Hey gang,
I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.
I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.
Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.
I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.
Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.
Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
So It Begins.... 17/10/2008
I told you I'd go into my male suitor, right guys? Well, I practice what I preach (TRUTH, for those of you who were confused), so here it is. For the purposes of this blog, let’s call him Random Older Fellow—ROF for short. He works at the hostel I’m staying at. I met him the night I arrived, after hanging out with J-Date. I was on a high from my first social interaction and the viewing of the Opera House, so I was feeling chatty. I went over to the desk, because I’d left paperwork there, and asked if he’d found it.
He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”
“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”
I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.
“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.
We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.
The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.
Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.
He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.
He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”
“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”
He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.
Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.
Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?
Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”
Nice one.
We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.
Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?
I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.
Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.
Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.
PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.
He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”
“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”
I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.
“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.
We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.
The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.
Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.
He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.
He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”
“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”
He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.
Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.
Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?
Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”
Nice one.
We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.
Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?
I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.
Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.
Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.
Learning and Growing, the Aussie Way
Blacktress’ Log, Star Date 16/10/2008, 11pm.
I think things are looking up, gang. I found the gays!!! This is a crucial step towards not only getting acclimated, but becoming an Oprah or RuPaul-like figure in the community.
I just got back from Surry Hills, a happening gayborhood in Sydney. I met up with a friend of a friend who’d I’d never met (you know, in true Blanche Dubois fashion), and she introduced me to her crew, which consists of elite gay visionaries and kindly heteros. It was a mix of Ozzies and Americans, so I got a lot of great advice, both from people who had been through the transition and those who have been in the know all their lives. It was the highlight of my day, the majority of which was spent in a dank room partaking in a Responsible Service of Alcohol course, which I needed to take in order to work with booze.
The interesting thing about the class was that the old Ozzie guy who was teaching it—in addition to looking like the Monopoly guy would after getting a bad hit with Community Chest—was really into booze. Although the main goal was to teach us not to let people get intoxicated and fuck up shit, he really just made me want to get a drink and engage in other vices.
Such gems included:
“Drink, Drink, Drink. That’s the Ozzie motto. We’re not here to stop this. The main goal is CYA—cover your ass.” Good to know. We’re not here for ethics, we’re here to avoid litigation.
“Okay, 15 minute break guys. You have time for approximately three cigarettes and a cup of coffee.”
He also spoke of the perils of both “drink driving and drink walking,” which I’d never heard of.
I think the best part was that we were told there’d be an exam at the end, and we had to pass in order to receive RSA certification. Instead of making sure we perked our ears up and really focused, our instructor would preface his important points with, “there will be a question on this, so listen,” and repeatedly reminded us that we could use our coursebook during the exam.
God bless the Ozzie ethic.
Although I was bored, I was prepared for this seminar after Wednedsay’s 3-hour orientation on the basics of the IEP program—what they offer, tips for finding a job, an apartment, etc. Like the RSA course, it was one of those typical meetings one often dreads in the workplace or in school: a person speaks aloud while navigating a PowerPoint presentation that shows exactly what is being said onscreen. You then are told toward the end that there is an accompanying book which reiterates all information covered both verbally and on screen. This would have been highly boring and irritating if the presenters didn’t have magical accents and random asides that really drove the whole “no worries” concept home.
Gems from the orientation presenters included:
Re: Choosing an apartment. “Bad smells don’t go away, both in life and in an apartment. If you walk in it’s a bit whiffy, don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s not, and the smell will probably get worse.”
Re: Beach Culture. “This is a great time of year to be in Sydney, and everyone will be on the beach. If you’re not on the beach, you’re not normal.”
In Defense of Vegemite. “We don’t do peanut butter and jelly. That is the most disgusting, most foul thing on earth.” [Note: when asked about my personal thoughts on Vegemite, I simply said “It’s…not the most pleasant flavor I’ve experienced.” Why Peter couldn’t be as diplomatic is beyond me.]
On Australian Wildlife. “It’s not a koala bear, okay? It has nothing to do with a bear!” [He was quite adamant about this, actually. I got a little uncomfortable.]
“We’re the only country that eats its national animal [kangaroo]. But they are delicious, seriously. You should eat them—and don’t feel bad. There are 21 million people in Australia and 140 million kangaroos, so we’re really trying to get through as many as possible.”
