Written June 27, 2007
You may have guessed from my noticeable lack of email contact that I've been having far too good of a time to consider tending to my Australian bridges. Either that or I had fallen off a boat somewhere in the warm oceans I have become acquainted with. If you thought the former, you'd be right.
You'll recall (if in fact you continue to open my emails), that my last recollections were of my final weeks in the U.S. These are from the last few weeks in London, Athens, the Greek Islands, Berlin, and Barcelona. I'm now in Florence, and will be heading to Venice, Paris, Amsterdam, London and Singapore before greeting all of my wonderful friends (read "you") at the airport, fresh from my 5am flight on July 11. Of course this is an unnecessary reminder; it's been in your diary since you requested the day off work in anticipation of my arrival.
As much as I care for you all, this edition is likely to read like a series of dot-points; I care far more for a Florence evening than satisfying your cravings for quality literature (in an age where even The Age is no longer a real broadsheet).
As soon as I got off the plane in LONDON, I knew I was no longer in the U.S (an insight worthy of a 6 year old, I hear you think). The people looked different (mostly just paler), the policepeople actually wore those ridiculous hats, and things were back to the equivalent of Australian prices. No wait, that's a £ sign. This exorbitance was forgiven by the sheer friendliness of people (another stereotype dispelled). And customer service staff who actually serve customers! Highlights of this gorgeous city included a GAP reunion, when I caught up with a number of the Brits I taught English in China with, the London Eye (close your eyes when you fork out the admission though), the Tate Modern (a transformation of a disused factory space that Melbourne would do well to learn from), seeing Les Miserables on the West End, seeing the House of Lords in session, and of course riding the Tube. Sean, a friend from Penn State, played host at his home in Kent, so again I shout out to him for his hospitality (he had better have read this far).
Meeting Jeremy (a friend from Melbourne) and his friend Caitlin at the airport, I was disappointed not to be checked-in by any of the stars of the endlessly fascinating "Airline", after all, we were flying EasyJet. I was consoled by a different flying first for me – not having an assigned seat. Our destination, ATHENS. For some inexplicable reason I pictured Athens to be similar to how I picture Cairo (which is probably also way off the mark): dusty, sweaty etc. etc. This time I was totally wrong. Athens was such a charming city, with archaeological excavation adjoining the brand-spanking new Metro line, amazing ruins next to spotless city parks, and locals that would volunteer assistance the very second you pulled out a map. If one image could represent a city, it would surely be the cafes with all seating facing out onto the street; rather than the islands of tables we seem to create. People enjoyed interacting with each other and watching their world go by. And an interesting world is was too. Another image that will stick with me was the juxtaposition "Everybody hurts sometimes" wafting from exclusive shops while street hawkers selling cheaper versions of their own products gathered their goods and sprinted down the street for fear of prosecution (their crime: servicing tourists and attempting to carve out a living in a new land). A thoroughly entertaining if racist and misogynist hotel clerk had no hesitation about sharing his thoughts on these (and every other) aspects of Athens with us.
If I was impressed by Athens, I was blown away by the GREEK ISLANDS. The white buildings and blue rooftops of Santiorini came straight from postcards (perhaps that's the other way around), and sunsets over crystal clear ocean topped it off (I'm not on commission, I swear). The occasional black cat perched on top of a white balcony showed that humans weren't the only ones who appreciate the view. From Santiorini is was to the sleepy island of Paros, which we were convinced was totally deserted until we realised that everyone was having their afternoon siesta (which I will now campaign to make mandatory at RMIT). We finished in Mykonos, the island playground of the rich and famous, though it was difficult to tell where they were, with opulent cruisers given subtle names like 'Star Ship'.
We reluctantly left the gleaming Greek Islands for Berlin which, like Athens, dispelled any mistakenly held perceptions of just another big city. The grandiose boulevards of what was formerly East Berlin, soviet architecture and somehow endearing graffiti on every flat surface were punctuated by perhaps the best hostel and funniest tour guide in the history of the world, who educated us about the sprayed number 6's that appeared all over the city (ask me). And boy can Berlin party! Ignoring the fact this is at least somewhat because of the nearing 20% unemployment rate (which is bound to give a whole lot of people a whole lot of 'free' time), it seemed like Berliners (most of whom appear to be in their 20s) spent their times either in clubs with indescribable burlesque cabaret or at cafes that were so hip their unpublished opening hours were decided each morning. With everyone having such a great time, it was hard to believe that 20 years ago it was a city divided. Jeremy's friend Cam (who is on exchange from Melbourne) turned out to be a great host.
As I have failed to come up with a decent linking sentence, I will start by adding that "Next we went to Barcelona", which was also a lot of fun (broken record, anyone?). The humidity and feeling of the city reminded me of Hanoi; bustling with motorbikes and scooters, streets that weaved their way into communal squares. It turned out that we had come to town at the right time, as the gunshots we thought we heard turned out not to be gunshots at all, but kids playing with fireworks. And so the evening started. The consensus seemed to be that most of the action was at the beach, so we headed down to find literally thousands of people, from toddlers to grandparents, all partying it up on a coastline that was lit with massive bonfires. We were particularly transfixed with the one that was surrounded by half naked men who leapt through the six foot high flames, only to turn around and do it all over again, and again, in what could only be attributed to some neo-macho ideal of a what it is to be a real man (brave, not burnt that is). We marvelled at Gaudi's architecture, including the magnificent cathedral that, despite having been started more than 150 years ago, was still under heavy construction.
It was in Barcelona that the travelling triplet (does anyone have a cure for alliteration?) split up; Caitlyn and Jeremy to Amalfi, and me to Rome. It's in Barcelona that I'll leave you for now as well; Rome and Florence will come in the next bout of verbal diarrhoea.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Reflections on the land of the free
Written June 14, 2007
As I looked out the window to see us bursting through the clouds and off U.S soil, I reflected on my experiences in a country that offered (offers?) such a promise for so many. About how it will go on without me. I had felt the same way as Sean, Ken, Lucy and I drove out of the Penn State grounds for the first time just a few weeks earlier. It's a funny thought; that a people and place you've grown to love does not rely on you for its life, that soon enough there will be a new wave of funny-talking foreigners to get to know, that someone else has probably now moved into your dorm room and met your friends. The last few weeks at Penn State were lots of fun; having finished with the seemingly endless assessment that appears to be the norm in this system, the weather drew people from hibernation and into the streets. Having bid farewell to friends, some of whom we are never likely never to see again, we hired our people-mover and set off for Niagara Falls, shortly after which we realised a map would be handy.
As I am deafened by calls from the streets of London (and who really has the time to keep notes on where they've been), my reflections on cities will be kept uncharacteristically brief (I hear you breathe a sigh of relief).
Reaching Nigara Falls after in the afternoon of the morning we left Penn State, we spent a few hours here, though almost didn't arrive. Convinced that the frightening-looking town on the U.S side was not all that it was cracked up to be (and where was all the water?), as crossed the border into Canada and were glad we did. The falls from this side were magnificent; hard to describe really.
The familiar clack of trams was a comforting introduction to Toronto; a city that appeared pretty and, with like Melbourne in its layout. An evening tasting (some would contend more than tasting) of gourmet beers infused with berries, peaches and other fruits that an amateur like myself was surprised to find rounded out the one evening we spent in Toronto, and we left for Montreal the next day.
Contrary to Toronto-ians advice about steering clear of Montreal-ers (they were sure not to even give us the time of day), Montreal-ers were as friendly and helpful as everyone else. It's just that they spoke French. Looking bemused, shaking your head or asking the question in english made them come to the conclusion that they were simply speaking too fast, so they continued to speak in French, but more slowly. The old city of Montreal was stunning; favourites were the name-escapes-me cathedral (see photos), eating at NOIR, and Habitat 67, a bizarre cubic housing project.
The parks and boulevards of these cities may have contributed to my sense that we were somewhere close to home (though, oddly enough, we were actually further away and surrounded by the French language). Perhaps it was also the more relaxed pictures of life, and less hectic ways of doing business. Somehow Canada seemed more like Australia than the U.S ever did.After a few days we headed to Boston, the city of 'tea party' fame where, though rainy for most of the time, us nerds indulged in the political history and John F Kennedy Presidential Library (which is well worth a visit if you happen to be in town).
We thought it best to dump the stolen State College van in Boston in case the authorities tracked it back to the Big Apple (relax Mum, I'm kidding), and so ended Sean's valient driving on an unfamiliar side of the road, and our hopelessly vague navigating, using MapQuest maps ingeniously printed at State level.
While I'd only spent a combined total of about two weeks in New York City throughout the semester, something about the chance it provided to escape small town life made me feel quite at home and attached. It was also the end of our journey as a group, and capped off with visits to the United Nations and the obligatory pilgrimages to 'the village'.
Once more a solo traveler, I braced and boarded the rickety Chinatown bus that managed to reduce the driving to Washington DC to a very comfortable four hours. I was expecting the city to embrace its reputation for embodying the divide between rich and poor, between lawmakers and law breakers, as a center of the broken American dream, but it did just the opposite. I must disclose that I did not visit the areas claimed to represent these dubiosities, but those that I did were pretty impressive. The Library of Congress was opulent, the Building Museum niche but satisfying for an arm-chair architect like myself, and the various monuments strangely peaceful (particularly given my ever so charming personal guide, a local political player whose eye I must have caught somewhere along the way; further elaboration on request). In a city where buildings are as big as city blocks, it's easy to feel dwarfed. Disappointingly, George didn't return the calls I placed for him, despite his PA's assurances to the contrary. Maybe he was unhappy about the size of his house, which was actually surprisingly modest. Next time.
From DC it was Chicago, to the made-over gangster's paradise with a cult-like appreciation of its mayor (whose name accompanied rubbish bins, brochures, actually anywhere the word Chicago is mentioned). Being met at the airport is a homely comfort for this young Aussie, and the hospitality and home-cooked meals given to me over my few days there were the warm pitstop I needed. Tis amazing how three degrees of separation can be bridged to turn friends of friends into friends over a weekend. The city itself seemed like New York City on a little less speed and a few more pleasent green interruptions.
