Cleanskin

Cleanskin

(ˈkliːnskɪn) (Australian) n. 1: An unbranded animal. 2: Someone with no prior criminal record, a person with no previous convictions; loosely, someone who has not done anything wrong before, an unblemished character. 3: An unlabelled bottle of wine.  4: An undercover police officer who has not done a particular task before. 5: A cricket bat with no maker's logo

I am a 'cleanskin' in the Northern territory of Australia. An unbranded animal, arriving unscathed after a rather event less long haul as Darwin's 'Xmas cyclone threat' dissolves. I feel a bit like Mr Magoo, whistling along the roads oblivious to the trail of destruction surrounding him. From CNberra, through Melbourne and onto Darwin, flights are cancelled, storm chaos prevails, but I seemingly sail through and around the storms to arrive on the only non-cancelled flight into Darwin, Boxing day morning thus far.

It seems fitting that the first word that comes to mind when writing this blog is an Australian word. Aussie slang in fact. It came to me as I stood at the top of the Free water slides at Lake Leanyer ,NT (yes, free).  I have two tigers, and Blinky Bill in front, all on the Right shoulders. Whether you are teen, genY, gen X or a baby boomer, you have some part of your body that's been scribbled on. My sisters' friend Tracey has a 'full leg', Ned has the odd branding, and I've seen more Neck and knuckle tattoos on the Wharf in Darwin then at an ex punk Party I recently went to. If it wasnt for my red and purple dreadlocks, and bad fake tan I'd be A contrasting black and white. (note to self, fake tan, as it promises, looks fake - Each day, as it wears off, I segue from 'Ginger Meg's ' speckles, to pigmentation disorder).

I arrived in Darwin to Beer, beer, beer and darts. It's wet season, and it's not just the relentless humidity and heat, the dramatic downpours, of swimming that makes me appear 'wet behind the ears'. I am the token non-drinking, non smoking, non fishing visitor. Wet, wet, wet. I am as wet out of the shower as in. It's not the Gecko attacking moths, roches as big as your thumb, the mice, the mozzies, the snakes in the roof, the cane toads that surprises me. It's the fact that you can drink and drive a boat -legally - and as one local told me, 'it's encouraged!' I am now looking nervously at our New Years eve plans, a trip on ' 'tinny' on Darwin Harbour. Forget the yachts in Sydney, the cruises in New York, fireworks from the Eiffel tower, we're doing a 'tinny' in Darwin harbour - filled with crocs and box jellyfish, to a backdrop of fireworks and drunken boat-driving territorians. And I'll be there with my diet coke, untattoed body, without fishing stories or cigarettes to share. It occurs to me, that I could be the maverick here, because I am, in fact, not a maverick. 

I drive my sisters car, and while she has a tattoo, she has the car of a clean skin, no 'I float and I vote', or honeypot stickers here. Not even a personalized number plate.  We play 'spotto' - an eye-spy travel game, where you scored points for spotting 'yellow cars'. I am a clean skin, or novice here too. 
I make the mistake of 'calling 'spotto!' on a gold car (lose 1 point), not calling 'double-spotto'  on a yellow Hyundai Getz (Jacksen calls, and gets two points') or (god forbid), calling spotto on a car in a car dealership. To the cleanskin, it appears that Jacksen is making the rules as we go along, but while at first caught out and confused, i gather momentum. Ned and jack have the home-side advantage, having travelled this route many times' and with local knowledge, and the power to amend the rules, they are many points ahead. Arguments ensue, about gold cars versus metallic yellow, about who spottoed first, and whether a half painted vehicle is a full spotto. 

And as we drive, through the palm tree lined streets, the high-fenced yards, pass the yachts in the harbour, and the aboriginal communities, my sense of belonging increases with my spotto score. I can put a stubby cooler around my diet coke! I can chew a toothpick instead of a cigarette! I can turn to my sister and Jack for fishing story 'conversation starters', and I guess, if all else fails, I can y my hand at driving a boat? Afterall, I am a very useful NT accessory. A clean and sober, driver. And while I won't be getting a tattoo, I might just go as far as joining the crew for Pizza and beer for breakfast (eaten at lunchtime, but minus the beer...)

Ode

Ode

Ode-noun 1 a lyric poem typically of elaborate or irregular metrical form and expressive of exalted or enthusiastic emotion.
2 (originally) a poem intended to be sung.

Here is my parting gift, 'A thanksgiving Ode' to Richard, Vina and Ethan, for their fabulous, kind, and totally enjoyable company...

Here's a thanksgiving poem for my hosts,
Vina, Ethan and 'ri-tard', the most,
wonderful Canadian crew,
It's time to bid you adieu.

Thanks for the lampoon-style adventure,
Of mischief and humor and laughter,
I say goodbye to the maples and pumpkins,
The scarecrows, cruise ships and country bumpkins. 

Thanks for reliving the 80s with me,
25 years later, it's hard to believe,
I'll leave tired, three weeks older, but wiser,
About trailer parks, fast food and hand sanitiser.

Karaoke and hot tubs and dogs,
Motorbike riding, and lobsters and fogs,
Hillbillies and building and boats,
Hauling fuel, playing music, drinking cokes,
Tim Hortons and strong breakfast coffee,
Seals,truck stop meals and chocolate offerings.

