SS Ayrfield aka The Floating Forest

Denizens of the internet:  I finally have something real to contribute.  I will tell you how I got to the remains of the SS Ayrfield aka the floating forest, and you can too!


The last week I was in Sydney, the SS Ayrfield had an internet moment.  For whatever reason, it was suddenly everywhere: compiled onto lists of cool abandoned things, showing up in awesome pictures, and being touted as a something you must see before you die.  

It's rare that I'm somewhere when something is actually happening/capturing the collective conscience.  So, I decided to seek it out and see it for myself.  Which is where I ran into a bit of a problem.  While plenty of people seemed to have found it (with photos galore as proof), no one mentioned how to get there.  After some trial and error (and some pestering of the very patient staff at the hostel), I figured it out.  And I want to share the fruits of my knowledge with you!

For those that managed to avoid the hype, the SS Ayrfield was a steam collier built in the UK in 1911.  It was registered in Sydney in 1912 and during both world wars it transported supplies to American troops in the South Pacific.  In the early 70s, it was sent to Homebush Bay, a boat breaker yard in west Sydney on the Parramatta River.  At this point, the usable parts of the ship were taken, everything else was scraped, and the hull was left to rot in the bay.

The SS Ayrfield would have been just one more slowly disintegrating hunk of metal, except that nature had other plans.  The mangroves near the rusted out hull decided to expand.

Two views of the SS Ayrfield

And this rotting husk became a floating forest of mangroves, in spite of the polluted waters.

So how do you get there?

There are a lot of public transportation options to get to Homebush Bay; it's near Olympic Park, so there would have to be.  The buses and trains have stops there, but I took the ferry from Circular Quay (you can also get it from Darling Harbor).  Unfortunately, I don't know what a ticket would cost you to get there and back, because I had purchased a weekly pass for $61 - which got me all the way to the Blue Mountains and points beyond, and included unlimited train, subway, bus, and ferry rides.  Totally worth it if you're going to be using a lot of public transportation.  It will not get you to the airport, as there's an additional fee for that (I found out the hard way).

Beautiful Homebush Bay

From the ferry landing, walk along the sidewalk or bike trail into town, about a kilometer.  When you see a sign for restaurants along the waterfront, turn left and follow that street to the waterfront (maybe four blocks?  six?  I honestly can't remember - but there's really nothing else to be heading towards, trust me).  From there you'll be looking out over the bay.  The Ayrfield, and a few other wrecks, are to your right.  You can follow the path as it hugs the shore around and get quite close.

Is it worth it?

That's hard to say.  Truthfully, it's not that impressive in person.  Take away the dramatic lighting of sunrise and sunset and a zoom lens, and you've basically traveled an hour to see a dozen trees crammed into a rusting hulk.  

The whole neighborhood is vaguely creepy, in a post apocalyptic sort of way.  There are blocks and blocks of luxury apartments - and apparently no one around to inhabit them.  I spent a few minutes trying to figure out what direction the zombies were going to come from and what the best method of escape would be.  For the two hours I wandered around, I saw maybe half a dozen people.  Those restaurants you thought you were walking towards?  They don't actually exist.  I don't know if the neighborhood was part of the fallout of the 2008 financial crises or what, but there was (almost) no one about.  It was a warm and sunny Sunday evening, where was everyone?

Not here  

Here's what you should know: it's definitely further afield than almost any "touristy" thing in Sydney and it will take at least an hour to get there.  While public transportation will take you to the general area, none drops you off directly at the Ayrfield.  You're either walking from the ferry landing or the bus stop, probably a kilometer or more.  While the terrain is flat, the sidewalk wasn't always smooth, but the bike path appeared to be.  So people with mobility issues might have trouble.  

There also isn't much else to do in the area.  Like I said before, the restaurants on the waterfront just weren't .  I wandered around the streets and did find a coffee shop that was open (and had a bathroom!)  but that was it.  If you take the bus, I think it drops you off near Olympic Stadium and there should be restaurants and signs of life in that general vicinity.  Since I didn't go that route, I can't really speak to it.

I enjoyed my adventure and getting out of Sydney proper (and pretending to be the lone survivor in a post apocalyptic world), but it might not be for everyone.    

Sydney I'll Come Running

It's my last day in Australia.  I've just been bumming around Sydney trying to take it all in.  

In my one nod to my chosen profession, yesterday I took the ferry to Manly beach and stopped by Adriano Zumbo's patisserie.  It was the perfect day for lounging around drinking coffee and eating sweets.  And then hiking up to the top of the sea cliffs for views of Sydney.

Prior to that I spent the weekend in the Blue Mountains hiking around.  All this hiking!  Don't worry, there have been sandwiches and meat pies aplenty to keep me going.  It was freezing in the mountains, but the hostel I stayed in had a fireplace and a cat, who was reluctantly available for snuggles.  

Now I'm just doing all the things I love about Sydney one last time: my final visit to the botanic gardens (naptime!), a last trip to the library (no really, it's awesome), and a flat white or three.

