I'm writing on location from the Hunter Valley, the nearest wine country outside of Sydney. The HV (not to be confused with the HPV) is magical, and every vineyard has a "cellar door," where they conduct free tastings. I got up at about 8:30 this morning and arrived at the HV at 11:30, and had about 10 minutes to use the loo and apply lipgloss (you know it's got to be poppin'!) before heading off on the afternoon wine tour.
The itinerary: 2 wineries, break for lunch, 2 more wineries, and then a cheese tasting.
My buzz is just wearing off.
I came solo, but connected through the IEP program's many hook-ups. I'm loving the fact that they let me come to their offices, dominate their internet, ask them endless questions, and haven't kicked me out yet. I also appreciate their willingness to get drunk with me without judgments (more on their "Canada party" later).
There were 4 other people on the tour, 2 pairs of pals who were all.... FRENCH CANADIAN!!! As they spoke their native French-Canadian tongue, my pulse began to quicken, for me all know how I feel about Canadians. I wasn't sure how to interact, and was already feeling awkward and lonesome.
Luckily, this changed after the first winery.
We headed to Drayton's, where the shopgirl was working her first day, and seemed to be quite generous. We tried, like, 7 wines and 2 ports, and were already giggly and tripping after 30 minutes, and our love of liquor acted as a cross-cultural bond that could not be broken. I was on the hunt for some Pinot Noir for BCB as a thank-you gift, so I tried to stay focused--which was nearly impossible considering I hadn't eaten breakfast and we were on to the ports before 12:15pm.
Our tour guide was Mike, a fair dinkum Aussie bloke who wore a loud Hawaiian shirt partially buttoned, allowing his tufts to gray chest hair to have some air. He and I chatted alot, seeing as I wasn't French Canadian and didn't have anyone else to talk to. He pointed out fun facts and cool locations, adding a hint of color and class to the tour.
"Oi, guys," he said as the FCs chatted, "over there is the Broken Back Range--that's where the gay cowboys hang out."
Oh, Mike, you're hilarious!!
At the second vineyard, we tried about 5 wines, but this lady was a pro, so we couldn't coax more tastings out of her. However, I did get a sample of the Aleatico, a wine so old that it's known to be Napoleon's favorite.
I think this makes me a dictator.
Over lunch, Mike and I chatted about the election, and about how I'm "not a normal American" because I'm traveling for so long by myself. "Most Americans come for a few months, over vacation, then head back. You're breaking the ice, Sojourner!" I'm all about the old weathery Aussie blokes, cause they are really friendly and random. Take, for instance, our trip to the third winery, the Bimbadgen Estate...
As we drove up, Mike told us about the concerts and events they often hold on the grounds, such as the upcoming concert with "Alicia Keys and that girl from American Idol--you know, 'No air, No air.'" Mike then proceeds to sing snippets from Jordin Sparks' "No air" for the rest of the afternoon in this really high-pitched voice, and for some reason, it never ceases to make me laugh.
Graham, the host of Bimbadgen, is another bloke, and as he gives us tastes he chats us up and ends up taking quite a shine to the blacktress. I tell him I'm staying for a year and he says, "I think you'll be all right here," after I make him chuckle with some one-liners. I reveal that I'm a blacktress, which he dubs a "very clever" term, and tells me their opening up a new theater in Cessnock--a town of about 5,000 just next to the wineries. He suggest I be their opening act.
As we head out (I unfortunately buy no bottles because I already picked up bottles at Draytons), Graham shakes my hand and says, "Blacktress, it was a pleasure meeting you. When you take over Australia, remember you started here first."
I think Graham is going to be president of my fan club.
I now write from the YHA common room, where I fight the urge to open a bottle of port--after all, I have been drinking for 4 hours already and it's just now 6:30.
Um, who am I kidding? I have an addiction.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
I Think I'm Turning Sudanese, I Think I'm Turning Sudanese...
I really think so.
So, yesterday, I was standing at a traffic light and rearranging my heavy weekend bag when this guy walking towards the corner and smiles at me as though we're old work pals. He then says, "nice hair!" in the same manner that a teammate might congratulate someone for a really good throw or something.
I smile weakly, as I've learned to do as a solo traveller, and he keeps going. "Yes, nice hair indeed.... Are you by any chance from Sudan?" I said no and smiled weakly again, and was grateful for the WALK sign.
