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.

as long as it lasts

I thought I was excited about cooking in Australia. With a second person to make the effort worthwhile, the end of Sichuan food easy and cheap and all around, and outrageous Sydney food prices instead, I was going to turn over a new leaf. Then I discovered that Justin is an excellent cook. He experiments and has a good feel for what spices will work together, while I have recipe-dependence issues almost as serious as my mother's.

And then I got this working-woman's job, which has me out of the house around 5:15 am, sometimes 5:00 'til I get back, and my feet so tired. The last thing I feel like doing is spending another hour in another kitchen when I get home. Justin, on the other hand, has spent the entire day (in most cases) in front the of the computer doing nerdy-smart things. He (I assume) is happy to do something a bit more active. So he makes dinner, I wash the dishes (and he dries), and then he massages my sore feet before I fall asleep at 10 (psssttt, Justin, I don't think this is a deal for you, exactly).

trees

Justin said that it's the trees (and sports) that make this place feel different. That remind us that we're not living in Vancouver or DC or some other international North American city. I think he's right.

When I saw this bush I thought at first that someone had placed dead pine cones in it. Then I realized they were attached. Growing there!

The bark on this tree is thickly-layered and almost as soft as paper. I wonder if anyone is making clothing with it.

how I got a job

Into my second week in Sydney I was starting to get really anxious to find work. My money was gone, I was borrowing from Justin, and I was getting bored.

Monday was full of nerves emailing back and forth with a manager at a bakery where I wanted to work. I was thrilled to hear from them at all. But when she set me up for a trial on Friday morning, I figured I'd better get some other irons in the fire, just in case.

As cynical as I claim China has made me, I still feel bad manipulating my advantages over employers (i.e. lying about how long I'm staying, agreeing to overlapping trials, aiming for multiple offers and taking the best one). But Justin and our housemates were saying, "no, that's what you do!", so that's what I did.

I answered more ads on gumtree in the "chefs/cooks/kitchenstaff" section and dropped CVs around. I know from how we hired people in Nanchong that most of the time it's just the luck of walking in at the right time.

Late on Tuesday afternoon I headed down Harris (the street where we live) toward the tiny cafe where Justin had taken me on my first day. The manager was nice, took my CV, said he'd call if anything came up. At the next cafe I poked in and around, feigning confidence as I've learned to do, and asked about a job. The place was a little crazy, people and things spread out around the tables, and it didn't quite feel open even. I read a newspaper while I waited for the manager to finish her phone call. She was warm and personable, shocked to learn I'd just walked in off the street, ecstatic to learn I could drive a manual. She'd been advertising for days; I was the first person to walk in. And I have experience! (sort of). They'd been in business for ten years, had moved that day from the old cafe to a newly renovated cafe next door, and she was due to have a kid the next week (with a four-year-old at home). She kept talking about timing and coincidence and how great it was I'd walked in and stuff. I was to show up at 7 the next morning for a trial. It felt like a done deal. I called Justin with the good news.

For three hours the next morning I raced around behind Maz and Caz (the crazy pair who it seemed had been working there cafe forever), learned on the fly how to punch prices into the register, asked for the names of things again when they had a different pronunciation than I was used to (Australian English is somewhat different), over-vegemited one guy's toast ("You'll kill him!" Caz complained) and didn't put butter on the next one (it's an assumed under-layer for vegemite, I learned). The credit card with the chip took me a few extra seconds to figure out, and I may have stared a bit too long at the coins, which to me are bafflingly ill-proportioned, with tiny $2 pieces and silver-(American)dollar-size 50 cent pieces. Once I cut raisin bread instead of banana bread, but Maz caught me before it was too late.

In general, however, I thought it went fine. I started worrying when Kate the manager didn't get back to me in the afternoon like she'd promised to. I was surprised (I was still hearing the ring of promise in her voice), but by Thursday afternoon, I was pretty sure they weren't going to call. So on my way by the cafe I decided to seek some closure. The look on Maz's face when I marched in was enough confirmation, but I still waited around for Kate to come tell me they'd found someone else (he'd come in after me). I enjoyed forcing a little bit of discomfort on her. But I also completely understand how she didn't get around to calling. I've never been a mother, but I have opened a cafe. I also understand hiring the person that suits them better. It took me a few hours to find my self-esteem again, but all in all it was a fine distraction from the looming Friday appointment. Which was a whole other kind of scariness.