I'm sad to be going - there's still so much I didn't get to see or do - but I'm excited to be heading to Seoul and to a friend.  There are only so many times you can have the what's your name/where are you from/how long are you traveling conversation before you just start to make shit up.  And then live in fear that you won't remember what you made up.

I am equally exited about going home (CATS!!!), freaked out (employment, wherefore art thou?), and plotting my next escapade.  In the meantime, it's naptime.

And then there was one (week left)

How did this happen?  Didn't I just get here?  Where did the time go?

I'M NOT READY TO LEAVE!

But that's how it goes, my lovelies.  I am down to my last week in Oz.

I'm back in Sydney after braving the outback and seeing a very big red rock.  There are stories to tell and situations to be sorted.

I didn't climb to the top of Uluru.  I was contemplating it on the ride out there and the trail was open, a rarity.  But then I saw the path and after the Mt Wellington sufferfest, I thought my time would be better spent circumnavigating the rock instead of battling the enthusiastic flies and relentless sun while trying not to fall off. The path is practically vertical and Catherines are clumsy and lacking in adhesive material in the feet and hands.  So yeah.

The base walk was beautiful; being able to see the different perspectives was amazing.  No regrets.

So how to spend the last week?  I'm headed out to the Blue Mountains this weekend (train ride!) and then my last few days in Sydney.  Then I'm out.

It feels so unreal.

Some Cogitation

It's been a quiet few weeks for the mobile worldwide Noms HQ.  There's been a lot of reading and yoga.  And coffee - though that probably goes without saying.

So what have I been doing?  Walking around and exploring neighborhoods and public gardens, both in Hobart and Melbourne.  And hanging out at the library.  Honestly, the Victoria State Library has become my second home; I want to move in here.  Truthfully, I've been looking for the quiet; mostly I've just wanted to reflect: on travels and on news I've gotten from home.

When I was living in DC I worked at a nightclub where every band that mattered played.  You think I'm joking?  Sure, whatever flavor of the month graced the stage, but so did Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, and James Brown.  It was an unparalleled musical education and everyone who worked there was both awesome and slightly unhinged.  I fit right in.

More than any other place I've worked, it felt like family.  Even now, three thousand miles away and a decade later, I still keep in touch with most of them.  Which is why it hurt so much to find out one of them had died.  Worse still, he was one of the most enthusiastic and happy people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing and he leaves behind his wife (also a friend) and their two kids.  It's sad when anyone leaves the party before you think they should, but this feels especially cruel: like he left right as it was getting good.

The same day I found out that I'm going to be an auntie once again, for the third time.  So this holiday season there will be not one, but two new McNultys in the world - you've been warned.

So it goes.

Wombatty

5 days
1899 kilometers
(That's 1180 miles, people!)
An absurd amount of savory pies and coffee consumed.
One road race, accidentally entered.
And a wombat named Puffin snuggled.

I survived my traipse around Tas road trip!

It was absolutely wonderful, exactly what I think traveling should be: the freedom to go where you want and do what you want, coupled with an easy to stray from plan and barely fixed agenda.  

If I had the capital, I would just buy a junker and continue my trip around the rest of Australia.  Unfortunately, the flesh is willing, but the bank account is weak.  Always, the details.

As it stands, I spending a relaxing week being in Hobart and then I'm back to Melbourne for a bit.  The rest is still being worked out.

Also, wombats are the best animals ever.  Wombat snuggles for everyone!

(world peace achieved)

Oh, and no wallabies, or any other nocturnal nibbler, was killed in the course of this road trip.

Driving on the left?

BAM.

Nailed it.

Tassied Again

One thing Australia in general and Tasmania in particular does not lack is jails.  Or gaols, if you're into that sort of spelling.  It's not surprising, all the white people here were originally sent by the British as punishment and Tasmania was seen as the even worse punishment.  

The worst of the worst offenders were sent to Port Arthur, a jail situated on the Tasman peninsula.  Much like Alcatraz, nature offered a barrier between the poor souls who ended up there and the rest of the population, in this case rough, rocky terrain and freezing, shark filled waters.

This is where I was supposed to go yesterday, after seeing nature preserve full of Tasmanian Devils.

This is not where I ended up.  There were no devils.  There was, however, wombat poop where I ended up, but sadly, no actual wombat.

In true Tassie fashion, the tour van pulled up and the guide informed me that the Port Arthur tour had been cancelled but he was going to the Freycinet National Park and Wineglass Bay, would I like to come?  

I was eventually going to go to both of these places on my road trip, and it was too late to book another day tour to Port Arthur, so I went.

This seems to be happening a lot to me on this trip.  Granted, it's not the most planned or best thought out trip ever, but the plans I do make tend to fall through. The thing is, everyone involved is so nice and charming, that it's hard to remain too upset.  For example, at one point the guide, Jeremy, was quizzing about where we were going.  I was the only one answering because, yes I am an insufferable know-it-all ,and I hate unanswered questions.

