Exercise

Exercise is one of my new year’s resolutions. In an attempt to develop my physical prowess and not become a bent-over old woman shuffling up stairs with heaving breaths every two steps, I have vowed to run or do pilates or both five days a week. Pilates wasn’t part of my initial resolution to be honest. that came later, when, after walking through caves and having to stoop a fair portion, I recognized that if i didn’t soften up my tight lower back soon, i wouldn’t be able to do anything fun in a relatively short period of time.

The weight lifting and running wasn’t going to do anything about that. Yoga classes didn’t seem possible as 1) there aren’t any that are for beginners right near me 2) the closest studio to me is a bikram yoga studio which means stifling heat for 90 minutes whilst trying to bend and stretch and float on my head while really i’m just going to be nauseous and want to throw up. And even if your first time there you feel sick they don’t want you to leave. no. 3) everytime i’ve gone, they have guided meditation. i’m very rarely in the mood to hear someone speak to me in a soothing voice and tell me to imagine a shaded glen.

However, a friend who just arrived into town told me about a pilates studio near my apartment. So we went over to check it out and after inquiring after group classes (cheaper than individual lessons) and realizing that I don’t really know how to do pilates and that the breathing alone may take far more concentration than I normally give any activity, I opted for privates. That way someone else was responsible for making sure I breathed appropriately.

There is a lot of thinking involved in pilates. A lot. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of my body. I tend to live in my head. The majority of activities that I am involved in the body is secondary. I like reading, taking photos, knitting, walking, etc. In none of these things am I totally focused on my body and solely my body. But for this one hour in my day, I cannot think of anything else. If I start to think about work or music or typing or a book I read or a movie I saw or someone who has made me angry or sad or happy, I lose my form and focus and forget what is going on and begin to slump and hold my breath.

The voice of my teacher repeats in my ears over and over–tuck in, soften your ribs, firm up your core, flatten your back, straighten your spine, don’t forget to breathe, inhale, exhale, blow out, straight arms, point your toes, lengthen your legs, long arms, clip your wings, open your chest. All of these over and over (though less often now, as time goes on).

I carry my tension in my shoulders.  They tend to creep up toward my ears and shorten my neck.

I am told to relax every session. Every time. My teacher believes I have too much stress that I carry with me all the time.  The last time I got a massage, the masseuse kept repeating the same thing–relax relax. Let go. Why are you so stressed?

I wonder if the stress is so much a part of me I can’t feel it anymore, because they say these things to me on days when I’m not conscious of the stress. Is it stress and the knots in my muscles that are holding my joints and bones together?

Sometimes I shake when holding a pose because my muscles in some areas are so weak. This makes my teacher laugh because … I don’t know why. It makes me wonder if she hasn’t seen her other students do the same. I am not the only one who shakes when the weakness leaves her body.

After we are done doing certain series of exercises, my teacher stretches me out. Sometimes I lay on my back and she pushes my folded knees to my chest. Other times I sit on my feet, bend forward and draw out my arms in front of me, as though spent from a serious bout of weeping. She places one hand on my left shoulder and the other on my right hip, pushing them away from each other. Then the other sides. As though I am bread dough. The last is always me planting my feet at the base of a pole, holding both hands overhead on the same pole, and my teacher pulling at my middle until I form a single parenthese. First one side, then the other.

This hour, twice a week, lengthens my spine and I swear I grow two inches. My arms are more graceful, my legs more limber and my mind is finally quiet and clear as I walk home in the polluted evening.

Hong Kong

Hong Kong is a very comfortable sort of place. The city is not pretty. The architecture is not wowser amazing and I didn’t go into any of the famed parklands and explore the trails. I was there for less than 48 hours, the main purpose in going was to meet up with friends from Korea that I’d not seen in ages.  I arrived Friday night and they were to arrive Saturday afternoon. Then I was to leave Sunday afternoon.

Not nearly enough time, but some was better than none.

