(I Can't Wait to Be) On the Road Again

It is time.

Time to move and go and travel and progress and explore and see and do. Because we have been in Melbourne now for nearly five months now. And, well... I can see my breath in the morning. In my apartment.

So, for the past few weeks I have been planning. And although my head came dangerously close to detonation during this process, we have just forked over the final payment of our Totally Amazing and Cool Australian Outback and East Coast Adventure (TACAOECA for short).

And we leave on Saturday!

When I figure out how, I will make one of those fun Google Maps things that shows where we’re headed, but I think “everywhere” (except for West Australia) is a fairly accurate description to start.

We’re essentially making a big ’ole circle. From our starting point in Melbourne, we are headed west to Adelaide. Then we’ll tack north through the exciting and dangerous (probably not, but let me dream, ok?) Australian Outback (Mmm... Hugh Jackman...). We’ll pass Alice Springs (where we’ll see the famous Ayers Rock, or Uluru) and continue up to Darwin. At the end of July we’ll fly to Cairns and then begin our journey down the East Coast on a Hop-On Hop-Off bus all the way back to Melbourne, finishing the whole tour in about two months.

Ooo, I’m getting excited just writing about it!

I ended up booking the entire trip with this amazing company called Peterpans Adventure Travel. For those of you who have been with me from the start, this is the same travel company that gave me a free trip down the Great Ocean Road for winning a limbo contest at a bar.

I have always believed that when you do something yourself, time permitting, you have a better chance of getting a cheaper price, especially if you’re flexible with your dates. A handful of phone calls to hostels can result in a great nightly rate, and a few dedicated hours online can often yield the least expensive flight. (My personal fav sites are Expedia for domestic and Cheap-O Air for international... but remember, these websites often charge hidden convenience fees—even if they say they don’t!—so once I find a cheap flight, I check that airline’s own website for the base fare).

But with Peterpans, not only did we get nearly $1000 off the actual price of the trip, they threw in dozens of freebies we can redeem along the way. Free surf lessons, free dinner and drinks at nearly every stop, even a free didgeridoo lesson! This means (fingers crossed) we won’t have to spend too much money along the way.

I'll keep you posted on how true that last statement actually ends up being. To be honest, I’m preeeetty sure we’re going to come back to Melbourne flat broke...

I could always sell my soul. Or become a lady of the night. (I hear they’re good at limbo.)

Love always,
the traveling stahr...

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Day 27. This is La Vie en Rose

This particular shift was quite possibly the best I’ve had yet at this soul-sucking restaurant. And not thanks to the mini-lecture I received from Bashir after intentionally leaving an item off a table’s check because he had treated me like a child earlier on in the evening.

Little girls can play sneaky games too, sir.

As usual, I didn’t want to leave for work. And as usual, I thought of a million other things I could be doing (but in reality, would probably not be doing) with my time. Cooking, reading, smoothie-making, scrapbooking, laundry (ok, that one is a stretch). Etcetera, Etcetera.

About an hour into the shift, my hands raw from washing rags and wiping already clean tables, a lovely group of families came and sat in my section, to celebrate a birthday. Four beautiful little girls argued over who got to sit next to Aunt Suzie, and which one could play with the rubber eraser collection. A few minutes later, though, they settled: Suzie in the middle, and rubber erasers all around.

After taking their order I returned to the table with bottles of tap water. The littlest angel, kneeling backwards on her chair, held her hand out to me.

“Do you have a question for the nice waitress?” Her mum suggested. She nodded her head, sending her soft brown curls dancing about her face.

“What’s your name?” She asked in a tiny voice. “Lauren,” I replied, soliciting hers.

“Hannah. Mmm, what a pretty name!” I said. She nodded again, she knew that already. “How old are you, Hannah?”

Three tiny fingers uncurled themselves from her wee fist. “Three?” I exclaimed. “You’re getting big!” Her curls bobbed up and down. She knew that already, too.

From behind me I heard the dreaded “Laureen.” Ugh. I hated that voice.

I headed over to Bashir, whose disapproving eyes glared back at me. “Laureen. You leave that table now to the boys, a new one has come.” I looked over at the group of newcomers. They hadn’t even taken their seats yet and he was already accusing me of negligence.

No matter. I brought menus to the table of fifteen, noticing immediately the physical manifestations of Down Syndrome on the majority of the adults. One particularly small man began clapping when I handed him a menu. Another, larger guest smiled so big I thought his face would expand. “Thaaaank you,” he said. The woman with the lazy eye was dancing in her seat, and the balding man next to her began playing his air trumpet to La Vie en Rose, which was streaming softly through overhead speakers.