Jeremy: You seem to know a lot about a place you weren't going.
Me: I was going to drive here on my mini road trip.
Jeremy:  And now I'm saving you the trouble by chauffeuring you myself.
Me: You're a gentleman and a scholar.
Jeremy:  You noticed!

See?  I adore banter and people who play along with it.  How could I stay mad?

Freycinet and Wineglass Bay were typical Tasmanian scenery, in that they were entirely untypical:  Granite Mountains surrounded by white sand beaches, hidden coves, and boulders covered in an only-in-Tas fiery orange lichen.  One of the reasons these natural wonders are as well preserved as they are is because they're not easy to get to.  It certainly wasn't a Mt Wellington level sufferfest, but there was some light hiking involved.  Obviously, I was dressed in my gaol going finest: jeans and a thermal hoodie.

Can we talk about hiking in jeans for a minute?  Because it fucking sucks.  Hey, maybe you have a magical pair of jeans that fits you and your three besties perfectly even though you're all different sizes (sooo crazy!) and they allow you to have magical experiences like screwing your super hot soccer coach, (but don't worry, it's not creepy! ) and an understanding step dad with a zillion frequent flyer miles so you and said besties can go to Greece at a moment's notice, but I do not.

No, for me hiking in jeans results in the following experience:  I get hot and sweaty and suddenly it feels like they're two sizes too small and trying to choke off my legs.  Then they stay moist for hours and perhaps it's just my body chemistry mingled with the cotton and dye, but there's always a faintly metallic odor that clings unpleasantly to them.

So that was the one damper on the day.

Everyone keeps pointing out that since I'm renting a car, I can drive to Port Arthur.  It's in the opposite direction of where I'm going, but I may figure out a way to get there yet.

Driving.  I'm pretty freaked out about it.  I'll be alone.  It's not like road tripping in the states.  And I hesitate to drive after dark, as that is when most of the wildlife is active and I don't particularly fancy trying to clean wallaby out of a rental car grill.  (I also got the extra coverage for this particular reason.  Do you even know the guilt I would feel if I killed anything?)

I wrote about all of my worries to my Dad and his response was:  "I have faith in your driving abilities; you drive in LA daily."  So true.  Thanks, Dad.

That Which Does Not Kill You (serves to remind you what a puny, insignificant worm you really are)

Currently in Hobart, having fled the vampire filled Launceston.  

So maybe it's a good thing that I didn't do the Overland Track, after all, I nearly killed myself yesterday hiking up Mt Wellington.  And that was just a day hike.

Let me explain: as with all things that almost kill you it seemed like a good idea at the time.  I mean, hell, a bus deposits you halfway up to the trail head, how hard could it be?

I fully confess that what follows is all entirely my own fault.  

So yeah, it seemed foolproof, take a city bus to the trail head ($5) and then spend the day hiking up to the summit, enjoy views, take pictures, hike down.  Cheapest, awesomest day ever!

There were dubious beginnings.  First, I had trouble even getting a bus pass - why does no one in Hobart want to take my money?  The rest of the country seems comfortable enough with that act.  Then I had to wait 35 minutes for the appropriate bus, which isn't a big deal, but as the bus ride was another 30 minutes, it put me at a later start then what I had originally planned.

I didn't have a good map, just the one in my travel guide that's only 2/3 of a page and cut off around the edges.  I didn't even have a realistic estimate how long it would take to get to the top: the lady at the bus station - 2 hours, the dudes at my hostel - 1 hour, the sign at the trail head - 3 hours.

All of this adds up to Catherine rethinking this undertaking and doing it at a later date, right? Wrong.  I was hell bent on scaling this mountain, on this particular day.

And then I did perhaps one of the stupidest things of my adult life.

I didn't fill up my canteen before I set out.

That's basic.  That's one of the first things you do before every hike, even the ones you've been on a million times.  I have no explanation.  Like I said, it was an act of stupidity beyond what I normally inflict upon myself.

From the bus stop, there were several dark, ominous trails that snaked through the woods.  None of them were marked as summit trails, so I picked the middle one and set off.  I don't consider myself an especially experienced hiker - I do my fair share of hiking in LA, but I'm not blazing new trails through the Southern California wilderness.  Mt Wellington, it should be noted, is 1270 meters tall.  That's roughly 4167 feet.  I have never particularly paid attention to the elevation gained and lost on my favorite trails, so I'm not sure how it stacks up.

Within the first 30 minutes it was obvious I had desperately underestimated the difficulty of the trail.  I guess because it's so accessible to the biggest city in Tas, I assumed it would be easy.  

What followed was three hours of ascent; steep, rocky trails that had me sweaty profusely and a constant wind chilling me to the bone.  Of course I ran out of water.  I kept pushing upward because I knew it was possible to drive to the top and I figured I could follow the road back down.  About halfway to the top, I started getting dizzy spells and was afraid to try to clamber down the loose boulders.

