"Wipeout" Doesn't Even Begin to Describe it...

Warm tears spilled down my face as I dragged myself out of the ocean and up the bridge to camp, thankful for the unrelenting rain that was still spattering from the sky, a watery camouflage to mask my choking sobs.

It doesn’t fucking make sense. I swore angrily at myself, unable to grasp the reasons behind my piss poor performance in this morning’s lesson. Two times I had stood up for longer than a couple of seconds. Two times in a goddamn hour and a half.

Pathetic.

“I don’t understand, you should be turning by now,” John had said to me, after what seemed like my 257^th wipeout. He’d meant well, he’d wanted to rile me up, help me channel my anger and frustration into surfing. But I was too far gone. I felt like a failure.

The lesson had been only half finished, but he’d seen the exhaustion nestling in behind my eyes and sent me out of the water before I could get hurt, or worse, grow more disheartened.

“You and I are going to get in a lot of arguments,” he’d said yesterday, a comforting smile painted across his face. “Because I think I have more faith in your feet than you do.”

His words played over in my mind as I stood eyes closed under the shower, willing the scalding water to wash away my salty tears. I wanted to have faith in my feet, I really did. I wanted to “just jump up” and “look forward” and “keep your weight over your toes” and “don’t think about it” and ahhhh there was just so much to remember and I couldn’t. Stop. Thinking.

I collapsed into bed with heavy eyes and a gloomy spirit, and fell asleep the instant my head felt the soft give of my candy-striped pillow.

***

“It’s really nice outside,” Curtis said, waking me up. I’d been asleep for a few hours and I could see the sun streaming across a bright blue sky through the window in our cosy bedroom. “Want to come for a surf? See if you feel better?”

I rolled over, away from his touch. “I hate the ocean,” I mumbled, still groggy and feeling no less miserable.

But as he changed into his boardies and pulled on his favorite Rip Curl rashie I bought for $7 at a thrift store in Melbourne, I wondered if maybe a surf was what I needed. A chance to put back together the pieces of my shattered ego, and remind myself that I actually could surf.

I changed in a hurry and followed Curtis out to the surfboard racks. After selecting the two best boards and rummaging around for some wax, we headed out to the water, and I finally caught some waves.

It wasn’t my best surf, the waves were messy and, though small in size, came pounding in one after another making it difficult to paddle out. But I stood up. I stood, and I turned, and I kept my weight over my toes and my gaze on the tree line in front of me. And even though I’m pretty sure I was still “thinking about it,” I could feel the confidence creeping cautiously back into my body.

I didn’t realize when I signed up, but in addition to a surf course, the Academy is going to be an all out war inside my head. Each day—each session—a battle of its own, some (like this morning’s) resulting in mental destruction, and others more victorious.

I am not a quitter, but I’ve come to realize I can be easily discouraged, and I have a feeling that tackling this mental obstacle will be my most difficult undertaking in the eight weeks to come.

So to my brain I say, bring it on.

ts…

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"I Surf Because... What Else Would I Do in My Backyard?"

So there are some things I need to finish. Updates that beg desperately to be made. Stories that nag at me, pulling impatiently at the hems of my mind. Post me tomorrow, they say, tugging. But I have things to do, I protest, stomping my foot. I have a life to live, a soul to search, and so in turn, this blog suffers and has remained highly uninformative about my journey. And for that I apologize, to the both of us.

The missing posts will materialize (hopefully) and the stories with endings untold will arrive (in time) at their conclusions.

But right now, I want to tell you about TODAY.

After weeks of waffling over whether or not to stay here at Spot X, after warm, salty days of trying to sort out a plan without the help of my ever-trustworthy To Do Lists (because what did I even have to put on them?), and after nights spent dreaming about the thrill of adventure and tossing in hot nightmares over the binding chains of responsibility and time… Curtis and I decided to stay and begin a two-month long Surf Academy to become qualified surf instructors.

How random is that? And yet, fitting.

Day One of (Surf) School

There is supposed to be a beach here...

Here there was a volleyball net. Oh ya, and a field.