This was not only odd because of his randomness and over-friendliness (I mean, even for Australia, it was too much), but because this was the second time someone had asked me if I was from Sudan. A couple days earlier, I was waiting for the train and I can feel this guy staring at me. Of course, I make sure to make no eye contact, but as the train comes I look in his direction, which provided him with the in he needed.
"Are you from Sudan?" he asks.
"No," I say as I board the train.
I think "are you from Sudan?" is code for "Are you a lady of the night?" cause it's just the most random of questions, and there are mad ladies of the night up in the city center.
Aside from perhaps being considered a prostie, things are ok. I spent the weekend in Kiama, a small beachside town 2 hours south of Sydney, where I hung out with my "Aussie mum." I met "Aussie mum" back in August in NYC, at the 50th birthday party of my favorite Australian. Aussie mum had a cig in one hand and a glass of red in the other and as we all danced to Michael Jackson, she said, "Oh, when you come to Australia, call me--I'll be your Aussie mum!" I knew right then that she was the one for me.
Her house is on an acre of rainforest in this tiny town complete with a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker (seriously--candles). Her son is an actor, and he and his gf happened to be around this weekend too, so I got to meet them both. Her husband was also around briefly (and he is a silver fox, I must say), and we discussed the election and how lame McCain is. They're very down for Barack here.
It was a very Australian weekend, complete with my first meat pie (surprisingly good), lounging on the beach, dinnertime barbie (bbq--not the doll), and midday cocktails at a town pub where a bush band played. Most of the time it was just me and Aussie mum, and she cracked me up. As I took advantage of her free internet, and profusely apologized for being online, she assured me she understood, for she too was an internet addict.
"It's just so great," she said. "You can find anything you need to know. I just love finding answers. I'll just be sitting around and I'll wonder 'Who invented hi-lighters?' and just go find out."
God bless her soul.
It was a really nice, relaxing weekend, and it was great to get out of the city and see more than just the tourist spots. Kiama's claim to fame is a giant blowhole--i kid you not--which can send water shooting up 3-4km.
I don't know if that's high or not, since I don't know anything about kilometers.
I also don't get the whole Celsius concept, which means I'm inappropriately dressed every day, unless I can google, "Sydney current temperature in Fahrenheit" the day before.
I'm so lost in translation, just call me ScarJo.
In random news: I got the following text from the Random Older Fellow this morning: "Want to come have steaks with me and my mum?"
This is not the first time he has invited me out to join him and his mother, people. I do NOT understand it one bit. Why would I want to hang out with his 90-year-old mom? And, like, what would he say? "Mum, this is the blacktress who was sleeping in the hostel I work at part-time when I'm not fighting fires or trying to woo younger women."
I joined him and some firemen buddies last Friday at a pub, and he told me that he didn't like Australian women. I mean, I understand ruling out a whole group (you know, like actors, or Greek men), but he lives in Australia. If he doesn't like Australian women, then he's in for a bit of a problem. He says they aren't "challenging," which is ridiculous--since when do grown men who quote lines from Anchorman want to be challenged?
He's pretty fun to talk to, and his fellow firemen friends were strapping as all get out!!! Many of them were in my demographic, and I wished ROF wasn't cock-blocking my flow, cause I could have been in there like swimwear. I was so tempted to say, "You boys should do a calendar," but being out of my element, I wasn't ready to put such things out there. Well, that, and the fact that I have no sexual desire whatsoever.
I kid you not. I do not want sexual eruptions of any kind, with anyone. On the rare occasion I do see someone attractive, the recognition only lasts a second before I just shrug it off and imagine how boring he'd be, or what little we'd have in common. I don't know what has become of me. Hopefully I'll get my mojo back soon so this blog can get really juicy!
So, yesterday, I was standing at a traffic light and rearranging my heavy weekend bag when this guy walking towards the corner and smiles at me as though we're old work pals. He then says, "nice hair!" in the same manner that a teammate might congratulate someone for a really good throw or something.
I smile weakly, as I've learned to do as a solo traveller, and he keeps going. "Yes, nice hair indeed.... Are you by any chance from Sudan?" I said no and smiled weakly again, and was grateful for the WALK sign.
This was not only odd because of his randomness and over-friendliness (I mean, even for Australia, it was too much), but because this was the second time someone had asked me if I was from Sudan. A couple days earlier, I was waiting for the train and I can feel this guy staring at me. Of course, I make sure to make no eye contact, but as the train comes I look in his direction, which provided him with the in he needed.
"Are you from Sudan?" he asks.
"No," I say as I board the train.
