A Walk In The Park

Since I don't have a car in Perth I've been constrained to the areas that are accessible by public transport. Public transport isn't very cheap when your income is ~$200 per week and rent is $140 per week. On top of that the sun is bright and cancerous during the day, and basically every animal here is lethal if it looks at you the wrong way, so lately I've adopted a sloth-like sedentary life-style. Under further scrutiny those might not be great reasons for inactivity, but I've rationalized reasons nonetheless. (Aside: Who's the guy that decided to ignore the entire convention of using spaces between words when he allowed "nonetheless" in the dictionary? I hope that editor was fired).

But every once in a while, if I wake up before noon on one of the five days that I don't work each week, I shower myself in sunscreen and seek an adventure outside. Most recently, that adventure was a walk in the park, Kings Park to be exact, located just a short distance from the center of the city. 

I had walked by Kings Park during the City-to-Shore Fun Run on my first weekend in Perth in August. The Run was a charity event, which I didn't formally participate in, but informally, I think all 30,000+ participants were glad that I didn't use my mind-bullets on anyone. (Or did I?) Such was my familiarity that I felt I could "guess" my way to Kings Park by walking west from the city along the river. This turned out to be an excellent guess, which I never fully realized because I started doubting myself and then asked for directions. In a Spanish accent, a hotel attendant told me to "go up the Jacob's Ladder. It's the best way to get to the park."

Indeed, a handful of paces further from the hotel and I arrived at the so-called Jacob's Ladder, but was disappointed that it ascended a mere 40 meters -- some 300 steps -- nowhere close to the heaven in the Book of Genesis. Like a moth to a flame, the stairs were flooded with fitness-conscious individuals who doggedly trudged up and then mercilessly down like a modern day Sisyphus and his boulder. The attractive women panting heavily as they passed served as a minor consolation for not finding salvation. 

The view NOT from heaven.

Once on top of the stairs, Kings Park was distinguishable by a parkway lined with tall beech trees running parallel to a path on a ridge overlooking Perth and the Swan River. The notable attractions at Kings Park are war memorials, a botanical garden, and well-trimmed grass that would do justice at a golf course. 

Perth from a viewing point at Kings Park.

I strolled around various areas of the park, headed in the general direction of the botanical garden. Following the signs and arrows, I mistakenly read a sign as saying Bubonical Garden and laughed to myself. Here is my rendering of such a garden. 

A unicorn playing in a drab Bubonical Garden.

The botanical garden showcases the different flora and fauna from all around Australia. I can relay this fact only because of the signage provided.  In my opinion, all the plants looked of a robust-and-rugged variety that can hold up to the harsh sun and arid climate. One particular surprise in the garden was a glass-walled arch-shaped bridge that spanned between the tree canopies and offered a clear view of the river. 

A cool little bridge, blending modern architecture in a natural setting.

A baobab tree and the Swan River in the background.

I made my way further through the garden, following signs for a "Place of Reflection". In my heart, I hoped that this place would contain a placid water pool reflecting the sky and trees like a mirror. I found plenty of tranquility but the reflection was all internal. Still pleasant but not as fun. 

I began the walk back to the city in order to catch a train home. Along the way I came upon a woman in a bright red dress shaking it like a Polaroid picture, backed up with a simple musical accompaniment. An on-looker explained it was an Idol-style competition between international students finishing up their time studying English in Australia. From a judge's commentary, I picked up that they were representing Brazil. Check it out in this video. 

And at that, I earned my Vitamin-D quota to justify my hibernation of late. 

Summer and Thanksgiving

The weather continues to warm to uncomfortable levels, and adolescent kids and university students, having wrapped up their classes and exams, are flocking to their beach-of-choice to bask in the Sun's potent, uninhibited UV rays. It's the paradoxical custom of tanning to look healthy and sexy when you're young, at the expense of looking much older earlier in life, along with a higher risk of skin cancer. The smart ones get up early to do whatever needs doing, then escape the midday heat somewhere inside, and re-emerge in the late afternoon as the off-shore breezes move back onto the city to cool things off. (The stupid ones go to the beach lathered in oil, surrounded by parabolic mirrors, while listening to Justin Bieber's "Baby" and Rebecca Black's "Friday").

Yes, the aromatic smells in the air and the electric energy of the masses are whispering into the wind: It's American Thanksgiving, the official start of summer in Australia. And as soon as I heard this calling, I knew it  must be true because I couldn't find any resources (i.e. Googe hits) that say Thanksgiving isn't the official start of summer in Australia.

I was finding it difficult to persuade any Australians to celebrate in our mythologized secular Thanksgiving holiday, where we come together as a family to give thanks for our good fortune -- just like the Pilgrim settlers of America first gave thanks to God, circa 1600, for a great autumnal bounty after receiving assistance and tutelage from Native Americans. (We returned the favor with about three centuries of epidemic diseases, slavery, war, persecution, inhumanity, and manifest destiny, and depleted their population from about 10 million to about 250,000, along with their self-worth in a White Man dominated society, and relegated them to tiny swaths of generally useless land. Amen).

But I was hungry, so, once again, I was eager to ignore the salient details of American history and gorge myself on an egregious amount of food. If I wasn't going to be with my family for Thanksgiving, I was at least going to stuff my face with food.

Fortunately, I was lucky enough to find some Americans, Heather and Sarah, with which to celebrate the holiday. I met Heather and Sarah at my barista certification course in September. I'm not lying when I say that in the first five minutes of chatting the topic of Thanksgiving dinner in Australia came up. In a few weeks, a date was set and an invitation extended: Saturday 26th of November, 5pm. Bring food, drink, and a gluttonous appetite.

When I arrived at Heather's house, I met her roommates, who would be partaking in the celebrations. Our party consisted of one Australian, one Kiwi, two Germans, two Japanese, and three USAns. I was early and mostly hung out with the Kiwi Carl while we drank beers and watched Heather slave over a 6 kg turkey along with all the sides she was preparing. I managed to help a little by convincing Heather that mashing the boiled potatoes was a "man's job".

The bird fresh out of the oven and resting before Heather had the honor of carving it.

The feast was turning out to be enormous. The Japanese duo brought a platter of handmade sushi rolls -- a perfect appetizer for holding off the watering mouths as we waited. I brought corn bread pudding and smashed butternut squash. Heather had prepared mashed potatoes, turkey, roasted carrots, cranberry sauce, baked sweet potato casserole covered with marshmallows, macaroni and cheese, bread rolls, vegetarian and normal stuffing, and gravy. For desert, someone brought a chocolate cake decorated into a hedgehog with chocolate frosting and white chocolate wafers; someone else brought Tiramisu.

The marshmallow peaks of sweet potato casserole. 

