not every day is sunshine

We had to search a bit for a place to stay when the rain stopped us hard. We were a good hour from Lakes Entrance where there'd be shops and hotels. Orbost was a tiny town with barely a supermarket open. We bought instant noodles and a can of soup, dancing to stay warm in the freezing aisles. The little motel we found didn't have microwaves, and the newly installed free wi-fi (a real rarity in Australia) must have been weakened by the rain. We couldn't pick it up at all.

It absolutely poured down all night. I dreamt strong and realistic of driving out the next morning and getting caught in a nearby town by flooded streets. In my dream a local family took us in and we became embroiled (and indebted) in a day of their lives. They owned a small store that sold stockings and hosiery.

This morning was not sunny, but it had stopped raining. Also, I finished a poem that I had started back in June (in my tiny little apartment in the city, with Chloe, the gorgeous Garfield cat).

One Attitude to Have

(started June 3, 2011 - finished December 13, 2011)

Another cockroach scuttles across the tiles and

the cat's sprawled lolling on her back - legs flung out

in two directions. I send her a look. Just now, though

she watched the thing for a whole long minute

even took two slow steps toward it, as if hunting,

before stopping, turning, meowing back at me like,

Now what do I do? the question we all ask, sooner

or later in a cold brick and cement apartment when

it's just us, the spiders, and a few fifteen watt bulbs.

Replace the light bulbs. Scrub hard at the dirty floors

when it's day, and bright. Spray the hell out of the corners

at night sit, knees drawn, in the center of the bed.

Learn to ignore dark corners and jump less often. Let them

crawl on certain walls. Then, remove a slipper from one foot

and cooly smash the ones that come too close. Or

Vow to do no harm. Like another American teacher

friends once whispered, his house was full of bugs. They

were horrified because he refused to kill the spiders. Though

he was no Buddhist. Teacher Li tells us the rat running

up along the shelves in her tea shop usually appears

about this time in the afternoon and once in the morning.

She pours wine-colored tea into our tiny, rounded glass

cups. We watch, wait, drink, listen,

hoping to learn something of her grace.

the long coastal route

On our second day driving South there are still 600 kilometers to Melbourne. It's still overcast and the car proves to be too much for me; I keep insisting we stop. I summon up dreams, aided by glossy travel magazines and the shops that line the two-lane road, of the little side-tracks that will make the trip.

In Tilba, we buy apple box smoked cheese at the ABC Cheese factory, and talk to a cat with a big round face. Tilba is a Trust Village. That means the government helps to keep it cute, we decide. It was one of the gold-mining towns that stayed around, mainly because of the cheese industry.

It's Noomora, however, with the slogan, “The Way Life Should Be”. We find it a little presumptuous and drive on.

In Cobargo we have coffees and scones, which are what I would call biscuits. These are not at all shabby, but melt in your mouth, with whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cafe is part old train car, and run by straight-forward, big-boned women both abrupt and enthusiastic about their service and their food. Grudgingly, they draped colored tinsel garlands across a doorway here, and an electrical box there, joking about being merry hos.

We also buy books there. Christmas presents some, and poetry by an Australian woman poet.

here are a few of my favorite

New Zealand things. Apart from mountains of course, and sheep! and my beautiful friend Catherine.

There are hot water dispensers! 

Just like in China, where every home, every hotel and petrol station, and every workplace provides hot water for drinking, New Zealanders love their hot drinks.

This is teacher's lounge in Catherine's workplace. She's making a cup of tea. Waiting in the lounge for Catherine, I was invited to have a cup of tea by teachers that I hadn't met. I was offered a cup of tea in every house that I visited. A "cuppa" . . . anything really. They show you the pile of choices. Teas, Milo, Coffee. This is part of the reason that for Justin and I, New Zealand, like Australia, feels very British. Much more so than Canada, Justin assures me.

