Fuzzy yellow footsie pajamas, life with my host family, and how I became a charlatan rugby fan: a rambling blog post with an unnecessarily long title—by Erin

I never would have expected that my first few weeks in Australia would turn me into a rugby fan. 

Maybe it's just the excitement of being someplace new that did it, or maybe it's just my subconscious desire to be included in something that appears so important to the culture. Or maybe rugby is just awesome. It really is fascinating to watch all these gargantuan, hunky men ram into each other over and over again at full speed with NO padding and NO helmets.

One hit like the ones that those guys take every few seconds would be enough to put me in a vegetative state for the rest of my life. It's great fun to watch.

Whatever the reason, as I sat in a pub with some friends on a Sunday evening watching the Manly Sea Eagles play the Roosters for the NRL grand final, you would have thought I was a loyal, life-long Manly supporter. I was sitting on the edge of my seat, my gaze barely straying from the big screen, my shoulders moving slightly with the game as if I was out there on the field myself. I was urging them on under my breath, ooo-ing, awww-ing, screaming, questioning poor calls and explaining who all the different players were to my other American friends in the bar. All as if I knew what the heck I was talking about. 

This, to make a massive understatement, was completely ridiculous. Not only had I been living in Manly for less than a month at that point, but I was hardly familiar with Rugby, let alone the Australian National Rugby League, before I arrived. I know it sounds like I'm a total phoney (and please do not doubt that I am) but I was honestly so caught up in the game at that moment that I felt like I bled Sea Eagle red. I coincidentally do bleed red, anyway—so it works out.

So, I guess I'm a rugby fan now. I think that's alright to declare on my own blog, of all places. (Just please don't tell any of the real fans.) 

I'm more specifically a phoney Manly-Warringah Sea Eagle fan now. This is just because, for the time being, I live very near Manly—so it seems the appropriate bandwagon upon which to zealously hoist myself...

Go Manly!!

Sandy, my homestay mum, has lived in the Northern Beaches of Sydney for her whole life and she loves the team; "Ever since we we little kids It's just always been all about Manly around here," she explained.

 She also told me that everyone else hates Manly—a rumor which was confirmed when my school's librarian told me that I better not be rooting for those… rascals (I've censored the language there a bit) in the grand final. Turns out Manly has a bit of a bad rep for being the New York Yankees of the National Rugby League—buying all the talent and whatnot. But hey, that's okay! 

I think my interest in the game really started the first night that I watched a match with my host family and their neighbors, who are also Manly supporters. About 15 minutes after the start of the game I made my way over to the neighbors house, as per their instructions, crossing to the yard in the place where the fence between the two houses had been knocked down. 

There, beneath the stars and next to an outdoor oven with a glowing fire, there was a big screen TV. Seven or eight people were gathered in a semi-circle around it—some sitting in lawn chairs, some standing, others sitting cross-legged on the ground. Their hands held drinks and grabbed for snacks; their eyes stayed locked on the screen. 

"There she is!" Jerry announced as I emerged out of the shadows. "This is Erin everyone." 

I got a few very friendly hellos and even one "g'day," but no one chatted long—the game was on.  

The TV switched to commercials (they all scoffed among themselves about the advertised "Zinger Pies," KFC's apparently pathetic attempt at recreating the beloved Aussie meat-pie.) and someone pulled a chair up for me near the fire. Jerry grabbed me a beer, and I immediately felt like a part of the crew.  

I noticed, remarkably late actually, that one of the neighbors was wearing a furry, yellow onesie the shape of an animal whose species I cannot even recall anymore. I'm not sure how to include that detail any less abruptly in this account. So I'm just going to throw that out there and let it be. 

Anyway, It was nothing special—just some friends in the yard watching a game. It was just kind of a cool, random activity in which to be included. I kind of felt like I was getting an inside look at these people's lives, and although it wasn't much different than hanging out with a bunch of Americans watching an NFL game, I really enjoyed it.   