I smiled, caught up in the overwhelming surge of happiness emanating from the table.

The caregivers began collecting food orders, and I brought over a couple of pitchers of Diet Pepsi, setting one in front of a rather nervous looking man. He frowned. “I-I-I want lemonade. Wh-wh-where’s the lemonade?”

“It’s coming soon,” a caregiver soothed, attempting to avoid a panic attack in the restaurant. The frightened look on his face told me that he wasn’t reassured. I headed to the bar to pick up the pitcher of 7 Up (what Aussies call Lemonade), and brought it over to him.

“Here you go!” I reached over and filled his glass, watching his upward slanted eyes grow wide and a small, timid smile creep across his face. He looked at me briefly, gratitude in the depth of his eyes, before looking down to enjoy his bubbling drink. I felt indescribably wonderful.

I ordered their food and then went to deliver the birthday cake to my first table, after receiving the signal from one of the family members. Dessert and coffee came and went, and pretty soon it was time to bid goodbye to little Hannah. I knelt down to her level as she ran towards me, wrapping me up in her arms. “Goodbye Lauren!” She exclaimed, and bolted to the door with as much energy as her three-year old legs could muster.

I headed over to my table of fifteen, and began clearing plates. “Thank you!” I said, with overt gratitude, as each guest handed me their empty dinner dishes. The trumpet player, eager to help, began handing me side plates, knives, and forks, one by one. “Thank you. You’re so helpful!” I exclaimed. He beamed with happiness.

The woman with the lazy eye started stacking glasses, giggling almost uncontrollably as she placed each one atop the other. “Look how tall I can make them!” Eager to prevent disaster, I held on to the stack as it grew taller, and taller with every glass and giggle. At about two feet, I congratulated her on her amazing skyscraper and, laughing along at this point, unstacked the glasses and took them to the dishwasher.

Finally, it came time to say goodbye. I held some of their small hands in mine, thanking them for coming, and bidding them a safe flight back to Perth. But as the group approached the door, the nervous man was coming out of the restrooms upstairs, straggling behind. He stood at the top of the staircase and I waved. “Thank you for coming!” But he didn’t move. He looked at me, looked down at the stairs, and then back at me, his mouth open and lost for words.

“Do you need a hand down the stairs?” I asked. He nodded, so I walked towards him, unsure exactly what to do. Would he take my help? Or would he want to hold on to someone he trusted; should I get one of his caregivers? I walked up towards him and offered my hand. “Would you like me to walk down the stairs with you?” Another nod. He reached out and gripped my hand, and we descended together, step by step.

I don’t know that much about Down Syndrome, and I don’t have any eloquent conclusions to make about the disorder with which to end this post. But I do know that they warmed my heart that night, and that the three caregivers who spend their days and nights concerned about their wellbeing and happiness are truly wonderful people.

And it’s nights like these I love. Though they are few and far between, they almost make me second guess my plan to leave… Almost.

With all the love I have,
the traveling stahr…

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Day 26. My Brief Stint in Advertising

[E.D. So I was going to skip the following bit of my Tales from Down Under the Table. After all, we’re leaving Melbourne in just one week and I figured I’d just jump to the nitty gritty details of how I umm… quit. Sort of. But this is too embarrassing good to exclude.]

There is a commercial that plays on television here. A couple of talking Aussie crows intentionally make some noise in a tree, and a man (whose glass door has been previously polished with Windex) attempts to walk outside to investigate and… you guessed it… smacks right into the door. One of the crows falls out of the tree, laughing.

It’s a pretty mundane and unlikely commercial. Or I thought it was, until I uh... (I think you can see where this is going).

Let me back up. It was nearing the end of the night and I was carrying a server tray. A tray containing one latté, one (poorly made) Mojito, and one Cosmopolitan, sloshing precariously in a tall martini glass.

I wanted to be anywhere but there. My mind had already packed its bags and was standing on the platform of Gate Get the Hell Out. My eyelids were threatening to close, and my feet were sore beneath the weight of my constantly upright body, as I walked towards the always-open front door.

(And when I say always open, I don’t mean mostly open, or open during peak hours. I mean I had never seen the door closed.)

I headed, zombie-like and mildly depressed, to the patio outside.

SMACK.

The tray that had seconds before been balanced on my right hand struck the shiny, devious, straight-out-of-that-stupid-crow-commercial closed door and tipped upwards. Shock, embarrassment, and horror covered my face and body.

