SF to Sydney

Left SF today to head out to Sydney. One would think the anticipation of a trip across the world would numb my general senses as my mind incessantly raced dreaming up scenarios that involved beaches and cold beers….oh and my new job; however, one would not expect to be sitting next ot the bathroom in a cabin whose temp is pushing 90oF (~34oC). Things could be worse. Much worse. I could be the kid in front of me sitting next to the two honeymooners (or maybe just exhibitionists?) whose unabashed amorous exchanges leave me hoping that the flight attendant ( or as Nick would say stewardess) refrains from bringing them a blanket…if you know what I mean. If not, I mean that the only thing keeping their junk in their drawers is an oh so small amount of fear that further breaking the modes of acceptable decorum will result in some sort of negative ramifications….and possibly a mess. If there is a lot of turbulence I fear she may re-enact the When Harry Met Sally diner scene, but I fear this particular lass would not be faking anything. Poor kid has his nose buried in the SkyMall, I’m sure pinning for the Bose Headset on page 54 that promises to cancel surrounding noise and place you in a state of inaudible. Bliss. Thank god the first leg of this trip is only 50 minutes!

I then arrive in the Qantas terminal at LAX, nicely air conditioned and far from the chemically sanitized aromas of that permeated my space on that little jaunt down from San Francisco. Looking around I can’t help but stare at individuals and play the “American or Australian” game. Some are easy to tell: the cheery portly woman in front of me in the newsstand that, to the horror of a Japanese traveler, tripped over his carry-on and took down an entire free standing candy display. I fear his carry-on may need to be replaced (she went down HARD) and I know a solid portion of that candy is no longer for sale, but her resilience was remarkable: immediately up on her feet, giggling saying I’m ok in a thicker than expected southern accent. Picture Becky falling of f the bar at high-tops only to get up laughing and simply shrug it off (I’m comparing the physical resilience here, not mass or diction). This woman, careening into carry-ons and candy, was American.

But this game of deciding whether someone is American or Australan based on the way on carries oneself, manner of dress, choice in reading material, etrc is proving to be rather challenging. It harkens back to an experience a few months ago with Charis and CCD when we trekked to Vancouver for the Vancouer Marathon. Two conclusions were gleaned from that trip: (1) Candad is just like the UA, onlya little different and (2) never trust a sushi recommendation from a meth head at a dive bar. It is the former that resonates with the particular challenge at hand. Like tryhing to identify Candians based on superficial qualities (ie. Canadians like Roots clothing, a trend recently confounded by Americans thinking it is cool to wear winter berets with the Olympic logo emblazoned across the front), one goal of my trip to to try my best to elucidate those antipodean characteristics that make Austrialians so…well….Australian. Gazing around I think that wearing shorts with dress shoes and dress socks may be on characteristic



I hope this is the case, because I will have a field day with this if it is true.

I didn’t spend the last few years of my life in grad school to perform such a paltry study. You can trust me that the scientific method will be employed, photos will be taken and experiences documented. I will work tirelessly over the course of the next few months to crack this case. People. Need. To. Know.