The rain pelted down from an unrelenting sky as we huddled around what seemed to be the only dry picnic table in the eating area, plates piled high with eggs, bacon, pancakes, watermelon and an assortment of other breakfast tidbits. “There’s no way he’ll make us go surfing in this weather, right?” one of us wondered aloud. A dozen heads turned in unison towards the ocean to watch the angry waves, murky brown with storm debris, crash chaotically into one another.

Around 8am, our instructor John strolled into the eating area, totally unfazed by the messy weather. He shook his head casually, sending beads of water flying off the hood of his sleek Rip Curl rain jacket. “All right, let’s get into it,” he said in a thick Aussie accent, and waved us inside the adjoining movie room.  

For the first couple of hours we trudged through usual start-of-a-new-class obligations; paperwork was passed around, names and details were recorded, class structures and schedules were outlined, and tea and coffee was sipped noiselessly as the rain pounded on the roof, stubbornly refusing to yield.

“Who’s ever been caught in a rip?” He asked, watching a couple of hands shoot up in affirmation. “Well that’s what we’re going to do today.” His voice was matter-of-fact but his smile was cheeky and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that staying for the Academy had been the right decision.

We sprinted back to our cabins, speed our only ally against the driving rain, and changed into our boardies and bathing suits. I struggled into my skin-tight thermal, a moisture wicking long sleeve surfing top I bought on impulse in Byron Bay (which has surprisingly turned out to be one of the most useful purchases I’ve made in Oz) as the rest of the crew wrestled their bodies into rain-soaked wetsuits.

We grabbed surfboards and made our way down to the creek that feeds into the ocean, which, though calm and stagnant on most days, was raging wildly this morning and looked very much like a Class V rapids. The rain stung my face and my exposed legs, like being pelted with handfuls of pointy icicle tips, an assault on my already chilled skin.

“Mind that your leg rope doesn’t get caught on the rocks,” John cautioned, before tossing his surfboard into the rushing water and launching his body on top of it. In a matter of seconds, he was flying towards the ocean, grinning wildly and beckoning us in for the ride.

Like penguins on the edge of an iceberg, we tumbled in one by one after our fearless leader, leaping onto our boards and into the vacuum of muddy water. The lesson this morning was to get a feel for the way the water moves. We rode the rip out to the waves, then turned the board around and, while still lying on our stomachs, rode the waves back to where we entered the rip.

It was a chair lift-ski slope cycle of sorts. Only, more salt and less clothing.

It was unbelievably fun, and I laughed for just about the entire hour in the water, despite being tossed around like I was stuck inside a really wet tumble dryer. When it was time to go, I rode my last wave in to the beach, and struggled to pick up my board. The wind howled back, nearly knocking me over as I fought my way to the bridge back to camp.

“I’m going to leave my leg rope around my ankle,” I yelled over the elements to Anne and Anna as they looped their leggies over their boards. “Knowing me the wind will catch the board and I’d have to run after it!”

I reached the bridge shortly behind Anna, and watched as she waded up to her waist before making it safely up the stairs. I stepped into the water and felt the current rush around me, threatening to carry me back out to sea. I approached the bridge steps and passed the nose of my board into Anna’s outstretched hands, and in that instant, my legs buckled under the weight of the rushing water.

I struggled for balance, grasping for stability with my feet, and clawing at rocks with my hands until soon the leg rope grew taught and my left ankle was jerked to the surface by the tension. 

I looked up to see Anna doubled over, arms outstretched and clinging with all their might to the nose of my surfboard, to which, 15 feet away, I was still attached by the leg. I exploded into a fit of giggles, which, of course, made standing all the more difficult, but eventually (and not so gracefully, I would say) I managed to climb to my feet and wade to the bridge, and to safety.

I am salty, sandy, and soaked to the bone, but above all, I am filled with excitement and anticipation about learning to surf and about where this course might take me. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to be postponing real life for just a little longer.

Emblazoned in bright pink on the back of my Spot X hoodie is the company slogan. Find Your Mojo, it says. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

So much love,

the traveling stahr...

** Title quote courtesy of Andy Irons

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Gone Walkabout: the Beginning of our Epic Aussie Adventure

Hello!

Yes, I am still alive.

