Well shit.
As you may recall, I spoke in my last post about an event-staffing job that I had been signed up for by my friends at the Work and Travel Company. They listed the job as lasting from the end of February till the middle of April. I got an apartment in preparation for the two months of work I was about to embark on, only to find out at my job induction that the total amount of work I would be doing was only about two weeks, not two months….
As I mentioned before, plans have changed.
At first, I wasn’t worried. “I can find a job,” I said to myself, “I am living next to a street full of restaurants and I have restaurant experience.” Then my roommates informed me that Lygon street (Melbourne’s Ave) is a dodgy neighborhood, and most businesses are run by Italians who are fans of The Godfather. “Alright, well then I’ll just peace out of Melbourne and go pick fruit.” My back up plan seemed so flawless, until I was directed to the obvious flaw: minimum rent in my apartment is two months, and if I left before then there was a strong chance I would lose my $500 deposit. So there I was, stuck in the city with virtually no job, unable to leave for fear of crippling my already bleak financial situation.
Picture yourselves in that situation. Imagine every plan you concoct being foiled, and feeling trapped.
I bet none of you would be as happy as I am right now.
This is why I am here. This is my first real test at standing on my own, and being a real adult, and I’m excited. Sure, having the event-staffing job work out the way it should have would’ve been nice, and I suppose I still would have been working to earn rent like any normal adult, but this new wrinkle makes my challenge that much greater, which makes the experience far more rewarding.
I won’t say that I haven’t had help. I consulted with my parents, and I received a not-altogether-insignificant loan to assure that I didn’t become homeless, but the money isn’t free. In fact, it puts more pressure on me to find a job, because I can’t stand being in debt to my parents, and if I’m ever going to pay them off I need to sort my self out as fast as possible.
In other news, I found a $50 bill in the street today. Clearly my luck is turning.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Day 33: There's Been a Change of Plans
When I first spoke to the representatives of the Work and Travel Company, the people organizing this grand endeavor of mine, their pitch was very much like what I head read in their literature back in the states. “Be flexible, your plans will change, be open to new things blah blah blah blah.” Being a willful and stubborn (read: stupid) person, I thought to myself before coming to Australia that once I had set myself on a path that it would just magically work out for me, and that I would have no need to change my plans.
False.
When I signed myself up for Surf Camp in an attempt to gather some stability, a ramshackle plan quickly fell into place behind it. I would return from Surf Camp, ready to buckle down and be a serious adult, and begin heading up the eastern coast of Australia, where the majority of their major cities are kept, looking for work. My first stop was Collaroy, a place that apparently spent all of their advertising dollars painting themselves as a workers’ paradise.
False.
When my first attempt at finding a permanent job yielded no results, I began to wonder if simply changing my location would make the tedious process of blitzing all the businesses in one area with resumes any more fruitful. So I changed my mind, changed my direction, and high-tailed it back down the eastern coast to Sydney, and then kept moving down on to Melbourne. Work and Travel Company had a job posting for a company in Melbourne that required several dozen event staff, and since many of the friends I made in my first week in Australia were already down in Melbourne waiting for the job to start, heading towards guaranteed work was a no brainer.
In a short 24 hours from my arrival, I managed to find a place that was renting out a bedroom thanks to the help of my friend Clarke Miller. My new apartment (it feels pretty cool to be able to say that) is in a north of downtown Melbourne, just of few blocks away from Melbourne University. The most direct route to the city involves traveling down Lygon St., where there are an abundance of cheap restaurants and stores etc. I realized this morning that I’m basically living next to Melbourne’s equivalent of The Ave, which is ironic but also very cool.
False.
When I signed myself up for Surf Camp in an attempt to gather some stability, a ramshackle plan quickly fell into place behind it. I would return from Surf Camp, ready to buckle down and be a serious adult, and begin heading up the eastern coast of Australia, where the majority of their major cities are kept, looking for work. My first stop was Collaroy, a place that apparently spent all of their advertising dollars painting themselves as a workers’ paradise.