In the true American tradition of the sublime to ridiculous, my next move was to the city where sin is 'in', Las Vegas Nevada. The bizarity of a mass of light bulbs and concrete bursting through an endless sandy desert needs to be seen to be believed. How we ever snatched a luxury room at a bargain price remained a mystery until we saw the seemingly endless wads of notes that guests peeled out of their pockets at every waking moment. For a novice and fairly uninterested gambler, it soon became apparent that the city simply wasn't interested in how little we paid for our room, how many complimentary drinks we were fed, or how much we ate at the crazily cheap buffets. Spending so little on the day-to-day's means, of course, that the traveler has thousands to splash around on the tables and machines. Needless to say Josh and I are not those kind of travelers, so we enjoyed the perks without remortgaging the house (I guess we'd have to have had a house to remortgage in the first place, though I'm sure Vegas would have found a way around it).
But truly, all the glitz and novelty was a lot of fun, as was witnessing the look on Madam's face when inspecting gold-encrusted soap dishes that she well knew we could never afford. We took comfort in knowing that we were not alone in this plight though, as a stroll outside revealed scores of others who would have had a hard time even being allowed to enter the store. The cleaners, porn-card distributors, and those conspicuously claiming the pennies thrown into marble wishing wells by previously well-healed gamblers hoping to turn their luck around were divided from their beneficiaries not only across (almost without exception) racial lines, but also in the dream their new home held out. The unfortunate bridge between these two realities was made all too clear when, only mildly dejected after losing the minimum bet (!) on the blackjack table, I inquired after the unusually long line at the 'cash' desk, to be told that today was 'pay day'. Apparently since people no longer had to go to the bank to cash their pay cheque, Friday was one of blackjack's best days.
With pockets only marginally lighter than when I arrived, the last few days of my U.S adventure were spent where they started, in Los Angeles. The grime and eccentricities that I had found noteworthy at the beginning of my journey were no longer; I had learned to deal with the in-your-face day to day, because I knew that behind it all, Americans offered an innocence and brashness that we can all learn a little bit from.
As I looked out the window to see us bursting through the clouds and off U.S soil, I reflected on my experiences in a country that offered (offers?) such a promise for so many. About how it will go on without me. I had felt the same way as Sean, Ken, Lucy and I drove out of the Penn State grounds for the first time just a few weeks earlier. It's a funny thought; that a people and place you've grown to love does not rely on you for its life, that soon enough there will be a new wave of funny-talking foreigners to get to know, that someone else has probably now moved into your dorm room and met your friends. The last few weeks at Penn State were lots of fun; having finished with the seemingly endless assessment that appears to be the norm in this system, the weather drew people from hibernation and into the streets. Having bid farewell to friends, some of whom we are never likely never to see again, we hired our people-mover and set off for Niagara Falls, shortly after which we realised a map would be handy.
As I am deafened by calls from the streets of London (and who really has the time to keep notes on where they've been), my reflections on cities will be kept uncharacteristically brief (I hear you breathe a sigh of relief).
Reaching Nigara Falls after in the afternoon of the morning we left Penn State, we spent a few hours here, though almost didn't arrive. Convinced that the frightening-looking town on the U.S side was not all that it was cracked up to be (and where was all the water?), as crossed the border into Canada and were glad we did. The falls from this side were magnificent; hard to describe really.
The familiar clack of trams was a comforting introduction to Toronto; a city that appeared pretty and, with like Melbourne in its layout. An evening tasting (some would contend more than tasting) of gourmet beers infused with berries, peaches and other fruits that an amateur like myself was surprised to find rounded out the one evening we spent in Toronto, and we left for Montreal the next day.
Contrary to Toronto-ians advice about steering clear of Montreal-ers (they were sure not to even give us the time of day), Montreal-ers were as friendly and helpful as everyone else. It's just that they spoke French. Looking bemused, shaking your head or asking the question in english made them come to the conclusion that they were simply speaking too fast, so they continued to speak in French, but more slowly. The old city of Montreal was stunning; favourites were the name-escapes-me cathedral (see photos), eating at NOIR, and Habitat 67, a bizarre cubic housing project.
The parks and boulevards of these cities may have contributed to my sense that we were somewhere close to home (though, oddly enough, we were actually further away and surrounded by the French language). Perhaps it was also the more relaxed pictures of life, and less hectic ways of doing business. Somehow Canada seemed more like Australia than the U.S ever did.After a few days we headed to Boston, the city of 'tea party' fame where, though rainy for most of the time, us nerds indulged in the political history and John F Kennedy Presidential Library (which is well worth a visit if you happen to be in town).
We thought it best to dump the stolen State College van in Boston in case the authorities tracked it back to the Big Apple (relax Mum, I'm kidding), and so ended Sean's valient driving on an unfamiliar side of the road, and our hopelessly vague navigating, using MapQuest maps ingeniously printed at State level.
While I'd only spent a combined total of about two weeks in New York City throughout the semester, something about the chance it provided to escape small town life made me feel quite at home and attached. It was also the end of our journey as a group, and capped off with visits to the United Nations and the obligatory pilgrimages to 'the village'.
Once more a solo traveler, I braced and boarded the rickety Chinatown bus that managed to reduce the driving to Washington DC to a very comfortable four hours. I was expecting the city to embrace its reputation for embodying the divide between rich and poor, between lawmakers and law breakers, as a center of the broken American dream, but it did just the opposite. I must disclose that I did not visit the areas claimed to represent these dubiosities, but those that I did were pretty impressive. The Library of Congress was opulent, the Building Museum niche but satisfying for an arm-chair architect like myself, and the various monuments strangely peaceful (particularly given my ever so charming personal guide, a local political player whose eye I must have caught somewhere along the way; further elaboration on request). In a city where buildings are as big as city blocks, it's easy to feel dwarfed. Disappointingly, George didn't return the calls I placed for him, despite his PA's assurances to the contrary. Maybe he was unhappy about the size of his house, which was actually surprisingly modest. Next time.
From DC it was Chicago, to the made-over gangster's paradise with a cult-like appreciation of its mayor (whose name accompanied rubbish bins, brochures, actually anywhere the word Chicago is mentioned). Being met at the airport is a homely comfort for this young Aussie, and the hospitality and home-cooked meals given to me over my few days there were the warm pitstop I needed. Tis amazing how three degrees of separation can be bridged to turn friends of friends into friends over a weekend. The city itself seemed like New York City on a little less speed and a few more pleasent green interruptions.
In the true American tradition of the sublime to ridiculous, my next move was to the city where sin is 'in', Las Vegas Nevada. The bizarity of a mass of light bulbs and concrete bursting through an endless sandy desert needs to be seen to be believed. How we ever snatched a luxury room at a bargain price remained a mystery until we saw the seemingly endless wads of notes that guests peeled out of their pockets at every waking moment. For a novice and fairly uninterested gambler, it soon became apparent that the city simply wasn't interested in how little we paid for our room, how many complimentary drinks we were fed, or how much we ate at the crazily cheap buffets. Spending so little on the day-to-day's means, of course, that the traveler has thousands to splash around on the tables and machines. Needless to say Josh and I are not those kind of travelers, so we enjoyed the perks without remortgaging the house (I guess we'd have to have had a house to remortgage in the first place, though I'm sure Vegas would have found a way around it).
But truly, all the glitz and novelty was a lot of fun, as was witnessing the look on Madam's face when inspecting gold-encrusted soap dishes that she well knew we could never afford. We took comfort in knowing that we were not alone in this plight though, as a stroll outside revealed scores of others who would have had a hard time even being allowed to enter the store. The cleaners, porn-card distributors, and those conspicuously claiming the pennies thrown into marble wishing wells by previously well-healed gamblers hoping to turn their luck around were divided from their beneficiaries not only across (almost without exception) racial lines, but also in the dream their new home held out. The unfortunate bridge between these two realities was made all too clear when, only mildly dejected after losing the minimum bet (!) on the blackjack table, I inquired after the unusually long line at the 'cash' desk, to be told that today was 'pay day'. Apparently since people no longer had to go to the bank to cash their pay cheque, Friday was one of blackjack's best days.
With pockets only marginally lighter than when I arrived, the last few days of my U.S adventure were spent where they started, in Los Angeles. The grime and eccentricities that I had found noteworthy at the beginning of my journey were no longer; I had learned to deal with the in-your-face day to day, because I knew that behind it all, Americans offered an innocence and brashness that we can all learn a little bit from.
Connections. Community. Fear.
Written April 16, 2007
A product of what some have described as the easy accessibility of guns within a culture of fear has eventuated today with the tragic shooting at Virginia Tech, just a short distance down the east coast. When the bubble bursts the world's cold air stings all involved. The families, the dead, the wounded, the friends and the bystanders. Nobody is immune to the deceivingly random devastation whose cultural veins are well hidden.
News broke as I entered the gym and noticed all eyes turned to the large plasma screens lining the walls. Body builders who, I have come to learn, sleep and eat at the gym paused briefly to have an outside moment explained to them. The death toll began at 21 and rose to 32 by the time my pecs, lats and glutes had been exercised. In a not uncommon display of community, I saw the same gatherings in the dining commons and lobby as I returned to blend my protein shake. Funny how mundane our rituals appear when something like this happens, isn't it.
Last Wednesday I had the privilege of visiting an Amish community in a small town about 45 minutes drive from State College. It's so easy to forget that we are literally in the middle of nowhere, but 10 minutes down the road it became evident. I knew we were in a small town when the single cash register at the general store displayed a "No checks [cheques] from" list for all to see. We also visited a market and cattle auction, where men chewed tobacco, women wore bonnets and I felt as though I was at the real Sovereign Hill or on the set of Ned Kelly. Interestingly, non-Amish locals have recognized the attraction of the event, and set up stalls outside selling everything from guns to discount pharmaceuticals. Another moment that sticks in my wind was when a well-meaning Thai exchange student suggested I get on one of the Amish's horses for a photo. While the parallel that I wouldn't want some stranger breaking into my car for a quick snap was lost, I did manage to persuade her that perhaps it wasn't such a great idea. Hearty Pennsylvanian-Dutch food was enjoyed, and I bought a faceless Amish doll (representations of human faces are forbidden).