Patisse is a serious French bakery with a serious chef and a serious kitchen. I was told to show up with full chef's uniform, including hat (which is another long story). I'm not sure I would have gone through with the whole thing without Justin's encouragement, I felt so far out of my league. And Friday morning I certainly felt out of my league, and Saturday still, and I'm sure I will for a couple of weeks. It's tiring and scary and scary. And did I mention tiring? The place is out of control busy, with a cafe and catering orders and birthday cakes and pastry training classes. It's high-paced and demanding and it all seems we're stretched a little beyond our abilities and experience. Which is good, right? On Saturday I was there 7-5, and I think ten-hour days are going to be pretty standard. We'll see how things go. For now, it's an exciting new environment, with lot so learn, and people who seem like decent folk. I love being in a kitchen. Even though we work harder than waitstaff, we also have more fun, or at least we will when we're all more familiar with our roles and the place. I hope.

Rob the genius barista part II

He sat down at the piano and started flying scales up and down the keys, with all that boyish drummer-energy, and with talent so raw it took your breath away. I stopped reading. It took me a long time to realize he was just playing scales with a few variations, they were so beautiful. He seemed to hear beats in his head, and then challenge his fingers to keep up. There were changing rhythms and little add-ins and pauses when he was searching for the next note. Some of it was practiced, but some of it was experiment. All of it was gorgeous. I couldn't believe I'd just stumbled into this.

An older couple with two teenage boys came in and ordered lattes and churros with chocolate sauce (turns out it was a Spanish coffee shop). They sat down at the corner table with an extra chair from my table so there was barely room for Rob at the piano. I was afraid he'd be too shy to play so close to them, but when he'd served their food and drinks he sat back down and soon they joined me in my astonishment and delight.

The woman asked him how he'd learned to play like that. He attempted humility, kinda shrugged and answered, "I taught myself. Too much time on my hands, I guess." He explained that he's a drummer, and he figured, "the piano is kinda like drumming, you just beat on it." We all laughed. And he played on.

Justin came and I made him get a coffee. He read the newspaper clippings on the wall and reported back that not only was Rob amazing, but the coffee shop - Hernandez Cafe - itself was as well. Hernandez, the owner, was credited with bringing coffee to Sydney in the early 1970's. Before that he was doing quality control in the coffee industry in Spain. The cafe does their own blends and their own roasting on the premises.

It felt like a gift, stumbling upon Hernandez Cafe and Rob the talented barista-musician.

As we sat journaling and listening, a couple different customers came in who knew Rob, including the guy in the background of the picture. It almost seemed as if it was routine, that he came specifically to hear the music. He left a tip, which inspired us to do the same later on.

We stayed for at least two hours, and the longer we stayed, the more Rob talked to us. He told us how thrilled he'd been when he discovered a chord he could play the whole way up and down with three fingers. "People think music is really hard," he said, "but it's not, it's easy." He saw the music in the keys, the shapes and patterns. He didn't play with the graceful full-fingering of a trained pianist. In fact, he did kinda beat on the keys. Maybe that was part of the effect. Along with very open personality. Whatever it was, we never made it to happy hour. But the night had turned magic. I walked out a lot less concerned about my job search (and the feelings of inferiority that accompany it), a lot more settled in the moment. I left thinking, dear god, I hope that boy makes music everyday of his life, and that's enough. If he wants to party all night long, and serve coffee all day, that is fine by me. As long as he spends a part of each day sharing music with people, he will fulfill his purpose in the world. What more can any of us ask than to find that thing for ourselves?