You'll  continue to live in my heart and my iPad,
I have photos, blog posts and more body fat,
And I'll stop all that chocolate I promise,
And the frappes and coffees that are bottomless,

I must beat Richard at his cholesterol challenge, 
I know this will be quite difficult to manage
1 kilo of hersheys is now in my baggage,
I'll try not to et through my luggage...

Poutine and pulp mill smell I won't miss,
The fast food, staring looks at my twigs,
The ice wind and the maritime extremes,
But I will miss my Canadian team.

Richards country music, well its not my tune,
Id rather be stabbed with a spoon,
But its a small price to pay for your wit,
Two weeks in a Jim Carey skit.

I'll continue to think of you all often,
Especially when my keys and wallet are forgotten,
When I am licked by a dog on my leg,
Or a pooch tries to pee in my bed.

When I see new potatoes in store,
I'll think PEI,  motorbikes, red -sea shores,
Ethans gadgets, camo and survival gear,
His musical talents, iPod movies, business ideas,
His hats and glasses and style
Saint johns grooviest 'little dude' by a mile.

Thanks vina for the photos and Asian feeds,
The yoga, the shops and coffees,
The front seat of the truck, sharing your luck,
The clothes, and cheap shopping sprees.

Welcoming me to the place where you dwell 
And having to listento us as we tell
Old escapades of Richard and Mel 
It's lucky your perfect as well !

And when I return I expect,
Your hair to be dreaded and kept,
In an African style that sets trends,  
Borrowed from a good Aussie friend

You will miss me slamming car doors,
Aussie burgers with beetroots and all,
Having  someone to bug in the halls,
And make fun of the slow nasal drawl
To share double entendres and cookies,
Any excuse for you boys to play 'hookey'.

Im a long way from you old Maritimers,
I hope u visit before were old-timers,
That is of course if Richard survives,
His advancing MS aside,
His tendency to catastrophize,
With such neurosis he may not stay alive..

So I'll  take my bargains and twee souvenirs,
New friendships and  renovation ideas,
Bubbles glasses a thing of the past,
But I'll soon see my two boys at last.

You've enriched my visit no end,
But I must take my twigs and upend,
And to borrow some words from Adele, 
I wish you the best and farewell. 

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Denouement

Denouement
(day-noo-maw') n. 1: The point in the plot that occurs after the climax; the final resolution of the main complication of a literary or dramatic work. 2: The outcome of a complex sequence of events. [from French, from Old French denoer "to untie," from Latin de- (un-) + nodare "to tie in a knot," from nodus "a knot"].

At first, I am not sure what to call this blog. I have remnants of karaoke songs on the brain and I am sleep deprived. How 'bout, 'Bye, bye Bangor, baby bye bye..'.? Or, 'Im leaving on a jet plane...(don't know when I'll be back again...). Or possibly,  ''I will survive' (the next 30 hrs in planes and airports)? 

And then I find  my word. Denouement. My National Lampoons Vacation is nearly over, and I am in the denouement of my adventure.   

We made the best of our last 24 hours in Bangor. We are four musketeers who have made an impression  on this small Harley Davidson riding town, if the conversations we have struck are any indication. We met Jordan (pictured above), a gorgeous emo (I think), and  shared a cross- sales counter conversation about vampires, Texas and being 'emo' in Bangor. Barry, our lithe and smiley breakfast waiter offered us free breakfast in exchange for my 'Darwin' ring. (I have his address to despatch the goods). The housekeeping staff, quizzed me about 'dreadlock maintenance ', determined to impart this newfound knowledge to their sons.  We don't sleep much, spending the night wandering, people watching, shopping, eating, coffee drinking,  iPod movie making, and general loitering. As I  leave, my reputation precedes me,  the airport security staff remembering 'the bag and the hair 'when ya came in with thar fellow before...'They point at Richard. I am reminded how easy it is to be notorious in small towns, and how being different can become your identity. And I am reminded that this is how it all started, my Canadian friendship, 25 years ago. Yes, we are legends  in our own lunch boxes. 

As i fly off through an Indian Summer afternoon, I am already planning a sequel...

Gadabout - the final chapter

I'm on a mission. Time is running out and I have sightseeing to do, rain or no rain. I tuck my camera under my wafer-thin top and in commando fashion, I disembark from the truck, ducking for rain-cover intermittently along the quaint shop fronts of seaside villages. First mission is Mahone Bay and the scarecrow festival.  I duck and dive through front porches and yards, shooting photos with swiftness and stealth. I snap all manner of scarecrows, some drooping in the rain, and others with neat plastic bags tied over their scarecrow heads. I see the Royal Family, wrapped in plastic, and I see myself  - weaving and positioning to get the shot, I realize the absurdity. I feel like a CSI snapping the workings of a serial killer, their victims wrapped in plastic and duct tape.  Richard drives my rescue vehicle, maintaining a slow and steady pace, angling for the best (dry) rescue point. I remember I have another 'mission', and I bolt into a the pewter shop, go straight to the counter, dreadlocks dripping, camera wedged under the armpit of my top, and to the sales assistants suprise I say, 'Have you got any cat earrings'? I must have looked like a seaweed creature dragged in by a fishing boat. 'Ah, pardon me?' 'I need cat earrings'. I think she was used to non- Aussie accented 'browsers'. I do in fact, leave with some earrings, and when Richard scoops me back into the vehicle I am sopping  wet, cold and he says 'You're one crazy Aussie'. 

