Day 20. Cathartic Haikus

These might explain why I abandoned poetry as a career choice in the fourth grade (after my smash hit entitled “I Want an Alien from Outer Space”).

On my way to work

Wish I were doing laundry

Just kidding, I don’t

Grouchy Man came back

Always orders the same thing

I will make him smile

Every day I work

For a stupid balding man

Hippopotamus

Shiny, shiny head

I pretend you are silent

Sing songs while you yap

We are not allowed

To use the rest’rant toilets

Instead, we get this:

When the day is done

I smell of rotten kitchen

Must get out of here…

♥, ts...

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She Dreams Things that Never Were, and Says, "Why Not?"

This beautiful girl is Australian Jessica Watson. She is 16, and she just spent 210 days in solitude, sailing around the world on a tiny pink boat.

210 days. Alone at sea.

She is the world’s youngest solo-around-the-world-sailor, and this proud country’s newest hero.

Since crossing the finish line in Sydney on May 15^th, she has embarked on another, drastically different, journey: the nation-wide “Jessica Watson Welcome Home Tour.” Last week she was speaking at a mall in downtown Melbourne, so my flatmate James and I hopped on a tram into the city to hear about her expedition first hand.

Before Jessica came out to answer questions and sign autographs, they replayed some of the footage from her triumphant return home. My eyes teared up, just as they had a week prior, when I had been glued to the television as she sailed into the Harbour and took her first shaky steps onto land.

Can you imagine being Jessica’s parents? I would like to think I would be strong enough to consent to such a dangerous voyage, should my future 16-year old ever dream of risking their lives to sail unassisted around the world.

But the truth is I don’t know if I could.

When the footage ended and Jess came up on stage, she was greeted with a thunderous applause. She answered questions, spoke briefly about her voyage, and smiled politely for the hundreds of fans who were eager to capture a glimpse this young girl’s strength, myself included.

Although Jessica looked like she would rather be alone at sea, watching the sun rise and set around the earth, than standing here in front of hundreds of fans, I found her presence, and her story, incredibly inspiring. 

“I don’t consider myself a hero,” she told Prime Minister Kevin Rudd when she arrived in Sydney. “I’m an ordinary girl who believed in a dream. You don’t have to be someone special to achieve something amazing. You’ve just got to have a dream, believe in it, and work hard.”

What an amazing 16-year old...

Love,

the traveling stahr...

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Day 15. Twilight Tradie*

Robert Pattinson had coffee at my restaurant.

Alright, he might have been wearing a highlighter yellow construction jacket. And maybe a pair of dusty work boots.

And also a hard hat.

OKAY, so it probably wasn’t him.

But I could not. Stop. Staring.

Not because I find him devastatingly handsome (well, maybe a little), but I couldn’t stop sneaking peaks to the patio outside because I was convinced it was actually him.

Dressed as a construction worker. In Melbourne. Stranger things have happened, ok?

I approached Patricia, who was acting busy behind the morning newspaper. “See that guy out there? He looks EXACTLY like the guy from the Twilight movies!” I was practically jumping up and down. You see, I’ve never met a famous person before. Unless you count Bill Nye the Science Guy. That guy was my idol growing up. Anyways…

“The what movies? I don’t understand,” she replied, puzzled. We peered through the front window and just then, he turned his head and met our gaze with an equally quizzical expression. I jumped behind Patricia.

Because I am smooth like that.

Not.

“Nevermind,” I said. “Do you have a cell phone with a camera?” But her she had left her phone at home and sadly, so had I.

But just you wait! I bet, as I write, they are working on a movie wherein he plays a brooding tradesman, struggling to get the self conscious, supposedly plain but in actuality really beautiful Australian girl.

Ok, a quite perusal of IMDB suggests that there is no such movie in the making.

But I know it was him!

