Tackling the Australian Rental Market is a post from: Lateral Movements

I have a new unhealthy internet obsession.

It’s not looking at cats, though. That internet obsession has plagued me for years.

Jared and I are officially looking for a place to rent in Newcastle. Preferably a bright, modern 2-bedroom near the beach and Darby Street with a secure parking space, but we’ll consider our options.

So I do what I always do when we need something; I turn to the internet. No joke, I check three different websites at least 5 times a day to see if anything new has become available. This is especially sad because the three websites always have the exact same properties advertised, so all I’m doing is wasting time while pretending I’m the star of my own version of House Hunters International.

Seriously, how did I ever do things without the internet?

Even as I type this I’m battling a powerful compulsion to check Domain, Realestate.com.au, and Property.com.au. I checked them all ten minutes ago.

In these early stages, I’ve learned a few quirks about the Australian rental market.

Weekly Rent

“Awesome,” I thought at first. “$500 a month for this sweet apartment!” After closer inspection, I realized my mistake – prices are listed weekly, not monthly. Ouch.

Short-term Leases

Leases are given in 6- or 12-month increments. Perfect for people like us who want an apartment with a little flexibility, since we aren’t likely to stay in Newcastle forever.

No 1-on-1 Showing Appointments

This one is killing me. I’ve got my eye on a 2-bedroom in Merewether that appeared on the websites this week. When I called the real estate office to set up an appointment, she told me that the inspection hadn’t been scheduled yet.

“Can I see it before the inspection?”

“No,” she said.

Just, ‘no,’ end of story. In Australia, the leasing agent schedules an open inspection, which lasts for about six minutes at an extremely inconvenient time, and that’s your only chance to see the property. It’s you and about 93 other people, all vying for the same property.

I’m signed up to receive a text notification when the inspection is scheduled, but obviously I’m still checking the websites repeatedly to see if info has appeared there first. I’m bracing myself for the sense of panic I’ll feel when we decide we want a property and are surrounded by hordes of other people who want it, too.  (*BREAKING NEWS* I just checked the website and an inspection has been set for Saturday afternoon. Cue hyperventilation.)

Unfurnished Apartments

Since we’re just wrapping up a long stint of nomadic life, Jared and I don’t have a lot of furniture. Okay, we don’t have any furniture. That’s not really a problem, because we’ll be able to borrow some extras from his parents, but what if we couldn’t? Our odds would shrink even more, because furnished properties are like gold in Australia.

That goes for furniture and white goods – renters need to supply their own refrigerators and washing machines. I remember bringing in a washing machine into a rental property in college, but as for the fridge, there was always one magically there, waiting to be stocked.

I have to remind myself that eventually, we will find a place. And until then we’re really lucky, because there are much worse places to be than here in his parents’ comfortable house. But now that we’ve made the decision to stay in one country for a while, I’m itching for total independence.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there are a couple of websites calling my name.

Changing My Mind About Marathons is a post from: Lateral Movements

Some of you might remember this post, when I declared to all and sundry that I would not, ever, be running a marathon. The act of running a half-marathon was enough. More than enough, even. Despite the fact that I actually kind of enjoyed parts of it, and that I completed it, and that, eventually, I was able to walk again, running 26.2 miles was officially off the bucket list.

Well, my friends.

I have something to tell you.

Jared and I are training for a marathon.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Before things get too crazy, take a look at that sentence again. We’re training for a marathon. As in, we haven’t actually signed up yet. We’re dipping our toes into the water by following a 16-week marathon training plan (thanks internet) and hoping that neither of us inadvertently gets injured. But signing up seems like a minor detail; we’re committed.

We bought a water belt and body glide. I’m waiting on a new sports bra and pair of shoes to arrive from the States (stuff is crazy expensive here). I made a new running board on Pinterest. We talk, constantly, about this run. About when and what to eat, the layers we’ll wear, the socks I’ll need, the stretching and strengthening exercises we’ll do. I’m drawn to this marathon because it is a specific, achievable goal. There are no illusions: either you run 26.2 miles or you don’t.

The marathon is scheduled for July 21st in the Hunter Valley Gardens, during the Aussie winter. I admit, I was initially drawn to the location, in the heart of wine country. Because obviously, running and wine go hand in hand.

Makes you want to lace up your shoes, doesn’t it? No, you’re right, it doesn’t.

Last Saturday we went for an 11-mile run to cap off week 6 of training. It was the second-longest run I’ve ever done in my life. We went through Glenrock National Park, a favorite with Newcastle cyclists and a great place to run, if you don’t mind inclines.

I mind inclines. I mind them a lot.

What’s the word for doing something really, really slowly? Something that means you’ve mustered up maximum effort for minimal result? No. I can’t think of it either. Anyway, that’s what I did up the hill. And down the hill. And up the next one.