Also, coffee in Australia and New Zealand is rarely drip. It's either espresso based (an Americano is a "short black" while a "flat white" is like a latte. If you want skim milk you ask for a "skinny") if you're out. At home, it's either instant or French press (plunger in New Zealand). Yeah, hot water!

Catherine's flat mate Cynthia has a cat named Ivan. He's the kind of cat that manages both independence and affection without compromising either. He follows Cynthia outside when she goes to garden. He wiggles belly-up in your arms. He disappears for long periods of time on his own adventures.

But as soon as I entered the house for the first time, and every time after, he ran to nose at my knee and demand attention. He slept on the foot of my bed. I loved him.

I was also impressed with his little cat-sized door. Justin claims that North America has them too. I'll believe it when I see it.

Every house also seemed to have these spinning square clotheslines. I'm sure they exist in North America, but not like this. They have lots of sun, so they mostly don't have dryers. A lot of the houses I was in also did not overheat . . . so we wore sweaters inside. I loved it. And the most genius thing of all . . .

the bathroom's heated towel rack. I could live in this country.

scotland for a day

We borrowed the smaller of the McKinlay cars and drove out onto the peninsula. At Catherine's suggestion we took the tiny winding coastal road out and a tiny winding high road (through steep hills with stone fences which, in Catherine's words, is “the closest thing to Scottish highlands outside of Scotland”) back. It was beautiful. I enjoyed driving the little car - my first experience of a manual transmission on the left - and pulled off the road at every patch of gravel I saw so we could take pictures in the wind.

We drove to visit a little ceramics shop that Jen wanted to visit. I had no idea how much I liked ceramics. I cursed baggage weight limits (only 20 kg on the Sydney-Guangzhou leg of my journey) and bought a little apron instead of the plates and pitchers and salt and pepper shakers and tea sets I wanted to buy. I can't wait to have a place of my own to fill with things!

we did not go white water rafting

At the last minute, Justin and I decided not to go on to Queenstown, the hub of tourism in the South Island. We did not go kayaking. We did not go bungee jumping. We didn't even hike to a glacier. We did see a lot of sheep. We did have “hokey pokey” - the icecream flavor that seems to be a national favorite. We did wind through a lot of small towns and villages.

We spent our last two New Zealand days (very happily) in Dunedin, at the McKinlay house with its mismatched gift-hangings evidence of their family's love spread over oceans and races.

Primary-school Catherine didn't understand what her friends' parents meant when they talked about the Asian Invasion. She was excited about the new classmates who would become her friends.

We experienced well the hospitality they've practiced 'til it's part of their family culture.

Come in, it's soooo good to see you again. Would you like a cup of something hot? Biscuits? Where are you staying tonight? (We thought we'd just find a hotel downtown somewhere). Well, why don't you just stay here? We've got plenty of beds. I'll just go make up the beds now. (And when I did go to bed later, a sign on my pillow that read, “Welcome Holly. We're glad you're here.”)

look how pretty

All the serious trampers wear waterproof boots. Catherine and I do it in tennis shoes. Here's the footwear lined up outside the hut.

We are somewhat refreshed in the morning at the Iris Burn Hut, ready for our third day of tramping. 

Justin and I do the extra jaunt into the forest to see the waterfall.

The ferns were literally blanketing the forest floor, and huge. I love how they curl into this nautilus shape. We never saw a silver fern, which is the official symbol for the All Blacks. 

The last hut looked out over this lake. Some of our fellow trampers made a bonfire and we swatted sand flies into the night, enjoying each others' stories.

the second day is always harder

On the second day, there is snow . . .

. . . and gorgeous landscapes sweeping away from us.

The path follows the ridge for hours.

We try not to fall into metaphors about “the path” or “the journey.”

There is lunch on the top of the world.

and Keas, the cheeky birds of the high places.

I attempt handstands somewhere high.

