Weird Old Dears and World of Disney

Two common habitats in Florida - the Gated Community, and the Cinderella Castle. She lives there. Honestly.

The great State of Florida is nothing if not an enigma. It is the home of Walt Disney World, purportedly the place ‘Where Dreams are Made’ but also Jeb Bush, the Governor who makes his brother Dubya look like a liberal. It has cities like Miami, where Spanish speakers are the majority, but also counties where immigration is seen as the newest form of evil. However, the most stark contrast can be seen in the fact that it has beautiful, warm, sunny beaches, often populated by beautiful, sunkissed people, and yet Florida’s most lucrative industry is Aged Care. For the summer months at least. A few days ago, whilst undertaking a seven-hour commute from Northern Florida to South Carolina, we bore witness to an interesting phenomenon: the Great Migration. No, not birds. Geriatrics. With the cold northern winter over, this migratory species began its long journey back up to the less oppressive summers of their home states. At a rest stop just over the Georgia state line, we were literally fighting our way through swathes of campervans and sedans with New York, Massachusetts, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario and Quebec numberplates, populated by over-70s who felt it perfectly acceptable to putt along 15 miles under the limit, enjoying the scenery, and using the basins of the public toilet as a place to strike up a conversation with the next person, leaving a line of disgruntled oldies behind them, who then turn to do that which the elderly do best: complain. What resulted on our part was a journey almost an hour longer that necessary, filled with sudden braking, swerving, and me shouting ‘I swear, if I see another slow moving Quebec numberplate I’m not going to Montreal!’ and the final decision that old people are not people, but in fact highly developed migratory birds. Fun times.

Of course, I am generalising horribly about the pre-Baby Boomer American populace. It is only a certain demographic, and probably a small one, that exhibit these traits I am describing. Let us, for this Attenborough-esque dissertation on this particular type of senior, refer to them as the ‘migrators’, as opposed to the ‘stay-putters’, and assume they account for about ten percent of the over 65 population of the US. Important to note is that they can be distinguished when they are in the stagnant point of their yearly cycle through one other common trait they share: the Gated Community. The idea behind this nifty little invention that now covers approximately 48% of Florida’s land area (by my own calculations) is that you put yourself behind a guarded gate, in a ‘home’ a fly would struggle to turn around in, that looks just like the other few hundred homes in the complex, and you do this for just one reason: security. So that those damned young whippersnappers don’t roar around looting and rioting and thieving and doing all those things that all young people do. As a matter of fact, many of these communities market themselves as such: Perico Bay is a ‘Deed Inspection Community’ – whatever that means. Pine Oaks is a ‘Police Check Community’. Lovely. And, of course, not at all judgmental. Worse than this, though, is when these places start extending themselves beyond their gated barriers. At a park not so long ago, where we stopped to eat lunch, we were shooed away as it was in fact property of the gated community next door, and to be used only for the pleasure and enjoyment of the upstanding residents of the community, to ensure no sort of immoral or illicit activity occurs which might dampen the allure of the recreational facility of the residents. The day I have to pay for a public park is the day I know I’m completely senile.

There is one Gated Community in Florida which I was able to stomach – Walt Disney World. It may seem to be over-simplifying what is the world’s largest theme park/resort, but that’s really all Disney World is – a 30 000 acre, fenced in, heavily orchestrated, escape from reality Gated Community where you can eat, sleep, be entertained, and even work, without ever having to venture out into the world outside its gates and face up to the realities of human society. Having said that, not every Gated Community has four theme parks, 23 resorts, two water parks, its very own Cirque du Soleil, and an integrated train-monorail-ferry-bus public transport system that puts most major American cities to shame, so perhaps Walt can claim one-up on good ol’ Perico Bay. Although Perico Bay did have a hydrotherapy pool and a tennis court. What really defines Disney World, though, is the surreal feeling that it could all be, well, real. You can walk through the international villages at the Epcot Centre and legitimately feel as though you’ve wandered from the US into Canada, England, France, Japan, China, Mexico, and the Middle East – all within a few steps. Animal Kingdom actually takes you on a safari through Africa, or to the Triassic era on treks with dinosaurs, or even through the Himalayas on a hunt for the Yeti – culminating, of course, with a 45-minute wait (if you’re lucky) to board a roller-coaster that finally brings you face-to-face with the beast himself. Hollywood Studios recreates, with startling believability, the ‘main streets’ of well-known American cities. San Francisco and New York both look as though they stretch on for miles, until you realise you are being bamboozled by some brilliant perspective art. And there’s a haunted hotel elevator, a live-action stunt filming, and the Muppets and Toy Story in 3D to boot. Then there’s Magic Kingdom. Home of Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, Cinderella, Peter Pan, Snow White…the list could go on forever.

Whilst any of you who have never been to Disney World may be pooh-poohing my excitement, I am now quite convinced all that is true – Disney World just has that effect on you. Partly this is due to its size – it would be quite possible to spend a year there and not see it all – for the two days we were there, we were practically at a canter all the time, and still saw maybe one percent of the place, leading us to the conclusion that the rest of it must be where Mickey and his mates kick up their heels at wild parties, or responsibly raise families, depending on what kind of personal life you think Disney characters lead. Of course, that is how Walt wants it (or wanted. I’m not quite sure whether or not the man is dead, alive, or in some kind of strange frozen suspended animation state). He deliberately created back-door tunnels and delivery chutes so guests would just assume that every item of food and merchandise appears magically, and not have to see the army of trucks and minimum-wage grunts that keep this obnoxiously incredible dream factory running smoothly – after all, who sees FedEx trucks in their dreams? I must admit, however, that whole ‘Where Dreams are Made’ (or as Kayla more aptly put it, ‘manufactured’) slogan unnerves me somewhat, because having visited the place, and even having given them my fingerprint to gain access, there is a small part of my brain that believes I have been assigned a couple of chipmunks who now sit in the bowels of Disney’s underground city and each night insert an appropriate dream into my head. Still, that’s just Florida – it doesn’t matter how fake its glamour is, how locked in its Gated Communities are, or how oily its Gulf beaches become, you still wind up dreaming about it.