We continue along the coast, defence force style, picking recruits Ethan and Vina  for the extended tour. Vina provides an excellent bargain shopping adventurer and we leave the factory outlet stores with more plastic bags in the truck tray than the bag-wearing scarecrows of Mahone Bay. 

Peggy's cove is our final must-see destination, and as we near the white and red lighthouse, the clouds and rain magically clear and the icy blue Atlantic rolls and smashes against the rocks. I am Australian, I have seen plenty of coastlines before, but there is something hauntingly beautiful about this place. This patch of the Atlantic holds the bodies of all the passengers and crew of Swiss air flight 111 which crashed in 1998, and many of those from the Titanic. But historical significance aside, I am mesmerised by the swelling ocean-crashing waves, which pound and withdraw from the flat, rocky headland. We watch the sun sparkle on the sea until an ominous fog descends and the ocean water disappears, the rain resuming again.  

The fog follows us home, and full double rainbows frame the road ahead as we say goodbye to Nova Scotia,  the garbage bag covered shopping purchases flapping in the wind. When we pull into a truckstop for 'supper' , starving, bedraggled, and exhausted, dogs in tow, and a truck load full of 'stuff', we look like we have hailed from a trailer park ourselves..

Gadabout 3

Big lunch at Little River

It's been, wet, wet, WET in Nova Scotia. We arrived In a downpour, tour in a downpour and will leave in a downpour. But onwards we venture, well into the depths of the island in search of Petite Rivière (or 'little river'). We note athat Adele is on the radio again. From The first turn ofthe ignition in Bangor, through PEI, onto St John and now Nova Scotia, this is the feature album. We decide that Adele is the soundtrack to this Canadian adventure.

We're en route to to have lunch with Norm and Francis who are long time (and probably suffering) friends of Richards. Doing things 'our way' we decide to use the GPS  rather than Norm's instructions and I get an unplanned tour of the countryside. The roads get thinner, more twisted, and the asphalt  is long gone. I'm thinking, Stephen king horror again...

We arrive at 'petite Riviere' just in time for 12 o'clock lunch. Francis and Norm show us around their 19the century 'country home', which they have lovingly restored and made habitable over seven summers. He shows us his latest 'add-on', a cosy and light-filled sun room. The materials, I am told are all second hand or thrifty finds, but I see no evidence of this. All my Canadian hosts to date have one thing in  common - they are home renovators or builders.  

I am fond of the 'doll-house-like' architecture of the Canadian maritimes. White walls and peaked roofs, quaint attic  conversions, coloured shutters, flowering window boxes, the occasional spire. I visit the homes of many as I gad around with my Canadian pals, and the conversations inevitably lead to their houses, which I thoroughly enjoy. Everyone is a carpenter, a home builder or renovator, and there seems plentynof 'mates' around to lend a hand. Every single person I visit has built a major part of their house, if not built it themselves. I feel enthused to go home and add another room to my 'Queanbeyan 'bungalow' , and bring some Nova Scotian charm to Queanbeyan. I'm sure I can follow Norm's lead and make do with  a few hundred dollars, some odds and sods from magnet mart, and a trtip to Revolve? Any volunteers? 

Norm and Francis are 'snowbirds', who drive to Florida for the Canadian Winter. They live six months of the year in an RV park (recreational vehicle park), and Richard quickly reprimands me each time I forget my manners and refer to 'the traileer park'. 'RV parks and trailer parks are NOT the same, here, Mel!' There's no evince of Trailer Park boys here...

We eat a hearty and wonderfully tasty meal of turkey sandwiches, and we get an 'advance tasting' of the most delectable  Cranberry sauce, specially prepared by Francis for upcoming Canadian Thanksgiving. The sides inclu fresh vegetables from the garden and potato 'crisp'. I eat some sandwiches with my cranberry sauce. Norm shares his love of history, and we leave with an assortment of gifts (including some -Alaskan gold), maps (norm suspects we may need these...) and heads and bellies full of soul food. It's still raining but we head on to Mahune Bay anyway, and once again, Adele sings soulfully in the background..

Gadabout 2

Episode 2 - the Casino

We are at the Halifax casino, and we spend our spondulicks fast (American slang term for cash). This is not surprising because we have a meager budget of around 15 or 20 spondulicks each, except Richard who is always the exception to the rule. He spends 'just a little bit more', and Vina is the only  winner, keeping us on the gambling floor just long enough to do some people watching. 

The scene is not unfamiliar. We could be in downtown Dickson Tradies. From the ring of smokers at the entrance, their long strong outward breaths mixing with the fog, to the zombified faces in front of rolling poker machine screens,  addiction hangs in the air. This is not a 'high-end' casino.  Richard and I do a quick 'straw poll'. 1 Zimmer frame, 2 young chicks dressed to the nines in stiletto leopard pumps, 1 skimpy black dress, boobs falling loose around the ruffles, a family of four with 'twinset tracksuits'.   We count the number of polyester dresses drawn tight across oversized middle-aged midriffs. Lots of old people. 'Isn't it passed their bedtime?' I say to my people watching comrades. 'I can't see my granny teeterring on a poker machine stool, sipping free 'pop', wearing an adult diaper' (yes, I have it on good authority that avoiding the toilet by using an adult 'nappy' is  not an urban myth.)

