Blue shoes back on American grounds

It’s been six days since I’ve been back, right side up, one among the blend of American accents in my home of the states. UGH, back in Florida.

There are some advantages of being home; The bananas are about $10 cheaper here,noted by the stash taking residence on my kitchen counter. And the Starbuck’s cup of coffee (blame the jet lag on my recent return to caffeine) priced at $1.65, a contrast to the $3.80 AUD I’d been paying while in Melbourne. My Chi, the goddess of all hair straighteners, WORKS here in the states and I’m finally wearing dresses and flip-flops again, a nice touch after seven weeks of winter boots and workplace gear.

Returning home makes my summer in Australia seem so distant. Australia is far away, both physically and by frame of time (15 hours difference: the states is awake while Australia sleeps.). It’s hard to picture Kings Cross alive with its hustle of traffic by day, its slew of inebriated crowd by night. It’s odd to think that the company I spent six weeks interning at, continues its regular business functions… How someone else will continue the articles I once spent my workdays slaving over. It’s difficult to picture that life in Australia continues while I’m home in the suburbs of Florida, back to my life as a college student appreciating the freedom of her summer yet missing the experience of her time abroad.

I’ve taken much away from my summer experience. It was a summer of growing up, of moving past the usual of my camp environment (hereeee I go again), stepping into the shoes of a grown up, with a full time job and a depleting bank account. And for the first time, I’m left with a real sense of my position, of my purpose within the stage I presently am in this chapter of my life.

Mark had once mentioned to me that each stage of life is special and unique, a part of our lives that is vital to appreciate in the moment, rather than moments to look back on with sadness of the time passed. After the moment has gone, it’s only the memories that remain; it becomes our decision to either hold on to the memories with nostalgia or to look back with a sense of gratitude for the times we once had, its influence on the person we have now become. 

Camp wasn’t the chapter for this summer’s experience, a factor I struggled with throughout my summer and one that I pushed myself to eventually come to terms with. I had no space to dwell on my separation from camp and I came to realize I’d have to shelf the struggle to fully appreciate the uniqueness of my experience. Nostalgia is a form of sadness, sadness for the times left behind rather than the admiration of the moments up ahead. If I still wanted camp to be a part of me, I’d have to apply rather than dote on the memories of the past. Keyword: past. I’m in the present, the here, the now. I’m living and developing today’s chapter each second of the day, each moment of my life. Life’s pages flip over, but it’ never a new plot; the plot continues, formulated over the stories of our days, the experiences of our lives. You miss the moment by dwelling on the past. How to keep your memories with you? Gratitude, I believe, is the secret… gratitude for the past in taking you to where you are today.

In terms of The Future, why try to see ahead? Why worry about life after college? I have two years left of my undergraduate studies… I need to appreciate these years NOW without holding on to my past two years and without trying to picture my life as a post graduate. Worry and stress aside, it’s kind of exciting having an open plan for the rest of my life. For now, I’m a college student obsessed with her life in DC with hopes of traveling the world (and meeting the rich, Jewish husband while doing so. Duh.). 10, 20, 50 years down the line… who knows where I’ll be? Who knows where I’ll live, where my career will take me, if I’ll have a family of my own. But who cares for now. That’s all for a later chapter and right now, I’m in no hurry to race through the moment of today.

The freedom of being home is exhilarating. There’s no 9- 5:30 restriction here. I’m aware that I’m still not ready for the confinement a workday brings about. Mark told me not to worry; One day I will be ready… That psychologically, we all grow, we all change, we all develop. The set hours of the workday will add consistency to my life in the future. And someday, Mark said, I will come to appreciate it. Someday, not now.

What else I learned this summer? My summer in Australia was about learning the culture of a world so far removed from my home in the states, yet so similar by initial glance. I learned that an open mind coupled with a desire to absorb the difference of a foreign life is a necessity when living abroad.

I’ve learned that sometimes it’s the individuals you spend a few days with who can have more of an influence on you than the individuals you spend a six week long program with. People come into your life for all reasons. Never doubt someone’s potential, the part they can play in the story of your experiences. Take every advantage you’re provided with to discover others, to move past the superficial conversations and delve into the inner workings of another. The individuals I met on my Ayers Rock outback safari were a group of 24 who marked me with their courage to explore an area whilst not being native English speakers. Take with you the lessons you learn from others who are or have been in your shoes.

I’ve learned that it’s alright to spend money on something that speaks to your passion. Spending my savings on my travels in Australia has left me with comfort of knowing my savings were allocated towards something I truly wanted, not a waste I’d eventually tire of. I’ve learned that there’s not much purpose for saving without a goal for spending. Travel, I’ve decided, is now my goal.

I’ve learned that my blue shoes aren’t really walking shoes and that it’s best I air them out after each time I wear them. (They've accumulated a slight stench over the past few months of wear.) I’ve learned that it’s in fact somewhat difficult to take a picture of the shoes in front of a landmark, that my leg doesn’t stretch high enough for a picture of the shoes with the Opera House.

I’ve learned that an idea can in fact take launch: that this blog, started in the confines of my bedroom, has attracted a range of visitors. The comments I’ve received from readers have meant the world to me… and for those of you who have done so, I sincerely thank you. I’ve learned not to worry to publish my written words on an online medium, that it’s part of the process I must take in my path of becoming a writer.

Above all, I’ve learned that it doesn’t only take a trip abroad, a trip to the other side of the world, to help you discover the peculiarities of yourself. It’s more about the experiences you set yourself upon during your years of growing up; Mine just happen to be about my travels… thankfully, given that it’s the theme of this blog, a blog I’ve used as a way to test out my skills as a potential, future writer.

I return to DC next week and couldn’t be more excited. It’ll be a semester long stay in the district prior to the continuation of my travels, this time with four months study in Paris, France and a summer stay somewhere in Europe with some sort of summer job. (The latter part of the plan is still in the works.)