Slow and steady wins the race – as long as you’re the only one in it.

When we passed the halfway point and started back towards home, I gave Jared the okay to go ahead. When he finished, he turned back and caught up with me, and we ran the last 500 meters together.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said. “I feel like I could have kept going.”

I didn’t say anything, unless you count an unhealthy wheezing noise as conversation.

I checked the watch for my stats. 1 hour 59 minutes. What the heck? Surely I went faster than that.

To put this in perspective, I ran these 11 miles five minutes slower than I ran 13.1 miles last September in Buenos Aires. Apparently, I’m getting worse. Unless it was the hills. You know what? It was probably the hills.

To be safe, I mentally adjusted my marathon goal from 4 hours to 4 1/2 hours. (I say my real goal is to finish, but I can’t shake the compulsion to set some sort of time frame as well.) Better to be realistic than disappointed.

IF we run it, that is.

Are you ready, shoes? Start runnin’.

Heads or Tails: A Taste of Two-up on ANZAC Day is a post from: Lateral Movements

April 25th is ANZAC Day in Australia and New Zealand. ANZAC – Australian and New Zealand Army Corps – Day was originally instituted to honor the soldiers who took part in a battle in Gallipoli, Turkey, during WWI. (Read more about it in this post).

I would recommend Turkey to anyone. Seriously.

Thousands of Aussies & Kiwis flock to Turkey year-round. Sometimes it’s a special trip, booked far in advance specifically to be at ANZAC Cove on April 25th. Sometimes, it’s part of a larger trip, worked in with Istanbul, Cappadocia or Dalaman holidays (which is what we did in May 2009). Turkey is a site of great historical significance to many of the Australians and Kiwis I’ve met, and Gallipoli is on many Antipodean bucket lists.

But on home soil, there are some pretty strong ANZAC traditions. And one of those traditions is two-up.

Right back atcha, buddy. Photo courtesy of Creative Commons

The History

Australian soldiers used to play two-up – a gambling game – to pass the time at Gallipoli. If you travel to Turkey for ANZAC Day, chances are good that you’ll still see a fair bit of two-up being played. In Australia, two-up is actually illegal – except on ANZAC Day, when people turn out in droves to play it at pubs.

The Game

In the Turkish trenches, the game was traditionally played with two pennies. The spinner tossed the pennies until they produced two heads or two tails – ‘two-up’. These days three bronze coins are commonly used to speed things along and produce a result every time.

The Bets

You bet ‘heads’ or ‘tails,’ and you can bet against anyone in the room. So it might look a little something like this:

You: (waving a $20 note in the air) $20 a head?

Stranger: $20 a tail. (Hands you $20 because heads always holds the money)

Emcee: Come in, Spinner.

Spinner flips the coins. Winner takes all.

Any number of bets can be alive at any time, and you can win big – or lose big, depending on your luck.

The Odds

50-50. Tempting, isn’t it?

The Dangers

Obviously, you can lose a lot of money. But you’ve also got to keep an eye on Heads, who is liable to disappear into the crowd, taking your money with him, no matter what the result. If this happens, it’s more likely to be as a result of too many beers and forgetfulness; intentional theft on ANZAC Day is unlikely and would be patently un-Australian.

The Day

ANZAC Day begins in a similar manner whether you are in Turkey or Australia: with a dawn service to pay respects to fallen soldiers. In Turkey, the dawn service is often followed by a tour of the actual battlegrounds, something that takes precedence because you have made such an effort to travel. In Australia, many people flock to the pub, where they apparently have a glass of rum and milk.

I don’t understand it either.

This was the year: my third ANZAC Day in Australia, and I hadn’t done anything remotely ANZAC-y. Hadn’t been to a dawn service, hadn’t had a glass of rum and milk (because ew, right?), hadn’t seen a parade, hadn’t pinned a sprig of rosemary to my shirt, and hadn’t played two-up.

This year, one of those things was going to change, and it involved gambling.

We went to meet friends at a pub near Darby Street. It was packed. We went to the next pub. It was packed. We went to our last-resort pub. It was less packed, so we went in. After someone handed me a beer, I slipped around the corner and flattened myself against the wall.

Because it was chaos. It was exactly how I pictured a cockfight, except with coins instead of roosters. And less blood. There might have been roosters, I don’t know. I couldn’t see into the middle. What I saw were bodies smashed together, hands waving money above the crowd. There was a lot of shouting and cheering.

In my younger years, I would have climbed up on that platform. Not so anymore.

After everyone finished their first beer, we slunk off to the nearby bowling club for a rousing game of lawn bowls – much more my speed. I never played two-up, in the end.

My holiday in Turkey four years ago actually resonated more with me in terms of ANZAC Day, probably 1) because I’m not Australian and 2) because nothing beats being there, seeing where it all happened.