Sitting in a warm library, it's hard to stress how scary it really was.  I only saw maybe half a dozen people on the trail the entire time.  What would have happened if I had truly been in distress?

I made it to the top and snapped a few pictures (bragging rights and a humility reminder).  I happened to see an older couple taking each others pictures and I stopped and offered to take a picture of them together.  We started talking and I told them about my ordeal, they insisted on driving me down.

I have never been so grateful in my entire life.  I may have cried.  In the bathroom of course.  They saved me probably a cold and uncomfortable hour walking down to the bus stop and who knows how long waiting for the bus.

It took several hours and a hot shower to chase the chills away completely.  I treated myself to a dinner of fish and chips, because nothing says congratulations on living like fried carbohydrates.

As for my next adventure, I set on Friday to see more of the island.  In a car.  Driving in Australia.  Keep your fingers crossed.  

In Tasmania

Well I made it.  

I am actually in Tasmania.

Let's just take a moment, shall we?

It was not quite the triumphant arrival I was hoping for.  For one, I flew at night, thus depriving myself of that first bird's eye view of Tas.  It was nearly 10pm by the time I collected my bag and headed out of the airport, only to find that the promised shuttle that "meets every incoming flight" did not, in fact, meet flights after sunset.  And the taxis charge more after dark.

Does Tas have a plague of sparkle vamps I don't know about?  Are there ruffians about?  Highwaymen?  I really don't understand the concept of prices rising as the sun sets.  At this point my options were pay the premium to get to the hostel I'd already paid for or sleep in the airport.

I probably should have chosen airport.

After I handed over my $50 for the 14km ride (say it with me now: OUCH), I decided that I needed a drink.

Unfortunately, downtown Launceston isn't exactly a happening place after dark.  (There must be vampires.)  The only place I could find serving anything was an absurdly well lit Keno parlor (I KNOW - Keno still exists and people still play it?!?).

I ordered a pint of Boag's, the local brew, and scanned the room.  The situation was ripe for poor choices and regrettable decisions.  Sadly, I was the most attractive person in the room and the only person not feeding quarters into slot machines.  

Since they didn't serve any hard liquor (what?) and I didn't want to drink anymore beer - hey, I'm on the top bunk, it's annoying climbing into and out of the bunk to go to the bathroom AND I have to remember the key because the bathroom is down the hall - I just left.

Defeated, I went back to the hostel. It was only 11pm and a total ghost town.  Not a creature was stirring.  Except for the vampires. So I went to bed.

This morning, I was woken early by the other girls in the dorm.  I hiked around Cataract Gorge and got my first look at Tassie proper.  It is beautiful and unlike any place I've ever been.  Imagine if the Pacific Northwest portion of the States had an affair with England and the resulting baby was banished to the southern hemisphere and filled with animals that have pouches and hop, and that's basically Tasmania.

And now for my least favorite activity: MAKING DECISIONS.  Do I hike the Overland Track, aka the hike I've been telling everyone is my reason for this trip, or do I rent a car and see more of the island?  Or do I say fuck it and just book another bus tour?  All I know is the hostel is only paid through tomorrow morning, so I need to decide fast.

Busing it

I'm always conflicted by taking bus tours of places.  On one hand, it's probably the cheapest and easiest way to see a vast majority of the local sights and someone else has to deal with the details.  On the other, it feels like a copout.  Aren't I supposed to be a Kerouacian figure with just a satchel on my back and my thumb out, trying to make my way in the big, bad world?

Why yes, I did read On the Road at a really impressionable age.  (And then I never read it again, which makes me curious how it holds up for the adult, tax paying me.) 

My terror of getting sunburned keeps me standing on the sides of roads for long periods of time (because what else could happen standing on the side of the road looking vulnerable in a foreign country?  Nothing, right?), so I decided to take a bus tour of the Great Ocean Road.

The Great Ocean Road, for those of you too lazy to google, is a stretch of highway along the dramatic Victorian coastline.  It was built by soldiers returning from World War I, and meanders from Torquay to Apollo Bay and beyond, about 250 km in all.  I was told I was not to leave Australia without seeing it.  

It is, in fact, pretty great.  It reminded me somewhat of the PCH in California, but we don't have the limestone stacks of the 12 Apostles, or Koala Bears just hanging out in trees.  There are pictures - which I still can't access.  Wi-fi is quaint here.  Web design an afterthought.  So I'm saving the details of the trip for later.

Travelling along the GOR was the first time I had really been outside of urban areas since I got here.  It was lovely to get out into the countryside; I'm leaving for Tasmania tonight, so I think that won't be much of a problem soon.

What really strikes me about bus tours is that you're stuck in a small space with strangers for a really long day (or days depending on the trip), 14 hours in this case.

I have a friend who insists on every journey, you need a nemesis, someone you can funnel all of your irritations of travel towards.  I generally don't have to search for a nemesis, they usually find me.  