On Beach Safety. “The colors of the uniforms and flags are yellow and red, just like on Baywatch--we can’t pull it off as well as Pam and the Hoff, but we do what we can.”
“Alcohol makes you think you’re good at all sorts of things—like swimming—but you’re not.”
So far, I’ve been keeping pretty busy, getting back to the hostel (which is, seriously, the tricked out Cadillac of hostels—it’s out of control) really tired and feeling like I’ve accomplished something. I even looked at my first apartment yesterday, and although it’s only a 6-month lease, I think I want it—not only because it's a 3-minute walk from the train in a great area, but because the woman I’d live with is first cousins with none other than America’s Next Top Model photographer/judge Nigel Barker!
Seriously, there were pictures of the two of them on the mantel. There's even one with her, Nigel, Ms. Jay, and Twiggy.
When the other woman pointed it out, I reacted like any normal person would—by jumping up and down and squealing, of course. She really appreciated the enthusiasm, and even said she was excited to meet someone from New York. They say they’ll have a decision in a week, but I think I’m in there like (red-and-yellow) swimwear. Seriously, I must make this woman (and her apartment) mine.
Until then, I’m just roaming around the city, trying to be as friendly as possible. Today I met a lovely Italian man named Alberto, who showed me where to get free internet during the day. Because I hadn’t brought my laptop, he totally let me borrow his, which was tender. I knew I had him firmly in my grasps when, after hearing he was from Italy, I spoke the only phrase I knew: “Ciao, tu sei divortziato?” which means, “Hello, are you divorced?” He laughed, and asked me if I knew what I’d just said. I translated it, and explained that I don’t know much, but I know what I know. He has a bit of a hair gel issue, but I’m willing to overlook it because he’s too precious and nice, and I’m hoping we can do a language exchange.
Sonya, the German hippie in my hostel, is a gem. I actually make her laugh, which I always find to be an accomplishment when I'm dealing with a non-native English speaker. I told her the story of THE Australian, and she said, "You're very...um...hot-blooded."
I think she gets me.
Okay, well, my internet time is limited, but soon I will discuss my first male suitor. You can take the blacktress out of Harlem, but you can’t take the crazy-attractant off the blacktress.
I think things are looking up, gang. I found the gays!!! This is a crucial step towards not only getting acclimated, but becoming an Oprah or RuPaul-like figure in the community.
I just got back from Surry Hills, a happening gayborhood in Sydney. I met up with a friend of a friend who’d I’d never met (you know, in true Blanche Dubois fashion), and she introduced me to her crew, which consists of elite gay visionaries and kindly heteros. It was a mix of Ozzies and Americans, so I got a lot of great advice, both from people who had been through the transition and those who have been in the know all their lives. It was the highlight of my day, the majority of which was spent in a dank room partaking in a Responsible Service of Alcohol course, which I needed to take in order to work with booze.
The interesting thing about the class was that the old Ozzie guy who was teaching it—in addition to looking like the Monopoly guy would after getting a bad hit with Community Chest—was really into booze. Although the main goal was to teach us not to let people get intoxicated and fuck up shit, he really just made me want to get a drink and engage in other vices.
Such gems included:
“Drink, Drink, Drink. That’s the Ozzie motto. We’re not here to stop this. The main goal is CYA—cover your ass.” Good to know. We’re not here for ethics, we’re here to avoid litigation.
“Okay, 15 minute break guys. You have time for approximately three cigarettes and a cup of coffee.”
He also spoke of the perils of both “drink driving and drink walking,” which I’d never heard of.
I think the best part was that we were told there’d be an exam at the end, and we had to pass in order to receive RSA certification. Instead of making sure we perked our ears up and really focused, our instructor would preface his important points with, “there will be a question on this, so listen,” and repeatedly reminded us that we could use our coursebook during the exam.
God bless the Ozzie ethic.
Although I was bored, I was prepared for this seminar after Wednedsay’s 3-hour orientation on the basics of the IEP program—what they offer, tips for finding a job, an apartment, etc. Like the RSA course, it was one of those typical meetings one often dreads in the workplace or in school: a person speaks aloud while navigating a PowerPoint presentation that shows exactly what is being said onscreen. You then are told toward the end that there is an accompanying book which reiterates all information covered both verbally and on screen. This would have been highly boring and irritating if the presenters didn’t have magical accents and random asides that really drove the whole “no worries” concept home.
