tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28221799078104022282024-02-18T22:56:32.146-08:00Australian S.O.U.L.Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-12940879191195350192011-06-25T20:06:00.000-07:002011-06-25T20:06:21.518-07:00The Last Hurrah?<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVY_NJ13WA3PCsOdV-u5vlzaa3nunUqkQRvmi97g92bjja08S_vkIb1hmeGTVhv80ViAB5g3Q1gR2cK12FvKhD-of3BisMzGC_zDhMyJgFkDN1uGIRIwaH2wmImQ2hIMTV7ix1xOVfq-V/s1600/White+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVY_NJ13WA3PCsOdV-u5vlzaa3nunUqkQRvmi97g92bjja08S_vkIb1hmeGTVhv80ViAB5g3Q1gR2cK12FvKhD-of3BisMzGC_zDhMyJgFkDN1uGIRIwaH2wmImQ2hIMTV7ix1xOVfq-V/s320/White+House.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIM4q1XIJtFiLYivUKHH_MFf8xUnGDC3k3hgmOFHUSrsEjUFOrEKvjJ9ZKnWNCvjjlRq2vn_On22Uz3F0OTSzxcj7YxWLPNaXW3gMWR_3JH7W7Uy-R_ohV5ocfOIIRdKdJfnKWnaKJcgLg/s1600/Flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIM4q1XIJtFiLYivUKHH_MFf8xUnGDC3k3hgmOFHUSrsEjUFOrEKvjJ9ZKnWNCvjjlRq2vn_On22Uz3F0OTSzxcj7YxWLPNaXW3gMWR_3JH7W7Uy-R_ohV5ocfOIIRdKdJfnKWnaKJcgLg/s320/Flag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNKC6npaUcPTVsL-2VbmEhiZVjDg8jrLv8UCTFNR2WZ4XjQlWLkDB5ImO7GJwOtgnIfCLqMETROsmQgmNZ5AUSD7mfIfRPMG5pN59_FWjgmsrKspVrh7ZszeWfhJp7PlA9x4kFv1omlt1/s1600/SOUL+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNKC6npaUcPTVsL-2VbmEhiZVjDg8jrLv8UCTFNR2WZ4XjQlWLkDB5ImO7GJwOtgnIfCLqMETROsmQgmNZ5AUSD7mfIfRPMG5pN59_FWjgmsrKspVrh7ZszeWfhJp7PlA9x4kFv1omlt1/s1600/SOUL+2011.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>We did it!</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Exactly six months ago, I arrived a rather intimidated young man into the most ubiquitous country in the world, slightly frightened of being 15,000 kilometres away from my home, a little saddened at being in transit on Christmas Day instead of eating Nana’s Christmas dinner, but also excited for six months of wall-to-wall travel across an incredibly unique and diverse country, and at the fact there was snow on the ground. It may have been only two hours long, but I had a White Christmas, damnit. I remember up until the week before leaving, I didn’t quite realise the gravity of the task I was undertaking. My thought process had me believing that I was off for a brief sojourn in the noble USA, staying with a few people here and there, sing a bit, argue politics a bit, back home in no time. Then, with about seven days left before the trip began, it hit me a little. I was saying goodbye to my family and friends for seven months. Without a break (for a University student, going one month without a break is unthinkable, let alone seven). There was going to be no familiarity, no home bed, no footy, no Lygon St, no walks to the beach with the dog. By the time I arrived in Detroit, I was catatonic. All of a sudden the trip seemed insurmountable. For quite a while the days dragged, the nights were worse, and I cast an unfairly cynical eye over everything different (and sometimes even similar) in American society and culture. Six months ago, I could hardly imagine sitting down on my last night in the country, writing a final entry about my experiences. But here I am, the strange feeling of leaving familiar surroundings has returned, and I’m about to start the next big adventure – a month in Europe, all on my own. So, in the spirit of reminiscing and celebrating all that has happened during our Singers of United Lands 2011 tour, here are a few highlights and interesting occurrences I’ve yet to share.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Finding out the wrong way that the toilet I was using had a built-in bidet (Chicago, Illinois). Nothing quite like getting a surprise clean when you’re reaching for the toilet paper.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Silencing a group of middle-schoolers by telling them the reason I can sing so high is that ‘I never quite made it through puberty’ (near Detroit, Michigan).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Going to the only African-American Military History Museum in North America, and walking through impoverished black neigbourhoods, and being welcomed like family into every open door (Hattiesburg, Mississippi).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Being down in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. On the other hand, it was also humbling to see one part of the city buzzing, whilst the other half was still struggling to recover from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina (New Orleans, Louisiana).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Attempting to explain Constitutional Monarchy to a group of Fourth Graders, only to have the answer to my question ‘What to you have in the US instead of the Queen’ being ‘Freedom!’ I deserved it. (Clermont, Florida). It was interesting, however, to see how many Americans got so excited about the Royal Wedding just a few weeks later. A celebrity’s a celebrity, no matter how they get there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Disney World (Orlando, Florida). Enough said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Receiving marriage proposals from audience members at a high school concert (St. Augustine, Florida). Ask again in ten years, girls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Being followed by tornadoes and storms from Florida and New York, but during that time, seeing some of the US’ most well-kept secrets of beauty in North Carolina and Tennessee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Walking around Washington, DC, for an entire day, non-stop, and taking in some of the most important history of the USA. We also got within 100m of the President. We’re that special. (Washington, DC)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">New York. Specifically, seeing two Broadway shows, a comedy show, walking around Times Square and Midtown, performing at the Australian Consulate (where I could finally let loose with all the Australian humour and obscure references), and seeing three of my high school teachers in a taxi (New York City, New York). Talk about a small world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Stumbling through terrible French (usually to be rebuffed in bitingly acerbic English) in the beautiful, Euope-esque cities of Montreal and Québec (Montreal and Québec City, Québec, Canada).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Getting back to nature near beautiful lakes and coastline in Canada’s Atlantic Provinces (New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, Canada).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">In the past six months, we have visited 24 US states (plus Washington, DC), 4 Canadian provinces, and driven about 28,000 kilometres. I stayed with 51 host families, almost universally wonderful, and sang countless numbers of shows for possibly tens of thousands of people. My Facebook friend count has almost doubled (very important for a nineteen-year-old in 2011). Most of all, I spent six months with people I am so happy and proud to call my friends and colleagues, people I know will go on to do great things. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">I never thought I would say this six months ago, but, USA, I’m going to miss you. Maybe I won’t miss your gross contradictions, you obsession with materialism, your overt reliance on cars and trucks big enough to take on army tanks, your fixation with fast and fried food, your decimation of natural land to build monstrous houses, roads, freeways, and strip malls; and your loud, obnoxious, and sometimes misplaced, patriotism. But I will most definitely miss your breathtaking natural beauty, your fierce defence of your way of life, your pizzazz and confidence, and most of all, I will miss the unmatched kindness, friendliness, and hospitality of your people, Illinois to Alabama, Vermont to Florida, and everywhere in between. I couldn’t have lasted six months without feeling as welcome as I did almost everywhere we went. I’m not going to say goodbye, because I know we’ll meet again. So I’ll just say see you later, be safe, stay happy, and thank you. Thank you for giving me the ride of a lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-18594015112499284042011-06-14T20:26:00.000-07:002011-06-14T20:26:34.455-07:00Hospitality Mark II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClc4ZzjA7aS52FzoLRjdH2sXTx3jEjuUZzV8aBQ34eCEZCDjT-Ij9GRG870oMu1MuGmExBfYWAwe47MflQfW5Ql4-kwbHEazUhQCrLPTd3BBXR7fw_vR8OH4EszS1ec6qiwqgIJE_G5KZ/s1600/DSCN1203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClc4ZzjA7aS52FzoLRjdH2sXTx3jEjuUZzV8aBQ34eCEZCDjT-Ij9GRG870oMu1MuGmExBfYWAwe47MflQfW5Ql4-kwbHEazUhQCrLPTd3BBXR7fw_vR8OH4EszS1ec6qiwqgIJE_G5KZ/s200/DSCN1203.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL8sGsvgKqjLgXN3syK5_-JEf4RIKVYEgH6LVrDhHcb4uYpRdKSNQZIcZBSYjcy5-Vb_CwrVbMLwgSZGD-0pZeKsFaomvv3ceZZTzcFUJwaGzLX_QbvvOgIXSKNo_x2dRxGcyP_WM-HLw/s1600/DSCN1287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL8sGsvgKqjLgXN3syK5_-JEf4RIKVYEgH6LVrDhHcb4uYpRdKSNQZIcZBSYjcy5-Vb_CwrVbMLwgSZGD-0pZeKsFaomvv3ceZZTzcFUJwaGzLX_QbvvOgIXSKNo_x2dRxGcyP_WM-HLw/s200/DSCN1287.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <b>From France...to making S'mores on the lake. All in a week's work.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">About 23 weeks ago, I outlined my initial experiences with American hospitality in my first-ever blog. In hindsight, my initial summary may have been somewhat skewed by the fact that I had just arrived to a frigid northern winter, for six months, knowing nobody, the Poms winning the cricket, and having interacted only with people at airports, who, let’s face it, aren’t really people. From the moment you arrive at an airport to the moment you leave (be it at that one or another), you are in some form of suspended animation, which I have decided is a natural reaction to the knowledge that the next part of your life is going to be filled with suspicious glances, awkward prodding, plastic masquerading as food, and at least one film starring Matthew McConaughey. Don’t get me wrong, I love airports and flying – the thought that somehow a huge plane weighing thousands of tonnes, laden with hundreds of passengers and their luggage, can make it into the air and halfway across the world, blows my mind. It’s just a shame they have to make it so damned uncomfortable. But I digress. After five months of travel in the USA, and stays with 45 separate hosts, I have certainly come to greatly appreciate the wonderful hospitality that was extended to us <i>almost</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> everywhere. However, the Yanks have got a way to go before they can match their northern neighbours.