What Would Darren Hanlon Say?

Removalist Day, Mk II

2013-04-29T05:24:00.003-07:00

Removalist Day, Mk II

Unpacking. Yes, we had experienced this all before. Really everyone who’s older than 5, who has been away on a holiday or off to school, or moved house has. But of course, this is about me, so it’s different and complicated.

So yes, we’ve packed and unpacked before. More than once in fact, but how hard could it be? After all we learned our lessons from the first removalist day. This had to be different this time; we had appliances that were designed for the same electrical system, so we should really be able anticipate everything that would happen. I mean really, that’s what engineers and lawyers are designed to do. So I just say back and anticipated all the glorious happiness that a full house would bring. Life should be like that, but it’s not.

Life for me is like being a goldfish in a bowl. I look forward to the little (and sometimes big) events with new wonder and anticipation. Again, some with more wonder and excitement than others. Why? Well, I’ve found that having a short attention span and short memory is more rewarding than being introspective, especially because it seems that I can either be one or the other but not both. A particular example is when we were waiting for the contents of our home to be delivered in New Plymouth.

It wasn’t just about the contents of our home arriving that set us upon a heightened level of anticipation, it was also the prospect of moving to a quiet house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Especially since the cul-de-sac opened onto a park over looking the Tasman Sea. Also especially since the park was also less than 300m (1000 feet) from the beach. The picture of an idyllic existence.

This fantasy made even more desirable given that while our temporary accommodation boasted a stunning view, but it was also like being on a campout with Chris Dorner, without the blazing fire of course, but still while he was playing “hide and seek” with LAPD. I say this because while we over look the foreshore, we are also along a main road, so every time a heavy logging truck, fuel truck, gravel truck, container truck or delivery van goes by, either breaking for the light, or accelerating for the incline, it was like having LAPD outside throwing concussion grenades through our windows. The fact is, that I was ready to burn this place down myself. So the prospect of a new place, quiet street, beach access and our stuff will be a welcome sight.

The introspective part of me quickly became embarrassed for being shallow and materialistic. Being so preoccupied by material possessions, that I was fixated upon their arrival, I felt as though I was lacking perspective. So, I decided that not only would I retire from introspection, but that I would also discard my latent attachment to our property that was floating somewhere in the Tasman Sea. The result was I started looking forward to our delivery date as though it was Christmas and Santa was the Captain of our ocean liner. Suddenly I had a renewed sense of anticipation and happiness as I gleefully careened around my little glass bowl.

But ships don’t come in every day, and it’s not like you can simply look on a calendar for Christmas Eve so that you can set out a bottle of rum and gift certificates for Sea Captain Santa. But all was not lost.

Fortunately though we now live in the information age where you can check to see if your ship is due to come in. Seriously. Both the daily newspaper and the port authority post anticipated ship movements, so you can literally see if your ship is due to arrive.

Ok, then how do you know which of the bunch of boats is yours? After all, I’m just a Canadian from the mountains of Alberta, where “big boats” are those that you can’t do an Eskimo Roll in. Well, funny as it turns out, our moving company (“removalists” in Antipodal parlance) issues this information when they provide you with the advice on the status of your shipment. How exciting! I am now splashing water out of my little bowl I’m turning and racing around so.

First a word about our movers. OSS Overseas. Aaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggg! Right, as in not the best experience we’ve had. What was so bad? Well let’s say if I was ready to burn our accommodation down, if OSS was the only option for our next move, I’ll burn our stuff as well. I honestly don’t think that I’d trust them, or pay them, to post a blank post card. In short they have proven to be inept, lacking processes and more interested in moving money from us to them, the rest isn’t much of a bother. A poor selection on my part is probably the most judicious thing that I could say. Again, why I’ve retreated from my introspective self.

But at the end of the day, they (OSS whose name I try not to speak, along with their equally incompetent local agents) furnish us details advising that our possessions are safely conveyed onto the NYK GALAXY, a container vessel under a German flag. How auspicious! Germans are efficient, the freight is just shipping containers and the boat seems to move relatively fast. Even better, we live in the information age, so I can track NYK GALAXY, look at photos of her / it / whatever we are allowed to call boats now, and see where it’s various destinations are. Excitedly, I watched the little blue line grow, leaving Brisbane as a small dot in it’s rearview mirror (I’m pretty sure ships that size must have such mirrors) and steaming triumphantly to Auckland! Auckland? Wait, I was told New Plymouth. Ok, maybe Auckland was a first stop. But then, again according to the infallible Internet, it was Christchurch. Then back up to Napier. Then Tauranga and Auckland again. Then Hong Kong. Then…two realizations that I had always knew were coming, the first one my teachers used to tell me all the time. A) My ship wasn’t coming in and B) My removalists were incompetent. Utterly, fu-_ing hate crime inspiringly incompetent.

I started thinking that my old introspective self would have examined and re-examined why, why these things tend to happen to me. Why…but then by the time I crossed the span of my bowl I checked the website again and thought that maybe after Hong Kong, Tokyo, Beijing and then Melbourne Christmas would come to our shores.

So I called our friendly removalists to inquire, playing dumb, as I’m particularly skilled at, according to the same teachers to taught me not to expect ships, “hey, just confirming that our container landed and we’re still good to go for delivery.” The answer was a very uncomforting “…I will confirm when I can.”

WHAT.

THE.

MOTHER.

<removed by spam filter>.

How could this really be the case? I mean consider that the facts are as follows:

· Container vessels are massive boats;

· Boats operate on the sea, which is a generally flat surface without visual obstructions, like buildings, trees, mountains, etc, although it is affected by the curvature of the earth, sure;

· You can see from shore to the horizon, weather and curvature of the earth permitting;

· The horizon is a long way from the shore, incidentally the horizon represents the point where curvature overtakes visual abilities;

· Even if you can’t see the horizon, there are satellites, radar, and communication devices that assist people in locating ships and managing logistics. Incidentally these techniques overcome curvature issues;

· Once in the port, you can see if the boat has docked and been unloaded or not.

· Even if you can’t see the boat in port, you can radio, e-mail, telephone the port authority, or ask any one of the longshoremen in the local pub to find out the status of a particular boat.

The fact was that this wasn’t like this a tin fishing boat with a handful of school aged Aussies (schoolies) that were pulling up on a sandbar at low tide to polish off a couple VBs. Someone, somewhere should know if the boat came in, if our container was with it and if it had been off-loaded, especially since it was their job. The whole thing reminded me of a problem in physics.

Q. If a boat is spotted on the horizon, steaming to port at 17knots, considering that the tides and winds do not factor in the boats progress, how long will it take to reach port?

A. Seems like it would be a while, probably a long while, I’d call the port authority and inquire, and then charge my client 0.4h for “phone attendance with Port Authority to confirm anticipated delivery of personal possessions. Add note to ask client if they would like an opinion on emissions off-sets for steam generated propulsion”.

I failed physics, getting 1/7 for answers like this. Ironically, I received the same 1/7 mark in law school for this same answer to the same question. Unlike my physics instructor who simply gave up on me, my law professor added the following comments:

Any thing worth billing for is worth billing for. Add 0.1 for “attending to e-mail advising client of response by Port Authority”, and 0.1 for “diarize same for follow-up in 14 days.” Billing total should be 0.5h + disbursements and taxes.

The law always made more sense to me than physics. So much more practical and helpful.

The joke was actually on Nicole and I. As it turned out the schoolies that were supposed to load our container hadn’t been seen since low tide when they loaded up a tinney with their eskies (“cooler” in Canada and “chilly bin” in NZ).

Like all things do eventually, Christmas did come, magically, just like you would expect from Seafaring Santa. After all, New Plymouth boasts very legal and very public bordellos, so it’s really just a matter of time before ships make port here, but on the day vaguely promised by our removalist, and their agent, a seacan arrived at our new place and started the end game of goldfish Christmas.

But then the real trouble began with the phone call from the local removalist agent. “Yeah, hey mate, we’ve got an order to drop by for you. We’ll probably be by say mid afternoon. Does that work for you?”

Although my heart leapt, I coolly checked myself, “absolutely, does mid afternoon give you enough time to finish up, or are you coming back the following day?”

“Ah, no worries, this is just a 20 footer, we can have it dropped off in about an hour.”

“Fair enough,” I said with more than a little skepticism, “but I paid for an unload, unpack, set up and removal of all packing materials. So that’s what’s on, right?”

There was a clattering in the background of shoes and pennies dropping, “ah, well, er, I hadn’t been given that information and we’re booked pretty solid.”

Right, I haven’t seen this one before. You know when the mover has all your stuff on the truck, but the estimate “his office” gave you was a little light and is “just a few hundred more”.

“No problem. This is really easy,” I said, “I’ll get OSS to confirm this and if you don’t have capacity to do this work, I’ll hire a local crew and bill it back to them. Good.”

As it turns out we got a crew that had the time to drop our stuff by. Drop perhaps the key word. The main guy leading the crew had a local Maori name, a language that I confess I struggle with. So I had to come up with a name that I could pronounce and remember.

So I called him Enola. As in Enola Gay, the bomber that had the dubious honour of deploying the first atomic weapon but forcing the Japanese surrender in WWII. Enola Gay seemed like a good name because every box this clown dropped ended up being nuked.

The whole thing reminded me of high school, I stood there in front of people who thought something was funny that was making me insane. Something would fall, “it’s ok mate, it’s just a little shaky shake. It’ll be right. What’s the difference?”

My commentary or efforts to implore a better result were all futile. So I turned my energies back to the internal conflict between being shallow and introspective. Strangely in the firestorm of inside jokes and damaged furniture a solution was born. I decided to split my personalities and compartmentalize my worlds. I was going to focus on setting up our home, getting settled and enjoying our little world in the corner of New Zealand. That was compartment one. In the next box was compartment two, in which I was going to spend the time required to claim against our insurance for the ruined book shelves, sofa, glassware, washing machine full of mould, etc. and then rain fire and acid upon our removalist using all the consumer protection legislation that Queensland is replete with. I was going to enjoy both sides of this coin. In fact I know this because in a symbol at being the bigger person, I bought the crew a round of cokes.

When the first coke exploded in a shower of sticky syrup and a chorus of profanity, covering a couple of the unexpected removalists, I said, “it’s ok mate, it’s just a little shaky shake. It’ll be right. Was there a difference?” I still covet the smile I held back.

At the end of all of this we got our possessions back, unpacked and organized into our new home. The wine all made it across and that dulled the pain of the rest. Life isn’t as idyllic as we’d like, but you didn’t have to read to the bottom of this update to know that. Life never is.

After taking inventory, both personally and actually, I realized that I’m wealthy in experience and am fortunate enough to be enriched by my wife and daughter, our friends and family, the travel that we’ve undertaken for work and recreation. I’ve got so many good things, easy access to a beach, mind-blowing views of the sea and the local mountain, a quiet home and friends that are happy to read the first three or four paragraphs of these updates.

But that’s not all. I’ve also got an active insurance claim, pending consumer protection complaints on the basis of insurance provided, disclosure of same, and misleading representations in soliciting a contract for service and over charging: in short a vendetta with removalists involving at least three government agencies.

I think life in New Plymouth will suit a series of compartments. Probably everywhere would.

We hope you’re well.

A New Start – What Can We Say

2013-02-10T22:08:00.003-08:00

A New Start – What Can We Say

The end of one day...the beginning of the next

As some of you now know, our time in Brisbane is now over and we have relocated to New Zealand. I say “New Zealand” because the country has roughly the same population as the wider Brisbane area and more so because the town that we’ve relocated in, is virtually unheard of, except in New Zealand were it’s very popular, but only as a punch line to jokes.

For those of you that missed the bit where we left Brisbane, that account is found at Elvis Has Left the Thunderdome.

Life is all about managing expectations. So we knew that leaving the blissful weather of SE Queensland for the land referred to as “The Long White Cloud” was going to be a change, and further, a change that needed to be managed. Our research showed that rather than water that ranged between 21-26c and summer ambient temperatures consistently in the 30-40c range, we were going to live in a town where the Tasman Sea was 17-22c and the air threatened historic records at 30c.

So we thought that it would be a good idea to leave Brisbane before we could enjoy too much summer and thus ruining the mood for our new home. It was a simple and modest plan that attempted to accommodate a holiday, as well as a Christmas visit back in Calgary. Well modest of sorts. The itinerary included stops in Fiji, Honolulu and Calgary, before embarking to start our new adventure in New Zealand. I guess I mean that it was modest considering that our travel included 5 countries in 4 weeks.