I got into HK at 10pm. When I’d booked my ticket, I hadn’t read the fine print as, really, I never do. This was an unfortunate mistake as I was then unprepared to learn that I would be sitting in the very last row and not given anything to eat other than peanuts. It was only a two hour flight so the eating part didn’t bother me. But having to sit in the very last row, in a plane filled with people who simultaneously seem to firmly believe that if they don’t get off the plane RIGHT AWAY that it will take off again VERY SOON and they will be stuck flying somewhere else while also believing that they must take their own sweet time in collecting the million and one plastic bags full of…something… that they have brought on as carryon luggage. Due to knowing these habits, my desire to be seated as far forward as possible claws in my throat from the minute I enter the airport and check in. It is a common refrain for me when I check in, “Please seat me as far forward as possible”. Typically I’m at least in the first half. This time, because my flight was ‘no frills cheap!’, I was forced to the back. Even though the plane wasn’t full and I was willing to forfeit the meal. No. The guy at the check-in counter DID however tell me I was as beautiful as Kirsten Dunst. That’s almost as good as seated quick exit style.

The women seated next to me in loser row were in worse shape than I was. They were on their way to an evening out and so wanted to have a bit of a drink on the plane. Unfortunately, no frills also means no alcoholic beverages, which are typically free on an international flight. The flight attendant wouldn’t even let them buy a little drink. They then found the duty free catalog and in an inspired moment, decided to buy a bottle of jack and crack it open. Sadly they were thwarted when the flight attendant informed them that they would not be allowed to drink from the bottle, and in fact, not buy any bottles.

Landing in HK, I quickly went through immigration and tried to find the airport bus that would take me to Kowloon and my hostel. The instructions from the hostel told me which bus to get on and even which stop it would be. Stop 14. I’d also brought the address. The bus delightfully had a light board that surprisingly announced the first stop in both English and Chinese. Comforted by this that I would actually be able to find my stop, I ceased worrying (it was late, I’ve never been to HK and I like things as easy as possible when I first arrive to a place) and gazed out the window at the passing lights.

Of course, things are never that simple. When I glanced back at the lightboard to see what stop we were at, I noticed that the stops had ceased being announced and that the board in fact looked as though it had been turned off. I then realized that the pinging sound I had heard was that of the call for the bus to stop. Luckily I had grabbed a tourist street map at the airport and remembered to bring the address of the hostel. On an educated whim, I pushed the button to stop the bus and got off. Getting off, a man said Hello to me in heavily accented English. Hating to talk to strangers and so on, I tried to sidestep him. He then said my name and said he was from the hostel I had booked a room at and he had come to pick me up from the bus stop since I was getting in so late.

I was startled and more than pleasantly surprised. Especially as I realized that I would never have found the hostel on my own amid all of the flashing lights and people roaming around. It was tucked away in plain sight.

I had booked a single room. It had two beds, its own bathroom (complete with toilet shower), and cable tv. Very clean and neat and spartan. Perfect.

Waking up the next morning, I stepped out in search of breakfast. I love breakfast. Hot coffee with a bit of milk. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Yum. I honestly had small hopes of finding good breakfast. Finding food in an unknown city can be more challenging than anticipated and especially american breakfast in Asia. However, in my wandering around, I located a Delifrance and had thick toast and egg with a strong cup of coffee. Replenished, I went in search of a park, the jade market, the flower market, and the bird market. I figured this would keep me occupied until my friends arrived.

Walking around unknown cities has to be one of my favorite things to do in the world. Everything is interesting because nothing is usual.  You can see how people live, if they get out and enjoy their city and hang out in the parks or if everything is moving moving moving scurrying from one building to the other.

HK was all people all the time. The park was wonderful. Not pretty or picturesque, but full of people running and walking and swaying their arms in languid yet purposeful circles, listening to the mad beats burst from their boom boxes. Kowloon park reminded me of being in a habitrail.

The different markets–flower, bird, and goldfish–seemed to be actual markets where people actually shop for their own purposes.  People were sauntering through the thick soup of humanity clutching large bouquets of chrysanthemums and pussy willows. The pussy willows were larger than any I’d seen and I wanted to rub their furry buds against my cheeks.  The chrysanthemums were so large and waxy they seemed fake, and some of them had been dyed garish shades and green, blue and orange.

I kept stopping for coffee and hence had to keep stopping to find restrooms. Luckily for me, HK knows from providing relief to everyone because public toilets were never far away. I almost wonder if I didn’t keep stopping simply because I could.

