residence on fir,e after a rather raucous party of drinking, dancing, and French women of questionable repute (or as Ben called it, a Tuesday) Thinking quick he offered some homeless people a loaf of bread to put out the fire. They promptly did so, but by the time they were done Ben had already eaten the promised bread, and thus the volunteer fire service was born.

For over two-hundred years not much changed in the fire service, than one day, I became a volunteer firefighter. It is a past time which I enjoy, and it is full of people whom I think of as my second family. And even though I am not always the most faithful or skilled member of the fire service, after so long it does sort of get in your blood. Maybe that is why I grow so disproportionately excited in Australia whenever I see a red truck of flashing lights and ladders go racing past me, as it heads off to face dangers unimagined (like an overheated car, or the ever dangerous burnt food on a stove.)

Among the many things I had hoped to accomplish was to investigate the fire service of Australia, though other matters sometimes seemed to get in the way. I was given a first hand chance in Cairns, when at 3 AM the hostel's fire alarm sounded. Most residents of course just rolled over and refused to move or even evacuate, but I (like a small child) was drawn to what I knew would inevitably follow. I watched as three fire trucks rolled up and bleary eyed yellow-coated men climbed off them (wearing those unfortunate salad bowl helmets). They went about their business of silencing the alarm, followed by a customary sweep just to ensure that it was dust which set off the annoying thing. They left as quickly as they came and we all retired to sleep. For me it was a novel experience to be one of the angry sleepy guests as opposed to the angry sleepy  fireman. The that can usually be found asleep in one of the jump seats. (I told you I'm not the best.)

My next encounter happened in Brisbane, when one of the hostel's resident hippies (damn long haired hippies) burned his salad and tofu causing the fire alarm to go off. Again I was drawn to the scene as we waited for the arrival of our nomex and kevlar clad saviors. This time though I was able to engage one of the arriving fireman in a conversation, asking mainly why they weren't using a thermal imaging camera (just to be sure.) He responded to me that TIC's are not as widely used in Australia as they are in America (though he admitted that they owned one... somewhere.) I was invited back to take a look at the station and my new friend also had several questions about firefighting life in the States. Of the answers that seemed to most surprise him was the fact that our trucks were made by the Pierce manufacturing company, which he had never heard of.

Scania Heavy Pumper: A first turnout appliance
with heavy pumping capabilities 4500 L/m
and the ability to carry rescue equipment.

Most Australian fire trucks are made by the a company called Scania or Simon, though they do have six imported American La France pumpers all of which belong to the Queensland Fire and Rescue Service. In all my time in Australia the closest thing I have ever seen resembling any sort of ladder truck is a few models more closely resembling what we colloquially call a Squirt. However, when I was in Brisbane I did finally find a truck called, an Aerial Ladder Platform which has a boon height of approximately 40 meters (120 feet), and works closer to what we in the states (specifically in Saddle Brook) would call a Snorkel. Probably the worst part about the Australian fire trucks is that they are completely covered in roll-up doors, which is just kind of ugly.

However, it probably has more to do with the fact their their pumpers are meant to operate in urban settings with restricted room. The Australian fire services such as the Metropolitan Fire Brigade (the Aussie way of saying Melbourne Fire Department) is different from our American fire service due to the fact that most of the population of Australia is clustered around metropolitan areas. Thus, the Melbourne area MFB, handles not only the city, but the suburbs surrounding the city of Melbourne as well. This sort of regionalized approach to the fire service cuts down on the need for volunteer firefighters like myself. There are however, reserve volunteer firefighters, and volunteer fire departments do exists in many of the more rural distant areas of the country (far far from the cities.) This of course doesn't even count the small outback towns with population quotas of 8 people, (where their idea of a fire department is having Ma fetch the water from the well while Jimmy and Pa try to stamp out the fire with their boot heels.)