Sometimes, most often while I am traveling, I'll stop to think about my present surroundings and realize that a past version of myself never could have dreamed-up such a scenario. One of those times happened while I was being scrubbed down by a woman who spoke only Russian in a Turkish bathhouse in Kyrgyzstan. Another happened while I was walking through the streets of Paris late at night eating falafel on Thanksgiving. Another happened while I was just biking to class one day during my first year of college... 

One of the more recent of these profound moments happened that warm evening as I watched rugby on a big screen TV in a stranger's backyard, drinking a beer by the fire and sitting next to an Aussie in furry yellow footsie pajamas. 

I like moments like those.  

Anyway. Manly played beautifully that night, and I quickly became captivated by the game. The backyard spectators were cursing and cheering on the little figures running along the TV screen, and soon enough I was joining in—albeit a little less enthusiastically. I was spending most of the time trying to sort out all the rules.  

Every once in a while someone would turn their head just slightly towards me to quietly explain a rule or tell me an interesting fact about one of the players. They always made sure to point out that these players were all just regular blokes—many with interesting hobbies, histories, and even full-time careers outside of Rugby. 

"They call him the wolf-man," they said about a burly looking man with brown, wild hair down to his shoulders.
"He's actually a talented graphic designer." I was informed about another. 

"That's the equipment manager there. He bowls down at the local club." 

(I remembered these facts later, and then used them to assert my Sea Eagle fan-hood in the bar during the grand final. Any real phony sports fan would have done the same...) 

At one point, when the group got especially loud and rambunctious over a spectacular try, Sandy said aloud, "Erin must think we're all crazy! She's probably going to write about this later." 

...And I guess she was at least half-right about that! :)

On exploration and reflection

Yesterday, I stood on a rocky cliff at the top of Mt. York, with my arms outstretched for balance and my toes not but a few inches from a sheer drop-off of several hundred feet. I couldn't see the ground  beneath me, but in the distance I could see it fade into a misty blue forest of Eucalyptus trees. The air felt arid and damp at the same time; slow, strong wind rattled the leaves to make a continuous white noise, broken only by the occasional bird call—sounds I've only ever heard in Australia.

The Blue Mountains, just west of Sydney, are not exactly the type of mountains I'm used to as a Californian. When I stepped out of the bus upon arrival, I didn't look up at a mountain range.
Instead, I found myself standing on a rocky plateau looking out over a massive bluish canyon that wound around jutting sandstone formations of orange and brown...

My heart sped up a bit as I stood still there on the edge of the cliff, with nothing but a clear breeze between me and the panoramic, painted scenery before me. The view was quite beautiful, and the moment quite serene. To say the very least.

My moment was cut short by news that I had to return to the group so we could continue with our day-tour of the mountains. We spent the rest of that afternoon hiking, visiting tourist-swarmed lookout points, and learning about the history of the Blue Mountains area—including its significance to both indigenous people and European colonists.

...

Right now I'm sitting in my bedroom in Manly Vale early on a Sunday morning, and I can't believe it's been two weeks since I left California! Still, as is often the case when we leave behind the times we choose to call our every-day lives for the times we call adventures, I feel like I've jammed a fair amount of experiences into the last couple of weeks. These have ranged from awe inspiring to terrifying, frustrating to fascinating, and lots of ordinary stuff in between.

I think the most common excuse I hear (and often make myself) for not keeping blogs, journals, or scrapbooks of travels is that there is not enough time. In all the exploring and travelling, we claim, we don't have the time or motivation to stop and record it.

I was about to make that excuse just now, in fact.

 I've hardly written more than a couple sentences in my travelogue since leaving the States; it really does feel like I haven't had the time! Between homework, interning, field trips, and tours—and no less than an hour-and-a-half bus commute to each—I feel like the times to rest and reflect are simply slipping by me...

I don't want to make that excuse though, because for me, reflection is an adventure in itself. It is the opportunity to recreate and rebuild, to make sense of some things and to wonder about others.