I think "are you from Sudan?" is code for "Are you a lady of the night?" cause it's just the most random of questions, and there are mad ladies of the night up in the city center.
Aside from perhaps being considered a prostie, things are ok. I spent the weekend in Kiama, a small beachside town 2 hours south of Sydney, where I hung out with my "Aussie mum." I met "Aussie mum" back in August in NYC, at the 50th birthday party of my favorite Australian. Aussie mum had a cig in one hand and a glass of red in the other and as we all danced to Michael Jackson, she said, "Oh, when you come to Australia, call me--I'll be your Aussie mum!" I knew right then that she was the one for me.
Her house is on an acre of rainforest in this tiny town complete with a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker (seriously--candles). Her son is an actor, and he and his gf happened to be around this weekend too, so I got to meet them both. Her husband was also around briefly (and he is a silver fox, I must say), and we discussed the election and how lame McCain is. They're very down for Barack here.
It was a very Australian weekend, complete with my first meat pie (surprisingly good), lounging on the beach, dinnertime barbie (bbq--not the doll), and midday cocktails at a town pub where a bush band played. Most of the time it was just me and Aussie mum, and she cracked me up. As I took advantage of her free internet, and profusely apologized for being online, she assured me she understood, for she too was an internet addict.
"It's just so great," she said. "You can find anything you need to know. I just love finding answers. I'll just be sitting around and I'll wonder 'Who invented hi-lighters?' and just go find out."
God bless her soul.
It was a really nice, relaxing weekend, and it was great to get out of the city and see more than just the tourist spots. Kiama's claim to fame is a giant blowhole--i kid you not--which can send water shooting up 3-4km.
I don't know if that's high or not, since I don't know anything about kilometers.
I also don't get the whole Celsius concept, which means I'm inappropriately dressed every day, unless I can google, "Sydney current temperature in Fahrenheit" the day before.
I'm so lost in translation, just call me ScarJo.
In random news: I got the following text from the Random Older Fellow this morning: "Want to come have steaks with me and my mum?"
This is not the first time he has invited me out to join him and his mother, people. I do NOT understand it one bit. Why would I want to hang out with his 90-year-old mom? And, like, what would he say? "Mum, this is the blacktress who was sleeping in the hostel I work at part-time when I'm not fighting fires or trying to woo younger women."
I joined him and some firemen buddies last Friday at a pub, and he told me that he didn't like Australian women. I mean, I understand ruling out a whole group (you know, like actors, or Greek men), but he lives in Australia. If he doesn't like Australian women, then he's in for a bit of a problem. He says they aren't "challenging," which is ridiculous--since when do grown men who quote lines from Anchorman want to be challenged?
He's pretty fun to talk to, and his fellow firemen friends were strapping as all get out!!! Many of them were in my demographic, and I wished ROF wasn't cock-blocking my flow, cause I could have been in there like swimwear. I was so tempted to say, "You boys should do a calendar," but being out of my element, I wasn't ready to put such things out there. Well, that, and the fact that I have no sexual desire whatsoever.
I kid you not. I do not want sexual eruptions of any kind, with anyone. On the rare occasion I do see someone attractive, the recognition only lasts a second before I just shrug it off and imagine how boring he'd be, or what little we'd have in common. I don't know what has become of me. Hopefully I'll get my mojo back soon so this blog can get really juicy!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Back to BCB--And More
So, I've received many emails and gchats regarding my new guiding light, BCB. Seeing as every day she teaches me something new (and I'm hoping we will soon watch the film "Something New"), I must elaborate on this woman.
So, last night, the friend I was supposed to meet up with was a Kellog's Frosted flake and never called. Luckily, BCB took me under her wing and invited me along to a local pub to meet some her mates. BCB is a fashion stylist, and needless to say is always looking fierce--even when she throws on, like, a $5 top and some Converse Chucks. She even manages to find EMPLOYED musicians, which is seriously like finding a needle in a haystack for the blacktress.
Anyway, I sit down to dinner and dranks with her 2 lesbian women from Perth (the most remote city on earth--Wiki that shit)--it was like United Colors of Benetton meets the L Word. One is a hilarious Asian lesbian (a hotter, cooler Margaret Cho) and and her homegirl is a mysterious South Asian woman(let's call her Parminder Nagra, just for reference), and we end up talking about going to Arrows-- a sex party for women somewhere in the nearby gayborhood.
These chicks are stone-cold sober, and yet somehow we end up discussing Vs, Ps, and that time Margaret Cho tried to kiss BCB--you know, cause everyone else was making out and she didn't want her to be left out.