Even with hours of walking and wandering, I still had some time before my friends were going to arrive.  Right near the hotel that we were going to stay at as the HK Art Museum. They had beautiful exhibitions of traditional chinese paintings done by a modern artist with modern sensibilities. Puffy grey chicks peeping across the snowy paper, heading toward frogs with gaping mouths and googly eyes staring at a fish in the pond. In a different exhibition, an artist was being honored who had died ten years before. The retrospective included photos of his art hanging in people’s homes and in corporate waiting areas. The art in context of everyday life gave an entirely new perspective on the static pieces in front of you.

There was also an installation piece–an artist had set up an art studio within the museum and invited patrons to enter into the space with her, to learn about the artist process and to be part of the creation of the work. Her studio faced a wall of windows that looked onto the bay.  Breathtaking.

I headed to the hotel to check in and wait for my friends. I’d just finished showering and drying my hair when they walked in. There are few things as lovely as hugging dear friends and catching up on the everyday details of life that get left out in emails and phone calls. We chatted and got ready to head out. We decided to head to Soho, where there are escalators climbing the mountain with stops at streets filled with shops and restaurants. After climbing the escalators the entire way up (and stopping briefly for me to buy a few leather boxes to hold my crap at home), we started walking down and stopped at a tapas restaurant for dinner. My god that food was amazing. We shared a tortilla, mushrooms, pork, scallops wrapped in bacon (for real, wrapped in bacon. awesome) and jalapenos stuffed with cheese. Also they brought fresh baked bread and a bowl of butter. My friend Jen was so impressed with the sight of so much butter she promptly tried to dip her bread in the butter rather than the more mundane scooping it up with a knife to spread. We feasted on the food and Jen and I split a jug of sangria and talked and ate and drank and made comparisons involving words like vulva.

We left with a recommendation as to a place to go for dessert. On our way to dessert, somehow the conversation took a turn toward how Allison can fit her fist in her mouth. She then proved it in a startling display of class and restraint. Jen proclaimed then proved that she could not. Intrigued I tried and found that I could! Proud evening for us, and I dare say a proud evening for HK as well.

After eating lovely cheesecake and chocolate cake and cappuccino and two glasses of shiraz, we made our way to the glorious clean and wonderful metro and on to the hotel. We stayed up a fair part of the evening and then drifted to sleep with full happy bellies and a bright eyed plan for the morning.

We started with a ridiculously large buffet breakfast at the hotel and then went to catch the ferry across the bay to HK Island. Our goal was to go to Victoria Peak. Ferry, bus, peak. Beautiful. Unfortunately it was rather fogged in, so you more had to imagine the view than actually appreciate it. But the tram ride up was quite fun and the ride back even more so as we were the only people in our car on the way back down. We then went super tourist cheesy time and rode on top of the open air bus on the way to the ferry. On our way out, we had passed a store with an adorable tea set with oxen painted on it to celebrate the new year. On the way back, we darted in there and I picked up a tea set and Allison and I both bought gorgeous stainless steel chopsticks. Time running short, we went to eat lunch then ice cream before I had to catch my plane.

That morning, Allison had told us a story about her grandma and her salty mouth. Her gran is reputedly charming yet likes to say rather inappropriate things to Allison. Allison had been getting ready to go out with her friends and dressed up super cute. She went to say goodbye to her gran who, on seeing Allison’s outfit, asked if she was going to go out like that. On hearing yes she said, you look disgusting. What will your friends say?

So we’re waiting for Allison to get her ice cream as Jen and I had already ordered and received our magical creamy icy delightful treats.  Allison mentions how she is boring and always gets the same thing–cookie dough ice cream.  Jen says, that’s so disgusting how boring you are. To which I add, you know what else is disgusting? Your outfit. How can you go out like that? Why don’t you think about what we think?

At which point the British girl who was quietly waiting in line glanced back at me clearly appalled.

We all busted out in peals of laughter and walked off with our cones. On the way to the hotel we agreed that next time, we’d try sincerely not to laugh when doing such appalling things again. Has a much better effect.