Rob the genius barista part I

I have a bag of coffee beans I carried all the way from Harrisonburg, but no coffeemaker . . . or stovetop, or french press to make it with. I do have a whole lot of tea from China. There's Tie GuanYin (a type of oolong tea) and Pu'er, both some of the top teas in China, both gifted to me by amazing friends in amazing quantities before I left.

Apparently Sydney used to be mainly a tea-drinking place, though coffee has certainly found an important place. That's always one of the first things that I notice when I fly from China into a "Western" country. Walking out into the airport terminal the smell of coffee is so strong (and so nice). Here in Sydney cappuccinos, lattes, long blacks (what I would call an Americano), and flat whites (what I would call a very low-froth latte) are everywhere . . . and they pretty much start around $3.50. So until we buy a french press or repurpose an old sock (Jeanette's trick) for coffee making, we're doing tea.

But then there are times when you've been out offering resumes to every cafe and bakery on the street, and it's windy, and Justin will be off work in 45 minutes and could just slip over to meet you for the happy hour at the bar on the corner. Cold and windy.

And then I saw a sign for $2 drip coffee, which I actually really like, sometimes, so I walked in to the tiniest, simplest of cafes for a humble cup of gas-station-style coffee. As such, the coffee was black and oil-thick, and obviously had been sitting there for a few hours. The very friendly boy behind the counter took pity and let me "tip a bit out" so I could fit more milk in. He was jumping around and drumming on the counter and just so full of energy I asked if he'd had a lot of coffee that day. "I've had a few," he said. "I'm feeling so musical today."

A woman in her early forties maybe, dressed for business, came for a latte. He asked if she was having a good day. It was alright, she laughed. And you? "Pretty good," he said, "nothing exciting has happened yet today. . . but it could, you know? That's how life is. Unexpected things are always popping up. Life is an adventure." Did he actually say that? Something like that. This was the kind of guy who said things that other people might sound really stupid saying. Somehow it worked for him. Especially after he sat down at the piano. Then we really started to listen.

outside of the apartment, my first friend in Sydney

I joined Justin and his boss Edmund for lunch. The Thai curry was delicious, and sweet enough for a Western palate. And Edmund was absolutely delightful. He's cheery and polite just like my stereotype of a Brit. Mid-forties with teenage children and I swear the man giggles. He talked a bit about the harbour walks and the wine valleys around Sydney, but really got excited he started talking about a trip his family took to Italy last year. I'm pretty sure he used the words "magnificent" and "magical."

happy birthday, America

The History of America

- for Paul Metcalf

A linear projection: a route. It crosses

The ocean in many ships. Arriving in the new

Land, it cuts through and down forests and it

Keeps moving. Terrain: Rock, weaponry.

Dark trees, mastery. Grass, to yield. Earth,

Reproachful. Fox, bear, coon, wildcat

Prowl gloomily, it kills them, it skins them,

Its language alters, no account varmint, its

Teeth set, nothing defeats its obsession, it becomes

A snake in the reedy river. Spits and prays,

Keeps moving. Behind it, a steel track. Cold,

Permanent. Not permanent. It will decay. This

Does not matter, it does not actually care,

Murdering the buffalo, driving the laggard regiments,

The caring was a necessary myth, an eagle like

A speck in heaven dives. The line believes

That the entire wrinkled mountain range is the

Eagle's next, and everything tumbles in place.

It buries its balls at Wounded Knee, it rushes

Gold, it gambles. It buys plastics. Another

Ocean stops it. Soon, soon, up by its roots,

Severed, irrecoverably torn, that does not matter,

It decides, perpendicular from here: escape.

A prior circle: a mouth. It is nowhere,

Everywhere, swollen, warm. Expanding and contracting

It absorbs and projects children, jungles,

Black shoes, pennies, blood. It speaks

Too many dark, suffering languages. Reaching a hand

Toward its throat, you disappear entirely. No

Wonder you fear this bleeding pulse, no wonder.

------------------------------------------------------------

From the Poetry Foundation, "I Hear America Singing."

Alice Ostriker, "The History of America" from the The Little Space: Poems Selected and New, 1968-1998. Copyright 1998 by Alicia Ostriker. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260, upress.pitt.edu. Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.