A trio of French girls.  They were absurdly bright and giggly for so early in the morning.  And they clearly knew each other, since they got on at the same hostel.  They never stopped talking - not once in the entire 14 hours.  At first, I was impressed by the sheer amount of words they were generating.  By about hour 8, I was shocked they had anything left to say.  How had they not used all of the conversation in the entire world?

It is entirely possible that I can understand the language now.  

My Kingdom for a Map

I have left the hustle of Sydney behind and am about to start my second full day in Melbourne. I wish I could say I was enjoying it more.  Maybe there was too much hype; everyone told me Melbourne would be my town.  It's full of coffee shops and markets and gardens, what else does a Catherine need?

A map, it turns out.  A comprehensive map, instead of the piecemeal neighborhood maps that don't entirely connect.  Because why would anyone need to know how to get from one neighborhood to the next? 

And decent weather.  It was overcast when I landed, burned off and got humid as I was trudging to my hostel, and then poured rain when I went out to explore.  

It's not like I'm not actually enjoying myself; there is a lot of good coffee here.  And the proprietors of said shops generally are fine with me sipping and reading to my heart's content.  It's just - I knew it was coming, I just didn't expect it quite this soon.  I'm not homesick, per se, but more annoyed with the effort it takes to do things that I don't think twice of doing at home.  Let me explain.  

I don't know where anything is: going to the post office yesterday was a quest of such tactical proportions that invasions have needed less plotting.  There were multiple maps to check, routes to plan, tram schedules to verify.  Really.  

Everything is hugely expensive here.  Witness my $18 movie in Sydney or my $4 ice cream cone (hey - you would want a treat if you had just planned the postal equivalent of D-day).  Why I actually handed money over for it, I don't know.  I think it was more out of habit than thought.  It was just a crappy drugstore ice cream cone, the kind wrapped in paper and sold out of ice cream trucks at the beach.  I didn't even enjoy it.  

The wi-fi.  Allegedly, Melbourne has city wide hotspots, where you can just hang out and use the wi-fi for free!  It's even marked on the map(s).  Despite having gone out of my way twice to use it, it has never worked.  Since the internet is my sole form of communication with friends and family, this is upsetting.  WHY DO YOU TOY WITH MY EMOTIONS, MELBOURNE???

If a Catherine visits a fry shop named Lord of the Fries and does not tweet about it, did she really eat those fries?

I can't help but feel like I'm doing this wrong.  Granted, it's my trip, I'm the only one who has to live through it or carry the memories (with apologies to anyone who feels the need to suffer through this blog), so whatever I choose to do or not do only affects me.  But I haven't seen any of the countryside yet, none of the natural wonders one associates with Australia.  Am I failing as a backpacker?

Now if you'll excuse me, it's actually supposed to be sunny today, so I'm going to find a public garden to read and nap in.

Made. It.

Greetings from the future, my North American Nommers!  I sit here in the state library of New South Wales, typing this on an absurdly tiny keyboard a day ahead of you because I made it.  

That's right, I'm in Australia.  

Sadly, there are no flying cars or sharks with laser beams in the future.  Or at least, not that I've seen.  It's possible Oz is holding out on me.  A lot of things are possible, because I'm not entirely sure I'm just comatose in a farmhouse in Kansas and I'm dreaming this whole thing.

After all, this is what I looked like when I first got here:

Never let it be said I'm not willing to show the ugly truth

JET LAG.

So I took off from Los Angeles on Tuesday afternoon and landed in Sydney on Thursday morning.  There was a lot of salty plane food and movies (7, yes I watched 7 movies) in between.

There's been a lot of walking since.  I've hit the Royal Botanical Gardens, Chinatown, Hyde Park, the Opera House, Circular Quay, Manly Beach, and now the Library.  

And there are pictures, oh yes, there are pictures.  I just don't know how to access them, since I'm using my iPhone as a camera and blogging from my Kindle.  Allegedly, there's an app to solve my technical woes.  ALLEGEDLY.  But there may not be a lot of pics while the Noms Away HQ is mobile.  (The above pic was taken with my kindle, which is a bit clunky for quick snaps and touristy things.)

Some observations thus far:

-Finding a grocery store this morning made me feel like a genius and nearly weep with joy.  Food is expensive and being able to make my own is key to staying in my budget, but the first few days I was just too out of it to really deal with hunting one down.  Today, I just randomly passed one and now I'm seeing them everywhere.  ALL THE FOODS WILL BE MINE, BWAHAHAHA!

-I paid AU$18 to see a movie last night because I didn't know what else to do.  That's like $20 US for a regular movie.  No one is allowed to complain about the price of movies in America to me ever again.  Also, how am I not completely movie'd out at this point?

-One of the things I dislike about traveling alone is there is no one who witnesses my acts of bravery.  I mean, I wore a bikini in public and went into the ocean, don't I get a congressional medal of honor?

-Naps are wonderful.  I mean, I knew that, but c'mon.  Naps.  For everyone.