Calgary was a good call but full of it’s own adventures and misadventures, which is also the subject of a shorter update, found at Searching For Auntie Emm and Toto. Basically the anticipated magnificence of a White Christmas soon gave way to the misery of cold temperatures, reinforcing the cliché that you can never go home. Although Spencer loved eating snow as it fell from the sky, we all agreed that -10c (and below) is inhumane. However the short sharp shock of cold did ease our transition from Brisbane to New Zealand.

A quick right into town, mate

Did I mention that the town we’re moving to is New Plymouth? Did I mention that New Plymouth is beautifully located on the western coast of New Zealand overlooking the Tasman Sea? This is a region of sea that’s as fickle as a school girl; some days providing the glassy calm of a Golden Retrieve’s gaze and others the vicious temper of a Bull Massif that had been raised in fight pits. What this means to us, and I suppose the “real locals”, is that the water is a vast source of entertainment and wonder. There is a good surf break, one that is typically devoid of crowds, a welcome change to our Australian experiences. Perhaps this is because we’ll need wetsuits to venture in past our ankles, but we’ll see.

All our various thoughts ricocheting through our minds regarding the new jobs, friends we had left behind in Australia, being even further away from friends and family in North America, new daycare, new bank accounts, grocery stores etc. What brand of milk are we going to like? Butter? Where will we find a decent loaf of fresh bread? All these things competed for space during the transpacific flight pushing us into exhaustion until we finally fell asleep. Sleep on an airplane? Right, I can imagine what you’ll say, but did I mention that Nicole’s company sprung for Business Class tickets out of Calgary? Did I mention that Air New Zealand’s Business Class has pods rather than seats and that said pods fold down into personal beds? Yes. That’s right, just try a little, the first taste is free. Too bad that the price tag on this ticket makes what I’d consider the “only way to fly” also becomes “justification to drive”. But maybe….but probably not. Maybe it’s the justification to find a well paying job.

Regardless of what being pampered was attempting to justify, soon sleep fell upon me and the surrounding comforts managed to staunch my anxiety from rising like a Monarch Butterfly on a summer thermal or the peaks of the kiwi mountains penetrating the long white cloud. Unfortunately, this reprieve seemed over quickly. As we started our descent I started thinking about all that we needed to do, the challenges that we faced in Brisbane and were about to embark upon again.

Did I mention that New Plymouth is nestled at the bottom of Mt Taranaki (neé Egmont) the regions dormant volcano that towers over the landscape? Or at least Taranaki is a mostly, usually dormant volcano. Well mostly, usually dormant, for as long as most people that have lived here for less than 10 years can remember. So at least this is going to be a beautiful location to live and probably pretty safe too. Right? Because even with a mostly, usually, for sure, usually during the last 10 years dormant volcano, there are no snakes or spiders or other dangerous Australian things, at least there haven’t been since the last volcanic activity in the area.

Cape Egmont Lighthouse with Mt Taranaki in background

Since this wasn’t our first time in the Taranaki region (or province, without Canadian style provincial boundaries or regional government) or in New Plymouth, we had some sense of what to expect. We took advantage of being here for a weekend during a round of interviews that Nicole had been brought down for. Ascetically, the area feels like Pincher Creek in Alberta, but with more moderate weather and a glistening sea on the doorstep. Rolling foothills, pastoral landscapes that provide abundant homes for equine enthusiasts and dairy farmers alike. Again, a beautiful locale to call our new home.

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a great move, from a career perspective, for Nicole. The Taranaki region is home to the base of the drilling operations for Todd Energy and they have a significant multi-well terrestrial drilling program with wells running ~5000m in depth. Further, they have offshore licenses that they are going to kick off at some future date, which will provide additional challenges for Nicole and some amazing experience. But I suppose that everything comes at the cost of something else. Did I mention that New Plymouth is remote, even by New Zealand standards. We’re now a four-hour drive from either Wellington (nation’s capital) or Auckland (largest city with ~1.4MM people) or 40 min. flights to either centre. And once you get to either Auckland or Wellington, Sydney is only three or so hours away. Then another 17-21 to North America… But that should be ok, provided that we can find everything that we want here. Right? Right? And of course there are no dangerous animals and the volcano is mostly, always usually dormant.

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a town of ~70,000 people, part of a larger (relatively speaking) regional population 100,000? In fact there are fewer people living south of our location than in either SE Queensland or Alberta, even if you include the various scientific expeditions of Antarctica (at least based upon rough estimates, dubious data and my substandard math skills, and dubious data collecting from public sources for Tasmania, South Island New Zealand, Argentina and Chile). So, being city people, Nicole and I had low expectations. Even without box jellyfish and a dormant volcano.

These expectations have been shattered. No question the selection of goods and services is limited. Items we’ve grown accustomed to in Brisbane, and Calgary before, have virtually disappeared, except for some online purchases. (Currently I’m rounding out my legal skills by becoming conversant in the various import / export law of New Zealand to see what we can manage to order overseas and bring into New Zealand. So far it looks like the shipping and duties are going to be ugly.)

Unfortunately these goods that we’re talking about aren’t even luxury items, but basic necessities. For instance, when I asked one of Nicole’s co-workers where you could buy a decent bottle of wine, they responded, “ahhh, well, we brought some over from Australia. Maybe you could try Auckland.” God Damn! Something that our advance research failed to uncover!

But for every setback and frustration there is a glimmer of hope and redemption, something familiar and provincial about being in a small town. These are the experiences that make moving around the world rich and worthwhile. Within our first 10 days in town we’ve had the following experiences:

1) Spencer and I were at the playground in the small regional zoo around the end of the day, when we came across another family. Right, nothing surprising about that, is there? Neither was the fact that the playground was emptying as people were starting to head home for dinner. It was then that I heard a mother calling out to her kids, all of who looked to be under 5 years old, from across the field, some 15-20 m (40-55 feet) away. She was simply asking them to take care and that she was taking one of her other children to the toilet. I offered to keep an eye on them while she was gone. Really, I was expecting that she’d rush back, whisk all the children up and leave. This way it would finally be quiet and Spencer could play on whatever she wanted, without competition.

Instead I get the thumbs up, mom takes off coming back in 15 minuets or so with “thanks mate.” I’m still stunned, until then the only person that I had met that so sufficiently lacked judgment to leave a child alone with me was Nicole.

2) A couple of days later, I find my way into a local bakery / café and decide to buy a loaf of fresh bread for dinner. You know, on the quest in the new town to find decent bread. Like wine, another essential element for happiness. After a short chat with the manager, I get a warm sour dough loaf and then realize that I don’t have the $3 cash to pay, so I apologize and produce a credit card. Predictably, my new credit card fails, so I’m left making the awesome impression of the new immigrant that can’t afford bread. Perfect.

So what happens next? I’m expecting the manager to shrug his shoulders and turn to a bona fide freight paying customer, maybe casting me a suspicious or derisive look in doing so. But no, we’re in the town where “Good People” live. So, instead he says “Welcome to town, catch us up next time past.”

What? Really? Really, really? Idiot. Like I’m going to make sure that I get back to buy more bread from this clown? What if it’s no good? What kind of business could he possibly be running, money laundering maybe?

As it turns out the bread was fantastic and rather than imperiling his $0.80 of profit on the loaf, the three of us returned to Petit Paris the following day and spent $80 for lunch. (Yeah, dinning out is pricey here) So, a lesson in small town commerce, I suppose.

3) But while loaves of bread don’t’ fall from the sky, they (sort of) spring from the earth and represent small commodity economies. What if you want to buy a car when you’re new in town? Of course you want to, you’re renting some trashed out Ford Mondeo that looks like it was repossessed off the Brocket First Nation Reservation. So what do you do? Well you start by looking at what dealerships are around and trying to determine what they have for inventory. Obvious answer.

But what do you do when the local dealer doesn’t have inventory (as you’d expect to be the case in a town of ~70,000)? Especially of course when you ask, for something specific.

“Not to worry”, the dealer reassures us, “I just sold one a couple weeks back to a guy in town. I’ll call him and see if you can take his for a test drive.” Ah huh. Right. This is code for “you can buy what I’ve got, or pay me to bring it in. If you don’t like it you can go back to Canada and cry”

But sure enough in a couple of days the call comes back from the dealership and the enthusiastic salesman advises, “yeah, so my client is on days off right now, so he can work around your schedule. Does tomorrow or Saturday morning work for you? He’s willing to accommodate you but also wants to book some golf in.”

Predictably, I couldn’t answer the question as I was so stunned with it all and stuck trying to understand which part of the conversation was the unreasonable part: lending the car, working around our schedule, or waiting to see what we wanted to do before planning his days off.

Of course all of our experiences can’t be like that, life isn’t so kind and really these updates would lack the zest that you’ve become accustomed to. One such experience was the eventual purchase of our car. Despite being offered all the convenience of driving the new car of one of the denizen’s of New Plymouth, we elected to venture up to Auckland to enjoy a weekend in the “big smoke” as it were, a proper city, one that boasts a broader selection of vehicles. This, of course, meant that one of us had to return later to actually take delivery of said vehicle. Ultimately it was decided that I would fly up Saturday morning and return (triumphantly) with a new car and that Nicole would take the rare opportunity for a day with just her and Spencer.

With visions of the conquering hero played through my ample imagination, reality rose to meet me. Everything was set in place, confirmed in advance, and re-confirmed, because in actual fact I was merely acting as agent in picking up a vehicle registered to Nicole. Unexpectedly, at least for me, things seemed to be moving along well. No delays in flights. The taxi driver, who took me from the airport to the dealership, pointing out the landmarks along the way, was fair and engaging.

Unbeknownst to me, Misfortune arrived at the dealership at the same time I did. In fact, I think it beat me through the door. As it turned out the salesman who we had been dealing with was on holiday leave and someone who wasn’t collecting a commission was covering off the delivery of the vehicle. Unsurprisingly this guy was as useful as playing Angry Birds on an Etch’a’Sketch. I never did get a good look at it, but I think that his business card announced him as Max Distracted.

Presenting contracts for me to sign, he asks, well actually almost grunts, “you’ve brought pen, right.” No big deal, I happen to travel with pens, so I’m ok. Then he adds, “You’re not really going to take the time to actually read that thing are you?”

“That thing. Could he really mean a contract, the foundation of all commercial discourse. The imperfect, yet demonstrable, expression of ad item? This was a legal document. A contract. A thing of beauty. It’s not a monstrosity like the meticulously restored ’68 Camero that’s always roaring around our apartment. How could someone, especially a salesman not appreciate this?” Ah, yeah, as both the agent taking possession of a car and a lawyer, I think I probably should.

But no, Max presses me, “Just initial there, and we’re done.” You mean where it says that I’m waiving all consumer protection rights because I’ve bought this on auction, even though we’ve purchased this retail? “Huh?” This, I say, pointing to the provision. “I’ve never seen that…” and so it goes. Eventually I’ve decided I’ve wasted enough of the salesman’s otherwise commission potential rich Saturday, sign the documents and proceed to be given the orientation of the new car.

For those of you who don’t know me too well, the details of car don’t hold a great deal of interest to me. Nicole? Well of course, as the engineer, she can tell you the Make, Model, Year, mileage, torque, transmission type and rating, GVM, towing capacity, fuel efficiency, displacement weight and towing capacity for every vehicle she’s owned and even most of the one’s that I’ve owned, even if I had owned them prior to meeting her. Me? I can tell you the colour, most of the time. Well, sometimes I get the colour right.

Nevertheless, when Max Distracted starts his orientation in a derisive tone about the complexity of opening the fuel tank, he loses what tenuous grasp he ever claimed on my attention. I suddenly realize that he’s not talking about opening the tank for repairs or something, but merely refueling. I admit at this point I drifted off a bit. In fact, I recall my future starting to flash before me. Long gone were the visions of the returning hero, but rather I could see myself crouched over a savagely beaten body. It appeared that it was the body of Max, even while the clown that was yammering somewhere in the distance in the recess of my mind, but I was elsewhere. I was trying feverishly to resuscitate Max, presumably to re-visit further savage beatings upon him. There were other visions, like being asked at my arraignment hearing “Mr Milne, what excuse do you offer for the alleged Grievous Bodily Harm that were attended upon Max Distracted?” “Ah….I suppose that I’m not really sure, probably that the police arrived before I was finished killing him?”

I regained my tether to Max’s orientation, to understand that the GPS wasn’t working, extra keys had been lost, the crack on the windscreen was something that I had probably done looking at the car and that basically it wasn’t his sale so he was more interested in catching up on the cricket scores and telling me how great it was that his parents live in Calgary, but nothing about the car. At the end of the day, I picked up the car, some wine and found my way back to the highway and while I didn’t return to a parade, Nicole was certainly happy to see the new car and the wine.