Naked Hong Kong

procrastination = shoddy post

I meant to update my blog with long, drawn-out posts about my madcap adventures in australia. Things like:

I looked over the edge of a cliff! and lived to tell the tale!

I spent Christmas Eve with Kiwi Atheists! and lived to tell the tale!

I watched the movie ‘Australia’! And barely escaped with my life!

I had pancit, casava cake, and adobo for Christmas dinner! And enjoyed it!

I walked through a cave with three and five year olds who were unnecessarily dragged into the cave by their parents who mistakenly believed that this would be a good learning experience for their crying doves! And didn’t harm the adults!

I bought a hideously expensive woodblock print! And didn’t cry myself to sleep after!

I ate meat pies and tried to cuddle penguins! Not in that order!

I faced down a charging koala bear! And didn’t pee myself!

I found cute shoes for reasonable prices in my very (apparently gargantuan) foot size! And only peed myself a little!

However, these adventures may have to go untold in detail, as I have ANOTHER trip coming up that will ALSO entail an entry. As well as missing out on providing scintillating details of my life and times in this here country.

Procrastination is bad.

If it goes unwritten in a blog, did it really happen in the first place?

On the road to Melbourne and beyond

After I safely traversed the murderer-and-rapist strewn landscape of Alice and cuddled up in my hostel bed, I lay there thinking that no more adventure could possibly await me in Australia. I’d met Australians in their natural habitat! I’d listened to Europeans trash peanut butter whilst snacking away on Nutella (what’s up, hypocrits eating partially hydrogenated oils with sucrose, chocolate, and hazelnut?)!  I’d eaten witchety grubs and while I didn’t exactly like them, I didn’t throw up! I’d not died while hiking in untold wilderness with hundreds of other people!

Come on, Australia! Is that the best you got???

Australia answered me over the next few weeks with a sly chuckle, a sideways glance, and a seductive voice whispering in my ear, I’ll show YOU what I got, lady!

I hied myself to the airport in the morning and was able to jump ahead of all the others who had neglected to check themselves in online. While waiting, I saw Michaela in the sucker line and we agreed to meet for coffee on the other side of security. After I got through (and thank you, Australia, for not making me take off my shoes for security. Much appreciated.) I browsed in the little shops until Michaela got through. Then we got our coffees (flat white, which I’d finally figured out what it was) and sat down to wile away the time til boarding. We rehashed our opinions about the different people on the tour, exchanged invites to our respective homes, and decided that as we are difficult creatures who may well end up chronically single, we would meet up when older ladies who had begun to dress eccentrically and travel on small journeys together. I’ll discover if she was sincere about a place to hang my hat for a day when I travel to Europe later this year.

The flight to Melbourne was relatively swift. On landing, I discovered that there was a shuttle directly to my hotel for only $15. This was cheaper than taking the airport bus and then the train, so I ran to the counter to make reservations before picking up my bag. And this is where I began to discover that Australians don’t always tell you what is going on, and that they work at a slightly slower pace than Americans. I went to the counter, paid for my ticket, and the woman asked me if I needed a personal receipt. I said no. She gave me a big smile and said, okay you’re all set! and then looked away from me. I waited for a minute thinking, don’t I need a ticket? But when she didn’t look back up I thought, oh it must be magically electronically linked to the shuttle bus and merrily went on my way to collect my bag. Grabbed my bag and then headed out to the bus stop, which while not a long walk, was long enough with my bag with the busted zipper that had grown bloated and heavy over the past few days, even though I’d purchased nothing but shampoo.

Rocking on up to the guy he says, do you have a reservation? I say with utmost confidence, yes! Where’s your ticket? She didn’t give me one. Then I get an overly long lecture/speech about how if he doesn’t have the ticket he doesn’t get paid so I need to go get the ticket but we’re leaving in five minutes and on and on and on. There’s also lots of ‘love’s thrown in there and another guy listening in who keeps chuckling and winking at me and my cute American stupidity. So while he’s still talking, I back away to go get the ticket. When I get to the counter, the woman is all, oh I’m so sorry! I tried to call your attention but you didn’t see me.

Yes, that makes sense since your desk is in the opposite direction from the door.