My return to the states is by no means cause for a hiatus to The Girl with the Traveling Blue Shoes. DC, after all, is really not that boring of a place to be (correction: I’m obsessed with DC). I have a slight inkling that this girl and her traveling blue shoes will come across a thing or two to update her blog with.

Until then, I bid you all sweet dreams. I sincerely thank you all for being loyal followers, for stepping along for the ride of my travels this summer in the world down under. 

A quote from a letter to myself three years ago

Excerpt from a letter I wrote to myself at the age of 16 during my first trip to Israel:

My time spent in Israel has forced me to reflect. I have not come up with answers for my questions. In fact quite the opposite. I am so confused now about the deeper meaning in life. But this trip is indeed my start to my search to find me. Maybe when I reread this letter in who knows how many years I may have found the answers. But most likely not. But that's what life is for: Experience.

To think that three years later, I am still on the search to define myself, to discover the meaning of my life. It amazes me to see that the realizations I have today are in fact the ideas I mulled over as a teenager. Present day me still doesn't have the answers for the questions my 16- year- old self posed. It's part of the search we all face in life, an idea I think I understood as a teenager that I could discover the meaning through travel, through exploration, through experience. The purpose of life is to experience; I couldn't agree more with 16- year- old me.

Melbourne, Australia: Return to the modern, city life

The size of Australia parallels the size of the states. But the population, however, is roughly similar to that of NY. The majority of the country’s inhabitants reside along the coastline, taking hold of Australia’s five main cities. Sydney ranks as the country’s main city. Melbourne boasts second place.

My camp friend Nathan is spending a semester studying at the University of Melbourne, referred to by the locals as Melbourne Uni. I would be staying with him for the four days and three nights of my visit to the city.

It was a challenge upon arriving balancing my duffel bag and lettered purse as I maneuvered my way onto the city bus with a transfer to two different trams. After getting off at two incorrect stops and asking a grown man and a student for directions, I finally made it to Nathan’s dorm. But dorm is a relative term as dorms in Melbourne Uni share more of resemblance to a fraternity than an American style dorm. The co- ed inhabitants of the college are friends with mostly each other, host parties/ go to other parties (aka inter collegiate mixers) together, play sports against the other “colleges” of the university and eat breakfast, lunch and dinner together during the set hours in the dining area within the dorm building. I had arrived on a Wednesday… every Monday and Wednesday is formal dinner, a tradition of the college. Nathan, along with his fellow classmates, dress up in Hogwarts style robes for these dinners.

I may have been on the other side of the world, but the college scene down under bears a familiar resemblance to that of the states. Nathan and I attended his college’s footie game, watching the other colleges’ residents pass by the field, dressed in themes for their respective mixers. Clear, plastic bottles replaced the American red solo cup, but the contents within were of no difference. Some of the abroad, American girls were also present at the footie game; It was interesting noting the differences in their personalities as compared to the Australian students…how guarded the American seemed, many with a pompous air about them. The Americans didn’t make an attempt to be friendly, so different than attitude of the Australian students. It’s something I’ve noticed during my time in Australia… Australians are friendly, warm, eager to chat. Us Americans, we place this barrier up, only letting go once we feel comfortable. I guess it’s a part of our culture, but it’s something I’ve taken to great notice during my summer stay in Australia.

I had packed for cold weather, seeing as Sydney had opted for the chills during my six weeks in the city. But the weather in Melbourne was pleasant and I found myself warm in leggings and a long sleeved shirt. The sky was gray and cloudy… similar to a London winter day. There’s much more of a European touch in Melbourne, a contrast to the American feel of Sydney. The buildings have character, cafes and shops line the streets; in a way, Melbourne is much of a city like Boston with the crowds of New York City.

The streets come alive with the traffic separated by the trams that run in the center of the roads. Wires secure the trams to their routes, kind of an outlined- roofing over the eight block central business district (CBD).

Nathan and I caught the 19 tram to the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, a museum in the CBD. To my delight, the museum featured a contemporary art exhibit. Modern art grabs you, making you one with the piece as you engage with the exhibit, analyzing the significance, rethinking your definition of what constitutes a work of art. What is of more importance: the brains behind the idea or the construction behind the piece? I became intrigued with an exhibit with a rotating skull and a camera filming the inside of the brain. To enter the small, darkened room, individuals had to pass through a fog barrier. The room’s curator mentioned it was interesting watching individuals think through the manner in which to approach the room… whether the fog was the exhibit, whether to pass through or whether to leave the room alone as the fog represented a barricade from entering the room behind. It was a fascinating piece… a life v. death piece. The skull, I believe, represents death with rotation being symbolic of life. The fog signifies the blur of the unknown regions of our brains, of the unconscious within our minds, so distant from the range of our reach.

Taken at the beach in St. Kilda.

I met up with my cousin that afternoon. He is currently spending his year at Monash University, a college about an hour train ride from the city. We strolled along Degraves Street, an Italian style cobbled street with a range of cafes and restaurants lining the perimeter. We stopped for lunch at a Spanish restaurant and sat at the bar  facing the open windows for a stunning view of the street in front. Ben, following lunch, wanted to visit the Jewish museum. And so guide book in hand and a bit of help from an elderly woman missing her three front teeth, an Asian man with small gold hoops on each ear and a young woman who appeared to be a college student (until I asked her and it turned out she actually works in the city), we set forth on an adventure to St. Kilda in search of the Jewish Museum of Melbourne. But to our dismay, the museum closed at 4 and we had arrived at 4:10.

Ben and I parted ways about an hour later, wishing each other goodbye for our last time during my visit in Australia. Nathan and I met back up… we had dinner reservations at an Indian restaurant further away from the city thanks to Nathan’s keen eye for LivingSocial deals.

We probably should have gathered from the tacky Christmas tree lighting décor and lack of customers (am I the only one that judges an Indian restaurant based off if other Indians are there too?) that we were not dining at the city’s most up market Indian restaurant.