Statue in Gallipoli, Turkey.

But there is something that managed to bring Turkey and Australia together for me:  an elderly gentleman, comfortably installed on a bar stool at the bowling club, proudly displaying a row of colorful ribbons and medals on his chest. As people walked past, many stopped to offer their respects to him.

Looks like I managed to glimpse the spirit of ANZAC Day after all.

Learning to Drive is a post from: Lateral Movements

Jared and I bought a Volkswagen Golf last month.

Ta-daaaah

To my great relief, it’s an automatic. Embarrassingly, I can’t drive a manual. There was an unfortunate incident when I was 17 involving me, my dad’s truck and my Grandma’s barn, and ever since then, I’ve been wary of manual vehicles. Jared’s mom is teaching me, but I have a feeling it’ll be a while before I’m able to start the car without it lurching around like a drunken kangaroo.

It might be while before I’m comfortable driving in general, actually.

One of the great things about travel is discovering places that don’t require cars. One of the not-so-great-things is that I sort of…forgot how to drive.

Not the nuts and bolts of driving – I still remember which is the gas and which is the brake (mostly due to a different, equally unfortunate incident at 17 involving my parents’ van and the garage), but somewhere along the way, I lost my confidence.

When we were in Indianapolis, I drove twice. The first time was across the street to the Dairy Queen, and the second was along a multi-lane highway. Getting to DQ was alright (spurred on by the promise of an ice cream cake), but driving south on 37 was terrifying. I gripped the wheel precisely at 10 and 2, cringing every time a car whooshed past on either side of me.

“Why do people do this?” I screeched. “We’re all barreling down the road in our own personal death traps.”

This is what happened to the last car I owned in the US. Totally not my fault.

How had I ever done this so effortlessly as a teenager and into my 20s? And why couldn’t I do it now?

I didn’t drive again until Jared brought home the Golf. We went to the Newcastle Farmer’s Market, and I volunteered to drive, pretending that it was no big thing.

It was almost like being 17 again, in a Golf instead of a Chevy, my fiancé next to me instead of my father. I circled the car once, forgetting that the driver’s side is on the right in Australia. I scooted up the seat, adjusted the mirrors, started the car.

And I remembered.

Driving doesn’t have to be intimidating. It’s just…driving. Check your blind spots, be aware, and off you go. We cruised to the market at a pace slightly faster than a crawl (no need to get silly) and I found myself enjoying it.

Driving opens up all kinds of possibilities. Like procuring passionfruit cheesecake at the market.

I forgot the feeling of independence and promise that comes with getting behind the wheel of a car; you can go wherever you want to go. I could drive to Queensland if I wanted to. Darwin, even. Sure, all I intend to do is get to the nearest coffee shop, but the point is, I could go farther.

Australia’s vast continent suddenly feels accessible; like I can hold it in the palm of my hand. Except for the times I find myself veering into oncoming traffic, thinking I’m in a turn lane.

First, I’ll master driving on the left. Then maybe we’ll talk about Darwin.

Remembering Vacations is a post from: Lateral Movements

I’m not sure when the word ‘vacation’ was replaced by ‘travel,’ or why it needed to be.

Because for 21 years, I took vacations, and they were awesome.

Exhibit A, “Vacation”:

This screams vacation. Tapes, balloons, crayons, a good hair day – what more could a girl want?

Exhibit B, “Travel”:

I don’t know what I’m carrying, but it’s nowhere near as good as cassette tapes.

Most summers we loaded up the van the night before, anticipating a four AM start to the vacation.

“I’m going to stay up all night,” I said.

“Me, too,” my sisters said.

We stayed up until about one AM, fell asleep, couldn’t be roused, and eventually hit the road at eight. But it didn’t matter, because vacation had started. Not only did it mean a breakfast of iced cinnamon rolls at Hardee’s, a special road trip treat, it meant Florida.

Sunshine and sand in St. Augustine, followed by the main attraction: the theme parks of Orlando. On the drive down, my sisters and I discussed what we’d do once we got there.

“I want to go to MGM, Universal Studios, and Magic Kingdom.”

“Well, I want to go to EPCOT and Typhoon Lagoon.” (This was only said one time, because once you’ve been to EPCOT, there is no reason to return.)

“I’m going to ride Jaws, Tower of Terror, Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, and Great Thunder Mountain Railroad. Also, the Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, and the Jungle Cruise.” To this day, I can draw you an accurate map of the Magic Kingdom.

About eight hours in, we’d lose sight of the destination and start lamenting about how we were never going to get there and had to pee so bad. I suppose it would have felt more vacation-like if we’d taken flights to Orlando, but maybe the suffering increased the value of the reward. At least that’s what my parents led us to believe.

