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Somehow almost entering a 16k and the economy are related.

15 Aug

City 2 Surf 16k "Fun Run." Fun, my ass.

It was raining when I hopped a cab at the Sydney airport. I asked the driver if it was supposed to last the full day. “Don’t know!” he replied cheerfully. “Just started, but it looks like it doesn’t plan to give up, does it?”

Fortunately, in the 45 minutes it took me to reach the city, check into my hotel, and grab a cup of coffee, the rain subsided. The sky remained  grey and threatening, but I didn’t need an umbrella. So at 7am, I set out to get my bearings.

New York may have the reputation as the city that never sleeps, but I quickly came to believe that Sydney is the city that doesn’t sleep in, because the streets were overrun by people at 7am on a Sunday. They were all dressed in running gear and moving in one  direction, so I slipped into the crowd, determined to see where the action was.

Some people were in costume, so I found myself walking in a group of human bananas, with diaper-wearing grown-ups ahead of us and a lone man painted completely gold to our rear.

Of course I started interviewing people, and I learned that I just happened to arrive during the annual City-2-Surf event — a fun run/walk from downtown Sydney to Bondi Beach. It’s one of the largest events of its type globally each year, with 85,000 participants.

This was when I realized that Aussies really are tougher, because not only do they willfully hunt crocodiles with their bare hands, but their “fun run” includes many hills and is 16 kilometers. I’m pretty sure that in the US, anything more than a 5k ceases to be described as “fun.”

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Good on ya, mate!

13 Aug

I think they need to stamp "spiders" all over this map.

You may not hear much from Pithy this next week. I just landed in Australia, and I fear the connectivity in my hotel room + my tendency toward jetlag will conspire against frequent posts. Alan will probably be grateful for my silence, since he finds it a bit galling that he only just arrived from four months in London and I’m now skipping town.

All week, the reminders of my imminent departure seemed to plague him. He’d see my half-packed suitcase, the Sydney guide book or my passport and I’d heard a garbled, “ARGH!” followed by, “Are you trying to rub it in?”

For the record: I wasn’t. I just tend to be OCD, so I pack in advance. (Unlike Alan, who — returning from London on Saturday — managed to chuck all his belongings in a suitcase approximately 30 minutes before he left for the airport. I’m not claiming my way is correct. I’m just pointing out how well we complement each other. Different strokes, people!)

But I must admit, I found it fun to get a rise out of him in other ways. I’d ask (with a straight face) if he thought it was possible I’d pick up an awesome accent while I’m in Sydney. “No! You’re only going to be there a week!”

Then, after letting him believe we’d changed the topic, I’d randomly (and enthusiastically) bust out, “Good on ya, mate!”

He would pause, shake his head, and say, “Don’t even think about trying to incorporate any Aussie (Ozzie?) expressions when you come back. Do I need to remind you? You are only there one week.”

I would like to point out that — in the wake of his four months in the UK, most of which was spent working with other Americans — I have overheard him use Cheers, Smart and Brilliant in the course of normal conversation. I’m just saying: “Hi Pot. I’m Kettle. Nice to meet you.”

And no, I don’t expect to adopt any new phrases. I have no interest in being a poser.

Besides, I expect I’ll be too busy teaching them how to dance. (I did this at a discotheque in France once, dancing wildly to Eminem while declaring “Detroit in the House.”) After all, someone has to put the “Big D” in Down Under.

Detroit in the house, mates!

 

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In which we turn the bus into our personal taxi.

26 Jul

My friend Liz was in town from Atlanta last weekend, so her sister Lisa hosted a small get-together Friday night. Since it was a white wine tasting party, Holly and I decided to take the bus there together so we could enjoy ourselves without wrapping a car around a tree having to worry about driving.

We both have been exploring the bus system and marvel at how surprisingly convenient it is — once you know where you’re going. The maiden voyage to any single destination can be a bit of an adventure, however, because not all of the stops are included on the bus schedule and the drivers exhibit varying degrees of customer service.

We used WMATA’s “trip planner” and deduced that we needed to get off at Ward Circle. On the way there, I started to have second thoughts, so Holly walked to the front of the bus and tried to ask the driver. “We’re trying to get to Chesapeake Street,” she explained. “Is Ward Circle the best stop?”

His response? “I don’t know.”

WHAT? You’re the bus driver! Presumably you drive this route every day. How do you not know if Ward Circle is the best stop for Chesapeake? (For the record, Chesapeake is cross street, allegedly with its own stop – though it didn’t show up on the schedule – so that’s why we assumed he would know.)

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But Percy was so cute — until he started haunting me.

21 Jul

I’m a candyholic. Until about two years ago, I thought it was completely normal for adults to eat at least one package of candy per day. I still think that the pocket-life of a container of TicTacs is approximately 10 minutes, a sleeve of LifeSavers should last 20 minutes, and a bag of Skittles is lucky to see 30 minutes — and that’s only if I’m consciously TRYING to make them last.

I’ve always marveled at people who offer me an Altoid or pull a tube of Certs from their glove box. WHAT?! You walk around with candy reserves on your person? Or in your glove box? How is this even possible? Does not compute!

At least I seem to come by this trait honestly: my dad has a sweet tooth like no other. He finishes dinner (and often lunch) with a cookie or donut — or both. In a car, he will offer you a hard candy from his bulk-sized Ziploc baggie every time he fishes one himself — which is approximately every seven minutes. And at night, while reading, he mindlessly consumes Halls “Vitamin C” drops — which really have nothing to do with vitamins and everything to do with sugar — by the handful.

And the good news is that — with 30+ years on me, Dad has yet to show any signs of diabetes. SWEET. I’m keeping fingers crossed that this is one more lucky draw from the gene pool.

I tell you this merely to explain why, after visiting Alan in London this spring, a suitcase full of British candy came home with me. I could not stop myself in the checkout line at the Marks & Spencer. Fruit Pastilles, Wine Gums, Fruit Sherbets, Jelly Babies, Very Berry Smoothies, Milk Bottles, Midget Gems, Miracle Comfits…

SERIOUSLY?? Does Willy Wonka run this grocery store? And do the British not have the same sensitivity to the word “midget” that we Americans have?

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Like an ice cream truck, but with only one popsicle?

14 Jul

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Yesterday morning at work, before anyone else got in, Margaret asked for my help selecting a bouquet of flowers to send to a funeral. We chose an arrangement online, but when it came to order, we were a bit stumped.

“Name of the deceased?” the form asked.

Margaret’s cursor hovered in the space noncommittally.

“What’s the hold-up?” I asked her.

“I don’t know her name.”

“You’re sending flowers to someone and you don’t know her name?” I couldn’t compute.

“No, you dumb-ass,” she corrected me. “The funeral is for my friend’s mother-in-law. How would I know her name? I never met HER. In fact, this form is lame. Why does it want me to send the flowers to the attention of the deceased?”

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