Footy Clothes, French Creole, and Florida’s Charms

Southern Louisiana in two images - Alligators and footy shorts

One of my tasks before arriving in the US was to find a suitable ‘traditional costume’ should a concert host request that we wear something native to our home countries. For me, this proved a little difficult. I wasn’t about to go and find an Aboriginal outfit, because I’m not Aboriginal myself, and, let’s face it, most traditional garb for Indigenous nations, especially from the desert, is fairly revealing. So for the first few months of the trip, I wore a cobbled-together ‘jackaroo’ costume, which was not particularly inspiring, although it did give me a platform from which I could launch a scintillating ‘the male version is a jackaroo, the female version is a jillaroo, and when you put them together you get a jack-and-jill-went-up-the-hillaroo’ joke. Eventually, however, I got a bit sick of wearing a flanno, jeans and an akubra whilst the others were resplendent in bright, colourful, unique costumes. To counteract this, I remembered that I had brought footy clothes with me, just in case the opportunity arose that I could wear them, and that before I arrived here, I remember watching Ellen Degeneres interviewing one of the Modern Family actors having a good old chinwag about how Australian men have a strange habit of wearing ridiculously short shorts. Ahah, I thought. Not only a new, exciting costume, but some sort of story to go with it.

            My first outing of my new costume was at a presentation at a municipal library in Houma, Louisiana, down on the bayou in Cajun Country. What a wonderful place to first wear my Cats footy jumper I bought when I was twelve, dazzlingly maroon shorts, and holey green and white footy socks that reach above my knees. Strangely, I was actually a little self-conscious before the show began, hiding behind a strategically placed desk as the audience walked in. Eventually, however, I had to show myself for the start of the performance, and throughout our first few songs there was constant mutterings from the audience, in particular a group of ‘mature’ women sitting in the front row. Finally it came time for me to speak to the audience (I’m usually last because English is my native language – Americans love suspense and surprises), and so I could explain the cute little getup. I began fairly conventionally, explaining the Ellen Degeneres story, the popularity of Aussie Rules, and the origin of each of the separate pieces. Then I got ahead of myself. I was explaining that whilst the shorts may have seemed quite revealing to American eyes, my ‘modern’ wearing of them had them a bit longer than they would have been twenty years ago. ‘For example’, I went on, ‘For all the years my father played footy, he wore his shorts like this’, hoisting up the shorts to a height not seen since Robert DiPierdomenico graced the Glenferrie Oval, flashing my bright green underwear to all who were willing to see the show (at least I had the foresight to ensure my shorts and underwear were strikingly complementary. Imagine if my jocks were red. It would be like watching an episode of the Tellitubbies wearing rose-coloured glasses. Instead, it was just like watching an episode of the Tellitubbies normally). The aforementioned ladies’ club provided the best spectrum of  reactions. Of the four, one laughed, one couldn’t turn her face quickly enough, one gave a rather surreptitiously sultry thanks-for-the-view glance, whist the fourth one almost fainted (I’m still deciding if it was from excitement or shock. Maybe both). At least the women from Houma won’t be forgetting the day that the Australian came to visit for a while.

            Southern Louisiana wasn’t entirely made up of middle-aged and elderly women showing adverse reactions to the sight of Australian legs. We were lucky enough to experience a swamp tour where we were exposed to the nuances, joys, and sometimes confusions of the Louisiana Creole culture. The launch pad for the boat trip was at a Creole family’s house and store, filled with exotic animals such as snakes, gators and snapping turtles, and decorated so tackily it put Kath Day-Knight’s pineapple and chopstick-inspired table setting to shame. As we were wandering through the property, our guide stopped, pulled a baby alligator out of a bucket and brandished it around, saying ‘Heda coodie, innie?’ Pardon? Our host mother (a Louisiana native) translated: ‘He’s a cutie, isn’t he?’ Well, if you insist. A little later: ‘Dem snappin turda, he gonna bide you finga clean off you puddit dere!’ Apparently the snapping turtle likes the taste of human fingers. Soon afterward, we boarded a boat for the tour of the bayou and swamp. Our excitable guide was soon regaling us with all the sights around ‘Dere! Dat gator biiig boy!’ Sure enough, there was a three-metre alligator just a few metres from our boat. The swamp was filled with all manner of wildlife, trees, and houseboats decked out in Confederate flags, often with stickers proclaiming ‘if this flag offends you, you need a history lesson’. Personally, I feel that a ‘if you need a tacky sticker to justify displaying this flag, you probably shouldn’t display it’ sticker would have fitted the bill better, but Southern Louisiana plays by its own rules. Our Creole-speaking guide pedalled away on his rusty pushbike the moment he had us off the boat. This untouched piece of a bygone era, filled with drawbridges, over-vegetated gardens, people to whom neither English nor French was a first language, and where fried chicken and crawfish jambalaya is the epitome of health food, may not be the first place on a list of where to holiday, or even the top ten, but it sure was fun. And that little gator was a coodie too.

            Last week we left Lousiana after a month’s stay (it almost feels like home now) for the state of Florida. Americans call this place ‘God’s waiting room’, and immediately upon arrival it was easy to see why – the average age of Florida residents must be at least 60, and retirement complexes appear on almost every street in its cities and towns. Still, there is something of an idyllic feeling to the state – warm weather, palm trees, and complex waterway networks. My first host here was a dentist quite obviously going through a mid-life crisis – he lives in a treehouse ‘inspired’ home on the water, with a speedboat parked out the back, which he used to transport us to a waterfront bar for an evening of live music and relaxing. A little ostentatious, but then again, if I were a single, middle-aged dentist, I might live the same way too. Apart from that, Florida has been all singing, with a couple of hours at the beach (just enough to get sunburnt), although I’ve decided I don’t much like the beach here – it’s not very far from last year’s oil spill, and the beach reminds me too much of home. Still, we have complimentary passes to Disney World next week, so Florida still has an opportunity to show me it’s more than old people, playboy dentists, and oil infested beaches. Watch this space.

            Given the recent occurrence of St Patrick’s Day, I thought I’d finish with this.

Paddy was the first man in his village to own a motorbike, and for its maiden voyage, he asked his best mate Murphy along for a ride. Murphy gladly accepted, but after a few kilometres he shouted ‘Stop! Stop!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Paddy enquired

‘It’s too cold! I can’t take it!’ Murphy replied.

Thinking on his feet, Paddy said, ‘Well why don’t you take off your jacket, put it on backwards, and button it up that way – you’ll be more protected from the wind and it won’t be so cold!’

            Thinking this was a wonderful idea, Murphy did exactly that, and Paddy biked on happily for quite a while before turning around to see how Murphy was getting on – he was gone. Frantically, Paddy turned back, to find Murphy sitting on the road five kilometres away, surrounded by a group of farmers. ‘Oh thank God I’ve found him!’ Paddy cried. ‘Is the poor man okay?’

‘Well,’ replied one of the farmers, ‘He was fine when we got here. But then we turned his head around the right way, and he hasn’t spoken a word since!’

Happy St Patrick's Day!

Mardi Grads, Meteorological Grandeur, and Ms Gillard

Did somebody say Mardi Gras?