-I miss my cats.  (Obligatory)

So that's all thus far.  More to come, most definitely.

Of Cats and Catherines

Denizens of the internet, I have a confession to make.

(sweaty palms, looks around nervously)

I -

(deep breath)

I am a cat lady.

Okay, okay!  That is a shock to approximately NO ONE.  Despite my cat-centric ways, I hope and think I'm not a crazy annoying cat lady. It used to be, I'd only respond to direct queries about them, or bring them up in conversation only if the story I was telling was part of a larger context - the cats were never the point of the story, they were usually incidental.  Once, a cat destaining friend remarked "I like your cats because I don't know their names, since you never talk about them."

Used to be.  

Lately, I can't seem to shut up about my furry bastards.  

Because I am leaving them.  And this is making me FEEL ALL OF THE GUILT.

I know, I know - odds are they will be fine.  It's just that, in eleven (yes, 11!) years, I've never been away from them for this long.  I live far away from my family; for a long time, it's been me and my cats united against the gaping maw of uncertainty that is daily life.   They greet me when I get home, snuggle me when I'm lonely, lay on me when I'm sick.  What, your doctor didn't tell you about the healing powers of 24 pounds of cat compressing your soft tissue when you're ill?

Fortunately, the awesome person subletting my room is a cat person and she's going to take care of them.  So they'll be at home, around all the familiar stuff - just without me.

But still.

That face!  Those paws!

Oh hello, do you need a cuddle?

It won't be me who will be looking out for them.  And that is killing me.

I know, I know - animals deal with stuff differently than people.  They live in the present tense.  After a few days of me being gone, they'll adapt and keep napping in the sun.

But what about me?

Who will sleep at the back of my knees?

Croissant of Cat

Who will make sure my pillow smells like cat ass?

Who is going to keep the boxes from floating away???

Gah.

How does something I've been anticipating so much make me feel like the shittiest person ever, at the same time?

The definition of a happy cat.

Judging you.  And your abilities.

Bonus!  Who's selfies am I going to photobomb?

Dignified until the human came along.

Stupid human.

So yeah.  I love my cats.  I am going to miss my cats a borderline unhealthy amount.  I just needed to get that off my chest.

A Pirate's Life

As a kid, I thought traveling around the country solving mysteries out of a van was a viable career option. I mean, COME ON - new places to explore, new people to meet, helping the world out by ridding it of criminals?  It's basically the best job ever.  And no one to supervise you?  Ice cream for breakfast!  As a third grader, I was secure in the knowledge that I was actually going to get to do this, screw the kids who wanted to be president.

Sadly, the Scooby Gang did not accept my application and Jessica Fletcher is currently enjoying retirement.

I had back up plans, but it's harder to stowaway on a ship than you might think.

So I worked a lot of different jobs, hoping that one would stick and I would magically have a "career", which is apparently something adult people are supposed to have.  Some were awesome, some were awful, most were forgettable and did not inspire me to jump out of bed in the morning. 

I fell into cooking.  I was working an office job that I hated, contemplating suicide, and stress baking at home.  A friend pointed out I could do that professionally.  I laughed it off and continued circling the drain.   

When you do something you hate five out of seven days a week, you are not a pleasant person to be around.  Shocking, I know.  I was getting meaner and angrier as the days passed, but I couldn't figure out what to do.  And then I got pulled aside by the owner of the place, telling me to be nicer and I knew I couldn't.  So I gave notice.  It was entirely instinctual and reflexive; as much as I hated that job, I hadn't actually contemplated quitting.

To this day, that was the scariest and most liberating thing I've done.  The blind panic of 'wtf am I thinking - BILLS - cat kibble ain't cheap' cut with the euphoria of knowing the number of days I would ever have to walk through those doors was dwindling.

I thought about what my friend had said and ended up at the Giant Corporate Cooking School.  I'm not advocating for or against culinary school, much ink has been spilled over whether it's an awesome career advancement, or a giant waste of time and money.  For me it was a means to an end: it got me in the kitchen.

And I fucking love it.  

Because being a professional cook is sort of like being a pirate - from the tedium of the daily tasks (I have to make pizza dough again?!?) to the plundering of dinner services.  There's a lot of aggression, knives, and people who's personality traits and deficiencies could power the research for the DSM-6.  

Those are my people.  People who use fuck as a noun, verb, and adjective.  People who's appetites for everything - food, drink, drugs, experiences - is limitless.  People who should probably not be allowed things like knives and drugs.  

It's such a weirdly tight community.  You hate and love in equal measure, often at the same time, but in ten minutes you'll forget why, so it's okay.  

My last night in the kitchen was Sunday.  

I'm going to miss my pirates.  