I choose to write to this purpose, but that's not the only way to reflect on our experiences; art, music, drunken rants in pubs, long phone calls to our mothers, or meditation would, I imagine, do the job just as well. Reflecting also helps us to remember, to solidify our memories and extricate from our experiences what we wish.

Had I not decided to sit and reflect on my experience in the Blue Mountains a bit this morning, for example, I doubt that I would have forgotten it. Still, it's possible that the feeling of awe and my vivid memory of the landscape will soon fade away—perhaps to be replaced by my almost equally vivid  memory of being trapped on a tour bus with 25 other American students from my university for most of the day...

That would be a shame, because it was a lovely little adventure to remember.


...
Speaking of adventures. This afternoon, I'm using the free voucher to go whale watching that my supervisors at The WORD Australia gave me! So please forgive the typos; I've got to go!

This is not the moment that I described above, but it's pretty close! 

Much love,

Erin <3

A Tourist's Lamentations

I stood poised on a sandstone rock at the top of Mt. York, my arms outstretched like wings and my toes just inches from the edge of a sheer cliff. I could not see the earth directly beneath me—which collided with the vertical escarpment several hundred feet below—but in the distance I could see it fade into a misty blue forest of eucalyptus trees. Nothing but a transparent breeze separated me from the panoramic painting.   

Just as I inhaled slowly, allowing myself to melt into the oily canvas before me, I was interrupted by the sound of rubber soles sliding against sandstone as one of my classmates climbed up on the rock beside me. Another student followed. Then another. 

After nearly a dozen students had found that scenic cluster of rocks off the trail, I resigned to the reality that I was neither an explorer nor a fearless mountaineer—I was on a class field trip, and it was time to return to the bus. 

Sliding into my seat on our spacious coach, I lamented to one of my like-minded friends about the lookout at Mt. York, a tourist stop in the Blue Mountains. “It’s my own fault... but it’s really hard to appreciate all this. Being on an organized bus tour with a bunch of other Americans...” My friend sort of nodded in agreement. Being a bit more upbeat than me though, I suppose, he just turned to watch the film playing at the front of the coach and didn’t engage in the conversation further. I was left to ponder this question, this question of why it was all so hard to appreciate—and why I feel I need to appreciate it, anyway—on my own. 

Nearly a century-and-a-half before my visit to the Blue Mountains, Rachel Henning wrote in a letter home about a similar feeling. Although she writes poetically of view as she descended Mt. Victoria, a peak near Mt. York, describing “seas of forest and fold after fold of mountains covered with wood,” she goes on to describe her disenchantment with the landscape. 

“I should have enjoyed it more,” she writes, “perhaps if I had been walking, instead of in a loaded coach coming down a steep hill over the worst road you can imagine,” (76).

I gazed out the tinted windows of our tour bus, watching the blurry scenery sliding by at 70 km an hour. I should have enjoyed it more, too. 

After a very speedy lunch in a little town called Leura—about which I know nothing except that it is a relatively nice place to eat a meat pie and some chocolate—the coach came to its next stop. We had arrived at Echo Point, and were informed that we would have ten minutes to go have a look at the Three Sisters, an iconic rock formation that I had already seen in every advertisement for a tour of the Blue Mountains. 

Camera in hand, I filed off the bus with my classmates and followed a smooth footpath leading to a fenced-lined concrete slab. This slab was glued to a precipice not unlike the one I had stood on at Mt. York—except there were more than just a few college students wandering around on it. The lookout point was swarming with people. 

Somewhere beyond the wall of tourists and coin-operated binoculars, a smoky purple canyon stretched out to the horizon. Softened by a dense forest of eucalypts, it wove gently around thick, orange plateaus and jutting sandstone formations.  Among those formations was the Three Sisters, posing silently for the constant strobe of camera flashes from a mob of DSLR-wielding visitors. 

I pulled out my own DSLR and snapped a picture—maybe I would be able to appreciate it more later.