Just last year another Amish town a few hours north endured a similar tragedy to todays. The town I visited wasn't the one where the shooting occurred; but the evident community-mindedness was probably comparable. While in their community I saw harshness and regiment through my money-making-consumer glasses, I also saw a genuine concern for the welfare of others, a cleansing forgiveness and a material equality that perhaps gives rise to them both. The community shares everything, and welcomed the widow of the gunman back into their lives with open arms. As someone much wiser than I once may have said, virtue can be seen as much in reaction as in action.
The weekend before that I had experienced a similar sense of community in Bethlehem, a small Pennsylvanian mining town, and birthplace of my good friend Keveau whose family was good enough to have me as a guest for Easter dinner. The home-cooked food was great, the conversation spirited. Keveau's grandmother told a joke that my recall will no-doubt butcher: In one of heaven's ballrooms, a man noticed clocks lining the walls, all showing different times, all hands moving intermittently. On them was inscribed a different U.S presidents name. He asked the reason for the different times, and the angel replied that each time a president lied, the hand moved. Noticing that there wasn't one for Bush, the man asked the angel where it is. The angel replied that was 'upstairs in Jesus' office; he uses it as a ceiling fan'. The joke was well received, and would perhaps have been even more so if she hadn't just shared her considered view that Prince Charles and most of the royals were "a bit retarded because of all the inbreeding".The previous few days had been spent in Brooklyn, New York City, just a short train ride from Manhattan. It was my first time to Brooklyn and I found that NYC begun to make sense. My impressions of Manhattan had been of a transit island; where it was as if the asphalt was turning to quicksand, and people seemed intent on moving somewhere, anywhere, quickly. This wasn't the case in Brooklyn, where wide tree lined streets hosted yards with clothes lines where people hung out the washing and watered the concrete. New York City now had a human face. Back in Manhattan, Central Park showed its human face in an extraordinary space gypsy/folk/opera singing androgynous performer called THOTH. Weaving magic in the centre of a European inspired wind tunnel, we must have stayed there watching THOTH for at least an hour. THOTH has created his own language and expresses it through perhaps the most hauntingly beautiful 'prayformances' I have ever witnessed. Google him.
Back in State College reality hits. There's study to do, essays to right and readings to read. Enjoying a few quiet ones in a local bar the other night, a friend and I start chatting to a well dressed man of non-descript age. As the mandatory 2am close approaches, we say that we'll 'facebook' him. Rejecting the offer he says he has his card here, and promptly dives in his pocket for two of them. They read: "First Name, Surname". New line: "Socialite". This is not a joke. Just when I thought I had seen everything I was proved wrong; I hadn't yet met my first self-proclaimed socialite. Now that one's a keeper.
A product of what some have described as the easy accessibility of guns within a culture of fear has eventuated today with the tragic shooting at Virginia Tech, just a short distance down the east coast. When the bubble bursts the world's cold air stings all involved. The families, the dead, the wounded, the friends and the bystanders. Nobody is immune to the deceivingly random devastation whose cultural veins are well hidden.
News broke as I entered the gym and noticed all eyes turned to the large plasma screens lining the walls. Body builders who, I have come to learn, sleep and eat at the gym paused briefly to have an outside moment explained to them. The death toll began at 21 and rose to 32 by the time my pecs, lats and glutes had been exercised. In a not uncommon display of community, I saw the same gatherings in the dining commons and lobby as I returned to blend my protein shake. Funny how mundane our rituals appear when something like this happens, isn't it.
Last Wednesday I had the privilege of visiting an Amish community in a small town about 45 minutes drive from State College. It's so easy to forget that we are literally in the middle of nowhere, but 10 minutes down the road it became evident. I knew we were in a small town when the single cash register at the general store displayed a "No checks [cheques] from" list for all to see. We also visited a market and cattle auction, where men chewed tobacco, women wore bonnets and I felt as though I was at the real Sovereign Hill or on the set of Ned Kelly. Interestingly, non-Amish locals have recognized the attraction of the event, and set up stalls outside selling everything from guns to discount pharmaceuticals. Another moment that sticks in my wind was when a well-meaning Thai exchange student suggested I get on one of the Amish's horses for a photo. While the parallel that I wouldn't want some stranger breaking into my car for a quick snap was lost, I did manage to persuade her that perhaps it wasn't such a great idea. Hearty Pennsylvanian-Dutch food was enjoyed, and I bought a faceless Amish doll (representations of human faces are forbidden).
Just last year another Amish town a few hours north endured a similar tragedy to todays. The town I visited wasn't the one where the shooting occurred; but the evident community-mindedness was probably comparable. While in their community I saw harshness and regiment through my money-making-consumer glasses, I also saw a genuine concern for the welfare of others, a cleansing forgiveness and a material equality that perhaps gives rise to them both. The community shares everything, and welcomed the widow of the gunman back into their lives with open arms. As someone much wiser than I once may have said, virtue can be seen as much in reaction as in action.
The weekend before that I had experienced a similar sense of community in Bethlehem, a small Pennsylvanian mining town, and birthplace of my good friend Keveau whose family was good enough to have me as a guest for Easter dinner. The home-cooked food was great, the conversation spirited. Keveau's grandmother told a joke that my recall will no-doubt butcher: In one of heaven's ballrooms, a man noticed clocks lining the walls, all showing different times, all hands moving intermittently. On them was inscribed a different U.S presidents name. He asked the reason for the different times, and the angel replied that each time a president lied, the hand moved. Noticing that there wasn't one for Bush, the man asked the angel where it is. The angel replied that was 'upstairs in Jesus' office; he uses it as a ceiling fan'. The joke was well received, and would perhaps have been even more so if she hadn't just shared her considered view that Prince Charles and most of the royals were "a bit retarded because of all the inbreeding".The previous few days had been spent in Brooklyn, New York City, just a short train ride from Manhattan. It was my first time to Brooklyn and I found that NYC begun to make sense. My impressions of Manhattan had been of a transit island; where it was as if the asphalt was turning to quicksand, and people seemed intent on moving somewhere, anywhere, quickly. This wasn't the case in Brooklyn, where wide tree lined streets hosted yards with clothes lines where people hung out the washing and watered the concrete. New York City now had a human face. Back in Manhattan, Central Park showed its human face in an extraordinary space gypsy/folk/opera singing androgynous performer called THOTH. Weaving magic in the centre of a European inspired wind tunnel, we must have stayed there watching THOTH for at least an hour. THOTH has created his own language and expresses it through perhaps the most hauntingly beautiful 'prayformances' I have ever witnessed. Google him.
Back in State College reality hits. There's study to do, essays to right and readings to read. Enjoying a few quiet ones in a local bar the other night, a friend and I start chatting to a well dressed man of non-descript age. As the mandatory 2am close approaches, we say that we'll 'facebook' him. Rejecting the offer he says he has his card here, and promptly dives in his pocket for two of them. They read: "First Name, Surname". New line: "Socialite". This is not a joke. Just when I thought I had seen everything I was proved wrong; I hadn't yet met my first self-proclaimed socialite. Now that one's a keeper.
Defrosting in Miami
Written March 24, 2007
This edition is dedicated to Phil – a beautiful soul who left too soon.
Faced with an ever lengthening list of dot points to include in my next diatribe, the prospect of doing so is daunting. So if this edition is paired somewhat of my usually delightful imagery, do feel free to insert it yourself, providing all publishing income is filtered to me.
As I was drawn closer and closer into the bubble mirage, to a point where the soapy glaze began to appear involuntarily, I realized I had to get out of State College. And so I did, for the weekend at least, to the bright lights of New York City, "where the grass is green and the [boys] are pretty".
The triggers, insignificant as they may seem, were two-fold. Firstly, the quantity of food ceaselessly left on plates in the dining commons, and secondly, the widespread frustrating ignorance typified by PhD wielding Professor's claiming to have no idea about the population of the U.S.
The Chinatown bus was 'a callin'. Armed with little other than a Lonely Planet, I followed the call. As I warned in my opening, the following will be a seemingly unrelated list of observations from NYC that I think you'll find far more interesting than a regurgitation of my minute-to-minute movements:
- The bleak post-apocalyptic moonscape of industrial Newark and Jersey City; the engine room of NYC's manufacturing industries. Strewn tankers and burnt-out factories lay next to billboards for expensive watches and Manhattan condo's,
- Seeing "Perfect Crime" (www.perfect-crime.com); Broadway's longest running show, a play that has had an almost unbroken run, and indeed the same leading lady (!) since 1987. I'm yet to fathom how someone could possibility find freshness in and detachment from a role they've inhabited for that long,
- Meeting Elizabeth, a middle-aged nurse from Brooklyn, in the half price theatre tickets line. If I asked you to tell me about a typical New Yorker, it would probably be her. A brash optimism and infectious delight in discovering new things; responding "Isn't that something" to almost any detail about Australia,
- Chatting to Alex, the young Aussie actor trying to make it big in the City, who is (for the moment) flogging tickets to *other* people's shows and considering whether marriage is an unreasonable proposition to facilitate a visa extension,
- The sound bites afforded by a wander down the street, as if a breath of wind allowed ears to tune to the radio frequency of a parallel universe. Case in point: the decidedly random response of a man to a well dressed elderly lady who refused his request for money: "I'll suck your dick darling",
- Meeting (if ever so fleetingly) David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Fraser) after seeing him in Curtains (www.curtainsthemusical.com), his new Broadway show.- The marble expanses of the Metropolitan Museum (www.metmuseum.org), with knock-your-socks-off modern art and sculpture.
- The perplexing plethora of medical offices that dominate the Upper East Side; street after street of the things. It's still lost on me.
- The architecture and staircase exhibits of The Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum (http://ndm.si.edu) – well worth a visit if you're in this neck of the woods – and the hilarious dialogue of an older couple in response to some new fandangle plastic furniture: Him (attempted embracing of concept) – "See, you iron it together", Her (with skepticism) – "What happens to your iron?"
Reassured that there was indeed life outside of State College, I returned home ready for a week of exams before the promise of sunlight during Spring Break.
