Sydney: De-cluttering

I'm clearing out all of the clutter in my life. 

Unused towels, old magazines, outdated clothes, unworn shoes, empty boxes, chocolate (I do this by eating it - clever plan, I know), unridden Vespas.  Also endangered are expensive road bikes with possible flat tyres that look as though they're going fast even when they're simply propped up against a wall in the Study (or Library, as the Husband likes to call it - I suppose it does have books in it, and the requisite fireplace (unused of course)).  Pantry food past its use-by date is O-U-T.  That includes the peanut butter which would have apparently been best before October 2010.  Broken stuff, annoying stuff, stuff which I'd forgotten I even had, stuff that seemed to have snuck its way into my house without me even knowing.  Things I seem to have collected from when I was a small child; things I got just last week.  All junk, all gone.  Even friends are no longer safe.

You know the type.  The friends who aren't really friends.  The acquaintances, the pretenders, the sycophants, those who claim to be friends then immediately assume the position of Chief Authority of Gossip on the subject of You.  And don't get me started on Facebook Friends or worse, fellow Tweeters.  Particularly those Tweeters who consistently tweet relentless self-serving comments about - that's right, themselves - to an audience they don't even know, have never met and are never likely to meet.  An audience who probably doesn't even read their tweets because they themselves don't know the person they're following.  Or care what the person they're following has to say. Yet they follow each other.  It's a vastly strange, faceless social circle, the Twittersphere.

Don't get me wrong - I understand the value in a good tweet to raise awareness, build a business, enhance a profile, or find out if a loved one is safe in the middle of a natural disaster but I've never understood the random meaningless self-serving tweet to the unknown follower.

I know someone who has taken to tweets like a calf to the teet.  He tweets incessantly about all manner of God-knows-what all the time to what I am sure is a largely uninterested audience.  And then re-tweets other indiscriminate tweets from one of the other 338 tweeters he is following just in case one of his own unknown followers might be interested.  How thoughtful (yes, I'm being facetious).  But, he says defensively, there are Key Words you can use and all sorts of Tips and Tricks to Build A Following.  Look at me (me - you see?), I'm at 50 and growing, he proudly exclaims.

He's right.  He is at 50 and growing, but what's the point?  He has to sift through 338 other Tweeters' rubbish to find something apparently worth re-tweeting.  Imagine how time-consuming that must be?  

Maybe I'll conduct some Tweeter-testing myself, if I can ever find the time.  And you can even follow me on Twitter while I do it to see the results live yourself.  But first I lay down a challenge. Tweeters: have a reason for tweeting.  Beyond just time-wasting.

You had to get me started, didn't you. 

Back to gossip.  Strange though it may seem, gossip doesn't worry me too much.  After all as my wise mother once said, everybody gets talked about at some point and there's nothing you can do about it so why worry?  Too true.

I know people though who worry enormously about the spoken word; about any gossip said about them, even potential gossip that has not yet been uttered.  I used to be like that but in my defense, I was only 11.  I cared deeply about what other 11 year olds thought.  But as you grow older (and, apparently, I'm told, wiser), you care less about what people think of you and much more about living a full, well-rounded, meaningful life that is prosperous in a way that is significant to only you.  Because really, you are the one that cares about your life more than anyone else.  So it strikes me as an odd waste of time; worrying about something that may or may not be said by people you probably don't care too much about anyway on subjects which may include you that probably aren't even true.  And that we can't do anything about anyway.  So let them gossip.

What we can do something about though is the Broken Promises Friend.  Which is where the de-cluttering is headed.

Top of my current hit list is the Broken Promises Friend.  Or since everyone loves a good acronym these days, the BPF.  We all have at least one BPF stuck in our closet.  It might be a boyfriend, a sister, an in-law, a flat-mate, an ex-wife, a wayward parent, a boss/ally, a third cousin twice removed, that nice neighbour Dr Jekyll who turned into that nutjob Mr Hyde.  Or just someone you thought you'd call a friend but has since failed dismally in their assumed friend duties. 

Whoever it is doesn't matter because in my filing system any and all can be loosely filed in the Broken Promises Friend cabinet. And if your BPF cabinet is large -  overflowing even - then it's time to do something about it.  Lucky it's spring.  A good time for cleaning out I'm told.

It's remarkable what the BPF gets away with.  Minor fibs. Flippant lies. The elusive omission. Earnest promises of rectification.  Often they even believe their own earnestness.  I have spent quite a bit of time stealthily studying the BPF and one initial point to note is the glaringly obvious yet sneakily subtle reluctance (refusal even) to be locked into an End Date for Rectification of Misdeeds.  The canny BPF will rarely, if ever, be pinned down to an End Date for Rectification. That's not to say they won't earnestly promise not to repeat their misdeed.  They will.  Earnestly.  Repeatedly.  And with great contrition.  Because they're so so SO sooorrrryyyyyyy.  But whatever the BPF is earnestly promising repeatedly and sorrowfully not to do ever again they will actually still do again.  And again.  And again.  You. Just. Watch. 

