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This one’s all over the place because I wrote it during turbulence.

16 Aug

[This was written on my way to Australia, but I’m just getting around to posting it. More on Australia itself soon.]

I’m not a fan of flying. I’m always about 50% convinced I’ll end up on the wrong side of the statistics. I know, I know. You’re going to tell me that flying is safer than driving a car, and that the odds of being in a plane that crashes are almost as great as winning the MegaBucks Lottery.

Thanks, Mr. Statistician. I’d like to tell you a few reasons I’m convinced the normal laws of probability don’t apply to me.

First: I got hit by a car earlier this year. (You’re probably tired of hearing about it, but you try hitting someone’s windshield and flying off their roof and tell me if you don’t feel compelled to work it into conversation occasionally.)

I’d wager that the odds of getting hit by a car are pretty slim. And surviving it with only a concussion and bruising? Even slimmer. Which is to say: I don’t mistake probabilities for assurance.

And then there’s the time when I was in sixth grade and our family vacationed at Jeckyll Island, Georgia. My dad and I were out in the waves, swimming, and I kept grabbing onto him because I wouldn’t let my feet touch the bottom. A clingy kid isn’t a ton of fun, so it’s no surprise that he started to give me a somewhat stern lecture.

“Babe, you really need to stop grabbing onto me. Just put your feet on the bottom. It’s sandy. There’s nothing here that – ARRRGH!”

His lecture was cut short as he hollered, scowled and began jumping up and down. When he finally lifted his foot above the water line, there was a large crab claw pinching his heel. The body was gone (apparently it had been shaken off) but the claw hung there, precisely summarizing why I wouldn’t touch bottom.

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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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When ignorance really is bliss.

3 Aug

Whenever I travel, I try to read a book set where I’m visiting. Usually I lean toward a novel and supplement it with guided walking tours so I can get a blend of fact and fiction. In preparation for my upcoming trip to Australia, I picked up something I read years ago, a non-fiction travelogue by Bill Bryson called In a Sunburned Country.

I remembered enjoying it (from the comfort of my couch in DC), so I thought it would be a nice primer.

WRONG.

Oh sure, it’s as funny and educational and telling as I remember. The problem? Bryson is fixated on takes great joy in regaling readers with tales of all the dangerous/poisonous creatures that inhabit the land Down Under. As someone who is a bit of an arachnophobe, this is NOT helpful.

(Separately, what does it mean that I’ve managed to weave phobias into EVERY post this week? I’m scaring myself. Is that a phobia too?)

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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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