False.
When my first attempt at finding a permanent job yielded no results, I began to wonder if simply changing my location would make the tedious process of blitzing all the businesses in one area with resumes any more fruitful. So I changed my mind, changed my direction, and high-tailed it back down the eastern coast to Sydney, and then kept moving down on to Melbourne. Work and Travel Company had a job posting for a company in Melbourne that required several dozen event staff, and since many of the friends I made in my first week in Australia were already down in Melbourne waiting for the job to start, heading towards guaranteed work was a no brainer.
In a short 24 hours from my arrival, I managed to find a place that was renting out a bedroom thanks to the help of my friend Clarke Miller. My new apartment (it feels pretty cool to be able to say that) is in a north of downtown Melbourne, just of few blocks away from Melbourne University. The most direct route to the city involves traveling down Lygon St., where there are an abundance of cheap restaurants and stores etc. I realized this morning that I’m basically living next to Melbourne’s equivalent of The Ave, which is ironic but also very cool.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Day 23: Let's Get Down to Business
Having spent the better part of the last three weeks in Sydney screwing around and being a tourist, I decided that it was time to exercise the “work” part of my “working holiday visa.” On Monday I left the city and moved to a suburb about an hour away called Collaroy, a very small town located on a beach favored by the locals. The hostel in the area advertised as being a great place to find work, ranging from full time jobs to cash-in-hand one day work, and considering the fact that I’ve blown through over 50% of my life savings already, I was ready for any job I could find.
My first two days in Collaroy were spent distributing resumes. In those two days, I visited two major malls, three separate towns, and inquired at close to 50 stores, and by the end of the day, I had only three good leads (good in that they had made vague comments about looking for new hires in the near future). I returned to my hostel after the second day, finally understanding the meaning of the word “recession,” to find a posting asking for one laborer for the next day. I immediately jumped on the phone, and spoke with Michael, a man with his own landscaping business. He was looking for someone to put in one full days work, and was offering $120 in cash. Despite a pick up time of 6:30 am, I was more than happy to accept.
When Michael first rolled up in his truck, I began having second thoughts. He was a fairly serious, quiet guy upon first appraisal, with a shaved head, several tattoos, and an ear piercing. The 45 minute car ride to the rural house he was landscaping for passed almost in silence as I wondered what I had gotten myself in to. Despite my fear of skinheads however, I was still willing to do gardening work for $15 an hour, and in retrospect, it was the right choice. Mike was quiet, but generally friendly, and didn’t seem too interested in Hitler or white power based on my brief conversations with him. I spent half of the day weeding a tediously large section of his client’s garden, and the other half un-potting and planting new plants.
The highlight of the day came in the middle of the mourning, as we were digging holes for the new plants. Mike, being the quiet man that he is, nearly neglected to tell me that he had accidentally dug into the burrow of a funnel web spider. As a self-admitted arachnophobe, being two feet from the worlds most lethal spider was slightly uncomfortable, especially when Mike decided to simply release the spider on the other side of the street instead of killing it.
At the end of the day, I returned to my hostel covered in dirt, smelling like manure, and feeling $120 richer. My introduction to working life in Australia had been about as unglamorous as it gets, but on the bright side, I had a new skill to add to my resume.
My first two days in Collaroy were spent distributing resumes. In those two days, I visited two major malls, three separate towns, and inquired at close to 50 stores, and by the end of the day, I had only three good leads (good in that they had made vague comments about looking for new hires in the near future). I returned to my hostel after the second day, finally understanding the meaning of the word “recession,” to find a posting asking for one laborer for the next day. I immediately jumped on the phone, and spoke with Michael, a man with his own landscaping business. He was looking for someone to put in one full days work, and was offering $120 in cash. Despite a pick up time of 6:30 am, I was more than happy to accept.
