mating season

i did it. i can't say i'm proud of myself. i just couldn't resist the pressure any longer. call me weak, call me pathetic, call me traitorous. but i couldn't help myself.

i said "mate."

out loud. to another person. in public. oh dear- this doesn't look good.

when my friend eric returned home from a semester in wales with a serious case of the madonnas, saying "brilliant!" instead of "great" and "mobile" instead of "cell phone," i was among the first to chuckle. brilliant? who says brilliant? you're canadian, remember? those were my thought then. but now- let me say now, to the universe and all who are listening, that i owe eric an apology. because i've mated. and i understand his predicament.

people tend to pick up expressions from friends. families have their own personal lexicons that affect the way you speak, or at least mine does, and you certainly can't watch too many episodes of 'friends' before chandler's inflection starts to creep into your own voice. could you be any other way? so imagine that you're faced with a continual barrage of voices, day in and day out, all heavily accented and peppered with a slang that is almost indecipherable. imagine that every time you say "thank you" it sounds as though it has too many syllables and that it's actually rude to say "what's up?" now try to stand there and not pick up a phrase or two, a slightly new direction on certain vowels, a disappearance of any medial r. suddenly melbourne is melboune and you're saying "ta" when a store clerk hands your your change. if a hundred people a day ask you "how you going?" it's only a matter of time before you, too, won't care how people are doing and would rather know how they are going. one letter- assimilation is that easy.

the slang of sydney is almost an entirely different language. greetings, pleasantries, thanks yous and you're welcomes, everything has a twist. entire words or phrase are missing from the national vocabulary or entirely different. for example, here in australia there really isn't such a thing as a bathing suit. instead there is a swimming costume, or cossie for short. most people just call it a costume. what do you call a costume then, i asked? just like the brits, the aussies would don fancy dress for halloween, not a costume. well then what on earth would you call an actual fancy dress, i asked, my incredulity mounting. i'm still waiting for an answer on that. another thing- people here aren't as happy as a clam- it's nothing against mollusks, they're just too busy being as happy as larry. i asked sheila who this blissful larry is and was told that it is derived for the word larrikin, a term for a person who is carefree and not fussed with the opinions of others. who knew? i though they might have been talking about the stooge. or larry flint. one of the two. people also consistently talk about getting the shits, and quite publicly at that. what they mean to say is that they got pissed of/are angry about something. for the most part it has nothing to do with their gastro-intestinal systems.

so you can understand how different the speech is here. most of the time i'm just trying to keep up. so i hope you can forgive me the occasional slip of the tongue and won't hold it against me if i ring you instead of call you or stuff it instead of screw up. try not to get the shits- i'm just trying to make a go of it here mate.

surf's up

there are many things you might want to hear when you arrive at your first surf lesson. "you look like you're going to be a natural" or "has anyone ever told you that you are breathtaking in this light?" would be nice. right?

"it's going to be really tough going out there today. just so you know."

that's what i got. followed immediately by being asked to sign a waiver wherein i waived all basic legal, human, and civil rights. comforting, to say the least. but i was there and i was surfing come hell or high water. and believe me when i say that there certainly was high water.

australia is a nation that surfs. children in canada are strapped on to cheese-cutters and dragged onto ice rinks, cushions strapped to bums, chairs gripped desperately in front of them. it's part of the national identity. here the midwife cuts the cord, announces the sex of the baby and then the wee thing is plopped on a surfboard and sent out into the briny drink. i'm convinced that most australians have learned how to surf before they know how to print their own name and certainly before they can understand that having one ten dollar bill is actually more than having six pennies. in short, they surf. all of them. the country is ideally located for it and the climate means that you can grab your board and hang ten for twelve months a year. so there's no reason why they shouldn't surf. and so they do. and so, i decided, would i.

i don't know why i waited so long to force my limbs into a damp wetsuit and try my luck at riding the waves. i think mainly i wanted someone i knew really well to do it with, but chris and i never got around to it and i didn't want to wait until my dad showed up. so i decided to bravely soldier forth alone.