Gems from the orientation presenters included:
Re: Choosing an apartment. “Bad smells don’t go away, both in life and in an apartment. If you walk in it’s a bit whiffy, don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s not, and the smell will probably get worse.”
Re: Beach Culture. “This is a great time of year to be in Sydney, and everyone will be on the beach. If you’re not on the beach, you’re not normal.”
In Defense of Vegemite. “We don’t do peanut butter and jelly. That is the most disgusting, most foul thing on earth.” [Note: when asked about my personal thoughts on Vegemite, I simply said “It’s…not the most pleasant flavor I’ve experienced.” Why Peter couldn’t be as diplomatic is beyond me.]
On Australian Wildlife. “It’s not a koala bear, okay? It has nothing to do with a bear!” [He was quite adamant about this, actually. I got a little uncomfortable.]
“We’re the only country that eats its national animal [kangaroo]. But they are delicious, seriously. You should eat them—and don’t feel bad. There are 21 million people in Australia and 140 million kangaroos, so we’re really trying to get through as many as possible.”
On Beach Safety. “The colors of the uniforms and flags are yellow and red, just like on Baywatch--we can’t pull it off as well as Pam and the Hoff, but we do what we can.”
“Alcohol makes you think you’re good at all sorts of things—like swimming—but you’re not.”
So far, I’ve been keeping pretty busy, getting back to the hostel (which is, seriously, the tricked out Cadillac of hostels—it’s out of control) really tired and feeling like I’ve accomplished something. I even looked at my first apartment yesterday, and although it’s only a 6-month lease, I think I want it—not only because it's a 3-minute walk from the train in a great area, but because the woman I’d live with is first cousins with none other than America’s Next Top Model photographer/judge Nigel Barker!
Seriously, there were pictures of the two of them on the mantel. There's even one with her, Nigel, Ms. Jay, and Twiggy.
When the other woman pointed it out, I reacted like any normal person would—by jumping up and down and squealing, of course. She really appreciated the enthusiasm, and even said she was excited to meet someone from New York. They say they’ll have a decision in a week, but I think I’m in there like (red-and-yellow) swimwear. Seriously, I must make this woman (and her apartment) mine.
Until then, I’m just roaming around the city, trying to be as friendly as possible. Today I met a lovely Italian man named Alberto, who showed me where to get free internet during the day. Because I hadn’t brought my laptop, he totally let me borrow his, which was tender. I knew I had him firmly in my grasps when, after hearing he was from Italy, I spoke the only phrase I knew: “Ciao, tu sei divortziato?” which means, “Hello, are you divorced?” He laughed, and asked me if I knew what I’d just said. I translated it, and explained that I don’t know much, but I know what I know. He has a bit of a hair gel issue, but I’m willing to overlook it because he’s too precious and nice, and I’m hoping we can do a language exchange.
Sonya, the German hippie in my hostel, is a gem. I actually make her laugh, which I always find to be an accomplishment when I'm dealing with a non-native English speaker. I told her the story of THE Australian, and she said, "You're very...um...hot-blooded."
I think she gets me.
Okay, well, my internet time is limited, but soon I will discuss my first male suitor. You can take the blacktress out of Harlem, but you can’t take the crazy-attractant off the blacktress.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Am Blanche Dubois
For, like, Blanche, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
It’s day 2 in Sydney, about 11am on Tuesday morning, and it’s raining. I don’t really mind this because it gives me an excuse to be lazy and prevents me from being touristy. Yesterday took a positive turn, and gave me the boost I needed to keep my head up.
I first got a text from my Ozzie friend who was supposed to meet me, saying that she couldn’t come after work because of an event. I immediately got stressed and upset, wondering when I’d get my massive bags out of the hostel (seriously, the room is so tiny, there’s not even room for all my crap. I’m feeling very “Troop Beverly Hills,” compared to the other three girls’ “Outback Jack” vibe). I then realized I’d have no one to hang out with. I texted a friend of a friend who also lives in Sydney, and he said he wouldn’t be able to meet until Wednesday. Boo. Hiss.
I then went to the IEP office, where yesterday’s post was created, and then came back to the hostel, where I tried to look breezy and social while reading David Sedaris in the lounge area (which is huge—this hostel is hard core!). My eyes started to droop, but being only 2pm, I knew I couldn’t give in. My energy briefly peaked when I noticed a scruffy-faced bald man sitting on the couch. We made eyes a couple of times, but it was unclear whether he was looking simply because I was looking, or because he was feeling a blacktress’ sleep-deprived flava.