New Orleans during the Carnival season is the stuff of dreams. Heck, New Orleans full stop is the stuff of dreams. As such, it’s fair to say for the past seventeen days I feel as though I’ve been walking around in some kind of lucid dreamscape as we have experienced New Orleans from the inside and outside. I’ve seriously been waiting for Leonardo DiCaprio to show up and steal all my subconscious secrets. Anyway, pop culture references aside, the two weeks were fascinating, and I now have an insight into the Who Dat city only a privileged few have.

            Admittedly, first impressions on arriving in the city aren’t great. Winding around bridges and causeways crossing polluted lakes and the Mississippi, with poor neighbourhoods still showing visible decimation from the Hurricane Katrina (almost six years ago now. It’s completely shocking to see these communities still in such disarray) had me quite deflated – maybe the city hadn’t recovered, maybe the rumours were true. Certainly a few of the people we had met along the way, particularly in Tennessee, Alabama, and rural Louisiana, were vicious in their condemnation of New Orleans. One charming gentleman told setting foot in the French Quarter was the worst mistake we could make – ‘full of titty bars, alcohol, Katy Perry and sin,’ was his verdict. That was a red rag to a bull, and so, of course the first thing we did in our spare time was steam down Decatur St, hunting down all that smut that had been so strongly described to us. Strangely we didn’t find it (who would’ve thought?), but instead we found a place that is, yes, a tourist trap, but still an incredible, vibrant, exciting locale. The first thing I noticed was the complete assault on all your senses. Sure, in most places you can be in awe of the architecture, hear the local music or accent, and taste the food, but down in the Quarter your sense of smell and touch work overtime too. Every square metre (I mean yard. I forget the metric system doesn’t exist here. Fact: Introducing the metric system will cause society as we know it to disappear. In fact, I’m predicting that if we keep using metric, there will be a sub-prime mortgage crisis, causing a global financial meltdown, coupled with a catastrophic warming of global temperatures. Hang on…) has its own unique scent, be it the aroma of incense from voodoo hideouts, the smell of crawfish and shrimp being prepared for étouffeé, gumbo or jambalaya, or, yes, maybe the stench of leftover vomit after one ‘hurricane’ too many on one of the balconies. And the Quarter just wouldn’t be the Quarter without the sticky footpath, or the feel of the icing sugar permeating every part of your body as you try to cleanly eat a beignet (an infinitely more awesome version of the donut), whilst slurping café au lait infused with chicory. Heaven.

            Although we certainly did spend a good amount of time being tourists – it’s hard not to in a city like New Orleans - in fact the brunt of our time was spent performing in local schools and colleges, and staying with families connected to the Symphony Chorus of New Orleans. Two of the three families who hosted us, and many others we met, had been directly affected by Hurricane Katrina, and their stories were both uplifting and saddening. The hurricane is still the most common point of conversation in New Orleans, and it’s easy to see why: It’s still so present in so many ways. Most streets still haven’t been re-paved, only people with enough money have rebuilt their homes, and empty blocks and abandoned homes still prevail in many areas. Compounding this is the apathy towards the situation that still abounds, which in fact borders on antipathy in many other areas of Louisiana. One of our hosts told us that most Louisianans outside of New Orleans felt that ‘we had it coming’ due to all the ‘immoral activity’ that goes on in the city. ‘But what they don’t realise,’ she continued, ‘is that the damage didn’t happen there. It happened where the normal people live, and they’re still struggling to recover.’ Yet these people seem to me to have a positivity that I’ve not seen anywhere else in this country. Perhaps it’s the weather, or the parades…or the food. Uniqueness manifests itself everywhere in this part of the world, but nowhere so much in food. Here’s a small sample of the traditional New Orleans fare we have eaten:

• Crawfish étouffeé: A creamy, coconut and rice thing with crawfish (kind of like yabbies)
• Red Beans and Rice: This is usually served on Monday, when in past times women would spend the day washing, and needed something which could cook all day without being watched. So the enterprising creatures came up with the idea of cooking red kidney beans, tomato, and sausage for hours, and serving it over rice. They were on a winner, too.
• Beignets: Fried dough (similar to donuts) served with more sugar than dough. But who’s complaining about that?
• Po Boys: Kind of like a sub, the most common varieties are roast beef and deep fried shrimp (delicious and nutritious). They are then smothered in gravy, tomatoes, pickles, lettuce and mayonnaise, to a stack size that would require a mouth three times normal size to eat easily. The sign of a good Po Boy eater is that he/she makes as much mess as is humanly possible, which, as a messy eater anyway, I took on with great gusto. In fact, just yesterday I found some leftover gravy in my belly button…
• Jambalaya: A New Orleans risotto served with whatever you can find: usually crawfish, shrimp, sausage (noticing a theme yet?), and chicken.
• Gumbo: Like jambalaya, but more soupy.
• King cake: a giant cinnamon roll with multi-coloured icing, served during Mardi Gras celebrations.

It’s common in New Orleans that when describing an animal or plant, the first follow-up question is ‘can you cook it?’ The food is real peasant stuff, but it’s just fantastic. Too fantastic, my stomach is telling me.

            Our performances in the city were also something to remember. At every school, we were received incredibly warmly, and excited students rushed to ask questions and take photos. A particular highlight was a high school where we were swamped by adoring young girls who were quick to label me as ‘awkward, but in a hot way.’ Uhhh…thanks? I should point out that, before I am accused of being arrogant and vain, me being called ‘hot’ has nothing to do with me at all. With an Australian accent, you can look like you were liberally doused in ugly powder whilst young and still be called hot…but more about that later. In actual fact they were more interested in He Who Has the Massive Hair, and so I was more or less bypassed (not complaining). The real high point of the week, however, came on Friday. First was an interview and performance on breakfast television, so I can now say I have been on TV in the US. Sure, I may have looked and sounded like a pompous git, but at least I looked like a pompous git on network TV. Friday evening brought a concert with the Symphony Chorus of New Orleans, in the Holy Name of Jesus Cathedral. The sound of 150 voices soaring through the room was really spine tingling stuff, and the extended standing ovation at the end really capped it all off. The days that we are struggling after singing the same songs countless times over 10 weeks, we just remember the affect hearing international music can have on audiences, and the excitement comes rushing back.