i woke up two tuesdays ago to a stormy sky and a pissing drizzle. i didn't remember the weather being quite like this for paul walker and jessica alba's blue bikini in 'into the blue.' but what do i know?- i never saw the movie. i had the day off and had booked a lesson and i promised myself that i wouldn't back down. "tomorrow i could lose my legs in a horrible wiffle-ball accident and then i would really regret not going surfing today," i thought, and who wants to regret anything? so i scurried out into the rain to catch the bus to manly beach. i'm not kidding- it poured rain for the entire bus ride to the beach. cats and dogs rain. end of a romantic comedy rain. blame it on the rain rain.

but then- somehow, for some reason- i stepped off the bus at the manly corso and the skies began to clear. blue showed up on the horizon and the world looked impossibly more cheerful. and i was feeling quite confident. and then i saw the ocean.

a southern front had blown in the day before and brought with it a relentless and unforgiving surf that made me stop in my tracks. these waves were big. no messing around here. and then i arrived at the surf school to be greeted by shawn, the instructor, with his confidence-inspiring welcome. to be fair, he was only being honest and wanted us to have a realistic idea of what we were in for. we would have to paddle hard to get out, he told me and the one other dedicated (read: stupid) guy in the lesson, and we would be facing bigger waves than normal. but we were going.

surfing lessons are a funny thing because there really can't be too much of a beginner's level. there is no such thing as a bunny ocean. no rope tow to get you out there. no training wheels, no safety net. no cheese-cutters. you practice on the beach and get the pleasure of looking quite ridiculous for those around you, paddling through sand and repeatedly trying to drop your hips and slide your feet up just so. but beach practice can only teach you so much. like fish tanks and waterslides, surfing is something you just need h2o to do right. and so out into the sea we went, turning our faces against the onslaught of the pounding rollers, pressing our bodies up and our weight down to keep our boards on their course out to- hopefully- catch our very first wave.

imagine my great excitement when i popped up onto my board, found my footing, and coasted all the way into the shore on my very first wave. now i'm not bragging- well wait, i think i might be bragging. but deal with it. award me this moment of self-satisfaction. i got up. i got up on a difficult day on my very first try. i was happy- goofy grin happy, sally field's 'places in the heart' oscar speech happy. and more than happy- i was hooked.

i spent the rest of the lesson figuring out how to finesse the waves a bit more, how to steer with my eyes, my arms, and my feet all at the same time, how to ride the rip out to make the paddling easier. i realized why all the surfers have unbelievably ripped bodies- because it is genuinely exhausting work and requires a lot of core strength to keep your balance and a fair bit of upper body work as well. i used to scoff when cameron diaz would chalk her lean physique up to surfing. yeah right, i would think, i bet you're chew-and-spitting your food. but no, surfing will work wonders. cameron wasn't lying.

i have been back since and hope to go again before i head to brisbane to meet my dad on wednesday. and when we get to brisbane, do you know what the first thing i want to do is? i'll give you one guess.

(not me- yet)

star system.

australia and canada are not unlike each other. we are both big, giant countries. we are both at once internationally adored and internationally ignored. we are polite and tidy and relatively inoffensive. and we both like to claim our stars.

every canadian knows which hollywood star is a true canuck- we know who has flattened their vowels and bleached their hair and teeth in order to make a name for themselves in the pantheon of american celebrity. we are proud to call pamela anderson our own (though really, should we be? i wouldn't be too fussed to let america claim her). we all boast that ellen page, breakout star of 2007, hails from the great white north. jim carrey, mike myers, rachel mcadams? with glowing hearts they've seen thee rise. and we're holding on for dear life, hoping that if enough canadians make a solid name we might finally begin to develop our own independent international presence.

this is something shared by the aussies. they like to lay claim to their stars just as much as we do. cate blanchett, hugh jackman, kylie minogue- they are huge here and everyone is desperate to make sure the world knows that they are australian. when i arrived two months ago the country was plastered with newspaper cover stories devoted to mourning the loss of their very own heath ledger. everyone stays very up-to-date on the goings-on of their homegrown talent and like a proud and only slightly overbearing stage mother, they are more than willing to boast their connections or intimate knowledge of said celebrities.