And boy did it live up to that promise. It was to Miami that I set off with friends Tomo, a Japanese exchange student, and Audrey, a French exchange student. The slovenly excesses of the next week left my stomach feeling bloated and skin just a little browner.
Without boring you with what would be a deserving tirade against staff of a particular U.S airline (though there appears to be a wider trend at play), suffice to say that I eventually arrived in Miami, sampling virtually every mode of transport on the way.
Looking very much like the backpacker, I could immediately distinguish the locals by their copper tanned skin and bright white teeth; even the homeless appeared to have a healthy glow (I don't mean to be facetious, this was striking). As I made my way into Miami I remember the irony of moments like sharing a driverless monorail carriage with two guys who were deaf (they were s signing to each other) on my left, while being bombarded with a cacophony of sound from another guy's boom box on my right. Like the territorial but motherly bus driver who dictated who sat where, yelled the coordinates of every stop, and kept the spring break-ers in lock step.
Staying right on Miami's South Beach, Tomo, Audrey and I enjoyed the beach by day and the bars by night. With temperatures around 30 Celsius, my loins enjoyed the heat of home, and they didn't even want to leave. Traveling with two fluent trilingual's can be just a tad humbling – Tomo and Audrey not only spoke perfect English, but dabbled in Russian and Swedish too. Tomo's local friend JK showed us the local nightspots, inducting us into the Miami shown in calendar's and time-share seminars.
Other highlights included the World Erotic Art Museum (www.weam.com - created from the personal collection of an elderly Jewish grandmother, the third richest woman in New Jersey), and Vizcaya House (www.vizcayamuseum.org), the 19th century winter home of James Deering. After touring, I don't know why I bought the place.
Miami is a city of contrasts; it's proximity to Cuba and the Caribbean has seen it develop into a virtual set of nations, and while physical borders don't not exist within the city, class and religion-based ones do. In a typically American way, nowhere are these distinctions more evident than on billboards – a bus ride through Little Haiti revealed "cash for blood donation" and abortion billboards which would not, I'm sure, exist in nearby gated Coral Gables.
The week ended as it began, with cancelled flights and delays; but this time I was joined by several thousand students feeling as unamused as I. A day and a half later I finally boarded a flight bound for the cold of New York City, confirmed by the chilly irony of snow covered beaches as we came in to land. As our plane plunged through the clouds I saw they offered a rare reflection; I saw the plane's shadow, clear as day, encapsulated by a circular rainbow haze that reminded me of an angel's hallow. Probably sounds bizarre, but it was beautiful.
On the other side of the clouds I was met with reality – the weather, the New Yorkers, the prospect of returning to the books. The first week I've been happy to ease back into it, escaping for some cross country skiing through deserted woods with my mate Keveau, and to the Hookah smoking bar with Corey (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hookah - mango and peach were the flavours of choice).
Just as I discovered in China, the variety of life in a country the size of the U.S is more like that seen in an empire, and leaves me reflecting that while I'm sure the case is the same in our own country, as desire for the foreign means that few of us discover.
This edition is dedicated to Phil – a beautiful soul who left too soon.
Faced with an ever lengthening list of dot points to include in my next diatribe, the prospect of doing so is daunting. So if this edition is paired somewhat of my usually delightful imagery, do feel free to insert it yourself, providing all publishing income is filtered to me.
As I was drawn closer and closer into the bubble mirage, to a point where the soapy glaze began to appear involuntarily, I realized I had to get out of State College. And so I did, for the weekend at least, to the bright lights of New York City, "where the grass is green and the [boys] are pretty".
The triggers, insignificant as they may seem, were two-fold. Firstly, the quantity of food ceaselessly left on plates in the dining commons, and secondly, the widespread frustrating ignorance typified by PhD wielding Professor's claiming to have no idea about the population of the U.S.
The Chinatown bus was 'a callin'. Armed with little other than a Lonely Planet, I followed the call. As I warned in my opening, the following will be a seemingly unrelated list of observations from NYC that I think you'll find far more interesting than a regurgitation of my minute-to-minute movements:
- The bleak post-apocalyptic moonscape of industrial Newark and Jersey City; the engine room of NYC's manufacturing industries. Strewn tankers and burnt-out factories lay next to billboards for expensive watches and Manhattan condo's,
- Seeing "Perfect Crime" (www.perfect-crime.com); Broadway's longest running show, a play that has had an almost unbroken run, and indeed the same leading lady (!) since 1987. I'm yet to fathom how someone could possibility find freshness in and detachment from a role they've inhabited for that long,
- Meeting Elizabeth, a middle-aged nurse from Brooklyn, in the half price theatre tickets line. If I asked you to tell me about a typical New Yorker, it would probably be her. A brash optimism and infectious delight in discovering new things; responding "Isn't that something" to almost any detail about Australia,
- Chatting to Alex, the young Aussie actor trying to make it big in the City, who is (for the moment) flogging tickets to *other* people's shows and considering whether marriage is an unreasonable proposition to facilitate a visa extension,
- The sound bites afforded by a wander down the street, as if a breath of wind allowed ears to tune to the radio frequency of a parallel universe. Case in point: the decidedly random response of a man to a well dressed elderly lady who refused his request for money: "I'll suck your dick darling",
- Meeting (if ever so fleetingly) David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Fraser) after seeing him in Curtains (www.curtainsthemusical.com), his new Broadway show.- The marble expanses of the Metropolitan Museum (www.metmuseum.org), with knock-your-socks-off modern art and sculpture.
- The perplexing plethora of medical offices that dominate the Upper East Side; street after street of the things. It's still lost on me.
- The architecture and staircase exhibits of The Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum (http://ndm.si.edu) – well worth a visit if you're in this neck of the woods – and the hilarious dialogue of an older couple in response to some new fandangle plastic furniture: Him (attempted embracing of concept) – "See, you iron it together", Her (with skepticism) – "What happens to your iron?"
Reassured that there was indeed life outside of State College, I returned home ready for a week of exams before the promise of sunlight during Spring Break.
And boy did it live up to that promise. It was to Miami that I set off with friends Tomo, a Japanese exchange student, and Audrey, a French exchange student. The slovenly excesses of the next week left my stomach feeling bloated and skin just a little browner.
Without boring you with what would be a deserving tirade against staff of a particular U.S airline (though there appears to be a wider trend at play), suffice to say that I eventually arrived in Miami, sampling virtually every mode of transport on the way.
Looking very much like the backpacker, I could immediately distinguish the locals by their copper tanned skin and bright white teeth; even the homeless appeared to have a healthy glow (I don't mean to be facetious, this was striking). As I made my way into Miami I remember the irony of moments like sharing a driverless monorail carriage with two guys who were deaf (they were s signing to each other) on my left, while being bombarded with a cacophony of sound from another guy's boom box on my right. Like the territorial but motherly bus driver who dictated who sat where, yelled the coordinates of every stop, and kept the spring break-ers in lock step.
Staying right on Miami's South Beach, Tomo, Audrey and I enjoyed the beach by day and the bars by night. With temperatures around 30 Celsius, my loins enjoyed the heat of home, and they didn't even want to leave. Traveling with two fluent trilingual's can be just a tad humbling – Tomo and Audrey not only spoke perfect English, but dabbled in Russian and Swedish too. Tomo's local friend JK showed us the local nightspots, inducting us into the Miami shown in calendar's and time-share seminars.
Other highlights included the World Erotic Art Museum (www.weam.com - created from the personal collection of an elderly Jewish grandmother, the third richest woman in New Jersey), and Vizcaya House (www.vizcayamuseum.org), the 19th century winter home of James Deering. After touring, I don't know why I bought the place.
Miami is a city of contrasts; it's proximity to Cuba and the Caribbean has seen it develop into a virtual set of nations, and while physical borders don't not exist within the city, class and religion-based ones do. In a typically American way, nowhere are these distinctions more evident than on billboards – a bus ride through Little Haiti revealed "cash for blood donation" and abortion billboards which would not, I'm sure, exist in nearby gated Coral Gables.
The week ended as it began, with cancelled flights and delays; but this time I was joined by several thousand students feeling as unamused as I. A day and a half later I finally boarded a flight bound for the cold of New York City, confirmed by the chilly irony of snow covered beaches as we came in to land. As our plane plunged through the clouds I saw they offered a rare reflection; I saw the plane's shadow, clear as day, encapsulated by a circular rainbow haze that reminded me of an angel's hallow. Probably sounds bizarre, but it was beautiful.
On the other side of the clouds I was met with reality – the weather, the New Yorkers, the prospect of returning to the books. The first week I've been happy to ease back into it, escaping for some cross country skiing through deserted woods with my mate Keveau, and to the Hookah smoking bar with Corey (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hookah - mango and peach were the flavours of choice).
Just as I discovered in China, the variety of life in a country the size of the U.S is more like that seen in an empire, and leaves me reflecting that while I'm sure the case is the same in our own country, as desire for the foreign means that few of us discover.
Simple thoughts; complex institutions
Written February 23, 2007
As academic week 6 draws to a close and minds begin to turn to the cultural institution that is Spring Break (as if they weren't already!), I thought that, given I don't want to be totally written out of your will (with that comes the uneasily morbid assumptions that (a) you have a will, and (b) I'm in it), I should exercise my fist for lettering in the digital form.
In the interests of maintaining my ever-more-widely circulated reputation as somewhat of an ethnographic David Attenborough (who has, I'm told on good authority, hung up his boots), I've been brooding on a rich tagline for the richer content of this foreign memoir. Brooding finished. It's 'Simple thoughts; complex institutions'.
"What", a significant other asked, "have you found most surprising about Americans?" Musing the question over my last sip of protein shake (you should see my pectorals and biceps by the by, I'm now officially buff) I figured that it was simply how nice people were to each other. As the cynical Aussies reading lift their jaws from the floor, I will provide exemplars: the almost obligatory ritual of holding the door open, always saying 'bless you' or 'it was nice to meet you', smiles that would give you cataracts…the little things. Americans are a bunch of happy, friendly people. Or so it appears.