            Mardi Gras is, in reality, the day before Ash Wednesday (mardi gras is ‘Fat Tuesday’ in French), but the carnival celebrations go on for weeks leading up to the big day. We were lucky enough to be caught in the thick of it, and managed to catch six parades the space of just a few days. What makes Mardi Gras different is the ‘throws’ – trinkets (most often beads) that are thrown off floats to spectators, creating what can only be described as a miles-long mosh pit, moving to the sound of New Orleans jazz bands and hundreds strong marching bands and troupes. Contrary to common belief, you do not have to take your top off to receive any beads (if that was the case I would’ve received many more than what I did get), but it does help if you have something to catch the attention of the float riders. To this end, we were equipped with huge signs proclaiming it our first Mardi Gras, with symbols of our home countries plastered at the bottom (Sergio drew mine, and despite my noisy protestations, the kangaroo still got boxing gloves), and we waved them around madly on the route, hip-and-shouldering anyone who got in our way. It’s every man for himself on the parade route – the savvy parade-goer will arrive hours early to stake out his spot, beer and food are carried in eskies to ensure not a moment of action is missed, and children are merely smaller obstacles to your loot than a full grown adult. It’s not harsh, it’s just the way of things. Here, our newly-formed connections with the New Orleans locals really came in handy, as we found the perfect position to view and catch, with easy access to a loo (this may seem inconsequential, but trust me, after hours of standing around eating and drinking, it helps), and good strategies for catching. We came home from each parade laden with beads, cups and stuffed toys, exhausted but filled with carnival buzz.

            All paraded-out, three of the four of us used our free weekend to return to Mississippi to visit some friends. An easy, relaxing drive, followed by a weekend spent in good company. Not quite so. Within minutes of starting our drive, the heavens opened. Actually, not opened. Burst. Exploded. Erupted. Detonated. Anyway, you get the picture – there was a heck of a lot of water. So here we were, three international singers trying to navigate the interstate system (at 120km/h+ speeds), with torrential rain coming down, trucks whoosing past, and roadworks thrown in just to keep us on our toes. Kayla, our driver, told us at the end of the trip that she had to hide her emotions to ensure we weren’t frightened. Last time I checked, shaking at the wheel, squealing and a liberal dose of swearing were the antithesis of not showing emotion, but I’ll let her false bravado slide. For now. Thankfully the rest of the weekend went exactly as I had hoped. We cooked for each other, went cycling through the forest (jumping back on a bike after a three-year hiatus is fun, but uncomfortable on the derriere to say the least), watched movies and consumed root beer floats until the wee hours. We left (in much nicer weather thankfully) feeling happy and slightly healthier than we did when we arrived – who would’ve known that good food and exercise could be so good for you? It might just catch on some day.

            In case you were wondering, the mentioning of our Prime Minister was not to complete a stunning double-triple alliteration (although it did a pretty damn good job, if I say so myself) but rather to alert you to the fact that our very own Joolya has arrived in the country to fawn over the Prez for a few days. Finally, I’m not alone, and all I need is to turn on CNN to hear the dulcet tones of the PM. Which brings me back to my earlier allusion of Australian accents being audible beer goggles to many Americans. When the Hon. Rednut first appeared on screen, I quickly gave the obligatory ‘don’t worry, she dyes her hair and not all Australians sound like her’ spiel, just to cover my bases. Breathing a sigh of relief when CNN finally decided that How to Save Money was far more important than Crocodile Dundee and Pippi Longstocking’s love child (the first tip they offered: Spend less. I’m still reeling), I turned to face my host family to defend my national pride. ‘Oh, what a good looking Prime Minister you have,’ they began. I was wondering if we were watching the same programme. ‘And such a lovely voice!’

            Henny Penny, I think the sky is falling in.

Sweet Home Alabama (and Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana)

From freezing our backsides off...to taking over the world      

The last fortnight and a bit has been nothing short of a whirlwind. In sixteen days I have stayed with nine different families in nine towns/cities across six states. Yeah. Beat that. In that time I’ve seen the weather change from Arctic to mild spring, landscapes from flat and snowy to hilly and dense with nature, accents from brash to almost lazy, and political views from moderate and quietly manifested to obnoxiously radical. So I thought I would give a brief (by my standards at least) summary of each state I’ve visited in the past little while. I don’t know how often people get to travel through seven states in such a short time, and claim to know people and have made friends in each one of them, but either way it’s pretty exciting for me. Here goes…

Illinois Granted, I made fair mention of this state during my last blog, but I spent longer there than in any other of these states (six nights) in more places (three), so it’s only fair that it gets another chance. Chicago is still the most exciting place I’ve visited so far. Not necessarily the best, (I’m not playing favourites…) but the place just had so much stuff going on: Art, sport, food, people. In Chicago, for about the first time since being here, (except for being in college towns) I felt that the USA wasn’t a country dominated by the notion that you should be out of your car as little as possible. People actually walked places, and, can you believe it, used that strange mode of transport where you have to share giant car-looking things with people you’ve never met before. Public Transport, I think they call it.

            The other two places we stayed in Illinois were the suburb of Winnetka, and the Crystal Lake/Woodstock region just outside the Chicago metropolitan area. Winnetka holds the most auspicious title of the third-wealthiest locality in the country. And trust me, it showed. The school we performed at had so much spare cash that their staff had their own private Dining Room, replete with mahogany tables and chairs, plush fireside couches and a full-time kitchen manager. Given the school we last visited had so little money that the students took exams and homeroom in auditorium chairs with another five classes, it all seemed a bit extravagant. But that’s been my experience of the US so far: it doesn’t matter which way you swing, as long as you’re extreme. Crystal Lake/Woodstock was a great time. Trivia Quiz: For what is Woodstock, Illinois, famous? If you answered the Woodstock Music Festival, please stop reading this now and take a class in 20^th Century history. The correct response is Groundhog Day. A self-proclaimed Bill Murray groupie, I was quite excited to see all the sights made famous by the film, and more excited about the fact that Woodstock had some of those slopey things I vaguely remember calling ‘hills’ (sorry, but the American Midwest is so flat it’s enough to send you cuckoo within 24 hours. And I spent nearly 7 weeks there. As if I wasn’t mad enough). Despite what was at one stage a 60˚C difference in temperature between home and Chicago (35˚C at home, -25˚C in Chicago, no joke) it was a truly memorable time.

Indiana Indiana is an interesting little place. Nestled between larger, more populated, and better known states like Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Missouri, and Kentucky, it isn’t that difficult to forget it’s there. So Indianans (as opposed to Indians, confusing I know) have become shrewd little blighters. For example, they built a stunning university in little-known Bloomington, which just so happens to be the only all-sandstone campus in the world, and houses the largest music school in North America. They also give you addresses like ‘2000 N C R 600 E Avon IN 46123’, which, if you can believe it, contains the street name and number, the city, state, and zip code. No, not confusing at all. Nestled in the middle of it all, however, is Indianapolis, a surprisingly vibrant and cosmopolitan city that quite literally comes out of nowhere. Amongst other things, it is home to as many war memorials as Washington, D.C., the Indy 500 (the most-watched motor sport race in the world) and will host the next Super Bowl. On a late-night jaunt through the Downtown area, Kayla, our Canadian singer, excitedly proclaimed it ‘the City of Love’ (some of the buildings had been rather ostentatiously decorated for Valentine’s Day). I certainly agreed that the architecture was quite impressive under lights, but somehow felt she was going a little far, and gladly told her so, in no uncertain terms (ie. ‘What are you talking about you moron? That’s Paris!’). Until I found the little café and chocolate shop that reminded me of one I visited in Italy a few years ago. And they actually served real coffee. I subsequently sang L.O.V.E. by Nat King Cole at every street corner.