two such instances have caught my attention. the first is about russell crowe. the pool where i work looks out at wooloomooloo bay (seriously, that's the name) and there are some very posh lofts built on the pier across the water from us. the penthouse unit at the end of the wharf has a spectacular view of the harbour through its floor to ceiling windows, a million dollar view if ever their was one. i have been told countless times by people at the pool, both employees and customers, that that is the australian home of russell crowe, his wife danielle and their son tennyson. if i got a telescope i could tell you what colour his tea towels are. last night when i was leaving work the lights were on and i could see figures moving around. russell?

the pool complex also has a yoga studio within it and i have gotten to know one of the instructors, waran. waran was telling me how he does private coaching for the conductor of the sydney orchestra and i mentioned how that must come with some sort of bragging rights. and he said, "well, if i wanted to brag, i could brag about being nicole's private yoga instructor." as in nicole kidman-cruise-urban. waran and nicole, just hanging out in downward dog. as i said to my friend jason, only sometimes does she wear the virginia woolf prosthetic nose.

these people are proud of their celebrities. and i say let them be proud. and let me do hot yoga with nicole while you're at it.

of note.

my dad is coming to visit in a few short weeks. since he is flying around the country before ending up in sydney, i am going to meet him in brisbane and then we are going to see what kind of nonsense we can get up to. i am thrilled and excited- my dad and i have never traveled just the two of us and it will be an experience unlike anything we've shared.

so i've been looking up flights from brisbane to sydney- domestic flights are remarkably affordable in australia, almost unbelievably cheap sometimes. even international flights are obscene: i found a flight from singapore to darwin, australia for $38. $38! that, my friend, is what you call a deal. anyhow, virgin blue is one such budget airline and as i was nosing around their site i decided to read the terms and conditions of carriage. it was all rather routine, though the following struck me as quite humorous:

"the only item that can occupy a seat (other than a guest of course) is a cello. to book an extra seat for your cello please call the guest contact centre."

i love this. i think my favourite part is that the airline feels the need to clarify that a cello is the only thing other than a guest of course. as if there would be an airline that only filled its seats with string instruments, airbuses with row upon row of celli destined for the travel hotspots of the nation. the stradivarius would fly first class of course.




i have booked my flight to brisbane for april 23. i selected my seat (10d), on the aisle with an empty seat to my right. i'm crossing my fingers for a viola.

mail order.

we live in an age of rapid change. i like email and all that, but i am slightly disconcerted by the fact that my children will not know what a roll of film is. "what's this?" they'll ask with the same incredulity i reserved for spinning wheels and the giant maroon-rimmed glasses my father got married in. the future is here, one day at a time.

the breakneck pace of technological evolution has seen some worthy casualties. the discman, for one, seems to have accepted its demise at the hands of the ipod generation. toaster ovens appear to have disappeared. and the handwritten letter is, sadly, a relic of a bygone era.

there are few things as exciting as a letter in the mail, particularly one from someone you know and love. something about seeing your name written above the address where you live makes you feel as though you might have a place to call your own in this big old universe. it means that someone took the time to buy a stamp. it means that they even know your postal code. that's love right there. knowing someone's postal code off by heart means they are in you life in the most unavoidable way.

my postal code here is 2068. my name above the place where i live in australia is this:

brian rieper
16/2 artarmon rd
willoughby, nsw
australia
2068

in case you were wondering. or in case you were feeling nostalgic and wanted to slip ace of base's "the sign" into your sony shockwave, drop a pop tart in the toaster over, and lay your pen to a piece of paper. just for old time's sake.

blue mountain blues.

before chris arrived in sydney i made a list of things that we simply had to do while he was here. this list included standard fare like the opera house and bondi beach and then some more personal things like going to the ben sherman store on market street and eating ferrero rocher gelato in newtown. i also decided to ask all the locals for their suggestions for things that are not to be missed, namely the "one thing i must do with chris." and indubitably the answer came back "you must see the blue mountains."

the blue mountains are northwest of the city and form somewhat of the western edge of the greater sydney area. they are not so much mountains as they are a giant range of cavernously deep gorges cut into the sandstone landscape, blanketed with lush and vibrant vegetation, ribboned with cascading waterfalls. the plentiful eucalyptus trees that dot the hills emit a certain oil into the air and when the sun hits said oil the mountains appear to be giving off a blue aura. and so the mountains have their name.