The Indian host, who I noted had mold on his front two teeth (literally, what is wrong with me and noticing everyone’s teeth lately??) asked us whether we were vegetarian or meat eaters. I hadn’t realized that we wouldn’t be ordering off a menu. In fact, our vege/ meat eater answer was all he needed to know in preparing our individual platters of six dishes with Indian style rice and pancake. Dessert was included in the meal… let’s just say that the dessert had a consistency of snot with small balls and stands of angel hair like noodles. It took a single slurp of the revolting dessert before I promptly placed my cutlery down, proclaiming my completion with the meal for the night. 

Dessert

Dinner wasn’t the best meal… but it was a dinner I appreciated unlike any other. My goal upon landing in Melbourne had been to experience the city for its culture, from a viewpoint removed from the eyes of a tourist. A tourist wouldn’t have ventured to the sketchier parts of the city for dinner... a dinner at a restaurant that was definitely not on the city’s listing of must-go-to restaurants.

Nathan had found a cemetery during his exploration of the Melbourne Uni area. He wanted me to venture in with him given the cemetery featured a large Jewish presence including a memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. I was hesitant to enter, unsure about my emotional capability of navigating the unknown territory of the cemetery grounds. The cemetery parallels a busy street, just a block off from the university’s main road. A faint blue trace of the mountains in the distance add a stunning backdrop to the cemetery setting.

I stood among the graves, paralyzed by emotion, thoughts of my great- grandparents who had recently passed away flooding my mind. I experienced a rush of fear, a grounding realization of the ephemerality of life.

The gravestones listed the names of the deceased with subheadings of beloved wife or husband, mother or father, on occasion- mother- in- law or father- in- law. It’s your soul that remains after you have passed and it’s the love that binds us once our physical presence departs the world for good. It’s scares me that I too will be buried one day (dear G-d SO SO SO SO SO SO far down the line from now). But it's my only hope is that I’ll be one the of the fortunate individuals who shares a king sized coffin with my husband, and that my headstone reads beloved wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother. 

Nathan and I attended a synagogue about 30 minutes train ride from the city for Shabbat that Friday evening. A family had graciously invited us over for shabbos dinner and we joined a dinner of three other couples that included an American rabbi and his wife who had just moved to Melbourne a few days before. It’s touching that no matter where you are in the world, there’s always the guarantee that a Jewish family will take you in for a shabbos dinner, allowing access to their home and an opportunity to partake in the festive meal. I owe my religion a wealth of gratitude for the sense of community it has left me with, the feel of belonging Judaism has provided me over the course of my life, notably the period during this summer’s travels.

 

I left Melbourne the Saturday afternoon. One of Nathan’s friends drove me to the airport, a selfless, giving offer that I greatly appreciated. I zoned out on the flight back to Sydney, sleeping through my final trip in Australia, the end to my week long backpacking adventure. 

Alice Springs: Those of the hostel life

 
I had reserved just the evening and following morning towards my stay in Alice Springs, the closest city to Ayers Rock. Alice Springs: think the Clayton of Georgia… the remote city you find along your drive along the American countryside. Alice Spring’s Kmart was probably the largest attraction in the dingy area, if that gives you an idea. But my stay in Alice Springs was a memorable one. And it’s once again due the people in which I came in contact with, however briefly, during my short stay in the grimy city of Alice Springs, Australia.

Part of me wishes I could have stayed a day longer to get to know the other individuals of the Haven hostel. The night guests, the long term residents: they’ve all got a tale to tell. And as much as they've become a part of my travel stories, I too am a part of theirs. We’re all abroad on similar missions, on a journey of a backpackers adventure traveling across the diverse country of a land down under, far from our homes of origin, our areas of comfort. We’re in pursuit of surroundings that feed our thirst to discover the greater world out of the confines of the familiarity of our bubbled home environments. It’s all the backpacker’s tale of a journey abroad.  

The Austrian roommate, possibly named Michael.

I timidly entered room 25, my assigned room for the night’s stay. A tall, blonde haired man sat on the bottom of the wired bunk furthest from the room’s entrance. He wore black glasses that rested slightly below the ridge of his brow and nose. His large forehead seemed an essence his personality, illuminating the passion of his words between the animated creases etched on the slate of his forehead. His name, I learned, was Michael (well if I wrote his name correctly) and it was Michael, my Austrian roommate, who proved to be an incredible young man to talk to. Michael was preparing to leave for the same Ayers Rock I had just taken. He would be traveling with Julia, my German roommate I met later that night for a few minutes before she turned in for the evening.

I ate my second serving of dinner with Michael. He had made Indian food from scratch that evening, a topic that filled our conversation as he described the different ingredients necessary for tossing together an Indian curry. Michael’s English was impeccable, making him easy to both understand and communicate with. I asked him if he spoke Austrian, oblivious to the fact that Austrian is the nationality, not the language. Austrians speak German, though with a vastly different accent than that of the German dialect. He mentioned that Julia, for example, often struggles to fully comprehend his accent as a result in the variation in pronunciation. I also asked Michael about the Sound of Music, proudly announcing that I own a VHS copy, a childhood favorite of mine. But apparently the movie is an Austrian stereotype. The majority of Austrians, so he said, have never actually watched the film. Both Michael and Julia were gone when I awoke the following morning, gone in continuation of their journey across Central Australia. Individuals come and go here: It’s just the way of hostel life.

Rachel, the girl I tagged along with in the dark of the streets on my walk to the grocery store.

Alice Springs is home to a large Aboriginal population, an unfortunate parallel to the high levels of criminal activity, often associated to the alcoholism among the Aboriginal community. It was about 8pm, the sun had long set and an air had settled thickly over the dimly lit city streets… an air that my Jewish mother would feel unbelievably uncomfortable with had she known I ventured on a ten minute walk, at first alone, to the city’s local grocery store. I noticed a girl walking a few feet ahead of me. I recognized her from the hallways of my hostel and without giving it a moment’s thought, ran to catch up with, immediately initiating conversation. Her name was Rachel and was hesitant at first to talk, a factor which perplexed me at the time but come to think of it now, I was the stranger who had come out of nowhere. Rachel did gradually warm up; She was originally from England but had taken a working holiday in Australia. Rachel had been working at a camel farm for the past few weeks, but had been recently fired after a camel had attacked her. We parted ways as we entered the Coles and I walked back to my hostel on my own, the sketchiest walk back EVER. Part of me worried I’d get kidnapped, slightly panicking as I realized my phone was low on credits in addition to being unsure if 911 was even applicable in Australia. Regardless, I held my phone firmly in my hand, as if I knew what I was doing in case of a potential kidnapper.