Turnout gear seems pretty simple (aside from the salad bowl helmets, though even those are common enough in the States that it is barely worth mentioning.) Interestingly enough though, all fireman where white helmets, except for officers who wear yellow, and the commissioner (the chief) wears a a black hat. This is the complete reverse of American standards where we all wear black hats and the chief wears white. And of course, the Aussie turnout gear is yellow with thousands of reflective stripes, because in Australia you would think everyone lived on the side of a major highway, with the way the entire country seems obsessed with being bright enough to be seen by cars. (I once had to wear a reflective traffic vest while I spent the entire day working in an office building lifting boxes. It helped keep me safe from all the indoor flying cars that were around.)

The SCBA (Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus) that the Australians use also seemed pretty standard by our terms. It runs off the same positive pressurized system as the ones we use in the States. Most even have a 45 minute air supply, though some can be fitted for dual bottle use for extended oxygen supply. The most interesting thing about their Scott packs (as we say in the SB) is that in Queensland they called them CABA's or Compresses Air Breathing Apparatuses, or even just BA's (not that kind of BA) or Breathing Apparatuses.

The Heavy Rescue truck comes with a detachable back end,
because why lug an entire truck around when you can
just set down the equipment cabinents and go get coffee.

Now when we get to the most important equipment in a firefighter's arsenal, the hose, we find a wide variety of hoses for different jobs, and it is clear that the Aussie firefighters do like playing with their hoses, (because lets get that joke out of the way now.) When the Aussies need a low-pressure lines, they have a hose with a diameter of 38 millimeters and a pressure rating of 4500 KPA (Kilo-Pascals) (roughly 650 PSI). More powerful lines have a diameter of 25 millimeters and a pressure rating of 6500 KPA (roughly 1000 PSI). On larger 64 millimeter supply lines, the Australians use a CFA-3 Thread coupling, which is described best by wikipedia: used mainly on the Australian 64 mm hose, it provides a very secure coupling, obviously (Obviously!) the threading of the coupling is repeated 3 times, it is non-hermaphrodite. Other than that all hose comes in lengths of of 20 meters (60 feet) and have fairly standard looking couplings and nozzle fittings including both a male and a female ends, (that's what she said.)

I think probably one of the most interesting things I have uncovered is that the fire classes are different. Class A is exactly the same as it is considered ordinary combustibles. However, in Australia Class B is for flammable liquids and Class C is for flammable gases, but in America both liquid and gases a classified as Class B. Similarly, Class D (combustible metals) is the same for both countries, but what we call Class C (Electrical equipment/fires) is called Class E in Australia. Even weirder Europe has no class for electrical fires... so I guess at least Australia has the upper hand in that situation.

Now, if you are not a firefighter all the little minutia I just explained is probably meaningless, but I can tell you one big difference between the Australian and American fire service that all laymen can understand, Australia has a lot more brush fires. They call them call Bush Fires and they are rampant. In the states we call them Forest Fires and they are only mostly a problem if you live in California (and lets face it, anyone who actually chooses to live in California is probably asking for it, at least on some level.) However, in Australia bush fires are a big problem resulting a lot of days called Black Sunday and Black Friday. Contrary to what you might think these are not major shopping days. They are in fact days when entire swathes of the country have gone up in horrific and deadly flames, most of which has made a lot of the populace terrified of fire. That is also why many of the fire brigade's training and efforts are also directed at forest fire fighting techniques as well as structural fire fighting.

That is also why when you travel across Australia you will always see defensive fire lines being burned in the outback's underbrush. These lines of burnt forest are meant to act as fire blocks against any uncontrollable bush fires... and unlike in America, they happen every year. Basically you are looking a large area of dry forest under a constantly baking sun and often plagued with droughts and lack of water supply. This is a recipe for major disaster on a yearly cycle. It is also a problem that plagues all areas, both rural and urban.

Truthfully though, there is not much difference between Australia and America in terms of tactics, training, and even job requirements. For instance an Australia firehouse has exactly what you would expect it to have, a common room, a truck room, a kitchen, a bunk room, etc. In the grand scheme of things we are not very different from our Australian cousins, or more accurately they are not much different than us, (as many of their equipment, training, and general approaches to firefighting were adapted from American standards.)The only real difference is that in Australia you need a Class C license to drive a fire truck. Not in America. (Because who cares if you’re not qualified to drive a tractor trailer, you can still be behind the wheel of hundreds of tons of steel and water as you weave you way through rush-hour traffic at 60 mph.) Of course this is also a country that requires you to get a different type of driver's license depending on whether you want to drive manual or automatic transmission cars.