So this is our first few weeks in our new home. We’ve managed to fly across the world, twice. We’ve avoided hurricanes, earthquakes and blizzards, and we’ve discovered to find bread, wine and a car. Although we've had our last Little Creatures for a while, I think we’re good.

Darren Hanlon, who was the inspiration, or at least a catch phrase for my last round of blogs, could possibly understand how we feel having left Queensland for colder climates. (Oregon for him, New Zealand for us). His rhetoric is this:

What can we say?

It was supposed to end this way,

Now we disappear.

What will we miss the most?

The feel of sun?

The taste of beer?

What Can We Say – from the album “I Could Love You At All”

Yeah, the taste of beer, the feel of sun, but also the laughter of friends. So far, so go. I think that life in New Plymouth will be a good adventure.

Black sand beaches and small volcanic domes

We hope you’re all well, know that wherever you may be, be it Canada, America, Europe, the Middle East or Australia, we miss you all.

What would he say?

2012-09-12T06:09:00.000-07:00

What would Darren Hanlon say? This isn't exactly as cool as a grade school class performing All These Things but maybe because it involves a fellow Aussie, Gotye it's alright. Entertaining all the same? Well, see for yourself:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNtoq6SJ3_A

Socialism 101

2012-08-03T06:17:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I'm managed to provide an update as to our lives down here, for a range of reasons. We have been well, we have been busy and we have been enjoying ourselves. Sure, we could complain about how our winters are the same as the summer weather that you're enduring, how great the beaches are and how good cheap wine is but all of this has been said before. Another reason is that as we become more and more entrenched in our lives here, it seems much more like a routine and while life is certainly different down here for us, for better or for worse it is still just daily life.

Consequently the social observations seem to dull and what was once novel or foreign has become more commonplace. Fortunately there are still a lot of strange things to report back in various dispatches, so as your pickled minds lurch back to reality from the abuses that you visited upon them during Stampede, allow me to share with you our observations on the social state in Australia.

This is an excerpt from an e-mail that made it's way to me that provides at least an anecdotal antipodal comparison of the cost of living between two blue collar regions, one that is in the grip of a socialist regime and the other that is perhaps heading that direction thanks to some of the more recent Provincial leaders, but isn't there yet.

The email claims (although not verified by myself) as follows:

So when I was back home I took some photos in the grocery store to match some I took here before I left:

Price for New Zealand Kiwi fruit here in Brisbane:

In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (16,000 km away from here) ($3.86/kg)

Rack of Lamb here in Brisbane: ($44.99/kg)

Back over in Edmonton: ($29.99/kg)

Bundy Rum here ($38.95 for 700 mL)

Edmonton: ($32.75 – but then was discounted down to $28.75 at the till)

Fair enough that this isn't exactly the most robust of evidence, and in fact may have nothing to do with socialism or anything other than the fact that most people are willing to pay double for things just so they don't have to live in Edmonton. However, I think that it does suggest a certain socialist leaning of the Australian markets.

Note: Bundaberg “Bundy” rum is distilled just north of Brisbane in a town ubiquitously called Bundaberg and as you go further north in Queensland people drink rum to escape the heat in quantities that make them insane. Really insane. Other Aussies call it “going Tropo” (pronounced with an elongated “oooooo”, in reference to the Tropic of Capricorn).

Northern Queensland is supposed to be a magnificent place to travel, but only before it gets “too hot” or “too humid”. In Australian terms anything over 45C is “too hot” and anything over 97% Relative Humidity is “too humid”. For me the corresponding values are 30C and 75%, particularly for Northern Queensland, but 45c and 97% rel hum sounds like the unpleasant parts of Hell, so suffice it to say I’ve avoided that area.

Why? Well, because once the weather gets “hot” the blue bottle jellyfish “stingers” or “jellies” populate the coastal waters, and while their stings are not lethal, the paralysis that they cause frequently leads to drowning which is fatal. So, if the coastal waters are out of the question, then refuge may be sought in any number of the regions rivers, provided that you can out swim or our wrassle the crocs. So, copious amounts of rum it is then while you look for a place with A/C or get Tropo enough that it doesn’t matter. So conceivably, the additional local charges on Bundy Rum is to offset the local demands on social programs, but hold that for now.

I was raised, as most good Alberta kids were, to believe that “S____ism” is a dirty word. A “red menace”. A way of life or system of government for weaklings or vegetarians, but certainly not for enterprising freedom loving souls of hearty disposition that roam the Albertan landscape, those who aspired to stand on their own feet. Fair enough. Our parents had grown up during the Cold War and McCarthyism. They had witnessed the British government impose a capital gains type tax that destroyed The Beatles (before John claimed to be a socialist), programs of government growth, a crippling National Energy Policy, etc. so why wouldn’t they be guarded and suspicious.

Even the symbols chosen for socialism (and worse communism) were ominous, the hammer and a sickle. These weren’t the stars and strips symbolic of freedom and patriotism. This wasn’t the maple leaf famous for tasty breakfasts and big trees that only live in one small region of our vast country, no hammers crush and sickles maim. I guess, unless they’re used for other things….

For our parents, socialism was bad. It was wrong. I’m not talking about the kind of socialism that pays for your university education, or justifies you drinking all the beer in your friend’s fridge, but the sort of socialism that raises taxes, misappropriates wealth and builds government machines with insatiable appetites, machines that strip wealth from private individuals like locus in a wheat field.

Before leaving Alberta I had never lived under a socialist government, perhaps the closest that I got was a socially active conservative Provincial government or a Liberal Federal government, but that was more like living in the forest with Robin Hood, with Ontario and Quebec being the benefactors, not really socialism. Besides, Robin Hood was a good guy right, his cohorts were Merry Men, they didn’t deploy missiles into Cuba. Hood’s redistribution of wealth was heroism not socialism. Right?

But Australia, as we so often see, is different and even though the factions within the same political party fight, it is still a Labor government that rules the land and these guys are socialists. “Labor government” is a term that always makes me think of Jimmy Hoffa, but again, this is different here. It would be like Jimmy Hoffa as a laid back surfer who only really wanted to work flex time, and only wanted to do the rhetoric and not the intimidation. Probably the kind of Jimmy Hoffa I wouldn’t mind standing up to. But at the same time, the average guy on the work crew is empowered to such a degree that it wouldn’t surprise me to see a surgeon walking around in a blue wife beater, just to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

But still, I didn’t really know what to expect from politics when I got here and over two years later, not much has changed. Although until recently I would have admitted that I was still suspicious of socialists. That’s all gone now.

During the course of the last two years and some odd months we have gotten used to the laws of the land, the statutes and practices. To describe the plethora of laws here would be like imagining what it would be like if the Vatican merged all of its rules with those of physics and verb conjugation. So basically, three groups of rules and laws about things that I have no understanding of, in fact I think I can describe how valences in Bromine function easier than what it takes to get a dog license in Brisbane. Having said that I am currently undefeated in my defense of parking tickets, resulting in a savings of over $500.

Between the Commonwealth, State and Municipal governments that is a form, a policy, a help line, a statute or practice, all with fines backing them up for virtually every aspect of your life. Minimum wage is set around $14/h and the Commonwealth government has implemented both an increased royalty regime / mining tax as well as a carbon tax. A red menace indeed.[1]

During our time here, we have discovered one particularly important set of municipal regulation. This regulation focuses on the timing and duration that your garbage and recycling bins may be placed on the curb for collection. Failure to comply with said regulation results in immediate fines, because you can’t miss an opportunity to bolster the state coffers.

So it was with great consternation that I discovered one morning that a ‘tradie’ (short for tradesman, but applied to all working class blokes that shoulder the honest labor burden for the Great Commonwealth of Australia while the nere’do’well lawyers, engineers, doctors, dentists etc all fritter away ……) had left my bins emptied, but turned over and with broken axels. As I tried spiritedly to wheel the dysfunctional bins back from the curb, the broken axel gouged the turf leaving a tear in the sod.

Exasperated I thought, “What environmental statute have I breeched now? Is there a defense? Due diligence? Misadventure? Necessity?” But then also was also the thoughts of how I going to get the bins replaced? This was the sort of thing that needed immediate attention. Fines for lack of compliance, garbage that needs to get to the curb by the following week, pests getting in to the bins, etc. I thought of the logistics of taking two dirty bins in a small car to wherever I needed to take them, and then wait for repairs and transport them back. And then what of the costs? What if I get all the way there with these bins that don’t even fit in our car only to find out that I’m not entitled to request a repair, because I’m a tenant and not the property owner? As my despair was becoming complete, I sought refuge in the only place that I can really count on, the Internet.

I looked up “Wheelie bin repair” on the Google powered search found on the Brisbane City Council page and was directed to an on-line form that I had to complete as you would expect. “Address of bins” “contact phone number” “Type of bin damaged” “Type of damage / repair required” and so forth. Within 5-6 minutes I was completed the form and hit “send” (ok, after three attempts at the captcha phrase).

Ok, what next? Moments later, I received an e-mail advising me to make sure that the bin(s) were on the curb (fines wouldn’t apply) and that the repairs would be conducted on site within two working days.

TWO WORKING DAYS!!!!!

REPAIRED ON SITE!!!!!

I LOVE SOCIALISM!!!!

That was mid-morning Wednesday that I was launched like Spunik into an orbit of socialist love. Sure, you pay some taxes, but you get good roads, good hospitals, good schools and bins repaired at your curbside. Repairs were needed without delay. How bad could socialism really be?

After a whole other series of misadventures: nocturnal creatures that turned our garden into Fight Club; someone driving into our neighbors fence; and our daughter waking up with a nightmare; at 5 am Friday morning, the M_#$(* F_(#*ing Socialists turned up with their rubber mallets (not even the real hammers of the USSR) to carry out the curbside repairs on the bins. WTF? Could these repairs wait? 5 am? What was the rush?

Our parents were right to be wary of the Socialist. I now know why you can’t have firearms here, because people would take them up against the early morning red menace.

Too bad the beaches are so good here, we’ll probably have to stay

[1] Incidentally the Red Kangaroo is one of the largest of the species. Unconvinced? The Aussie coat of arms has both a kanga and an emu, pretty damning evidence of a socialist connection.

Happiness (The Pursuit of, or the Discovery of)

2012-03-04T09:54:00.000-08:00

Happiness (The Pursuit of, or the Discovery of)

What is happiness? Where is it found? Is it internal or external and how does this relate to living in Queensland? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Eric Weiner authored “The Geography of Happiness” in which he levered off of Dr. Fordyce’s World Database of Happiness. It should be no surprise that Dr. Fordyce is a faculty member of Erasmus University, Holland. There must be a strong correlation between an abundance of grad students and the significantly liberal environment in Holland. Can you imagine how that conversation goes?

“So, Dad, I’ve decided to pursue graduate studies,” announces a resolute and pround child.

“Great, what are you taking?” You can almost hear the relief washing over the father, with visions of his skateboarding, heavy metal listening, gig going, no good friend and harpy of a girlfriend cavorting son ‘straightening up’ and getting ready to ‘fly right’ and setting on a course to be a doctor, lawyer or other leader of men.

“Happiness Studies at Erasmus in Holland”

Long pause. Continued long pause…. “So you’ll tell your mother then, right?”

At any rate, the World Database of Happiness lists the scores of various states and provides a rather nebulous “happiness index”. Perhaps predictably, Latvia scores the lowest, with alarmingly high incidences of suicide and alcoholism. By contrast, Iceland, at least during the time that the book was written, boasted the highest “happiness rating”, further making this odd is the reportedly high level of alcohol consumption and long dark nights. I suppose it’s a fine line between use and misuse of alcohol. But I also must admit, some of my happier times have included short periods of sunlight filled with alcohol and reason enough to stay indoors….but I digress.

Unfortunately, Australia was not covered in Weiner’s book. While I’ve no idea how this Commonwealth of States would have faired, Brisbane should be expected to score high. Of course this conclusion is based merely on anecdotal observations and how much Nicole and I have enjoyed being here. Things are still strange and we often come across things that we don’t completely understand.

For instance the public service announcements displayed on taxis “Do you know where to send your mate, when he says life sucks?” Due to the combination of soft edges and blurry graphics on the poster and illegibly small print, it was weeks before we knew if this was a sign for suicide prevention or a brothel.

This is especially given that suicide doesn’t seem to be much of an issue in Brissie. Unlike any other major city that I’ve been to with a network of large bridges, Brisbane lacks any barriers on the bridges (except for one bridge, oddly) to prevent people from jumping into the river. This is not withstanding that there are bridges with a 35m (~100 feet or 10 stories)[1] freefall from deck to a river that is deep, dirty, busy with boat and ferry traffic and is home to roughly 500 bull sharks.[2]

In fact the landmark Story Bridge has a rail that is low enough that at it’s mesmerizing height it appears to me that if I was as cool (and as fit) as Daniel Craig, or really any other Bond, I would be able to jump from the sidewalk on the bridge to the buildings or at least the cranes that are immediately adjacent. My fitness goals don’t include becoming fit enough. But it least suggests that the problem of suicide isn’t that big of a deal here.