My Netflix, Myself

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away - 

Or really about a decade ago, in a city where the president lives, I was living in a neighborhood that was "up and coming".  My particular pad was a basement apartment of a townhouse that was built in 1909.  It was the first time I lived completely on my own and I loved it.  There was a church on one end of the block and a guy who stood at the other end all hours of the day and night.  He always called out "Hey Snowflake!" and waved when I walked by.  The apartment itself was spacious for the price, but never got above 65 degrees (awesome in the summer, I huddled with my cats for warmth in the winter), and was prone to flooding.  It rains a lot in DC.  I just stopped putting things on the lowest shelf of my bookcases and kept my shoes at the top of my closet.    

It was equally glorious and awful.  Freedom!  No heat!  

The thing about up and coming neighborhoods is that they lack certain amenities, like grocery stores - but who needs food when your in your early twenties living in a city with excellent public transportation and working a job that netted you access to any concert?  I don't remember ever grocery shopping in those days, but I do remember lamenting the fact that there was no blockbuster around to rent movies from.  I was poor, so cable was out of the question.  As a fledgeling culture vulture with no money, my only cache was to be absolutely of the moment about everything and have an opinion - the snarkier and more off the cuff, the better.  You've been there, we all have.  How was I supposed to converse about the madness of Alejandro Jodorowsky films if I couldn't see them?

And then I found out about Netflix.  Of course it's old news now, but imagine at the time how revolutionary it was - DVDs by mail?  Inconceivable!  I signed up and never looked back.  (I still have no idea what Fando y Lis is about, but the image of people dancing among rubble while a gentleman plays a burning piano is seared into my brainpan.)

Time continues the relentless forward march; somewhere along the way it seemed unnecessary to try to keep up with pop culture.  And I still don't have cable.  In spite of this, I do seem to know an extraordinary amount about Klan Kardashian.  

Anyway, I just cancelled my subscription.  10 years.  It's actually something I've been meaning to do for about 6 months because as someone who doesn't own a television, I watch a ton of TV.  I'm pretty sure I will be able to fill the void in my life with something equally inane.  And $8 is coffee and a muffin down under.  That's not a euphemism, you dirty minded bastards.  

And now if you'll please excuse me while I fall down the rabbit hole of nostalgia, reminiscing the fevered days of my misspent youth.

What the Fuck Do I Pack?

Do you hear that sound?

It is the sound of my mind ceaselessly whirring, as it has been for the past 4 days.  Finally the terribly disjointed sleep (which amounts to about 4 hours) caught up with me and I passed out after work yesterday.  12 glorious hours later, I'm awake - but still churning.

Why?  I don't know what the fuck to pack for my trip.

I wrote an uncensored list of every possible thing I could take and the sheer amount of stuff made me want to walk out the front door with just my keys and figure it out as I go.  And trust me, there is no shortage of packing lists available, should you choose to google it.  Everyone has an opinion, including the guy who says all you need is a phone, a debit card, and a passport.  (Fair play to him, you're not getting far without a passport or access to cash.  The phone seems debatable.) 

Let's look at this semi-rationally for a moment (that may be the only amount of rationality I can handle).  I am going to a fully industrialized nation.  There will be laundromats and discount chain stores where I can buy underwear and shampoo.  Tampons!  I hear they have tampons!  So, it's not the end of the world if I get to the end of the world and realize I forgot something.  

While I fully expect my time there to fly by, two months is not an insignificant amount of time.   And here's the bigger problem:  in a way, I'm actually packing for 3 different trips.  Bear with me.

Trip the 1st: Urban Australia
I'm not a fashionable person per se, but, like most people, I do prefer not to look glaringly awful.  I figure this is the easiest portion of the trip to pack for, since Australia seems very like minded to Southern California - casual and cute.  Fine, I've managed to pull that off for seven years - just wear what I always wear and be done with it.

Here's the thing about that: I want to take as little as possible.  The idea of a 50 pound pack and another 50 pounds of crap in a wheelie bag is too ungainly to contemplate.  So I will be dealing with a severely diminished wardrobe (which is funny I'm even worried about this, since my actual wardrobe only has about a weeks worth of clothing) and wearing the same things over and over and over and over.  But who cares how many times I've worn an outfit, it's new to the people around me, amirite?

That women are judged so much more harshly for their appearance is a whole other issue - and this is why I don't care what men say in regards to packing.  I believe a guy could survive with a pair of khaki pants, button down shirt, and hiking boots for 2 months.  I don't believe that would be acceptable for a woman.  So I'm back to where I began: the desire for minimalism at war with the societal pressure to uphold a bullshit standard.  

Trip the 2nd: Hiking in Tasmania
Whenever anyone asks me why I'm going I always say 'I want to hike the Overland Track in Tasmania' and that's true enough, because I do.  But realistically the trip has been such a distant thing for so long (a year, people, I've been working and saving for a year! not to mention the seven or so I've been daydreaming about it), that I actually don't have a lot of concrete plans for what I want to do while I'm there.  (In my head: I'll just go!  And... be there?)  I like the idea of hiking the Overland Track - I've never done anything like it - but I'm not sure I can bring about the reality.