If I take anything away from this trip it is that firefighting is a true community (even if they call it a brigade and not a department). Even when I am on the other side of the world I still meet dedicated, hardworking, and welcoming people who are just as willing to risk their lives for others as any member of the fire service back home. Now if only their trucks didn't have those damn roll-up doors.

Indigenous Australians

Aboriginal man attacking with a boomerang.

WARNING: This blog may contain the images of Aboriginal people either living or dead. (It is a warning that must be given before programs making use of Aboriginal video or pictures, as the Aboriginal people hold a belief that seeing their own reflection or the unnatural image of another Aboriginal is considered to be... for lack of a better term... bad bad juju.)

This has been a subject I have put off writing about for sometime now. Talking about Aboriginals in Australia can sometimes be a touchy subject, and I suppose I may have acquired some of that reluctance from the people of my adopted country. However, the indigenous Australians are certainly a fascinating and worthy subject to talk about and I have gone to great lengths to learn and meet them. Their ways are strange, especially from the viewpoint of Western people of white European descent, and for the most part much of their culture still remains a mystery even to this day.

Before I begin I should make something clear. I am using the term Aboriginal as a blanket word for the indigenous population of Australia, when in truth Australia's indigenous people are in fact made up of both Aboriginals and the later arrivals of the Torres Strait Islanders. Even among the people one typically classifies as Aboriginals they can be furhter divided into numerous local communities, each with their own dialects and interpretations of their larger spiritual and social beliefs. In short, among the Aboriginal people there are over 200 spoken forms of language (which was believed to have been upwards of 300 with over 600 dialectal inflections at the time of the arrival of white settlers, but has since dwindled.) Regardless, it is best to understand that much like Native American tribes, the Aboriginal people are often split into different and diverse communities.

Yet, the most interesting thing I have come to discover about the Aboriginal people is that we have no really idea how or when they managed to migrate to the continent of Australia. There is a lot of debate among scholars. Most estimates put the Aboriginal arrival between 40,000 and 45,000 years ago. Scholars also postulate that they migrated through Asia when Australia was still part of a larger landmass known as Sahul, however there are kinks in this theory.

The biggest being that Aboriginal appearance, genetics, culture, religion, etc, do not match any that is found in Asia or the surrounding areas. So how could a entire race of people migrate through an entire area but not pick-up or influence the cultures of the indigenous people around them. The real truth of the matter is that Aboriginal artifacts more closely resemble ancient artifacts uncovered in sites in Africa than anywhere in Asia, which only raises more questions. To further complicate the issue archaeological sites have been found around Australia, such as the Junmium site in the Northern Territory, where Aboriginal tools have been found and dated to as far back 125,000 years ago... which puts it well into what is currently believed to be man's primative past. Even more puzzling is the fact that, even when Australia was part of the Sahul continent, it was still separated from all other land masses by a vast ocean, which would have required a sophisticated culture of boat making and sailing in order to migrate a substantial number of people to the continent to begin population efforts. This is even more true, if the ancestors of the Aboriginal people did not in fact come from Asia as some suggest. Even if we assume all of this, how did they even know that land existed to the south? It took Eruopeans hundreds of years to make it to Australia. So these ancient people either had advanced knowledge of an existing land mass or they were just hopelessly sailing out into nothingness. Further more they would have needed something better than bamboo rafts and leaves (which according to modern understanding was the height of technology at the time the voyage would have been made.) Lastly, this is all much further complicated by the fact that the Aboriginal people are not a culture of fisherman and boat builders...

The Aboriginal Flag

So basically all we know is that at some point some people built a sophisticated series of boats that was beyond the understood level of technology, (possibly so far back in time that modern understanding believes that homo erectus was still burning himself trying to make fire) to make a sea voyage to a continent which they could not have known was there in the first place. Then, to top it all off, they completely abandoned their boats and their knowledge on how to build them to beginning living a completely landlocked existence. As you can see, there are many problems trying to pin down the origins of the Aboriginal people. However, I like this mystery, as I think it illustrates a much larger point about the Australian Aboriginal. We always tend to underestimate them.