The source of this seemingly boundless optimism remains a mystery. Let's flesh it out. It most definitely isn't the media that I've had the dubious pleasure of being exposed to (the dulcet tones of certain anchors on a certain ex-expat's own station). The negativity and conspiracy that spews from the box is intoxicating, beyond the 'I've-drunk-just-a-little-too-much-and-everything-is-just-a-little-more-interesting' stage. "Desist with the flowery prose" I hear you holler in ironically flowery prose, "and give me something I can quote". Okay, case in point, the recent court proceedings of a certain deceased beauty star. Every day, networks personally criticize and even question the motives of the presiding magistrate – am I the only one wondering where the principles of an independent judiciary or the sanctity of the courtroom disappeared to? UTube it, I'm sure my point will become clear.
If not in the media, where is this source of happiness hiding? At least contributing, I have no doubt, is the fulfillment of the supply and demand principle in relation to an American (though by no means exclusively American) need for belonging. Put simply, people here seem to want to belong to something other themselves. This is exemplified by Penn State having the largest on-campus Greek Life system (fraternities and sororities) of any university, closely followed by most other sizable universities throughout the 50 states. It might also explain the growth of the suburban mega-churches, or the annual export of children to summer camp.
From the fog of a recent weekend arises yet another example. The setting: a student apartment a few miles from campus. The event: a party with a good few hundred people. The time: 2:30am. As the party winds down, a palpable sense of longing develops, as guests begin to scurry to find something to accompany them home for the evening. The accepted norms of flirtation are thrown out the window as guests realize if their evening has any chance of being extended (…), it had better be secured within the next few minutes. Add the idiosyncrasies of a party in a college town – inbreeding like you wouldn't believe, a large number of people needing to leave at the same time, no public transport, few taxis, subzero temperatures, and housemates that seem determined to evict guests by force, and you have a very peculiar end to an evening indeed. Primal instincts abound. Most interesting was how quickly the mood changed – from a buzzy, cool vibe to musical chairs with people as chairs within just a few minutes. As far fetched as it may sound, I am not exaggerating.
Not all parties are like this, however. As the name suggests, State College is given its identity by Penn State, as if the town was earth and the university it's sun. It's easy to forget is that we are in a rural area. Just half an hours drive up the road is a small town undergoing something of a naturalist, organic, collectivist revival. It was the opening of a new local-produce, organic beer restaurant owned by a friend of Keveau, a friend of mine. So Keveau, two Paleontologists here for some post-PhD study (one from Canada, one from Argentina), and I donned our jackets and headed for the hills. When I saw yellow warning signs for Amish buggies I knew we weren't far away. Then sure enough, around the corner came one in the flesh (a buggy, that is, not a warning sign); a wooden carriage pulled by a couple of sturdy-looking horses, driven by a long-bearded man dressed in black. Fascinating sight. The restaurant itself was filled by an eclectic mix of locals, all dancing to a Texas blue-grass/folk band without a care in the world. Characters aplenty – like the local librarian who travels to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea every two years to train the University of Technology staff to use their cataloguing system. Or the co-owner, who set up a series of art education centres in Africa. Or the retired couple who run a 'trust bakery' in their basement; locals let themselves in, take all the bread they want and drop the money in a box on the counter.
In contrast to this emerging pattern of simple, honest thought are America's endlessly complex structural institutions. It's obvious that in almost all cases, the onus is on the individual; for superannuation, for health insurance, for university education. Anything worth investing in is expensive, and a college education is out of reach of most people (think of the cost of an Australian full-fee paying place and triple it). The legislative differences among states are broad enough to think of each as a different country with a tenuous link to an umbrella body, as Europe has to the EU. This means that everything (including insurance policies, for example) is state-specific, thus further discouraging (isolating?) residents to move beyond their state boundary. Anyway, enough of this political blather.
Incase my indulgent rambling has left you either comatose or questioning my mental stability, here is a typical-travel-email style recount of the last few weeks at Penn State:
As academic week 6 draws to a close and minds begin to turn to the cultural institution that is Spring Break (as if they weren't already!), I thought that, given I don't want to be totally written out of your will (with that comes the uneasily morbid assumptions that (a) you have a will, and (b) I'm in it), I should exercise my fist for lettering in the digital form.
In the interests of maintaining my ever-more-widely circulated reputation as somewhat of an ethnographic David Attenborough (who has, I'm told on good authority, hung up his boots), I've been brooding on a rich tagline for the richer content of this foreign memoir. Brooding finished. It's 'Simple thoughts; complex institutions'.
"What", a significant other asked, "have you found most surprising about Americans?" Musing the question over my last sip of protein shake (you should see my pectorals and biceps by the by, I'm now officially buff) I figured that it was simply how nice people were to each other. As the cynical Aussies reading lift their jaws from the floor, I will provide exemplars: the almost obligatory ritual of holding the door open, always saying 'bless you' or 'it was nice to meet you', smiles that would give you cataracts…the little things. Americans are a bunch of happy, friendly people. Or so it appears.
The source of this seemingly boundless optimism remains a mystery. Let's flesh it out. It most definitely isn't the media that I've had the dubious pleasure of being exposed to (the dulcet tones of certain anchors on a certain ex-expat's own station). The negativity and conspiracy that spews from the box is intoxicating, beyond the 'I've-drunk-just-a-little-too-much-and-everything-is-just-a-little-more-interesting' stage. "Desist with the flowery prose" I hear you holler in ironically flowery prose, "and give me something I can quote". Okay, case in point, the recent court proceedings of a certain deceased beauty star. Every day, networks personally criticize and even question the motives of the presiding magistrate – am I the only one wondering where the principles of an independent judiciary or the sanctity of the courtroom disappeared to? UTube it, I'm sure my point will become clear.
If not in the media, where is this source of happiness hiding? At least contributing, I have no doubt, is the fulfillment of the supply and demand principle in relation to an American (though by no means exclusively American) need for belonging. Put simply, people here seem to want to belong to something other themselves. This is exemplified by Penn State having the largest on-campus Greek Life system (fraternities and sororities) of any university, closely followed by most other sizable universities throughout the 50 states. It might also explain the growth of the suburban mega-churches, or the annual export of children to summer camp.
From the fog of a recent weekend arises yet another example. The setting: a student apartment a few miles from campus. The event: a party with a good few hundred people. The time: 2:30am. As the party winds down, a palpable sense of longing develops, as guests begin to scurry to find something to accompany them home for the evening. The accepted norms of flirtation are thrown out the window as guests realize if their evening has any chance of being extended (…), it had better be secured within the next few minutes. Add the idiosyncrasies of a party in a college town – inbreeding like you wouldn't believe, a large number of people needing to leave at the same time, no public transport, few taxis, subzero temperatures, and housemates that seem determined to evict guests by force, and you have a very peculiar end to an evening indeed. Primal instincts abound. Most interesting was how quickly the mood changed – from a buzzy, cool vibe to musical chairs with people as chairs within just a few minutes. As far fetched as it may sound, I am not exaggerating.
Not all parties are like this, however. As the name suggests, State College is given its identity by Penn State, as if the town was earth and the university it's sun. It's easy to forget is that we are in a rural area. Just half an hours drive up the road is a small town undergoing something of a naturalist, organic, collectivist revival. It was the opening of a new local-produce, organic beer restaurant owned by a friend of Keveau, a friend of mine. So Keveau, two Paleontologists here for some post-PhD study (one from Canada, one from Argentina), and I donned our jackets and headed for the hills. When I saw yellow warning signs for Amish buggies I knew we weren't far away. Then sure enough, around the corner came one in the flesh (a buggy, that is, not a warning sign); a wooden carriage pulled by a couple of sturdy-looking horses, driven by a long-bearded man dressed in black. Fascinating sight. The restaurant itself was filled by an eclectic mix of locals, all dancing to a Texas blue-grass/folk band without a care in the world. Characters aplenty – like the local librarian who travels to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea every two years to train the University of Technology staff to use their cataloguing system. Or the co-owner, who set up a series of art education centres in Africa. Or the retired couple who run a 'trust bakery' in their basement; locals let themselves in, take all the bread they want and drop the money in a box on the counter.
In contrast to this emerging pattern of simple, honest thought are America's endlessly complex structural institutions. It's obvious that in almost all cases, the onus is on the individual; for superannuation, for health insurance, for university education. Anything worth investing in is expensive, and a college education is out of reach of most people (think of the cost of an Australian full-fee paying place and triple it). The legislative differences among states are broad enough to think of each as a different country with a tenuous link to an umbrella body, as Europe has to the EU. This means that everything (including insurance policies, for example) is state-specific, thus further discouraging (isolating?) residents to move beyond their state boundary. Anyway, enough of this political blather.
Incase my indulgent rambling has left you either comatose or questioning my mental stability, here is a typical-travel-email style recount of the last few weeks at Penn State:
- Skiing at Tussey Mountain (less than 20 mins drive from campus)
- THON (Penn State's annual dance marathon – $5.2 million raised for charity this year – see http://www.thon.org/)
- A growing reluctance to indulge in the diet of a dining-hall-subscribing college student: meals have been getting progressively larger and more wasteful due to peer pressure, reflecting on the waist line to the tune of 5 kg's +
- Free theatre on Thursday nights
- Lecture from world-renowned equality lobbyist Suzanne Pharr (see http://www.suzannepharr.org/)
- Frolicking in 20 inches of snow, most of which fell in two days
- Late nights, late mornings
- Growing addiction to PR podcasts (I'm now a nerd – out and proud)
And so ends another of my memoirs.
I do miss you on occasion, and you can relieve this pain by either depositing directing into my bank account (it needs all the love it can get), or simply replying to this post; the choice is yours.
Matt's mumblings - part 2
Written February 1, 2007
Having been in State College for nearly three weeks, I feel very much at home. Time is a funny thing; it feels like so long since I was back in Australia in shorts and a t-shirt, yet thinking about any other period of five weeks feels so much less.