 One of my classmates tapped me on the shoulder, indicating that I should turn around to pose for a photo. I too easily peeled my gaze from the valley, pivoted around, and smiled for the shot. Thankful, at least, that this tourist-beset lookout point had an accessible ladies room and a shop to buy some water, I wandered around for a bit and then headed back to the coach.

As our tour group left Echo Point for the next attraction, I didn’t even look back for a final glance. Flipping through the photos on my camera, I found a shot that was framed quite well; it captured the Three Sisters and the vast Jameson valley without even a single baseball cap or gift shop in the foreground (Above). I romanticized a time, maybe a century ago, when this could have been the view that I actually saw—when I could have stood alone at echo point and seen nothing but that sublime valley in all directions, a velvety backcloth for the three jagged rock formations that fanned out dramatically from the canyon walls. Then the movie began to blare through the coach’s speakers once more, and I quickly let those romantic notions evaporate from my mind. 

I know better than to think that way, anyway. Historical accounts from visitors to the area, at least from Western visitors, do not always align with this fantasy of a magnificent, un-tourist-touched landscape. Thomas Cook—a man who would have seen the Blue Mountains long before they were sewn up by threads of paved roads and dotted with tour busses, scenic view points and inns—never once spoke of the beauty of the landscape in his memoirs. When he describes his sentence of 14 years Transportation in Australia in the early 19th century, he laments at length about the closeness of quarters with the other convicts, and he writes only of the Blue Mountains’ “severe cold” and “precipitous ridges” (18). 

I suppose this makes sense, given that he was not in the mountains for leisurely sight-seeing but instead to carry out a sentence of hard, forced labor. Still, Thomas Cook’s account of the Blue Mountains is quite different than the types of descriptions that you might read in a present-day travel brochure. 

In Cook’s case, it may have been the circumstances of his experience in the mountains—harsh weather and even harsher treatment—that caused him to omit the beauty of the place from his account. I may also have been the company, the hundreds of other convicts that were “guilty of almost every offence against the Laws of their country” (28), and whose close proximity he so clearly detested. Or maybe—contradicting the very principle that drives expectant tourists up to the peaks of Mt. York and Echo Point to observe that awe-inspiring landscape promised in their guidebooks—he just didn’t have a reason to think it was beautiful at all. 

Was it because I had these high expectations in the first place, because I would be willing to pay to see these places, that I was set up to be just a little disappointed? 

Maybe mine was like the case of Rachel Henning. Perhaps it was the journey that made the Blue Mountains so hard to enjoy. The curse was not, of course, that the road was too rough, but instead perhaps that it was too easy—just another disposable adventure to check off on my trip’s itinerary. 

Or maybe this was like the case of Thomas Cook—that I was so distracted, at times even frustrated, by the company with which I traveled—that I simply could not enjoy myself in the Blue Mountains that afternoon. 

As our tour bus glided through the mountains towards our last and final destination, an theme-park like attraction called Scenic World that promised “The Ultimate Blue Mountains experience,”  I began mindlessly flipping through my photos again. I found a picture that I had taken at Echo Point. Posed in front of a backdrop of koala-filled gift shops, public toilets, and crowds of tourists, a sandstone rock jutted peculiarly out of the pavement.  It was one of the most interesting and striking sights I had seen that day; etched across its face were these words: 

“When I reached the lookout at echo point, the light was thick and golden, 

as if it had passed all day through a butterfly’s dusty wing”

The phrase surprised me—the way it so poetically described the scene, the golden light that shined as though passing “through a butterfly’s dusty wing.”  

It must have been a brilliant moment when the author of those words reached the top of Echo Point and looked out over the Jameson Valley, to inspire language like that. Maybe this visitor, at whatever point she reached the summit, had found the twinkling of awe that I had been expecting and hoping to find all day. Or maybe this rock and the words carved into its face were just another attempt to tell us, the countless, expectant tourists that visit to the Blue Mountains, exactly what we should find. 