Oh, and also a latté, a (poorly made) Mojito, and a Cosmopolitan.

I miraculously managed to catch the glassware before it went crashing to the floor. But as for my pride? Nope. It was very much on the ground and soaked in a gross cranberry-alcohol-mint-coffee mixture.

Seriously. This was worse than that one time I bumped Meg at the pub and managed to overturn onto her, a tray of three glasses of wine, two beers and an assortment of mixed drinks. Because after the initial shock, (and resulting wet chill) Meg was laughing it off. Somehow I doubted this slip up would be received in the same manner.

I looked over at Bashir, who was out of customer view, and to my surprise, he was scolding another employee, John, over the spill. I hurried over. “It was my fault,” I said, giving John the chance to slide away.

“I know,” Bashir turned to me, daggers in his eyes.

The mess was cleaned, the drinks remade, and in moments the night moved on, as the night is known to do. As the restaurant slowed, I joined John and Anna by the kitchen. The three of us made small talk and drank water, thinking we were hidden from view.

“Laureeen.” An eerie chill crept up my spine. I set down my water glass, and headed over to Bashir. He gripped me by the shoulders. Ew, get your gross hands off me.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, referring to Anna and John. “They’re not helpful. They’re pushing you to make mistakes, DON’T YOU SEE?” His vile breath floated down around my face, and I turned away, nodding, confused. What is this, a goddamn game of survivor? Did I pick the wrong alliances? Will I be voted off at tribal council? Oh, please, please vote me off at Tribal Council…

Later on, taking notice of my depressed demeanor, John scribbled a smiley face on a spare napkin and held it up across the room. I sighed, and gave him my biggest grin.

Life is meant for happiness. Maybe not for everyone, and certainly not always. But most of the time, I strive for high spirits. And this job? This demeaning, suffocating, soulless job? Was not making me happy.

I needed out. And I had a plan.

Until next time,
the traveling stahr...

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I Heart Faces: Celebrating Teens

This week at I Heart Faces, the challenge is all about teens. This photo of two of April's besties, Sarah and Rosie, was taken at our Christmas Party a couple years ago.

In just a few days, the four of them (April, Sarah, Rosie & Andrea) are headed on a wild adventure across Europe. Have so much fun, girls!

(and be safe, too...)

Love,
the traveling stahr... 

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For You, Daddy

Here I am, sitting on my terribly uncomfortable Ikea couch, in my soon-to-be-old Melbourne apartment. The one I’ll look fondly upon years from now, when I remember the leap of faith—and geography—Curtis and I took in the year following my graduation.

The carpets are tattered and the mold spreads out in faint paisley prints across the bathroom ceiling, but in time, I won’t remember these discomforts. I’ll feel instead the warmth of the beach that was right across the road, and hear the dull roar from the bars on Fitzroy Street, where the locals and backpackers and junkies and lawyers all mingled to breathe in the air that is St Kilda.

Here I am, miles from you and so far away, and yet, every day we are connected. Because it was you who two years ago so plainly suggested that we “go away somewhere,” over lunch at the cozy Irish Pub in Tremblant. It was you who imbued within me a sense of adventure so strong that I begin staring into the distance, searching for a new journey on which to embark, merely months after settling into patterns, still fresh. It was you who showed me a world so big, and a world so accessible, requiring only the courage to reach out and touch it.

So thank you. Thank you for bringing me along to Take Your Daughter to Work Day at the White House when I was nine (even if I paid more attention to the free souvenir backpack than I did to Hillary Clinton’s speech). Thank you for always making me feel safe, not by shielding me from the inherent dangers of life, but by giving me the skills to tackle them head-on (or at least to try). Thank you for guiding me every step of the way on my path to the present (even if that guidance was requested the day before a big paper was due). And thank you for always believing in me.

From Melbourne, Australia, and from the bottom of my heart, happy Father’s Day, Daddy. You will always be my hero. And I will always be your little girl.

I love you,
Lolo

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Happy Birthday 'Lil Bro

Dearest brother,

Today, you are Seventeen. Seventeen!

Seriously though, how did that happen? It seems like just yesterday you were but a bump in Mum's belly, and April wanted to name you Abu, after the monkey in Aladdin.

Do you remember when you were so small and I pretended you were my very own American Girl Doll so I could dress you up in outfits matching mine? (I really hope not...)

Or when you were almost two, sitting in your high chair and we would never tire of asking you what sounds different animals make. You knew them all. Especially the grand finale of our little show, "what sound does a garbage truck make?"

"Pew, pew," you would say, pinching your little nose with two tiny fingers.