When Michael first rolled up in his truck, I began having second thoughts. He was a fairly serious, quiet guy upon first appraisal, with a shaved head, several tattoos, and an ear piercing. The 45 minute car ride to the rural house he was landscaping for passed almost in silence as I wondered what I had gotten myself in to. Despite my fear of skinheads however, I was still willing to do gardening work for $15 an hour, and in retrospect, it was the right choice. Mike was quiet, but generally friendly, and didn’t seem too interested in Hitler or white power based on my brief conversations with him. I spent half of the day weeding a tediously large section of his client’s garden, and the other half un-potting and planting new plants.
The highlight of the day came in the middle of the mourning, as we were digging holes for the new plants. Mike, being the quiet man that he is, nearly neglected to tell me that he had accidentally dug into the burrow of a funnel web spider. As a self-admitted arachnophobe, being two feet from the worlds most lethal spider was slightly uncomfortable, especially when Mike decided to simply release the spider on the other side of the street instead of killing it.
At the end of the day, I returned to my hostel covered in dirt, smelling like manure, and feeling $120 richer. My introduction to working life in Australia had been about as unglamorous as it gets, but on the bright side, I had a new skill to add to my resume.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Day 19: Australia Day Highlights
I promised I would write about Australia day in my previous post, but because I don’t fully remember how I spent my first Australia day, I’ll give a rundown of the highlights that stuck in my mind:
1. Australia makes it so easy to buy alcohol; they practically give it to you. The pub near Surf Camp had, I kid you not, a drive-through window. Only in America is alcoholism considered a disease apparently.
2. The Surf Camp instructors were not about to let their jobs get in the way of their Australia Day celebration. One instructor even encouraged students to partake in the celebration by bringing out Snorkie, a common plastic snorkel that he had creatively taped a funnel to the top of. Somewhere, buried deep in the bowels of facebook, there are pictures of me chugging beer out of a snorkel. I hope these pictures never see the light of day.
3. Because it was a celebration, there were plenty of games to be played. I learned several new drinking games from all over Europe and Australia, but my proudest moment of the night was when I taught 50 complete strangers the joys of Beer Pong. Earlier in the day, one of the chefs had produced a pack of ping-pong balls from his bag. Later that night I somehow managed to remember this fact, and quickly put together a ramshackle set-up. With the help of, no joke, my own surf instructor, I defended America’s beer pong honor against the British.
4. At some point in the night the party moved down to the beach, and since bonfires were not allowed, the next logical course of action was obviously to go skinny-dipping. Once again, the instructors were not shy about celebrating, and in fact led the plunge into the ocean.
If only there were more camps like this in the States.
1. Australia makes it so easy to buy alcohol; they practically give it to you. The pub near Surf Camp had, I kid you not, a drive-through window. Only in America is alcoholism considered a disease apparently.
2. The Surf Camp instructors were not about to let their jobs get in the way of their Australia Day celebration. One instructor even encouraged students to partake in the celebration by bringing out Snorkie, a common plastic snorkel that he had creatively taped a funnel to the top of. Somewhere, buried deep in the bowels of facebook, there are pictures of me chugging beer out of a snorkel. I hope these pictures never see the light of day.
3. Because it was a celebration, there were plenty of games to be played. I learned several new drinking games from all over Europe and Australia, but my proudest moment of the night was when I taught 50 complete strangers the joys of Beer Pong. Earlier in the day, one of the chefs had produced a pack of ping-pong balls from his bag. Later that night I somehow managed to remember this fact, and quickly put together a ramshackle set-up. With the help of, no joke, my own surf instructor, I defended America’s beer pong honor against the British.
4. At some point in the night the party moved down to the beach, and since bonfires were not allowed, the next logical course of action was obviously to go skinny-dipping. Once again, the instructors were not shy about celebrating, and in fact led the plunge into the ocean.
If only there were more camps like this in the States.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Day 16: Duuuuuuuuuude...