Heather carved the turkey, we posed for a picture or two -- having accomplished what nay-sayers said couldn't be done in Australia-- and the chaos began. If you've ever had Thanksgiving, you know what happens. Usually the sequence of events are feast with the family, watch American football while falling in and out of consciousness from the Turkey Nap, and eventually wake up sometime later for desert. In bizarre-o Thanksgiving in Australia, where football means rugby, footie, or soccer (I'll probably never know which), we scrapped watching sports in exchange for playing them on an XBox using the motion sensor based game Kinect Sports, which was actually pretty cool. Instead of using remotes like those utilized in Wii Sports or Playstation, Kinect Sports requires you to, one, have hands and, two, not be paraplegic (I apologize to those offended). In addition, we listened to classic holiday music like Snoop Dog's Doggystyle and a compilation of James Brown screeching over musical instrument accompaniment.  The entertainment from the video game was enough to stave off napping until the party digressed into watching pop-culture videos of Wilford Brimley saying diabetes, or "Dia-beetis", such as in this awful rap video and this Family Guy clip.

Starting from 6 o'clock, Mark, Lauren, Sarah, Julia, Carl, Me, and the two roommates from Japan (even that's a guess on the country, and whose names couldn't be remembered because I'm an ignorant white guy -- true Thanksgiving spirit really).

The next day, as I reflected on the previous evening while working at the Caffissimo Cafe at the Perth Art Gallery, I was gracious for another reason beyond the good fortune of spending time with good people while traveling in a "foreign" country. There was no cacophany of Chistmas music making my ears bleed. There weren't even decorations or faux Christmas trees in sight. People didn't talk about the holiday deals they would snatch up, or tell stories about waiting in line at absurd hours of the morning, or deals they scored on Black Friday.

Every year Christmas seems to be coming earlier -- a longer buying season means more money for businesses, especially those hurting from the recession -- and Thanksgiving, unfortunately I think, gets marred by the consumerism. The simpleness of spending time with family and friends on Thanksgiving is why I like the holiday so much (oh, and eating), but the pleasant memory of it is lost quickly as Americans get caught up with the buying season. By the time Christmas comes, the try-hards are stressed out and exhausted from trying to score good deals or figuring out the perfect gift; the apathetic, like me, feel alienated by everyone in a game I don't identify with; and then there's everyone in between. It's nice to give a gift that really makes someone happy, but that is hard to do in a society that has a lot (even during a recession), and I usually end up going through the motions of Chistmas because I feel forced to follow the heard.

I'm not saying that this doesn't happen in Australia. I'm sure it does, but at least it comes a little later in the season, with a lower intensity of consumerism. For me that means a little less second-hand stress as I think about what to get to people, who those people will be, and if I'll even be able to afford it. Time will tell. For now, I'll try to enjoy the Thanksgiving after-glow. You should too.

Ozzie Lingo

After two and half months in Perth, I think I've observed enough of the local lingo to tell you my opinion of it. I'm not a fan. I guess that shouldn't be surprising: Australian lingo is the degeneration of the English language by Irish, Scottish, and British convicts starting some 300 years ago. In that time span, the colonists on this hot rock developed a handful of colorful idioms, disguised some cockney rhyming slang, started rounding off their R's, added rising inflections at the end of sentences, and started abbreviating/nicknaming anything longer than one letter.

One of the most annoying things in adapting to the local language is using the British spellings of words. (Listen up British English-language speaking countries, American's have made an improvement here. Fall in line). One of the most annoying spellings is the word "enrol" with only one L. It looks more like the name of a Greek god than a word in the English language. I petition (to who, I don't know) that anyone who enrols in anything be shot in the face with a paintball gun -- that should quickly change the behavior of people willfully spelling like idiots (or wilfully spelling like idiots). 

I guess the spelling pisses me off the most because I was already a terrible speller long before I immersed myself in a culture that breaks half the rules and words I've memorized as a child. I'll probably never be confident in my spelling ever again. Here are some other mis-spelling examples, British on the left and American on the right:

1. Traveller or Traveler
2. Signalling or Signaling 
3. Enquire or Inquire
4. Sceptic or Skeptic
5. Analyse or Analyze 
6. Jewellery or Jewelry
7. Programme or Program
8. Aluminium or Aluminum
9. Cosy or Cozy
10. Grey or Gray

If you are trying to fit in, then here are some substitutions you can use in your daily life. But really, who wants to fit in with these bogans?

1. Use 'whilst' instead of 'while'. I presume this word was adopted so that even if your accent sounds stupid, you can still use smart words. 
2. Use 'keen' for 'interested'. 
3. Use 'reckon' for 'think', especially when you are seeking approval from someone. 
4. Use 'my shout' for 'my turn to pay for drinks'. Okay, definitely points for brevity, but 'shout'? What are you shouting at, the bartender? Based on a few real-life observations of Australians in their natural habitat, then yes, because said person is drunk twice-over and its not yet noon.
5. Use 'heaps' for 'a lot'. This is the classic Aussie adjective. If you're trying to mimic an Aussie, this should be the first word you add to your repertoire.
6. Use "ute" (said 'yute') for "truck", as in utility truck. 
7. Use 'till' for 'cash register'. 
8. Use 'serviette' for 'napkin'.
9. Use 'bottle shop' for 'liquor store'.
10. Use 'chemist' for 'pharmacy'.
11. Use 'servo' for 'gas station'.
12. Use 'Mackers' for 'MacDonalds', but it's said more like "Maccas". 
13. Use 'Ta' as an informal 'Thanks'.
14. Use 'Tucker' for 'food'. As in, "Grab some tucker at Mackers". 
15. Ask 'How ya going?' instead of 'How are you doing?'
16. Warning, NC 17 material here: Use 'arse' for 'ass, and 'bloody' for 'fuck'. 
17. NCinfinity material: Australians use the word 'cunt' way more casually than other English speaking countries. Two friends (i.e. 'mates') might even refer to each other affectionately using that word, as in "He's a real good cunt." It can be a little jarring at first because, in America, you just don't say that word in public, and even in private you need a good reason. 

Now that you got the lexicon down, assuming you're practicing (maybe you're a n-th generation convict too and keen to befriend some like-minded company), then its time it work on the accent. If you really want to sound Australian, throw together a sentence with a bunch of R-controlled vowels and then round off all those R's. Tack on a few extra vowels here and there too, just to be silly; or hack off a few consonants, just because you can. For example, if you want to say, "It's a nice day for a walk in the park", an Aussie might phonetically say, "It's a noice day for a wok in the paak, eyh?" That last "eyh" bit there is sort of pronounced like the Canadian "eh" (speaking of sounding stupid), but the Aussie version is more of a middle-mouthed "eye", as opposed to the back of the throat "eh". Also, if you ask someone if they are "Aussie", make sure you say it "Ozzie" -- if you say the "au" like a hyper-pronunciation of "ou" in "out", or say the "ss" as S in Snake, you are likely to get whacked in the head with a didgeridoo. 

Now for some idioms:

1. My favorite is "Bob's your uncle", which is like saying, "There you have it."
2. "Fair dinkum" is an adjective that means 'genuine' or 'true'. 
3. Say "bloody oath" if you strongly agree with someone. 
4. A "Dag" might be someone who doesn't fit in socially (as in faux pas) or someone from the fringes of society (nerds, geeks, self-absorbed scientists). The word can be turned into an adjective with "daggy", as in "daggy clothing". I was called a dag once, right to my face, and it didn't hurt my feelings because I didn't know what it meant. But then I made the stupid decision to ask what it meant, and received in a long-winded, ego-crushing explanation. Sigh. 
5. Although not truly an idiom, if an Aussie disagrees with someone, they use an affirmative-negative tag of "Yeah, nah."