Again, I’m jumping to conclusions regarding suicide, but consider the following. Despite being a very active and seemingly athletic population, but there is also 24% of the population are self declared “smokers”. Personally, I think that this is a throw back to when Australia monetarized their currency, in order to make international trade possible. When the Australian dollar (AUD) was introduced to a population that was largely based upon a penal colony, the unofficial currency of cigarettes and Rita Haywood pin-ups faced enormous pressure. The led to the “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” policy of the Commonwealth government of the day[3]. There was a short conversion window, but then the original currency would simply become another consumable product.

To this day, smoking seems to be enjoyed without apology (whereas Rita Haywood posters are a more discrete indulgence). Unlike North America, where smoking in public has been vilified, smokers don’t seem to be bothered that children are around. Even the most callous of smokers in Calgary would make efforts to keep the effects away from children when you’d walk past them. This is certainly not the case here. But it’s not just second hand smoke that imperils the populace in Australia.

Australia is loaded with dangers and things that are capable if either causing significant discomfort or death. While we haven’t seen any crocs, alligators, deadly spiders, venomous snakes, sharks (not even any of the 500 that are supposed to be resident in the Brisbane River), dingos or other disease carrying creatures, we have been faced with a particular local danger on a daily basis. A source of peril particularly frightening to Spencer and Nicole is food poisoning. Given my role in the meal preparation, my girls have every right to be concerned.

According to national statistics, ¼ of all Australians are annually affected by food poisoning. Food Poisoning, in a developed country! In fact new daily cases are pegged at 11,500 and 120 annual related deaths are attributed. Seems counter-intuitive, but then I discovered that food storage in a tropical environment is the leading cause for people ingesting contaminated food.[4] I would have guessed excessive consumption of liquid food products causing flu like symptoms, but I’ve been called both a sissy and jaded for such views. But it is in fact ingesting food that is the culprit. (Again a lesson in Australian culture: don’t blame the alcohol.)

As far as my level of responsibility goes, I’ve applied some basic tort principles, were if everyone is ok after 2 days, then I figure enough time has passed, to introduce a sufficient amount of intervening events to assuage my liability. Unfortunately, this is defeated when I make meals on multiple days. Upon my return to work, Nicole has been all to happy to rush back into the kitchen and save our family from danger.

Unlike the Brisbane experience, The Gap, a suburb of Sydney has a more interesting history. Due to the location that includes sheer cliffs, rocks and a deep harbour, known both for it’s population of sharks and mercurial tide, The Gap seems to be a popular locale for making terminal decisions. One local resident, Donald Ritchie, who lives in close proximity to this fateful place, has become a local hero for dissuading people from their fatal acts.[5] I would encourage you to read the referenced article as it is very compelling, although the article lacks the words of the siren song that Ritchie had sang.

Given the overwhelming presence of other mortal dangers here, and Australian’s particular form of humor, you could imagine the conversation initiated by Mr Ritchie.

“Hey mate, feeling like a lizzie’s belly (translation - as low as a lizard’s belly)?”

“Whimper, whimper, curse, life sucks and isn’t worth living.”

“Oh com’on mate, the cricket isn’t that bad.”

“It’s not just the cricket….[explanation of other less than perfectly desirable things leading to terminal decision].

“Yeah, well mate that is bad and I can’t say I blame you. Hell, I’d probably jump to.”

“Ya think so?”

“Sure thing mate, you’re right the cricket isn’t that bad, but did you see the Wallabies get shocked by the All Blacks again? Hey how much life insurance do you have?”

“[answer], why.”

“Well you know, it probably doesn’t payout on a suicide. Have you checked?”

“Ah, well…no. Shit, just get’s worse. What can a bloke do?”

“Well make, let’s have a look-see. You know if you die by accident or criminal wrong doing these policies pay double. That will sort things out hey lad?”

“Sure would.”

“Why don’t you come back to my place and we can have a smoke. I think my missus has some potato salad that’s been out since morning….maybe we can go for a swim later, when you’re ‘feeling better’.” Of course after a smoke, some tea, a beer and what not, everyone is feeling better, after all that’s what mates are for.[6]

Cudos to Mr Ritchie indeed. Anyone that chooses to become involved in the affairs of others rather than turning back to the telly is a hero in my book. The truth is that the world is better for people like Ritchie and his acts should inspire us all to be better. To help others. To help ourselves. To tell our families that we love them and to try and leave our world a better place than we found it.

Of course it’s hard, but then Ritchie does represent the everyman Australian view of their neighbors. Aussies are quick to stop and offer a hand and don’t like seeing people who are down. Without doubt, we need more Ritchies in our world.

But this doesn’t mean that rain doesn’t fall in Brisbane, or even on The Gap, notwithstanding Ritchie’s watchful presence. Brisbane’s Story Bridge has been the site of at least two suicides since we’ve moved here, one in which a young boy was thrown first and then the father followed him the 70m (210 feet) to hard ground below.

Unfortunately suicide causes a variety of reactions from people seemingly across the spectrum of emotion. Some sympathetic and full of regret and others of contempt and derision, but all strong and valid. I don’t know what the answer is. Clearly it’s not manning Donald Ritchies at every door, although that might be nice.

The reality is that everyone has their own thing going on and you can never really tell where someone's at. Can you intervene? Is there a chance? Some hope? Sure, of course. But always? I don't know. In fact I don't really know much about suicide.

What I do know about suicide is that in the evening of 26 February my father took his own life and I was never there to talk him down. I know that his siblings feel remorse and sadness and that my mother, his wife who was nearby, will never be the same. But this isn’t enough is it?

I’m not sure if it’s fair that I discuss this here in this Blog, but I guess with the dozen or so readers it’s not like I’ve got the same audience as Oprah and I probably am entitled to express myself in some way over it.

Those of you who know me well, can imagine, or maybe not, the stream of inappropriate humor that I subjected my wife to, but the fact remains that this is an act of my father that prematurely ended a number of things and extinguished all future possibilities. Chances of redemption, of reconciliation or even just fulfilling his wedding vows to my mother are all swept away, echoing like a gunshot across a backwater along Tampa Bay.

I’ll save you the tasteless jokes, but tell you that as I’m here now, in Tampa, dealing with the mess that has been left to my mother, my siblings, and extended family, that feelings of contempt seem to be about right.

Could Donald Ritchie have coaxed the gun out of my father’s hand? The track record would put good odds on it (although for the penchant for gaming by the Aussies, hasn’t seemed to reach this far yet) or at least better than any odds that I might have sported. But would it have been enough? Maybe today, but what about tomorrow?

It seemed to me that something that wasn’t explored by Weiner’s book, or even really the happiness studies, is what the expectation is that people hold. Regardless of where you’re living, it’s you that lives there. If you’re not happy in Calgary, New York, Tampa, Paris, London, Canmore, Sydney or Brisbane moving isn’t going to change that.

I hope that if you’re reading this, you’re happy or willing to do something about it.

[1] http://www.storybridgeadventureclimb.com.au/the_climb_the_bridge.html

[2] Bull sharks are smaller but more aggressive than great white sharks: http://australianmuseum.net.au/Bull-Shark-Carcharhinus-leucas-Valenciennes-1839

[3] Ironically, 14 February 1966 marked the introduction of Australian’s official currency. Valentine’s Day has always been expensive, but can you imagine having to convert from cigarettes to cash before the obligatory round of gifts and dinner?

[4] Foodborne illness in Australia Annual incidence circa 2000 Australian Government Department of Health and Ageing Document: foodborne_report.pdf

[5] http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/tragedy-amid-the-beauty-at-the-gap-20100323-qtxa.html

[6] The suicide rates in Australia account for fewer deaths than heart disease in Canada. http://fathersforlife.org/health/who_suicide_rates.htm; http://fathersforlife.org/health/cansuic.htm

Aussie Humor

2012-02-29T10:00:00.000-08:00

Aussie Humor

As you have likely gleaned from previous postings the Aussies have a particular outlook on life, world affairs, clothing, sporting, consumption of food and alcohol and humor. Often it is their humor that resonates through all other experiences.

Taking a piss

Yes, an affectionate term used to describe kidding, joking, making fun of or otherwise tormenting another (in a good natured manner – of course). It’s important to know that despite how much the Aussies delight in taking a piss, that this is a one-way street that only Aussies get to drive. Very much in fact like their lovable koala (that’s not a bear, despite any references to the contrary); Aussies look like fun, but have claws that they can used if annoyed.

Nevertheless, they love a good joke and if done properly they will enjoy, but again their favorite is to make fun of themselves or tourists. Examples of making fun of us include the following:

Dingos – the feral dogs made famous by Meryl Streep and A Cry In the Dark. We’ve been told that there is an outstanding bounty on dingos. Well there was once, but not any more. In fact given that firearms are difficult to obtain and license, it’s not really relevant.

Although these prevailing facts didn’t stop me from suggesting this as a revenue source to Nicole last April. “Com’on it’s great. I can go out, have a couple of beer bag a bunch of pelts and then be home and still have made dinner.” “What about Spencer?” “Well, she’d come of course. You can’t hunt dingos without a baby, that’s just crazy. I’d be downwind, from a slightly elevated position the entire time, with field glasses, a 5x rifle scope. It’ll be fine. What could go wrong?” Shortly after, Spencer was enrolled in daycare on a full time basis. I still haven’t collected a bounty on a dingo, or anything else.

Bruda-bruda – a drought and flood resistant animal found in Northern Queensland that a friend was telling me about. Yeah, I looked it up. Nothing. Bunk.

That’s the nice thing about the Aussies, you can never tell if it’s a joke or something weird that you’ve never heard of. We’ll see how funny it is the next time I look after his kids. I suspect that they’ll have stories to tell their parents about dingo hunting.

It’s not just their love to make a joke but also the overall view of the world. Again, I’m made repeated reference to short and rather gauzy clothing worn by women here. Well with the summer routinely above 32C and the relative humidity vacillating between 65% and 99.5% the clothing get’s shorter, thinner and gauzier. In fact I’m surprised that there isn’t more cross dressing here. Seriously, I’ve given this one a great deal of consideration. Really think about it: wearing a short skirt to work seems like a way better idea than a wool suit. Some how, as tolerant as she is, I’m not sure that Nicole would endorse such pursuits.

At any rate, with the flimsy clothing there is a high probability of seeing someone exposed by an errant gust of wind. This happens nearly every day. In fact I was standing waiting for a light when a fortuitous gust of wind lifted a woman’s skirt over her waist, but so common was this experience that she didn’t even flinch. It was as though a gentle breeze has caressed a misplaced hair away from her eye, rather than showcasing a lace clad bottom for the world to see. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry but doesn’t that cause you any concern?” “Naw, not really mate, I wear less on the beach, and besides mate, it stops the guys from staring at my breasts.” “Yeah, good thinking.” Reflecting on this now, I’m not even sure she had breasts.

Given that the taking a piss is a one-way street, it is a great way to wind up the Aussies who are fiercely proud of all things Australian. So when you “have a go” at their national symbols you’re certain to get a reaction.

For example – The Wallabies

The Australian National (Union) Rugby Team is affectionately known as the Wallabies. For those of you who don’t know, a wallaby is a species of macropod, similar to a kangaroo but smaller and very fast. The name sake for the Australian rugby pride is based upon the originality of the creature as well as it’s speed, agility and the fact that there is almost nowhere in Australia in which the wallaby is not found.[1]

However, given that a) wallabies are small, b) that they’re a source of pride in Australia, and c) that I am convincing when I play dumb, one can have great fun with this.

“So wallabies are just baby kangaroos, right?”

“Mate, they’re not babies, they’re a different species, just smaller.”

“Just smaller like babies?”

“Mate, they’re not babies. Look, someone is going to sort you out if you don’t simmer down.”

“I’m just saying, babies are small and they look like baby ‘roos.”

“Look.” Now becoming increasingly agitated,”they’re a national icon. They’re not babies, but a separate specises from kangaroo. The rugby team takes their name because of how fast and agile they are.”

“Ok, it’s just that they seemed to play like babies last weekend against South Africa.”

Scream

“Are wallabies in the same genus as kangaroos?” I’ll have to get back to that answer, because I started running and couldn’t hear the response over my labored breathing.

Maybe I’ll make the teasing Aussies a regular feature. Feedback welcome.