But all was forgotten when we saw this sign, signalling that we’d arrived:

It was a rule that you had to shout THERE IT IS about 100 times in a high-pitched squeal when you saw it.

I know it’s commercial, overcrowded, and overpriced, but here’s the thing: I did not care. The Magic Kingdom was truly magical, and that’s what you want out of a vacation.

Maybe it wasn’t as magical for my parents, who felt the blow of an $80 lunch at Pinocchio Village Haus much more keenly than we did, but I’m sure the glee on our sticky little faces made it all worthwhile.

Those family trips to Orlando had such an impact that I’ve gone back for more, without my family, as an adult. Surprisingly, I’ve probably been to Florida more than any other place in the world, which really boggles my mind.

Exhibit C, “Vacation”:

Just singin’ in the MGM Studios-generated rain. What a glorious feeling!

Exhibit D, “Travel”:

Doesn’t look like anybody’s singin’ here.

I don’t use the word vacation anymore; everything is ‘travel.’ Technically, that’s correct, but I miss the magic and glamour that comes with calling something a ‘vacation.’ It promises relaxation and freedom, without the pitfalls and challenges of ‘travel.’

Not that I would trade travel for full-time vacations – I think those challenges are what make travel so intriguing and rewarding. But sometimes, it’s nice to just coast for a couple of days; to be full of the excited anticipation that comes with a trip, but without the trace of anxiety that sometimes tags along with travel.

Exhibit E, “Vacation”:

To infinity and beyond, Dumbo!

Exhibit F, “Travel”:

Does anybody know when the next flying elephant is coming past?

When I took my first solo trip at 22, I swapped ‘vacation’ for ‘travel.’ I think it made me feel more worldly; “going traveling for a year” had purpose, whereas “going on a yearlong vacation” suggests that I checked out of reality.

Which, honestly? Maybe I did. But you won’t hear any regrets from me. I’ve learned that ‘vacation’ and ‘travel,’ thankfully, can be interchangeable. And just as addicting as, say, iced cinnamon rolls from Hardee’s.

Now, who would like a hand-drawn map of the Magic Kingdom?

Goodbye, My Precious: Applying for a Partner Visa is a post from: Lateral Movements

Today, I sent my child out into the world to fend for itself.

Here it is:

My precioussssss.

That manuscript-looking thing is my Australian partner visa application. Originally slotted to be submitted by the 1st of February, I finally put it in the post today, the 29th of April.

This thing is four years in the making; Jared and I have been hanging on to evidence all along, knowing one day it would come to this. But it’s been over the past four months that shit got serious.

We planned on applying from the States.

We considered moving to Canada or New Zealand while waiting for it to be processed.

We decided to apply from Australia.

We almost got married at city hall.

This fat bundle of papers contains more than just a history of our relationship (though it’s got that). It’s full of the blood, sweat, and tears that went into its compilation (the application, not the relationship).

That’s not hyperbole. There is literally blood on one of the pages. The person certifying our documents got a paper cut. I wasn’t stressed. Hopefully immigration will take it as subtle encouragement to speed things along before things get…out of hand. It’s my version of a horse head on their satin sheets.

A sample of what’s included in the application (which, it might interest you to know, weighs 1 kilogram):

• A list of every job I’ve ever had.
• A list of every international trip I’ve taken since 2003.
• Statutory declarations confirming that we’re a for-real couple.
• A signed Form 80, stating, among other things, that I’ve never had a different birthdate, or a parent of Russian descent.
• Criminal history checks from the FBI, the state of Indiana, the UK, South Korea, and Australia.
• Bank statements, proof of insurance, job contracts, and letters addressed to us at the same address.

And, most importantly perhaps, a payment of $3975.

No. That’s not a typo.

Final assembly. That was real fun.

It would be easier to bear if there was a chance of getting the visa in a timely manner, but the waiting period is currently 14 months. Apparently, Australians are swarming the globe, romancing foreigners and attempting to bring them home.

This morning, I entered the New Lambton post office, clutching the carefully stacked sheaf of papers to my chest. I felt like Gollum with his ring, in agony at the prospect of handing it over.

“It’s a visa application,” I explained to the woman behind the counter. “I really want to make sure it gets there okay.”

“Right,” she said, as if I’d just told her it was a box of dead flies.

My last glimpse of it was when the woman at the post office all but bowled it into a box of other mail.

It’s not a cricket ball, I wanted to shout at her. Show a little respect for the papers.

But they were gone. Released from my grip in exchange for $12.50 and a tracking number.

I thought it would be a relief, but it’s not. That won’t come until I get notification from the immigration department that the package is safely in their Sydney office.

Where it will then sit, collecting dust, for more than a year.

On a totally unrelated note: thoughts on bribes – okay/not okay?