The white Australian, (or the white man in general) underestimates the Aboriginal for many reasons. Some of these reasons have to do with our own prejudices of course. We mistakenly believe that just because we come across a people that does not talk like us, walks, tweet like us, and stand in line to see Sex and the City 2 they must be of an inferior make. However, what really sets the Aboriginal apart is the fact that their cultural beliefs are so vastly different that many of the original European arrivals questioned even if the Aboriginal people were actually human. Clothing was a foreign thing to Aboriginals and most Aboriginals often acted as if the white settlers didn't exist. It was almost as if the Aboriginal people lived in their own world and were just content to simply ignore the new arrivals as if they were clouds in the sky. On other occasions Aboriginal people were friendly and even traded with the European settlers, and on yet other occasions they attacked them for what was perceived as no reason. Their motivations were sometimes perceived as erratic and without reason. However, one of the things that may turn off the most white people about the Aboriginals is how they look. Aboriginals often have an appearance of being broken, battered, and bruised.

This has to do with their rituals of initiation. You see the Aboriginal religion revolves around a series of (what we have dubbed dreamtime) stories that tells about the creation of the world. It is believed to hold secret knowledge and only those who have passed the proper levels of initiation are allowed to know certain secrets. There are many many many different levels of knowledge to Aboriginals, with usually only one or two elders or chiefs of different tribes knowing everything of their culture and religious beliefs. However, every time a member of the tribe reaches a new level of initiation they are taught the new piece of knowledge and then they are injured severely. This could range from having a tooth knocked out to having a bone forcibly broken. The belief is that pain heightens awareness... which in a scary way make sense. (Think back to the last time you broke an arm or even a finger. You can remember every little detail surrounding it, if only because it hurt so much.) Giving different injuries for different levels of wisdom, also means that when one Aboriginal looks at another Aboriginal they immediately know how high ranking they are among their society. (Thus, if Joe see that Bob has a crooked nose and is missing three teeth he understands that Joe is at Knowledge Level 6.)

I offer this particular cultural idea as an example of why white Europeans often thought of Aboriginal people as inhuman. On the surface this may seem like a barbaric idea, but we must also understand another custom that the settlers thought was barbaric was the fact that wives had complete control of their husbands. It is true that Aboriginal people are still ruled by a male chief, but in the end all men are subject to the rulings of women, as the woman is giver of life. Seeing a culture where women was so dominant was also considered a backward and wrong idea by our European ancestors. We cannot judge a people because they follow rules and ideas we do not truly understand.

The signing of the Batman Treaty (which basically robbed
the indigenous people of all their lands.) Who would have
known that Bruce Wayne could be such a jerk?

Yet unfortunately, that last line is probably the most naive thing I have ever written in this blog. I mean after all, we are human beings and we do it all the time. Heck, part of the reason why I write this blog is to make baseless and vast assumptions about the population of Australia. So I am no less guilty of it than anyone else. However, with the arrival of the white settlers, life understandably got much worse for the Aboriginal people. Sufficed to say, the settlers brought with them all their set of Old World problems and a whole set of new ones. Disease, land rights, and even wholesale slaughter drastically reduced the Aboriginal population along the east coast of Australia and Tasmania. In many cases white settlers would actively go hunting for Aboriginal people for no other reason than that they were bored and had guns. Literally entire villages and tribes were wiped out for no FREAKIN reason whatsoever.

The real tragedy of this sort of killing (I mean besides the usual tragedy of mass genocide) is that since the initiation rites of the Aboriginal people were so strict, and the fullest cultural knowledge was only known to a select few elders, many of their rich heritage, stories, and religious mythologies were lost. Basically, if only two people in a whole tribe know all the great stories and spiritual ways, and they are walking along one day and shot by an English convict (who in hindsight probably shouldn't have been armed in the first place), than your culture has just lost the major part of its history and spirituality... forever. That would have been like if Homer wrote the Illiad and moments after completing it, he took an arrow in the head and the only copy was burned... Well... there goes the culture.