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Apart from our initial issues with overzealous border officers in Quebec and a cold shoulder when testing out my French in Montreal (‘Un burger au poulet, s’il vous plait,’ I politely requested at the restaurant, in what I thought was impeccable French, only to have a sneer shot my way and ‘A chicken burger? Four ninety-five,’ as a response. Zero points for trying.), Canadians have been so overwhelmingly friendly that it’s almost enough to make you sick. To all those Canadians who get upset at the rest of the world stereotyping them as kind, polite pushovers, well, sorry guys, but you’re not doing yourself any favours. My first host mother, in Montreal, was actually offended that I didn’t ask her to do more for me – as if her getting up at 6.30 (she was an 80-year-old retiree) to ensure I got a nourishing breakfast before performing wasn’t enough. The Montrealers were just ridiculously kind to us in general. As soon as we arrived at our meeting point, sandwiches, brownies and tea were shoved down our throats, despite it being an hour after our lunch, and, as it would turn out, just an hour before dinner, which we were required to partake in, with copious amounts of wine (at least they had the foresight to buy a good Aussie chardonnay). We were taken to concerts, had dinner parties hosted in our honour, and were encouraged to generally run amok in the beautiful city. Montreal is one of those wonderful places where worlds combine – leave the Metro stations (which in themselves form a vast underground city) and you could be in any of countless North American cities, but walk a few blocks and you could be in Hong Kong. Another few blocks and it’s Paris, and a little further along I was back in Melbourne. Coupled with friendly Canadians (almost) everywhere, it was a brilliant start to our Canadian experience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">From Quebec, it was off to New Brunswick, the gateway to the ‘Maritime’ provinces of Canada. Due to their relatively small area and population, and their distance from major Canadian cities, the Maritimes have developed a unique dialect and small-town friendly culture, even in the ‘larger’ centres. Our first stop was McAdam, a tiny village just across the Maine border, and one of the strange kind of stops we endure once in a while whereby we arrive lateish in the evening, sleep, get up early in the morning, and leave. Usually this involves ‘Here’s the bed, ask if you need anything,’ a bit of idle chatter, sleeping, a quick breakfast, and off again. Not in McAdam, New Brunswick. We were shown to our rooms, and allowed to settle down. Then the barrage began.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">‘So,’ began our host. ‘I’ve got beer, wine, soda, juice, water…beer…what’ll it be?’ We thanked him, but declined the offer. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but the offer’s still on the table. Let me know, eh?’ We promised we would. Ten minutes later he was asking again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Still a no on that beer, eh?’ It was still a no, so he kept quiet on it. For about five minutes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Boys! Are you <i>sure </i></span><span lang="EN-US">you don’t want a beer?’ We were quite sure, thank you very much, we didn’t really drink that much so we were happy. He did ask us a couple more times, just for good measure, and we were actually surprised we weren’t having beer for breakfast. Instead he took us (who he had known a total of 10 hours) out for breakfast, parting ways with a ‘right on’ (apparently a Maritime ‘good on ya, mate’), and handing over to one of his friends, who took us to her lakeside cabin for an evening, where we were treated like absolute royalty, although it must be said that it seems every visitor to Canada is treated as absolute royalty. No sooner had we arrived was coffee and morning tea on the table, and as soon as these were done lunch was up. Immediately lunch was over she was down dragging out kayaks so we could go for a scenic paddle, then scooting back up to prepare dinner. Dinner done, it was off to collect wood for the lakeside fire, and then up to get supplies for preparing S’mores (a wonderful North American invention combining toasted marshmallows, melted chocolate, and biscuits – trust them to mix three fatty, sugary things together). The next day it all repeated: bumper breakfast, morning tea, and lunch. Any offers to help were spurned, any insistences of help were met with being assigned some kind of menial task, followed by copious amounts of praise for being so helpful. Either this woman was an angel, or having a red hot crack at martyrdom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Being surrounded by such friendliness everywhere I went had the direct effect of heightening my already prominent cynicism (as demonstrated by the above comment), to the point that I went prowling for any chink in the armour of kindness. And, as happens to most people rabidly pursuing evidence of some crackpot hypothesis, last Saturday I thought I found one. I had been staying with a couple in Halifax, Nova Scotia, a port city on the Atlantic Ocean that I believe is a perfect setting for a Robert Louis Stevenson novel. It is also well-renowned for its lobsters, and to this end, my host mother, a strict vegan, decided to buy and cook lobsters for all five of us. Despite not being an economist, lobster fisherman, or vegan, I deducted that this was rather a big thing she was doing for us. I decided to probe her about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Well, y’know, lobster’s big here in Nova Scotia, eh, and I just thought it’d be fun to watch you guys struggle your way through ’em. Bit of entertainment for me, y’know?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Gotcha. I had all the evidence I needed to denounce the friendly nature of Canadians as self-serving and indulgent. How dare they buy, and cook, us all lobster for dinner, if their motive was to enjoy themselves? Incensed, I was ready to launch a prosaic tirade. Until the next day, I spied the gift my host family had bought me. Hang on. They had bought me a gift for staying with them, sleeping in their spare bed, eating their food, for a week. After spending a week offering everything they could, instead of bidding me farewell and thanking heavens that they didn’t have to do any more, they just decided to keep giving. This time, most definitely not for any personal gain. My argument was shot. I had to retract my previous thought of launching a salvo into the stereotype of the USA’s northern neighbours, and instead write a blog about the wonderful hospitality we’ve experienced the past three weeks. Damn Canadians.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-81154257881069406872011-05-26T19:09:00.000-07:002011-05-26T19:09:34.297-07:00New England and a Narrow Escape<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw1eHHuQ8-f99zlGYBvZFM1Dxicb1pStgO1lIKfsCuwimDcW5JXHyafaD0hWm1v5yb0Eo0JuIKICnYtlZMbqOkjkBHYKXNBuenFDR8Lfl29huGcJ1VATO8IK8jvwZzKMqB1oc2rcyrcOG/s1600/Vermony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw1eHHuQ8-f99zlGYBvZFM1Dxicb1pStgO1lIKfsCuwimDcW5JXHyafaD0hWm1v5yb0Eo0JuIKICnYtlZMbqOkjkBHYKXNBuenFDR8Lfl29huGcJ1VATO8IK8jvwZzKMqB1oc2rcyrcOG/s320/Vermony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A typical New England scene</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <!--StartFragment--> </b></div><b><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I write, ye readers of mine blog, after one seven month in the Puritan Province of New England…actually to tell the truth, it was about a fortnight, and New England nowadays is most certainly not a province, or Puritan, and, sadly, New Englanders speak English similarly to most other North Americans, rather than the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Crucible</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">-esque language I had romantically been imagining. Still, this far Northeast outpost of the United States has a different atmosphere entirely from almost everywhere else we have visited thus far. To pinch a thought from Arthur Miller, the frontier spirit, which has hardly left the USA as a whole, is far more apparent in New England than anywhere else. Not in the big, brash, gun-totin’, don’t-you-dare-take-away-my-liberties style (although New Hampshire’s state motto is </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Live Free or Die</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">) favoured in the South, and to an extent, the Midwest, but more in a fierce guarding of all things local and small production. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Our last stop was in Montpelier, Vermont, a stunning ‘city’ set in the Green Mountains, retaining all the charm of a French alpine town. The Capital of the state, all of eight thousand people live in the city, the smallest capital of a US State by a large margin. These clever cookies have come up with a wonderful idea for the commercial outlets of the city, an idea that would never float in most of the USA, but something which encapsulates the New England frontier spirit quite neatly: no chains, franchises, or national companies are allowed in the city limits. Our Detroit born-and-raised manager was quite intrigued by this concept, but I liked it (and have henceforth been referred to as ‘hippy’). Here’s why: For probably only the sixth time in the past five months, I found a city with a thriving central area: Ann Arbor (Michigan), Chicago, New Orleans, Raleigh (North Carolina), Washington, and New York are the big exceptions, but all of these are large cities, generally supported by sizeable student and yuppie populations. Small town USA, even suburban USA, is, for the most part, an amalgamation of square weatherboard houses, Big Box stores, chain fast food outlets, and strip malls. If you are walking from your car in the parking lot to the front door of your favourite shop, you’re going a long way. Instead, here in Montpelier, we found people walking aimlessly along the streets, cool cafes, bars and restaurants where people would go to try unique food, good local produce, and maybe hear a local band. It contributed to a sense of community I hadn’t really found in many other places. Certainly, the majority of Americans are extremely friendly, welcoming, and hospitable, but you wouldn’t necessarily have people smile and say hello on the street (in some places, you’re lucky to even find people on the street), and you most definitely wouldn’t find people stopping for you at pedestrian crossings. It made me happy.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Another interesting trait I have found, again in all of the USA, but most obviously in New England, is an infatuation with one’s heritage. At a dinner party held for us in Amherst, Massachusetts, I at least six times had a conversation with guests that went something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: So where are you from?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Australia.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Okay, but where is your family from?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Australia.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest. I see. What’s your surname?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: McDonald.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Wow! With a name like Patrick McDonald, you must be Irish or Scottish!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Well, I’ve never been to Ireland or Scotland…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Buy your family must be from there?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Well, my ancestors came from Ireland and Scotland, but that was in the early 19</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Century…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: So you’re Irish! Me too!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Huh? Basically this type of conversation ends with the guest, having received the answer they wanted in the most roundabout way, getting excited about the fact that we are, in some way, related. I guess some way of feeling connected. Another way in which this manifests itself goes a little like this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Do you speak any languages other than English?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Yeah, I speak Italian.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Really? I’m Italian!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Really? Cool! Where were you born?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Brooklyn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Uh huh. Doesn’t that make you American?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Well, I’m an American citizen, but I come from an Italian family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: I see. Where were your parents born?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Brooklyn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Ever been to Italy?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: No.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Do you speak Italian?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: No.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Me: Would you ever move to Italy?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Guest: Hell no!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">And on it goes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for pride in one’s heritage, but claiming you’re something when you’ve never left the Northeast USA strikes me as just a little bit rich.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Today, we left the aforementioned Northeast United States for that huge country of ice, moose and maple trees: Canada. The whole getting across the border thing was supposed to be easy: Flash our passports, tell them where we’re going, smile a bit, enjoy your stay, try the maple syrup. Of course, things never quite go as imagined, and we were met with a touch of suspicion at the border. The immigration officer at the car booth, while friendly enough, immediately referred us inside, where Philippe, a most conscientious immigration official, perused our passports, demanded more paperwork to prove that we are singers, and not in fact some plant by the United States Government attempting to annexe Canada as the 51</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">st</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> state, then emailed the big wig all the way in Michigan to receive said paperwork, leaving us waiting for about two hours, at which point he politely demanded we leave Canada and return when either we printed the correct documents, or he received them via email. We were this close to being angry at Philippe, but he had such a cool French-Canadian accent, and he was trying so hard to be mean, but he just couldn’t manage it. Still, we had to go. We had actually been evicted from Canada, even if it was from a smiling bloke barely old enough to dress himself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Having taken the most auspicious title of Canadian deportees, we trudged back, tails squarely between our legs. Our new worry was that the US wouldn’t let us in either. We would be stuck in the No Man’s Land between Canada and the USA, nowhere to go, nothing to help us get back from one to the other. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Quite unexpectedly, we were welcomed back like the prodigal son. Even so, for those of you who haven’t been deported before, it really is quite a sobering experience. As such, we headed to McDonald’s, that great American institution, to drown our sorrows (two of us are underage in the US), until finally we got the call-up to head back. Philippe made us wait another hour, but, finally, we were allowed in to the Promised Land. I was really beginning to like him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHJk-VWtt-4A-vh03UzSAHjCNVt4fThDw0fY-up30zb0HgXT-3olXA8rNU9j25uiQ4d2j7vZyTULwgdzG4vccYINpJH70aEw3H-SLIpCOKmfrdO5uDWW5cqgi0OJ2mjUl_XSvAv06akgG/s1600/Arret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHJk-VWtt-4A-vh03UzSAHjCNVt4fThDw0fY-up30zb0HgXT-3olXA8rNU9j25uiQ4d2j7vZyTULwgdzG4vccYINpJH70aEw3H-SLIpCOKmfrdO5uDWW5cqgi0OJ2mjUl_XSvAv06akgG/s320/Arret.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US">I should what?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">So after the biggest travel-related ordeal since Boony’s Beers, we are in Quebec, Canada. Any mug who tells you Canada is just like the USA has obviously never been to Quebec. For a start, the majority speak French, all the road signs, advertisements and most media outlets are French, and at times you could well be in France. Québécoise are extremely proud of their French heritage, too. Their provincial motto is </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Je me souviens</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">, which I have loosely translated to mean ‘You’ll never get us to speak English, basterds!’, and their stop signs say </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">arrêt</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. Even the French use </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">stop</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. All this contributes to Quebec being uniquely cool in my opinion, but really, its biggest drawcard is Montreal. Beautiful, buzzing, cosmopolitan Montreal. Save for the prevalence of French, it really wouldn’t be too difficult for me to forget I’m in Montreal and think that I am, in fact, back in Melbourne. High praise for a city indeed.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </b>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-19193897268919752282011-05-18T18:58:00.000-07:002011-05-18T18:58:52.029-07:00‘United’ States of America? A New York Experience.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EG3SgGMeg-nmGwfkghmCtyiFVaR_CajHNKpG3cR6ir-Znk7aTHRhiJCkN66ll4Ut-uIrvw51EtLML3Uk7WZA0lVpRjTIicmKAWoq4iHUleC6lQTdRomBP4_ObzSJaKutFkKs5QCMYvQ8/s1600/la.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EG3SgGMeg-nmGwfkghmCtyiFVaR_CajHNKpG3cR6ir-Znk7aTHRhiJCkN66ll4Ut-uIrvw51EtLML3Uk7WZA0lVpRjTIicmKAWoq4iHUleC6lQTdRomBP4_ObzSJaKutFkKs5QCMYvQ8/s320/la.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXdzlDsQxfM1k5ckrEhagXxo7kUpYpLDOKqrDd-YD1zIGIUhyrNEcaKkXjMehhSyTXu9Sv1EsSTX1OeEgD3XfsqjZ2OWiIiFBwykFhjFAKW7yQnkPAIhI-ftkduKuVQq9pGchszlUfBKb/s1600/ny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXdzlDsQxfM1k5ckrEhagXxo7kUpYpLDOKqrDd-YD1zIGIUhyrNEcaKkXjMehhSyTXu9Sv1EsSTX1OeEgD3XfsqjZ2OWiIiFBwykFhjFAKW7yQnkPAIhI-ftkduKuVQq9pGchszlUfBKb/s320/ny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Southern Louisiana to New York City - are we in the same country?</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <!--StartFragment--> </b></div><b><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As I was walking the streets of Manhattan last weekend, I had a revelation (I know it’s slightly self-indulgent and clichéd to start with that, but I just couldn’t help myself). I had been told from the moment I was accepted into S.O.U.L. that the USA is an extremely diverse country, with different landscapes, people, motivations, attitudes and accents just a few miles (or to use that evil metric system, kilometres) from each other, yet for a long time I just didn’t recognise it. Certainly, I noticed the scenery and conditions change from the depressing, flat, steamy cropland and wetlands of the Deep South, to the tawdry faux-tropicana of Florida’s Gulf Coast, then the awe-inspiring hills and mountains of the Carolinas and the Northeast, to the urban jungle that is New York. It was also fairly obvious to hear the accents change from the lazy, ‘y’all’-riddled drawl of Mississippi and Louisiana, to the obnoxious New York-New Jersey-Pennsylvania dialect. But really that’s all fairly facile, taken on appearance stuff that a six-year-old could notice. The cultural change is much more subtle, and far more interesting.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The reason it took until a mild spring evening in Midtown Manhattan, the trees in full bloom, the streets packed with people, (self-indulgent again, but trust me, once you’ve been to New York, it’s hard not to be) is quite simple. New York City, Manhattan in particular, is capitalism personified. In its opulent Art Deco highrises, glitzy shopping strips, myriad limousines, flashing billboards and neon lights, you see the products of capitalist successes, and just what money </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">can </span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">buy. A prime example of this is Donald Trump’s tower. Everything in it carries his name and/or trademark quiff somewhere – from the Trumpstraunt, to Donald’s Suites (just as an aside, every Democrat in the US is currently despairing over the Trumpiantor’s decision not to run for President. Because let’s face it, if he had won the nomination, Obama was a sure thing. Nobody was going to vote for a bloke whose defining feature is his ability to shout ‘You’re fired!’ at some poor hapless five-minutes-of-famer without being laughed at for his ranga combover and equally red face). Yet at the same time, you are assaulted by capitalism’s pitfalls – the thousands of homeless, the rent and property prices so high everyone is forced out except wealthy executives and spoilt yuppies. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">It’s not that Southerners aren’t fans of capitalism, quite the opposite in fact. If you even suggested something like universal healthcare in some areas of the South, you’ll probably return without your head. No, many people from the South just seem to be opposed to people doing </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">well </span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">out of capitalism. What they don’t realise is that under the tenets of capitalism, or at least the laissez-faire style of it that is favoured by so many Americans, that’s what happens. You are supposed to make as much money as you damn well can. Charlie Sheen would call it ‘winning’. New York is a prime example of how capitalism is supposed to work – reward those who do well and screw everyone else. That, in my experience, wasn’t the case in much of the South. Their attitude was that they should have all the benefits of free market competition, like cheap stuff at Wal-Mart (made in China, mind you), but they shouldn’t have to be padding the cheques of those grubby New York execs, because they just don’t know how hard honest Americans have to work, gosh darn it. That in fact brings me to my next observation: New York is a hotbed of political and social liberalism. Most New Yorkers would probably favour wealth equalisation, in the form of sliding-scale taxation, free healthcare, and taxes on pollution, which are condemned by so many conservatives as socialism (I’d like to point out right now that I am not trying to make outlandish assumptions about the politics of the South. The bottom line is that most areas of the South are staunchly Republican, the party which, since Obama has been elected, has had electoral success in branding him and his backers ‘socialist’ for trying to implement policies such as Obamacare. On the other hand, in last year’s drubbing of the Democrats both federally and locally, New York still returned Democratic senators, House representatives, and a governor, with resounding margins). Capital punishment is not practised there, legalised abortion and same-sex unions are, and there is a genuine feeling of connection with your fellow man that I feel is missing in so many parts of this country – something which I have absolutely no doubt is directly related to the fact that New Yorkers use their cars so much less than anyone else in the USA. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">There are also no taboos in New York – we went to a comedy show one Saturday night where for the most part we were subjected to racial profiling, lewd sex stories, and anecdotes of alcoholism and cocaine addictions that, if mentioned in many other places, would leave you with an orange jumpsuit and a one-way ticket to the state penitentiary. And although much of the show left me squirming and my sheltered Australian conscience seriously confronted, it would seem that this unfettered style of interaction works far better than the staid, cautious way of approaching issues of race favoured by many other states. When we were in Alabama and Mississippi, and to a lesser extent, Louisiana, there were definite ‘black’, ‘white’, and ‘Hispanic’ neighbourhoods and schools. In Michigan, it was ‘white’ schools and ‘Arab’ schools. I was even told by one family that they were concerned at the level of black students in their school, as they didn’t want the academic performance at their school to drop, as, according to them, the non-white schools in their district were the equivalent to third world. No questioning why, no show of dismay, just a statement of fact. Whilst there are still some signs of segregation in New York, it is far less than the signs that integration is alive and working. The schools we went to were ethnically diverse, people were friends because they liked each other, and we actually saw families of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds – something which was notably missing in many areas we visited, where family groups were far more likely to be quite homogenous. The Big Apple is indeed a world apart from parts of its own country in so many ways. Of course, to be fair, the Big Apple is a world apart from, well, just about anywhere.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I thought I might finish with a cute little anecdote related to everyone’s favourite whipping boy – mass media. New York is the undisputed home of the Western media – the headquarters of most national networks are there, and some international – News Corporation immediately springs to mind. Aussie Rupert has called NYC home since the 70s. They can keep him. However, it would seem that the New York doesn’t have quite the power over national media the world thinks it does. Way back in early February, when Australia and South America were being ravaged by floods, fires and mudslides, the northern half of the US, Canada, and Europe were grappling with the heaviest snow storms since the release of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Ice Age</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">, and Congress were coming to terms with the new reality of a Democratic administration and Senate, and a Republican House, we were in Alabama. And what was the headline news in Alabama? A dead tree. No joke. Apparently it was significant tree to one of the universities there, and there was talk that an alumnus of its major competitor had deliberately killed it. In the words of Ron Weasley (note in the following quote, ‘she’ refers to the Alabama media): ‘She has got to get her priorities right.’</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </b>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-90646050790318609782011-05-03T20:07:00.000-07:002011-05-03T20:19:09.258-07:00Weather and Weddings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgMdyedDZipWt2lEVKh4UDUVBpEtbGhPUPiZin2Jhw4A0x82rhzJKsGCg8biTMprkKGZM929odG0sgIn9BQYqAkS3Ey29OgmdFTCMzkR2T4mC93vQYSQjZ61m6LoaLdOsmIlj9Qs0lXvt/s1600/tornado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgMdyedDZipWt2lEVKh4UDUVBpEtbGhPUPiZin2Jhw4A0x82rhzJKsGCg8biTMprkKGZM929odG0sgIn9BQYqAkS3Ey29OgmdFTCMzkR2T4mC93vQYSQjZ61m6LoaLdOsmIlj9Qs0lXvt/s200/tornado.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYeu84v9GKAZCTGz5E_UJJJC80pmbRZ7coXXDxbVgVbnTVvY4o6d7PC7B-rvHniCc6ddB4vxNY2GjsyADKfFxDiSiedlhnbRl6k6FGCDmGi_K72jmha-ab9VuiFKW1w3oF2TqQzg4J7g2/s1600/soul+train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYeu84v9GKAZCTGz5E_UJJJC80pmbRZ7coXXDxbVgVbnTVvY4o6d7PC7B-rvHniCc6ddB4vxNY2GjsyADKfFxDiSiedlhnbRl6k6FGCDmGi_K72jmha-ab9VuiFKW1w3oF2TqQzg4J7g2/s200/soul+train.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Storm damage (left) and what we think caused it (right)</b> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> During our six-month tour, our main method of travel is a white Ford Transit – think the Popemobile without the glassed-in standing box. Affectionately known as the ‘S.O.U.L. Train’ (a name which never fails to spur giggling fits from anyone born between 1955 and 1991), it would in fact be more comfortable if we were able to travel in it a la His Holiness, standing up and waving to the over-70s in their RVs with Quebec license plates as we pass them, instead of the conventional sitting down position undertaken by most travellers. As it stands (pardon the pun), getting in and out of the van, and in fact even moving about once in, involves a Cirque du Soleil-esque contortionist sequence, dodging pillows, laptops, and gigantic Red Bull cans. Making the experience all the more difficult is the absolute silence and poignance required to ensure anyone who can push through the pain and stiffness enough to actually sleep is not disturbed, and the single-minded concentration that is needed to ensure the gas you’ve been holding in for the past two and a half hours doesn’t escape prematurely. You may scoff at this, but with all the processed, fattening American food we are eating, flatulence is a real issue, and the last thing we need is to turn our five cubic metre space into a Dutch Oven. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> It may seem from my opening remarks that we really despise the S.O.U.L. Train, but this actually couldn’t be further from the truth. We love the thing. When you’re staying in a different place on average every three nights, with your suitcase, laptop, and fellow singers the only other constants in your life, it becomes something of a refuge, a place where you can actually feel some sort of familiarity. Plus, there’s no better team building exercise than sitting squashed in a van for five hours or more, a Canadian sprawled all over you, with a Colombian fro managing to touch every sensitive part of your face with just five strands of hair. It is also the focal point of some of the most exciting experiences we’ve had for the past couple of months: the weather. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I am certain that our innocuous-looking Ford Transit is in fact a magnet for torrential rain, thunderstorms, and tornadoes. It all started on the last weekend in February, when we decided to drive from New Orleans to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, to visit friends we had made a few weeks earlier. It was somewhat overcast as we began to head out of the city, but as soon as we drew away from the city, the heavens opened like you could never imagine. While we were on a bridge. With roadworks. Over what seemed like an ocean-sized lake. Kayla, the pocket-sized Canadian, was at the helm, and despite her protestations that she kept calm, her hands had to be wrenched off the wheel at the end of the trip, and for most of the two hour journey, she didn’t blink or speak, save for muttering expletives under her breath (or at full volume every time a truck passed). However, we made it safely to Hattiesburg, and were happy that we had weathered what would, of course, be the worst storm we would experience for the remainder of the trip. How wrong we were. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> Although we weren’t to have another onset of bad weather for about a month after our New Orleans/Hattiesburg experience, when it returned, it came back with a vengeance. And it still hasn’t left. It all started during our week in Clermont, Florida, just near Disney World. One morning, we emerged from our houses to dark skies. No real worry. Then, at about lunchtime, the tornado ‘watch’ was announced – meaning there would be wind and rain, and that a tornado <i>could </i></span><span lang="EN-US">develop, but it wasn’t likely. The watch, however, was quickly upgraded to a ‘warning’, the legal definition of which is ‘Storm’s a’comin’, Uncle Henry’. Hatches were battened down, windows were moved away from, and an initially sedate performance for a group of third graders became a sea of kids screaming, crying, and burrowing under desks as though the Second Cold War had just begun. The storm ultimately passed without event, however it was the first tornado warning the area had had in more than a decade. Our hosts joked that we had brought the weather with us. We laughed politely, secretly telling them to learn some better jokes. The next day the storms were back, this time whist we were enjoying the Epcot Centre at Disney World. We noticed the sky darkening and the wind picking up, but this to us just meant no queues of fair-weather Floridians, and thus more rides and attractions. What we didn’t realise was that whilst we were marveling at the Sound, Sight, and Smell Science Railway, a twister passed through the park, rendering it more or less empty. We had a blast in the eerily quiet park, and for a few days, tornadoes were our friend. Amazing how quickly a friend can become an enemy though, as after two more tornado warnings in less than a week, one of which part of a system containing tennis-ball sized hail which resulted in our dear van’s windscreen shattering, not to mention a dint-riddled bonnet (the ‘hood’ to any Americans reading this). Now it was at the point where we were fairly paranoid that we (or at least the van) were the cause of the poor weather, although given none of us had ever seen anything bigger than the willy-willys that float around country Victoria now and again, there was some slight excitement that we might see a real life tornado.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> The height of our stormy chapter came at the end of April, in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. Set in rolling, forested hills in the ‘Upland South’, these leafy, picturesque, and surprisingly cosmopolitan cities are some of the USA’s best-kept secrets. They had also, up until our arrival, not had serious tornadoes since the late 1970s. Enter S.O.U.L. 2011 and their trusty weather magnet. Within 24 hours of our arrival, 29 tornadoes of varying strength and destruction had ripped through the region, causing the deaths of an estimated 24 people, including the tragic deaths of three young brothers trapped in a caravan. Closer to home, the damage was mercifully only material, with one of our host homes having two trees crash through its roof whist its occupants were out. Driving through the area later that evening, it was eerie to see so many traffic lights out, trees felled, and power lines strewn across the road – vibrant Raleigh had become a war zone in the space of hours. It really is indescribable. Still, it didn’t stop the locals from hitting the spots that hadn’t been damaged, and given that Sergio was without power, we thought we might join them for a few hours. Arriving at a sushi restaurant/bar as a starting point, Sergio’s unmissable hair immediately became an asset – as he was walking out of the loo, he was approached by a gentleman who had quite obviously been indulging for quite a while. As the conversation became more animated, we thought we had best saunter over to inspect the hubbub. Saunter we did, and what we found was that our inebriated friend had taken a shine to the fro, and wished for us to join his entourage – he would pay all our expenses at every place we went to. Calculating the risks versus reward, we came to the conclusion that our trusty van was about twenty steps away, and we had an Iraq veteran as a manager – why not test it out. We could always cut and run. It turned out to be the best decision of the night – it turned out the bloke had be ‘recruiting’ all night, and had eight previous strangers with him – all of us laughing and sharing stories within ten minutes. He did indeed pick up the tab – although for two underagers, the most entertainment we could derive from that was to watch the others slamming down beer, followed by mixers and jager bombs whist politely sipping Coke. Still, it was a wonderful night, and having been treated by celebrities by people who weren’t still at elementary school, we went home feeling smugly happy. At least our stormy experiences ultimately reaped some entertaining and unexpected results.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">I thought I would finish off by mentioning the Royal Wedding – the other topic of choice of the media before the bin Laden firestorm (and I’m not touching that one with a 10 metre cattle-prodder). The coverage of the two actually got to such a saturation point that on CNN last weekend, the Saturday anchor switched from one to the other with this segue:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 72.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"> <i>‘Speaking of tornadoes, a whirlwind of romance erupted in London earlier this morning…</i></span><span lang="EN-US">’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">You get the picture – insensitive and unimaginative. Mass media at its most typical. Irrespective of the terrible linkage of the two events, the American obsession over the nuptials of Wills and Kate still amazes me. For a country so fiercely proud of their independence, these guys sure love a royal party, even if it is just to gawk at the get-ups of the bride, groom, and guests. One woman with whom I dicussed the wedding was extremely eloquent in her descriptions of the many images we were bombarded with here: Kate’s dress (and the bride herself): ‘How pretty! In an <i>English </i></span><span lang="EN-US">sort of way’. On the hats worn by most women in attendance (save for that naughty Samantha Cameron): ‘Oh! How <i>British</i></span><span lang="EN-US">!’ On the ceremony itself: ‘So <i>Anglican</i></span><span lang="EN-US">!’ And on it went – I got the feeling she was the kind of woman who gives a white room a beige feature wall so she can have some contrast. Whilst I was not personally swept up in wedding fever, it did give me some great fodder for our presentations: I was able to rib audiences about their excitement over a wedding of two people who are, in reality, insignificant to Americans. To counter this, I usually suggest, why doesn’t the USA reconsider becoming a Commonwealth Realm? Big mistake. I am generally met with scowls, frantic head-shaking, and the occasional boo. As a result of these adverse reactions, I have come up with a far better solution. Why doesn’t William run for US President? I have no doubt a British Royal running for US President would go down extremely well – just ask Donald Trump. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-86625715530441373932011-04-13T21:06:00.000-07:002011-04-13T21:07:08.602-07:00Weird Old Dears and World of Disney<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymZ7XD2ygL4NihhiBbzjNIPuq2VBlbjwitHPHIOHCYJwF6xV82jPknNHyvzQLpiq5P4G9cPHVKI05tr_OzrcNCj3bHQwBI6-Oyb3BytyQlKw_FF_qhQtv9Lr2JGFjDm9pg4Xs7X73gt6w/s1600/cinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymZ7XD2ygL4NihhiBbzjNIPuq2VBlbjwitHPHIOHCYJwF6xV82jPknNHyvzQLpiq5P4G9cPHVKI05tr_OzrcNCj3bHQwBI6-Oyb3BytyQlKw_FF_qhQtv9Lr2JGFjDm9pg4Xs7X73gt6w/s200/cinder.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KTRmLopBFphMejTEHk45czMpGTwvnf3tcxlT9bOoL-kNKy9aoCWdjZ33SEIWY8KMEbFZNoJ1YI6kyW3SfP0Zz7JTlSHcUBBiTuLva8A_ngpD9TJ5vqnafb2aln7SVUGOOSJikjrCjflr/s1600/Gates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KTRmLopBFphMejTEHk45czMpGTwvnf3tcxlT9bOoL-kNKy9aoCWdjZ33SEIWY8KMEbFZNoJ1YI6kyW3SfP0Zz7JTlSHcUBBiTuLva8A_ngpD9TJ5vqnafb2aln7SVUGOOSJikjrCjflr/s200/Gates.