I grab my ticket and haul back as quick as my stubby little legs will carry me without actually running and looking undignified. I hand him my ticket, he writes everything out in his book, then he says, here you go love, handing me another ticket and gesturing toward the shuttle door. So I look at my bags for a minute and look at him, but he’s already talking to someone else and walking away, so as my bags are not overly big I assume I just keep them with me. As I’m stepping in the shuttle I hear a HEY, I need to put your bag in here! Then he shakes his head at me and lectures me about how you can’t put all the bags in the shuttle because then the people wouldn’t fit and I start thinking, you know if you all would just tell me what is going on a little bit, this would all be sorted without lectures and misunderstandings.

Then I realize that at home I either know what is going on, or in situations where I don’t, we tend to tell people what is going on. Americans tend to say things like, wait a minute, or here is your ticket, or I’ll put your bags in the trunk or the like. Not all, to be sure, but in general.

Minus one point from you, Australia.

The shuttle wends its way toward Melbourne. I’m actually staying outside of the city proper, in St Kilda’s, a wonderful section right on the beach. We pass fun-looking restaurants and shops and pull up to my hotel. I quickly check in, dump my stuff in a room where, no joke, I lay on the floor and by stretching my arms all the way above my head and pointing my toes, I can touch both walls, then head out to find excitement.

I love things. I love material things so much. You aren’t supposed to love them but I do. I love seeing how people package things and put them together. I love old things like clothes and furniture that have been used and loved and you can see scars or writing on them. I love how they smell and how soft almost everything gets when it has been used for a long time. I love old dish sets when plates were sized for normal appetites and cups had saucers and bread and butter plates. I love shoes and how they can make you feel like a princess or a lumberjack. I love jewelry and how it can be sparkly and seductive and sophisticated or playful and whimsical. I love seeing the inner workings of someone else’s mind and the creativity that lies within. Hence, sometimes, I love shopping (I also love galleries and museums and bookstores and architecture. I love the evidence of what people do)

I’m in the middle of a neighborhood where they sell loads of funky, independent designers, vintage goods, and old books. Right across the street from my hotel is a vintage store and I practically swoon as I go inside and see old hats from the days when ladies were dames and china sets and teeny tiny shoes that I’ll never be able to shove my properly nourished feet into. After I wander in there for slightly too long, I walk all through the neighborhood, stopping for coffee and shoe trying on and eventually dinner. Then I head home to take care of all of my stinky laundry from my bush days.

The next day I have to get up super early so that I can go tour a bit in Melbourne before I have to head to the airport to pick up my rental car for starting my road trip the following morning. I was going to meet my road trip buddy at 2pm to head out to get the car, so I wanted to have plenty of time to see the beauty of Melbourne. Even though it was summer and everyone assured me that it would be warm and lovely in Australia, it was pissing rain in Melbourne. So I had to buy an umbrella. I walked to the 7-11 where I was pleasantly surprised to be steered away from purchasing their umbrellas because the guys behind the counter said that they were too expensive and I should get one from Safeway. Thanks, 7-11 guys! The Safeway ones were half the price!

Collecting my umbrella, I also bought a day ticket for the train and then hopped on board to seek adventure, first at the botanical gardens and then at Federation Square. When you get on board the train, you need to validate your ticket. Now, either because my ticket was damp or because I’m far too often borderline stupid/vapid, I coudn’t figure out how to validate the ticket. I stuck it in the little machine which then made a horrific noise but didn’t suck the ticket in and then spit it back out. I tried a couple of times, never seeing a date nor a time appear on the ticket. People were starting to look at me so I sat down, knowing that something bad had happened and that my ticket was NOT validated, but not willing to keep fruitlessly shoving my ticket in the machine.

As I’m sitting there, watching the city go by, I start to notice all of the signs on board warning of dire consequences for an unvalidated ticket.

I like following rules. I’m a law abiding person. I get extremely uncomfortable with rule breaking, particularly when on my own in another country. Even though I knew that everything would likely be all right and that a ticket collecter would likely understand my stupidity were one to come on board and discover I had not validated my ticket, the thought of having to explain that I could not understand how the ticket validating machine worked was more potential embarassment than I could bear. So I got off at the next stop, had a restorative coffee, then walked down to another stop and got back on. By this time the rain had stopped, my ticket had dried out, and I was able to validate with no problem. Phew!