But all that is in the past right? I mean that's just what happens in the "little incidents" of colonization? It is true that these are the extreme examples and as an American I should be the last one throwing any kind of stones. God knows we have enough to answer for with things like that old Trail of Tears hanging over our heads, (...Thanks a lot Andrew Jackson...) And for the most part the killings certainly are a thing of the past... Even though in the Northern Territories they still continued well into the 20th century... However, it was not all peaches and cream for the Aboriginal people from that point on.

Australia has never had a lack of problems between the Aboriginal and Non-Aboriginal populations. Though there have been many injustices done, I will try to stick to the larger ones. Such as how Aboriginals weren't given federal rights to vote till 1967, even though they were still counted for reasons of population and were drafted to serve in both World War I and World War II. Even to this day many full-blooded Aboriginals are still not issued birth documents. That means they do not get a birth certificate or a TFN (the Aussie version of a social security number). This means they often have problems when it comes to applying for things like home-loans, passports, or even college. The Australian government put most tribes on reservations (sounds familiar), and pretty much forgot about them. Yet, the worst epidemic that the white settler introduced to the Aboriginal people is alcohol. It turns out that Aboriginal people lack an enzyme to properly break down alcohol and it can literally stay in their system for weeks. Imagine having a bottle of beer and then being smashed for almost two weeks. I can't even imagine how long the hang-over must last.

1867 Aboriginal Cricket Team (Perhaps one of the worst
things that the English ever forced upon the indigenous
Australian... the game of cricket.) 

However, none of this compares with the coup-de-grace of this whole thing, which is effectively known as the Stolen Generations. For 100 years from 1869 up until even the 1970's the Australian government would take Aboriginal children away from their parents and tribe. They would tell the child that their loved ones were dead and gone, and then they would put those children in education centers where they would be taught how to be Australian. The government justified this move as they were protecting the children from the abuse and destitution they would have suffered under their parents. In most cases this was all done without trials or legal proceedings. It just happened. Literally, tens of thousands of children were forcibly taken from their families and were raised to never know their own language, their own beliefs, their own mothers, fathers, and even sisters and brothers. They were not even taught their own names, but the Westernized names they were given. It was a move meant to effectively eradicate Aboriginal culture and heritage... and it almost worked.

Eventually the sixties and seventies came, and the new public outcry put a stop to all of it, (which proves that maybe hippies are good for at least one thing... two if you count all the money they must have made selling those peace sign necklaces.) But that's the end of it right? Racism solved... No... though som Aussies think so.

Australia is a weird mix sometimes and its hard to know what to truly make of it. In many ways Aussies are very PC (Politically Correct). They will never speak out of turn about anyone of any race, creed, religion, ethnicity, etc, but on the other hand the more time you spend here the more you realize that is more for appearances. Yet, I have been involved in several conversations with white Australians where I have been amazed by some of the assumptions people have about the indigenous population. Furthermore, this translates into a larger problem. The Aboriginals are a people that most Aussies would rather not think too much about. They like the idea of them (as anything we think of as Australian: Boomerangs, Didgeridoos, those cool dotted paintings, are actually Aboriginal in origin). It is often to the point where many politicians just tend to ignore bigger issues, becaue if theym mention  these problems tends they tend to be labeled as racist or troublemakers.

What some people do not realize is that most Aboriginals which people see, are those that live homelessly in places like Alice Springs and Darwin. They spend all their days sitting on street corners drinking alcohol, and they cause a lot problems. (Think of how much trouble you can get up to in a drunken night and now extend that over a timespan of weeks and throw in some major issues about self perception and invading white hordes. Its a recipe for trouble.) However, these Aboriginals are the exception in a lot of cases. Those that are living on the streets of Aussie cities are the Aboriginals that have been cast out of their tribes and communities because they are drunks and trouble-makers. So when you see an Aboriginal living on the streets, nine times out of ten, he or she is probably not the most upstanding citizen even by their own society's terms. So it goes without saying these shouldn't be the people by which we judge an entire culture. After all, you wouldn't want all white people to be judged by that crazy guy who stands in central park and tells everyone his family has been abducted by space aliens?