I worked up the nerve to chat up the foreign hottie as we waited for the elevator (my opening line: "Is it good?" I asked, as he ate an ice cream cone. For serious. I've got more game than Milton-Bradley). I learned that he was German, and actually working on building some big... building not too far from the hostel. I still, however, don’t know his name.
I simply planned to put my book down and take another walk, but all hope for beating jet lag went out the door when I went back to my room and saw that no one else was in there. I instantly went into freshman-year-of-college mode, where you immediately do something you hadn’t planned on doing simply because you now have the privacy to do it.* I went to lay down, and I was out. I figured sleeping was better than lamenting being lonely and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Soon, though, I received a call from my Ozzie friend, just checking on me. This instantly warmed my heart, and I felt like someone did care whether or not I was dead in a ditch.
Shortly after that (time is unclear when one is half asleep), I received a call from a young man I’ll call “J-Date.” I will call him this because he’s Jewish, we discussed J-Date at one point, and he said he really didn’t want his name on the blog.
A friend I haven’t seen in years put us in touch before I left, because J-Date was coming to Sydney on business for a couple weeks and would gladly hang out with me. We’d exchanged some emails, and I gave him my Aussie number, but was unsure whether or not he’d use it. One of the benefits—or downfalls, depending on how proactive you are—of my new Aussie pay-as-you-go phone is that incoming calls are free, so I’m pretty much waiting for everyone else to make the first move for financial reasons.
J-Date asked if I wanted to hang out, and noticed I sounded groggy. He urged me to wake up and fight jet lag, and said he knew exactly what I needed to see on my first night. I immediately woke up, put on something half-decent, and chatted with roommate Sonya, who I discovered is not Dutch, but German.
“I met a really hot German boy in the lounge,” I said, to connect with her culture.
“Did you?” She said.
“YES!”
She laughed. This could be because she didn’t know what else to say, or because she actually could handle Sojourner’s truth.
J-Date arrived 20 minutes later. He immediately ushered us into a cab, and told the driver “Opera Bar.” It was very bad-ass and James Bond-esque. He’d explained that he’d been to Sydney several times on business, and knew what was what, and “we’ve got to get there before sunset.” I mean, of course gut reaction was, “Will J-Date propose me? He is moneyed, and lives an international lifestyle. Granted, I’ve only known him 4 minutes, but we could make this work.”
We got out of the cab and there I was, in front of the Sydney Opera House. It was gorgeous. It was the icon. We managed to catch the final minutes of sunset, and the Harbour Bridge looked all magical and dynamic as the sky turned.
It finally hit me that I was actually in Australia. I got excited. It felt good.
We got drinks at the opera bar, which has a beautiful view, and J-Date and I chatted. I could tell I was pushing his boundaries, making him refer to me as “blacktress” at all times, and telling him I wanted to become an Oprah-like figure, but he rolled with the punches. He even revealed to me that he secretly watched “I Love New York,” and he agreed with me when I called her a tranny hot mess. He’d only arrived the day before, so we were equally tired, but managed to entertain each other and find a random outdoor burger place for dinner. As he asked me about “my plan,” he assured me that I’d be okay, and at times even told me I could probably be a stripper or turn tricks if things ever got really dire. I appreciated the vote of confidence.
I headed back to the hostel at 10:00pm, proud to have made it through my first Aussie day, and not having to go it entirely alone. I managed to sleep pretty well, although I was woken up by another vagabond who’d taken the bed below me and seemed to just be crumpling plastic bags, for, like, half an hour.
Today is looking up, and I’m feeling energetic enough to try and make out with a foreign stranger. The hot German guy is sitting next to me, using his computer. Wish me luck……teeehee.
Here's me. The direction from J-Date was, "Japanese Tourist."
*No, I don’t mean masturbating—but, whatever tickles your pickle (in this case, it would be you).
Sidebar: as I write this post, the radio in the lounge is blasting Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.” If that’s not a sign that I’m a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.
It’s day 2 in Sydney, about 11am on Tuesday morning, and it’s raining. I don’t really mind this because it gives me an excuse to be lazy and prevents me from being touristy. Yesterday took a positive turn, and gave me the boost I needed to keep my head up.