To polish off the act, you'll need to start abbreviating and nicknaming things. However, it's acceptable to abbreviate a word and then add a suffix, like an -o or a -y, even if it results in a word with the same amount of syllables as the original word. For example, one of my travel friends, Hollywood, didn't even skip a beat when I told him my name was Adam. He immediately started calling me Ads, and the next minute he had created a new iteration: Ads-y. I was totally thrown off by how quickly he had given me a nickname. I think he could see the consternation on my face, and then asked me if it was okay for him to call me that. (He was the first to explain to me that that is how Australians roll with names).

Some other examples of abbreviations I've picked up (of which some are local to Perth):

1. 'Avro' for 'Afternoon'
2. 'Rotto' for 'Rottsnest Island'
3. 'HJ's' for "Hungry Jack's", Australia's name for Burger King (it was previously trademarked). 
4. 'Cott' for 'Cottesloe' or 'Peppy' for 'Peppermint Grove'; the names of the suburb where I live.  
5. 'Didg' for 'Didgeridoo'
6. 'Sess' for 'Session', referring to Perth's "Sunday (drinking) Sessions" at the pub. 

So if you are trying to pick up Aussie lingo, study this blog post a little and, bam!, Bob's your uncle. You'll be talking like a fair-dinkum Ozzie in no time. 

(To be honest, I don't harbor any ill sentiment for the Australian accent. Sometime it sounds just as silly and stupid as people from South Boston or Staten Island in the USA. However, after more than a year of Brits, Aussies, and Canadians telling me how stupid Americans sound, this is fair game).

Graffiti is Legitimate Art in Perth

One of the few things that I've noticed in Perth is the enormous amount of spray paint that  covers nearly every available space (at least compared to what I'd expect to see it in the USA). To me, the most noticeable aspect is that "graffiti" is considered a legitimate and appreciated art where someone, in one way or another, made their wall space available for someone else to decorate -- so the artist can work without being hassled by the law. The result: Graffiti that finally has an opportunity to become street art, and people who see it in a positive light. I think that is pretty cool.  The two pictures below, of a street mural in Fremantle, are one of my favorite, and I think one of the most detailed I've seen.

I estimate that I've passed thousands of graffiti tableaux in Perth, just riding the train a short stretch in and out of the suburbs.  I've promised myself that I will go for a graffiti hunt to photograph all the ones I've located from the train (and beyond), but the daunting undertaking has keep it merely a promise.

However, there is enough street art around that I've been able to snap a few photos while carrying my camera around for other reasons. I've added a separate album (Perth Street Art) to capture what I've photographed so far, and hopefully I get around to posting more pictures of this impressive street art in the future. For now, check out the small collection, here. 

Growing, as, like, a Person..., man.

In the simplest terms, I came to Perth to find a job and earn money before continuing onward with my travels. Many travelers that had been through Perth told me I'd be able to find a job here, especially lucrative engineering jobs because of the booming mining industry. And if that failed, I figured that I'd find a manual labor job and still be able to save, seeing as minimum wage is around A$20/hour.

It's true. I found plenty of work available in Australia. It's just not many employers wanted to hire me, or the jobs weren't the right fit for me in retrospect:

• For skilled engineering work, employers seem reluctant to hire an engineer who does not have previous industry experience. I get it: The company would have to "train" me but then in six months I'd take off and they'd lose their investment. But here is the truth of the matter: A lot of engineers, like many professionals, earn a degree only to find out that they are employed as worker bees with monotonous and asinine responsibilities that require very little use of their expertise. If someone recognizes you have a talent at your job, I think it takes three to five years on average before an employer starts asking you to take on stimulating professional responsibilities -- and more often than not, that added responsibility comes with additional stress. All I wanted was to be a contracted monotonous worker bee while I saved up money and grow professionally. Regardless, the search continues for this elusive engineering job, but I'm not holding my breath.
  
  
• I found plenty of manual labor jobs advertised. Dishwashers, grounds crew, and construction jobs were plentiful, but they came with a caveats. Many of these positions require a car to travel to various destinations, and applicants have to be physically fit. Well, I don't have a car. Two, I realized during a few unsuccessful job trials that my body isn't that indefatigable and chiseled Adonis it used to be. Bending over all day is agonizing, standing on my feet all day isn't much better, and lifting heavy loads is utter misery. There are few things that are as demoralizes as trying to apply yourself in the real world and then coming to the realization that your body is old and decrepit. Awesome.
  
  
• The service and hospitality industry is booming in Perth, probably because of all the money filtering in through the mining boom. Working in the front of a restaurant appealed to me because it seemed less grueling than manual labor. The challenge in pursuing this career path was that I'm an engineer with an engineering personality: I like to think about things internally and express them afterward in a thoughtful manner; my brain doesn't work very well while trying to talk at the same time; and I don't really smile for the sake of putting on a friendly face.  Probably on more than one occasion, a stranger has passed me in a work environment and thought, "That guy is a dick," just because I wore a smirk on my face while dreaming of Lalaland. I'm not perfect, but I'm not unfriendly.
  
  I did a waiter trial at a beach-side restaurant in Cottesloe.  Cott, as it is commonly called, is a very wealthy area because of the beautiful beach and extremely gentrified property values. Accordingly, the restaurant I was to do the trial for attracted a similar caliber of customers. I found the early diner crowd tolerable to serve since the mood was more relaxed and casual. But in the evening, as the customers became more serious, smugger and pretentious, I couldn't pair my personality to match the one that would have succeeded in the situation.
  
  For example, I would try to fill water glass but no one would acknowledged I was around, which made it very difficult to fill them, and I was forced with the decision of a) should I squeeze my way closer to grab the glass, b) interrupt the conversation to ask for the cup, or c) just ignore that that person doesn't have water. A more dynamic personality would have known, but I didn't.
  
  The clincher for the evening was when I carried over desert menus to a large table and couldn't figure out when to interrupt the conversation -- the youngest woman at the table, probably my age, acknowledged my feeble attempt to get their attention. Even then, only the women at the table stopped to ponder the question momentarily before the chatter started up and I was lost holding all the menus minus one that I'd put on the table just in case, smiling awkwardly like, "What the fuck do I do now?" and the women my age was looking at me with a face that said "Why are you here? You don't fit in." Sweeeet.
  
  The manager, who was a kind chatty lady from Denmark, said she'd call me the next day to discuss a purely barista position (which is what I originally applied for), but she never called back. I wasn't disappointed. Lesson learned in Round 2 of job trials: It's not very satisfying to find a job that challenges deep-seated personality habits while people watch the train wreck.
  
  No worries, though. Baby steps.
  