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><b>Two common habitats in Florida - the Gated Community, and the Cinderella Castle. She lives there. Honestly.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-85641911767055491942011-03-26T19:55:00.000-07:002011-03-26T19:56:56.008-07:00Footy Clothes, French Creole, and Florida’s Charms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKivEy7cKNyhEj_eJGn11l_r32j69ldNNxawRuRn0h-ELLzFWDNTEElF1v2E6j2ljke3W1EgBeLPPIVKpso0rFOoIsmJG1Ji8Gbe803Zi6kXhAGV2BH5A1HM7bnFMC8Q2oITw98zwSmgY1/s1600/DSCN0804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKivEy7cKNyhEj_eJGn11l_r32j69ldNNxawRuRn0h-ELLzFWDNTEElF1v2E6j2ljke3W1EgBeLPPIVKpso0rFOoIsmJG1Ji8Gbe803Zi6kXhAGV2BH5A1HM7bnFMC8Q2oITw98zwSmgY1/s200/DSCN0804.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtjzWwUCRhvGAUD4fH27dNWY2Gunk564ok3LCRpm_EfWxy88uPyu4SkWC_gF41481xj9Wo1yCCW3zgwy1aRQBLcFsdXo2Dv9zI9ZhbnbxCWQokyAaFjLWTBL74-0gum_N_y1TEQDyRNf1/s1600/Shorts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRtjzWwUCRhvGAUD4fH27dNWY2Gunk564ok3LCRpm_EfWxy88uPyu4SkWC_gF41481xj9Wo1yCCW3zgwy1aRQBLcFsdXo2Dv9zI9ZhbnbxCWQokyAaFjLWTBL74-0gum_N_y1TEQDyRNf1/s200/Shorts.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Southern Louisiana in two images - Alligators and footy shorts</b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US">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 <i>Modern Family</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> 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.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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 <i>this</i></span><span lang="EN-US">’, 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> Given the recent occurrence of St Patrick’s Day, I thought I’d finish with this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">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!’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘What’s the matter?’ Paddy enquired</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘It’s too cold! I can’t take it!’ Murphy replied.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">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!’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘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!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GxRrmNFUDnfXPejzP7CiHVczo4DB_w89w-8YhM4_fLZsoFpJ4meQ9IOqJHFnLQFQVQl2ggelbPeWyDnrseADJBrX9a3jsK8SRLmPf577IZxJBpxPsCDIOhaS_7YuVBL4b5TgeeNj20Uc/s1600/St+Patrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GxRrmNFUDnfXPejzP7CiHVczo4DB_w89w-8YhM4_fLZsoFpJ4meQ9IOqJHFnLQFQVQl2ggelbPeWyDnrseADJBrX9a3jsK8SRLmPf577IZxJBpxPsCDIOhaS_7YuVBL4b5TgeeNj20Uc/s320/St+Patrick.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Happy St Patrick's Day!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-52077865518630980562011-03-08T22:49:00.000-08:002011-03-08T22:49:48.503-08:00Mardi Grads, Meteorological Grandeur, and Ms Gillard<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQMW9Gue1UwYH2vyhiYp3FVaTnsvmtmU6LdeQBEh48JA2Xrb3d-d4gZo4B57qIis-ND1AG8lA-2GaThLQZe1Y3yB84gBZVCMAVECabwU_-QM5Q4BUbPPwswCul1l6i0zJcrWq2yVmZd7H/s1600/Gras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQMW9Gue1UwYH2vyhiYp3FVaTnsvmtmU6LdeQBEh48JA2Xrb3d-d4gZo4B57qIis-ND1AG8lA-2GaThLQZe1Y3yB84gBZVCMAVECabwU_-QM5Q4BUbPPwswCul1l6i0zJcrWq2yVmZd7H/s320/Gras.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Did somebody say Mardi Gras?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <i>all </i></span><span lang="EN-US">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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:</span></div><ul style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Crawfish étouffeé: A creamy, coconut and rice thing with crawfish (kind of like yabbies)</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Beignets: Fried dough (similar to donuts) served with more sugar than dough. But who’s complaining about that?</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">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…</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Jambalaya: A New Orleans risotto served with whatever you can find: usually crawfish, shrimp, sausage (noticing a theme yet?), and chicken.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Gumbo: Like jambalaya, but more soupy.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">King cake: a giant cinnamon roll with multi-coloured icing, served during Mardi Gras celebrations.</span></li>
</ul>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.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mardi Gras is, in reality, the day before Ash Wednesday (<i>mardi gras</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> 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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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!’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Henny Penny, I think the sky is falling in.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-27722157501925923492011-02-20T21:44:00.000-08:002011-02-20T21:46:01.789-08:00Sweet Home Alabama (and Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKKFCsLE-CFNtZ-6UOXBv7-ueub05FsPqU4l9XOoe-z3lEczHqaZO8-DDvRLQTPkAzkhK_zNDLKaPt0UyGv131toBlrH7SrdDTtqS79fmnbXboUv7FCq4XhACr2ZWEoQWB-t-nv7DyS36j/s1600/Chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKKFCsLE-CFNtZ-6UOXBv7-ueub05FsPqU4l9XOoe-z3lEczHqaZO8-DDvRLQTPkAzkhK_zNDLKaPt0UyGv131toBlrH7SrdDTtqS79fmnbXboUv7FCq4XhACr2ZWEoQWB-t-nv7DyS36j/s320/Chicago.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7G85slvvfPX5xdmaqSXF_EcNX0VcKablirAvyUajoP7zrHMjr6fKeQXXf5r1UZfbYO1NQ-64cb24ZUEoH1VRB7IvDi0_6EuVXfV95sbzIH9xKydpaVXcwBictdx6tLzwduTLxVVqHUPi/s1600/Mississippi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7G85slvvfPX5xdmaqSXF_EcNX0VcKablirAvyUajoP7zrHMjr6fKeQXXf5r1UZfbYO1NQ-64cb24ZUEoH1VRB7IvDi0_6EuVXfV95sbzIH9xKydpaVXcwBictdx6tLzwduTLxVVqHUPi/s320/Mississippi.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<b>From freezing our backsides off...to taking over the world </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">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…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Illinois</b></span><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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<sup>th</sup> Century history. The correct response is <i>Groundhog Day</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Indiana </b></span><span lang="EN-US">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 <i>real</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> coffee. I subsequently sang<i> L.O.V.E. </i></span><span lang="EN-US">by Nat King Cole at every street corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">WOMAN: ‘I found the things you said about politics in Australia so interesting.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">PADDY: ‘Thanks! It’s really quite a unique situation at the moment.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">WOMAN: “Yes, I’m very political myself. I’m a real Tea Party Conservative, so I get very riled up about that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">PADDY: ‘Oh! Well…(extended pause) politics sure can do that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Kentucky </b></span><span lang="EN-US">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:<o:p></o:p></span></div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">The weather was finally starting to warm up.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">Colonel Sanders and the Kentucky Derby (America’s Melbourne Cup) are their only claims to fame. Seriously.</span></li>
</ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Tennessee </b></span><span lang="EN-US">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Alabama</b></span><span lang="EN-US"> The song (I’m not even going to name it, lest I have you singing it until you hear <i>It’s A Small Word After All</i></span><span lang="EN-US">) 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 ‘<i>Waltzing Matilda</i></span><span lang="EN-US">’. That, or ‘<i>It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll</i></span><span lang="EN-US">’, 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnsxye7LAfrFBN-xx0xN-xWvn93DML7vXIhtdp5rjiEO93Hj-Z93mCXn1F3p-nhaLSDvJCJFqRCRlyyNSZ4YZmStFodqF8-Q6t17bMn4zLuOXvOGp48arwV3CaBMhxDVUMYeLhQ0ADsFik/s1600/Blues.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnsxye7LAfrFBN-xx0xN-xWvn93DML7vXIhtdp5rjiEO93Hj-Z93mCXn1F3p-nhaLSDvJCJFqRCRlyyNSZ4YZmStFodqF8-Q6t17bMn4zLuOXvOGp48arwV3CaBMhxDVUMYeLhQ0ADsFik/s320/Blues.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Singin' the Blues in Hattiesburg, MS</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Mississippi</b></span><span lang="EN-US"> 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 <i>Mississippi Burning</i></span><span lang="EN-US">…until our friendly neighbourhood Trooper decided we weren’t worth his while and headed off to fry bigger fish. Phew.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlR3KUF_jWKSzQv5r0Oec-rykhy69nmBjV9LZtHVRG18ahJnjgBdV1T08uIAnVVB5TW61pbxUDjDeqIuez2ooAG0WaSuIWapT34dvuOK4kPdQti6OyQhrfAqSH3eiNBf5OSyUQJhCOUVhO/s1600/Hatties.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlR3KUF_jWKSzQv5r0Oec-rykhy69nmBjV9LZtHVRG18ahJnjgBdV1T08uIAnVVB5TW61pbxUDjDeqIuez2ooAG0WaSuIWapT34dvuOK4kPdQti6OyQhrfAqSH3eiNBf5OSyUQJhCOUVhO/s320/Hatties.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <b>Caught in the Act - thanks to Betty Press for this photo</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> <span lang="EN-US"><b>Louisiana</b></span><span lang="EN-US"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-87781601006793162642011-02-09T20:36:00.000-08:002011-02-09T20:36:21.464-08:00A Tale of Two Chicagos…and lots of snow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9x8ZDyRyP5mERvSHGY3TkxaFZfcFZquzKnLBfQ6S2JZHmiWYNv3CZFNZn2oZZCO0DRX8an0eq95NZF2nbCuXJWcPNzm78t6kKlSq6scxCySgcEbbK1ybHptvzqe6c8p6LG2o_RURj81l/s1600/DSCN0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9x8ZDyRyP5mERvSHGY3TkxaFZfcFZquzKnLBfQ6S2JZHmiWYNv3CZFNZn2oZZCO0DRX8an0eq95NZF2nbCuXJWcPNzm78t6kKlSq6scxCySgcEbbK1ybHptvzqe6c8p6LG2o_RURj81l/s320/DSCN0349.JPG" width="320" /></b></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Snow Angel. Heck Yes.