The Aboriginal people have a ruch culture full of interesting and amazing stories. They have sacred sites all over the country, well before the UN ever proclaimed anything as World Heritage sites. To them their religion and their spirtuality is still very much real. They take their stories and their beliefs very seriously. We have minimized it by calling them mythology but to them the sorts of lessons and ideas which these amazing tales each are very real and very powerful. They have the oldest and longest enduring continual culture in the world and they have suffered a great deal for it. Their relationship with their white brethren is a complicated one, but we must remember Australia is not the only country that suffers under strained relations with its indigenous population.

It is certainly something as an American that is worth remembering. Every country has its own problems and its own sources of contention. Yet, there is hope. Because whether you are a American, Aussie, Native or otherwise, sometimes all anyone needs is a little understanding. In my experience it is amazing how even a gesture as small as a friendly nod, can go a long way.

Paradise Lost

Surfer's Paradise, where the sun is always
blocked by skyscrapers.

In 1933, the small and remote beach town of Elston voted to change its name to Surfer's Paradise in hopes that the name would attract more tourists. They named the town after the Surfer's Paradise Hotel, as I suppose the name sounded better than Elston. (They also officially did away with their town motto of: Elston, We Promise it's Not That Bad... Really.) the 1950's and 1960's saw the small quiet beach town explode in American style commerce and tourism. Much like anything that has to do with American-style development, the native vegetation was completely obliterated to make way for skyscraper like apartments and hotels as well as shopping malls, night clubs, and those stores that all sell those cheap T-shirts with those annoying ironed-on sayings. After all, it was the 60's and surfing was the new the craze along with techno-colored bathing suits, the Beach Boys, and an irritating notion of free-love or some such other junk.

Yet that is the story of how a small unknown beach town transformed itself and an entire area of Queensland beach into the glittering resort town that is now Surfer's Paradise. However, if there is one thing Surfer's Paradise hasn't lost it is the surfing. So, I figured it was high time I became a real Aussie and strapped myself to a surfboard like a scared and drowned puppy as I went screaming through the waves. I brought a package deal that included a surf lesson, 2 nights of accommodation, and even pictures. It all took place at one of the Gold Coasts many amusement parks (which still can't hold a candle to Six Flags.) At the time of my purchase it seemed like a really good idea till I showed up and realized that it was mainly me and a class full of embarrassingly small children.

"You mean I am suppoosed to stand on this thing...
but its pink?"

What I failed to take into account was that this was Australia, and only the children need lessons on how to surf. And even though I classify myself as a child at times, I still found myself uncomfortably beyond the average age range of the class. Apparently in Australia, surfing is something you take lesson for as a kid, not as an overgrown kid like me. Even to my instructor, I was an oddity. Considering he had grown up on the Gold Coast and learned to surf before he could walk, he could not simply fathom how I had grown up on the east coast of America and never touched a surfboard. (My explanation of: "I don't live in California," didn't quite explain it all.) New Jersey surf is not the greatest and the only boarding I had ever done was of the bogey variety... Still I made the best of a bad situation and pushed on.

Before continuing my story allow me to digress a moment and tell of another event I encountered a few days previous which I feel is relevant to my little narrative. You see while taking a short-cut through a community park I was actually fortunate enough to catch a Saturday morning baseball game taking place between two amateur teams. I was so astounded to see Australians playing baseball that I actually stopped and watched several innings. In my time observing this familiar sport played by foreign hands, I realized two things: 1.) I was alone on the bleachers, so it seems Australian baseball has to do something to up their attendance (Maybe they can channel Steinbrenner and ask for advice), and 2.) It was obvious that I was watching people who had not grown up learning the basic skills of a game that I have been playing since I could swing a stick.