I feel somewhat, well 'little', and almost stylish. (if you know me, while I attempt to be stylish, I am not 'small').  In comparison, the people are big (brobdignagian even). We're a small posse, the 'two Asian chicks', Vina and Evelyn, and me the honorary 'Asian chick' (well, I hail from that corner of the world). Include Richard, and together we are mini and well groomed, comparatively (which probably doesn't say much). The occasional 'fabulously gorgeous young things', dot the crowd, but Richard and I suspect they are 'hired in'. I muse about the 'blind-date' I was offered for the evening (but declined). I decide that the odds of scoring a 'good date' were on par with winning the jackpot at this casino. That is, statistically, according to Mike, 32,768. to 1.

But the Illuminated faces tell a different story. 'Some people here are even tied to the machines! Look!' says Richard with what I think is mock surprise. Turning to give him a friendly 'stop pulling my leg' whack on the arm, I see the bungee cord. There is...in fact...a person...attached by a cord to a poker machine (or slot machine as they call it 'ere). A female, sits stunned, alien- like, huge round bulging eyes. The eyes are intense, fluorescent, never blinking. The only movement is a well-timed flick of the wrist. Muffled sounds emanate from a small crevice between her lips. She glows, as if radioactive.

'What the?' Our small posse try not to stare. I inch backwards following the bungee cord with my eyes, and see a retractable cord, extending around her neck to a slot in the machine.  I assume the 'slot' encases a credit card, or frequent gamblers reward card or the like. 

I continue to be amused, for about an hour or two (a maximum attention span for a good gadabout). I see touch screen 'help stations', where you can choose from a variety of 'help' options (I.e, problem with gambling? Money problems? Need help?) followed by my favorite one, 'get cash instantly'. I'd like to add a fourth,  'all of the above'.

Now there's only so much free diet coke a girl can drink before the tiredness outweighs the caffeine. We go home empty handed, but I have satisfied my gadabout  needs for the day. I must rest-up for tomorrow's social adventures,  touring the wilds of Nova Scotia...

Gadabout

Gadabout  -noun- one who roams about in search of amusement or social activity.

We've been right gadabouts this weekend, flitting from one social occasion to another. So much so, the Halifax weekend requires episodes.

Episode 1 - Bubbles and the crew go to the big smoke...

Halifax, Nova Scotia was our destination, and with 3 episodes of Trailer Park Boys under my belt, I felt prepared but apprehensive. Richard arrived at the car wearing bubbles glasses.

'We're taking the car with the doors on' he says, which is lucky, because we are packed to the brim, Vina, Richard, Ethan and gadabout dogs, Sookie and Flash. We don't want anyone to go the way of the squashed road skunks...

It's wet and raining, and there's a faint smell of skunk (the live sort)Tim Hortons and industrial fuel. We drive through towns called Quispamsis, Tatamagouche and Shediac, and Vina and Richard challenge 'the Aussie chick' to pronounce the towns correctly. We skip between 200 satellite radio stations, avoiding Richards country music wherever possible. There's an unusual amount of cars on the sides of the roads, and I am told this means its 'gone deer season'. 

can't get enough of Richards 'hillbilly' stories - the time he was billeted during an away hockey trip and his 15 year old host spent the evening at the pub and he stayed home with his billets mother...the horror stories that match the plots of a Stephen King novel, the  notorious Nova Scotia Goler family - (this is my oft told 'living in Canada' story, stemming from a 60 minutes show I watched when I lived on PEI, where a reporter asks a Nova Scotia family who live in the backwaters about 'incest', and they responded through rotting teeth and with broken English, 'Dar 'ittle creatures dat run  dacross da floor'. Google 'Goler' NS for more...) My memories are now confirmed, and my suspicions of embellishing this story as an attention seeking teen, or naïvely succumbing to an urban myth, fall with the autumn Leaves...

My fear of being abducted by a goggle-eyed duck shooting drunken inbred hillbilly and taken to his trailer home in the wilds of Nova Scotia are dispelled when we arrive at Dartmouth, Halifax. Mike, Evelyn, and Madalyn feed us a wholesome meal of ginisa (sweet and sour pork), sinigang (broiled fish including the head), and a desert of pumpkin pie and apple pie ice cream. The house is 'self-built' by Mike and his dad, and Mikes career as a designer shines through. The place feels palatial, 4 bathrooms, 1000s of cupboards and lights, and hand crafted edging. Phillipino born Evelyn prepares food that is befitting of the  impressive surroundings, and provides me with much needed alternative food groups (I have been indulging in the food groups, 'fatty', 'crispy',' salty', 'sweet', and 'caffeine'.) We play the Virtual PS3 on the biggest TV I have seen outside of Times Square NY, and do what all good gadabouts do, and seek the most amusing and entertaining company  possible. We agree on the Casino, and venture out to try our luck...tune into episode two, 'tied to the machine' posted live tomorrow...

Thalassic

Thalassic -adjective
1 of or pertaining to seas and oceans.
2 of or pertaining to smaller bodies of water, as seas and gulfs, as distinguished from large oceanic bodies.
3 growing, living, or found in the sea; marine.

I am on a sea-faring adventure but I have yet to hop on a boat. 
My feet remain firmly planted on the ground, except for my zip lining adventure over Reversing Falls.   