            The Indianapolis region is also know to be one of the most conservative cities in the US with a population of over one million. To this end, whilst describing the current Australian political situation at a church dinner (I didn’t bring it up first. Promise), I may or may not have mentioned that I am a fairly politically involved person. As a result, I was approached by a lovely (or so it seemed at the time) older woman who was really up for a chat. Part of the conversation went something like this:

WOMAN: ‘I found the things you said about politics in Australia so interesting.’

PADDY: ‘Thanks! It’s really quite a unique situation at the moment.’

WOMAN: “Yes, I’m very political myself. I’m a real Tea Party Conservative, so I get very riled up about that.’

PADDY: ‘Oh! Well…(extended pause) politics sure can do that.’

Like a good little boy, I buttoned up after that. I figured mentioning my conspiracy theory of Sarah Palin being a dinosaur brought back to life by Rupert Murdoch may not have been the best idea. End of conversation.

Kentucky Okay, so we were only out of the car five minutes here. In a gas station. Beside the point. I can now say ‘I’ve been to Kentucky’ and not be talking about visiting the Colonel. Two things I noticed about Kentucky in my visit there:

1. The weather was finally starting to warm up.
2. Colonel Sanders and the Kentucky Derby (America’s Melbourne Cup) are their only claims to fame. Seriously.

Tennessee Ah, the South. Due to the fact that I had family who lived there for so long, and therefore knew that Australians existed there, and the weather was so much more agreeable than further north, I immediately felt that Tennessee was more Australian than any other part of the US we had visited. Southern Hospitality (not at all dissimilar from the Australian version) was immediately on display at our first stop in the state, a Starbucks. On noticing that Lulu (our Zambian singer) had an accent, the manager enquired about her nationality, and exactly what she was doing in an outer suburb of Nashville. When he found out, he gave her her coffee for free, with a smile and a ‘Welcome to the USA’. The smartie pants didn’t ask me about my accent until after I paid.

            My annoyance of the sly sales tactics of Starbucks managers aside, Tennessee, just like the states before it, provided a raft of highlights. The first full day for us was, luckily, a day off, and so we took the opportunity to get out and see the famous sights of Nashville. Stop one was the Country Music Hall of Fame, where we were lucky enough to have free tickets organised for us. So I bounded up to the concierge desk to announce our arrival. After three attempts at conveying the information to the attendant, I was told ‘Sorry sir, but it would be much easier if you could talk in English’. I got Kayla to translate. The museum itself was everything one would expect from a country music museum – tacky, trashy and downright awesome. Solid gold pianos, car fixtures paying homage to guns, diamond-studded guitars with velvet straps, and, of course, no shortage of that authentic country sound pulsing through the speakers.

            Our country music education complete, we ventured onto Nashville’s main tourist drag, which was awash with ‘hat ‘n’ boot’ stores, music dens (no under-21s or firearms allowed. Safety is obviously their first priority) and Southern kitchens. I was lucky enough to escape the tourist traps for the afternoon, instead spending it with an Australian ‘local’ who showed me the lesser-known side of the town – leafy, modern, and vibrant. They even served good coffee. I was able to see all the places I’d heard about from my family for so long, which had me jumping out of my skin with excitement, and, just for a moment, I could’ve been back home. We rounded out our stay in Tennessee with a whirlwind tour of some local schools, daycares, colleges and nursing homes, well received at all of them, but still with audience members commenting on how funnily I pronounced ‘Australia’. I guess they never taught me properly at school.

Alabama The song (I’m not even going to name it, lest I have you singing it until you hear It’s A Small Word After All) is so ubiquitous that its title is the official number-plate slogan of the state. As a result, I am considering petitioning Julia Gillard to enact a change of all Australian number-plates to read ‘Waltzing Matilda’. That, or ‘It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll’, but I’m trying to appeal to a broad demographic. Apart from that, there really isn’t much to say about Alabama. For one, I only spent two nights there, and secondly, Huntsville, where we stayed, is hardly known for being a happening place. As it was explained to me, there’s ‘just a lot of engineers and churches’. I would say that’s pretty apt. There was, however, some warmer weather, a space and rocket museum, and some very friendly people. One of my jobs whilst there was to read an Australian story to a group of Special Ed kids – it was just brilliant to see the excitement on their faces, and I have no doubt it was the first time in the history of Huntsville Public Schools that the Australian story in the Special Ed curriculum books was actually read by an Australian, although there was an Australian family at the school, originally from Rockhampton. It shows how much I miss Australian accents that I actually got excited to hear that horrible Central Queensland ocker. Maybe I’m going deaf.

Singin' the Blues in Hattiesburg, MS

Mississippi Mississippi is known to be the most obese state in the USA, the most generous state (I would suggest those two go hand-in-hand), now, the state where Patrick McDonald almost got arrested – I hear they’re making a movie about it. It all started when, in a nasty traffic jam near our destination of Hattiesburg, we were (barely) rear-ended, and, as such, had to pull over and call the State Troopers to file an accident report. In my experience, police have far more important things to do than file a report for merely cosmetic damage, and, quite expectedly, it was a good hour before anyone arrived. So what do you do when you’re stuck on the side of the Interstate in rural Mississippi? You entertain yourself, which we did with a freeway-side jam session that was so off the charts that it required video documentation, which I duly provided. It just so happened that in the middle of said recording, we were approached by the state trooper who had been deployed to inspect the carnage, who was under the impression that I was in fact photographing him, which is illegal in the state of Mississippi. In his defence, he was looking rather stunning in his all-grey onesie, coat, and Stetson hat, so I can see where the mistake may have been made. Still, I was left pleading my innocence whilst dreaming of what would happen when I was subject to interrogation by Sheriff Stuckey from Mississippi Burning…until our friendly neighbourhood Trooper decided we weren’t worth his while and headed off to fry bigger fish. Phew.

            Our stay in Mississippi, whilst short, was nonetheless made exciting, informative, and at times quite confronting by our hosts. Our first night involved a trip to the ‘Shed’, a traditional Mississippian barbeque and blues joint, where we were expected to eat ourselves sick on saucy ribs, beans, taters, and slaw, which we duly did. The blues part of the evening was provided by T-Bone Pruitt, a 77-year-old legend of the craft. On hearing that we were an international vocal quartet, he promptly invited us on stage to perform a few numbers, which, we heard later, he has never done in his 50+ year career. Thankfully we were well received (I was a bit worried that the crowd thought blues was the only form of music) and Mississippi had made a good first impression.