And eventually we descend into this temperate rainforest, and keep descending . . . and descending . . . and descending. At a low point, we thought we'd missed the turnoff for the cabin, we'd been at it so long. It was our least favorite part of the climb. That night we slept well.

on the Kepler Track!

Our first day on the Kepler.

My intrepid climbing companions Catherine and Justin.

The weather is perfect. We take our time. We arrive at the cabin in the golden light of the hours before sunset.

my kind of time

With Catherine, travel has been rich in time. We sleep until we wake up. We stop for the coffees I need, and to visit the aunties and friends of hers we're passing by. Both of us struggle in other parts of our lives with feeling slow and disorganized. Together, it's relaxing to be ourselves, to go about the day without worrying about efficiency.

Church of the Good Shepherd on Lake Tepako

When I flew into Christchurch, Catherine picked me up at the airport and we made our way slowly through the center of the South Island and around to Dunedin on the Southern part of the East Coast. We covered a total of perhaps 600 kilometers. It took us three days. I made this list of why it was so good.

we accepted hospitality 

we changed our plans

we made space for food

we did not overeat

we let time get away from us

we talked with strangers

we stopped the car to take walks

 This morning we finished our packing for the hike and, on our way out of town, dropped off Cynthia's cat Ivan at the cattery as a favor to Cynthia (Catherine's flatmate) who was leaving for the weekend before the cattery opened at nine. She mentioned that we should be there before 10:30, but not being time-oriented people, we forgot. We showed up around 11:30. We pulled up the gravel lane into a circular drive with a large house to the right, a long shed (which we assumed was the cattery) in front of us up a little hill, and an open larger shed to the left. Three small dogs flew from the house and bounced alongside the car, barking furiously. A strange welcome to a cattery, we remarked. We were in fine spirits, as the day was beautiful, and we were off on a drive to the mountains. Just the cat to drop off and we'd be on our way. But we weren't quite sure what to do. There were no signs, and no one but the dogs about. Catherine tried pulling up the little lane that led to the long shed, but stopped just in front of it when she realized that it was not wide enough for a car.

Then suddenly a woman came from the house, screaming obscenities at us. She hadn't lost a bit of her fury or indignation when she'd rounded up the dogs and marched over to our car. By this time we'd gotten out of the car and were waiting awkwardly with the cat.

Our humility-filled apologies did nothing to dissuade her anger. “I have to lay some ground rules! Those are the hours and people have to respect them! And then coming in here and trying to drive over my footbridge! I have to lay some ground rules!” She repeated these key points (we were dumbfounded and silent) over and over as she took Ivan and then marched him up the hill, ignoring us completely. We stood awkwardly for another minute, not sure if we were done, before climbing in the car and driving away. We were both a bit shaken, but for me disdain weighed stronger. Some businesswoman. We figured there must have been previous incidents that had built to a breaking point for this poor woman. We shook our heads, reminded ourselves we'd never see her again, and drove on.

preparation day

We leave in the morning for Te Anau, where the Kepler Track begins. We'll be hiking Sunday to Wednesday, carrying all our stuff. I will "blog" in my notebook until we get out to internet again next week.

My last day in Dunedin was full. I visited the art gallery, witnessed a parade of primary kids learning about traffic safety which was led by a Scottish marching band, met Catherine's students, had lunch in the botanical garden cafe with Catherine and friends, did tons of food prep for our tramp, helped Catherine's flatmate carry a wardrobe upstairs, hiked at Tunnel Beach, and visited one last time with Catherine's parents. I would post pictures, but I'm fighting with the automatic password generating software I've recently installed. Can't get to my pictures.

Anyway, here are some of the things I've learned today.

1. The "fanbake" setting in a New Zealand oven (is that like convection in terms I'm familiar with?) cooks way faster than the regular "bake" (or the time given on the recipe, for that matter).

Granola bars for the hike are a bit dark, but still tasty.