A sarcastic memo about my internship duties

      I am an intern at The Word Australia—a company that publishes a quarterly, brochure-style guide of Sydney for backpackers and tourists—and my main role in the company will be to help convince advertisers and consumers that The Word is a trusted and widely-used publication in the Australian tourism market. 

  I was initially a bit disappointed when I realized that any my internship in “Travel Writing” would in fact be an internship in content marketing for the Australian tourism sector. Then my supervisor gave me free vouchers to go skydiving, abseiling, and surfing (as research for the articles I will be writing to direct consumers to attractions advertised in the company’s publication) and I promptly decided to stop being disappointed and give marketing a go. My objective? Preach The Word.

     I will do this, first of all, by helping to revamp the company’s website so that it appears credible to consumers and ultimately directs as much traffic as possible to the advertisements paid for by Word clientele. Through this ongoing project, I hope to gain transferable experience in web design, as well as practice integrating various social media platforms for a single brand. My supervisor has given me a lot of creative leeway in this project; handling that responsibility and lack of supervision will, hopefully, be good practice for any professional endeavors I pursue in the future.  

Secondly, I will be designing a market research study to show that print media—like the quarterly “Pocket Guide” published and distributed by The Word—is still an important resource for visitors to Australia. This research, if relevant, will be used to boost sales of ad space in the company’s quarterly publication by convincing clients that, although they can’t track the number of mouse-clicks on a paper brochure, tourists are still picking up brochures and maps to get ideas for their trip. Although I do not have any experience (or interest) in market research, I am looking forward to the opportunity to practice designing and carrying out a study, writing up a report, and communicating my findings to other professionals in the field. 

Lastly, what better way to preach The Word than to stand on a street corner and hand it out to unsuspecting passers-by! My supervisor has asked me to occasionally wear a “The Word Australia” T-Shirt and hand out brochures outside Central Station. This is a way to get the word out about The Word and to show potential clients that their advertisements will be distributed on a “hand-to-hand” basis as well. This experience should be a lot of fun; I see it as an opportunity to improve my communication skills as well as interact with travelers and locals while I’m in Sydney. 

I came into this internship, like many of my classmates, hoping for writing experience outside of academia—the little box in which my words have been writhing around for the last four years. A bit idealistic, I suppose, in my hope for an opportunity to write about travel without having to sell it, I just have had to reconfigure my expectations and reflect on how I can best approach this opportunity. 

I'm bringing home the bacon.

Just kidding... apparently there is no bacon as Americans know it in Australia.

That being said, I did win a humongous tray of raw meat yesterday.

I was with my host family at their local sport club Friday night, and one of their friends bought me a welcome-to-Australia set of lottery numbers for the drawing that the club does each week. My number was called, and so I came home with a platter of steaks, sausages, and all kinds of other meat.

Naturally, we're going to throw it on the barbie and cook it for breakfast tomorrow morning.

I'm off to bed, but I wanted to provide that short update until I can record some more little adventures.  :)

The macaron thief—and other thoughts on being in Sydney.

A thief stole my macaron yesterday.

As I was having lunch along the harbor at Circular Quay with some other students on my program, a strange-looking Australian bird with a long red beak crept up behind me, grabbed the little white bag that held my carefully selected rose macaron, and began to walk away slowly. I was just feet away from the bird, frozen, wondering if I should try to snatch it back.

The bird was big, and not afraid. One of the girls sitting near me encouraged me to "grab it!", so I started to stand up. As I did, the pastry-thief hopped off of the edge of the planter that we were all sitting on, picked up the bottom of the bag to shake out my delicate little french cookie, and with hardly a peck at the macaron proceeded to stomp on it and crush it with his talons. Then he took flight to find a more satisfying treat for lunch.

I sat back down on the concrete planter, let out a little mostly-joking indignant huff, and my sunny first afternoon in Sydney wore on from there...

I really tell this story because it seems all too appropriate of an anecdote to describe how I had been feeling and thinking for the duration of my journey so far--even back in the States.