Aboriginals in the grocery store.

So I didn’t talk to any of them, merely observed as they walked along the aisles of Coles. Many of the Aboriginal women had thick, upper lip moustaches. Had it not been for their sagging bosoms, I might have mistaken them for men. They all went without shoes and had a distinct smell about them, a sort of showers aren’t my thing kind of smell. A woman, who had previously volunteered with an Aboriginal community, once told me that an open mind is key to adapting to their culture, their way of living their lives. I recognized that immediately upon viewing them in the grocery store, gathering a perceived sense of just how different our cultures are.

Lauren, slightly out of order.

Lauren had been a fellow participant on my Ayers Rock trip, and I had gotten to know her over the course of the past three days. She’s number three on the list, however, as I ate the first course of my store bought, Indian curry dinner with her. Lauren spoke English well, given that her native tongue was Korean and she had been studying English intensely for the past few months in Australia. There were times I could tell my English translated as gibberish, a blank smile being the tell- tell sign. But for the most part, we had an interesting two- way conversation. We discussed the concepts of keeping Kosher as I explained to her why I wasn’t able to sample her Asian chicken noodle soup. We dabbled into the topic of education; she explained how in Korea, students do not ask questions, merely accepting the teachings of their professors without challenge. Lauren also spoke of Koreans’ pride in their culture, pride in standing out from the majority of Chinese present in Asia.

The construction worker who was a few months sober. And missing a few front teeth.

It was difficult to understand him, given he talked in bogen English (bogen is an Australian term for low class). Construction worker sans teeth had moved to the Haven hostel following his decision to sober up and get his life back on track. He works long hours in Alice Springs making an enormous amount of money that he saves so in that in the future, he will be able to afford his own place. I admired his self- motivation, his drive to pick himself up from the place he had once found himself in.   

The Korean roommate who was the only one left when I woke up in the morning.

It was slightly disconcerting waking up to room empty of the familiar roommates I had fallen asleep saying goodnight to. A wiry Korean man was the sole individual left in room 25 the following morning. He definitely hadn’t been there at 10:30 last night. My Korean roommate had been at the hostel for the past year and a half, and would be completing his working holiday at the Alice Spring’s McDonalds in the next three weeks. Korean roommate seemed excited to be soon returning home. Like Rachel (my Cole’s walking friend), he didn’t seem to have particularly enjoyed working in Alice Springs. But to renew a work visa, the government requires individuals to spend four months laboring in the farmlands. The majority of Australia’s population lives along Australia’s coast lines, leaving the lands of Central Australia sparse of human inhabitants. The government, therefore, is taking steps to try to spread the population across the country, particularly the farmlands of the country.Korean roommate left for work as I packed my belongings in my purple duffel bag. I would be leaving for Melbourne, Australia in a few short hours.

________________

My trip to Melbourne: to be continued!

Ayers Rock: The heart of the Australian outback

My week travels have felt more like a month’s worth of exploration, of adventure, of learning… so vastly different to the six weeks of my internship period while stationed in Sydney. My week’s backpacking adventure was a week of travel across Australia, an immense country diverse in both culture and landscape. I left the beauty of the Sydney Harbour the morning of July 31 to land in Ayers Rock, a part of the Australian outback and my first destination of my week ahead. It’s an area largely void of human presence, located in the heart of Central Australia and home to Uluru (Ayers Rock’s Aboriginal name) and The Olgas (Kata Tjuta). The airplane seemed insignificant as we landed amid the two massive rock formations of the otherwise barren landscape of the area. 

The road is the sharpest gash here in the outback. But the scar sinks deeper, tracing its roots to the modern day tale of a minority uprooted from their lands by white settlers, a sort of Native Indians in America kind of story. The Australian Aboriginals are the natives of the country, believing themselves one with the land. They led secluded lives over the thousands of years of their existence, at a complete disconnect from the remote, modern world. Aboriginals were introduced to the modern day concepts of technology and culture as the white settlers set foot upon their Aborigine native lands. The government followed suit, building the natives homes, providing for electricity and allocating government assistance in the form of monetary aid. The efforts have proved largely futile, as much of the money has been channeled towards alcohol consumption. Many Australians would agree that Aborigines would have been better off had the Australian settlers let them be, separate from the ways of Western culture. But it’s all a part of the history of the first two stops along my week’s travels and I found it important to keep in mind as I treaded through the lands of the Central Australian outback.

My parents, my grandparents and my family friends had raved over their experiences at Ayers Rock, exclaiming over the wonder of the enormous formation centered in the middle of nowhere. But for me, it wasn’t Uluru, a formation made solely from one piece of rock, that I found most awe inspiring. For me, it was the people I met along the way, the individuals that left me with a profound mark during my week's travel across the country.

I had registered for a three- day, two-night outback safari. I would begin the trip in Ayers Rock and end in Alice Springs. The tour was geared for 18- 35 year olds, though the majority of the trip’s 25 participants were in their late 20s, early 30s. I was one of the few participants who had arrived on my own; the majority were with their partner. I was also one of four from North America- the only from the U.S. There were three girls from Canada, all studying at a teacher’s college along the Gold Coast, two Spanish couples, a couple from Japan, an absolutely lovely French couple that I had attempted conversing in French although it eventually morphed more into my own form of Frenglish, four Koreans and two Norwegians roughly around my age, two women from either Sweden or Switzerland and four Australians who were the family members of our tour guide and were well into their 60s.  I became quite close (well, as close as you can get with someone over a three day period) with the mother, especially after she revealed she had recently retired and moved to a farm with hopes of buying an alpaca. It was the diverse nature of the individuals of my group, all upon similar pursuits of exploring the outback, all backpackers across this vast country; It was them that I found to be the most inspiring aspect of my three- day outback safari.