2. When the Salvation Army thrift store volunteer is clearly over seventy, hair in a tight white perm, lips creased inward from years of sternness . . .  maybe suggesting as a solution to the many-shoppers-one-changing-room problem, "Hey, I'm not shy. Any place back in the back where I could try these on?" not the best approach.

I still had to wait for the woman ahead of me to try on her gazillion items of clothing . . . while growing surer by the minute that volunteer lady, who I had to brush past, apologizing, every two minutes in the ridiculously cramped shop, thought I was a complete skank.

3. The regular supermarket does not sell dehydrated mushrooms. The Asian supermarket just across the street does. They both sell lots of cheap ramen packets.

4. Choosing a sharp curve halfway up the hill home to set down heavy shopping bags and shake out aching arms might convince some sucker to stop and give you a lift home!

It was not as calculated as it sounded. She was very nice. Her car was filled with bales of hay. Literally filled. She lifted her bags off the seat so I could get in with mine, then put her bags on my lap and drove me home. I was very grateful. My arms hurt.

sarah kay and ten things I know

This morning Seth Godin introduced me to Sarah Kay. She is my age, feisty, warm, and wise, and performs spoken word poetry with nice winding metaphors. It's heart-warming kind of stuff. Here's (the short version) the poem "B" (or "If I should have a daughter . . .")

Here's (the long version), a Ted Talk that ends up just under 20 minutes. She talks about her own journey to spoken word poetry, about teaching it, about connection, and shares another poem at the end called Hiroshima.

 She talks about using lists to teach poetry and asks the audience to make a list of ten things they know to be true. Here's mine:

Ten Things I Know to be True

My mother loves me.

Procrastination of one big thing sometimes helps little important things get done.

Kneading bread is therapeutic.

Melted butter and lots of brown sugar make chewy chocolate chip cookies.

Cynicism is easy; belief takes courage.

It's sometimes possible to speak an idea into existence.

Appearance (and aesthetics in general) matter . . . alot.

As children, almost everyone has dreams of flying.

We all ought to be singing together a lot more.

Tomato, basil, and mozzarella make a delicious pie.

What are ten things you know?

when women sit together praying

I was a bit reticent about attending a women's Bible study. I don't actually read the Bible, or pray much . . . and it's been years and years since I've thought of myself as a Christian.

Not that it's hard to do the motions. They're familiar and easy enough. But, really, I feel bad pretending participation while secretly making observations and judgments at nice emotional distance. That's what I usually end up doing. So I wondered if maybe I shouldn't go.

But Catherine kept talking about her Wednesday morning group. She does not take for granted the chance to share deeply in the lives of women close to her age. This is one of the things in her life she's most excited about. I wanted to meet these women. I decided to go.

They were amazing! The host was this brilliant and bold mother all dressed in purples and lipstick, and nose ring. She was steady and funny and very much herself, it felt, but also let us know that she was lacking in sleep, and not able to do much more these days than take care of her family.

Another mom with a gravelly voice, hard laughter, and less-polished language gave me the impression that she knew how to party. She and I made faces when Paul warned people of the light should remain awake and sober for Jesus' coming.

The woman who led the study part of the bible study was all business and let's get this started but with a gentle edge, and you could see she loved herself, and quietly loved as well.

An ex-journalist really seemed to empathize with my crises of confidence and transition. She said to me, "you have to learn the art of contentment", which I've always thought I knew. I began to think again. Maybe I could use a bit more peace.

There were others, all strikingly different in personality . . . and they all touched me a bit. I didn't pull back the way I thought I might. I engaged, and enjoyed them.