You see, the last time I studied abroad, I was in Paris. This time, as I prepared, as I packed, as I travelled, as I arrived, as I waited in queues at customs, as I interacted with local people, walked through the city, took trains and buses and taxis for the first time, I was comparing it ALL to my last trip to France.

I think what the macaron-stealing bird really made me think about right then and there is pretty simple--that I'm not in France, and maybe I might as well knock it off with all the comparisons.

Sydney is Sydney, not Paris. It's clean, sunny, and friendly--swarming with joggers and tourists and English-speaking folks like myself. That funny little flying Aussie stole my little Parisian macaron and stomped on it right in front of me, and it reminded me that this is someplace totally new.

Anyway, as I sat along the edge of the harbor at Circular Quay, with the bright Australian sun reflecting off the water, bouncing off the tips of the pearly white Opera House, sliding along the sides of boats and radiating off the spotless pavement, I began to forget about the drizzly skies and grungy rues of Paris; I began to try to really appreciate this city and the unique opportunity before me.  

My Journey to the Land of OZ

I’ve been swept up in a twister and dropped in the land of Oz. 

The journey was a gusty, three-day frenzy (or maybe it was four. I seem to have lost a day along the way), and now I’m here in a colorful world where candies are lollies and cookies are bikkies. Night is day, north is south, and it’s quite alright to turn left on a red light... 

It really is not all that different here in Australia—or “Oz” as it is sometimes shortly called—but it’s clear to me that this isn’t California, anymore.  

Before my journey to Oz, I spent the summer working an office job from 9-5. I slowly chipped away at a number of monotonous little projects. I sorted brochures, updates website content, answered phone calls, and spent hours staring at a computer screen doing extremely important and challenging tasks—like when I heroically changed the color of a text box from a warm beige (R:255 G:250 B:227) to a slightly warmer, warm beige (R:255 G:252 B:235) on 55 separate publisher files, for example. 

Each day in the office, I listened to the seven world-clocks ticking, not-simultaneously, as they hung above the front desk where that temperamental, university-issued PC and I sat and did our work. These clocks never actually told me the time in cities like Beijing, London, Santiago or Sydney, as I suppose they were intended to do (the combination of too many daylight-savings changes and not enough battery changes over the years ensured that every clock is off by an hour or three). Still, they reminded me that time was going on somewhere else. And that I could be somewhere else. 

Those clocks reminded me that somewhere, outside that office and over the border of the United States, airplanes fly. 

I guess I did know that I would be leaving for Australia soon, but I didn’t believe it. Three days before my departure, my apartment in Davis, California still looked like I would be living in it for the next year—decorated, tidy, and filled with my things. My suitcase, on the other hand, was empty, dusty, and hidden away in my closet. 

That’s when the tornado hit.  

The world span fast over the next three days, but I remember some blurry bits—everything I own thrown in trash bags and boxes then stuffed in my Jeep, a drive across the state until 4am, a last-minute frantic search for my passport, duct tape over a rip in my suitcase, a minor wait-my-airline-booking-confirmation-doesn’t-exist crisis, a few rushed and distracted goodbyes, a unexpected pair of scissors quickly removed from my carry on bag, and a very long line at airport security.  

Then, as suddenly as it came, the spinning insanity of those last three days settled to a temporary moment of calm. I sat in the terminal at Los Angeles International Airport, with that impenetrable wall of TSA agents, X-ray machines and plastic bins between me and the world I left behind. Finally, alone and at peace, I had made it to the eye of the storm. Nothing but the occasional sound of boarding announcement or “attention-passenger-so -and-so” broke the soothing white-noise of suitcase wheels rolling on tile floors and distant engines humming on the flight line... 

I love the liminality of travel. I love that momentary space of calm, timelessness between point A and point B. Soon the other side of the twister’s wall would hit me, but right then I had a 15 or 16-hour moment of peace to sit, rest and think—and, if I wanted, to cuddle up with a thin blanket, a styrofoam cup of luke-warm tea, and a good in-flight shopping magazine.  