  
• I had failed enough in previous jobs, in enough variety of ways, that I had become pretty sure that I wanted to be a barista that was either entirely behind the espresso machine, or at least behind the counter of a cafe. Cafe's don't have the same atmosphere and personality constraints that fancy restaurants carry with them.  I was also running out of cash and I needed to find a job soon. I started applying everywhere and calling, and eventually got a job trial in a nice area with a seemingly nice manager.
  
  The manager turned out to be anal retentive and of the micro- variety. I thought back to mentoring people at work as an engineer and wondered, "Was I ever that bad?" (I don't think so, at least; sorry if I was). At the end of a three hour trial, she seemed happy with my barista skills. We sat down and she took the wind out of my sails when she said, I think I want someone more familiar with being a barista... (insert long banter about how she needs to train me at the other parts of the counter and that I might not be good at it, etc etc). All in all, I knew what she was saying: I don't want to pay you until you are sufficiently trained, so give me something in return. I offered her two days of unpaid work (about 10 hours/day) to get my foot in the door (which, technically, I think its illegal to not pay me -- but quid pro quo, Clarice). Those two days sucked, mostly because she was nitpicking every minor detail I didn't get perfectly right, and had me memorizing a lot of arbitrary rules.
  
  Anyway, the search is over, I officially have a job! The other staff members are pretty chill and fun, which makes up for my boss. And when my boss is just stopping by the cafe, instead of watching every move over my shoulder, she is pretty agreeable too. And now that I make several hundred coffees a day, I've been working on my free-poured latte art and it is slowly improving. Here is a picture of the test coffees I made recently before we opened for work. 

Left: An attempt at a rosetta; Center: A heart; Right: Another attempt at a rosetta

Hope for Change and Make People Happy

You might imagine that, based on the title of this post, it would be a political one. It isn't, mostly. If it was, I'm sure I'd alienate my scant readership with my political and economic opinions. This post is actually about change. Like that stuff in your pocket. Coinage.

In America, change deserves the prefix "chump" because it is generally useless unless you save up for months, maybe years. But eventually a day comes when the jar is so full of coins that it has its own gravitational pull. And it's time to head to the Change Machine at your grocery store or your local bank. If only making meaningful change in politics was so simple.

The grocery store machines usually charge a commission if you want cash back, but website vouchers for places like Amazon.com are usually free. Bank's typically take a commission unless you are a member, or the coins are properly rolled. No one rolls coins these days, because it defeats the point of why people save loose change: To hear the clink and clack sounds of inconvenient, noisy metal bits turning into found wealth. The sound of happiness.

In contrast, in many other countries, one being Australia, their coins are not so useless because they are of greater denominations. Australia has eliminated the 1 cent coin, and uses 5 cent, 10 cent, 20 cent, 50 cent, $1, and $2 coins. When I first came to Australia, I found the extra coins annoying, because it's a lot harder to discard a $2 coin into a change jar -- they add up pretty quickly. However, after a few weeks, I started to appreciate this larger denomination coin system: The joy of using your loose change for something substantial is no longer an annual event. I experience this found-wealth happiness often more than once a week, and is as easy as reaching into my pocket and seeing what is there. Imagine, you can have two tiny coins in your pocket that total up to $4. $4 dollars can buy a lot -- well, not much in Perth -- but in a lot of other places it can. In Perth, it might buy you a bottled soda.

Let me show you a tiny example of how much more awesome coins are in Australia. The photo below is of my change jar. It's not that full because I usually put my coins to use before they find their way into the jar. Guess how much money is in it before you scroll down to the caption. Got a number?

There are $25.05 dollars in there. That make's me happy.

There is another benefit of this type of monetary coin system. It's cheaper for the government to produce. Replacing the $1 bill with a coin, eliminating the penny, and adding a $2 coin would save taxpayer money because bills have a significantly shorter life span, while coins last for tens of years. I don't often think the current conservative party has many good ideas, but this fact is why House Republicans introduced a bill recently to make this change to change. ("Take some of your own medicine, President Obama", they said).  Unfortunately, there are some indirect costs to implement, like retro fitting vending machines and the energy and environmental cost of shipping heavier coins around the country and the world. And there'd probably be some awkward transition phase into the new coin system which would tick people off too. With the way Occupy Wall Street is growing, right now might not be the best time to piss off the entire country in one go.

Unfortunately, America doesn't have a coin culture. And let's be honest, many Americans don't even like change (or hope, and some automatically discredit the ideas of a Presidents just because he is black). But if people could be convinced this type of policy is worthwhile, I think our new currency would make people happier every time they pull out a substantial amount of money from their pockets or piggy-banks. And the way the economy is going, I think everyone could use an extra dose of money and happy in their pockets.  

A House of Stuff

For the last year, my backpack was my life. I managed to fit a lot in there too: Three pairs of pants, one pair of shorts, on average about six t-shirts, four pairs of socks, four pairs of boxers, two jackets, scarf, sarong, a towel, a pair of boots, sandals, climbing gear, toiletries, camera(s), 3 iPods, AC/DC chargers and power cords, universal pronged outlet adapter, journals, books, a map of the world, souvenirs, medication, bug repellent, colored pencils, harmonica, a "blow piano" aka Pianica, passport, immunization/health documentation, a small padlock, a utility knife, sunscreen, aloe, sunglasses, and I'm sure a lot of other small crap. Needless to say, I had a relatively large backpack and I didn't pack especially light. On average, it was around 20kg.

Question: Have you ever tried to fit INTO a backpack? It's hard. I don't fit. I think that is why living out of a backpack never feels like home. I guess that's part of the allure of traveling -- to not feel at home. Though after a year in a backpack, the comforts of a house become more appealing than when I left.  I'm in a western country again, and my instincts said I should be in an apartment. In another sense, imagine if you lived out of a backpack in your home town... people would be quick to call you "homeless" before they called you "adventurous".

Now, after three weeks of scouring Gumtree for reasonable people and reasonable prices and reasonable locations to live, and a little bit of rejection, I've found a flat-share with a university student, Tijana. (I think she picked me as a roommate because she is also a rock climber).  Along with being pretty chilled out, Tijana is also nerdy, which has its benefits. For example, not only can she joke about a zombie apocalypse, but she can also give out prudent practical advice for when it happens. Another plus: her boyfriend is a head chef, who occasionally stops by with gourmet food to eat. Win!

Before I found Tijana, I had met a few notable eclectic possibilities to share a house with. There was the anal retentive 45 year old guy who said he had friends over "every few months or so" and cleaned the entire house everyday, partially for the zen-like experience. Then the lesbian couple who had a rule that no one other than tenants could ever, ever, ever stay overnight, and a house contract that allowed for arbitration in case of an infraction (overkill?). Or the granola-y hipsters with table foosball in the middle of their living room and chickens in the front yard that, unfortunately, lived in the middle of nowhere.

So when I found my current place, a few minutes walk from a main train line into Perth and a seemingly reasonable person living in it (or at least reasonable rules), it looked like an oasis in the desert. I got a call later that night that the room was mine if I wanted it. Finally! I could check off something significant from my To Do list.