Eventually I found my way to the Botanical Gardens. They were quite beautiful and have obviously been set up for aimless meandering and wandering and discovering of small groves and tucket away locations. There were benches scattered about as well, ON THE GRASS, which was an unknown delight. Part of me wanted to roll around on the grass like a puppy, as it has been so long since I’ve seen a lovely stretch of lawn. I restrained myself and was contented with breathing in the fresh air and gazing on the pretty pretty flowers and trees.

Leaving the gardens, I hopped on the train and found myself in Federation Square. Melbourne is a city of nooks and crannies and alleys and I spent a pleasant morning wandering around, dipping in and out of little streets, buying shoes (that have so painfully cut into my feet that they made them actually bleed.) and texting friends that clearly I was not going to be able to leave such a city and that there must be some sort of work I could do there. One of my friends that I was texting was the girl whom I would be traveling with. Turned out she was in the area and so we met up for lunch, wandering up to Little Italy for a bite and to discuss our trip the following day.

We went to the airport to collect the car and had the realization that I likely should NOT drive the car (on the left-hand side for the first time in my life) in Melbourne, but should wait til we hit Phillip Island the next day for that fateful event to take place. So she drove me to my hotel and dropped me off. I then walked to the beach and watched the kite surfers flip and fly over the waves for a fair hour or so and then wandered around the area a bit more, checking out house prices and the like.

The next morning I met my friend and a friend of hers for breakfast/coffee. He was very enthusiastic about his new job and the house that he had just purchased, and life in general, really. He was also very huggy as when we were taking our leave, he gave me a gigantic hug and kiss leaving me in my awkward I-don’t-know-you Americanness stiltedly patting his back. Then my friend Yolli and I got into the car and headed out of Melbourne and the over the top delights of Phillip Island and beyond.

My soul just died

http://www.whoppervirgins.com/

Wayoutback Three–the Adventure ends

On our third and final day, we woke up slightly later than the day before, had a quick breakfast of what was left over from the first day, packed up camp, and headed out to our final stop, King’s Canyon. We had to get out there early in order to climb the steepest part in the cool of the morning. As we’re heading out, our guide thoughtfully lets us know that this section of the trail is called heart attack hill. Awesome.

We drive out, park, and meet to have a pre-brief before beginning the ascent. As our guide is talking, other tour buses pull up and it starts looking as though this will be the busiest of all of the places we have been. Everyone checks their shoelaces, grabs their water, and we head up.

View from the top

The climb is broken up into three sections. I imagine that if one had worked out or been fit and climbed stairs or did active things, it would be easy-ish. Several people gazelled on up with no problem. I, however, being a person who spends a good ten hours a day behind a computer and often uses the excuse of being too tired to workout everyday (though my new year’s resolution will change that mentality, surely), had a bit of difficulty. I mimicked an obscene phone caller’s inhalation and exhalation and turned all red. 50 year olds were flying past me. I learned humility that day.

But once we got to the top, it was smooth sailing. The rocks were gorgeous and red and the rim of the canyon precipitous and scary. The rim was made of sandstone and our guide made certain to tell us that the edge could break off so don’t walk close to it or stand close to it for photos.

Listening to the guide

We quickly ran into a couple of other tour groups at one very picturesque site and saw many people from these other tour groups standing very close to the edge for outstanding photos. As members from my group are poo-pooing them and saying oh how terrible, those people are stupid, we see a few familiar faces going over to the same area in order to take shots. Our guide was livid and instructed all parties not to do that again. They didn’t seem to take kindly to his mini-lecture.

Which frankly, that kind of thing annoys the crap out of me. When you hear you shouldn’t do something, you do it anyway, then you get annoyed when the person who asked you not to gets annoyed with you. As though there is something wrong with them that they are angry. If you know the rules and you break them (usually it isn’t for any good or noble reason) and you get caught, you should just suck it up and apologize or acknowledge what you did and move on. But don’t get mad or defensive or whatever. You knew what could happen, you did whatever anyway, deal with the consequences. Bah.