♥,

the traveling stahr…

*In Australia, they like to shorten everything. Bathing suits are bathers, breakfast is brekkie, afternoon is arvo (haven't quite figured that one out), of course Australia is Oz, and tradesmen are tradies.

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I Heart Faces: Yellow

This is Curtis' twin Corey. They are like two peas in a pod, and I know they will both be very happy to be reunited with their "better halves" when we get back home to Canada.

For more yellow-themed pics, head on over to I Heart Faces!

Love,
the traveling stahr...

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Run for Mum

The clock read 5:23 in the morning. I sat up in bed; my alarm would be ringing soon. I hadn’t slept a wink all night, but I didn’t care. I was bubbling over with anticipation and nerves.

After seven weeks of training, it was finally Race Day.

Could I make it across the finish line? I had never run 8 kilometers before. The most we ran in training was 7.6 and I had stopped for a water break halfway though… Could I run the whole way without stopping? Would I cramp up? My head was spinning with anxiety.

I jumped in a cab at 6:12am (public transportation is non-existent that early on a Sunday morning), and after a brief altercation with the cabbie, wherein I attempted to tell him how to get to the track and he proceeded to go entirely the wrong way, I arrived at the steps of the Arts Centre to meet the rest of the gals from my Lululemon Run Group.

As the sun began to creep over the horizon, our gang grew in numbers. Some of the girls who work at Lululemon came out to support the running group – there were signs, fake tattoos, pom-poms, even music streamed from a backpack with speakers. We had our own cheer group, and it felt wonderful.

And best of all?

We got free shirts!

With fun rainbow stitching!

And a place to write your own personal goal!

(Apparently I am running a half marathon by May 2011… funny what one decides when they are sleep deprived and high on excitement.)

Eventually, we followed the crowd down to the warm-up field, where a record 40,000 people were turning up to walk, skip, dance and run for Breast Cancer research.

It was still early, and the sun was reflecting majestically against the city skyline.

Just kidding, that’s a streetlamp…

Down on the warm-up field, a wonderfully lively woman was leading pre-race stretch sessions. We danced and stretched and waved around our red balloons as the Black Eyed Peas Boom Boom Pow-ed in the background, energizing the enormous crowd.

It was so beautiful to be a part of such a heartwarming event.

Everywhere you looked there was pink: pink shorts, pink tops, pink hair, pink wings (yes, wings), pink body paint. It was vivid and bright and hopeful.

Here’s my superfun shirt again! Woohoo for free Lulu swag. I’m also wearing a Lulu running visor, which is one of my favorite things to jog in because the built in sweatband keeps all my fly-away hairs tucked out of my eyes. (And it comes in normal colors like black and grey for those who actually possess fashion sense).

No, I don’t have an addiction to expensive yoga-clothing, why do you ask?

We had the option of running with a “Tribute Card” honoring all those who fought, and are currently fighting, the gut-wrenchingly terrible disease that is Breast Cancer.

I dedicated my race to a family friend, Alison Freeman, who is currently recovering from surgery after the doctors discovered a lump in her breast. My thoughts are with you and your family, Alison.

Soon after warm-up, it was announced that all 8k participants should make their way to the start line. I gulped down the contents of my water bottle (I had decided not to run with it, but was terrified of getting dehydrated), and went for a quick bathroom break before joining the masses and funneling my way down to the road.

We were jumping around and jittering as they went through the course guidelines on the loudspeaker. My running buddy, Tanya, and I were both first time racers, and excited to get started. Finally, the countdown began.

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… three… two…. ONE.

The horn sounded, and we were off!

At the lightning speed of… ok, well, we were still walking. Because we hadn’t actually gotten to the start line. Because there were thousands of people in front of us. Also walking.

Eventually, however, space opened up and Tanya and I passed the starting line and began our race.

But then, disaster struck.

I had to pee. Badly. And we hadn’t yet run a kilometer. This was going to be one looong hour. Ah well… C’est la vie!