Three days later, I moved in and unpacked into a closet that could hold a freakin' elephant. All that empty space I now possessed brought to mind George Carlin riffing on stuff: "That's what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get MORE STUFF". And I instantly wanted more stuff too. If only I wasn't so poor and so unemployed. But I'm making progress in that field now.

Anyway, the real point of this blog post was to post pictures of the flat to those curious (Mom and Sister).

The outside of my apartment building taken from the street. Notice the super blue clear skies. Australia seems to have a lot of those. Let's take a walk down the driveway on the left...

See the small white rectangle between two windows in the bottom left corner -- try to remember those for later. The door to my apartment is in front of that tiny little car. 

Here is the picture of the living room from the perspective of the front door. While my roommate ran off to Melbourne for the week, I assembled all of her Ikea furniture featured here. Nice wood floors, but everything echos, so rugs will be the next pick-up I think. Barely visible on the left hand edge of the picture is the start of the hallway. Let's take a look...

Nothing out of the ordinary here. Far left rear door opens to Tijana's room. Far right rear door opens to the kitchen. The near right door opens to the bathroom. And on the near left side is my bedroom.  

Here is my sparsely decorated bedroom... 

... and here is my closet. I've made some "stuff" purchases since moving in -- mainly a suit for professional interviews.

Across the hallway is the bathroom. I picked out the floor mat and the bathroom curtain. Classy choice, right?

And here is the toilet and the only mirror in the house. Shaving my beard is a mess.

The kitchen is notable for the very rusty fridge that Tijana picked up for free. It was an outside fridge once, but she tamed it and brought it inside. The inside is very clean though. Hey, remember that white square I pointed out in the second picture of the series. Well, that corresponds to the square above the stove in this picture. Let's take a closer look...

It's...

... a...

... a drive-thru! (Why?)

Oh, and here is Tijana's room. It looks all blowed'd up because she left for Melbourne to compete with her rubgy team in a national playoffs. There wasn't enough time with uni, work, and a new apartment to finish everything. Also, a  messy room is safer -- zombies are very clumsy and trip on things. 

And there you have it. My new flat for the next few months in Perth. 

Elizabeth Chadwick: Put on Notice

In Indonesia, I swapped a relatively enjoyable travel book for a book titled The Running Vixen by Elizabeth Chadwick – I know, not a fair deal on face value. All I knew about the book was from the blurb that it is a fictional romance set in 12th century English, an enticing epigram stating "A forbidden love takes England to the brink of war", and that Chadwick is “the best writer of medieval fiction currently around”. I considered exchanging the book for something more my style, but I had promised my friend Kirra that I would give it a try to see if I liked the genre. Bad move. (But nowhere near as bad as Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights).

The allusion to a vixen, a female fox, is from the main female protagonist's red hair... a feature I think overlooked in this cover picture. More of a blond with red highlights.

I knew I’d see Kirra again because she lives in Perth. I’m generally a self-respecting and honest guy, and I didn’t want to look her in the eye and say, “Kirra, I didn’t read The Running Vixen because I thought it was going to be a piece of shit.”

So, I read the book and I was right, and now I’m going to tell her in my blog: Kirra, that book is crap. In fact, if I knew how bad the book was going to be, I probably would have thrown it in a fire to mercy any other readers, and picked another Australian city in which to live and find work just to avoid you. My life would probably be better if we never met, and you owe me the 20 hours back I spent reading that book.

Just kidding, everyone. Kirra knows I’m joking. We talked about the book while we were at a cool Australian hip-hop concert in Fremantle a few weekends ago -- a concert which she suggested I see. 50% ain’t bad, Kirra, especially when you have such a pretentious ass like myself for a friend.  And in reality, the book was enjoyable in a "Is the author serious?" sort of way. The dialogue is hackneyed, absurd, cliche, or a combination of the three. Apparently that is why Kirra liked the book, but she didn't give me any qualifiers when she gave it to me. All she said was, "It's a romantic historical fiction. It's good. Give it a try."

I was expecting a slow moving plot, Shakespearean language, and old fashioned courting and swooning. What I got was steamy sex scenes, rape, misogyny, necrophilia, stupid dialogue, and unnecessary metaphors and medieval similes. To add to the silliness of the book, the main protagonist’s first name is the same as mine, adding a weird spin to some of the narrative. Anyway, I wouldn’t recommend the book, but it is not outright terrible.

If you are interested in a thorough review of the story's absurdities, continue reading. I warn the reader that I wasn't going for brevity in this post. (If you are a student doing a book report for The Running Vixen you can read on but then have your parents send a compliant to the school board). Maybe just read the quotes. Otherwise, this is the end of the post: go find another blog to enable your procrastination, because the stuff below will be a worser... er, a more worse evil than whatever realm you are avoiding. (I'm not saying that to be funny. I mean it. What follow is just a perverse desire to make a chronology of how bad the book was). But I digress... here is a play by play summary of The Running Vixen by Elizabeth Chadwick (quotes provided in italics; bold words to take note of):

The cool headed but coarse Adam (De Lacey) returns home as a Man after a long time abroad on a double-secret mission for King Henry. When Adam stays at a neighboring lord’s castle, he timidly confronts his childhood crush, Heulwen, a red-haired “vixen”. (Heulwen does no physical running at all during the plot; a huge let down if you were expecting that from the title). Heulwen has a short temper partly because she is grieving the “accidental” death of her husband Ralf Le Chevalier (who was a cheating bastard), and partly because the author Elizabeth Chadwick, obviously not a feminists, portrays all women in this manner. Ralf was a ladies man and though he taught Heulwen the ins and outs of the bedroom (I'm realizing that my puns are just as bad as Chadwick's), he also taught every other lady in the kingdom these talents. For that reason, Adam has a little bit of an inferiority complex:

• Women and warhorses. Le Chevalier had been expert in the art of taming both. Adam only had the latter skill.

The main antagonist, Warrin de Mortimer, is pursuing Heulwen for a vague, poorly explained reason, but I think it is for the dowry and that Heulwen is a babe. Warrin is creepy (see quote below) but his connections are pretty good, and that’s alright in Heulwen’s eyes after her first marriage. After all, Heulwen doesn't esteem herself that highly.

• "Well then, my future prize." [Warrin] finished securing the pin and lowered his hand, as if by accident brushing the curve of her breast. "My future wife." His voice thickened and his mouth fastened on hers, demanding. Feeling like a whore who had been paid in advance to show gratitude, Heulwen responded with the unthinking expertise taught to her by Ralf, her heart numb and her finger's frozen as she linked them around Warrin's neck.

Eventually, Adam and Lord Miles, Heulwen’s grandfather, discover that Warrin orchestrated the murder of Ralf. Miles then encourages Adam’s love for Heulwen and desires that they wed. (If this is boring you, imagine reading 376 pages of it).

• Adam shook his head and looked away, but within him the hopes and terrors aroused by Miles' suggestion jousted with each other for dominance. 

That previous quote is one of the first medieval wordplay Chadwick inserts. Is she for real, mixing a semi-serious romance with silly play-on-words? I don't know. It makes me wonder how she came to be regarded as the current pinnacle of the historical fiction genre (not enough competition?). I hope I never find out why. Anyway, back to the book.