Apart from negotiating a bit of a cold for the last few days, I'm having such a great time and feel that I've known my friends here for much longer than I have. It may have something to do with the intensity of this experience; a college student's life is focused around college – it really is a bubble that grows to be very attractive. When you can simply 'think' about the world and live and breathe it as a university, everything seems to make so much sense. It appears that the second these theories touch air, they become just a little more sinister and impossible (forgive the crudeness of this metaphor, but imagine blood touching the air). It's like this world is one big casino – the day is governed by the light, and apart from having to know when classes start and end, you could exist here without the need for any sense of time. As an international student surrounded by friends in a similar position - without commitment, without worry – my only responsibility is simply to be a student. That's all that's expected – I am Matt, the Australian STUDENT, whatever else we create here is up to us.
Perhaps, though, it's not an international students' identity I'm experiencing, it's that of a college student in the United States more broadly. A young person's life here seems so filled with milestones, tradition and ritual that these alone could provide the book-ends to young adulthood. From 'THON' (the hugely successful annual dance marathon fundraiser that EVERYONE gets involved in), to residence hall clubs, to Greek Life (Penn State has the largest number of Fraternity's and Sorority's of any university) and the homoerotic navy-esque induction procedures that go along with them, to Facebook and AIM (social networking tools where people update their status literally every minute – ie: 'having a shower', 'eating dinner' etc, see www.facebook.com), everyone knows all about everyone else and where they are every minute. Being a student here is an altogether engulfing experience. And I enjoy the sensation.
Having said this, the concept of a 'city within a city', an urban university like RMIT, remains attractive – too long in a town like this and one could become like the Amish on their 'year out'; either the sights and smells of the rest of the world appear too crude, too intense, or they are wonderful and but experienced without caution – like a five year old at a party who was never allowed lollies at home, so overindulges. OK, my ignorance of the Amish probably shone through in that comment, but when one is ignorant one works in stereotypes. I like that RMIT is literally part of the CBD, study is but one aspect of my life as a student.
All this thought is conducive to one of my courses actually, Asian Philosophy. We move through the pervasive belief systems of Asia in the past as well as now. It's thoroughly confusing but intriguing. My Professor is the stereotypical 'Philosopher'; much of what he says ends with a question mark, though most of us are constantly unsure if they are rhetorical. He's a guy that really seems at peace with the world – he described how he caught his finger in the car door and could recognize the beauty in the blood and objectify the pain – ie: something along the lines of 'I feel the pain, but because I can recognize that I feel it, it's not a part of me so doesn't affect me. If it were happening to me I couldn't recognize it because we would be one and the same thing'. My other Professors embody their subject matter equally amusingly, especially the infectiously cheery film teacher who, despite having Professed (?) for 15 years, delights in every morsal of the course. I do too. What could be better than having some of the latest greatest non-fiction films (not all are documentaries) hand-picked, watching them, reading about them and discussing them with people who appear to be as concerned about the planet as you do. It's fun, in a geeky kind of way.
Another gentleman just OUTSIDE the theatre seems almost as concerned, for he is there literally every day preaching the gospel for any who will listen, or even glance in his general direction. With beanie, scarf and gloves, his dulcet tones dart through the air like a parent scolding their child, but unlike those outside Flinders Street Station, he actually seems totally uninterested in what he is saying. If I get a chance one day soon I'll stand there with a Dictaphone, because it's far better aurally than in words.
I can sense (maybe it's the clarity of this literally freezing air) that many of you have walked away, having grown tired of the existential rambling of an expat with too much time on his now snow-beaten hands, so I will indulge those remaining with a few specific details of my few weeks here, both so that they might not get lost in my memory and that you might feel that I have not joined the ranks of 'Ken-Bruce' and 'gone completely mad'.
I've met lots of great mates from around the world – Australia, Japan, France, Puerto Rico, Sweden, England, USA, Holland, New Zealand, and enjoyed a few too many beers with them on occasion. I've been to the theatre, auditioned, slept lots, bought a bike, borrowed a laptop, eaten far too much every day but turned the fat into muscle at the gym, frequented many a bar, walked in the snow until my jacket was but a colourless outline, stolen more hearts than I've won, and generally had a good time of it. This weekend I'm going skiing at a nearby mountain, and may even wriggle my way into an infamous 'Frat Party'.
One experience I do want to elaborate on is 'Outlaws'; an underground-mainstream-urban-chic theatre festival that takes place every Thursday night at 11:15pm in a small performance space underneath a larger performance space at Penn State. Each week they present a different student-written, -directed and -performed piece to whomever shows up, before which it is rehearsed for just THREE DAYS. I was tipped-off by a local friend of mine, and we rocked along last Thursday. Imagine the conditions first – below freezing, after 11pm, week-night. Like you, I didn't picture terribly much – maybe a few dozen artistic faithful's. I was wrong. The place was literally overflowing with people – hundreds at least. We arrived 15 minutes early, and the queue was already out the door. We packed into the space, sitting on top of each other. More than just bodies, this audience was one of the loudest and most supportive I've ever seen, and I'm told they were nothing special. It wasn't a one-off; it happens week after week, for play after play. It's just another example of the remarkable enthusiasm that Americans support things with. And I'm immersed.
Having been in State College for nearly three weeks, I feel very much at home. Time is a funny thing; it feels like so long since I was back in Australia in shorts and a t-shirt, yet thinking about any other period of five weeks feels so much less.
Apart from negotiating a bit of a cold for the last few days, I'm having such a great time and feel that I've known my friends here for much longer than I have. It may have something to do with the intensity of this experience; a college student's life is focused around college – it really is a bubble that grows to be very attractive. When you can simply 'think' about the world and live and breathe it as a university, everything seems to make so much sense. It appears that the second these theories touch air, they become just a little more sinister and impossible (forgive the crudeness of this metaphor, but imagine blood touching the air). It's like this world is one big casino – the day is governed by the light, and apart from having to know when classes start and end, you could exist here without the need for any sense of time. As an international student surrounded by friends in a similar position - without commitment, without worry – my only responsibility is simply to be a student. That's all that's expected – I am Matt, the Australian STUDENT, whatever else we create here is up to us.
Perhaps, though, it's not an international students' identity I'm experiencing, it's that of a college student in the United States more broadly. A young person's life here seems so filled with milestones, tradition and ritual that these alone could provide the book-ends to young adulthood. From 'THON' (the hugely successful annual dance marathon fundraiser that EVERYONE gets involved in), to residence hall clubs, to Greek Life (Penn State has the largest number of Fraternity's and Sorority's of any university) and the homoerotic navy-esque induction procedures that go along with them, to Facebook and AIM (social networking tools where people update their status literally every minute – ie: 'having a shower', 'eating dinner' etc, see www.facebook.com), everyone knows all about everyone else and where they are every minute. Being a student here is an altogether engulfing experience. And I enjoy the sensation.
Having said this, the concept of a 'city within a city', an urban university like RMIT, remains attractive – too long in a town like this and one could become like the Amish on their 'year out'; either the sights and smells of the rest of the world appear too crude, too intense, or they are wonderful and but experienced without caution – like a five year old at a party who was never allowed lollies at home, so overindulges. OK, my ignorance of the Amish probably shone through in that comment, but when one is ignorant one works in stereotypes. I like that RMIT is literally part of the CBD, study is but one aspect of my life as a student.
All this thought is conducive to one of my courses actually, Asian Philosophy. We move through the pervasive belief systems of Asia in the past as well as now. It's thoroughly confusing but intriguing. My Professor is the stereotypical 'Philosopher'; much of what he says ends with a question mark, though most of us are constantly unsure if they are rhetorical. He's a guy that really seems at peace with the world – he described how he caught his finger in the car door and could recognize the beauty in the blood and objectify the pain – ie: something along the lines of 'I feel the pain, but because I can recognize that I feel it, it's not a part of me so doesn't affect me. If it were happening to me I couldn't recognize it because we would be one and the same thing'. My other Professors embody their subject matter equally amusingly, especially the infectiously cheery film teacher who, despite having Professed (?) for 15 years, delights in every morsal of the course. I do too. What could be better than having some of the latest greatest non-fiction films (not all are documentaries) hand-picked, watching them, reading about them and discussing them with people who appear to be as concerned about the planet as you do. It's fun, in a geeky kind of way.
Another gentleman just OUTSIDE the theatre seems almost as concerned, for he is there literally every day preaching the gospel for any who will listen, or even glance in his general direction. With beanie, scarf and gloves, his dulcet tones dart through the air like a parent scolding their child, but unlike those outside Flinders Street Station, he actually seems totally uninterested in what he is saying. If I get a chance one day soon I'll stand there with a Dictaphone, because it's far better aurally than in words.
I can sense (maybe it's the clarity of this literally freezing air) that many of you have walked away, having grown tired of the existential rambling of an expat with too much time on his now snow-beaten hands, so I will indulge those remaining with a few specific details of my few weeks here, both so that they might not get lost in my memory and that you might feel that I have not joined the ranks of 'Ken-Bruce' and 'gone completely mad'.
I've met lots of great mates from around the world – Australia, Japan, France, Puerto Rico, Sweden, England, USA, Holland, New Zealand, and enjoyed a few too many beers with them on occasion. I've been to the theatre, auditioned, slept lots, bought a bike, borrowed a laptop, eaten far too much every day but turned the fat into muscle at the gym, frequented many a bar, walked in the snow until my jacket was but a colourless outline, stolen more hearts than I've won, and generally had a good time of it. This weekend I'm going skiing at a nearby mountain, and may even wriggle my way into an infamous 'Frat Party'.
One experience I do want to elaborate on is 'Outlaws'; an underground-mainstream-urban-chic theatre festival that takes place every Thursday night at 11:15pm in a small performance space underneath a larger performance space at Penn State. Each week they present a different student-written, -directed and -performed piece to whomever shows up, before which it is rehearsed for just THREE DAYS. I was tipped-off by a local friend of mine, and we rocked along last Thursday. Imagine the conditions first – below freezing, after 11pm, week-night. Like you, I didn't picture terribly much – maybe a few dozen artistic faithful's. I was wrong. The place was literally overflowing with people – hundreds at least. We arrived 15 minutes early, and the queue was already out the door. We packed into the space, sitting on top of each other. More than just bodies, this audience was one of the loudest and most supportive I've ever seen, and I'm told they were nothing special. It wasn't a one-off; it happens week after week, for play after play. It's just another example of the remarkable enthusiasm that Americans support things with. And I'm immersed.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Memoir from Penn State (part 1)
Written Tuesday January 16, 2007
Contrary to popular belief I have not been abducted, robbed or murdered, thrown in jail, deported or maimed. I'm alive and well, and almost too well to pen this email; hence the delay. But alas, I am a kind sole who derives pleasure from gloating about my international experiences, so shall do so.