I first got a text from my Ozzie friend who was supposed to meet me, saying that she couldn’t come after work because of an event. I immediately got stressed and upset, wondering when I’d get my massive bags out of the hostel (seriously, the room is so tiny, there’s not even room for all my crap. I’m feeling very “Troop Beverly Hills,” compared to the other three girls’ “Outback Jack” vibe). I then realized I’d have no one to hang out with. I texted a friend of a friend who also lives in Sydney, and he said he wouldn’t be able to meet until Wednesday. Boo. Hiss.
I then went to the IEP office, where yesterday’s post was created, and then came back to the hostel, where I tried to look breezy and social while reading David Sedaris in the lounge area (which is huge—this hostel is hard core!). My eyes started to droop, but being only 2pm, I knew I couldn’t give in. My energy briefly peaked when I noticed a scruffy-faced bald man sitting on the couch. We made eyes a couple of times, but it was unclear whether he was looking simply because I was looking, or because he was feeling a blacktress’ sleep-deprived flava.
I worked up the nerve to chat up the foreign hottie as we waited for the elevator (my opening line: "Is it good?" I asked, as he ate an ice cream cone. For serious. I've got more game than Milton-Bradley). I learned that he was German, and actually working on building some big... building not too far from the hostel. I still, however, don’t know his name.
I simply planned to put my book down and take another walk, but all hope for beating jet lag went out the door when I went back to my room and saw that no one else was in there. I instantly went into freshman-year-of-college mode, where you immediately do something you hadn’t planned on doing simply because you now have the privacy to do it.* I went to lay down, and I was out. I figured sleeping was better than lamenting being lonely and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Soon, though, I received a call from my Ozzie friend, just checking on me. This instantly warmed my heart, and I felt like someone did care whether or not I was dead in a ditch.
Shortly after that (time is unclear when one is half asleep), I received a call from a young man I’ll call “J-Date.” I will call him this because he’s Jewish, we discussed J-Date at one point, and he said he really didn’t want his name on the blog.
A friend I haven’t seen in years put us in touch before I left, because J-Date was coming to Sydney on business for a couple weeks and would gladly hang out with me. We’d exchanged some emails, and I gave him my Aussie number, but was unsure whether or not he’d use it. One of the benefits—or downfalls, depending on how proactive you are—of my new Aussie pay-as-you-go phone is that incoming calls are free, so I’m pretty much waiting for everyone else to make the first move for financial reasons.
J-Date asked if I wanted to hang out, and noticed I sounded groggy. He urged me to wake up and fight jet lag, and said he knew exactly what I needed to see on my first night. I immediately woke up, put on something half-decent, and chatted with roommate Sonya, who I discovered is not Dutch, but German.
“I met a really hot German boy in the lounge,” I said, to connect with her culture.
“Did you?” She said.
“YES!”
She laughed. This could be because she didn’t know what else to say, or because she actually could handle Sojourner’s truth.
J-Date arrived 20 minutes later. He immediately ushered us into a cab, and told the driver “Opera Bar.” It was very bad-ass and James Bond-esque. He’d explained that he’d been to Sydney several times on business, and knew what was what, and “we’ve got to get there before sunset.” I mean, of course gut reaction was, “Will J-Date propose me? He is moneyed, and lives an international lifestyle. Granted, I’ve only known him 4 minutes, but we could make this work.”
We got out of the cab and there I was, in front of the Sydney Opera House. It was gorgeous. It was the icon. We managed to catch the final minutes of sunset, and the Harbour Bridge looked all magical and dynamic as the sky turned.
It finally hit me that I was actually in Australia. I got excited. It felt good.
We got drinks at the opera bar, which has a beautiful view, and J-Date and I chatted. I could tell I was pushing his boundaries, making him refer to me as “blacktress” at all times, and telling him I wanted to become an Oprah-like figure, but he rolled with the punches. He even revealed to me that he secretly watched “I Love New York,” and he agreed with me when I called her a tranny hot mess. He’d only arrived the day before, so we were equally tired, but managed to entertain each other and find a random outdoor burger place for dinner. As he asked me about “my plan,” he assured me that I’d be okay, and at times even told me I could probably be a stripper or turn tricks if things ever got really dire. I appreciated the vote of confidence.
I headed back to the hostel at 10:00pm, proud to have made it through my first Aussie day, and not having to go it entirely alone. I managed to sleep pretty well, although I was woken up by another vagabond who’d taken the bed below me and seemed to just be crumpling plastic bags, for, like, half an hour.