And no, I haven't “cashed in [my] airline tickets to buy goofy hats and a sheep ranch and given up on returning to North America,” a concern expressed by my dad in a recent e-mail regarding my ongoing “walkabout” (though the idea does sound rather enticing). If Curtis could stand to be away from his family for another year, I won't lie, we would likely consider the prospect.

I am writing this first bit on a bus, on the way to a cattle station in the eastern outback town of Kroombit (random, I know, and oddly pertinent to the previous paragraph). But I'm going to take a wild guess here and assume there will be no internet and I will in fact be posting this when we get into Rainbow Beach, our next stop on the coast, and the gateway to the famous Fraser Island.

(Ok, well I didn't get time to post in Rainbow... or Noosa... or Brisbane. Or Sufer's Paradise... which, ironically, is known for its poor waves, overcrowded beaches and generally bad surfing. Despite having free internet at our next stop, the bustling hippie town of Byron Bay, I didn't find time to finish writing & post this there, either! We are now on the Coffs Coast at this little surf camp/hostel called Spot X, working for accommodation, yummy food, and endless surfing in a town called Arrawarra... but I'm getting ahead of myself.)

So... where did I leave off? Ah yes, the tragic llama incident and baby Francesca, among other updates. Basically (I never did figure out how to make that google map thingy, so if you're interested, you'll have to input the points yourself) our journey over the past two months has consisted of something to this effect:

LEG 1

Melbourne, Victoria to Adelaide, South Australia for three days. Highlights include the Great Ocean Road and the Grampians (a Eucalyptus Rainforest and National Park).

The GOR was just as beautiful the second time around (it actually worked out cheaper to tour it again than it would have been to bypass it and fly straight onto Adelaide). Also, the trip was far more relaxing as a three day tour than it had been as the one day trip that we took back in March.

We used our day off in Adelaide wisely, South Australia's capital being a fairly small and boring town, and took a day trip into the Barossa Valley wine region. As of late, Curtis has been fascinated with wine making, so this was particularly interesting for him. And plus, who doesn't love being drunk before 10am? We visited five wineries, (including the renowned Orlando Winery, home of Jacob's Creek), had about six or seven tasting glasses at each location, and befriended a lovely Aussie/German couple from Melbourne. All in all, a delicious day.

The facebook photo album for our trip from Melbourne to Adelaide is here.

Alrighty, I think that's enough for now! I'm getting into a regular schedule here at Spot X, which should translate to more frequent posts. Or more surfing. One of the two.

Lots of love,

the traveling stahr...

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G'day Mate! (A Short Update)

Ok. So. I had FULLY intended to post frequent (dare I say daily?) updates as Curtis and I set off to trek about the Australian continent. Little did I know there would be no internet until now (or phone signal for that matter). And there is noooo way I can sum up the past 10 days in one post, especially seeing as we have to be up again in 5 hours to hop on a bus heading to Darwin. Hooray for 4am wake-up calls...

At the moment we are in Alice Springs, a beautiful, weird town, smack dab in the middle of Australia. The Outback dirt is rusty red and the sky is bigger than I have ever seen. I could stay for a long, long time. But alas, we journey North tomorrow.

Out of all the (over 2,700) photos I've taken in the past few weeks, this brings back one of my most favorite memories. I can still feel her soft, silky fur in my hands, and her tiny kangaroo breath on my face as she kissed me goodbye. Meet baby Francesca:

In other animal news, I now hate llamas. ALL I wanted to do was say hello. And then this furry monster spit on my face. And then Curtis fell over laughing as I drowned in embarrassment and bits of grass and pukey llama loogie.

Gross.

On another note, one of the positives of always getting up early has been the breathtaking sunrises we've seen. We pulled the bus over one morning as six o'clock slowly gave way to seven, and experienced this:

But the most beautiful sunrise yet, was watching the changing colors of the famous Uluru. Expect a full and detailed blog post with about a billion more photos later on, but for now, a teaser:

Alrighty, my creaky single bed in my 8 bed hostel room is calling my name. Time for sleep!

Lots of love, and more updates coming soon. And by soon I mean whenever I next get internet... which could be never. But no matter, I don't think I have ever been happier.

the traveling stahr...

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(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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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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