Truthfully, it was almost comical at times, especially when you see a grown man swing a complete 360 degrees when attempting to hit a pitch, or when you watch the 3rd baseman completely fail to reach the 1st baseman on a throw. Granted the one team I was watching was amazingly awful and was losing the game 28 to 1 (That score is not an exaggeration,) but it was even the little things that gave it away. It was the way they took their eye off the ball, or how the batter often swung impatiently at the first pitch like an 8 year old Little Leaguer, or how the outfielders often ran too far in before realizing that the ball was going over their heads. They had the basic concepts of the game, but the instinctual skills which are drilled into American children (by overzealous and overcompensating parents) were just not there. I did however enjoy the game on a cultural level as it was especially interesting to hear the Australian accent as they tried to taunt batters or yell encouragement to their fellow players, (You ain't hitting that ball, mate).

Ahh... a quiet day at the beach.

Now, back to my original story, and the point of it all. I have to believe that I looked very much like an Australian baseball player while on top of that surfboard (especially when I slid into first.) I understood the basic concept, ("Wait let me get this straight? You mean I have to stand on this board... while its on the water?") but I was definitely lacking those essential skills and tricks that Aussie surfers probably learn in childhood. For instance, we were taught to do a 4-step dance move that would allow us to stand up on the board as it cut through the waves. And since this was not a Hollywood surfing movie, waves really only last 2 seconds (and not the 5 minute slow-motion montage I had playing through my head.) So more often than not, in the short time I had to combat my panic and remember what I was supposed to be doing I would wind up getting my feet reversed or I would do the pattern in the wrong order or even wind up backwards on the board. It was the kind of natural fluid movement which most surfers know instinctively, but which I could not seem to grasp as even a simple concept. I also learned that surfing requires a lot of waiting as you are constantly just floating in the water and looking back over your shoulder trying to time your frantic paddling with an approaching wave.

Yet, I am glad to report that at least some of my hard work paid off. In the end my instructor told me that I was very impressive for having never touched a board before. I had managed to stand up on the board more than once, and they were most impressed by the way I was able top jump up on my board. Apparently, I even was able to master the hop-up technique where instead of doing that stupid 4-move step you just use your arms to propel you upward on the board instead. It is a move I like to call: the Holy Sh... I'm Going to Die. So it should go without saying that, by the end of the lesson I was firmly at the top of my class. I crushed my fellow classmates like ants under my frantically dancing heels. I sent those 8-year olds crying for their mommies (who were watching from the shore), and in the end isn't that really the most important thing?

A Home on the Coast

View from the home of John and Roz.

My next stop was a place called the Gold Coast. The best way I can describe this long stretch of beaches and retail shopping would be to try and have you picture Miami. In fact, there is even a section of the beach called, Miami. Huge resorts, hotels, and malls tower over the sands and the thousands of people that flock there to lay under the ozone-less sun of Australia. I have visited many beaches in my time in Australia, but it has been a long time since I actually found one where I felt like I was at home. Australians do not always see beaches the dame way Americans do. They are for surfing, or fishing, and maybe vacationing, but the Gold Coast is full of people treating the beach exactly as we do in America. As for myself, I spent my days laying on the beach with a book and catching up on some sun.

The Gold Coast of Australia is the perfect place to get some sun or some waves. With ten different beaches stretched over 160 miles, you have your pick of both. As far beach front resorts go, the Gold Coast is one of the most recognizable areas in Australia. Perhaps then it is not surprising that the GC is also one of the American places I have been in this country. Over a hundred miles of golden sand and surf mingled with the kind of garish and glistening retail and resort areas you can only find in America. As much as I often applaud the spread of American culture to other countries, sometimes I see places like the the mains street of the GC, stuffed with stores selling Gucci and Ugs, and I wonder if maybe we sometimes don't go a little too far with our influence. Still, the "shore" feeling of the Gold Coast is inescapable. It is the kind of place where you can smell the salt air and hear the seagulls calling wherever you go. It is the kind of place where you can't help but feel relaxed by the feeling of the sun and sound of waves crashing against the beach. It is the kind of place where you feel like your one vacation, even when your not.

As for my own status of vacation, I can never truly say if what I am doing should be considered vacation, as traveling tends to give as much stress as it relieves. Still, while in the Gold Coast I find a modicum of peace, especially since I did not have to be crammed into a questionably clean dorm room with questionably bathed people. I actually managed to find the best kind of accommodation one can come by for a few days, a small home in the suburb.