Thalassic icons are everywhere. Tourists flood off the cruise ships from New York, creating a tide to match the famous highs and lows of the New Brunswick coastline. The huge vessels feed tourism throughout the warmer months, and tower over the small historic city centre, a city which claims to be the oldest 'incorporated' city in Canada (whatever that means).

The strong Irish and seafaring heritage is omnipresent. Fishing boats, speed boats, waterproof boots for sale, stacks of buoys and lobster baskets.The sea smells. The maritime looking men with their glasses, caps, weathered grey faces, broad bellies and stubby workers hands (occasionally missing a finger). We arrange sight seeing expeditions around the ebb and flow of the cruise passengers, and eat mussels in a 'sports bar'. Every booth has a private TV, and I count six screens on each side of the four-sided bar. I am shown the 'Reversing Falls' where the tides from the Bay of Fundy meet the St John River. Seals frolic in the bay, and I learn the history of lumbering, fishing, local crafts and ecology at the local Museum. Iam however, most amused by the graphic CSI style display and footage of the frozen bodies of explorers seeking the North West passage through the Arctic - dying from Lead poisoning (their tinned rations the culprits). Exhumed frozen bodies are fascinatingly gross and a sure crowd-puller.

All the signage is in French and English, but I dont hear anyone speak French, and I am constantly aware of the industrial  backdrop. Steaming paper mill alongside reversing falls, huge chunks of hillsides exposed by open cut mines, excavations and load-carting trucks commonplace.  I am staying in the suburbs, well beyond the polished pics of the tourism brochures. A city-like oil refinery traverses the hills. Five giant and stocky concrete tanks spell,  I-R-V-I-N-G. (I keep thinking, JR Ewing from Dallas) Along our travels Richard points to many things and says,'Irvings own that'. He talks a lot about 'when I worked for Irving', or 'the Irving family did...', or 'see those old guys, they'd work for Irvings'. It seems all roads in St John lead to the 
Irvings, obviously the biggest employer and possibly, influence, in the town. 

The toursist season is coming to a close and the town is preparing for winter. I try my best to be a 'maritimer' for a few days- I spend an inordinate amount of time in drive-throughs and 'Tim Hortons' ordering coffees with 'three milk'. I am as open mouthed by the menus as the customers are about my hair (a whole blog on this to come). We go to the movies, which are full and personally introduced my the theatre manager. It's a world away from Queanbeyan/ Canberra, and a universe away from New York...

Revenant

Definition:   Noun - One who returns after death (as a ghost) or after a long absence.

I feel like a kid returning to the scene of the crime. I am the Aussie revenant, and the small town of Kensington takes up a disproportionately large space in my mind than it deserves. It was only a five month stint, back in 86, but I remember it as a quaint but creepy place, a more befitting backdrop for a Stephen King novel than Anne of Green Gables. The fog has risen overnight, the sun is out, and the white-panted houses twinkle in the sun. Already, the towns 'creepy' mythical status is dissolving. The weather is uncharacteristically warm, around 25 degrees and balmy. The weather is important and here and it's an oft talked about subject (next to potato farming of course).

The first big 'store' is a 'Bakin' donuts', and because I am with witty wordly people (only one untypical ex-islander amongst us) we laugh about the double-entendre (Bacon donuts) and from now on we call it 'pig donuts'. There is a **new** frosty treat across the road which opened 5 or ten years ago, but was previously the Kensington Dairy Bar (been there). We have scallops, chips, cheeseburgers and 'pop' for lunch. While we wait for our 'meal' the locals on either side can't help but 'chat'. Between big long icecream slurps I hear about 'the friend that got away' (an off island visitor that came while the host was away...!) It would be normal to expect to 'drop in' and visit an island without announcement. Afterall, it would be usual to expect them to be there. Richard, my ex-island 'buddy' doesn't need to drop in on anyone (except his mum), as we lunch, dinner, drive and generally galavant about, people are where you expect them to be. 'That's old Donald blah blah blah's farm...I see someone in the field. Let's just drop by'. Donald blah blah is 'sprayin' potatoes', and gives Richard permission to 'pull some tops' (dig some potatoes). Richard points out all the local contacts -lots of 'cousins', people he's worked with and old school pals - all who have stayed 'on island'. 'Hey Richard, how's it going?' we hear from the next table...'remember when....?' Richards old school house is still standing (just), it's barn-like structure greying and sunken, and the windows smashed. Ethan gets closer and hears a radio coming from the barn. It's back to Stephen King scenarios again...

We all love listening to Richards 'growing up in PEI' stories - the classroom with a seated row for each year (year one at front, two second, three third etc). The midnight potato raids. Helpin' out on the 'fa-armm'. We reminisce about broken down cars in deserted summer campgrounds, as the snow fell and wen thought we were going to die until the hair-lipped man saved us...The number of times I put a car into a snow ditch, my feeble attempts at entering licensed premises when everyone on the island knew who I was and that I wasn't yet 19. I love asking him about people, knowing the answer will most likely be 'there still here - on island'. I am mesmerized by the thought that there are people here who have NEVER been 'off-island'.

We chat to lots of people and Richard is proud to introduce his off-shore wife and son, and his Aussie friend. I forget how many times I have been asked about Kangaroos, Koalas and Steve Irwin, but it's considerable. Crocodile Dundee, Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House are a close second. But my favorite question is 'did you have anything to do with Oprah when she was there?'