[1] http://animals.jrank.org/pages/2695/Wallabies-Kangaroos-Macropodidae.html

; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallaby

A Stranger in a Stranger Land

2012-02-28T10:13:00.005-08:00

A Stranger in a Stranger Land

While I consider myself to have a pretty decent imagination, there are things that are so outlandish that even I wouldn’t have dreamt them up. Such things are found throughout the Australian experience. Here is a collection of a few that have hit the high points.

Water Dragons (Physignathus lesueurii)

While perhaps not indigenous to Australia, these lizard looking creatures are certainly prolific. Most of the lizards are of a modest or relatively small size, like a decent sized urban squirrel in Calgary, but without fur, but some can be as lard as a one kg (~2.2 lbs). As you might guess, their name is derived from the fact that they are riparian and are capable of running across water.[1]

The spectacle of seeing a lizard deftly running across the water is impressive. Of course, such a spectacle doesn’t go unnoticed and kicks off a fresh debate as to the origin of said lizard. Was the lizard created, or did it evolve? Where does creation start and evolution take over? Did the dragon evolve to walk on water, was it created to, like the son of God? Was Jesus merely created a mortal that later evolved into a deity? Is there something divine about reptiles, or merely another one of Satan’s guises?

An alternative argument is that things are just strange here and strange creatures are simply part of the larger landscape. Of course the locals referring to the noble Physignathus lesueurii as a “Jesus Lizard” doesn’t help to quell the argument.

Children’s Sports

Seriously? Children’s sports? That can’t be that much of a stretch can it? I mean we know that the Aussies are crazy about their sports and since you can’t put kids in coal mines anymore, you have to do something with them. In fact most parents that I know have their kids in sport. However, as might be anticipated, this is where the Aussies depart from others.

Rather than merely having “Mini soccer” for kids under 6, the Aussies, have a league that allows children (of either gender) that at 4 and older to play Australian Rules Football, a sport that the UN has prohibited outside of this continent. (The Scots and Irish have gotten around the prohibition by calling it “Gaelic Rules” and thus being “cultural”, as visiting bodily harm is in northern anglo societies.) But it’s “OK” because “it’s not full contact” but “only skill development”. Ok then. Right. Skills such as jumping off another player’s shoulders (not withstanding what team) to catch the ball for a “mark”, like “raking one’s cleats across an opponent’s chest” or learning how to shake of having a ball accidently kicked into your face? I guess on the upside, there is less of the chasing of butterflies that you see kids do playing U8 soccer in Calgary, because a) butterflies are so prolific here that it’s not such a big deal to see them and b) if they don’t keep their heads up playing mini AFL they’ll get walloped.

I can’t believe when I see grown men playing AFL, I can’t imagine watching children.

Estate Planning

One of the responsibilities that I had as in an in-house lawyer was dealing with estates matters. Without naming names, and jeopardizing my standing as a solicitor and also adding a certain amount of dramatic atmosphere, most of the questions involved questions posed to me about releasing funds that were under our control. The conversation would go like this:

So mate, I’ve got this client who’s dead and they came in to the office today.

You’re dead client came into the office today? Sorry dude, you’ve got the wrong number, I can help you with a bunch of things but re-animation is well outside of my practice area.

No, sorry mate, I mean that my client is dead and his kid came in today asking

However this should not be misunderstood to mean that estate planning is not widely known. I also had a legal education provision service call and inquire if they could sign me up for a course. You know, because even here the implication is that you will attend a course rather than merely consider attending, because you’re just not that busy. So the course offered had nothing to do with my practice or interests or anything really but I took the opportunity to inquire into an estates planning course. This is what I got:

States? Why states?

Estates.

What about states

No, E-states

You mean like e-commerce among states?

No. Estates like dead people.

That just doesn’t make a lot of sense mate, you want to set up an e-commerce site for dead people?

No. How to deal with the estates of dead people, you know like what happens to their property upon going to their great reward?

Ok, I send you something on property development.

I ended up receiving a workshop on building codes. While I suppose there could be a connection between estate planning and building codes, it would appear that if you don’t adhere to one (the building codes) you had better do some estate planning. Sort of the Minneapolis Metrodome snow load rating for beneficiaries by engineers.

I do like the idea of the e-commerce site for dead people, arguably if I got enough subscribers I could take it public like Linkedin and Twitter, except that I could have these subscribers forever. There has to be a financial upside in that….

Advertising

I just have to add the photo here.

Am I the only one that saw the irony in the phrase that suggests “Free energy for everyone from the sun” and yet the jumping person is reaching for an incandescent light fixture?

Other shocking examples include the mobile phone advertisement that features a cartoon portrayal of a talking moose standing in front of the Three Sisters mountain outside of Canmore. WTF? I understand that there are more Aussies between the ages of 18-22 in Banff National Park than in Sydney, but really? A talking moose and the Three Sisters? I can’t even begin to understand.

The zenith of talking animals in advertising campaign features another Canadian icon, the beaver. Not industrious, not a symbol of ecology, not Canadaa’s fur bearing heritage or a plug for tourism in this campaign, but a mascot. Incidentally from a Canadian perspective, an obscene mascot. In this advertisement for feminine hygiene products, the talking beaver (I know, I know, but like I said, I can’t even make this up) states that this product “…is the best care for down there.” I suppose if a beaver could talk, it would tell you what it preferred. I still shake my head.

[1] http://www.ozanimals.com/Reptile/Eastern-Water-Dragon/Physignathus/lesueurii%20lesueurii.html

Riverfire 2011

2011-09-08T14:29:00.000-07:00

Notoriously, Brisbane enjoys three things in abundance: warm weather; fireworks and celebrations. Attempting to embrace this strange and foreign culture, as poor immigrants to this wondrous land, Nicole and I, on 3 September hosted was our first and last annual "Riverfire Party".

Seems innocuous enough...

Riverfire is a spectacle of incomprehensible proportions. Imagine Chinese New Year, Operation Dessert Storm I and II, and my tendency for embellishment and you have a sense of what was expected.

By way of a broader explanation, Riverfire is the kick off event to the larger Brisbane Festival that runs for 21 days in September, starting the first Saturday. Ok, what's Brisbane Festival? Excellent question. Imagine Chinese New Year, Rosh Hashanah, Easter, Break-up, Bloomsday, Stuttgart Spring Festival and my penchant for embellishment and you have Brisbane Festival. Incidentally, the festival does mark the start of Spring here.

As you might imagine after facing a long harsh Queensland winter where there are rumours that it can get as cold as 3 C and the daytime highs are a shocking 18-21 C, Spring is welcome indeed. Fortunately, like any good season change it is noticeable and in fact palpable. It seems like almost over night, the humidity starts to rise again from the arid 20-30% to more reasonable 65-80%. Still from a Canadian perspective, all of this seems a little foreign still. In fact the "rumours" of the cold temperatures have actually been recorded, but at the bottom of a well in the pre-dawn hours and in terms of "dry air" Queenslanders don't believe that as kids we used to build up static on carpets by dragging our feet, only to prove Coulomb's law (for a system of discrete discharges), notwithstanding our lack of understanding of physics.1

The event was witnessed from the rooftop balcony of our rented unit over looking the grandeur of the Story Bridge. As previously mentioned in other entries, it was unlikely that we will renew our lease so this became a once in a lifetime opportunity extended to friends in the area. The views of the spectacle were in fact a great experience and perhaps the most stunning display of fireworks I have seen, certainly the vantage point made an impact.

Some of the anticipatory testimonials, which may or may not have really been attributed to the source cited included:

Lord Mayor Graham Quirk - "If I was asked, I would say that the Milne/Tetrault Riverfire party should be one of the best two or three thousand Riverfire events this year. We are very proud indeed.";

Chris Bowen MP - "These types of events and people show us how proud Australia can be of the immigrants that we so warmly welcome to our shores...";

Brad Burns, local comedian and thespian - "Having attended a party there once already, I'm almost positive that I could maybe find my way back. Totally unforgettable night.";

Bono, lead singer U2 - "It's a great event, a great function, for an outstanding cause it reminds me of this time that I single handedly raise awareness for the unfettered repression of....." interrupted by the Edge groaning.

The format was simple:

People were welcome anytime after 5.30 and children most welcome. I mean, what's the fun of fireworks without young children to be terrified by them?
We encouraged those driving to make sure to check the provided links because of the significant traffic disruptions and no parking zones that would be in effect for the evening; and
We provided a variety of light snacks but encouraged everyone to bring their favourite refreshments that you think is suitable for fireworks, you or your children.

Further stipulations followed, as the fireworks kicked off at 7pm, those guest who were not here by 6.45, were instructed to simply stand outside our place and scream until the police attend and lead you elsewhere. The rest of us, will be on the rooftop balcony watching your arrest. Seriously, front doors were locked at 6.45 and we were not coming down to get stragglers. In typically Australian fashion, a tipping pool was set up for how many arrests were to be made and who was to be the first. Brad Burns led the pool with even odds of being arrested, but to the disappointment of the book, he arrived promptly, an event for which odds weren't listed.

The party continued past the fireworks, and unlike other parties we had hosted ended before the cold wine and beer were exhausted. Perhaps providing some insight into what we encouraged young children to attend...

The anticipated attendees included:

*Peter Garrett - former lead singer of Midnight Oil, doing something else now; who exclaims, "I would expect to have a whale of a time...";

*Quade Cooper - Wallabies Fly-half; "I can't kick the feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something else, but I totally want to attend..." he mused;

**Brad Burns - local comedic talent; Enthusiastically, "Given that it's two weeks away and I still don't have a better option...so I suppose there are worse outcomes"; and

**Three separate Gregs (none of whom were "Dirtbag Greg") and oddly not one Bruce.

As the dust settles

We hope that those who were able to join us enjoyed the evening of fireworks, refreshments and friends. For those who were not able to make it, I've added a photo of the projected view for next year...

http://www.brisbanefestival.com.au/Free/Sunsuper-Riverfire-Important-Information

http://www.brisbanefestival.com.au/Free/Sunsuper-Riverfire

* Probably not really, although there maybe someone talking about them.

** Probably really.

1 Coulomb (1785b) "Second mémoire sur l’électricité et le magnétisme," Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, pages 578-611. -- Coulomb showed that oppositely charged bodies obey an inverse-square law of attraction.

Teasing Aussies

2011-05-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

...and so continue the accounts of the Canadian who's moved to Oz.

I took this photo in Sydney, as it was a sight that sort of tripped me out. Standing in Sydney, feeling too hot wearing a wool suit and looking through a window into my former back yard. It was overwhelming. I could hear the birds; the din of the TransCanada Highway; and smell the aroma of nature. Well maybe that was the just the soiled homeless person who was laying off to the side in this urban oasis.

Maybe when I return to Canada I'll propose to commission a similar exhibit but with an iconic Aussie scene maybe of Bondi or the Sydney Opera House to post in Banff. That way all the Aussie kids that are there during their gap year can share my feeling.

One of things that we’ve learned along the way is that notwithstanding how fun loving the Aussies are, it’s best not to tease them about certain things. While it’s true that the Aussies love to “take a piss out of themselves”, much like any group I suppose, it’s always different when an outsider takes a crack. This was a tip that I quickly adopted and haven't forgotten. Well serving as well, given my fast mouth and limited judgement.

The most recent example is found when the local media caught wind of Robin Williams’ appearance on Late Night With David Letterman where he said that Australia was populated by people who were “backward” and “redneck”. Rather than attacking Williams on any number of fronts (former addictions, getting his start on Mork and Mindy, becoming a famous aged cross dressing nanny) or simply dismissing the comments as something heard on late night television between comedians, (then) Prime Minister Rudd issued a response in which he suggested that Mr. Williams travel to Alabama to see real rednecks. What? Poor Alabama, had nothing to do with this exchange. In fact Alabama was peacefully watching NASCAR (or waiting for NASCAR coverage). The Governor of Alabama had to respond and things became silly.[1] [2]

For his part, Robin Williams got more attention, admitted to having just returned from Australia where he was providing his voice to Happy Feet 2, which really could have provided Prime Minister Rudd with fodder enough for retaliation.

http://au.ibtimes.com/articles/20100401/prime-minister-kevin-rudd-reacts-robin-williams-australian-redneck-dig.htm

Honestly, though, Robin Williams is not entirely off the mark with the “backwards” part of his comment, although, perhaps “backwards” with a different connotation. Perhaps “juxtaposed”, “reversed”, or “inverted”, or “different” would have been a better word choice, but then again, we’re talking about someone who was able to take such a humble beginning as “Mork” and fashion it into a career that has generated more money that I will ever see.