As I listened to them talk through the big (and little) issues and decisions of their lives, I realized that I could also use a return to prayer in my life. I could use some women like this, who are making space to listen for God/Wisdom/Universe/Our Own Souls to speak.  Who are holding life gently, understanding that it's not really ours, but something we move through. Loving the people we have the chance to love. Encouraging and engaging.

a little bit of extraordinary

This morning when beautiful Catherine went to work, I walked toward the "Octagon" at the center of Dunedin . . . into a lot of stores that sold jewelry, pottery, gifts, and merino clothing . . . and then out again, empty-handed, every time, despite the fact that Christmas is coming, much of it was very nice, and some even locally made.  But my suitcase space is limited, and (are we paying attention?!?) everything is just so much cheaper in the US. I assured myself I'd buy nice, locally-made things back home, but only what I need, and what will last. (Thank you, Patagonia, for your initiative.)

The last store I walked out of was on a corner across from the train station.

Dunedin train station

On the sidewalk in front of me I saw a Chinese student who, at least from the back, looked a lot like Jeff, a friend from Nanchong. This guy was waiting at the stoplight, so I had a moment to decide whether to walk up behind him and awkwardly peer round at his face to confirm . . . or just walk away. I knew Jeff was on working holiday in New Zealand, but this guy looked a bit too clean-cut. A bit too run-of-the-mill-Chinese-tourist with his backpack and jeans. I remember Jeff wearing a colorful cloth bag from Thailand slung over his shoulders, and his hair slightly long. It didn't seem likely, but I checked anyway, just to be sure.

It was him, of course.

You know when something so extraordinary happens that you struggle to even acknowledge it? As if you know any reaction you produce will not measure up to the moment, so you just sort of shrug, and walk down the street. It was like that as Jeff and I hugged, found a place for coffee, caught up on travel and plans, walked back through the Octagon, bought strawberries on the street, shared a plate at the Chinese fast food restaurant, wandered through the Cadbury factory free exhibit, until we eventually parted ways. Every so often during the afternoon, one of us would remember, and exclaim a bit, because it felt like something to be exclaimed at, and we'd just shake our heads and laugh.

It's not like he's just another student from Nanchong (he was never my student, in fact). Jeff was an ultimate frisbee player, a volunteer, one of the only Chinese students I know who's actually interested in working with NGOs, he carried bags from Thailand! He spent his summers during university connecting with other students in international camps. He even held a fundraiser (unheard of in Nanchong) to send himself to one.

Since moving to New Zealand in July, Jeff has worked selling pies, washing dishes, cleaning fish, and making Christmas cookies. He hitchhiked from Christchurch to the Southernmost tip of the South Island and says he's not worried about finding the next job. He's found that it's mainly luck and timing anyway. When his friends back home say they're jealous of his life of adventure he asks, "then why not join me here?" So far, none have taken him up on the suggestion.

At some point during the day, Jeff had reminded me that I could be working to help connect Chinese students with Western language schools and universities eager to have them. It's an idea I'd been thinking about when I first moved to Sydney, but hadn't acted on much since. With his reminder, I got curious about the idea again. . . and mentioned it to Catherine when I got back to her workplace . . . the language learning center attached to the university. She promptly went and knocked on some doors and within an hour I'd been introduced to the CEO, met with the head of marketing, and as it happened that the woman who manages the Chinese market is in New Zealand for the week, I met her too, and learned all about their system for recruitment. It was all a little overwhelming. It was that kind of day.

thirty days to thirty

While many of my students in China wished they could be eighteen again, I've always felt happy to be as old as I happen to be. I'm grateful for the years and experiences that have twisted and taught me until I can hardly believe the changes. And I would not trade any of it for fewer wrinkles and gray hairs. I like my wrinkles and gray hairs.

So here I am at 29 with thirty days to thirty and counting. And I want to DO something. Something to mark the occasion. Something to remind myself that life is there for the taking. Something to make me little more like this baker-blogger. Except maybe not quite so ambitious as thirty different things. Just thirty of one should do me fine. For thirty days.

So . . . thirty days of what? Should I give hugs to strangers? Write emails to old friends? Learn new songs on the guitar? Give away cupcakes? Study new Chinese idioms? Yes, yes, and yes.