            The most significant part of our visit to Hattiesburg, however, was not to do with our singing, although the concert we gave rates highly on my list so far – standing ovation and teary audience members doesn’t happen too often. Instead, this honour went to our Saturday afternoon expedition through the African American Military History Museum (the only one of its kind in the country). The previous evening, on a speedy walking tour though the town, we had been introduced to some black soldiers at the veterans’ club – men who had fought in Vietnam for a country that didn’t recognise their rights. Yet they were such proud, open men who loved their country and comrades, and were thrilled to have an audience for their message, and even more thrilled that we took the time to sing for them, and showed genuine interest in the history of black involvement in the US military. So the museum itself was the first stop of our Saturday jaunt, and showed the same pride and courage that the men we had met the night before embodied. Sadly, by the end of the tour, and despite telling so many poignant stories of the tragedy and destruction involved with war, by it’s end the museum was merely acting as a recruitment commercial. To show his disdain for this, Sergio was sure to ‘conduct business’ on the tank outside as we left.

            Whilst the museum was a fascinating stop on the way, the remainder of the afternoon held the most unique experience. The museum was housed in a predominantly black neighbourhood, and given the favourable weather, we though a walk was in order. What we saw was all at once beautiful, sad, thought provoking and full of happiness. Immediately, we felt not out of place, but as though we were an unusual addition to the area. Certainly we were (except Lulu) the only white people we saw. The area was like nothing I had ever seen before. Still reeling from Katrina, there was much unrepaired damage and abandoned homes, but it didn’t put a dampener on the spirit of the people we met. Every person we came across greeted us with a smile, or invited us into their homes, cafes or parties for a drink or a chat, showing so much pride and hospitality that it was impossible not to smile, despite the poverty around us. It dawned on me as we walked back to our host home, along a path lined with impressive magnolias, littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts, that I had experienced something rare for a white American, let alone a white Australian in the country for the first time. I felt so lucky to have had just a small taste of Mississippi life in so many of its formats, and found I wanted more. For whatever reason, the American South remains to a large extent segregated, except today it is more by choice than by expectation. My inquisitive mind needs to know why.

 Caught in the Act - thanks to Betty Press for this photo

 Louisiana To tell the truth, I’ve only been in Louisiana for six hours, so watch this space for a more in-depth analysis. I can, however, give first impressions, which, like so many of my experiences here, are riddled with contradictions. On one hand, we have entered a city with so much character, charm and impossibly welcoming people, not to mention gumbo (it didn’t take them long to make sure we had a real New Orleanian meal). Yet on the other hand, there is so much visible hardship and ugliness. Entire suburbs remain abandoned, five years after Katrina – Dubya’s legacy to the people of New Orleans. What a top bloke. Still, the place is bursting with character and I vibrancy I’ve yet to come across elsewhere in this country. We have a full week of singing, socialising and Mardi Gras celebrating ahead of us, and I can’t wait.

            So there you have it. My ‘brief’ summary has turned out to be my longest entry yet. If you’re still reading this, well done. If not…well who cares. It’s been one heck of a fortnight, full of so many highlights that it’ll be impossible to remember them all. The only thing beginning to grate is the language, specifically ‘y’all’. At one point, it was so prevalent that I was asked, when I left my phone on a restaurant table in Alabama, ‘Is this y’all’s?” Excuse me? ‘Is the phone y’all’s?’ I had to contain my grammar Nazi self, but it’s slowly beginning to get to me. I will gladly smack the next person who uses the term. Let this be your warning.

A Tale of Two Chicagos…and lots of snow

Snow Angel. Heck Yes.

Monday of last week was the day that we finally left our ‘home base’ of Dearborn, Michigan, for the start of our big tour. I was excited for a number of reasons: A new place to see every few days, slowly warming temperatures, and no more wading through reams of cables to plug in the internet. For a few days, my first prediction turned out to be true, as we piled in and out of our van for consecutive four-hour plus trips. On the other two, however, less luck was had. From Tuesday-Thursday of last week, I stayed with a lovely old couple in the middle of nowhere. Lovely, but their idea of a wild night was a bucket of popcorn and an NCIS marathon. So, on my first evening there, after most of the popcorn was eaten and the credits of NICS: LA (apparently television programmes are at the point where their names are merely a jumble of letters) began to roll, I politely enquired if they had wireless internet.

            “No my dear, I’m sorry,” was the response. No matter, I thought. I could just use their plug in line.

            “Oh no, we don’t have that either. We really don’t need it except for work, so we just use it there”. Okay. This wouldn’t be a problem. Most of my time here would be spent out working anyway. I declined the invitation to watch another NCIS episode – I didn’t want a hangover – and excused myself for bed. The morning, however, held a new surprise. Overnight, 18 inches (or 46cm in that ridiculous metric system the rest of the world uses. I mean, what kind of idiot thought of using powers of ten as conversions? 12 inches to a foot, three feet to a yard, and 1760 yards to the mile makes so much more sense) had fallen – the most since 1976. There was no way school would be held in those conditions. A full 24 hours of daytime talk shows and soaps laid before me, I started to feel a little overwhelmed and isolated, until I received the good news: my hosts had just had a new grandson born. We were going into town to visit him. As you could expect, I couldn’t contain my excitement. Who doesn’t want to go and meet the four-hour-old grandchild of people I have known for 12 hours? Still, it was nice to get out of the house, and seeing piles of snow taller than me really was quite a sight.

           

            When I arrived at the hospital, my host mum told me that only family would be allowed into the room. Partly I was pleased with this. No awkward “Hi, I’ve never met you before, but congratulations on your new arrival”. Plus, I had made sure I was prepared for a wait, and had brought a book and my laptop. I made myself comfortable in the waiting room (as comfortable as one can be in a maternity ward where you are confronted with the sounds of childbirth every time a door is opened) and opened my computer with baited breath. And then…the Holy Grail. A guest wireless network. I spent the next two hours blissfully emerged in the glories of Skype, Facebook, and The Age Online. I practically had to be dragged out when my host mother had had her fill of doting.

            Apart from being returned to the technological Dark Ages, and the strange hospital visit, my snow days (the storm was bad enough that school was cancelled for two days) were really quite fun. The scenery was beautiful, and I took a couple of late-night snow walks, which is a really beautiful thing to do. The highlight, however, was my snow angel. The snow angel is a rite of passage for most Americans living north of Nashville, and so of course I had to take my turn. With my host mum photographing every moment, I lay down in 50cm-deep snow and flapped my arms and legs around for a few seconds. I pulled myself out (painstakingly) and looked at my perfectly formed angel. For the next few minutes, I morphed into the Aeroplane Jelly kid, running around with my arms widespread, shouting “Look at the snow angel! It’s an angel! And it’s in the snow! And I made it! ME!” Eventually I calmed down enough to head inside park myself on the couch – tonight’s offering was re-runs of 1960s police dramas. Joy.