English was the uniting factor among our group… no matter how broken it sounded to my native English ears. But for these program participants, my fast paced American accent sounded foreign too. It amazed me how articulate so many of them were, how they’ve spent their lives studying English and how capable they were to communicate effectively in a real world setting. I had taken Spanish for years as a child but my knowledge of the language is limited, surely not enough to communicate in an environment in which I would be forced to speak the language. No, that would definitely be where hand movements and s-l-o-w English would become my main form of communication. Our influence on the greater world is massive, yet I find our knowledge of the world in addition to our capability to speak with the world in a language other than our own, remains limited.

We played the game 3- 6- 9 as a group, a game in which each person counts aloud the number along the sequence, replacing a 3, 6, or 9 with a clap. We played in English and I swear the non-native speakers were faster at figuring out the next number than I, a native speaker, could.

There was a pure sense of national pride amongst our group. We were seated around the campfire our first night of the trip, reciting each of our countries’ national anthems. The Canadian girls joined along with the American anthem… I’m a little rusty on the words of our anthem, slightly embarrassing given I was representing our country. And that nobody else had an issue with their song’s wording. I redeemed myself by providing an explanation as to how to create the prime American campout tradition: the s'more. S’mores aren’t a part of the Australian campout culture. In fact miniature, bubblegum flavored marshmallows, biscuits and rum raisin chocolate bars were used as substitute ingredients. Australia does not have graham crackers, large marshmallows and Hershey’s chocolate bars. I know, it's insane.

Where we camped out our first night.

Where we had our campfire and cooked.

We camped outdoors for the two nights of our trip, curled in sleeping bags and swags, mattresses enclosed in a protective covering designed to trap in heat. We lay without a protective covering overhead, allowing a clear view of the carpet of stars and the speckled shadow of the Milky Way blanketing the night sky. I’ve slept outdoors before. Wait, scratch that. I’ve attempted sleeping outdoors before. My trip to Ayers Rock, however, marked the first time I was actually able to fall completely asleep outside. I did wake up few times during the night, worried of the possibility of a wild dingo or camel treading past my setup among our campsite, but returned quickly to my slumber to avoid further unsettling thoughts. 

The Olgas

Wake up time ranged around 5:30 am over the course of the outback trip. We spent our three days hiking through the tremendous beauties of the Australian outback, beginning with a hike through The Olgas, quite a difficult hike for my testy feet. My last hikes have been with camp and, as a result, I’ve always associated hikes with a linked hand with a camp friend, my immediate comfort while navigating through the slippery slopes of nature’s obstacle course. It was the first time I had to trust the balance of my own feet, my innate, however deeply buried confidence that I could go forth with the hike without tripping and making a fool of myself. I’m really no hiker. Hell, I’m the one that complains as I trudge up the school cafeteria stairs. 

The dangerous hike up Ayers Rock.

The options for Ayers Rock had been to walk halfway/ full way around or to hike the diagonal slope. The hike, apart from being severely dangerous, is viewed as disrespectful to the native Aboriginals who view the rock, in addition to themselves, as a part of the land. (The rock is a significant part of Aboriginal culture, used for many of their sacred traditions.) I chose to walk halfway across Ayers Rock. I also went for the 30-minute scenic nature walk, on day thee of our trip, along Kings Canyon rather than the three hour, moderately difficult hike that the rest of my group went ahead with. My ankle and knee were playing up that day providing me with the perfect Get Out of Hike Free card: a blessing in disguise. 

Ayers Rock at sunset

We watched the sunrise and sunset over Uluru, a fascinating experience as the rock fades to shades of purple and red depending on the position of the sun. 

I’m seated on the five-hour bus drive from Kings Canyon to Alice Springs, the final destination of our three- day Outback Safari trip. The older Australian man, sitting in the row next to me, is tapping his fingers on his knee, paralleling the beat of the Mamma Mia music playing on my shuffled playlist. Our guide has made an announcement to see if anyone needed a bush toilet stop- classy phrasing for squatting over a shrub. Nothing is hidden here among the blur of green and orange of the Australian outback, a desert scattered frugally with short tress and shrubs overlaying the orange- red sand. We passed two wild camels in the midst of the flat grounds a few moments ago. I have yet to see a wild kangaroo. 

I’ve found it strange not sharing this experience with my camp friends; I have so many summer memories both from camp and from my camp trip to Israel of blurred window views, of hikes through the wilderness, of camping outdoors. But I’ve been firm with myself from day one of my backpacking trip to avoid dwelling on my past memories, regardless of the immense positive impact they’ve had on me. I’m not at camp anymore. The experiences are from my past and I am now in the outback of Central Australia traveling on my own, surrounded my 24 other participants also traversing the country. I’ve begun realizing that this trip can be my way of applying my camp memories to a present experience. How campouts, campfires and s’mores all exist post camp. Really all I’ve left behind is camp’s physical setting; the secular traditions and customs I’ve known from camp are still with me here. And that’s something I can hold on to as I move forward on my journey, across the country and through the course of my life. I know that one day this experience will too be memories I take with me, ones I will apply towards future activities, challenges and opportunities. The opportunity to experience, the capability to apply: I believe that in the end, that’s what life is really all about.

My trip to Alice Springs and Melbourne: to be continued!

A downward slump on a journey back over

The entertainment selection on this Quantas flight features a music library, a fantastic offer as Britney’s Baby One More Time soundtrack is one of the first options under the Pop header. It’s been years since I’ve heard half the songs off her first album and the lyrics of the song are taking me on a musical ride back to my childhood years. Britney’s transformed tremendously since her 1999 album, following a sharp path of change as her years have folded over. It’s a journey we all take (although not necessarily along the path Britney has chosen to follow), a journey I’ve recently updated for myself; I’m flying home, geared with seven weeks of my summer memories. I’ve left the physical of the world down under behind, but I know the memories I take with me are mine to keep, layers to treasure, moments to tap into as I flip the page forward onto the next section of my college experience.