While Adam and Miles are having this conversation, a loud-mouthed, eavesdropping relation says something controversial and Miles quips:

• With a tongue like that in his head, he's got to learn when to keep it sheathed.

Heulwen, all but contractually engaged to Warrin, starts to develop feelings for Adam after sharing a brief kiss in Chapter 1. These feelings conflict with her desire for a marriage of economy.

• She thought of Adam's dark smile, that quizzical way he had of looking, his dry humour, the gentle pressure of his hands on a horse's flank, or on her waist. 
• White-hot physical attraction frightened her. She had sat at its blaze before, watched it go out, and shivered over the ashes.

Adam reveals to Heulwen the gory details about Ralf’s murder and Warrin’s involvement.

• The trap was sprung and she was free but at what costs? She wiped her eyes again and looked at Adam through her wet lashes... Impulsively she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Accordingly, Adam and Heulwen have an impromptu tryst, which lasts about 30 seconds based on the unbearably-hard-to-read raunchy descriptions:

• Adam groaned and turned his head. Their eyes met, and he lifted his hands to pull her against him... if her breathing was swift, it owed less to panic than it did to desire. She had been fighting the attraction ever since his return in the early autumn, but there was no longer any need to continue the battle. Adam was to take a rich wife of Henry's choosing, and honour no longer bound her body to Warrin...
  
  She joined her mouth to his again, leaning into his taut, quivering body, pushing him, so that they fell backwards together across the bed. It was wild and desperate, frantic on both sides, so hot that it immolated all reasons, leaving only the touch of skin on skin and the exquisite sensation of desire aroused to an unbearable level and then released, flinging them both into oblivion... she licked [her lips] as if still seeking the taste of him in a gesture so sensual that, although he had peaked, he pushed forward again into her body. 

Gross. And to be honest, the clause "so hot that it immolated all reasons" is so stupid it actually pisses me off. If I rephrased it, "sex so passionate that it burned up all reasons", one would realize that sex accompanied by lust makes perfect F-ing sense, but that clause doesn't make any. Back to the plot.

Only after their love affair does Adam tell her he’s already asked King Henry for her hand in marriage. Heulwen has a little tizzy about not being asked her permission first, and an even bigger tizzy about being so easy to lay with her future husband. She doesn’t have much time to vent, because Warrin comes crashing in as they lay in bed naked.

• Heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden outer stars, coming at a run, and the door crashed open upon its hinges. Wind-spun snow swirled round the threshold, and over it strode Warrin de Mortimer, his face a blizzard of furious emotions as he surveyed the scene within. "You misbegotten, hell-spawned son of a murdering pervert!" he roared...

That last line, “spawned son of a murdering pervert,” is one of several peculiar allusions to Adam De Lacey’s father in the book, which you should take note of because it briefly comes into play a little later. Anyway, the two meatheads are separated before they kill each other. Later, Warrin and Adam have an official sword fight contest to determine who is telling the truth, since that’s how the truth was figured out back then (logic being that God would protect the truthful one). Adam is the victor, though it’s a close one. He spares Warrin’s life though – obviously, because we aren't even half way through the book yet – but Warrin is banished from the kingdom... Dun, dun, dun!

Lord Guyon, Heulwen’s bastard father, chastises Adam for his imprudent decision about the tryst and gets out this zinger on his daughter:

• "Granted, it was a serious breach of courtesy to go above uninvited, but I suppose your news warranted it, and Heulwen didn't scream rape, did she? If one of the hand maids did hear her cry out, it was certainly not for help."

But Lord Guyon is all bent out of shape because his daughter is now engaged to the man who embarrassed the De Mortimer family – one of his next door neighbors, so to speak. Guyon’s wife wants him to relax so she takes things into her own hands (and a few other places too! sorry, couldn't resist). At this point in the book, I started thinking that this book is akin to the contemporary romance novels in grocery stores that have sparkly buy-me covers featuring a shirtless Fabio to appeal to lonely and sappy women:

• He would sit on his doubts like a broody hen on a clutch of eggs, and nothing would move him until they either hatched or went stale. How to send them stale: She pursed her lips: after twenty-eight years of marriage, she had several diversions in her armoury -- short term at least. She slid her hands down over his collarbone and chest, leaned round to kiss him again on throat and mouth, let her hair swing down around them, bit him gently...

There are some more sex scenes that end with Adam taking a nap and Heulwen unsatisfied. (Chadwick, what sort of twisted sex life have you had inflicted on you that makes you want to write such degrading crap?). For example:

• He bent his mouth to hers, desire beginning to melt reasons like a flame burning down the wick of a candle, stripping the wax… Heulwen gasped, for this was not what she had bargained for in his tired, weakened state. His weight came clumsily down on top of her and her gasp became an exclamation as he entered her, because she was not ready, and he was eager. She closed her eyes and made herself go as limp as a piece of tide-rolled flotsam. Instinct moistened her body and the discomfort diminished. 

More melting "reasons" with desires. Ugh. Surprise... there are more sex scenes:

• For a moment he almost yielded to the surging greatness of his need. He thought about tilting at the quintain. If you went at it too soon, all the power was wasted and  you ended flat on your back on the tilt yard floor. It was all a matter of balance and timing -- of controlling your lance. That thought, so irreverently appropriate, made him shake with laughter and the tension eased. An image of the tilt yard in his mind he took her to the bed.

I nearly laughed out loud when I read this passage. I'm not sure if it proves Chadwick is using wordplay in jest or not. She must be, I guess, but it doesn't contrast well with the tone of the novel. That passage above takes place immediately after Miles, Heulwen's grandfather, is laid in his bed chambers semi-conscious from being taken hostage earlier in the day. Two pages later, a glowing Heulwen and stress-free Adam return to his bedside just in time to see Miles fade away. End of that chapter.

Somewhere in the middle of abysmal plot development, there is more needless cliche misogyny just to keep the medieval tone of the book:

• All her brains were between her legs -- which had not seemed such a bad thing last night. A pity she had to open her mouth as well as her thighs. 

Then there is this racy poem with a sexual innuendo, a Chadwick original apparently. It is funny, but this kind of smut seems totally out of place like the rest of it:

• I kissed her once / I kissed her twice / I kissed her full times three. / I let her feel my ferret bold / As she sat on my knee / And when I popped him in her ho[le]...

Finally, after a lot of practicing in the bedroom and a little bit of plot development, Heulwen is suddenly kidnapped. This doesn’t make Adam happy, not at all:

• Adam began to feel cold, and it was nothing to do with his wet clothing. The cold sensation in the pit of his belly crystallized into a solid lump of fear. 

Remember that thing I said to remember about Adam De Lacey's father? It's here that we find out from Warrin, just before he’s about to rape Heulwen, that Warrin doesn’t want to kill her first. Why? Because he isn’t all that into having sex with dead people like De Lacey’s father.

• De Lacey's father had been the one to pleasure himself futtering corpses; such a desire had never been the core of his own need. 