We are a slightly odd mix to be traveling around PEI. We don't see other Asians or colored people anywhere (or dreadlocks), and even our canine companions are exotic breeds (Tibetan-spaniel and shitsu- chihuahua something-er-other). 

The day is full of advernture though, as we take boardwalks along the marina's explore the crumbling red cliffs along the seaside, and ride motorbikes along the red dirt of then PEI coast. Ethan is a well travelled 13 year old boy and the best motorbike tour guide I have met yet. Vina goes for a jog and Richard stays back to attend to some household duties. Once again I am reminded that my companions are a far cry from stock- standard islanders. 

Quintessential

Quintessential

Adj - Of, relating to, or having the nature of a quintessence; being the most typical: "Liszt was the quintessential romantic" (Musical Heritage Review).

This quintessential PEI 'summer cottage' is a long way from my previous weeks accommodation. I'm now 5 hours north of Bangor, Maine, and we take the Confederation  bridge to 'the island'. The 13 kilometer bridge is the longest 'over ice' bridge in the world.   Last time I travelled this route it was on an ice-breaker 25 years ago. 

Prince Edward Island (or PEI) is the backdrop to Lucy Maud Montgomery's novel, Anne of Green Gables. PEI is a thriving summer vacation spot for three months, and a quiet, provincial potato farming and lobster fishing Canadian backwater the rest of the year. Come December, the island will go into hibernation, iced by a thick layer of white snow. This is how I remember the island, back in 1986 when I came here to live with Mum and Greg who were on a 'teacher exchange'.  Back then,  I was hardly 'Anne of Green Gables' with a bad 80s punk hairdo, Doc martins, and suitcases full of bad teenage attitude.  

The island is quiet, the  summer season well and truly over, even though it's still September. The campground near the 'summer cottage' closes tomorrow, and won't reopen until the end of May next year. Tourists come here to enjoy the red-sand beaches, the seafood, and I have to confess that the island is vey beautiful with rolling green pastures, and quaint seaside cottages. There's a touch of 'tack' and kitsch, with the odd (now deserted) amusement park,  lots of pictures of freckle-faced red- haired  girls called 'Anne' inviting you to eat frosty treats or stay at 'green gables cabins'. It's a bit blackpool, UK meets Tilba Tilba. 

I am assuming islanders know I am 'on island', just as they did 25 years ago when TV crews covered 'the Aussies' as they arrived at the airport. If they don't know I'm coming, they will hear about me shortly. After a wonderful  dinner at Richards' mums delightful Summerside house,  (coated chicken, veg and a big mash of PEI spuds with raspberry and cream cake to follow), we head off to the Summer 'cottage' in the big black Pick-up truck, Vina, Ethan, Richard and I - two dogs, two motorbikes, and another swag of hershey bars and 'pop' (soft drink).  It's foggy and humid-cool, and the quiet of the cottage it,s about as far away from Manhattan as I can imagine. 

Variegated

Variegated

-adjective - 1 varied in appearance or color; marked with patches or spots of different colors. 2varied; diversified; diverse.

As I fly into Bangor Maine, through the 'rough air' and fog, the green pine trees come into focus. The landscape is variegated, marked with pockets of yellow and red, hailing the 'fall'. I am flying from one extreme to another, my day varied and diverse.

The airport is reminiscent of Canberra airport in the seventies, but smaller and we wait almost as long for our luggage as we spend in the air. My fabulous Canadian 'mate' Richard and his son Ethan meet me at the airport. They say, I wasn't hard to spot. And I say, 'you guys weren't either!' Together we are a motley crüe,  varied in both colour and appearance, easily spotted as we travel north.

While I notice the complete extremes of my day- breakfast in Manhattan New York, dinner in a diner in a two bob border town, Calais, the vast gap between the two worlds is lost on me at first. Until we enter the diner in Calais. Half a dozen or so customers are seated in the diner, and they immediately gaze our way. Each head follow us in a long slow movement. Their bottom lips drop a little. 'They don't even know I'm Australian', I say to Richard, and he says 'yeah -ar, but they ain't seen 'twigs' like that before'', referring to my hair. We are seated at a large booth with a red gingham table-cloth. There's a line-up of mustards, ketchups, and condiments, and a paper placemat with the '50' US states in a word find. (Hawaii apparently doesn't exist here). We order from the high-fat menu, and Richard asks the waitress if she's ever seen anyone from Australia before, and she says 'no'. 'Well you have now!' She seems pleased and we get 4 copies of the wordfind placements to take home. I order the half-size meal (chicken Parmesan which comes with onion rings, salad and pasta) and eat less than half. I guess I should have ordered the 'quarter-sized meal'.

Sitting at the diner, even though two of us are white, we are obviously not locals. We stand out. Vina, Richards wife was born in the Phillipines, so Ethan is not only dark-skinned, but Asian, and me with my 'twigs', well...So from cosmopolitan NY, where anything goes, to a backstreet diner in Calais. that's a variegated 24 hours.

We hop back into the big black Dodge pick-up truck, and drive through the fog, on the wrong side of the road, eating Hershey bars and competing for conversation time. It's been 25 years but so far, it seems like nothing has changed.