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I spent my last night in Australia in Sydney at the Werman’s, my surrogate Australian family who since day one of my stay, have graciously taken me in as a part their loving, warm, Jewish home. I went out to dinner last night with Laura and two of her friends at a pizza restaurant a few minutes walk from their home. The girls are currently undergoing rigorous examination at their school and Laura and her friends have devoted the past few months to intense studying for their exams. They’re striving to achieve high results to enhance their chances of being accepted to their respective collegiate programs. The Australian education system typically necessitates that students know what they wish to study before even setting foot on the college campus. Not only is it difficult to get into school, but for certain professional paths (such as law) applicants must be in the top 99.5% to get into the program. As a result, students exchange the social chit chat with the textbook study date. Dinner last night was a well-deserved break for the girls. Boy, I don’t even remember going through that much stress preparing for my SAT/ ACT.

The hot water was out in the Werman household this morning, so Sue drove me to her parents’ home to take a shower. I’ve met her parents twice before, both of who are Holocaust survivors who moved to Australia sometime after the war. They’re beautiful individuals, true delights that live up to every possible definition of the typical loving, Jewish grandparents. I appreciated the opportunity to wish the two of them goodbye (in addition to a refreshing showing) before setting forth for my departure from the land down under.

A few hours later, I wished Laura and Sue goodbye. It really hasn’t sunk in that it may be years before I see the family again. I can’t begin to express the immense gratitude I have for having been able to get to know their family. The Werman’s were my sense of comfort in a country initially so foreign. They’ve offered their home as a place to say should I wish to come back, but Australia isn’t an easy place to get to, both in location and in price.

Mark drove me to the airport, a drive that provided me with a final glimpse of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge before our arrival at the Sydney airport. We eventually pulled up at the curb of the airport’s departure lane and Mark assisted me in setting my bags on the pavement. We wished each other goodbye, my final farewell to the Werman family. I’d like to think of it as a goodbye, see you sometime soon.  

I treaded through the sleek glass gliding doors of the airport, not prepared for the downhill wind my following hour would bring about.

I stood in the check in line, fighting the yawns creeping up as a result of my body’ s natural reaction to my previous night’s five hours of sleep. A wonderful woman, middle aged with short, straight blonde hair, black glasses and a hint of blue eyeliner lining the bottom of her eyes, motioned me over. I handed her my passport, passing over the necessary information for her to look up my flight information. The lady was able to find my booking, but the ticket number, in addition to my proof of payment, appeared to be missing.

After a $2,252 charge and subsequent refund once the previous payment records had been tracked down, a call to my furious father who was naturally not pleased with a double charge for my flight home, my Australian phone running out of credit, my melt down highlighted by a breakdown of tears, a call to the Boston Student Universe headquarters and a patient sales assistant who eventually found my ticket number and proof of payment… and an hour later, I finally received printed a ticket for my Quantas flight home to the states. It was the longest hour, one of stress, of rattled nerves. I was so ready to hug the blonde haired woman when she gave me a business express pass to zip me through the customs line.

(On a later note, I had the same issue in LA, although the American Airlines and Quantas representatives were not as helpful. I ended up staying on the phone with Student Universe for two hours, listening to their rant that they couldn’t help me as, according to their records, I had apparently already taken my July 30^th flight. Which was kind of silly given that I had obviously just flown out of Sydney to connect to my LA flight on August 7^th. So if the lady had given her comment a moments thought, then maybe I could have been saved from two additional hours of anguish as both Student Universe and Quantas attempted to find my American Airlines connection flight ticket number.)

Australian security for domestic flights is wonderful… it’s a form of security the states hasn’t seen since pre- 9/11 days. You literally walk through, shoes on, carrying liquids of all sizes, without once showing your passport/ ID and flight ticket. My flight home was an international flight; Liquids were therefore the sole exception to the usual lax security. I had completely forgotten that my camelback was filled with water, a factor the Indian security guard pinpointed within moments of seizing my bag for a security search. My laptop had been taken out, as per security procedures, and I had asked the Indian security man if I could place it back in its case to keep it safe. He ignored me and I reminded myself that he was a security guard after all, not some sappy grandfather like figure that would take care to be friendly to the young girl traveling on her own. I placed my laptop on the side of my purple duffel bag as I grabbed my water bottle to chug the rest of my water. My laptop fell straight to the floor, issuing a harsh thud as my Macbook hit the hard surface below. The security guard completely didn’t care, merely placing my bag back through the machine… open so half the contents were spilling out as I picked it back up. It really took all of me to keep the tears in.

I had been looking forward to sitting near a window to peer at the view as the plane took off from Sydney. Sitting anywhere close to a view of the window… how ridiculous of an idea for a day themed downhill from hour one of stepping into the airport. I am seated in the very last row of the airplane and the slab of the wall of the bathrooms replace the windows typically located to the left and right exterior walls. No last view of the Sydney Harbour for me. Right, how perfect.

On a positive note, no one is sitting to the right of me. I’ve taken over two chairs, a reminder of my trip to Israel last summer in which my friend and I had taken over two chairs to lean on while we slept. I did the same today, for the four hours of sleep I managed to attain. Four hours of sleep for the planned eight hours my Benadryl was supposed to provide me with. Of course today would be the day my Benadryl would cease to work its medicated magic.

I’ll be landing back in the U.S. soon, back to my home of familiarity, a place in which my accent will once again blend in with the crowd. I’ll be back in the home of fast food chains, of reasonably priced bananas. Come to think of it, it’s been weeks since I’ve had my last banana. Guess that was my drawback of spending seven weeks on the other side of the world, in a country down under, in a land of foreign customs, steep prices, in an environment with a unique set of norms. Tough life, really.