The USA is super-sized, and it's an image that applies equally to her houses, cars, freeways, university campuses, cities, and indeed people. For the most part, this super-size is endearing, though occasionally exhausting.
I must say that my very first impression of the U.S was not an altogether welcoming one. LA airport is clinical and the customs officials are anything but genial. As I moved to the front of the queue, the portraits of Bush, Cheney and Rice loomed large and my palms went just a tad clammy; were the hundreds of forms I completed the right ones? Will those overdue library books render me a sufficient threat to national security? Then without so much as a blink, the official with my future in his amply proportioned hands stamped the necessary forms and I was on my way.
LA is not as the movies suggest. The city is sprawling, urban and abrupt. Yet, as in every other place in the U.S that I've visited, the well-heeled or heel-less locals (there appears to be nothing in between) are only too happy to go out of their way to help with directions or show you the sites. Whether this is an example of national/city/university pride or an innate friendliness I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.
In LA I stayed in the Venice Beach Cotel – a youth hostel about 30 mins drive from the airport, and the home base of my cousin Josh. The hostel was right on the beach, and the cast of characters on the boardwalk outside would rival any sitcom. There were tourists, homeless, rollerblading shaman, tarot readers, joke tellers, druggies, children, people singing without inhibition, and just about everyone else you can think of – all in the one place, all harmless, and all seemingly oblivious to whatever strange acts were going on around them. In many ways they accurately reflect my experience of the U.S so far.
Highlights of LA included the Universal Studios, including the 'back lots'; a façade of a city with from different times and places that is redecorated for most Hollywood movies that would have, in the past, been shot on location! Although the glitz lasted little more than 3 or so streets, Hollywood itself was a sight to behold. I did the touristy thing and took a double decker tour ride to the main sights, including Paris Hilton's favourite take away restaurant and the shop that Brad Pitt used to spruik outside of before he made it big. We also went to the Getty Museum, one of the world best museums - the collections and architecture were stunning. Just as interesting was the bus ride between the two places, through the Hollywood Hills, where Josh and I were literally (without exaggeration) the only Caucasian people on the bus - the vast majority were African American women, many of whom work domestically in the rich neighbourhood we were passing through.
On 28 December, Josh and I headed to Mexico for 5 days; to a coastal town called Ensenada, a couple of hours over the U.S border. It was amazing to see the difference in housing and living conditions is the space of about a 5 minute bus trip into Mexico. We travelled along the stunning coastline into Ensenada, a touristy town, and relished our chance to escape student budgets and live like kings for a few days. There seemed to be an unusually large number of pharmacies selling viagra (literally every few shops), to cater to the retirees who come into port for the day bound for San Francisco. Whale-watching, endless tacos and spectacular scenery were seen and eaten; good times!
Next stop was San Diego - one of my favourites so far. It seems that if you were to sit down and plan a city; with just the right people, amenities, sights, location and weather, you'd come up with something like San Diego. We stayed at a great hostel, and I'm learning to go with Hostelling International hostels wherever possible; they seem by far the best. One of the most sights was the San Diego Photographic Museum, which was currently exhibiting a collection focussed on cross-border immigration, specifically the U.S - Mexico border that I had crossed the day before. It gave a visual history of the daily attempts of many South Americans to cross illegally, many of whom risk life and limb, travelling from Venezuela into Mexico and north on a freight train before climbing the fence and crossing no man's land to a better life. I wondered whether Americans viewing the exhibition were ashamed of the inequality at their doorstep, and began to see paralells with our treatment of asylum seekers. To use people's names and show day to day aspects of their lives helped to humanise their plight, a tactic which should be used in a similar in Australia.
It was in San Diego that Josh and I parted ways - he back to LA and I on to San Fransisco, a short flight to the north. San Fransisco is an amazing city! And if I thought the people in LA were nuts, San Franciscans were on another planet. Being my far too organised self, I booked accomodation on the net from Melbourne, so it was always a bit of a gamble, but the hostel was more than I bargained for. Impression #1 - greeted by the sweet smell of marijuana and a hostel manager akin to the one in Silence of the Hams, complete with twitch and manic laugh that surfaced at inopportune moments. Impression #2 - Matt: "where's the nearest place to get food?", Manager: "I wouldn't go out of here after dark if I were you - a guy was mugged at the end of this street the other day". Impression #3 - Irrate guest interrupts conversation with talk of bed bugs in his room. Impression #4 - friend of the owner quietly advises me that he would stay he if he were me. By this point I was beginning to agree with him, but I/It was cold, dark and tired, and I didn't fancy searching for anywhere else and knew I wouldn't get my deposit back. So there I stayed for the evening. At this point said Manager comments that "it's so nice when we get gentlemen like yourself stay here. Our customers are usually crazies in one way or another". The ensuing conversation proved one of the most entertaining I've had since arriving, consisting mainly of his making wild statements about San Francisco's "90% divorce rate", and conspiracy theories about local police. He was up for a laugh, and the whole thing was quite surreal. Needless to say I was out of there the next morning, and the Hostelling International hostel I found was palacial by comparison.
The city itself was stunning - the hills were as steep as in the movies, the cable car was a fun ride, and crookedest street in the world was as its title suggests, the museums were stunning, and Alcatraz (former prison island and fort) was a sight to behold.
In many ways I wish I'd had more time in both San Diego and San Francisco – both cities had a charm to them that took a little more time to capture. They are both cities and I could very easily live in for a while I think.
Next stop was the quintessential U.S experience – New York City; a city whose size I found difficult to grasp in the two days I was, which makes it next to impossible to do it justice in an email. The flight to New York was interesting in itself – stormy skies made for a turbulent ride, with the captain instructing even crew to take their seats several times. We ended up avoiding the bulk of it by flight very low, below the clouds, over central America. The lights of Chicago looked beautiful – a definite visit after semester finishes.
I loved New York – for all its grittiness, rushing, lights and excitement. It was quite surreal to see that 42nd Street was so named just because it was between 41st and 43rd; and that Broadway simply referred to the width of the street. I already knew this of course but attaching reality to such concepts wipes away just a little of the glamour.
I walked through Central Park, bought a very cheap jumper from a gorgeous half naked male model (go figure) at the GAP store on 5th Avenue, and attempted to look genuinely interested in a $5000 leather jacket which a guy next to me actually bought.
I rode the subway from underground station to underground station and got pleasantly lost in its maze of platforms. I loved how industrial the whole thing was – like a network of sewer tunnels that had been flushed out and now had trains running through them. Fast, frequent trains mean that luxuries aren't missed. Hear that Bracksy??!!
I took the ferry to Staten Island and admired the Statue of Liberty with (somewhat ironically) a new friend I had made who immigrated from Iran. He told me how he fled to was living in Turkey and went to the U.S embassy to apply for a visa, only to be told that he could only apply at the embassy in his home country. After courteously reminding the officials that the U.S and Iran were sworn enemies and diplomatic institutions had been closed in Iran for years, he applied from Germany and had no problems at all.
I stood in Times Square and forgot that it was night time.
I loved New York.
The next part of my journey was captured aptly by a traveler many years ago – "You leave the Pennsylvania Station 'bout a quarter to four, read a magazine and then you're in Baltimore…". Had I arrived in Chattanooga I would have been on the world train, for I was going to the metropolis of Lewistown. It was such a metropolis that the station we choo-chooed into was staffed solely by historical society volunteers. As I lumbered out of the station with my life on my back, a kind hearted local pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted a lift. It was small town American hospitality at its best. She said that since the factory she worked in had closed down, she passed the time by watching the train come into the station at the same time each day. As I stood at the greyhound bus station (actually it was the intersection of two roads, with nothing to indicate it as such), I wondered if I would have to walk the 30 miles to Penn State. Thankfully, it showed up no less than 1 and ½ hours late, and I was on my way.
Penn State is everything the movies show of a big U.S university campus to be – what I am writing is in no way embellished. There are 40,000 students on campus, and world class facilities everywhere. The on-campus 'Beaver Stadium' is bigger than the MCG, with capacity crowds of 104,000 people at every footy game. There are numerous shuttle services, taxis, Penn State ambulances, dozens and dozens of restaurants, four enormous gyms (membership is $40 for the semester!) complete with indoor and outdoor pools, hotels, plush student lounges almost everywhere you look, a number of theatres…everything!
Whether it's the facilities or the ecstasy hidden in dining hall meals I'm not sure, but something has made these people love their school! There are literally dozens of shops selling nothing but Penn State branded paraphernalia – anything you could possibly imagine. And you don't hear a bad word spoken about the uni when chatting to students – they sings its praises! There are university campaigns for everything imaginable – recycling, encouraging residents to keep their fridges full to save energy, not to drink too much, not to litter, to keep the noise down, to smile more…you name it. We were even told to expect people to randomly shout "We are…" from across the street and that we are expected to respond "Penn State". Apparently this can happen anywhere throughout Pennsylvania. Slightly cult-ish but charming.
I'm living on campus in "Thompson Hall", part of the "West Halls" complex. It's a grand old building conveniently set right next to one of the gyms and the buildings where most of my classes will be. Within our halls there is a study (the size of the RMIT library), a computer lab (would you like a new iMac or PC?), a restaurant and the list goes on. The dorm rooms themselves are slightly less palatial, but really all that you need – and I dare say that I won't be spending too much time in there.
Our Penn State ID card is used for everything – to swipe for meal points, to shop (like a debit card), to withdraw cash at an ATM, to borrow library books, to enter our dorms, even to dispense free newspapers! I know of a certain institution that might benefit from such technology…
I'm having an amazing time and am not homesick in the slightest. I've met heaps of friends and everyone is so much fun. I'm enjoying 'just' being a student and having few responsibilities!