Eventually, after a little turbulence and a surprisingly pleasant amount of sleep, I began my descent from the sky on Qantas airlines flight 12.  

Amidst another, twirly frenzy of customs declarations, passport stamps and luggage collection, I recognized a few other students from my program that had also just arrived. We became pals and together rolled our suitcases out the doors of the airport and into the Sydney sunshine to find a taxi.  

I had arrived in Oz. 

The first thing I noticed was the air. It felt so cool and clean compared to the stuffy artificial atmosphere of the plane—and especially compared to the smog of Los Angeles that I had left behind. 

The next thing I noticed was the English. Living abroad, to me, has always been synonymous with being baffled. I’m used to stammering out bits of the local language, looking around for symbols that I can understand, and being generally a bit lost. In Australia though, I can read the signs. I can understand what people around me are saying. I can ask for directions. And not only that, everyone seems so friendly. 

My first impressions of Oz came in flashes through the windows of the taxi. We passed the AMP building, the Opera House, the Harbor Bridge, and the sparkling blue harbor. 

Upon reaching the CAPA office in North Sydney I was greeted warmly by Lindsay, a member of the staff, who may as well have been wearing a sparkling pink gown and a glowing tiara as she so kindly offered me a place to finally set down my bags, a code for free wifi, directions to the bathroom, and a phone to make a long-distance call home. 

Lindsay cautiously presented me with a magical yellow MyMulti Pass that would be my most important possession in Oz. After describing to me its powers, she wove her magic wand and made a free and much-needed cup of black coffee—known in Australia as a long-black—appear in front of me as I sat and rested at the cafe next door. 

From then on I was solidly convinced of her goodness. 

I’ve now been in Australia for a few days, and despite the obvious differences of accent, vocabulary and hemisphere, this place feels a lot like home. It is unfamiliar to me only in it’s many familiarities, disorienting only in that I sometimes forget that the largest ocean on the planet separates me from where I started. 

This world looks and feels different—the sun is sharper, the moon is upside-down, and autumn has become spring—but the people and their lives seem, at least from the snapshot impression that has developed over the past four days, to be strikingly reminiscent of the people with whom I live and work in California every day. 

My homesay family, Jerry and Sandy, remind me a bit of my own parents. And today at work in my new Australian office, I sorted brochures, updated website content, answered emails, and spent hours staring at a computer screen doing a lot of the same extremely important and challenging tasks that I did every day this summer at my office in Davis... 

But now I actually am somewhere else, like I dreamed about just a week ago. 

I’ve been swept of by a twister and dropped in Oz, and, unexpectedly, I’ve found that although there is no place like home—but this place is pretty close. 

A Collection of thoughts with 25 minutes to boarding...

I forgot how much I love this stuff... and by this stuff I mean sitting on the floor at the airport in Los Angeles, listening to the sound of boarding announcements over the PA system in English, French, Japanese. I mean watching travelers of all nationalities and “walks of life” waiting in the terminal for their flights; I mean hearing the wheels of rolling suitcases across the tile floor, sometimes frantically clicking like a machine gun, other times gliding smoothly and steadily.... 

I especially am enjoying watching the man sitting about 10 feet in front of me, with his feet sticking straight in the air, shoes off, legs parallel to the wall. His eyes are covered by an airline sleeping-mask, and he is using his Crocs as a pillow. He is also employing a thin, touristy sarong as a blanket, and has just a small black back-pack and a ukelele as his carry-ons. Regardless of how he looks, I think that he has that whole foot-swelling problem all figured out; he’s got that on me. I usually leave the states as a size 6 1/2, and land as an 8. But I still always wear my already-too-tight converse, even though I know better by now.... 