Tanya and I were setting a good steady pace and in what seemed like no time, we approached the 4k marker. Up ahead was our Lululemon Cheer Squad, whooping and hollering loud encouragements and holding up cheeky signs like this one:

Feeling revitalized, we ran straight through to the finish line without stopping. It was difficult, to be sure, especially when it came time to tackle the giant hill. Again. But we made it! (Question: why do those last two kilometers feel sooooo looooong?)

3268^th place. Not too shabby... And I had finished in under an hour, which was the goal I had set for myself. I was ecstatic.

Imagine what I could have done with an empty bladder!

Here are some of us, exhausted yet exhilarated, after the race.

As the morning drew to a close, I collected my bags, and pinned my tribute card to the dedication wall.

It was a beautiful, hopeful, joyful morning. I had finished the race! We had all finished the race. I lost the ability to walk after about an hour, but that seems like a negligible price to pay for such a moving experience. Plus I had Curtis to carry me, so I didn’t really need my legs anyhow.

He even got me a walker so I could move about the apartment. (Needless to say, the next day = ouch.)

Half marathon, here I come!

With so much love,

the traveling (and running) stahr…

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Day 13. Just Keep Swimming...

Work had been going well, relatively speaking. Bashir started me on additional morning shifts, which, despite yielding less tips, were far preferable because he spent ninety percent of his day in the back office.

Less Bashir = Happy Lauren!

The woman in charge during the day, Patricia, has been working at the restaurant for over eighteen years. The two of us got along quite well, and it was nice to have a friendly face at work, someone with whom to share the moments of the day.

Or to explain the moments of the day, as the case may be. Like when the Mean Man, who comes in everyday to sit at Table 21 and eat his Big Breakfast in silence, snapped at me again for clearing his empty plate before he was ready. “The service in this place,” he mumbled angrily, shaking his head in accusation. (At first I was taken aback by his roughness, but Patricia assured me he was sour in general, and quite rude to everyone.) But I digress... 

Patricia is a remarkable woman, kind and sympathetic, but I could see that the past five years (since Bashir’s family has owned the restaurant) have worn her down.

“What was this place like with the old owners?” I asked as she handed me a frothy latte, my early morning treat as long as Bashir had yet to arrive to work.

“Oh,” she sighed, not knowing where to begin. “Every day was full of people, all three sections. Not like this,” she gestured toward the empty restaurant. Her thick Mediterranean accent colored her speech, and I smiled as she reached back into her memory.

“All the time there were people,” she continued. “But not so today. He does not understand that to take, you must first give. He just takes, takes, takes and doesn’t give. And look now, he has trouble.”

Patricia told me about the previous owners, a loving family who valued her opinions, and how they had asked her to work in their other restaurant outside of the city when they sold this venture. “But it is too far to drive. This restaurant much closer, and so I stay.” She explained, with a hardness in her voice and a depth in her grey eyes.

I wanted to help her, to free her, to show her a way out. But who was I to do that? Just another 20-something traveler, passing by on my way to better things. So instead I simply enjoyed her company. I asked her questions about her life, I told her stories about mine, and I marveled at her uncanny ability to remember every regular’s order.

I didn’t mind the day shifts. I might go so far as to say I looked forward to them. (Well, ok, that’s probably not true. The boredom and the infrequent yet still unsettling visits from Bashir were enough to prevent me from fully enjoying my mornings.) But there were certainly moments I took pleasure in. Like meeting two travelers on the patio from my hometown, and learning that one of them was born at the same hospital as I was, in Takoma Park! Or, watching three seventy year old ladies, life-long friends perhaps, giggling uncontrollably as they attempted to share a towering eight-scoop ice cream cone.

This job was, after all, only temporary. And if Patricia could stick around for eighteen years, then I could certainly get through a few months. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

Love,

the traveling (and now coffee-addicted) stahr...

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Day 10. Finally, a Waitress.