Today is looking up, and I’m feeling energetic enough to try and make out with a foreign stranger. The hot German guy is sitting next to me, using his computer. Wish me luck……teeehee.
Here's me. The direction from J-Date was, "Japanese Tourist."
*No, I don’t mean masturbating—but, whatever tickles your pickle (in this case, it would be you).
Sidebar: as I write this post, the radio in the lounge is blasting Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.” If that’s not a sign that I’m a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I've Reached Down Under!!!!!
Blacktress' Log, Star Date 13/10/2008.
I am writing to you from the future.
Saturday, October 11, 2008, at 10:00 pm, I boarded Quantas Flight 74 to Sydney, Australia.
I arrive this morning--Monday, October 13, 2008-- at 8:00 am.
I don't even know what's happening.
I write to you from the main office of the IEP Program that's helping me make this all happen. I can barely lift my shoulders from carrying over 140 pounds of luggage, but enjoyed the hostel shower far more than I expected to. I'm in a 4-person room, and so far, the only person I've met is a Dutch hippie named Sonya who had dreadlocks and an open heart. She lent me her nail scissors so I could open the plastic that kept me from reaching my padlock.
So, I already managed to lose my IEP program files--luckily I had copies made and hidden in another folder. The Australian SIM card I purchased is not hooking up to my Nokia as planned, and I'm hungry, but unsure of what to eat. But I'm feeling oddly relaxed--perhaps it's because I didn't sleep on the 15-hour flight, and am in a state of delirium.
I initially had a whole row to myself and thought things were looking up until the flight attendant told me some old broad across the aisle was going to sit in my row, because she'd just had foot surgery. I thought maybe she'd forget, but as soon as that fasten-seat-belt sign went off, she came right over. She quickly removed her boot and put her old-lady foot up on the seat between us. I tried to make the most of it, and watched Iron Man, Get Smart, and even Arj Barker stand up performance. I even managed to drown out the TWO crying babies sitting parallel to me. After all, it's all in your outlook, you know?
The granny went to sleep for most of the flight, but when she awoke, she wanted to talk to me about the election. Turns out she's a geriatric playa supporting Obama (holla!) and proceeded to tell me about an organization she's a part of that is "all about peace."
"Are you about peace?" she asked.
"Yes, of course," I said, as though she'd caught me brandishing a firearm and I was caught sheepishly.
"Well, so are we. We go to the conventions, go to DC, make sure maintaining and promoting peace stays on people's minds!"
She then proceeded to sing me a song she and her group had made up about Sarah Palin.
If I wasn't so loopy right now, I'd be able to remember it.
She also told me the name of her organization--and was also very careful to tell me to add the word "Alert" when I was searching for it, or else I'd be brought to a porn site.
"Oh no!" I said, pretending to care.
"Well, it's not so bad, depending on what you like," she said matter-of-factly.
So true, granny--so true.
Please note, guys: This is the beginning of the blacktress's blog down under. If you don't see a post at least every 4 days, call the authorities--lord knows what could have happened to me down here all alone with no one to care about my whereabouts.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Overheard In San Francisco
I'm moments away from heading to the SF International Airport, and had the pleasure of having my final American meal with my life partner/wifey. As we walked back to fetch my baggage, we overheard two fabulous gay men chatting in the Castro.
Guy 1 (matter-of-factly): Just text him and say "What is your penis doing tonight? Does it want to be inside of me?"
Naturally, my gut reaction was to fall to one knee and propose to this man. Unfortunately, I have a flight to catch and a long-distance marriage to a homosexual is just more baggage that qantas surely wouldn't let me have on board.
Okay, gang, that's all for now. The next time I write you, it will be from Sydney, Australia--14 hours head of NYC. I'll be writing from....THE FUTURE.
Wish me luck-- I don't want to end up re-enacting scenes from LOST.
Guy 1 (matter-of-factly): Just text him and say "What is your penis doing tonight? Does it want to be inside of me?"
Naturally, my gut reaction was to fall to one knee and propose to this man. Unfortunately, I have a flight to catch and a long-distance marriage to a homosexual is just more baggage that qantas surely wouldn't let me have on board.
Okay, gang, that's all for now. The next time I write you, it will be from Sydney, Australia--14 hours head of NYC. I'll be writing from....THE FUTURE.