Let me be totally honest, there is no real reason to have this in the book – it does not come into play in anyway, not even a little. I figure Chadwick planned to include some astonishing fact into the plot from the beginning without knowing what it would be, but when she never accomplished that she lazily added this winner, instead of editing it out entirely.

The ensuing rape is described in a single paragraph, taking place on a dark and stormy night, with appalling “pull up your boot straps” attitude:

• What followed was unpleasant and painful, but not beyond the limits of endurance. She understood a part of what drove him and was therefore prepared to permit him his petty victory. Without love or even a seasoning of lust, the act was meaningless. She closed her eyes and ignored the exultant sound he made as he thrust into her – a dunghill cock treading a rival's hen to mark his ownership. 

After the rape, Heulwen escapes from Warrin under her own means. Bullshit, right? She gets raped and then she rescues herself... and this is considered a freakin' medieval fiction. A few minutes late to the party, Adam kills Warrin by sending a lance through his heart after a short chase scene. Now let's take it home for the grand finale:

Heulwen gets preggers and delivers about nine months after the rape, which messes with Adam’s feelings toward the newborn, since he could be a bastard son spawned of a rapist and once mortal enemy.  Eventually Adam comes to terms with this possibility and accepts the baby as his own. How does this happen? As a result of Adam instinctively rescuing the newborn child from an aggressive Mastiff that gets loose at an afternoon picnic. The dog is killed as it tries to mangle Adam’s arm. THE END.

Thank you Elizabeth Chadwick for writing the most disturbingly amusing book I’ve read in a long time. 

IMHO: Prince

Plop yourself down on your keisters, lil' kiddies, let grandpa give you a music history lesson:

1982 was a great year. For one, I was born, but I don't remember much because I was pretty tired. Second, some of the best pop music of all time was released. In October, Prince released 1999. In November, Michael Jackson released Thriller (officially it was released in 1983). Both artists have a lot in common too: They were both born in 1958, have totally crazy personas, can dance the hair off a cat (that means they dance well, I think), have released music over a similar period of time (although MJ was first), and both are alive today... wait, a sec.

Prince on a motorcycle in a dark alley wearing a purple suit with a floral print in the background. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Most people have heard the singles from Thriller, if not the entire album. The highlight of the album is obviously the song Thriller, and it's music video could be considered a piece of Americana.  Here are the tracks and and writer's below. 

Song Title                                                 Writer(s)

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'* Michael Jackson

Baby Be Mine                 Rod Temperton

The Girl Is Mine*            Michael Jackson

Thriller*                    Rod Temperton

Beat It*                     Michael Jackson

Billie Jean*                 Michael Jackson

Human Nature*                Steve Porcaro, John Bettis

P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)* James Ingram, Quincy Jones

The Lady in My Life"         Rod Temperton

(* - also released as singles)

On the other hand, most of the travelers I've met only know one song by Prince: "Purple Rain". Once upon a time, I was just as naive. Somewhere in Russia, Ethan began an on-and-off obsession with Prince (and Lady Gaga) that lasted for several more countries. Every once in a while Ethan would serenade me with the catchy lyrics to Prince's 1999 while we headed out for drinks (ostensibly a song about partying, but actually a protest against nuclear proliferation). 

Say, Say:

Two-thousand, zero, zero, party over, oops, out of time.

So tonight we're going to party like it's nineteen ninety-nine. 

In Vietnam, Ethan performed a karaoke version of "When Doves Cry" on a boat in Ha Long Bay. Not an easy song to sing to, and I'll be the first to tell you, it wasn't great, but his passion carried him through. After seeing that train wreck, my perception of Prince as a one-hit wonder changed. I figured if Prince could make a song so good that someone else would want to imitate it so poorly and so willingly (and enjoy it), then the real song must be off the fuckin' charts. 

I now have 321 songs by Prince, consisting of 25 albums, and spanning almost thirty years. I'd like to tell you all of the songs are single material. For all I know they might be, but I've only been able to listen to about three albums on repeat because they are all so damn good. He is so prolific I think most people know his music but don't know its Prince. (Did you know Prince did the album for the Tim Burton directed movie Batman?) And if you don't know any Prince, you are probably listening to his ripple of influence in music that has been composed over the past three decades.  

For me though, Prince's album 1999 stands out. Sex is the major theme, although a few of the songs stray. Some of the lyrics are so raunchy and explicit its like they exude a sticky residue (ew, sorry).  The songs blend funk, R&B, pop, rock, and electronic, along with catchy lyrics and pulsing drum machines. It is hard not to get caught up in the music. 

So much so that the other day at the Perth subway station, I imagined myself setting down a boombox (that's a portable stereo for the young whippersnappers reading), and busting out a Napoleon Dynamite style dance to 1999 or Delirious or Let's Pretend We're Married for the on-lookers at the opposite platform. Thankfully I don't dance well enough to have the courage to do something that ridiculous. Nor do I have the guts to embarrass myself that much. But if you can dance and are shameless, I've given you fair warning about listening to the album 1999 in a respectable public venue. 

Song Title                                                                                Writer

1999*                                      Prince

Little Red Corvette*                       Prince

Delirious*                                 Prince

Let's Pretend We're Married*               Prince

D.M.S.R. (Dance. Music. Sex. Romance.)*    Prince

Automatic*                                 Prince

Something in the Water (Does Not Compute)  Prince

Free                                       Prince

Lady Cab Driver                            Prince

All the Critics Love U In New York         Prince

International Lover                        Prince

(* - also released as singles)

The first six songs of 1999 are an 80's powerhouse of music. It is such a strong beginning I tried brainstorming other pop artists that had released albums of a similar tour de force. The first that came to mind was Jackson's Thriller. While Thriller is indisputably a, maybe the, quintessential pop album, and it's culture impact and world-wide success indisputable, I humbly think Prince's 1999 is a stronger all around album and more enjoyable to listen to. I also hear more of Prince in today's electronic-indie music, than I do of MJ's. So I think it is unfortunate that more people don't know him. Hopefully, this post has inspired you to give him a try if you haven't before. 

And while you are at it, can you think of other pop albums released that might stand up to the listenability challenge of 1999? Or, how about stellar albums in any genre? Some others I thought of, in no particular order:

1. Madonna's Like a Virgin (also born in 1958)
2. Any number of Beatles Albums: Self-titled album, Sgt. Peppers, Magical Mystery Tour, Revolver, Please Please Me, With the Beatles
3. Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
4. Lady Gaga's The Fame
5. Led Zeppelin's Fourth (IV) Album
6. Nirvana's Nevermind
7. Bruce Springstein's Born In The USA
8. Pink Floyd's The Wall
9. Spice Girls (sorry... just throwing it out there)
10. U2's Joshua Tree
11. David Bowie's Let's Dance
12. Britney Spears' Oops I Did It Again
13. Aerosmith's Get a Grip (one of my personal favorites)

My First Hostel in Australia

Along the traveler trail in Asia I heard horror stories about staying in hostels in Australia. First thing I was told: Hostels are expensive -- that generally strikes fear into a traveler's heart and wallet. Second, the rooms are so cramped with people that sardines get claustrophobic (think more like homeless shelter with 30 people per room). But I had to do it: I needed to embrace the backpacker scene and befriend travelers in Australia. And I'm happy that at least I had a gradual transition into Perth culture while couchsurfing with Chris, Richelle and John (Thanks!).  