We’re walking through the stunning scenery and I happen to overhear the guide tell one of the brazilians to drink her water, that he didn’t carry it for her to not drink it.

oh WHAT?!? You carried her damn water? If you are hiking, you should be able to carry your own stuff, especially important things like water.

Heading along through minor ups and downs with views down into the canyon below, we see some water. There’s a path to head down to a pool where we can swim if we like. I had put on my swimsuit as a just in case measure. I’m still weighing if I want to swim or not as we’re hiking down when we are met at the bottom by a ranger. The ranger politely informs us that while swimming in the pool isn’t illegal, we should keep in mind that this is the only water hole for the local animals and that if all of the visitors to the park were to swim in the water with their bug spray and sunscreen coming off in the water, it would have a serious environmental impact.

That’s enough for me. Not going to swim. A few people from our group decided to still swim so they got ready. Keely asked me if I was and I said I had been thinking about it before, but that the ranger made a good point so I wasn’t going to. She looked torn but ultimately decided against it. As more groups came down, the ranger gave the same talk but a fair amount of them decided to swim anyway. The Belgian was quite excited about all of the beautiful women in the other groups, which he vocalized later. Our guide very kindly stood up for the women in our own group, but the Belgian remained in full favor of the ladies that he saw in bikinis in the water as opposed to the ladies he saw puffing up hills. I couldn’t necessarily blame him for that.

Beautiful pool

We finally finished our hike in the dead heat of the day and loaded up into the tank to start the journey home. We stopped at the cattle station for lunch and managed to eat practically everything. Throughout the entire trip, the majority of people were really good about helping to clean up, get food ready, etc. It was really nice that there weren’t any people who just flat out sucked and wouldnt’ do anything.

The drive home was in the main uneventful. We did stop to see Dinky the Singing Dingo which was incredible. He was taken in by this family at 8 weeks old and grew up hearing the daughters in the family play the piano. He would sing along when they would play. Eventually, they grew up and left the house and so he started climbing up on the piano to have accompaniment while he sang. The owner didn’t have to encourage him at all, Dinky kept trying to climb up on the piano and sing. He really seemed to enjoy it.

We also learned that our guide has sharp eyes because as we were driving down the highway, he spotted a small horned lizard in the middle of the road and swung around to pick him up. After showing us this tiny creature, he set him off far away from the highway so he wouldn’t get squashed.

After spending two and a half days with each other, you’d think we’d have had enough. But nope! We all met up for dinner and drinks at a local bar later that night. Michaela and I shared a mixed grill of bush meat and the only bits we liked were the camel and the kangaroo. We passed off the rest of the food to Clive and Jerome. Then everyone sat around talking and taking photos and having beers until pretty much everyone had left but me and Jerome. We stayed until closing just chatting about different things. The bar wasn’t exactly conducive to conversation due to the music and loudness of the clientele, so we were basically screaming in each other’s ears for a fair portion.

At 1am the bar closed and we each headed our separate ways. I was walking through the mall when I was stopped by a security guard in a car. He asked where I was heading so I told him where my hostel was located. He then said, oh you should be careful. I know this is a small town but there are many murderers and rapists here. I don’t let my wife or daughters walk around by themselves at night. Feeling alarmed, and knowing that I’ll have to be walking through a park-ish area that is a bit quiet and dark, I ask if I should perhaps go back and get a taxi. He says, oh no you’ll be fine. I just came from that area and no one is around. And I’ll drive by to check on you.

Um, thanks?

So he drives off and I’m thinking I could try to get a taxi, but I’m also halfway to my hostel. Then I think, he should have offered me a ride or not freaked me out. Then I think, I should have made Jerome walk me to my hostel before he headed to his. Then I think, screw it, I’m just delaying it. So I start walking but now have various headlines running through my mind, all of which end with me either in a ditch or never being found. Not the way I want to start my Australia vacation.

So I slip off my flip flops for better traction and less likelihood of performing the ever popular but deadly fall at an inopportune time, and I run. I run through the park, down the street, and all the way to my hostel door. I felt a bit cowardly but better a foolish girl barefootedly running down the street than a lifetime television for women movie being based on true accounts from Australia.

The next morning I wake up to the dulcet sounds of my hostel owners fighting over some thing or person or money, pack up my gear and head for the airport. On to Melbourne!