Quotidian

quotidian
(quote-tid'-ee-an) adj. 1: occuring every day. 2a: belonging to each day; everyday. 2b: commonplace; ordinary. [from Latin quot "(as) many as" + dies "days".]

Here are some of the everyday, commonplace happenings I experienced in NY, presented as NY in numbers. Since Quotidian wireless caves are no longer commonplace, I will have to post quickly while wireless is at hand.

Here is my 'NY in numbers':

8.2 million - the number of people who live in NY city

8 - the number of times I overhead people talking (loudly) about their 'therapist'
3 - times I have made friends because I have an iPad
2 -(2am)  my self imposed curfew so I can wake in the morning
120 - number of words my NY host can talk per minute. 
9 - the number of Lives I'll need if my host finds out I mentioned her in my blog (one of her 'rules')
6 - Rules broken at hosts place
842 - miles of subway track in NY
468 - number of subway stations
3 - Times I was reprimanded by security for taking photos
122, 8500 -estimated number of steps walked across Manhattan in 5 days
14 - Times I've been stopped in my street to ask 'where I got my cool pak' (picture to come)
18 squilliion - The number of rubbish bags on the streets.
12,000 - number of pets buried in the NY Pet Cemetary
1876 - The year the 'first boys club' s launched in NY
3 - number of times I got lost
3 - number of times I caught wrong train
4000 - number of street vendors
25 - total number of hours sleep in 7 days

Hyper-vigilant

Hyper
- A prefix appearing in loanwords from Greek, where it meant “over,” usually implying excess or exaggeration.

Vigilant
-adjective. keenly watchful to detect danger; wary: a vigilant sentry. 2)ever awake and alert; sleeplessly watchful.

I know I'm breaking the pattern by using a double-barelled word, but it's about the only trend I'll be able to break today. I'm traveling to Bangor and hyper-vigilance has descended on NYs La Guardia airport. 

Now that I am on the plane, and can reflect, it is possible that security is a little 'tighter' given it's the final day of the UN meeting in New York.

However, I am told (while I wait in endless queues at airports), that Hyper-vigilance is commonplace,especially when you travel, in the USA. From one line, to another, to another. The Americans have a wonderful way of coralling people into lines, that appear to have an end, but only send you to another line that is out of sight. I call these 'groundhog lines'.

Today's groundhog line was security. One Coralled area of a couple of hundred people, then another identical human cattle coral, and then a nice little treat - an x-ray (me), complete security check including explosive screening, and then a good ol' fashioned 'pat- down', rubber gloves and all! It was the most personal attention I had received for some time!

The male security officer pulled me aside (personal niceties not required) and yelled 'female assistance'! What? Do I look like I need assistance? I'm the only one here without brobdignagian hand luggage! And I got the full treatment, including thorough inspection of my hair. Not interested in  my offer to show them my scars,  they 'inspected' me, dread by dread, shoulder, hip, knee, ankle, foot. 

As I leave the United States, I promise to be hyper-vigilant about my posts. To those of you I dissapointed with a 'photo only' post yesterday, I promise, to continue to share my stories of New York, and my Canadian adventure as it unfolds.  Stay tuned.

Fugg

(fugg) n. an odorous emanation, especially, the stuffy atmosphere of a poorly ventilated space. adj. fuggy. v.i. to loll indoors in a stuffy atomosphere. v.t. to make fuggy. I am leaving the fug of the Manahattan B and B to the greener pastures of Northern USA and Canada. My head is in a fug from lack of sleep, lack of fresh air, and lack of coffee. My clothes smell fuggy. I'm all fugged out. 

18 squillion bags of rubbish and counting...

Serendipitous (journey)

Serendipitous (or 'going where the flow takes you') -adjective 1. Come upon or found by accident; fortuitous: i.e., serendipitous discoveries. good; beneficial; favorable i.e, serendipitous weather for our vacation.  It's coffee and a bagel (with cream cheese of course) on 33rd street this morning. Today I am going on the metro rail out of Manhattan and into the wider state of New York to a house museum and property  in Katona, Bedford. This is my only 'pre-organized' adventure. The rest of the time, I have been aiming for a serendipitous journey.    Allowing myself to 'stumble' upon things by accident does not come naturally to me. I am constantly resisting the urge to organize, schedule and pack an unmanageable list of 'must do's' into my days. I remind myself, that I have been here before-seen the sights, burnt the candle at both ends, brought the T-shirts. but my instinct is to plan and control- a comfortable default.  But attempting to tread a serendipitous path has it's rewards.Yesterday, with the grid-like numbered streets and subway signs as my only guide (My iPhone compass came in handy too), I explored Manhattan, South to North including an unexpected train journey into Brooklyn across the bridge. I drank coffee on Wall St and saw a man walking the streets with a cat (alive) perched on his head. I watched the crowds in Battery park, Statue of Liberty in the background. The Smithsonian museum of the American Indian was an unexpected discovery in my search for a public loo. I beeped and got frisked at the Museum, the guards declaring I must have a 'metal leg' not a firearm. I walked passed City Hall (think 'Law and Order'), and ventured into St Andrew's church for some serenity. I caught about a dozen subway trains, and only managed to miss my destination 3 times.  I had Mexican for lunch and kicked myself for throwing out 1/2 my sandwich when I passed another homeless person. (I gave him a dollar and another New Yorker brought him some food). Traversing the island I passed Grand Central, managed to get myself in trouble taking photos in all the wrong places, shopped in overwhelmingly huge department stores, and then headed north along 5th Avenue (where window shopping was the only option). I moved, block by block through the sub cultures of NY. Hasidic Jews, with their ringlet sideburns, skullcaps and hats, and 19th century black suits were commonplace on one block. And then they seemed to be gone, replaced by Christian Dior, Fendi, Yves Saint Laurent and Trump tower. limos and convertibles merged with yellow cabs and busses. I heard someone say, 'This is the diamond block', 'The gold district is to your right'.I followed the sunshine that increasingly shone through the buildings to finally reach central park - a suprisingly cool and peaceful haven are the bustling streets of New York. Then, there was more coffee at crowded benches (this time opposite the Hilton). People queued outide of a fashion outlet, and Topless male models were posing in the foyer (the NY Calvin Klein type). Stunningly beautiful. And finally, Times Square at night, then air filled with the smell of leaking subway fumes, street food and chocolate. I went to M and M world (a three floor department store dedicated to little round chocolates!) This was kid present buying time, with Disney and toy stores galore, and there's nothing like the rolling lights and billboards of Times Square to lull you into a spending stupor. Being in Times square was like being in a casino - you are notsure if it's day or night, it's so light, but you don't care because while there's money in your pocket you don't want to go home. At midnight I give up, buy a Korean feast and an apple on my way home, and am in bed by 2am. Not bad for a serendipitous journey...?