I think we all know that scenario all too well.
On the way back to BCB's house, she pointed out a brothel nestled among the quiet homes on the street. I guess it wasn't exactly undercover, seeing as a random beefy dude was sitting outside, and just as we walked by, a man exited, as a tiny Asian woman in a bra said, "Thank you, good night!"
From my vantage point, I could see that the walls were red.
Note to self: if you need a red light special, roll Sydney-side, cause this place is Lefty Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all! Just brothels on residential streets, men rolling through like it ain't no thang.
Oh, speaking of Loosey Goosey, I saw THE AUSTRALIAN last Friday.
I know, I know, I'm keeping secrets from you, gentle readers.
I'd been on the fence about seeing the fool, but in a moment of weakness/loneliness, I texted him my Aussie number. I soon after fortified myself, but he kept texting, and I figured it was best to get it over with.
He met up with me Friday, as he walked up, I was pleased to see that he'd gotten a little chubs, for, as you know, nothign helps ease the pain of scorn like seeing the man you wanted to marry looking bloated and knowing he's single.
We drove around the city, seeing the sights under the cloak of night (so, of course, I have no clue where anything he showed me actually is). We talked for a while, and it was mostly silly. I realized he possesses one of my least favorite traits in a human being--over-confidence. He just thinks he's the jam and the jump-off, when really he's a self-righteous hot mess who's not all that bright.
I'm over him, I swear. The bitterness is just residual.
As our drive wound down, we reached a crossroads--literally. We were at an intersection that could take us to my hostel or to his apartment. He goes, "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there--do you want to go back to my place?"
I thought for a second, which felt like forever. I mean, his bed would probably be comfortable. There'd be no Swedes to wake me up at 7am. I wouldn't be doing anything I hadn't already done.
But I wasn't even trying to go down that road. I did not come all the way to Sydney to get into some old drama! I came to get into some NEW drama! Besides, does this fool really think a couple of litres of petrol (god, how Ozzie am I now?) are gonna get me to drop my panties?! In the words of Whitney: Hell to the NO!
Unfortunately, it seems that the Ozzies aren't really as down with the brown as I'd hoped--unless you count the girl who was standing next to me in SES (a clothing store in the mall). I was waiting to go the fitting room and she was passing by me and stops, RUBS THE BACK OF MY HAND, and says, "Oh, look at your beautiful skin!"
For serious, y'all. This chick touched me. I was 'bout ready to cut her.
Or, what about the Ozzie guy in the pub that I went to with United Colors of Benetton? I was ordering my bev, and he leans over and goes, "Your hair is quite nice," leering like the OVER 50-year-old that he was. I just gave a light smile and tried to will the bartender over to me as fast as possible. I gave him my order and as I waited, the old guy goes, "The rest of you is quite nice, too."
EW.
EW.
EW.
I grabbed my drank and ran back upstairs.
Lefty-Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all!!!
So, last night, the friend I was supposed to meet up with was a Kellog's Frosted flake and never called. Luckily, BCB took me under her wing and invited me along to a local pub to meet some her mates. BCB is a fashion stylist, and needless to say is always looking fierce--even when she throws on, like, a $5 top and some Converse Chucks. She even manages to find EMPLOYED musicians, which is seriously like finding a needle in a haystack for the blacktress.
Anyway, I sit down to dinner and dranks with her 2 lesbian women from Perth (the most remote city on earth--Wiki that shit)--it was like United Colors of Benetton meets the L Word. One is a hilarious Asian lesbian (a hotter, cooler Margaret Cho) and and her homegirl is a mysterious South Asian woman(let's call her Parminder Nagra, just for reference), and we end up talking about going to Arrows-- a sex party for women somewhere in the nearby gayborhood.
These chicks are stone-cold sober, and yet somehow we end up discussing Vs, Ps, and that time Margaret Cho tried to kiss BCB--you know, cause everyone else was making out and she didn't want her to be left out.
I think we all know that scenario all too well.
On the way back to BCB's house, she pointed out a brothel nestled among the quiet homes on the street. I guess it wasn't exactly undercover, seeing as a random beefy dude was sitting outside, and just as we walked by, a man exited, as a tiny Asian woman in a bra said, "Thank you, good night!"
From my vantage point, I could see that the walls were red.
Note to self: if you need a red light special, roll Sydney-side, cause this place is Lefty Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all! Just brothels on residential streets, men rolling through like it ain't no thang.