Contrary to popular belief I have not been abducted, robbed or murdered, thrown in jail, deported or maimed. I'm alive and well, and almost too well to pen this email; hence the delay. But alas, I am a kind sole who derives pleasure from gloating about my international experiences, so shall do so.
The USA is super-sized, and it's an image that applies equally to her houses, cars, freeways, university campuses, cities, and indeed people. For the most part, this super-size is endearing, though occasionally exhausting.
I must say that my very first impression of the U.S was not an altogether welcoming one. LA airport is clinical and the customs officials are anything but genial. As I moved to the front of the queue, the portraits of Bush, Cheney and Rice loomed large and my palms went just a tad clammy; were the hundreds of forms I completed the right ones? Will those overdue library books render me a sufficient threat to national security? Then without so much as a blink, the official with my future in his amply proportioned hands stamped the necessary forms and I was on my way.
LA is not as the movies suggest. The city is sprawling, urban and abrupt. Yet, as in every other place in the U.S that I've visited, the well-heeled or heel-less locals (there appears to be nothing in between) are only too happy to go out of their way to help with directions or show you the sites. Whether this is an example of national/city/university pride or an innate friendliness I'm not sure, and it really doesn't matter.
In LA I stayed in the Venice Beach Cotel – a youth hostel about 30 mins drive from the airport, and the home base of my cousin Josh. The hostel was right on the beach, and the cast of characters on the boardwalk outside would rival any sitcom. There were tourists, homeless, rollerblading shaman, tarot readers, joke tellers, druggies, children, people singing without inhibition, and just about everyone else you can think of – all in the one place, all harmless, and all seemingly oblivious to whatever strange acts were going on around them. In many ways they accurately reflect my experience of the U.S so far.
Highlights of LA included the Universal Studios, including the 'back lots'; a façade of a city with from different times and places that is redecorated for most Hollywood movies that would have, in the past, been shot on location! Although the glitz lasted little more than 3 or so streets, Hollywood itself was a sight to behold. I did the touristy thing and took a double decker tour ride to the main sights, including Paris Hilton's favourite take away restaurant and the shop that Brad Pitt used to spruik outside of before he made it big. We also went to the Getty Museum, one of the world best museums - the collections and architecture were stunning. Just as interesting was the bus ride between the two places, through the Hollywood Hills, where Josh and I were literally (without exaggeration) the only Caucasian people on the bus - the vast majority were African American women, many of whom work domestically in the rich neighbourhood we were passing through.
On 28 December, Josh and I headed to Mexico for 5 days; to a coastal town called Ensenada, a couple of hours over the U.S border. It was amazing to see the difference in housing and living conditions is the space of about a 5 minute bus trip into Mexico. We travelled along the stunning coastline into Ensenada, a touristy town, and relished our chance to escape student budgets and live like kings for a few days. There seemed to be an unusually large number of pharmacies selling viagra (literally every few shops), to cater to the retirees who come into port for the day bound for San Francisco. Whale-watching, endless tacos and spectacular scenery were seen and eaten; good times!
Next stop was San Diego - one of my favourites so far. It seems that if you were to sit down and plan a city; with just the right people, amenities, sights, location and weather, you'd come up with something like San Diego. We stayed at a great hostel, and I'm learning to go with Hostelling International hostels wherever possible; they seem by far the best. One of the most sights was the San Diego Photographic Museum, which was currently exhibiting a collection focussed on cross-border immigration, specifically the U.S - Mexico border that I had crossed the day before. It gave a visual history of the daily attempts of many South Americans to cross illegally, many of whom risk life and limb, travelling from Venezuela into Mexico and north on a freight train before climbing the fence and crossing no man's land to a better life. I wondered whether Americans viewing the exhibition were ashamed of the inequality at their doorstep, and began to see paralells with our treatment of asylum seekers. To use people's names and show day to day aspects of their lives helped to humanise their plight, a tactic which should be used in a similar in Australia.
It was in San Diego that Josh and I parted ways - he back to LA and I on to San Fransisco, a short flight to the north. San Fransisco is an amazing city! And if I thought the people in LA were nuts, San Franciscans were on another planet. Being my far too organised self, I booked accomodation on the net from Melbourne, so it was always a bit of a gamble, but the hostel was more than I bargained for. Impression #1 - greeted by the sweet smell of marijuana and a hostel manager akin to the one in Silence of the Hams, complete with twitch and manic laugh that surfaced at inopportune moments. Impression #2 - Matt: "where's the nearest place to get food?", Manager: "I wouldn't go out of here after dark if I were you - a guy was mugged at the end of this street the other day". Impression #3 - Irrate guest interrupts conversation with talk of bed bugs in his room. Impression #4 - friend of the owner quietly advises me that he would stay he if he were me. By this point I was beginning to agree with him, but I/It was cold, dark and tired, and I didn't fancy searching for anywhere else and knew I wouldn't get my deposit back. So there I stayed for the evening. At this point said Manager comments that "it's so nice when we get gentlemen like yourself stay here. Our customers are usually crazies in one way or another". The ensuing conversation proved one of the most entertaining I've had since arriving, consisting mainly of his making wild statements about San Francisco's "90% divorce rate", and conspiracy theories about local police. He was up for a laugh, and the whole thing was quite surreal. Needless to say I was out of there the next morning, and the Hostelling International hostel I found was palacial by comparison.
The city itself was stunning - the hills were as steep as in the movies, the cable car was a fun ride, and crookedest street in the world was as its title suggests, the museums were stunning, and Alcatraz (former prison island and fort) was a sight to behold.
In many ways I wish I'd had more time in both San Diego and San Francisco – both cities had a charm to them that took a little more time to capture. They are both cities and I could very easily live in for a while I think.
Next stop was the quintessential U.S experience – New York City; a city whose size I found difficult to grasp in the two days I was, which makes it next to impossible to do it justice in an email. The flight to New York was interesting in itself – stormy skies made for a turbulent ride, with the captain instructing even crew to take their seats several times. We ended up avoiding the bulk of it by flight very low, below the clouds, over central America. The lights of Chicago looked beautiful – a definite visit after semester finishes.
I loved New York – for all its grittiness, rushing, lights and excitement. It was quite surreal to see that 42nd Street was so named just because it was between 41st and 43rd; and that Broadway simply referred to the width of the street. I already knew this of course but attaching reality to such concepts wipes away just a little of the glamour.
I walked through Central Park, bought a very cheap jumper from a gorgeous half naked male model (go figure) at the GAP store on 5th Avenue, and attempted to look genuinely interested in a $5000 leather jacket which a guy next to me actually bought.
I rode the subway from underground station to underground station and got pleasantly lost in its maze of platforms. I loved how industrial the whole thing was – like a network of sewer tunnels that had been flushed out and now had trains running through them. Fast, frequent trains mean that luxuries aren't missed. Hear that Bracksy??!!
I took the ferry to Staten Island and admired the Statue of Liberty with (somewhat ironically) a new friend I had made who immigrated from Iran. He told me how he fled to was living in Turkey and went to the U.S embassy to apply for a visa, only to be told that he could only apply at the embassy in his home country. After courteously reminding the officials that the U.S and Iran were sworn enemies and diplomatic institutions had been closed in Iran for years, he applied from Germany and had no problems at all.
I stood in Times Square and forgot that it was night time.
I loved New York.
The next part of my journey was captured aptly by a traveler many years ago – "You leave the Pennsylvania Station 'bout a quarter to four, read a magazine and then you're in Baltimore…". Had I arrived in Chattanooga I would have been on the world train, for I was going to the metropolis of Lewistown. It was such a metropolis that the station we choo-chooed into was staffed solely by historical society volunteers. As I lumbered out of the station with my life on my back, a kind hearted local pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted a lift. It was small town American hospitality at its best. She said that since the factory she worked in had closed down, she passed the time by watching the train come into the station at the same time each day. As I stood at the greyhound bus station (actually it was the intersection of two roads, with nothing to indicate it as such), I wondered if I would have to walk the 30 miles to Penn State. Thankfully, it showed up no less than 1 and ½ hours late, and I was on my way.
Penn State is everything the movies show of a big U.S university campus to be – what I am writing is in no way embellished. There are 40,000 students on campus, and world class facilities everywhere. The on-campus 'Beaver Stadium' is bigger than the MCG, with capacity crowds of 104,000 people at every footy game. There are numerous shuttle services, taxis, Penn State ambulances, dozens and dozens of restaurants, four enormous gyms (membership is $40 for the semester!) complete with indoor and outdoor pools, hotels, plush student lounges almost everywhere you look, a number of theatres…everything!
Whether it's the facilities or the ecstasy hidden in dining hall meals I'm not sure, but something has made these people love their school! There are literally dozens of shops selling nothing but Penn State branded paraphernalia – anything you could possibly imagine. And you don't hear a bad word spoken about the uni when chatting to students – they sings its praises! There are university campaigns for everything imaginable – recycling, encouraging residents to keep their fridges full to save energy, not to drink too much, not to litter, to keep the noise down, to smile more…you name it. We were even told to expect people to randomly shout "We are…" from across the street and that we are expected to respond "Penn State". Apparently this can happen anywhere throughout Pennsylvania. Slightly cult-ish but charming.
I'm living on campus in "Thompson Hall", part of the "West Halls" complex. It's a grand old building conveniently set right next to one of the gyms and the buildings where most of my classes will be. Within our halls there is a study (the size of the RMIT library), a computer lab (would you like a new iMac or PC?), a restaurant and the list goes on. The dorm rooms themselves are slightly less palatial, but really all that you need – and I dare say that I won't be spending too much time in there.
Our Penn State ID card is used for everything – to swipe for meal points, to shop (like a debit card), to withdraw cash at an ATM, to borrow library books, to enter our dorms, even to dispense free newspapers! I know of a certain institution that might benefit from such technology…
I'm having an amazing time and am not homesick in the slightest. I've met heaps of friends and everyone is so much fun. I'm enjoying 'just' being a student and having few responsibilities!
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