And write blogs. One a day, for thirty days. With the vague theme of "things I've learned" - today, last week, last year, in the last almost-thirty years. It's a broad theme. I sometimes have trouble with narrowing. But I'll try not to dwell much on the things I have trouble with (I spend enough time doing that already). Instead, I want to write about what inspires me, what excites me, what has challenged me to become better and different and still curious.

Like today, for starters. Catherine my beautiful New Zealand host went to work and I went to the Otago Museum. Otago is the name of the southern region of the South Island, where she lives. At the museum I learned things about cultures of Polynesia. There are 700 languages spoken in Papua New Guinea. The tatooist held an important place in the feudal hierarchies in Hawaii and Tonga. In the Santa Cruz islands, tumeric was believed to have supernatural properties. Yams were treated like currency on another island, and all Polynesians, it seems, ate breadfruit, a fruit that tastes something like bread?

I learned about Sir Edmund Hilary, the first person to climb Mt. Everest. Even though he was born and schooled in Auckland (in the North Island), the Otago Museum claimed the former beekeeper as a New Zealander. I learned that not only did he get to the roof of the world first (thanks to a mixture of ambition, planning, and talent, and lots of sugared lemon drink for hydration), but he went on to do a whole of lot of humanitarian (and diplomatic) work in Nepal and India. He continued on to ten more Himalayan summits, an expedition to the South Pole, a jet boat trip the length of the Ganges . . . all the while seeking approval of local Buddhist leaders when adventuring in their land. According to the exhibit, he was well-known and respected by the Sherpa people, and he returned each year to continue his work there with the Himalayan Trust for fifty years, until he was 86.

I hope I may have a tiny bit of his dedication. And sense of adventure.

zoombike

A man who may or may not be the owner of this awesome bike is sitting under the black umbrella. He's a bit dirty, is wearing sports sandals, an overcoat too thick for the warmth of the afternoon, and slowly rolling a cigarette from a paper pouch of tobacco.

I may work fifty-hour weeks . . .

But I still have two days off.

The big park near our apartment where people play soccer and do group work-outs. I walked across.

Climb up into the Glebe area, and you know you're there. All cute and fancy, these houses. This patio caught my eye.

And these windows.

And this tree.

I read in the sunshine, by the harbour at Glebe Point.

There's a boat that has pulled out across the water toward the bridge. A small boy, watches, and says, "Dad, let's get on that boat!"

things are different alright

One difference in language I've noticed in Australia: instances where I would tend to say "woman" or "female", it's normal here to say "lady".

I took this picture in the bathroom stall at the opera house just before we saw Scott McCloud give an awesome talk about comics and the importance of visual communication. Justin is trying hard make me love comics just a little. One graphic novel (Persepolis) and one volume of something closer to what I think of as comics (Sandman) in, I'm happy to keep reading.

When the talk ended around 4, it was drizzling out. We bought coffees and stayed 'til we got annoyed at the conversations around us.

I can't stop taking pictures of the Sydney sky. After years and years of blah-skies-Sichuan, even something as "ordinary" as this takes my breath away.

good day to be friends with the savory chef

Paul is our one savory chef, and so far my closest friend at Patisse. He's in his early thirties and has been a chef since he was twenty. It's hard being the only savory chef in a kitchen full of pastry chefs. Paul makes his job look easy. His soups are tasty, his plates always look beautiful going out, and he's teaching me his side dish-by-dish, so I can help out once in awhile when things get hairy.

Paul's wife is Australian. He is from England. She lived there for seven years, then decided it was time to move home. They spent a year traveling the world before buying a house on the beach outside of Sydney. And now they're pregnant. Yay! I can only hope the new baby situation doesn't prevent me from finagling an invitation to their house (and the beach) in the next few months . . .

Paul likes to talk. Not a lot of talking happens when the Big Chef is around, and a lot of the time, the rest of us are too busy to talk anyway. But I try to listen when I can. Sometimes it can feel like Paul and I (and just a few others) are afloat on the English island in a river of French. The head chef, the two cheeky chefs I answer to, and a number of the front people are often resorting to French for the all the good stuff (the jokes, gossip from the weekend, the nitty gritty of how to pipe a nice eclair).