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <!--StartFragment--> </b></div><b><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> “No my dear, I’m sorry,” was the response. No matter, I thought. I could just use their plug in line.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> “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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The Age</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Online. I practically had to be dragged out when my host mother had had her fill of doting. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzxd_s39IuUKjxhNODrur8VVMQVcv7ekAirFt-aSVbTs_8HPkC93pjvICPftUiKYW3Rz2odKZhD7adw7u9Dd4zKIrDdW0s07QntSKTptpTy9vVqHxPb29Z5n2fbO4Gj_oMH9Y1FZOm_9e/s1600/DSCN0365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzxd_s39IuUKjxhNODrur8VVMQVcv7ekAirFt-aSVbTs_8HPkC93pjvICPftUiKYW3Rz2odKZhD7adw7u9Dd4zKIrDdW0s07QntSKTptpTy9vVqHxPb29Z5n2fbO4Gj_oMH9Y1FZOm_9e/s320/DSCN0365.JPG" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzUq7ORVHCPKBGOmIEGNk4DnBLdN0vnCo8KW8KgCOOvcbq-x-B95sAnvBrkcYldJ5Pt-HQoT7X-MIHpk1m-0GckgQKwd7wB3xQUEjKswDNSrOeAibc04cFKrPiW1kajfZTZAHUaisODpi/s1600/DSCN0391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzUq7ORVHCPKBGOmIEGNk4DnBLdN0vnCo8KW8KgCOOvcbq-x-B95sAnvBrkcYldJ5Pt-HQoT7X-MIHpk1m-0GckgQKwd7wB3xQUEjKswDNSrOeAibc04cFKrPiW1kajfZTZAHUaisODpi/s320/DSCN0391.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">A snow pile nearly my height - Downtown Chicago</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Chicago</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> by Frank Sinatra. On arriving at our hosts’ homes, the feeling only escalated. We were stationed right </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">in</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Given the not-so-light nature of the end of this blog, I feel it’s only appropriate to end with a joke.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> The next morning over breakfast, the husband says to his wife “What time did you make it home last night?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Midnight,” the wife lies. “Did you hear me come in?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“No. Slept right through.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Pleased she has dodged a bullet, the wife smiles and continues with her breakfast, until the silence is broken again by the husband,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> “I think we need a new clock.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Oh! Why is that dear?” the wife replies.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“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.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> Reminds me of my mother…</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </b>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-45840750701805376122011-01-24T17:18:00.000-08:002011-01-24T17:18:19.600-08:00Acclimatisation (or is that with a 'z'?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzfQGFpaClq7kLYpT6UZN4Dh5T1lzCRzdsZoeJKsdT4252wcbKiiHTMQVeN0-1ijG9UKsaX0sHQCXl4FmxcYz3q43e6-fVstiPz_3IY6N0cGdULV6W-IZq_rkkVFzK3L3RH5kSiw9Epix/s1600/DSCN0272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzfQGFpaClq7kLYpT6UZN4Dh5T1lzCRzdsZoeJKsdT4252wcbKiiHTMQVeN0-1ijG9UKsaX0sHQCXl4FmxcYz3q43e6-fVstiPz_3IY6N0cGdULV6W-IZq_rkkVFzK3L3RH5kSiw9Epix/s320/DSCN0272.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>This is me, 22 January. No kidding, it's</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>that cold.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <!--StartFragment--> </b></div><b><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Take Your Mama Out</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Advance Australia Fair</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.’</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">‘What, twit?’ I asked, now a little incredulous.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">‘Yes. It isn’t really appropriate language for school.'</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">seem</span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">maximum </span></i></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </b>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-77542677912310951012011-01-16T18:55:00.000-08:002011-01-16T18:55:53.891-08:00Sledding, Small Towns, and Celebrities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVyvM8pXfR3wWA0JZs7l5xD9pzdSuJlHx4hORt9zmQUidj5HRvbNUnES124VRwnPfEyllaitvoF5G0jesvfDugBSfbmP18mYep1zzaPtP8GcWnqiJ8XYeft-SsLhQYfgR1Z_80PetZ6VS/s1600/DSCN0213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVyvM8pXfR3wWA0JZs7l5xD9pzdSuJlHx4hORt9zmQUidj5HRvbNUnES124VRwnPfEyllaitvoF5G0jesvfDugBSfbmP18mYep1zzaPtP8GcWnqiJ8XYeft-SsLhQYfgR1Z_80PetZ6VS/s320/DSCN0213.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Singing at our concert in Clinton, in our magnificent</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>"traditional costume". Slim Dusty, eat your heart out.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <!--StartFragment--> </b></div><b><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> 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.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>For a video of highlights of one of our concerts, visit </i><a href="http://www.lenconnect.com/features/x1254710140/Clinton-students-get-lesson-in-music-from-four-continents">http://www.lenconnect.com/features/x1254710140/Clinton-students-get-lesson-in-music-from-four-continents</a>. <i>Plus I'm hoping to upload a video of us singing </i>You're the Voice<i> with the High School students, but I have to wait for a faster internet connection.</i> <i>Far out I'm getting good at flogging myself.</i></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </b>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-26144112358498533242011-01-03T17:47:00.000-08:002011-01-03T17:47:21.046-08:00"I'll just wait outside..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgji9cMldIF46rSP1Kb14Q8F4bqhLlXMg90VECOSFaIFumfAedwBI2fj3BJEa3lnGVV8Fab7jBYl9NX7jQ5RqP09QYuvx8F-SRI4WVCv4BOndsDzPJKN8cDpQ1gAluQr6Tk6u_Ol5ZvAF1O/s1600/DSCN0139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgji9cMldIF46rSP1Kb14Q8F4bqhLlXMg90VECOSFaIFumfAedwBI2fj3BJEa3lnGVV8Fab7jBYl9NX7jQ5RqP09QYuvx8F-SRI4WVCv4BOndsDzPJKN8cDpQ1gAluQr6Tk6u_Ol5ZvAF1O/s320/DSCN0139.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Yeah it's cold - The view out my bedroom window.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">An interesting quirk I noticed in my first few days here was that, at least for a while, the temperatures at home seemed to be matching the temperatures here. As an example, last Monday, it reached 24 degrees in Melbourne, and 24 degrees here in Michigan. Except here, it was 24 degrees <i>Fahrenheit</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> (that’s around -4 in that system Americans don’t use just in case it makes the sky fall in. Celsius, I think it’s called). And that was the daily maximum. At around lunchtime that day I emerged to see an electronic temperature gauge telling me it was 12˚F (-11˚C), but the sun was out, so the locals were more than happy to wander around in jeans and a light jumper. Maybe there’s something in the water. None of this has been particularly problematic to me so far, as over the past nine days I have become an exclusively indoor-dweller, my interactions with the elements being limited to dashing from the car to inside, or vice versa, usually rugged up in about six layers. Unfortunately for me, there’s always an exception to the rule, and my visit to the Dearborn Social Security Office was just that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> An American Social Security number is basically a Tax File Number-cum-Welfare number (despite the fact welfare is practically non-existent)-cum-government identification tool, and unfortunately a requirement for all citizens, residents, and workers in the US. So, last Tuesday we traipsed to possibly the most awful building I’ve ever seen in my life to be scrutinised by yet another suspicious US government official, only to have our approval put on hold until our passport information is cleared by the omnipresent Department of Homeland Security. As with all bureaucracy, none of this would have been complete without an extended visit to the waiting room, a delightfully designed area obviously inspired by the waiting room-esque traditions of H.M. Prison Barwon and Broadmeadows Police Station. The company was even better: a husband and wife who took up four seats between them, dressed in grubby tracksuits and trucker’s hats, complaining about those “damn Arabs” who were invading their town, and their son, dressed for a trip to Da Hood on the way home. Given the crowded nature of the waiting room, my ride decided to use his time efficiently, run some errands, and be back by the time my interview was complete. Great idea, had the efficiency (or lack thereof) of the Social Security office lived up to expectations. However, I was lucky enough to be queue-jumped, and L</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">less than five minutes after my ride left, I was called to one of the endless windows for my interview. The officer was actually interested in my nationality (“You’re Australian!” she exclaimed, before coyly adding “<i>mate</i></span><span lang="EN-US">”. “Sure am!” I replied, adding “<i>darl</i></span><span lang="EN-US">” under my breath), and got through the interview before I could say “You guys could really do with a Centrelink around here”. Back in the waiting room, and my lift was yet to arrive. Much as I wanted to return to my pleasant company, my Australian brain decided “I’ll just wait outside”. For the most part of my nineteen years, this has been most desirable course of action for three reasons:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Outside is not inside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">Outside usually has fresh air and a reasonable smell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 54.