 

A snow pile nearly my height - Downtown Chicago

            Last Friday, after six weeks, we finally left the state of Michigan. Destination: Chicago. The five-hour drive was not particularly awe inspiring, and in fact quite body-stiffening, but by the time the city became visible through our car windows, all our ailments were forgotten, as we had another snow angel moment, whooping, jumping (as much as our seatbelts would allow) and uncontrollably singing Chicago by Frank Sinatra. On arriving at our hosts’ homes, the feeling only escalated. We were stationed right in the city, just minutes from the ‘loop’ (Chicagoan for the main CBD), with families who were welcoming, knowledgeable, interesting and excited about hosting us. They also turned out to be incredible tour guides – we had the weekend off, so we braved the piles of snow and -20˚C ‘heat’ to see the sights – who could name the architects, years of construction, and current use of all the buildings. The experience was brilliant – to finally be in a major centre, seeing historic and internationally important landmarks, viewing globally acclaimed art, and eating food from every culture known to man was simply phenomenal. Time spent in the host family homes was equally as wonderful, with a sing-along party, Super Bowl party, and plenty of socialising organised for us.

            When it finally came time for us to work, we were immediately confronted with the fact that Chicago is quite a divided city. Our families were residents of the North Side – comfortable, affluent and leafy, with a great many opportunities for students (our host families’ children, all of whom were 16 or under, were already virtuosic musicians, stunning dancers and near-fluent in another language), whereas our first assignment, a high school on the South Side, was rough. The students were mainly from minority groups and poor families. Many had never left Chicago, some never ventured beyond their own neighbourhood. Due to escalating violence amongst the students, ID tags were compulsory for everyone, all bags had to be see-through so they could be easily checked for weapons and drugs, and knives, including plastic or silverware, were absolutely prohibited from campus. The students we worked with generally fell into two groups: those who obviously couldn’t care less, and those who were just so enthusiastic and grateful for the opportunity to work with us. So it was difficult – performing to an audience with even one disinterested spectator can be difficult, to two-thirds of an audience can be absolute hell. Yet for the hope and joy we instilled in maybe just a few students, hope that there is more in the world than the South Side of Chicago, it may have been the most rewarding, humbling experience we’ve had.

            Given the not-so-light nature of the end of this blog, I feel it’s only appropriate to end with a joke.

A woman goes out for a night out on the town. Having promised her husband that she would be home by midnight, she stumbles in just as the clock in the hall chimes three times. Thinking on her feet, she quickly adds nine chimes of her own, before getting into bed next to her still sleeping husband. Job well done.

            The next morning over breakfast, the husband says to his wife “What time did you make it home last night?”

“Midnight,” the wife lies. “Did you hear me come in?”

“No. Slept right through.”

Pleased she has dodged a bullet, the wife smiles and continues with her breakfast, until the silence is broken again by the husband,

 “I think we need a new clock.”

“Oh! Why is that dear?” the wife replies.

“Well, last night, our clock chimed three times, said ‘oh no’, then chimed another four times, farted, chimed three more times, took a swig out of the flowerpot, chimed twice more and fell over the coffee table.”

            Reminds me of my mother…

Acclimatisation (or is that with a 'z'?)

This is me, 22 January. No kidding, it's

that cold.

Sometimes, things happen that make me think I’m starting to get used to American life. Unfortunately, there are also times when I’m obviously a long way off becoming acclimatised, or I’m just plain mad (often, I tend to think the latter. Since about Friday, I’ve been obsessed with the song Take Your Mama Out by the Scissor Sisters. If you don’t know it, look it up. If you do, you know what I mean). One of the biggest problems is words. For two countries that allegedly speak the same language, there are a ridiculous amount of differences. As an example, let me share with you a morning of teaching and presenting I had with high school students about 10 days ago – some of these ‘kids’ were less than a year younger than me, so I didn’t think I would have to keep it G rated. Wrong. My first strike came when I suggested that Advance Australia Fair could ‘go to buggery’ during a choir rehearsal. I thought that given the word ‘bugger’ appeared pretty liberally in Toyota ads about 10 years ago, I would be okay. Apparently I was wrong. A smatter of sniggering from students ensued, accompanied by a look of disbelief from the teacher. I moved on fairly hastily.

Strike two occurred a little later in said rehearsal, when I told the students ‘You need to be proud, dammit!’ I wasn’t let off so easily after round two. Mass laughter erupted from the students, followed by the teacher adding: ‘Uh Paddy, you probably shouldn’t use that word in school.’ I apologised and kept going, knowing full well I was now considered just another culturally inept Australian. I resolved to be much more guarded with my language. Which I was. Just not quite enough. An hour later, we were asked for our opinions of Justin Bieber (I know. How culturally significant). I immediately responded ‘I think he’s a twit.’ For the record, I was applauded for this by all present in the room at the time. It was afterwards when I ran into trouble. In a debrief of our performance by our manager, we were complimented on our interactions with students, but I was told ‘That word you used to describe Justin Bieber. It probably wasn’t the best choice.’

‘What, twit?’ I asked, now a little incredulous.

‘Yes. It isn’t really appropriate language for school.'

Somebody obviously forgot to tell Roald Dahl. Regardless, that was my third strike. Jog on buddy, you’re out. I was cursing under my breath the rest of the day.

Moving on from language, driving is another area which requires some change of habit, and something which I am pleased to report I can now handle with adequate competency. I can actually now start a drive without first getting into the passenger seat, feel for the steering wheel, realise it’s not there, and then get out of the car, and into the real driver’s seat. I am, of course, immensely proud. However, there are a few instances where I still find myself falling slightly short. The first is miles, that wonderful, easy to understand system whereby methods of measurement are completely unrelated and convert at increments obviously drawn at random. Not at all like that silly metric system the rest of the world uses. Anyway, miles become a problem when I’m driving on a freeway, and 70 just doesn’t seem that fast. As a result, I have now found myself driving 80 miles per hour on a freeway, before realising it’s in fact 129 kilometers per hour, and slowing back to the legal 70 (112km/h), more than once. This doesn’t pose as much of an issue as the four-way stop, a far-too-common intersection here where all drivers must stop before going on. Thankfully I’ve been erring on the side of caution, or I may have caused a number of disasters at these tricky little blighters, because, where I would usually have right of way in Australia, here I do not, because I arrived at the intersection last. Give me a roundabout any day.