It's intimidating!  7 days, pooping in the woods, having to carry everything I need - and no one to help me.  Granted, the Overland Track is kind of the perfect hike for someone who's never done that sort of thing before: there are huts and potable water along the trail, and composting toilets at the huts.  The trail is hugely popular with about 9000 people hiking it per year, so odds are I wouldn't be alone alone. Because it's so popular, and the huts are first come, first served, you are required to carry a tent (don't have) and a cookstove (no fires) while you hike.  Also, Tasmania in the mid to late fall (when I'll be there) means RAIN.  Guess who has no water proof hiking gear?  Yup.

And suddenly my packing list grows exponentially.  As does the expense.  While the easy thing to do would be to just can the idea of the trail and just do day hikes (true facts: you can do most of the trail as individual day hikes), I'm still drawn to the challenge of hike.  But I don't want to spend a ton of money and have to heft around a ton of stuff I'll only need for about a week.

I had the idea to just buy what I need for this portion of the trip when I get down there - and then sell it.  The Australian economy is currently very strong ; it is one of the few countries that was largely unaffected by the financial crisis of 2008.  Coupled with the fact, that it is far away from a lot of the world, everything is imported and expensive there.  So that might not be the most feasible plan.  

ARG!  What to do?  What to do?

Trip the 3rd: Seoul, Korea
I've been so AustraliaAustraliaAustralia blah blah blah, that I may have forgotten to mention I'm also going to Seoul, Korea.  One of my favorite people in the world is currently schooling the youth of Seoul about the intricacies of the English language and since I'll be in the same time zone (justification!), I figured why not swing by and see her?

Korea was never on my list of places I was hard pressed to go, but three years of hearing her stories, seeing her pictures, and getting to experience life in Seoul through her eyes has made me excited - not to mention the possibility of biking part of the DMZ.  The problem:  the ladies of Seoul are no joke when it comes to style, and I will be a hot, dusty mess at this point in the trip.  It also should be noted that the friend I am going to visit is one of the most social people I know, with a huge group of friends.  There will be a lot of going out.  Like, possibly every night.  (She's already warned me that I should start training my liver for the alcohol consumption.)

The thing is, I don't care so much about being fashionable so much as I hope to just not be so unfashionable that people notice.  Yes, my goal every morning (or afternoon as the case may be) when I get dressed is to fade comfortably in the background.  People love me for my mind anyway!

I can't even, I fully give up on this before I even leave.  I will be the tall, awkward white girl wearing dirty jeans and sneakers everywhere.  I'm sorry Korea, that's just the way it has to be.  


The really hilarious part about all of this is even if I knew what I was taking, I would have nowhere to put it.  That's right folks, I don't actually have a bag to pack.

Methinks I might have bigger problems.

Officially Official

Soooo, I did it.

I told my job.

And it was the most anticlimactic thing ever.  I don't think the chef even blinked, he just thanked me for giving so much notice - a month.

Where was the gnashing of teeth, the beating of breasts?  I mean, it's not like they can survive without me.

(I  kid - they will be more than fine, and so will I.)

The funny thing is, even after all of that, it still felt like my trip was a pipe dream.  I've been dreaming and saving so long, it doesn't feel like it's ever actually going to happen.  And this is after I purchased the plane ticket, secured the visa, sublet my room, and told my job.  What's it going to take?

Now I know: yesterday, one of the managers came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder and said 'Is it true?  Are we losing you?'  

And that's when it hit me - I'M GOING TO AUSTRALIA.

It certainly isn't a secret anymore, but having someone I didn't specifically tell come up to me and ask me about it made it real in a way it hasn't been yet.  This is happening; time continues it's relentless march forward and I will be getting on a plane very soon.  

I mean, it's not like I'm going forever.  Two months only seems long when you're waiting for it to happen.  I fully expect to get there, blink, and then be on the plane home.  But holy shit, it's officially official.  

Oz are you ready?  Because I'm about to commence freaking out.

Happy Australia Day!

Ironically, in exactly two months I will be getting on a plane and flying to Australia.  What happens after that is unknown - well I'm assuming I will find a place to lie down and SLEEP because that is a hella long flight.

Australia is a place that has long captivated me.  But even with planes and advance technology, it's far away and it takes time and money to get there.  It became a reoccurring theme in my life that when I had the time (unemployment), I did not have the money and when I had the money, I didn't have the time.  Well really, I never had the money.  Until now.

I'm back, my lovelies!

I have been working, werking, and workin' it like you don't even know and after a solid year of saving, I am going to Oz.  For two whole months.  

I have so much to tell you.  Working in a professional kitchen is... words fail most of the time.  Strangely, I love it.  Or rather not so strange, because I've certainly accrued a mountain of debt to find out.  

But the plane ticket has been purchased, the electronic visa is secure, and as of this morning, my bedroom is sublet (subletted? who knows).  

THIS.  IS.  HAPPENING.

Now I just need to tell my (very loved) job.  Eek.