Oh, speaking of Loosey Goosey, I saw THE AUSTRALIAN last Friday.
I know, I know, I'm keeping secrets from you, gentle readers.
I'd been on the fence about seeing the fool, but in a moment of weakness/loneliness, I texted him my Aussie number. I soon after fortified myself, but he kept texting, and I figured it was best to get it over with.
He met up with me Friday, as he walked up, I was pleased to see that he'd gotten a little chubs, for, as you know, nothign helps ease the pain of scorn like seeing the man you wanted to marry looking bloated and knowing he's single.
We drove around the city, seeing the sights under the cloak of night (so, of course, I have no clue where anything he showed me actually is). We talked for a while, and it was mostly silly. I realized he possesses one of my least favorite traits in a human being--over-confidence. He just thinks he's the jam and the jump-off, when really he's a self-righteous hot mess who's not all that bright.
I'm over him, I swear. The bitterness is just residual.
As our drive wound down, we reached a crossroads--literally. We were at an intersection that could take us to my hostel or to his apartment. He goes, "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there--do you want to go back to my place?"
I thought for a second, which felt like forever. I mean, his bed would probably be comfortable. There'd be no Swedes to wake me up at 7am. I wouldn't be doing anything I hadn't already done.
But I wasn't even trying to go down that road. I did not come all the way to Sydney to get into some old drama! I came to get into some NEW drama! Besides, does this fool really think a couple of litres of petrol (god, how Ozzie am I now?) are gonna get me to drop my panties?! In the words of Whitney: Hell to the NO!
Unfortunately, it seems that the Ozzies aren't really as down with the brown as I'd hoped--unless you count the girl who was standing next to me in SES (a clothing store in the mall). I was waiting to go the fitting room and she was passing by me and stops, RUBS THE BACK OF MY HAND, and says, "Oh, look at your beautiful skin!"
For serious, y'all. This chick touched me. I was 'bout ready to cut her.
Or, what about the Ozzie guy in the pub that I went to with United Colors of Benetton? I was ordering my bev, and he leans over and goes, "Your hair is quite nice," leering like the OVER 50-year-old that he was. I just gave a light smile and tried to will the bartender over to me as fast as possible. I gave him my order and as I waited, the old guy goes, "The rest of you is quite nice, too."
EW.
EW.
EW.
I grabbed my drank and ran back upstairs.
Lefty-Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all!!!
Re: Your Ad Seeking a Shared Apartment
Here's an email I got in reply to my ad on gumtree.com.au (Ozzie Craigslist, basically):
The home is under 3 years of construcion. We have each convenience that you could always wish. We have a friendly community of neighbors. Portions of activities such as passages, bingo, klutch of the coffee, divided groups that roll and for every holiday. The restaurants, supermarket, the post office and the warehouses are within distance that walks. But now I am on a christain mission in west african and thats the main reason for which we are looking forward to give out this apartment for rent for $150 every week to a family who can take good care of our house as his own I will like to solicit for your absoulute maintenance. and also please fill in the rent details and get back if you are really interested in having our apartment so that i can know all about you before giving you the address as soon as you fill the form i will get back to you with the address of the house.
Looking forward to hear from you with all this details so that i can have it in my file incase of issuing the receipt for you and contacting you.Await your urgent reply so that we can discuss on how to get the document and the keys to you, please am giving you all this base on trust and again i will want you to stick to your words, you know that, we do not see yet and only putting everything into Gods hand, so please do not let me down in this my property and God bless you more as you do this,
Best Regards.
Yours Faithfully
Who is this "Yours Faithfully"? Does he/she/ze have a real name?
And "the warehouses are within distances that walks"? What does that mean?
How about, "Portions of activities such as passages, bingo, klutch of the coffee, divided groups that roll and for every holiday."
Dude, this is why apartment hunting is so tough. Religious missionaries who speak ESL demand your bank details for their "files," and the next thing you know, the blacktress is turning tricks at the base of Uluru to pay for her hostel fee.
The home is under 3 years of construcion. We have each convenience that you could always wish. We have a friendly community of neighbors. Portions of activities such as passages, bingo, klutch of the coffee, divided groups that roll and for every holiday. The restaurants, supermarket, the post office and the warehouses are within distance that walks. But now I am on a christain mission in west african and thats the main reason for which we are looking forward to give out this apartment for rent for $150 every week to a family who can take good care of our house as his own I will like to solicit for your absoulute maintenance. and also please fill in the rent details and get back if you are really interested in having our apartment so that i can know all about you before giving you the address as soon as you fill the form i will get back to you with the address of the house.