Today was the day! After nine mind numbing shifts of scrubbing, polishing, cleaning and generally feeling like an indentured servant, I was finally granted permission to learn the computer system. This meant—assuming I wasn’t the moron he presumed me to be—I could begin taking customers.

“You come in one hour early for unpaid training,” Bashir had ordered the night before.

Ya, ya… I don't care if it’s unpaid. Just let me talk to PEOPLE! I salivated hungrily at the thought of actually being allowed to interact with customers, and be a proper waitress.

“And then if you’re good enough, you take some tables.” His eyes looked condescendingly down upon mine.

Oh, I'll be good enough, you Stupid Bald Man. I'll be so damn good, you'll be sorry you had me playing Cinderella for the last week and a half.

But as I walked to work, the previous night’s confidence vanished. I became panicky and unsure. Maybe Bashir was right to hold me back from taking orders. Maybe I couldn’t do it yet. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Didn’t understand the intricacies of the restaurant. Maybe I—NO. I was not going to do this. I was not going to doubt myself.

Right?

The training hour came and went, and although he sneered and sighed, Bashir granted me permission to begin taking tables. I was still timid, having felt held back and belittled for the previous week and a half, but I reminded myself of what I knew, I can do this.

Apart from constant interruption (“No, Laureen. You do not box up the pizzas. The customers have to box them up themselves.” or worse, “No, Laureen. You do not carry three plates. You do not have the strong muscles.”) I had a good night. I was smiling consistently for what seemed like the first time since I set foot in the restaurant, and it felt good. 

For now.

♥, ts...

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Day 6. Maid in Melbourne

“This place is a fucking joke,” Anna, a server, mumbled under her breath, windexing an already streak-free desert case.

Squeak, squeak. Wipe, wipe.

At least I wasn’t the only one on my knees, polishing and scrubbing his restaurant from head to toe. I’d been put in charge of cleaning the furniture. But the table tops and chairs were already taken care of, so my job? Was to clean the wooden table legs. Of 26 tables. Several of which have six or more legs. A marvelous and productive use of my Economics degree from McGill University. 

I was scrubbing away, trying my best to avoid another painful splinter, when I heard, “Laureen.” Ugh. 

Bashir approached me from behind. “Laureen, you are finished now,” he ordered. “Go do some brooming outside.”Some what? Impatiently, he pointed out the broom (ohhh) and picker-upper behind the fridge, and I scurried outside. 

Well, Bashir. I will be Broomer Extraordinaire. There is nothing you can throw at me that I can't handle, so THERE. 

I expected to face a mess of food, probably the remnants from a terrible two’s temper tantrum. But there wasn’t any food on the ground, no dirty napkins, no napkins of any kind, actually. I was stumped.

“Umm... which mess did you want me to clean up, exactly?” Back inside, Bashir looked at me with a mix of exasperation and condescension. Aaaaand I'm feeling one inch tall again. Lovely. “The leaves, Laureen,” he replied, eyebrows high and chin stuck out. “Now go outside and do some brooming the right way!”

Awesome. I was cleaning up after Mother Nature. Better than scrubbing table legs? I'm not really sure.

After taking care of the half-dozen menacing leaves, I headed inside to make myself useful. Or something like that.

As I scanned the back section of the restaurant for any tables that needed clearing, Anna approached me and began stacking glasses to look busy. “Do you like this job, Lauren?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied, feigning indifference. “What do you think about it?”

She sighed. “I hate it. It’s the worst job I’ve had in me whole life.”

I laughed. “That’s what I was going to say.”

Anna continued, eyes darting back and forth, keeping an eye out for our #1 Boss. “If you’re going to be in Melbournefor a while, look for a new job. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“What about you?” I asked. She had, after all, been stuck at this place for over two months.

A sneaky smile spread across her face. “I have a plan.”