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US">I can be easily seen and collected from outside, thus streamlining the process.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In Dearborn, Michigan, however, this was a big mistake.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> At the door, I was greeted by an icy blast of air. That initially didn’t bother me, as I was rugged up enough to be comfortable for a few minutes. Slowly, however, the -10˚C wind slowly started to permeate through my clothes. After five minutes, I started to shiver. At ten, I could see my breath freeze in the air. Within the next couple of minutes, the air temperature proved to be stronger than my body temperature, and the metal in my glasses began to cool. People in cars were staring, customers running from shop to shop found time to stop, point, laugh, and keep going. When I finally saw my ride pull up, I was considering dipping my hands (which were wearing thick gloves) in liquid nitrogen to warm them up. I got in to looks of disbelief.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“How long have you been waiting out there?” I was asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“About ten minutes.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Are you mad?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“It would’ve been a good idea at home.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yeah. Well you’re not in Australia anymore.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As if I needed reminding.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US">My next chore was to set up my American bank account. The car dropped me off at the door. I got out and was on my way in, but before I could get inside, the driver’s side window wound down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Paddy?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yes?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“If you’re finished before I get back, for God’s sake wait inside!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2822179907810402228.post-88159292715489499182010-12-28T11:48:00.000-08:002010-12-28T11:48:23.529-08:00Hospitality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOPMz9OIBLYv-W-ywu4Z8LlS7eyPaHGNWt3uWoXySId4mqYATyqzQmFMd6MKH1cwXCHYevqa7ek4OxsctiNzfdsynkGMRBh7Pv-ABVkoL_Q0KL0JgunT4eDstpltJmUIPnTZpy5cELdxC/s1600/DSCN0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOPMz9OIBLYv-W-ywu4Z8LlS7eyPaHGNWt3uWoXySId4mqYATyqzQmFMd6MKH1cwXCHYevqa7ek4OxsctiNzfdsynkGMRBh7Pv-ABVkoL_Q0KL0JgunT4eDstpltJmUIPnTZpy5cELdxC/s320/DSCN0061.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="Section1" style="layout-grid: 18.0pt;"> <div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> It’s fair to say that my trip didn’t start as smoothly as I’d anticipated. After a rather exciting upgrade to Premium Economy, followed by a really heartfelt goodbye to my family, I stood in line for security and passport control for almost an hour, only to have the immigration officer turn me around because I’d lost my boarding pass (my fault). So I had to turn around and do it all again. Back to check in, back through security, then on to passport control where I was finally allowed through. Yet for some reason it didn’t really seem to matter. Why? Call it pre-trip excitement, but for some reason everyone seemed so <i>nice</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. Both the attendants at both my trips to check-in: only too happy to help. Even when I had to front up for a second time, head hanging in shame, the attendant just smiled, checked my passport, and wished me an enjoyable flight. The passport control officer was completely unsuspicious and incredibly friendly. Even the security guard who was checking me for bombs and concealed weapons was on for a chat about my trip and what he was doing for Christmas when he finally got off work.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span> After my somewhat unorthodox airport experience, the flight to the Los Angeles had a lot to live up to if it was going to be something I remembered in my post-travel jetlag. Amazingly it did, although it must be said it went both for better and for worse. The badly-behaved man and woman across my aisle (who met on the flight, I might add), simultaneously joined the mile-high club AND got caught smoking in the toilets, ensuring all of us stayed alert as flight attendants ran up and down with UV lights searching for ash mid-flight. The better was the company I had next to me, a family from Brisbane off to Aspen for a skiing holiday. Friendly from the word go, the mother asked me what I would be doing in the US, and when she heard, immediately proclaimed herself my ‘plane mum’, because she didn’t want me missing my family too much before I’d even arrived. By the time the West Coast was in sight, I was practically singing the praises of humanity in all its forms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span> So as you could imagine, disembarking in LA I was in pretty high spirits, with a social barometer reading almost of the charts. Despite an hour time lapse between getting off my plane and getting to an immigration officer, my spirits still hadn’t been doused, and so I bounded up to the officer with a smile like a Cheshire cat’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good morning!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grunt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I took this to mean “can I please have your passport and immigration papers?’, and so I dutifully handed them over. Two minutes and a lot of stamping, photographing and fingerprinting later, I was off to collect my baggage. Another hour and a half passed before customs, and the same experience again. A grunt, my passport checked, my passport back, and on I go. My confidence in humans was beginning to wane, which worsened when, as I was checking in to my domestic flight, an airport staffer brashly scolded me for holding up the line because “Counter 15 is free” (which it wasn’t), and even when it did become free, my check-in was completed with only the words “Dump your bags over their, sir”. At least she was polite. Security made matters worse, with one person shouting which line you should take, one suspiciously checking your ID and boarding pass, one shouting at you to take your laptop out, another shouting at you to take your shoes off, another shouting at you to empty your pockets, and one final officer to rudely tell you to remove all your clothes bar one layer. And that didn’t even count the screeners and pat down-ers. Still I wasn’t beaten. Maybe only airport staff behave that way, I thought. I’m sure I’ll sit next to a lovely person on my next flight who will completely change my mind. Wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>My next two flights were unreserved seating, so I had to go and ask someone if I could sit next to them, which I again took as an opportunity to strike up a thriving conversation with a fellow passenger. I got another grunt and a nod that most people give their dentist when he tells them he’s pulling their teeth out. That was about it for me. I made up my mind that Americans were all blunt and antisocial, at least to people they didn’t know. I put it down to the fact that because there are so many of them, they think it’s a waste of time being friendly to people they don’t know, compared to Australians, who are nice to everyone because they feel a connection to everyone, and will usually find one within five minutes. Therefore not necessarily their fault, but still making me feel overwhelmed and isolated in a country whose never-ending suburbia and hundreds of millions of people had already made me feel pretty small. Less than 24 hours after leaving home, I was already yearning to hear an Australian accent. I probably would’ve kissed Crocodile Dundee if I’d seen him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span> My final flight landed in Detroit a little before 10pm. By this time, already down on American hospitality, I was a little nervous about meeting the people would be hosting me for the next six months. Until I saw the Australian flag in the arms of a smiling ranga. Then received a hug from said smiling ranga. This heartened me a little, but my previous few hours of experience in matters of American friendliness had turned me cynical. The man was paid to recruit international singers. Of course he was going to be friendly to me. Still, it was better than an unfriendly welcome. Smiling Ranga then took me to Big Boy Burgers to get something to eat, where, when I asked for help in selecting the ‘most American’ meal on the menu, I was bombarded with assistance by the young girl working there, who smilingly made a suggestion for me, and explained how they prepared their meals, where they originated, and how exactly how best to eat it to really experience it properly, before thanking me for my custom, and inviting me to ‘please come again soon’. Sitting in the car to my hotel, it struck me that for all the criticism the American fast food industry receives for poor standards and treatment of staff, a Big Boy waitress in the suburbs of rough old Detroit, Michigan, was the first person to make me feel welcome in America. Finally I was convinced that American hospitality did exist – just.</span></div></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="ALL" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span><!--EndFragment-->Paddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07805562167162941269noreply@blogger.com5