But then you grew up, as little boys do, and learned to do some incredible things. Like this:

I know there is nothing on this earth you can't do, no feat you can't conquer, no dream you can't achieve. You greet life head on, shouting, Take a look, World, because here I am.

And I grow more proud of you each passing day.

Happy Birthday Abu.

I will always love you.

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Upcoming Tidbits, and a Midnight Adventure

So there are some things I need to tell you... like how Curtis built a giant soccer ball that a SocceRoos (worst team name ever) fanatic is currently living in for the next month, or how I finally managed to quit (I use that term loosely) my soul-sucking job at the restaurant, or how we have travel plans--big, exciting travel plans--coming up just around the corner.

But those stories will have to wait. Because after waking up at 2:30am and taking the night bus into the city to join thousands of soccer fans to watch the SocceRoos (really? come on guys...) get trampled by the Germans (so sad), I am going back to bed (at the ripe hour of 8:30am).

In the meantime, look at all the people who are as crazy (and by now sleep-deprived) as Curtis, James and I!

Love,
the traveling stahr...

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Day 24. The Beginning of the End?

The days were slowly creeping by, and the 8km race I’d been training for was only a week away. My nerves had yet prevented me from asking for time off from work, but I knew it had to be done. Plus, things hadn’t been going so badly as of late.

I’d been promoted from maid to waitress (although Bashir’s beady little black eyes still followed me around the restaurant), I’d managed to elicit a few smiles from Mr. Mean Man, and I was becoming friends (well, it was more like people who spoke to each other quickly and quietly while the boss wasn’t looking, but I’ll take it!) with the other servers at work.

Yet, when I asked Anna if we were allowed to request time off, she told me about the ordeal she had gone through that had nearly cost her job. When asking for the weekend off for the Grand Prix the month prior, she had received a screaming lecture about her inability to commit and her general lack of skill as a waitress. (She is, in fact, one of the best I’ve worked with.)

“I was going to be honest, tell him I just needed the time off,” she explained, hovered over the computer screen to avoid another why-are-you-standing-around-doing-nothing-in-my-restaurant lecture. “But I knew he’d take it badly—or worse—say no, so I lied and told him my friend had surprised me with tickets and I had to go.”

When my shift was over, I found Bashir in the back office and knocked on the already open door. I took several deep breaths in an attempt to quell my pounding heart, but to no avail.

Bashir looked up from his desk, “Come een, Laureen.” Shudder.

“I just wanted to let you know that the race I have been training for, you know, how I can’t come in Saturdays? Well, it’s next weekend, on the 8^th.”

“Ok Laureen, we discuss this later,” he said, looking back down at his stack of papers. But terrified that if we discussed it later he would deny me the time off because he hadn’t received a week’s notice, I pushed on.

“Actually, I need to make sure you know now. It is a week away. And I’m going to need the 7^th off as well, because the race starts early in the morning and I will need a day to rest.” I was praying the nervous tremors in my body weren’t apparent in my speech.

He lifted up the April page of his calendar to the month of May and dragged his thick finger across to the Friday and Saturday I was requesting. “So, you need the 7^th and the 8^th for the race.”

Oh, if only you could have heard his tone. Like I was asking him for a year off. Like it was such an inconvenience. Like I was a troublesome child.

He didn’t speak for what felt like ten minutes, but was probably closer to a few seconds. “Ok. You take the Friday night and Saturday. But Sunday is the Mother’s Day and you do not take that off, do you understand?”

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t need Sunday off, just the 7^th and the 8^th.”

“Ok,” he replied, his voice labored and heavy with the hassle of accommodating another person’s schedule. “But you could never have Mother’s Day off.”

“But I don’t want Mother’s Day off,” I repeated, confused. “Just the 7^th and the 8^th.”

I headed home, puzzled by our exchange, but relieved that I had managed to secure time off for the race.

“I got the time off!” I told Curtis, excitedly, as I walked into the apartment. “Time off for what?” he asked.

“My race! The Mother’s D—” My heart sank. The Mother’s Day Classic. The 8k Mother’s Day Classic. I flung my laptop open and pulled up the race webpage. Of course. How did I make that mistake?

“What’s the matter?” Curtis asked.

“The Mother’s Day Classic, the race I’ve been training for, is on Mother’s Day.”

“Well, yes. That makes sense.”

“But I asked for the wrong days! For some reason I got the 8^th in my head and I asked for that day off and he said ok but there’s no way in hell I’m allowed to take off Mother’s Day or else he’ll eat me alive or have me drawn and quartered or worse—withhold last week’s pay!”