It's also fun to watch this woman with her husband waiting in the first class area. I watched her waiting in line at security, looking indignant that she would even have to do such a thing in the first place. She stood with her chin high and her hand resting nonchalantly in the air as if holding a cigarette. Her coat just rested over her shoulders (I suspect because it wouldn’t be very dignified to have to first wrestle it off and then put it in that same horrible bin where the rest of us folks put our jackets)...

It’s cold in the airport, and it smells like first-world travels... like coffee shops and duty-free perfume samples and cleaning solution. The decor is in that older but built-to-look-futuristic style, and a constant mellow hum comes from the flightline. Just the sound of some american kids discussing their gameboy games and the occasional “attention passenger such and such” announcement breaks the quiet of the terminal... 

And now I’m sitting across from two college aged guys that are discussing Study Abroad in the most annoying way I can imagine, and it’s making me a little frustrated. (i.e. yeah I was gonna stay in Spain for like, 4 months, but then I spent all my money and came home after one...) I know that I should stay positive and not let it get to me... 

My flight is delayed, and I’m a bit worried about how I am going to get my guitar on board. (It's a bit big for a carry-on...). 

Important pre-departure information....

http://matadornetwork.com/abroad/how-to-piss-off-an-aussie/

Good to know!

On my internship placement, homestay, and leaving the States again...

In general, over the past months leading up to this second study-abroad-adventure, I have been pretty nonchalant about the event that will transpire next Tuesday (i.e. getting on a plane and flying to Australia).

I think I can trace this avowed indifference to a couple of factors:

First, Whenever something exciting or momentous is coming up, I simply convince myself that it's not going to happen. This applies to trips, major life events, goodbyes, and term papers. I expect this is some sort of homeostatic mechanism that prevents me from succumbing to nervous breakdowns. I always do this to myself... and then—suddenly—it will hit me when I'm on a plane to Dubai or sitting in front of my computer at 3am with 15 more pages to write by sunrise. Then I have my nervous breakdown.

Secondly, I've begun to think of myself as an experienced traveler. I'm actually not, but in the last two years I've have done a lot of international travel, living, and volunteering abroad; I'm ashamed to say I have developed this slightly pretentious (and potentially dangerous) "whatever" mentality when it comes to going overseas again. I think I've been saying to myself, "If I can take on the process of getting a French visa, travel all over Europe on my own, pack for a month-long trip to Kyrgyzstan two hours before the flight, and sprint across airports in three different countries to make each flight in a 50-hour journey from Central Asia to California, then going to Sydney, Australia for a couple months should be a piece of toast with Vegemite, right? We'll see.

What I was not prepared for was the way that my heart started pounding when I saw the subject line "Internship and Housing Information" in my email inbox yesterday afternoon. I don't know where I buried all my excitement and anticipation about going to Australia over the last few months, but it kinda all bubbled up at once yesterday when I looked at that email—I even had to take a deep breath or two.

I have been waiting a while now to hear where I will be interning and living over the next 3 months, and yesterday I finally found out!

My internship will be with a travel & adventure related company called The Word. Here's the description:
"The Word Australia is a travel journalism and publishing company the produces several publications and maps for travelers in Australia. These combined with the Word website provide a wealth of information, contacts and stories designed to equip backpackers in Australia with the knowledge they need to get the most our of their trip to Australia."

I don't know much else about it yet, but I do know that I'll be doing a lot of writing in my position, and I'll probably learn a lot about how best to travel in Australia in the process! Given that I am simultaneously going to be studying travel writing in my classes and hopefully doing some traveling of my own, this sounds pretty ideal to me :)

I'll be living the the suburb of Manly Vale—just north of Sydney—with a host family. My homestay is not only just down the road from Manly Beach and the Sydney International School of Management (which is where my best friend will be studying and living this summer) but it is also only a five minute commute from my internship and about 35 minutes from my school. Considering the average commute time for a Sydneysider is one hour or more, each way, I'd say it couldn't have worked out any better! :))

Here's some footage of Manly Beach:

...but I think I actually prefer this one.

;) 

Much Love,

Erin. 

Sydney: Mid 60's and Today