On my third day in Sydney, I was still feeling very lost when it came to my plans for my stay in Australia. I craved a sense of stability, or any sort of plan or event that I could base my first few weeks around, and so in an impulse move, I dropped $470 on a four-day learn-to-surf-camp, departing from Sydney on the 25th and returning on the 28th. I now had a set time when I would be leaving Sydney, which helped me plan what I wanted to do with the interim before my departure.
As far as my goals and desires for my time in Oz went, learning to surf was never really on my list, but in my typical ‘Why not?” fashion, when I was presented with a screaming deal ($75 off the normal price), I couldn’t resist asking myself “why not learn to surf?” Yet another instance in my life where that simple, two-word question has been incredibly rewarding.
Picture paradise, then add surfboards, and you’ll roughly know where I have been the last four days. Located about 3 hours south of Sydney, Seven Mile Beach is Australia’s premier learn-to-surf spot, and located only 10 minutes walk from said incredibly long beach is the Rip Curl surf camp, a collection of small cabins grouped around an outdoor common area. The food was plentiful, the company was new and exciting, and of course, the surfing was excellent…braah.
The regiment was simple: two, 2 hours lessons every day, with a lunch break in between. Wetsuits and boards were assigned on the first day, and the fifty-person group was divided into three teams, each with two instructors. New skills were taught in the morning lessons, and practiced in the arvo (Aussie slang for afternoon). Our first day was spent learning the basics of positioning, standing, and riding the wave, and I am happy to say that I was riding with some consistency by the end of the first day.
Our second day happened to fall on Australia day, a holiday akin to July 4th in spirit and method of celebration. After a day of learning speed control, a massive barbeque was held at our site, and was followed by a night that I promise to go more in to depth about in another post. I will say, however, that getting up the next morning for our first lesson was almost impossible, and that riding a unicycle after getting a lobotomy would be easier than surfing with a hangover.
The third day’s lessons were devoted to learning to turn our boards in the water, and to catching larger, more difficult waves, all so that we would be prepared for the surf sessions on our last day. After a beautiful 7 am surf which was well worth the early wake up, our final outing was a free-for-all surf where our instructors finally joined us on boards and showed us how it was done. While I couldn’t manage any of the fancy tricks that they were doing, I still felt like a pretty accomplished surfer, considering the duration of my surfing career.
It may not be a skill I get the chance to show off very often, but learning to surf sets the standard for my future Australian adventured high in terms of enjoyment.
As far as my goals and desires for my time in Oz went, learning to surf was never really on my list, but in my typical ‘Why not?” fashion, when I was presented with a screaming deal ($75 off the normal price), I couldn’t resist asking myself “why not learn to surf?” Yet another instance in my life where that simple, two-word question has been incredibly rewarding.
Picture paradise, then add surfboards, and you’ll roughly know where I have been the last four days. Located about 3 hours south of Sydney, Seven Mile Beach is Australia’s premier learn-to-surf spot, and located only 10 minutes walk from said incredibly long beach is the Rip Curl surf camp, a collection of small cabins grouped around an outdoor common area. The food was plentiful, the company was new and exciting, and of course, the surfing was excellent…braah.
The regiment was simple: two, 2 hours lessons every day, with a lunch break in between. Wetsuits and boards were assigned on the first day, and the fifty-person group was divided into three teams, each with two instructors. New skills were taught in the morning lessons, and practiced in the arvo (Aussie slang for afternoon). Our first day was spent learning the basics of positioning, standing, and riding the wave, and I am happy to say that I was riding with some consistency by the end of the first day.
Our second day happened to fall on Australia day, a holiday akin to July 4th in spirit and method of celebration. After a day of learning speed control, a massive barbeque was held at our site, and was followed by a night that I promise to go more in to depth about in another post. I will say, however, that getting up the next morning for our first lesson was almost impossible, and that riding a unicycle after getting a lobotomy would be easier than surfing with a hangover.
The third day’s lessons were devoted to learning to turn our boards in the water, and to catching larger, more difficult waves, all so that we would be prepared for the surf sessions on our last day. After a beautiful 7 am surf which was well worth the early wake up, our final outing was a free-for-all surf where our instructors finally joined us on boards and showed us how it was done. While I couldn’t manage any of the fancy tricks that they were doing, I still felt like a pretty accomplished surfer, considering the duration of my surfing career.