There are a number of examples that would support Mr Williams’ comments. For instance, my daughter’s name is “Spencer”. My wife and I chose “Spencer” because it’s different, easy to spell and immediately recognizable for people to pronounce. Except here, it’s Spenca. Oddly, “Canada” is pronounced Canader. So, logically, if “Canada” was spelt “Canader” and if “Spencer” was spelt “Spenca” the Aussies hit the pronunciation correctly. Perhaps the answer is like the pageantry of the Olympic teams, where “Germany” is “Deutschland”. At any rate, this starts to support a “backwards” or “reversed” commentary. But the examples aren’t limited to language, one can see other incidences in most parts of life. Geographically located at the bottom of the globe, the forces of Creoles and the changing of the seasons. Prime Minister Rudd could have been much better off simply stating that the Aussies are different, that North American’s have skewed vision of the world and that Robin Williams was best left as someone to laugh at. Ah, how different things would be if I ran the zoo.

Brisbane boasts an amazing collection of historical buildings, many of which have been restored and converted into museums or professional buildings. Two such buildings are the “Old Windmill” and the “Commissariat Store”, the latter being the oldest surviving structure in Brisbane. Both were built around 1829 by convict labour that was relocated from Sydney for the “more intractable” prisoners. Presumably, those who continued to refuse to acknowledge that their heinous crimes, such as stealing food for their families, offended the British Crown.

The attraction to relocating the prisoners to the site which became Brisbane includes a reliable water supply and because the river had a bend in it, making escape more difficult.[3] I beg you to tell me that this isn’t a variation of the Brier Rabbit story. Here is a population of convicts, which have been transferred from England to Australia, by sea, in the early 1800s. One doesn’t have to be an expert in naval history to expect that GPS and communications weren’t particularly advanced at that time, nor to hypothesize that travel by sea was entirely comfortable. So, then to expect that a bend in a river would thwart escape? I’m not convinced. It’s probably more the case that the people look around and ask, “What’s that blinding light that’s so hot? I’ve never seen such a thing in London!” “Yeah, mate, they call that the sun. We’ve got clean water here too.” I guess you wouldn’t want to escape.

Brisbane’s history and historical buildings continued to develop throughout the years by way of notable events. World War II, the Commonwealth Games and the World Fair to name a few such events. In fact, General MacArthur selected Brisbane as home for the Pacific Allied Command. The actual location of the Allied Command was the subject of much discussion. MacArthur elected to build his own headquarters rather than to use the grounds of the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), because he was concerned about QUT’s vulnerability to air-raids. In response to MacArthur’s proposal, the locals were heard to say, “Nah, not a chance mate, this river’s got a bend in it, making escape and attack impossible!” I can still imagine the long pause and disdainful look that the General gave, setting off generations of condescension and derision by the Americans that was to last until 1987 when a modest yacht crew from Perth wrested the America’s Cup away from the boastful Yanks for the first time since 1857.

In fact, MacArthur still has buildings and a squared named in his honour and some of the WWII air-raid shelters are just being decommissioned as part of an effort to add further pathway and green space along the Brisbane River.

The international success of the Australians in sport provides a type of Australian Imperialism and bravado that generates a fervor around international events. It has been said that sport is a religion here, and watching as an outsider it’s clear that it’s true. Not only do the Aussies participate in the major sports of the rest of the world but they have their own brands as well.

Netball is a popular woman’s sport that is played in a similar fashion to basketball, but with slightly different rules, no back board on the basket and no hand guns in the locker rooms. Of course there is also “footy”, which a neighbour has attempted to explain to me as what the Aussies refer to “European Football”, or “Rugby Union”, or “Rugby League”, or “American Football “(also known as “Gridiron”), and “Aussie Rules Football”. I blinked a few times trying to digest this all, when another neighbour chimed in to provide the illumination required “It’s about the intonation, mate.” Perfect. I still look dumbstruck when someone asks, “Did you see the footy last night mate?”

Australian Rules Football is something unto itself. We were staring at it on the television one day and a local came up and started asking me if I followed AFL (Australian Football League) and who “I favoured”. To which I conceded that I didn’t know a thing about it and that it looked like Brownian motion with a ball. What happened next surprised me. Blank look from the local and then the launch of the full explanation:

No, no mate, it’s like handball and footy combined. You see they have to get the ball between the two middle posts for a score, or into the side posts for a ‘behind’. In order to advance the ball the players pass the ball to each other, whilst keeping it away from their opponents. Since there are few whistles or play stoppages, the passing is dependent upon how close the players are to each other and where the open team-mates are positioned.

So are there set positions or plays?

No, it just a pure free flowing game.

Ah, so it’s not like Brownian motion with a ball, it is Brownian motion with a ball.

Same blank look, I guess that my AFL expert wasn’t an English major who appreciates the differences between similes and metaphors.

Picking up again from Robin Williams, if things are backward here and sport is religion, I wasn’t surprised to find that religion has become sport. A number of the beautiful churches in Brisbane have been maintained and converted into a variety of businesses. Coffee shops, art galleries, book shops, offices and strangely nightclubs and strip clubs. I expect that the proprietors of the latter two will be among the number I meet when I go to Hell.

“Hey mate, what are you in for?” “Yeah, I was a lawyer, you?” “I converted some of the churches in Brisbane into strip joints.” “Ok, what’s going on down here” “Right, well the Ramones are playing down on the Sixth Circle, they’re good, Iggy Pop is the opening act. Just a word of advice, don’t request any Led Zepplin covers.” “Ah, ok, why” “Well, because some of the denizens here find “Stairway to Heaven” hurtful and it really does go on forever down here.”

Oregon author, Mary Anne Radmacher said, “I am not the same, having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world.” I’m not sure if this had made her better, worse, or just simply changed.  However, I am certain that this experience will change me; hopefully for the better. Australia has been wonderful so far. Full of hilarity, warm people and good wine. There are so many reasons that we’re loving it here, but that is for another update.

With regard to Aussies and sport, it's really odd that there are not more songs about squash. Kris Demeanor from Calgary has a song about a tennis game he shared with his father (I Have Seen The Future) so why not squash?? Darren?

[1] Incidentally, Alabama boasted the best educated population (per capita) at one point due to the significant number of Ph.D’s working for NASA (Marshall Space Flight Centre) and other high tech companies such as Intergraph, ARES Corporation IBM and Bell Helicopters located in Huntsville.

[2] As a post script. PM Rudd lost his station as Prime Minister to Julia Gillard in an internal party row. Ms Gillard was returned as PM after the last general election in 2010. Mr Rudd remains a Member of Parliament.

[3] Eyewitness Travel Australia DK Publishing New York 2008. p.219

In the beginning….

2011-05-02T04:40:00.000-07:00

It started as an answer to a question. As all immensely annoying answers, the question raised in retort, not only posed a new question, but also was completely unrelated to the first. So it failed to answer the initial question and it annoyed the other party.

Two birds; one stone.

Having just moved to Australia from Canada, I met someone in Brisbane who asked if I knew “A mate of his in Toronto named so-and-so.” My answer was, “Hey, what would Darren Hanlon say?” The reaction? A blank look.

Dutifully, I explain that I lived about, as close to Toronto, a city of 5.5 million people, as we currently were to Perth, roughly 1700km, and that it was unlikely that I knew so-and-so, but, as fate would have I, I did in fact know his mate. “In fact we went and saw Darren Hanlon open for Billy Bragg in Toronto. You must know Darren; after all he’s from Gympie, just up the road, right? Boy, what would Darren Hanlon say about this coincidence?”

Unsurprisingly, my conservation companion didn’t know Darren Hanlon or get the joke.

Since that time, I’ve made off hand references to Darren Hanlon and been asked, “What’s he like?” The answer is always the same, “he’s great, but that’s my view, you should find out for yourself.” And really you should. His website is at:

http://www.darrenhanlon.com/ and you can purchase his music online through iTunes, an affiliated site or in better music stores if you like the tangible experience of purchasing music, which incidentally, I used to love.

However, this blog isn’t about Darren Hanlon, his music, what he would say or anything else really. The question is a metaphor.

Ok, then a metaphor for what? Well, funny you should ask. A metaphor for whatever you think works.

The back-story is that Darren Hanlon is a guy that makes music who was raised in Queensland, so the tagline is that he sings music about Australian experiences with an Australian accent. I’ve never see Darren live, but I do own a number of his albums (in non-tangible digital form). My first introduction was whilst listening to a podcast of a Billy Bragg show from Toronto. During said podcast, Darren Hanlon opened for Billy Bragg and due to his wildly humorous and entertaining ways, in a few short days I expanded my great predilection for Billy Bragg (who I have seen live a number of time AND own a number of his albums) to an earnest fondness to Darren Hanlon. Stylistically the two artists are very different, but both produce lyrics that are both clever and profound. Both explore the human experience, Australian, British or universal, it doesn’t really matter. That’s the great thing about metaphors.

So now, what am I doing here? Well I’ve moved to Oz and am preparing to write about human experiences. Are these universal experiences? Canadian experiences, with Canadian words and accents? Australian experiences seen by a Canadian? Does it matter? Well, what would Darren Hanlon say? I don’t know, but I think that he’d say that you can’t “Cheat The Future”, so I suppose that means that you’ll have to read and find out. Or maybe it means that as the author of this piece, I’m afforded a clever escape route and leave you as the reader to do the heavy lifting to unwind the metaphor. At any rate, I hope that you enjoy and visit often. Perhaps you can let me know if you see Darren and tell me what you think of what he might say.

Ironically, I understand that Darren Hanlon has moved from Australia to the USA. “But I just got here!!” I suppose I’ll just have to stop off somewhere and “spit the dummy”.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

2010-07-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Given the state that most of you are in, now a week post-Stampede and the time lag since the last update, I thought I’d provide something quick. So far our experiences have been great and can be reflected in the following lists. If it helps, hum (or download and play) Ennio Morricone’s tune that became the spaghetti western theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

The Good

The climate. The weather here is tracking the Calgary weather almost to the degree. While it is more humid here, it’s lovely and the dead of winter.
Winter. Low temperatures of 6-8 C; flowering plants; walking to work in sandals, shorts and a light long sleeved shirt, MC Hammer couldn’t touch this.
No sign of mini-van driving soccer Moms with acid washed “Mom Jeans”.
A 12 oz. coffee that costs $4 is a bargain. The coffee is that good. No joke.
The sky. First, understand that I’m a Calgary kid and never imagined living anywhere other than southern Alberta. Until now. The sky here provides a constant source of wonder, comment and awe. Walking home the sunsets are vibrant, dynamic and exceed my imagination, almost daily. Nicole has been running in the morning and claims the same for the sunrise. During the day the sky is so blue that we’re left discussing it daily. I keep wanting to refer to the blueness of the sky as “unbelievable”, “improbable” or “impossible” but it day after day, it’s the same, so the adjectives don’t apply. Unfathomable isn’t the right word, but it’s the best that I can do. Remember the part of City of Angels, where the angels go to the beach to listen to the sunrise? The sky here, is almost that good.
The traffic. I saw the first road rage incident since we’ve been here. I driver honking and honking and honking. Not screaming. Not threatening violence. Just honking. Someone called out “Go back to Victoria” (another state). Turns out the car actually had Victoria plates.
The restaurants are excellent. There is no shortage of good restaurants ranging from local take-away (take out) to fine dining. In fact, there is still a handful within a few blocks of our home that we haven’t tried. Most of the restaurants accommodate children, in various forms, regardless of how “up-market” the restaurant is. Having said that our daughter is remarkably well behaved, except when she’s Nicole’s daughter.
The weekly ritual of meeting other families at the local markets to let the kids play while one shops for the week’s produce.
Tasting notes for local sparkling wine, detail “subtle hints of vegemite”. Don’t read this to mean that I like vegemite in my sparkling wine, I just like that this is how the wine is described.
Short skirts.