I arranged to stay at the Cheviot Lodge based on a recommendation and because it was the cheapest in Perth ($105 per week). Also, after phoning several hostels in the city, it seemed that most dorm rooms had filled up and were nearly double the price. John Locke's hand is very persuasive.

When I arrived at the Lodge around 7pm I rang the doorbell twice before a fellow boarder let me in. I stood patiently at reception waiting for a helpful, official-looking staff member to check me in -- trying to correlate a face to the sweet Asian woman I had spoken to on the phone earlier. When a person finally arrived, he was neither official nor helpful, and especially not sweet or Asian. The man in front of me was Aussie bogan material and cantankerous as ever.

He says to me as he walks behind the desk, "So you're lookin' for a room?"

"Yes" I say, and add, "I called earlier and reserved a dorm room for the week."

He sighs like he's upset that he will have to break the bad news that there are no more rooms available. "Where you from?" But it isn't a small talk question. It's a qualifying question for how hard he will try to find me a room, and I can already tell I'm going to be disadvantaged when I say American.

"I'm from the USA."

"American," he repeats, disappointed. He heaves another sigh as he gets his bearings at the desk. Then, as if he needed to vocalize his opinion more than his body language had already expressed, he says in an even tone, "Well, I don't really like... that." But he isn't angry in any way, so I decide I'm going to charm him (I have some of that in me in fact, in small doses).

I take it as a joke, and laugh back, "Hey, we aren't all the same." He grumbles a little.

"I'm not sure we have any rooms, mate." See, I'm already his mate.

"I called earlier and made a reservation for a dorm room for the week. I said I'd be here at 7pm." I keep waiting patiently because he seems easily flustered. He asks for my name and opens a scheduling book. I'm not in there. Another sigh and more mutterings about how he doesn't think there are rooms. Then he flips over a scrap piece of paper and checks the back, as if hiding messages in obscure places is standard practice here.

"Nothing" he tells me. "You gonna pay with credit then?" Another qualifier correlating to his motivation.

"Nah. I going to pay in cash," which seems to be the obvious answer.

"You like Germans?" the old man asks.

I tell him, "I play nicely with everybody."

Then he says, "You want a dorm room. How about a double room? You got money for the double room? Or do you want to make my life difficult?"

"Sorry, I don't want to make your life difficult," I tell him, "but I can only afford a dorm room. You can shuffle me in between rooms if that makes your life easier."

"How about just staying a single night? Try it out, see if you'd like to stay. You might leave tomorrow." He seems pretty skeptical anyone would want to stay here a week and he seems to think he's doing me a favor by sharing this with me. I tell him I'll pay for one night but tomorrow morning, if I want to stay, I'll pay the difference for the weekly rate. He begrudgingly agrees.

"You got a passport? A real one?" There isn't any humor in his voice, but I feel like he is taking the piss out of me -- I can't imagine anyone really cares. I hand mine over and he looks at the first page and confirms with some enmity that it is real and yes, I am American. "Pennsylvania," he says, "Is that where you were born?"

"Yup."

"A coal miner are you?" he asks.

"Nah, farmers."

"Farmers." He pauses. "What? Are you Ameesh?" saying Amish with a thick Aussie accent.

"Amish on my grandfather's side."

"Huh," he says approvingly, and at that, I seem to have passed his test.

He gets the books squared away. He gives me a key and vents a little, "This key probably won't work. Nothing works around here. I can't keep doing this job. It's killing me. Here's a key for the outside door. That probably won't work either. Just test it out and tell me."

"Wha?" I say, confused.

"Just test it out. Outside."

I go test it out, and lock myself out which I expected would happen if the key didn't work. A minute later he comes to open the door. He gives it a try too, probably because I'm a stupid American, but he's unsuccessful. We head back inside and he shows me a basket of the electronic keys that "probably don't work either." He grabs a new electronic key and leads me back to the door. This new one also doesn't work and he sits down on the stoop looking like a broken man about to have a nervous breakdown. Technology is obviously not this guy's forte.

"How am I going to figure out which of those keys work?" the old man asks, his voice quavering a little as he stares down at the ground while running his hand through his disheveled grey hair.

I realize that there are only twenty or so e-keys, and it wouldn't take more than a minute or two to test all of them. I reassure him, "I'll check all of them, and tell you which ones work and which ones don't." But he doesn't seem to hear me. For him, its a monumental task that is beyond comprehension at the moment. So he points me in the direction of my room and tells me to check that my room key works.

The view of the other bunk beds from my own. 

The key works. The room smells like a men's locker room. There is barely room to walk. Eventually the old man finds me and gives me an e-key that works too, a blanket, towel, and a pillow. The old man shows me the bathrooms and takes me out to the kitchen, and then a balcony, where he says to me cryptically, "Are you ready for some crazy?"

I'm not sure I understand what he means, and think that maybe Carnival starts sometime soon and he's big into dressing up for it. But the next thing I hear is an ear-drum splitting outburst of the most violent nature I've ever heard in my life coming from a guy on the neighboring balcony. This lunatic is having a seizure like fit through his body as he curses out some perceived demon (in my opinion, the demon is the automatic light that keeps turning on and off). It take's me three seconds to figure out -- and I'm no psychologist -- that this guy has a severe case of the bat-shit crazies. A nearby German traveler (his name might have been Freud too) tells me Mr. Loony Bins is paranoid-schizophrenic and affected by Tourette's.

His schizophrenic rants are a truly unsettling and terrifying (and tragic) thing to hear every one to two minute interval, as I try to be friendly with three German travelers who are having a smoke on a bench. While on the topic, I'm warned that I should be wary of the indigenous people (aka Aboriginals in the past) in the city. He says to me in a stilted German accent, "They are aggressive, crazy, and usually drunk. A bad combination." (For all those people who are offended by this generalization, worry not, I'm saving a separate post to cover the prejudices, racism, and stereotypes towards Aboriginals that I've encountered so far).

I tell the Germans that it is 8pm and I haven't eaten anything for nearly 6 hours. Do they know a place to eat nearby? "Ya" they do, but its about a 10 minute walk. I already know that the streets aren't that well lit. I ask them if it is safe. Two out of three say yes and one shrugs.

So I hit the street in the direction of the restaurant after being all stirred up by the neighboring lunatic, (who may not be violent, but certainly sounds violent) and the thought that there might be aggressive, crazy, drunk homeless people waiting in the shadows. As this part of Perth is new to me, I also don't know where I'm going. I can honestly say that on this walk I had the most uncomfortable feeling I've had on any walk while on a street in Asia or Australia. Aussies: I just don't trust you. Sorry. Once I knew the way back and my belly was full, I realized it was my state of mind.

After the first day, I can't say this is the best hostel I've stayed at, and it might be pretty close to the worst, but it has character and it isn't as bad as I imagined it. I'll be staying the week.