Wish me luck-- I don't want to end up re-enacting scenes from LOST.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
My Baggage: INXS
Greetings from California, gang!
I got in yesterday, and boy are my arms tired!
(Has that joke ever been funny?)
Traveling is always jarring to me, especially when there's a time difference involved. I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn and my mom and I headed to JFK for me to catch my flight to SFO. Seeing as this is a stop on the way to Oz, I had two huge bags to check. I was worried about the weight limits, but thought that since I was only packing my cutest outfits, there was no way I could have more than 70 pounds in my bag. You can imagine my surprise when my spring/summer bag was placed on the scale and came in at 82.5 pounds!
Luckily, the lady at the check-in desk was feeling generous. The name on her tag read "Glo," and she kept calling me "Darling" and "Sweetheart." As my mother and I lamented the $100 fee, Glo covertly whispered, "Oh, just go ahead," all full of tenderness!
Upon arrival in SF, I was lucky enough to have my friend the Elite Gay Visionary pick me up in his ride. As we maneuvered my bags, we realized the first stop would have to be finding a third suitcase. Luckily, my former freshman year roommate came to fetch me and we roamed the streets in search of a duffel/sports bag.
NO LUCK.
As we climbed up treacherous hills, I started to freak out about this whole thing. Why am I going to Australia? I can't even pack properly! I'm certainly not cut out for a nomadic, backpacking, hippie lifestyle. As I started to feel tears well up (seriously), I realized that I had way more emotional baggage than clothing!
Would Qantas airlines refuse to let me on because my emotional baggage was too much? Would I tip the plane in unsavory directions with my worrying and freaking out?
Then, the following Australian tourism ad was brought to my attention last night.
I mean, racist leanings aside (what is with the barefoot Aboriginal youth coming to the confused white lady and showing her the way?), I guess I could find a boost from this ad. Perhaps I, too, will push my madness aside and jump into clear waters that got Nicole Kidman pregnant.
As I wait for my third bag to arrive, I shake off the annoyance of having to pay extra, and fight the urge to curse out Qantas representatives (how can I move to a foreign land for a year and NOT bring everything but the kitchen sink?!), and remember that soon I, too, will be finding myself through the help of a native.
For more on that cray cray commercial, check this out.
I got in yesterday, and boy are my arms tired!
(Has that joke ever been funny?)
Traveling is always jarring to me, especially when there's a time difference involved. I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn and my mom and I headed to JFK for me to catch my flight to SFO. Seeing as this is a stop on the way to Oz, I had two huge bags to check. I was worried about the weight limits, but thought that since I was only packing my cutest outfits, there was no way I could have more than 70 pounds in my bag. You can imagine my surprise when my spring/summer bag was placed on the scale and came in at 82.5 pounds!
Luckily, the lady at the check-in desk was feeling generous. The name on her tag read "Glo," and she kept calling me "Darling" and "Sweetheart." As my mother and I lamented the $100 fee, Glo covertly whispered, "Oh, just go ahead," all full of tenderness!
Upon arrival in SF, I was lucky enough to have my friend the Elite Gay Visionary pick me up in his ride. As we maneuvered my bags, we realized the first stop would have to be finding a third suitcase. Luckily, my former freshman year roommate came to fetch me and we roamed the streets in search of a duffel/sports bag.
NO LUCK.
As we climbed up treacherous hills, I started to freak out about this whole thing. Why am I going to Australia? I can't even pack properly! I'm certainly not cut out for a nomadic, backpacking, hippie lifestyle. As I started to feel tears well up (seriously), I realized that I had way more emotional baggage than clothing!
Would Qantas airlines refuse to let me on because my emotional baggage was too much? Would I tip the plane in unsavory directions with my worrying and freaking out?
Then, the following Australian tourism ad was brought to my attention last night.
I mean, racist leanings aside (what is with the barefoot Aboriginal youth coming to the confused white lady and showing her the way?), I guess I could find a boost from this ad. Perhaps I, too, will push my madness aside and jump into clear waters that got Nicole Kidman pregnant.
As I wait for my third bag to arrive, I shake off the annoyance of having to pay extra, and fight the urge to curse out Qantas representatives (how can I move to a foreign land for a year and NOT bring everything but the kitchen sink?!), and remember that soon I, too, will be finding myself through the help of a native.
For more on that cray cray commercial, check this out.
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