The Bad

$4 Coffee, even if it’s that good, it’s still pricy.
Cured meats. We haven’t resolved what the issue is, but the cured meats don’t accord with our palettes. There is a taste that seems visceral, either the presence of blood or a higher fat content than we’re used to. Shame.
Litter. There seems to be more litter than I was used to in Calgary, perhaps because Calgary is windier in Calgary, or perhaps there’s just people that pick it up. Here bottles will stay in the curb for days if not weeks. By contrast, in Calgary, the homeless will clear them up before you turn around.
Trying to understand the slang and local vernacular. One day I asked what Spencer had at day-care for lunch, I was informed “pikelets”. “Oh, ok, what are ‘pikelets’” “More than one pikelet”. Really? At any rate, I couldn’t manage an explanation, so the old stand-by Wikipedia identified them for me as “American style pancakes”. So, to understand what our daughter is eating, we need a translator. Fantastic. This is just the beginning of so, so much….
Prices. Things are expensive. Dining is pricy, but consumer goods are particularly pricy and most of the time we’re better off buying clothes or formula for Spencer in North America and then arranging for it to be shipped.
Bad service. There is no tipping (because minimum wage is $534.78/week (roughly $14.31/hr) so waiters are typically disinclined to be attentive. Further, there is a different perception in roles. I was advised today by the girl at the street based coffee cart that she’s in the “hospitality” industry. The coffee is good, she seemed nice, but “hospitality”, I think we’re reaching.
Life is real. We live here and being here isn’t a holiday. We have to go to work, buy groceries, change diapers and do laundry. I’m sure this pains you all and you’ll set up a fund for us, but Australia has warm weather and beaches, which should be consistent with holidays. We’ve been to the beach twice in the four months we’ve been here. Did I mention that we’re not really on holiday??
We miss friends and family. We miss the weddings, the coffees and drinks, the graduations, BBQ’s, dinners and being part of daily lives.
The trials and tribulations of trying to get qualified as a lawyer here. By the end of this I will either be admitted to the Law Society or admitted into a psychotherapy in-patient program. If it’s the later, I’ll ask you not to stare at the scar on my forehead.

I was recently advised that my application was incomplete inter alia because two copies of my resume are required, because there were two separate forms as part of the application process. Notwithstanding that a copy was sent, notwithstanding that I’ve paid $400 and notwithstanding that I have to send documents out of state, it’s easier for the law society to set the application aside until I send another copy then it is to make a copy themselves.

Further, copies of original documents must be notarized, and not merely certified by a lawyer as true copies. Complicating matters is that lawyers are not Notaries as they are in Canada, and actually finding a Notary is like hen’s teeth. Some of the larger law firms only have 1 or 2 in their offices (so I’m told). In fact in Queensland the notary office continues to be appointed by the Court of Faculties in England under the guidance of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I understand that there has been an unprecedented rash of people trying to pretend to be Albertan lawyers, especially with my name. Perhaps this is true. Scary if it is.

Short skirts.

The Ugly

Bugs. Large, tenacious, voracious. Not the way I like to describe things that make my skin crawl. Because things grow all year around, they get big, they don’t go away and they’re creepy. Yuck.
Homelessness. The people that are homeless here seem to have less support than in Calgary (probably because they won’t freeze). They’re also more aggressive. We were followed for a block a couple of weeks ago, by 3 or 4 wired aboriginals, being peppered with pleas for cigarettes and cash. When their taunts started to involve Spencer that was enough, and our response quickly backed them down and they then gave us the space we wanted.
Feeling cold and damp at nights and in the mornings. Yeah, it’s embarrassing to admit that we’re here and we feel cold. While I laugh at people that talk about the current conditions as “cold”, or “too cold to camp” (at 6 C), the fact is that we feel cold here and can’t seem to get our brains around it. I should have brought more sweaters and long sleeved shirts.
Winter colds. Of course it’s Spencer’s fault, being at day-care, but we’ve all had “winter colds” that have endured for over 2 weeks now. Bummer.
Ford Falcon Ute. First things first, the “Ute” is like a little truck; not a light truck like one is used to in Alberta, like the older Mazda’s and Toyota, but a little pickup, usually with a flatbed. Further, “Ute” is the shortened version of “Utility” as far as I can tell, rather than “Uterus” like I had initially thought because, it seemed like a derogatory term for where a baby would be kept, which was in line with the lexigraphic rules that I’ve managed to learn since I’ve been here. “Baby truck, baby in a truck, baby is safe and carried in (or actually near) the uterus, everything has either a slang name or is shortened, ergo Ute” At any rate, think Chev El Camino and you get the modern day Ford Falcon Ute. There is really no reason for anyone to be driving this atrocity that isn’t either running afoul of INS in Southern California or playing indoor ball hockey in the 70’s at Glenmore Park. Terrible. However, the alarming popularity of the Falcon Ute (undoubtedly, the result of some type of Bernie Madoff marketing shenanigans) perhaps explains why the Aussies export wine with penguins on the label to North America. I wish we could all just get along.
Vegemite
Vegemite
Vegemite
Vegemite
Short skirts.

Our First Winter

2010-06-10T16:53:00.000-07:00

According to the local radio, June 1 marks the start of winter. Ah yes, winter the lamentable burden that we’ve had to face “back-to-back winters” in leaving Calgary in February. It’s ok; I can hear your eyes rolling from here. But as everything here, it is in fact different. For instance take the following weather report (taken without permission, but for non-commercial purposes):

Snow season with reach

Sam Terry, Wednesday June 2, 2010 - 17:13 EST

It's now less than two weeks before the snow season begins and excitement is building. But what can we expect?

Snowfall activity is going to be virtually non-existent for the next seven days as a broad high-pressure ridge prevents cold fronts from pushing north.

The only chance for snow will be late on Sunday as cooler southerly winds filter in over the Victorian alps, bringing snow flurries overnight down to 1400 metres. However, snowfalls are not expected to penetrate any further north than Hotham.

The second week of the forecast period is looking a lot more favourable (in terms of widespread snow) on both the NSW and VIC Alps. Longer-range models are indicating cooler air reaching further north for a prolonged period of time, allowing snow-bearing systems like cold fronts or cut-off lows to deliver the goods.

The best chance for snow is on the 9th or 10th. However, there is still a large portion of uncertainty with this as models are in some disagreement.

The winter outlook is not looking grand. Indications are that this winter should be warmer than average, and near-average for rainfall. Keep checking weatherzone.com.au. for the updated snow forecast every morning.

- Weatherzone

Before going to far, I must admit, that I’ve been oft tempted to comment to Aussies that I’m from a place were winter is real, people freeze and snow actually is a real issue. However, every time I’m inclined, I pause remembering a former colleague who expressed his bravado during a Mt. bike ride in the American south. Here was a nice, middle class kid from Calgary, raised in Lakeview, who had been transferred to Mississippi to work for QC Data, telling people that he was from “somewhere that put the ‘mountain’ into Mt. biking”. This well articulated bravado was before he got lost for hours, keeping him out in the darkened woods crossing creeks with alligators in them. Really, alligators. A fact he was warned over while crossing such a creek by a disbelieving local. "Ain't you 'fraid of them 'gators in them waters?" Since that experience, regardless what his learning’s may or may not have been, I’ve been contrite in my opinions whilst abroad.

So, we had been told that Brisbane gets cold come winter, so we curiously awaited the experience. As it turns out, and as ashamed as I am to admit, we have been cold. Really, Brisbane’s winters turn “not warm” rather than cold as we would understand cold. There is no frost, no snow (except in the majestic Victorian Alps at the dizzying elevations of 1400m – the Calgary International Airport is at 1083 m, incidentally) and no (real) wind chill. So, what is the cold? Well, it’s really like I’ve said, “not warm”, but given that the homes generally don’t have heat, nor insulation things cool off. Actually they cool off significantly. We’ve taken to purchase two space heaters, which now run most of the time that we’re home. The heaters run primarily so that we can sleep comfortably, our daughter doesn’t continue to fight off the battery of colds that she’s been exposed to at day care and so that we can walk around in shorts and t-shirts, because “we’re in Australia now”. Right. Australia means you get to dress like an idiot. Better yet, the locals here say, “You’re from Canada, you can’t be cold.” “Right mate, I’m not cold, I’m just ‘not warm’. By the way, mate, speaking of not too hot, how did the Socceroos fair against Germany in their opening World Cup match?”

Actually that’s really the point to the “not warm” here, is that people don’t adjust their habits or dress. Like Spring and Fall in Canada, generally, people still cling to the idea that the weather is better than it is, and try to impose their will upon the ambient temperatures. Again, much like Canada, it doesn’t matter how many people run along the paths without shirts or exposed midrifs, it simply doesn’t get any warmer.

Having said that, the weather now is lovely. Mid-afternoon (arvo) has that warm caramel sensation where a light long sleeve shirt is a touch too much, but comfortable all the same. The sun is low in the sky making you alternate squinting and drinking in the soft light that sets the city aglow and casts long shadows. Like the autumn day in Albertan mountains that is anchored to the heat of August, the air feels good but reminds you with a hint of coolness, that there is a change coming. Thankfully, the change here isn’t sub-zero, snow and icy roads.

Moving / Removing Day

2010-04-15T05:19:00.000-07:00

Moving / Removing Day

Initially Nicole and I started sending dispatches or periodic updates by email back to our friends and family who were back in Canada and the USA. These were stochastic at best, and often ambitiously tried to distill a number of experiences into correspondence that people would actually read with interest during their busy lives. The fact remained that we had left Canada. We had left our friends and family, all of whom kept on running their busy lives independent of any adventure that we might have embarked upon. Further, these same friends and family carried on their lives all the while perceiving that we had left the frozen wasteland of The Great White North (Canada) for the last vestige of the Garden of Eden that is Queensland. We did very little in our updates back to Canada to dispel this belief.

During this time, my muse seemed to be on a hiatus that often was only interrupted by long runs or copious amounts of wine. Unfortunately, while effective in rousing the muse, neither were particularly conducive to getting my brilliant ideas down in written form. However, as life became more organized my updates, became more event inspired, but still issued randomly, which according to some became part of their charm. These events included National holidays, local shenanigans and notable happenings in our lives.

One such notable episode occurred early in May. The 7^th of May, occurring here at the same time that every Mexican in the Western Hemisphere was coming out of their Cinco de Mayo hangover, was the glorious day when our possessions that were shipped from Canada finally arrived. So to provide the proper context, for the period of 15 March to 7 May, we lived with rented furniture, rented bedding, rented dishes, rented cups, rented cutlery, rented cooking implements and, to my great chagrin, rented knives. So the arrival of our personal possessions was something that had been longed for with the same baited breath of a returning lover who had been absent for months.

What started off with pitched excitement and a festive feeling, eclipsing the anticipation of Christmas, soon gave way to the tedium of opening box after box after box that contained all the surprise of a wooden Russian doll. The actual delivery of our goods had to be scheduled with the removal of our rental furniture and kitchen wares, so the day itself was expected to be busy with two separate work crews (and I) in a 1000 sq ft apartment. As you (or at least Murphy (of Murphy's Law notoriety) would expect, the crew to deliver our contents arrived before the crew to remove the rentals. So I had the pleasure of playing a very unhappy life sized game of Tetris inside our home.

I must admit that the crews were great. Friendly; generally proficient, and happy to accommodate most of my instruction. All of the crewmembers introduced themselves to me and shook my hand prior to starting. One of the delivery guys (A.J.) was thrilled that I came from Canada as he has plans to travel to Canada, "in a couple of years...when he's 21". It was amazing to talk about anything to someone who was 19 years old. A.J. had some real gems to share; gems that only 19 years of wisdom could lay claim to.

"I'm not worried about the cold in Canada, mate; I'm from Tassie (Tasmania) and it gets pretty cold there." Right. Compared to Queensland, Tasmania is colder. Fair enough. However, Tasmania also still boasts all year agricultural activities, whereby comparison Alberta has glaciers, which as we know is all year ice. Not really the same: you'll need more than a "jumper" to "rug up" mate.

"Hey, mate, I've been doing this for 10 years," A.J. reassured me of his professionalism by stating with considerable authority. OK, great, you've been doing exactly what for 10 years, chewing gum while you talk to people? You just told me that you're 19. "Yeah well I've sort of helped my step-dad out for a long time..." Nice to see that bravado is universal.

Admittedly, A.J. for all of his bravado and his wealth of experience packed into his 160cm (5’ 4”) and 50kg (110 lbs) stature he worked hard and efficiently. I would put that kid to work on any job site. I suppose it also helped the overall effect because he caused a laugh every time he opened his mouth, which was frequent enough.

The crews were good and well spirited, always ready for a laugh and working steadily away. We managed to get on well, I offered them cold cokes and water and they took my direction placing things in the designated rooms or outside on one of the three patios that we had. Three patios, you ask? Hey, baby we’re in Australia now, we’ve got to have outdoor space. The cokes and water were good but the big reward for the boys (groups of guys here, whether they are on a team, if they’re working or standing around a water cooler are referred to as “boys”) was at the end of the move.

Part of the relocation service coming from Canada was that a crew would attend at our home in Calgary and pack all the contents that we were taking. These guys were also efficient. So efficient in fact that they packed and loaded copies of files that I had brought home to work on and my access card to the law firm, for which I had to provide the firm with an undertaking that I would destroy both upon my reuniting with it in Australia. You know, in case I wanted to come back to Canada unannounced and wander the halls of a law firm.