Seven weeks is too short of time to spend abroad. It takes about a month for the surroundings to shape into the familiar, too long of an adaptation period given that only three weeks remained after my four-week mark. I’m grateful for these past seven weeks of my abroad experience, six weeks of a peek into the workforce life, a week stint of a backpacking adventure and a total of seven weeks of a stay in a country so far from home, so distant from the comfort of my everyday life.

14 minutes remain of my journey to LA. I’ll have another five hours until my layover to Miami, sufficient time, I hope, to make my way through customs and clear my luggage through the U.S. security checkpoint. I have yet to begin entries for my week’s travels, but then again, that could be reserved for the five hours of my flight home from LA.

USA, here I come. Ta ta Australia.

So long, Sydney

30 July 2011

It’s 10:45 pm on a Saturday night and I’m not curled into the hotel service apartment’s tightly done beds. Tonight, I’m in my family friend’s home, spending the night in Lindfield before my week long trek across the country. My flight leaves to Ayers Rock tomorrow morning at 10:20. It hasn’t completed processed, but I think I’m set to go.

I woke up early this morning in order to say goodbye to my fellow program participants. People come and go in your life, and I believe that everyone has a purpose for entering in. It was nice, in its own way, to say goodbye to the majority of the program participants. Our trip had its own side platter of drama and so saying goodbye was a nice weight off all of our shoulders. But it was also strange given it would likely be the last time I would ever see the majority of them again.

I checked out of my apartment at 11 am… handing the key that had provided me access to and from my apartment building over to the front desk. 

My apartment building.

Oxford Street... the main street that leads into the center of the city. My apartment building is visible on the right.

My cousin was in town. He's spending a year abroad in Melbourne and on a whim, had purchased a flight to Sydney. We had arranged to meet up for brunch. I haven’t seen my cousin since I was probably around 9 and I was unsure how our get together would go. I met him and his friend at Town Hall and the three of us had lunch in Darling Harbour. The boys wanted to walk across the Harbour Bridge and so I walked with them to Circular Quay (where the Opera House is located… a short walk from the bridge) before parting ways. The morning turned out to be absolutely wonderful. It was a really worthwhile experience reconnecting with a cousin, a cousin that prior this morning, I had barely known. 

My friend had given me his multi transportation pass given that he would no longer be needing it as he left this morning. Transportation in Sydney is expensive (a week My Multi pass, which allows unlimited access to bus, trains and ferries, costs around $40. I only used the train to get to and from work so I purchased a $90 monthly train pass.) but seeing as I had a free pass and time to kill, I decided to hop aboard a ferry.

I boarded a ferry headed to Wastons Bay, with the initial plan of staying put on the ferry rather than getting off to explore. The better half of me objected, however, and ended up getting off the ship to make my way into the small, quaint area of Watsons Bay. It was when I turned around to look at the view from the bay did I know just how good of an idea it had been to disembark the ferry.

 

I caught a bus back to Bondi Junction. The bus ran through the coastal lines of the city, allowing for glimpses of the harbour to my right.

I leave for my week trek across the country tomorrow morning. I’ll be spending three days and two nights in Ayers Rock (the iconic outback photograph used to advertise Australia), a night in Alice Springs and four days and three nights in Melbourne. I’m grateful that I’ve extended my trip to travel. Not only will I gain a greater perspective on the country I’ve spent my summer in, but it will also leave me with a different set of memories of my experience in Australia. I’ll be sans internet and computer for the week (oh boy) but will be documenting the week travels through my photos and jotted notes that come next week, shall be transferred here.

Six weeks ago I had thought they’d all say G’day. But that’s an Australian stereotype.

I’ll end this off with Cheers! Much more legitimate Australian if you ask me…  

Real Person on hold

29 July 2011

I’m seated in a coffee shop, facing the open window that looks onto Coogee Beach’s main street ahead. It’s a relatively busy street for a beach town, with cars and pedestrians traversing the two directions of the sidewalk and roads opposite the cafe. It’s my first day in six weeks that I’m free… free to plan my day completely as I wish. I’ve finished my internship and for now, I’m back to being a college student on summer break: It has never felt so good.

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I had requested a half-day from work yesterday and following my boss’s advice, I chose to come in for the second part of the day…. a decision that left me with the morning to myself. Ah, a me day. I began the morning with a visit to my apartment building's gym, my well-known ploy for replacing my morning lull with a day’s energy rush. I returned to the apartment, freshened up and prepared a packed lunch of leftovers, clearing out the remaining groceries taking space in the Emma section of the fridge. Today, I was headed to the Nicholson Museum, a small but free art museum located within the University of Sydney. Nathan and I had attempted visiting the museum during his weekend stay in Sydney. The directions proved slightly tricky, however, and our plans fell through as the time rang tight. Art museums have always been my favorite and I decided to make a visit to the Nicholson Museum a priority prior to leaving the city.

I took a train to Town Hall, the Metro Center of Sydney, in order to transfer to a bus. Bus transportation in Sydney, as I find it to be in any major city, is recipe for confusion. The bus station opposite the train lacked any apparent visual symbol cuing individuals that the block of the sidewalk in fact doubled as a bus stop. I commend Sydney residents, however, for their tremendous bus stop knowledge; passersby have routinely proved a helpful aid in directing the unknowing individual (namely, me- the American tourist) as to where to catch the bus.

I boarded my bus, New York City taxicab flagged down as customary to signal you wish to catch the bus. Following the tactics of the hidden bus stops, Sydney buses lack any sort of sign, or map for that matter, alerting passengers of the stops along the way. The bus drivers are often also unaware of their stop locations, seeing as this was not the first bus driver who seemed perplexed when I asked for notification regarding the stop location.

The bus ride took about twenty minutes to reach the iron gates of the University of Sydney. It was upon entering the campus grounds that the familiar sensation settled, seeping through, tingling the tips of my fingers, embedding a bounce to the motion of my stride. I had returned to a college campus: The surroundings, the world of the college bubble… this I knew. It was the most unbelievable set of emotions, the strongest reminder I’ve had yet of my longing to return to life as a college student. And the clearest realization of how different life becomes as you take steps toward becoming a Real Person. 