John and Tony's pride and joy, a Pontiac Firebird.

For any loyal reader who might remember my former roommates, Tony and Lina, from Melbourne, Tony actually grew up in South Queensland, right near the Gold Coast in a small suburb named Robina. While living with my two friends I had some occasion to Tony's parents, John and Roz, who still live on the Gold Coast. Long story short they extended and invite to come and stay with them as I made my way down the east coast. So, all these months later, since I was in the area, I decided that maybe it was time I take a break for a few days and stay in a place where I don't have to fight for shower time or deal with drunk roommates at 4 in the morning. I happily accepted the invitation.

Thus, it was that I came to spend a few days and a few nights with John and Roz. I stayed with my two new Australian friends, as well as Roz's mother who was also staying for the week. So as I spent my days lounging on the beach I spent my nights eating family dinners and watching TV and talking about anything ranging from politics to American history. I must say that as thrilling as the beach and the resorts were, I found that staying with such nice and accommodating people actually was the highlight of my time on the coast. They treated me like I was part of the family, not only by offering me full run of the kitchen but also by inviting me to have home-cooked dinner with them every night. I enjoyed the few traditional Australian dinners, I ate, especially the meat pie. I had never had a pie of meat, and they were even more shocked to hear that it was not a standard dish in America. I was made to feel so welcome that not only was I given a tour of the home and the area, but also of John's shop.

A cabinent maker by trade he showed me where he worked as spent his days. It was quite enjoyable to see, especially since the entire shop was filled with a favorable wood smell, and pictures of all sorts of cars. Being a bit of an Americophile (A term I just coined to describe people who are really into American stuff), my new Australian friend (very much like his son) is into most things American, but especially cars. He gave me a ride in his Pontiac Firebird, which had been converted (at some cost) to left side drive for use in Australia. In the family garage they also have liscense plates from almost every state in the USA, and as I was visting, a New Jersey plate was proudly added to the collection. I was also informed that up until a few years ago the Gold Coast had held a large Fourth of July celebration and still has the tradition of trick or treating around Halloween (which is custom you can find no where else in Australia.)

As for my own part, I tried to play the courteous guest and I did my best to answer their many questions about my home country. They of course hit me with the usual questions and conversations regarding my home country, ranging from the movies to my thoughts on the Obama presidency. I have often said that one of the reasons I believe Tony and Lina originally selected me as their roommate all those many months before was not so much that I was clean or respectful, but because I was American. I somehow think I was not so much selected as collected. I can now see how Tony's passion for all things American, (whether it be cars or Seinfeld) comes so strongly from his parents. Still, I was more than happy to spend my time conversing about the difference between Australia and America to my temporary family. I was more than thankful for all they had done for me while I stayed under their roof, and as a thank you I even decided to cook them a traditional American meal, chicken parmigiana.

Its enough to make a man feel at home.

Okay, so maybe its more of a traditional North New Jersey meal, but let's not split hairs. It is really the only dish I can cook with some competence and flair, so it was going to have to do. They didn't mind since Australian chicken parm is radically different from American chicken parm. In Australia whenever I have seen chicken parm it has been served in pubs (weird) with french fries (weirder) and baked on top are thing such as ham and salami (weirdest). It can often come with other choices such as pineapple or even beets. So I decided to make my chicken parm the way my mother always did. I breaded the chicken, seasoned my own sauce, added three kinds of cheeses and baked at the proper temperature. Along with the chicken I also made a large portion of pasta and oven cooked bread. I made five plates (as Roz's brother was also in attendance for the spectacle I had made of myself while in the kitchen,) and made sure to heap on as much food as possible. We all laughed over the American-sized portions which I served, but in the end it seemed to me like my Australian friends had no problem finishing what "so much food."

I only stayed with the family for three nights, but I was thankful for the time, the food, and company I kept while I was in their home. After all, the Gold Coast was nice, but having people to share a warm home-made meal with is something even more special. Still, I was not completely done with my time on the GC. I still had two night ahead of me in the most famous section of the shoreline, a small little place called Surfer's Paradise.