As he always does, Curtis managed to calm me down, and assured me we’d find a solution to my sticky, and potentially life-threatening, conundrum.

I slept uneasily that night.

It’s not as if I could just waltz right back in and tell him I’d made a mistake, that I actually did need the Sunday off. I already knew he’d never give it to me… he’d made that clear enough. I was stumped for ideas.

What was I going to do?

Love,

the traveling (and very nervous) stahr...

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Play on, Playa

When you live with a guitar player, every day is filled with music. We play music, sing to music, and talk about music. We share music; we analyze, scrutinize and soak in music.

And on Mondays and Thursdays, we drink to music. Mostly good music—especially when James takes his turn on stage—but there are the occasional embarrassingly terrible performances thrown in for good luck. Because what would Open Mic Nights be without the lovely… variety?

This musician is one of the good ’uns:

He plays most of his own songs, and has this sweet, quiet demeanor that makes his talent all the more remarkable.

The I Heart Faces challenge of the week is “Play,” and I immediately thought of music, and how immersed I have been in the vibrant music scene since settling here four months ago. I sure will miss the everyday melodies of Melbourne when we move northward...

Love always,

the traveling stahr... 

P.S. Have I made an irrevocable mistake? How much longer can I endure this toxic working environment? Stay tuned for Day 24 of the epic journey Tales from “Down Under” the Table.

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Day 22. Smother 'Em With Smiles

Mr. Mean Man comes in almost every day for lunch. Has for decades, I’ve been told. He sits at the same table, orders the same dish, and barks the same snide complaints about “the service in this place” if someone attempts to clear his empty plate too soon.

“He sure is grouchy,” I told Patricia one morning. She smiled knowingly, “Yes, he does not make many smiles, that one. Always angry.”

But where there is anger, I see pain. And unfortunately for Mr. Mean Man, who probably just wants to eat his Big Breakfast in peace, where there is pain, I see (insert jazz hands) PROJECT!

This is a man who needs me, I’d convinced myself a couple weeks prior. He is trapped in a bitter body and just wants to be happy.

I was determined to make him smile.

It didn’t have to be a big, cheesy, beaming smile. I would settle for a small, knowing, close-mouthed grin if that’s all he could give me. But I would make him smile. If it was the last thing I’d do at this wretched restaurant, I would brighten old Mean Man’s day.

I implemented a simple strategy I picked up from Meg at the Pub back home. “Kill ‘em with kindness,” she would say, if I were handling a customer with a particular large stick up their you-know-what.

“How are you doing today, sir?” I’d ask every morning, a smile flashed from ear to ear. Most days he furrowed his brow in confusion—or contempt—and then looked away. Occasionally I got a gruff response: a nod of the head in acknowledgement, a short reply of “good” or “fine.”

One time, though, I even heard him mumble, “Well I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He was making a joke! And I was making progress.

On this particular day, the Mean Man’s regular table was occupied when he shuffled in for lunch. He sat down elsewhere, looking rather displeased.

“Goodmorning!” I beamed, dimples like craters against my puffy cheeks. “Somebody’s in your spot, today.” He looked unimpressed.

“I have a second spot,” he replied gruffly, unfolding his napkin onto his lap. “The Big—” he began to say, but I cut him off.

“You’ll have the Big Breakfast, lightly fried eggs, lightly fried toast,” I recited. “I know.”

And just like that his eyes grew wide and a thin smile formed across his hardened face. I was so pleased I almost forgot to leave and put in his order. An awkward pause later, I scurried to the computer, then over to Patricia.

“Patricia!” I whispered excitedly. I was practically jumping up and down. “I made the Mean Man smile.”

She laughed. At my naiveté, perhaps, or the childishness of my simple game. But then she told me of his hard battle with alcoholism, and of the things she’s seen over the years.

“A long time ago, everyday he come in morning and night. Sometimes he drink too much. Most times he drink too much. All hours into the night, but now, no more. He stop drinking and always is angry.”

My heart ached, and I was filled with a desire to make him smile every day.

When he had finished every last morsel of his Big Breakfast, Mean Man got up to leave. “Have a wonderful day,” Smily, smily. Grin, grin.

“Ahh, thank you,” he replied calmly. AHH! HE THANKED ME! You’re welcome, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t will the words out of my head. Instead I just stared in disbelief, as he walked out the door and into the sharp sunlight.

Maybe I needed a little more work on this whole being-his-best-friend-forever thing…

With love,

the traveling stahr… 

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