The final part of this acclimatisation saga occurred this weekend, our first weekend off since we arrived here more than four weeks ago. We thought we might use it to get out and explore a bit. Our first stop was at the Plymouth Ice Festival, where we saw some phenomenal sculpting, but some even more phenomenal feats of enduring the cold – the maximum temperature across the weekend was somewhere in the vicinity of -10˚C. As such, we were in dire need of a good, warm coffee shop after about half an hour. We found a great one, but the performance I put on when trying to pay rivaled that of St. Kilda in the Grand Final Replay – abysmal. I took it as an opportunity to get rid of as much as the shrapnel that I had accumulated as possible. Turns out, ten cent and twenty-five cent coins are basically the same size. Owing $2.60, I handed over what I assumed was the correct amount. Turns out it was only $2.20. Delving back into my pocket, I found another piece of silver and handed it over. $2.30. More please. Back into the pocket I went, and three minutes, two dimes, a nickel, and five pennies later, and my debt had been settled. I was laughed away from the register by the attendant. After we were able to drag ourselves away from the warmth of the café, it was off to Ann Arbor, a college city, to meet some friends we had met for a night on the town. The nightclub we frequented was quite the experience. There was no dancing. Instead, there were hundreds of people gyrating in a space where you couldn’t play half-court basketball, lest it turn into a game of donkey. If someone had of poured a vat of cream in there, there would’ve been butter in under a minute. For he who dances like he is wearing two right-footed shoes on his two left feet, it may be a little while before I’m used to American dancing.

Apart from those examples above, I’m now getting used to the American way in most facets of life. I can now adeptly call my mobile my ‘cell’, the loo the ‘bathroom’, the telly the ‘TV’, Steve Irwin ‘The Crocodile Hunter’, and rangas ‘people’. I can put cream in my coffee without cringing, and handle snow-covered roads. I can even understand what people here mean when they say 1˚C is ‘mild’. I just need to watch my language. Heavens to Betsy.

Sledding, Small Towns, and Celebrities

Singing at our concert in Clinton, in our magnificent

"traditional costume". Slim Dusty, eat your heart out.

Before I arrived in the U.S., I really didn’t have much of an idea of what I would be doing here. Sure, I had a lengthy job description telling me of the work conditions and expectations, but it didn’t really shed much light except for expect a lot of singing, travelling and staying with a lot of families. There wasn’t much more explained for our rehearsal period, either. Oh, you’ll be singing for a lot of schools, we were told, maybe some churches, staying with lots of host families. They’ll be nice. Great, I thought. I’m going to be a glorified children’s entertainer for the next six months. The Wiggles, decaf. So when we left the relative familiarity of our ‘homes’ in Dearborn for our first gig, in Clinton, a small town about an hour’s drive from Detroit, it was fair to say we were somewhat filled with trepidation. Thankfully, one week later and back in Dearborn, we can reflect on a wonderful week that, if replicated for the rest of our tour, will have us being dragged onto planes home kicking and screaming.

            Our host families for the week were all teachers at the schools where we were working, spread out across three communities close to each other: Clinton, Tecumseh and Adrian. These places personified small-town America – Water towers with the name scrawled across them in big red letters, generations of families living within streets of each other, and kids who go to the same school from K-12, just heading down the road when it comes time to progress to middle school, and then high school. In my experience, what small towns lack in size, they make up for in friendliness and welcoming, and these guys had both those qualities in spades. Everywhere we went, there was copious amounts of fantastic (and fatty) food, drinks and people who were ridiculously interested in our countries and cultures. A gathering of high school kids at one of our host’s houses very quickly descended into a game of “Who’s best at impersonating Paddy’s accent”, which, for whatever reason, ended up with an army of girls saying “G’day mate” in faux English accents. Our host teacher brought hot coffee to school for us in the morning (which started at 7.45am), and one day even baked us cinnamon buns, just because she could. We watched hockey, went skating, were taken to eat at bars, diners and pizza places, and were finally shown an activity that made the winter weather actually kind of awesome – sledding.

            Clinton High School has a really great football ground, lower than the rest of the land around it to make the viewing experience the best it can be. Problem is, between November and March, it’s completely covered in snow. So these savvy locals have come up with a second use for it – a sled run. Decked out in ski pants, jackets and, clever me, desert boots, we headed out on Friday afternoon to hurtle down a hill on pieces of plastic, and had about the best fun we’ve had since I arrived. Some of the sled could fit up to four people, so we went down single, double, quadruple, sitting, lying, backwards and frontwards. It was also an opportunity for the snow-dwellers to educate those of us from more temperate parts of the world on snow games. As a result, I had snow thrown behind my glasses, down my jumper, in my hair and even my socks, and was shoved down the hill unexpectedly more than once. I finished up freezing cold, soaking wet, and with a sore bottom, but absolutely buzzing. And, more importantly, my shoes survived.

            Our task for the week was to go every day to the schools, teach about our country, sing a bit, and prepare the school’s four choirs for a concert at the end of the week. It sounds a little arduous, but it was just wonderful. In the schools, we were like royalty. High school students went out of their way to chat with us and ask us questions. The middle school students fought over us on the basketball court and in the cafeteria (yes, I got to eat lunch in a school cafeteria this week. And yes, it was truly awful). The elementary school kids looked at us in complete awe. Our choirs were just a delight. The students were incredibly enthusiastic and willing to learn, they loved our music and really loved us too. So, by the time the concert came around, we were pretty pumped. By the end, we were ecstatic. The concert itself was put together entirely by us, and so it had the potential to be an absolute flop. It was the absolute opposite. The kids were brilliant, the audience wonderful, and I even got everyone in the room to stand up, sing, and to the actions to “Give Me a Home Among the Gum Trees”. This was all wonderful, and we were happy, but after we finished and headed out to the audience, the magnitude of what we had just done really hit. For nearly the next hour, we stood outside the auditorium, signing autographs, taking photos and answering questions. Between then and now, I’ve had no less then twenty of the kids I taught add me on Facebook, where I have since seen these kids talking about how sad they were to see us leave, quoting lines of “You’re the Voice” to their friends, and claiming us to be their best friends. It dawned on me that we have actually had an impact on these people, touched them, maybe even inspired them to bigger things. I know that they have definitely had an immense impact on us.

I left Clinton feeling such a sense of pride in what we had achieved, happiness at all the new bonds we formed, and sadness at what we were leaving behind. Because, even though for just one week, in just one small town, we were celebrities.

For a video of highlights of one of our concerts, visit http://www.lenconnect.com/features/x1254710140/Clinton-students-get-lesson-in-music-from-four-continents. Plus I'm hoping to upload a video of us singing You're the Voice with the High School students, but I have to wait for a faster internet connection. Far out I'm getting good at flogging myself.