Sometimes he needs to let off some steam or out bit of grumbling when we meet in the cool room. I listen. In return, he grabs the square tins off the top of the shelves for me. I help him chop vegetables when I can. He shows me the fastest way to break down the box when my only instructions from the other chefs are, "put away the eggs." I laugh at his jokes (most of the time) and he has often taken my side when I was blamed for something. I try to be on good terms with everyone in the kitchen. With Paul it feels more like an ally. If he's looking for an extra hand I'm the first to volunteer. And I know I can count on him for help when I really need him.

But this post is supposed to be about my lunch. Which on days when I am lucky enough to get a break, is usually a wrap, a sandwich, or some days just a big salad with lemon dressing and pine nuts. There are meat pies if I want them (as there seem to be all over Sydney) but I don't get excited about meat pies . . . or quiche pies really anymore (that I bake them every day may have something to do with it).

But this Moussaka, which Paul whipped up for a Saturday special, had me all lusty-eyed from the moment he started cooking the beef Friday afternoon. This morning I was only half-listening to his out-loud thinking about the specials for this week, when I suddenly heard, "I've still got some in there. You can have a piece for lunch if you want."

I did not forget. And oh it was good. Layers of grilled eggplant and bechamel sauce on top of that meat that had wooed me as it cooked. And oh, I ate it in the sunshine. A lunch very much worthy of the sunshine. Thank you, Paul.

all day, all day, amazing food

I had to work at 11 this Sunday, so Justin and I tried to squeeze a bit of lazy Sunday in the few hours between waking and then. At the awesome Bourke Street Bakery. The coffee was the kind that makes you sit up and take notice. And my chocolate croissant (and, apparently, Justin's raspberry-chocolate muffin, too) was everything I'd hoped it'd be.

Patisse (like a lot of places in Sydney) is closed on Sunday, but there are sometimes events. "High Tea" on the last Sunday of each month. And yesterday, a special "French Safari Cooking Class" with Maeve of the Food Safari show on Australia's Special Broadcasting Services. So I had to work on Sunday. It was very different, however, from the daily work of display, display, mis en place, run, run, tired, tired. There were only four dishes in the "safari" demonstration - chocolate fondant, lemon madeleines, creme brulee, and raspberry souffle. Simple, yes, and I knew in theory all about these dishes (I've even watched online videos) but had never made any of them myself. So I was a bit nervous about my role in the kitchen, which was basically to do the last minute prep on the food that the participants would try after watching a demonstration.

The chef was nervous too, and couldn't quite figure out how to time things so that the souffle (which was meant to be the wham-bang piece) would come out right at the end (since I wasn't much help). The idea was to have as little down-time as possible between recipes. So he's out there demonstrating, demonstrating, cute french accent, laugh, laugh, done, and ooooo, aaaaaa, wow, here come the fondants for everyone to try. They were beautifully presented with an orange slice, raspberries and a blueberry on each small white plate next to the dark chocolate. Unfortunately, however, I overcooked the fondant (by about a minute-and-a-half, Chef guesses). So they were more like brownies than the exploding pockets of chocolate river that they're supposed to be. Sigh. I didn't have to do much with the madeleines, the creme brulee was caramelized to Chef's standards on the second go-round, and fortunately, the souffles (which I had to pipe and then smooth into the beautiful little copper pots) rose beautifully, and I only managed to puncture one of them with the handle of another pot. Here's what they look like when he makes them. (Picture from: http://www.gourmetsafaris.com.au/)

Then I met Justin at Central and we took the train to Lisa and Lee's apartment out in West Ryde. Lisa cooked an amazing dinner of 干锅鸡 and 红烧肉 for us.

why to stay

On the way home from work last Saturday I tore off contact info for an apartment ad that was pasted on the light post. Even though I knew that Justin signed a six-month lease when he moved into our room in May. Because that's how tend to operate - always on the lookout for something better. We tolerate the blah-bland color and high rent for the great location (he's a ten-minute walk to work, and we're central to wonderful neighborhoods, a couple harbours, Chinatown, and downtown) . . . and, I'm beginning to realize, for our wonderful housemates.