The campus, perched on a hill overlooking the cityscape, reminded me of a modern Oxford (when I spoke to a friend about it later, she said it looked like Hogwarts. Which it definitely does… parts of Hogwarts were, in fact, filmed in Oxford). The architecture seemed to be an offset of a neo- gothic style, although the designs were too clean cut to be of direct descent. The buildings were colored a burnt orange shading, resembling the city center buildings that too are reflective of their British heritage’s influence.  

I perked up when I saw a sign pointing towards the “Quadrangle.” But like Oxford’s quads, the University of Sydney’s grass patches were empty of human presence. A white rope barred off pedestrians from crossing through, although a few daring souls (boys of course) dared to slip under the rope restrains to sit on the grass. They were apparently in the clear as no one shooed them away.

Students filled the gaps of the hall surrounding the quad, many with their legs sprawled horizontally on the raised ledges of the hall arches. I followed suit come lunchtime.

The campus imbued a sense of calmness. I soaked in the familiar shuffle of students ambling to and from class, the casual chatter as they went about their ways. The halls were relatively silent when class was in session, save for the passersby clinking their heels on the marble flooring or the scatter of Asian school children touring the campus, snapping shots along their way.  

I observed the college students… how similar they were to the prototypical, American college students.  I noticed the vast array of styles present, smiling as to how only on a college campus do you find sweatpants as an accepted day’s outfit.

An individual’s dress can reflect their inner pride of individuality, sometimes an attempt to stand out from the norm. (Although I find it ironic that while steering clear of the “mainstream”, you’re in fact blending in with the other students who are also attempting to do the same.) Clothing in college serves as a mode of unspoken expression. But the Real World quashes whatever individuality you once had as a college student. It’s the thin needle that pokes through your bubble of college. It’s the respected professional look in the general working environment that supersedes the cry for individuality present among college campuses. You’re at the hands of the salary, the boss, the employer, the workforce. And as a result, Monday to Friday from 9 to 5, your creative expression is stifled. Real World rids of the Real You.  

I’ve missed being a student this summer. College truly is a remarkable time in life, however enclosed you are within the bubble so separate from reality. It’s this bubble that leaves us all with the grandiose ideas of who we want to be, who we could be someday, what we wish to pursue in the battles of our lives. We choose to be ignorant of the real world’s restrictions... and for the four years as a student, we’re ok with that. The world is our oyster, I thought as I stood looking at the view of the city from the university. I worked in that city… in a small office space barely visible from where I stand. But as a college student, the view leaves the impression that the whole city is yours to choose from, to work your way through, to rise up into the success of the workforce and world.

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I had gone to the University of Sydney to visit the Nicholson Museum. The museum itself was small, and unlike most art museums, was far from quiet. The chatter of the professors and visitors in addition to a handful of older women sketching the variety of pieces, added to the unique atmosphere of the exhibits on show. The Nicholson Museum displayed a plethora of Etruscan and Egyptian works, in addition to a scatter of Greco- Roman pieces. These are my favorite periods of art history… I couldn’t have been more in bliss.

My fall jacket concealed the work blazer beneath. By sole appearance, I blended in naturally among the college students.  But the time was nearing 1pm… I needed to get back to work. The Real World hadn’t finished with me just yet.

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My last day of work went well… I had two articles to write which I completed in little time. My workday ended at 5:30; I had officially finished the six weeks of my internship as a marketing and writing intern for The Defectors.

Drinks and dinner with work ensued. The group of us left together, headed to a lounge about a ten-minute walk from the office. Our company’s owner ordered us a round of shots in addition to our own separate drinks. I can’t even begin to imagine an American boss doing the same.

We ate dinner at a Tapas restaurant. The majority of the employees, my bosses included, were absolutely drunk. It made for such a difference from the stiff, somewhat awkward and forced conversations present in the lounge before the drinks had settled their magic.

I sat next to Joel, the owner of the company, at dinner. I had never spoken to him prior to last night as he worked on the other side of our office space and rarely, if ever, dealt with the interns. I found myself entranced in our conversation; Joel had quit his job to begin The Defectors (the social media marketing firm I interned for). He recounted the heaps of negativity he had received from his previous colleagues who deemed his plans of opening a social media marketing firm absurd. Social media at the time, so they believed, would never take root. Joel continued with a motivational speech of his experiences: how you have to believe in yourself, have the confidence to do what you want to do and if you do so… the universe will follow, lending a helping hand to allow you to settle in the path fate has laid out for you. He was adamant about never letting anyone’s opinion sway your beliefs, that people will always have their opinion but it’s what you believe in your heart that should guide you through. I told him he should write his words down, but he responded that no, he has no need to sell his information. His information is guided by his own life experiences that have worked for him. He has no idea if they would work for others and as a result, would feel a fraud if he sold his words of inspiration. He spoke with such genuineness; It’s these moments I savor in my path of Growing Up. Learning from those who have once been in my shoes, who have worked their way through, who are leading the lives they love… they are the ones I wish to learn from.

Jenine, my boss, took a cab home, dropping Doug (the boy on my program who also worked at my company) and I off ‘home’. I stepped out of the cab, and into my apartment building. For the first time in six weeks, I felt free, back to being me. I have two years left of being “the me” of a college student. It scares me, but I’m ready more than ever to grasp the reigns tightly for the next two year’s ride of my life.  

What this internship has taught me? It’s reinforced my love for writing, bolstered my confidence of the skills I can bring to the workforce and given me a glimpse into a life that could potentially be mine two years down the road. I don’t want a job that constrains me to a 9- 5 work day. But I recognize it’s where I’ll have to begin. We all have to climb the ladder of the workforce to reach the goal we set forth as the college student. The speck of the office space in the distance is the first step to reaching the cityscape goal of our futures. These past six weeks have been vital in providing me with the insight that I will take as I continue along the road of life, the path of my future and notably, the next two years of my life as a college student.