It may not be a skill I get the chance to show off very often, but learning to surf sets the standard for my future Australian adventured high in terms of enjoyment.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Day 7: Raising the Bar
Contrary to what some of you may think, the lowered drinking age of Australia was not a factor in my decision to come here. It was, however, the definition of “added bonus.” To commemorate my first night out drinking legally, I’ll summarize the night, in the style of my favorite author, to the best of my ability. I had met a 23-year-old guy from Portland before the weekend named Clarke, a fellow member of the Work and Travel Company, who has been my first good friend while in Australia. We decided to go out Monday night and see what the bar scene was like.
7:00 pm: I meet Clarke on the roof of the hostel where they are having a barbeque. For $5 I get a burger (a kangaroo burger) and a beer.
7:03 pm: I have finished my “roo” burger. It was delicious. I consider the possibility of importing kangaroo meat back to the states.
7:10 pm: Clarke and I have struck up a conversation with a British guy who has been in Sydney for 4 hours. He is too jetlagged to pick up on the fact that he has mustard on his chin, and that Clarke is making fun of him for his poor hygiene.
7:30 pm: We are sitting in an establishment called the “Side Bar,” drinking beers and talking with the one decent looking bartender. She is from Vancouver, a fact I exploit by asking her if she has ever been to Seattle.
8:05 pm: There is little happening in the Side Bar. A private party somehow managed to get free wine, but I am told that it isn’t for me. Frustrated with the lack of people and unfair distribution of free alcohol, Clarke and I leave.
8:15 pm: We end up at “Scubar”. The place is packed and incredibly loud, but they are having “World Famous Crab Races” tonight and I insist that we stay.
8:20 pm: In an attempt to get a table, we start up a conversation with two British girls. They are drinking some bright red drink from a pitcher, which they refer to as “snake bite.” Fascinated, Clarke and I decide to split a pitcher.
8:30 pm: It turns out snake bite is just a mix of beer and grenadine syrup, and that the bartenders at Scubar are very slow. Not even the heart shaped foam pattern made by the grenadine amuses me, probably because of the level of attractiveness of the bartender (tiger-mauling-victim level).
8:45 pm: I elbow my way through the crowd to sign up for the next crab race. For a dollar, I register crab #17, dubbing him “Dinner” on the sign up sheet.
8:49 pm: Dinner crawls inside his shell and refuses to move at the start of the race. I curse my horrible luck and vow never to return to Scubar.
8:51 pm: There is a line to get into Scubar that goes around the street corner. I loudly inform everyone in the line that it is not worth it, and that the crab races are rigged.
8:55 pm: A group of British people who Clarke knows decides to leave the line and join us instead. We head back to Side Bar in hopes that it has gotten more interesting.
Unfortunately, it didn’t get more interesting. Except for a random trip to KFC, which happened lord knows when, the rest of the night was a bore. I was back in my room by midnight and asleep not much later. All in all, my first bar hoping experience was a bit of a let down, but thankfully I’ll be here for another 4 months.
7:00 pm: I meet Clarke on the roof of the hostel where they are having a barbeque. For $5 I get a burger (a kangaroo burger) and a beer.
7:03 pm: I have finished my “roo” burger. It was delicious. I consider the possibility of importing kangaroo meat back to the states.
7:10 pm: Clarke and I have struck up a conversation with a British guy who has been in Sydney for 4 hours. He is too jetlagged to pick up on the fact that he has mustard on his chin, and that Clarke is making fun of him for his poor hygiene.
7:30 pm: We are sitting in an establishment called the “Side Bar,” drinking beers and talking with the one decent looking bartender. She is from Vancouver, a fact I exploit by asking her if she has ever been to Seattle.