Because of the logistics involved in transporting goods overseas, requiring truck, rail, ocean and truck again modes, all the contents were wrapped in paper and bubble wrap and then placed in boxes. So between the various wraps and boxes there was a tonne of paper left over at the end of move that needed to be disposed of. Fortunately the removal of the packing materials was also part of the deal. However, I now had the problem having three removalists wanting to rush with empty boxes through a small but partially unpacked home in order to take the packing materials away. This was further complicated by the fact that we were on the third floor and the boys would have to load and unload the elvator (“lift”), that was until I was struck by inspiration. “Ok boys, just bring all the boxes to this patio and then throw them over to your mate.” The crew just stared at each other thinking I was “taking a piss” with them, until I called out to the guy below and started throwing the boxes in to the alley. Genius in its simplicity, the boxes were light, even if full of used packing paper, and then harmlessly bounced down into the alley adjacent to where the truck was parked. Buddy on the bottom, could just pick them up and toss them into the truck. Soon the boys were tossing boxes off the balcony like luggage handlers at LAX. Unfortunately, the guy on the bottom wasn’t happy with this arrangement because as cool as it was to look up and see in raining cardboard boxes, he wasn’t getting to “have a toss” (I tried to explain that, at least in Canada, that expression has another meaning, but I wasn’t to be heard) “You know mate, every one loves a good toss.” Right, I didn’t shake his hand when we said good bye.

All in all, the rental items were returned and our possessions were delivered without incident. The exceptions were that our sofa didn't fit into our unit due to a function of building code differences. In Canada, it is standard to require no less than 1.4m (4 feet) for egress (fire code). The noted exception to this is at least one of the law firms that I worked at, where the standard corridor is choked with file boxes and the like allowing about ½ m (18 inches) of passage. This also, perhaps, explains why the more “established” partners don’t venture down corridors but rather send their starving associates scurrying along to find a specific file, or brief, or piece of evidence that “must be in one of those boxes”.

The phrase “fool’s errand” comes to mind, but I’m sure the reference is to “having sent a fool”, I’ve certainly felt that way returning to the instructed lawyer empty handed. At any rate, regarding egress; as far as I know there has never been a story of someone running into a burning building to save a lawyer. Perhaps there is an obvious reason for this, and perhaps an even more obvious joke, but I suspect that lawyers, with their view of risk are well out of the building (and safely relocated to the library at the Courts so that they can continue to work, and more importantly, bill) at the first sign of trouble and so egress statutes are for the rest of society.

In Australia our corridor is closer to 0.9 m (3 feet), which in addition to frustrating file storage, operates to prevent a large curved sofa from gaining entry to our home. That is unless we wanted to rent a crane or cherry picker to convey the piece up to our third floor unit and then through the sliding doors off of the balcony. Hmmmm. While the image of a 19-year-old kid with 10 years of experience operating a crane in a busy alley might make for good YouTube entertainment we opted to store the sofa for six months and forego the Australian version of the Three Stooges chasing each other, (and A.J.) with cherry pickers, hi-boys and fork lifts. I suppose that rather than subscribing to cable television (FoxTel is the local service) we could have sat on the sofa and watched the drama and saved both on the television and the rental; in my mind’s eye it would have been like the Three Stooges but directed by Quentin Tarantino.

The other catch in the otherwise smoothly functioning machine, that was our relocation experience, involved a couple of our more coveted appliances. Originally, we were told that as long as we had proper plug converters our appliances would be fine in Australia, notwithstanding that North America runs 120v and Australia runs 240v for domestic equipment (with the exception of refrigerators and other large appliances in Canada that require 240v). First of all, plug converters are small devices that trick the North American plug into thinking that they are safely back in the Northern Hemisphere where they can functions safely while enjoying a drive on the proper side of the road and not being scared of snakes, rather than simply in a prosthetic that allows the non-compatible plug, into the gilded trough of sweet current that nourishes our appliances voracious appetite for electricity.

Putting this advice to the test, we plugged in a floor lamp, which greeted us with a warm glow of light that promised us evenings of reading, visiting or enjoying the luxury of seeing what you were eating. Unfortunately, this welcome was short lived and with a resounding "pop" the bulb and internal wiring blew apart. Impressive, to be sure, but also short lived. Much like silly school girls on a sugar high, Nicole and I laughed and giggled for a few short moments and then fell silent when we realized that we were in the dark until the shops opened again the following day and we could replace the lamp. Leaving our dreams lost in the dark of our apartment. Fortunately despair was staved off with wine and the fact that we could keep the windows and patio doors open to enjoy the velvety warm night. In some ways this was better as the bugs, which are super creepy for a kid that grew up in the mountains of Canada, where most things die when the temperature reaches zero C (an occurrence generally observed 8 months a year) don’t come in as there’s no light to attract them. But then hearing the bats scream to eat the bugs….well it quickly because the Australian version of the children’s song, “I knew an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly…she swallowed a spider to catch the fly…” But I digress. Yes, sad about no light, but drinking wine in the warm dark is not without it’s charm.

Compared to the floor lamp, our experience with the toaster was far more spectacular. Saturday morning, in answer to Spencer's crescendoing baby robin cry of "toast, toast, toast, toast" Nicole attempted to make toast, an easy enough task, even for someone with my culinary expertise. Notwithstanding that toast is a simple task for Nicole, our circumstances betrayed us. The toaster opened with a whirring noise, started to glow and then ended its functional life with the sickly pop of a dropped rotten egg. Just as powerful as the scent of warm toast wafting through the morning is, so to was the acrid odour of a small electrical fire hung in our kitchen. Our plans had changed. Again. Changing plans is usually easy enough but with Spencer baying “toast, toast, toast, toast", an appliance on fire and stares of shock and disbelief, Nicole and I had to think fast.

Spencer is blessed with Nicole’s dedication and cursed with my stubbornness, which makes her as flexible as granite in most instances. Fortunately, Spencer also has Nicole’s gracious spirit and my penchant for rapid gratification, which is to say that she can sometimes be easily distracted to lower hanging fruit if we can make it appealing enough. In this case, we convinced her that koalas eat porridge and that she might like to as well. Shamefully, we (and truly I mean, me) actually only convinced Spencer that koalas don’t eat toast, and as the corollary, porridge was a viable option as I could boil the water on the stove.

So as Spencer made due with porridge, the toaster was sent on its way to a modern art exhibit. This was all so terribly disappointing; having dreamt of my morning commencing with the scent of the invigorating fragrance and sight of the velvety crema from my morning espresso for the first time since leaving Canada, I woke instead to the smell of appliances burning themselves out from the inside and despair. When I told Nicole that it was acrid smoke that was making my eyes water, she graciously pretended to believe me.

Still unconvinced that our appliances wouldn't work here, we tried a couple of the other smaller appliances, you know, just to be sure. With an attitude that was becoming increasingly curious and intrepid I turned my attentions to the electric eggbeater. The premise was simple, no one was going to pay to have this item shipped back to Canada, it was inexpensive to replace and the power draw shouldn't be significant. Not that I had any empirical basis upon which to draw the last conclusion but I had consumed a lot of coffee by that time and was perhaps a little bit bored. The result was spectacular. In fact had I known how this was going to turn out I would have brought more beaters over from Canada and waited for Nicole to get home from work to show her. Within five seconds of engaging the motor on the beater I had converted a small kitchen appliance into a one-use short-range taser. Awesome. Actually it was a sight to behold. To Nicole's credit, she thought that this was mildly amusing, but I think secretly she was glad that our daughter was in day care on a full time basis.

We explored various workarounds to this “minor” electrical problem. One was to purchase a transformer. These are devices that safely convert voltage from the unsuitable voltage to that which is suitable for the appliances. In our case, each transformer would cost us ~$300 and occupy the area of a toaster on our counter, but weigh as much as a small anvil (because everyone really should have their own small anvil around, and more so on their kitchen counter). In addition, each appliance that operated on different amps would require it's own transformer. So, we'd need three to start. Unfortunately, we didn't have the counter space to transform our kitchen into a blacksmith’s shop and worse, they're as ugly as sin (the marrying your cousin kind of sin, not the fun sins like, well, you know) all for the bargain price of about $1000.

We also explored re-wiring the appliances, which actually requires a new motor to be installed; not a viable option, as the price quoted was higher than the additional transformers or new appliances. Oddly, we found one electrician (referred to as “Sparkies” here) who would be willing to attend at our apartment and simply install new wall outlets that would accommodate the Canadian plug, without changing the electricity that flowed through them!! I could smell the electrical fire over the phone. Perhaps this was another 19-year-old professional, with 10 years experience. It would seem that Sparkies derive their moniker from the fires that they leave in their wake, rather than simply just their ability to play with wires. Not sure that our landlord would be the happy kind of excited about this option, but perhaps we'd be ok, because we have insurance.....maybe the Sparkie will do my lobotomy at the same time. Electroshock therapy might be more of his thing. Yeah, good ideas flowing like a torrent. Maybe, after a few drinks, I could convince the Sparkie to lower his price, but then he may commence the work in that same inebriated state too.

Anyways, at the end of the day, we offered to have a few items shipped back to Canada to anyone who was willing to give them a good home and pay the shipping. On offer was a Breville Espresso machine (that ran about $600 Cdn new at Williams Sonoma), a KitchenAid food processor (also roughly $600 Cdn new), a cordless drill and other small appliances. There were also a few lamps and what not, that were not worth the shipping, unless someone desperately wanted them for sentimental reasons. Right, that just wasn’t going to happen.

Oddly we had someone suggest that we keep the drill because if its cordless then it doesn’t have to be plugged and shouldn’t have the same problem. I only had to count to 5 before they caught the mistake.

As it turned out there was some interest in the coffee machine. However, because it was a cast piece, the size of the engine block on a small motorbike, the shipping was about $200 AUD. But still, this seemed like a good idea to the parties, since it was still less than the machine would cost new. Really isn’t all about the value. Isn’t it? Well, it turns out that the joke was on us. Upon arrival in Canada, the espresso machine was classified by Canada Post as “new”, rather than “used” or a “gift” as disclosed on the customs declaration and thus levied a duty in the amount of $175 Cdn. So, in what was beginning to resemble a Sienfeld episode, the recipient paid the duty (as good Canadians who are anxious for a caffeine fix are wont to do) thinking that we had shipped it COD. The result was a Kafkaesque dialogue with Canada Post and the Canada Revenue Agency whereby refunds couldn’t be issued, appeals couldn’t be launched or basic questions answered as each agency claimed that it was the other agency’s responsibility. Even worse, it was not clear who had the right of inquiry, the consingee or the consignor. So, again in good Canadian fashion, we agreed to ignore it, take the additional loss and pay a tax that seemed both unfair and arbitrary. I now understand why the Malatov Cocktail is the preferred form of political expression in some parts of the world. But alas, not Canada, not Australia; thankfully. Well, at least most times I’m thankful for more restrained political expression.

Notwithstanding the trials related to incompatible power supplies, enthusiastic but misguided repairmen and sparkies; and overzealous government agencies, I have to admit that it was wonderful to have our own stuff again (except the non-functioning appliances). In particular our bed and linens and having our knives and kitchen implements is quite lovely. The rental items were fine, but as one would expect from rental furnishings they were well worn. The frying pan was warped from being thrown into cold water, clearly when it was still hot enough to be re-worked and the knives were as dull as the look on a sales guys face mid-afternoon during Stampede week (an all week drunk) in Calgary, everything else, while functional, was tired. Sharp knives and good cookware is certainly well appreciated.

Would we move these things across the world if it came to that again? Perhaps not. I think that the lesson that this has taught us is that we would take the pieces that we needed AND that were easy to transport. Photos, art, collectables (or at least those things with sentimental value) our clothing, linens and that’s perhaps it. Could I offer some advice on this? Certainly, I’m always one to provide an option, welcome or otherwise. I would say that you should take what you need and nothing else. For us, this probably would mean our kitchen, attendant with all the pots, pans, tins, cake forms and whatnot that we’ve been collecting over the years; our art, again collected for sentimental reasons over the years. Our clothing; and our documents[1] (including books, music and photographs) would also make the trip, every time. The furniture is good, but we don’t have any really important pieces so it’s unlikely that they would be brought along on any subsequent move.

Having said that, things certainly would depend on the circumstances of the move, how much time we had to organize and whatever else. We were given an allowance to move a certain amount of our possessions, which could not be “converted” into new furnishings here, so of course these things came with us. Further, and to give ourselves credit, Nicole’s job came up fast and things moved so quickly for us that we barely had time to get in a cab, let alone properly assess what was being sold to fire sale and what was coming with us. In fact our packing and organizing had all the structure and discipline of abandoning a besieged embassy.

[1] As far as documents go. Take the originals and take plenty of certified copies, more on this later.