The night trudged on, and I washed, scrubbed, wiped, scoured and polished nearly every surface imaginable. Eventually, Bashir told me I could head home. “You come tomorrow morning, 11 o’clock.” But tomorrow was Saturday. And Saturday morning was the one day he’d agreed to let me take off for race training when he hired me.

When I reminded him of this, he mumbled angrily, “Well, you are no good to work in this restaurant then, are you?”

“Pardon?” I asked, hoping I’d heard wrong. He smiled maniacally. “Nothing. You come in tomorrow night. Same time.”

I thanked him and left, feeling uneasy but still employed.

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I Heart Faces: Celebrating Mom

This week at I Heart Faces, the challenge is Celebrating Mom. My Aunt is one of the most amazing moms I know - here she is with one of her beautiful, lucky girls:

You can see it in their eyes,

in tender hugs and long good-byes,

a love that only moms and daughters know... 

(Anonymous)

♥ Lulu

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Dear Mum,

I love you.

I’m pretty sure you knew that already, but I thought I’d take a minute to tell you why.

I love you because you are an unending source of support in my life. You have always believed in me, even when I’ve had a hard time believing in myself. I love you because you are honest with me, and because you encourage me, in turn, to be open and honest and unguarded with you. I love our relationship—our friendship—that blossoms with each passing year, and each passing Skype date.

Thank you for being my hairdresser, my chauffeur, my photographer, my psychologist, my best friend. Thank you for loving me and listening to me and laughing with me. Thank you for teaching me how to mend a pair of jeans, a broken heart. Thank you for showing me how to tackle all things domestic, and how to reach for the stars in my professional life. And thank you for telling me that I can have both, that I can make it work, that I can do it all.

Thank you for being my Mom.

You will always be the most beautiful woman I know.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I love you,

♥ Lulubelle

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Day 2. The Bottom of a Totem Pole

My second day of training began at 11am the following Sunday. I arrived exhausted, having stayed up too late the evening before at our friend Dani’s Night at the Roxbury-themed housewarming party.

Mariam showed me to the dark and foul-smelling change rooms, where I reluctantly hung up my bag, and followed her to an utterly ancient punch clock, not unlike this dinosaur I found on Google Images:

Ka-CLUNK. And I was employed.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, so with a steady lunch rush, I was kept fairly busy running back and forth—delivering food, clearing dishes, and trying to stay out of the way. This is fine, I reasoned with myself, pushing away creeping feelings of loneliness and exclusion. I have to learn how the restaurant operates before I begin taking tables.

When we were particularly busy, a customer asked for the location of the restrooms. “Up the stairs, second door on your left,” I said, happy to have a brief moment of human interaction in an otherwise silent day.

“Ooooh. Where are you from?” She asked, picking up on my accent. We chatted for a minute, which turned out to be a minute too long, and from behind me I heard Bashir call, “Laureen.” Ugh. How I hate the way he pronounces my name.

“What are you doing? What do you need?” He said curtly, striding toward us. “Nothing—” I began to explain, but he cut me off, and turned to the customer. “She is new. She doesn’t know anything. How can I help you?”

Unsure exactly what was going on, the woman mumbled, “Um, I was just asking for the toilets, and she—” He interrupts again: “Upstairs on your left. Second door.” She frowned at the unusual exchange that was occurring, shook her head, and headed up the stairs.

Bashir turned to me. “Laureen. You don’t talk to the customers yet. Do you understand this?” I explained that the woman approached me directly, and I felt it would be inappropriate for me to ignore her. To which he simply replied, “Okay,” before turning on his heels and heading back to the bar.

OKAY? Wait, he’s just going to treat me like I’m five and then say OKAY? No apologies, no admitting he was wrong. I wanted to punch him in his stupid bald head.

I was fuming. I was being treated like I was at the bottom of a totem pole, with Bashir’s deviously smiling face looming miles above me. I felt so small.