Late that Sunday morning we went to look at the apartment, which was one of hundreds in a renovated, 100-year-old wool storage building, and apart from the modest oven in the kitchen, and the pool I guess, less attractive than our current place. And in the back of my mind I felt a sadness that surprised me at the thought of leaving Carola and Javier.

The others are nice as well. But it's Carola and Javier who've we gotten closest to so far. On my second day in Sydney I woke up to her singing over breakfast, and knew we should be friends. I told her I liked her singing. She said she thinks singing makes her happy, and why not be happy?

Carola and Javier are a couple, and both here on Chilean government scholarships. She's studying social work, he - engineering. They've had to do English supplementing first, and that was a half-year of hell. They grumble about the English hurdle, and we can feel too that they are amazing people. She's sweet and caring and friendly, and passionate about the land and the politics of her home. She has spent hours showing us pictures from Patagonia, and groaning with real pain over the tragedy of the hydroelectric dams soon to be built there.

She comes from the southern part of Chile, and her family is in Argentina, which feels as much like hers as Chile does sometimes, because it's so close geographically. Still, people from skinny Chile envy fat Brazil and Argentina. Envy their economies and their futbol, and maybe their culture too. They and their friends party all the time, but they don't compare to Brazilians, she tells us.

One Friday night we all find ourselves drinking vodka in the kitchen with Carola, Javier, Luciano (another Chilean), and a couple of their classmates (Korean Jessie and Chinese Sharianne). We laugh and laugh, because Javier is clever and witty, but soon I start making rumblings about bed. Then the Chileans teach us a party song that involves thumping on the closest surface (it was cabinets and countertops for us) and singing "don't go, Holly, don't go." Very persuasive when a whole room of your friends is beating a please-stay rhythm with their hands and voices. Unfortunately I work at 6:00 on Saturday mornings, and that's the morning you don't want to show up late or slow . . . so it only pulled an extra half-an-hour or so from me.

july 26

Tuesday I spent the afternoon at Sydney Harbour with Polleah, a friend from Nanchong. Meeting Polleah, who flew in from Gold Coast in the morning and to LA the next day, for a lunch date planned in early June, seemed fantastic, and had us both bubbly.

We had trout salad (some of which was stolen right off our plates by the gulls) and pizza with potato and rosemary. We ordered nothing else and happily lounged for more than three hours.

On the walk there and back I took pictures of the boat show at Darling Harbour.

I was so happy to see the sun.

Last week it barely peeked out its face. Most of the days that just meant drizzle and wet trees and grabbing Justin's raincoat and an extra pair of socks for the walk to work. On Thursday morning, however, the water dumped on me almost the entire 35-minute commute (and rushed in torrents down sidewalks, and bounced up and veered in sideways 'til I was soaked up to the knees). Not fun. There aren't really direct buses, at least in part because the as-the-crow-flies route passes through the mass of train station - city and country trains verging in one place - that is "Central". Fortunately there are underground tunnels that take people in and through the station. I love that part of my walk in particular. In the morning the echo of footsteps - the few of us passing through before six. In the evening the varied multitudes that make cities so wonderful. Business folk all pointy-shoed and still talking work on their way home. Couples draped and laughing on their way out. Folk ragged and slow with a cigarette. Women with head coverings and men with dreadlocks. Men in paint-splattered uniform and boots. Fathers with children, mothers with strollers. And buskers, without fail. I walk with my headphones, but pause the music in the tunnels so I can hear theirs.