chris arrived in sydney eager to see the mountains- i had told him how much everyone raved about them and of course he google imaged them until he, too, was sufficiently enamored. but the first week he was here the sun was too perfect not to go to the beach and then we were off to the whitsundays for a jaunt. upon our return to the city we had three full days left and our number one destination was the blue mountains, which had by this point taken on an almost mythical quality. we were going, come hell or high water. but the high water came the next day in the form of rain and so we decided to push back our travels until the next day, saturday, chris's second last day in the city.

we awoke before 6 a.m. and trekked through the foggy early morning to catch the train that would take us to katoomba, the whimsically named city that borders the blue mountains. to drive from sydney to the blue mountains takes roughly 45 minutes; the train ride, on the other hand, takes nearly three hours. we both slept for most of the trip but then i awoke as we chugged along, further from the city and further into an ever-thickening fog. i started to feel the tiniest bit apprehensive about our exciting day trip. we were headed to what is championed as one of the most beautiful vistas in new south wales and if this fog didn't burn off soon... let's just say that it wouldn't be good. (i feel i should let you know that i very seriously considered writing "we were headed to what is championed as one of the most beautiful vistas in new south wales and if this fog didn't burn off soon... well, it was going to be hasta la vistas, baby." just thought you should know.)

and so we arrived in katoomba to a steady, miserable drizzle with exactly one umbrella and zero raincoats between us. i at least had a hood on my sweatshirt. chris had- well, he had me for company. and we had fog. there was plenty of fog. but we were there and to hell if we were going down without a fight. somehow we had enough remaining optimism between us to hope, to please god hope that we would at least be able to see something. so we began the twenty minute trek down to the first lookout to see the three sisters (not, as you might imagine, chekhov's play of the same name but rather three towering sandstone turrets. just wanted to avoid confusion.) three minutes into the walk my socks were officially soaked. ten minutes into the walk chris turned to me and said, "just so you know i am about thirty seconds from turning around and getting back on a train to sydney. i need you to talk me down from the ledge." eighteen minutes into the walk we found a coffee shop that also sold $2 rain ponchos of the 'garbage bag with armholes and a hood' variety and may i just say that they are not only comfortable but also the epitome of high fashion. twenty minutes into the walk we arrived at the lookout. and so we looked out.

i must break to show you what the view from the three sisters lookout is on any moderately sunny or clear day.
pretty, isn't it? it looks untouched and sweeping and transporting, all the things a view of the mountains should be. however, when chris and i arrived at the edge of the very same canyon where that picture was taken, this is what we saw:
in case you were wondering, that is fog. that is not a sheet of cloudy gray paper. it is not an image we created on microsoft paint. that is what we saw from the gateway to the most exquisite mountain range in new south wales. fog.

while i can't say anything for the view of the mountains, i do have a lot too say about the view of the fog. it was quite a thing to behold in its own way- the sheer density of it was not to be believed. it was quite literally as if someone had taken a geographical eraser and removed whatever lay more than ten feet in front of us. the world beyond the edge of our side of the mountains ceased to exist- the three sisters really could have been chekhov's play for all we know. at one point while walking through one of the trails chris and i could hear a rushing waterfall directly below us- but we couldn't see it. a waterfall! it was completely swallowed by the fog. no matter how hard we strained our eyes or how far we zoomed our cameras there was naught to behold.

we could have cried. we could have sulked. we could have nastily blamed each other and been petty and miserable. but instead we decided to make the best of what we had. and we had a lovely day. we took a long, meandering walk through the rainforest-like greenery that borders the canyon. we snapped photos of the katoomba cascades and jumped through massive puddles. we kept remarking, "can you imagine how beautiful it must be from here when there isn't any fog?" we schlepped back up to katoomba several hours later, mud-splattered and drenched and tucked into meat pies and warm drinks in a charming little cafe. we read the travel section of the saturday paper and through about where else we could go to not see the view.

on the three hour train ride back toward the city and dry shoes the fog miraculously began to lift. by the time we arrived home in willoughby we were told by sheila that it had been a beautiful day in sydney. hardly seems fair, really. and so if anyone ever asks me if it's true that the blue mountains are really the one thing that they must see when they come to sydney i know how i will answer them. "don't ask me," i will say, "i haven't the foggiest."

will you look at that view!