As five pm rolled around and Thomas walked in to begin his shift, I was told I could go home. Finally. I bid farewell to a couple of staff members and passed Thomas on the way out. “Welcome aboard,” he grinned and patted me on the back. I sighed, and smiled. It had been a long day, but somehow that small comment lifted my sinking spirits. “See you tomorrow,” I said, waving goodbye. 

Maybe I would be the “New Girl” after all…

Love,

ts…

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Day 1. Welcome to Hell:

Population: One overbearing and unpleasant owner, his cold and judgmental family, and a restaurant-ful of depressed and disgruntled employees.

April 9 was my first day of training. I’m sure you can tell it went swimmingly. 

If it were opposite day.

Which it is not.

I should have known it was too good to be true. I just waltzed in earlier that afternoon with a resume and, voilà! The owner—we’ll call him Bashir—wanted me in that night. “You come. 6:30 today. We’ll see if you are any good,” he ordered. His thickly accented voice was unkind and his eyes wandered around, bored with my presence.

“Thank you!” I said, enthusiasm abounding. “See you in a few hours.” But he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and walked toward the coffee machine. There was a latté to make, I presume.

But I had a job! Or at least a chance at one. And I was going to make it work, because waking up at noon everyday only to realize you have an entire fourteen hours ahead of you to do nothing in particular, is only relaxing for so long. I headed out the front door, eager to go home and tell Curtis.

Four hours later, after a brief (but always therapeutic) shopping trip for a uniform of black shoes and a black t-shirt, I returned to the restaurant. That was my first mistake.

Upon my arrival, Bashir handed me off to his eldest daughter, Mariam, who was only slightly less brusque than he. I followed on her heels, brain overloading with information as she gave me the Express Tour of the huge, four-roomed restaurant. “Pay attention, so you don’t ask questions later.”

I repeated her words in my head: Plates get stacked behind the kitchen, glasses behind the bar. A spoon is always served on the side of the spaghetti and fettuccini. Water is given only upon request. Parmesan cheese and wine glasses, when needed, should be on the table before the meal... 

“And don't seat guests, give them menus, or take any orders. He doesn’t like that,” she instructed.

After the whirlwind tour, Mariam told me to shadow Thomas, one of the older waiters who has been working at the restaurant for quite a while. Simple enough, I thought. Shadowing is a common form of training. Except… she didn’t tell Thomas, who—for the first hour or so—was probably wondering why the small girl dressed in black kept trying to follow him from a short distance.

I felt lost, confused, and useless. I was floating without direction, while a sea of chaos and food swirled around me. I was aimless, disoriented. And I was in the way. Every step I took to let someone pass seemed only to result in my interrupting another person’s speedy trajectory. Servers rushed by me—and into me—dishes in their hands, drink orders on the tips of their tongues, frowns spread across their tired and frustrated faces. 

Eventually, as I was given small tasks throughout the night—wiping down tables, filling water bottles, clearing plates—I began to feel (somewhat) less like a waste of space. But when the shift was over, I stumbled home, slightly in shock, and unsure of just how low I was feeling.

As I walked the four blocks to my apartment, I thought about my first days at the Pub back home. Had I felt this alone? I remembered how Meg’s smiling face had soothed my nerves, and how she used to say “I’m not the New Girl anymore!” But I hadn’t minded being the New Girl, the girl nobody was quite sure about.

During my first day at this wretched restaurant, there wasn’t a whole lot of smiling going on. No, it seemed to take too much energy just to make it through the shift, let alone welcome a New Girl. 

But things were bound to get better, once I got the hang of the place, I reassured myself, unlocking my front door. They just had to...

Love,

the New Girl

P.S. So, I realize April 9^th was almost a month ago, but I’ve only just found the time to sit down and post these ramblings (read: have only just decided to work on the blog instead of going for cheap Mojitos around the corner from my apartment). I’ll try to catch up to the present over the next few posts, but for the time being, please excuse the three-week delay!

P.P.S. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, etc… etc… 

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