8:05 pm: There is little happening in the Side Bar. A private party somehow managed to get free wine, but I am told that it isn’t for me. Frustrated with the lack of people and unfair distribution of free alcohol, Clarke and I leave.
8:15 pm: We end up at “Scubar”. The place is packed and incredibly loud, but they are having “World Famous Crab Races” tonight and I insist that we stay.
8:20 pm: In an attempt to get a table, we start up a conversation with two British girls. They are drinking some bright red drink from a pitcher, which they refer to as “snake bite.” Fascinated, Clarke and I decide to split a pitcher.
8:30 pm: It turns out snake bite is just a mix of beer and grenadine syrup, and that the bartenders at Scubar are very slow. Not even the heart shaped foam pattern made by the grenadine amuses me, probably because of the level of attractiveness of the bartender (tiger-mauling-victim level).
8:45 pm: I elbow my way through the crowd to sign up for the next crab race. For a dollar, I register crab #17, dubbing him “Dinner” on the sign up sheet.
8:49 pm: Dinner crawls inside his shell and refuses to move at the start of the race. I curse my horrible luck and vow never to return to Scubar.
8:51 pm: There is a line to get into Scubar that goes around the street corner. I loudly inform everyone in the line that it is not worth it, and that the crab races are rigged.
8:55 pm: A group of British people who Clarke knows decides to leave the line and join us instead. We head back to Side Bar in hopes that it has gotten more interesting.
Unfortunately, it didn’t get more interesting. Except for a random trip to KFC, which happened lord knows when, the rest of the night was a bore. I was back in my room by midnight and asleep not much later. All in all, my first bar hoping experience was a bit of a let down, but thankfully I’ll be here for another 4 months.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Day 5: One big happy family
Family is a peculiar thing. When my dad first started his genealogy research, the whole subject bored me to tears. If he began talking about it at dinner, I’d start snoring after about a sentence, and rub my eyes and yawn when he finished talking. His obsession didn’t wane over the years, and neither did my boredom with the subject, but my methods of ignoring him became subtler and less rude. It wasn’t until the last few days, however, when I began to appreciate just how much work he put into his research.
As I write this, I am lying in a queen-sized bed in my own room. I had fresh cooked waffles for breakfast, and delicious meatballs for dinner last night. I may have been gone less than a week, but I know that this is practically paradise for a backpacker who is used to shard rooms and cereal every morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I owe it all to my fathers genealogy research.
I spent my first weekend in Australia staying in the home of Mark and Lisa Paterson, who live on a river not far from the town of Nowra. I met their daughter Georgia in Sydney, and took the train with her out to the countryside on Friday. I was fortunate enough to spend Saturday with them in their boat on the river, learning how to water-ski (side note: being dragged along the water on your ass before standing is MURDER on your balls). As it turns out, Mark’s mother Isobel has been in contact with my father for the past two years, as they are both interested in family history, and happen to share a common ancestor. Before I left Seattle, my dad gave me her contact information and urged me to look her up once I arrived. I was hesitant at first, but all in all it wasn’t a half bad way to spend my first weekend abroad.
As I write this, I am lying in a queen-sized bed in my own room. I had fresh cooked waffles for breakfast, and delicious meatballs for dinner last night. I may have been gone less than a week, but I know that this is practically paradise for a backpacker who is used to shard rooms and cereal every morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I owe it all to my fathers genealogy research.
I spent my first weekend in Australia staying in the home of Mark and Lisa Paterson, who live on a river not far from the town of Nowra. I met their daughter Georgia in Sydney, and took the train with her out to the countryside on Friday. I was fortunate enough to spend Saturday with them in their boat on the river, learning how to water-ski (side note: being dragged along the water on your ass before standing is MURDER on your balls). As it turns out, Mark’s mother Isobel has been in contact with my father for the past two years, as they are both interested in family history, and happen to share a common ancestor. Before I left Seattle, my dad gave me her contact information and urged me to look her up once I arrived. I was hesitant at first, but all in all it wasn’t a half bad way to spend my first weekend abroad.
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