Looking forward to hear from you with all this details so that i can have it in my file incase of issuing the receipt for you and contacting you.Await your urgent reply so that we can discuss on how to get the document and the keys to you, please am giving you all this base on trust and again i will want you to stick to your words, you know that, we do not see yet and only putting everything into Gods hand, so please do not let me down in this my property and God bless you more as you do this,
Best Regards.
Yours Faithfully
Who is this "Yours Faithfully"? Does he/she/ze have a real name?
And "the warehouses are within distances that walks"? What does that mean?
How about, "Portions of activities such as passages, bingo, klutch of the coffee, divided groups that roll and for every holiday."
Dude, this is why apartment hunting is so tough. Religious missionaries who speak ESL demand your bank details for their "files," and the next thing you know, the blacktress is turning tricks at the base of Uluru to pay for her hostel fee.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
BSS and BCB
I just got back from my Bar Service Skills (BSS) course, which taught me the basics of bartending. We weren't allowed to use real liquor, but we worked the beer taps and practiced our fancy wine-pour technique.
We had to wear black pants, white button-down tops, and black shoes. As I walked to the class, I felt like I was on my way to a high school jazz performance, where we would funk up such classics as "America the Beautiful." I was a dash late, since I'm still getting turned around, but only one other student was there when I arrived.
Let's call him Crazy Eyes.
He had those wide eyes that make you think you've just handed him an amazing present and he's about to say, "For ME?!" He was very fidgety, which is always suspect, and I avoided eye contact. Two minutes later, I hear a hissing sound, and look over to find Crazy Eyes applying spray-on deodorant to his pits.
I kid you not.
This is happening in a waiting room.
I knew those eyes were a sign.
Only 5 of us are in today's clas, and we headed down to a bar in Darling Harbour, where we got down to biz-nass. Our teacher was a cool older woman who owns a pub outside of the city. As she went about the lesson, Crazy Eyes interjected whenever possible to tell us unnecessary information. For example,
"At home in New Zealand, you can go to a pub with an empty Cola bottle and just say, 'hey, mate, fill this up with some beer,' and they do it."
Um, really?
Apparently, he tried it in Oz, and they turned him away.
As I walked behind him, I noticed that his haircut was an even hotter mess from the rear. It was almost like a cascade, with the top level being short and spiked, and the back divided into two tiers. However, this wasn't a mullet--it fell just below his ears. Oh, and I should mention it was dyed orange. I know it was a dye job because he was rocking 1980s, Judith Light in "Who's the Boss?"-style dark brown roots.
Anyway, while I managed to tune him out and avoid looking in his mouth (don't get me started on the teeth), I learned much about pouring dranks/enabling addictions. The highlight was the role-playing at the end, when we each played a barman and a customer, and had to order 3 drinks. Of course, being the blacktress I am, I love a good RPG. As the shy Norwegian girl prepared to serve me, I put on my best "sleazy older gentleman" vibe.
"Hello, pretty lady, how are you today?"
[She laughed]
"Oh, by that laughter, I can sense a bit of an accent. Where are you from?"
"Norway."
"Ooh, precious. It gets cold there, eh? Do you want to snuggle?"
Then it stopped being funny.
Tonight I begin the couch-surfing lifestyle, and will be staying witha strong black woman from NY who moved to Sydney about 8 years ago. My mother knows her father, and I've basically been email-stalking her for the last 2 months. We met for the first time last week, and she is my shero.
She is the black Carrie Bradshaw--only without the whining and lameness.
She works as a fashion stylist, has a gay entourage to rival that of Bette, Liza, and Cher, and has taken the young Sojourner under her wing with no questions asked.
God bless her soul.
She's even started reading the blog, which proves she can indeed handle the TRUTH.
I told her of my dreams to be on Neighbours, and she told me that they're actually looking to diversify--holla at a blacktress' big break! Her son is an aspiring blacktor, but has already renounced Neighbours for more serious work. I think he has the chops to become the next Sydney Poitier.
I hope I won't put too big of a dent on her sofa, but when it comes to interim housing, Australian advice from BCB (as we're calling Black Carrie Bradshaw), is a hell of a lot better than tiptoeing around random Swedish girls, who seem to enjoy nothing more than crinkling plastic bags at 7:30 am.
Checking out 2 more apts. this weekend. Wish me luck!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Homeless Blacktress?
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.
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.
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.
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