How many toppings does it take to cover an American pancake?

brobdignagian

(brob-dig-nag'-ee-un) adj. (often capitalized) of colossal proportions or extraordinary height; gigantic. n. a giant. [From Brobdignag, a country of giants, in the book Gulliver's Travels.] I am sitting in a DINER in the Flatiron district drinking my sickly sweet cordial-like carrot and apple juice. The 'Health food' diner serves delectable American treats including waffles, omlettes, and fried everything. My pancake is the size of the plate, and is brobdignagian. The hubcap sized slab of carbohydrate comes with a mountain of toppings - FIVE butters, THREE packets of grape Jelly, and TWO maple syrup sachets (Corn syrup sachets actually). Good thing I asked the waitress to 'hold the sausage and the ham', and just had the bacon on the side. (Who invented maple syrup pancakes with bacon on the side anyway?) Brobdignagian buildings tower around me. Across the street is the Museum on Sex (not a place I am game to look for anything Brobdignagian). To the right is the magnificent Toblerone shaped 'Flatiron building.  It's time to get moving again, otherwise, if I sit here too long, I am sure to begin my journey to brobdignagian-ism. And I'm sure it would be wider, not taller!

Mexican independence day parade, Park Avenue

Gallimaufry!

gallimaufry (gal-li-maw'-free) n. a hodgepodge, jumble; a mixture of diverse things [From French galimafrée "a stew, hash, ragout," from galer "to make merry" + mafrer "to eat heartily."] No one word adequately describes the mish-mash of experiences I have had in a mere 48 hrs. But maybe this 'weird' word come close. Hilary (my air bnb host) rents an artists 'loft' on 31st St and it's a gallimaufry of art (mash-ups of hot glue, silicone and clear-green glass and red paintings), plants, piles of books, chests, flowers and plants, food and merry bohemian chit-chat. My 'room' is a closet sized 'nook' that is three times as high as it is wide. I awoke (at midday) to the smashing of drums, sirens, exuberant cheers and whistles- at the corner of my street. Park avenue was alive with Mexican Independance day celebrations. 'The mexicans know how to party', said my husky voiced New York host. I say, they certainly know how to 'make merry' - no need for coffee, as the costumes, percussion, and jubilance awoke the senses that I'd been trying to subdue on the long flight here. 30 hours on planes and in grubby airports without sleep requires a certain amount of sensory shut-down. Ever slept, face down on a Haagan Das cafe table? Sensory shut-down is not an option in NY. Ambulance and fire-engine sirens, horns, and screeching subway trains become a 'background hum' after a while. The city reaches out to me at night, and it's hard to refuse the prmise of 'something exciting happening' if I step outside. Even the lift to my 9th story accommodation is a sensory experience - each time I pass through the dirty green marble foyer, and step into the 60s faux wood, laminate and steel interior, I feel like I am in a Mad Men episode. I just need DonDraper to complete the picture... I'm in Union square now. I have already shopped for shoes and have a long list of 'must haves'. I'm on mymown, so theree's no waiting for anyone or pleasing others, so I can do whatever I desire in the moment. I have my subway pass and I am heading off, camera, mobile and adventurous spirit on board. And as I step back out onto the street, I must remember to look left first, not right. I'm too early on my journey to be hit by a New York Taxi just yet...

Wanderlust downunder

Wanderlust -noun- a strong, innate desire to rove or travel about. Wunderlust -a noun made up by a girl from Australia who: 1) needed a name for her travel blog that hadn't been taken. 2) 'Wunders' as well as 'wanders' 3) is embracing phonetic spelling 4) likes the pun on down 'under' Wordsandwunderlust chronicles Mel Harwood's adventures in New York and Canada - each day is encapsulated by an interesting word, a short travelers blurb, and as much fabulous content as I can create on the road. Just me, and my technology...