My patience with this hasn't just worn thin; it's worn right out.  

I've decided that anyone who continually does this kind of thing is in fact no friend at all.  Gone. 

The broad definition of the BPF also encompasses that subset known as the Constructively Critical Friend (or the CCF).  A CCF is one who will candidly give you their Critical Opinion (usually unsolicited or sought) under the guise of Friendship.  It's what Howard Wolowitz* succinctly calls a N'egg (a negative statement that sounds like a compliment).  You're right to think the BPF is a shifty and complex character.

My ground-breaking, under-the-radar research on the BPF has unearthed some startling finds.  There are a lot out there, let me tell you.  And they're not always slinking in the shadows.  They might try to be helpful and friendly.  Some might even sit down and try to eat lunch with you.  They might even try to buy you lunch.  Be wary.

Here's a good example.  Recently when a friend of mine (a real one) got engaged she excitedly told the news to another friend of hers (obviously not a real one but a CCF in disguise).  The in-disguise CCF announced that while she was happy for my friend (a  clear BPF lie that will shortly become apparent), she herself would never want to get married - or even engaged for that matter (I imagine this was said with a slight condescending sniff) - and risk losing all her assets to the betrothed if the union failed.  Because, you know, 1-in-3 marriages end in heart-wrenching, asset-destroying demise (again said with a knowing and condescendingly sympathetic shake of the head).  That won't happen in your marriage of course (pretend laugh to soften the blow, accompanied by a sad, small regretful smile and a condescending pat of the hand), but it does happen.  All the time.  1 in every 3, They say (who, might I ask, are 'They'?).  It goes without saying this BPF is single.  

Or how about this for a corker?  Only this past weekend a smiling CCF perched itself (uninvited) at our table and - if you can believe it - proceeded to gush to another friend of mine (a real one) that it must be hard for my friend because her husband is just SO nice, like all of the time, and she is kind of, well you know, not the same.  You see the N'egg in that, don't you?

These BPFs - and it follows, CCFs - manage to camouflage themselves as friendly, smiling, personable, huggable people.  Often they like cheek-kissing and may even attempt the European two-cheek Hollywood-style air-kiss.  And then some of them, like the CCF above, manage to pull out such a doozy of a N'egg over an uninvited chicken and salad lunch that you're rendered just a little bit speechless. Mind you, the CCF would have preferred banana and honey on toast - Oh My God (dramatic roll of the eyes), my most favourite meal ever, the CCF gushes.  But I never eat it of course (a coquettish shrug of the shoulders).  Too many carbs.

As is always the way, you will naturally belatedly come up with all sorts of respectably nasty retorts wrapped in glorious wit but unfortunately later is just, well, too damn late.

Don't be too hard on yourself.  You like your BPF (some of you may even love your BPF) thus we allow more-than-the-usual amount of getting away with it.  We might even allow lengthy periods of getting off Scott-Free.  Years' worth.

If you're a nice person (apparently like my friend's husband but not like my friend) your only course of action is to clean out your BPF cabinet.

And that's why we're here. It may not be easy.  And like the warning the Protecting-My-Assets Single BPF above proffered to my recently engaged friend (protecting-my-ass, more like it), it might even be somewhat heart-wrenching to cut ties with your BPF.  It may take time and perseverance and not be without a tear or two (depending upon the level of closeness of your BPF).  But time heals all wounds and tomorrow is another day.  

And the good news? You now have room for potential, new (hopefully real) friends.  

Applications are now open.

* The Big Bang Theory: The Lizard-Spock Expansion (#2.8) (2008) episode. Howard is one of four resident geeks on The Big Bang Theory who falsely assumes he is attractive to women (he's not) and steadfastly believes he could be a womanizer if only given the appropriate chance (a feat more impossible than summiting Everest wearing a locally-made bikini, a pair of Havaianas, and carrying an iPhone for support since your foolproof plan is to use the Maps App to navigate your way, call for delivery pizza for sustenance, take snapshots which you hope to tweet to all of your unknown followers, and of course sensibly check the weather forecast). 

 

Waikiki: A Spot of Dehydration with your Run?

Performance is lacking. 

Except for day número uno (which technically was actually half a day given our lunchtime arrival, even though to keep the marital peace I'm magnanimously giving it full day status) I've been for a run every morning. In those pre-breakfast hours I'd like to describe my demeanor as bouncing out of bed, perky from a full nights' refreshing slumber, ready to stride along at pace in the early morning Hawaiian sunshine. 

That's what I'd like to tell you.  But I'd be lying. 

It actually goes like this. Blearily wake up.  Spend time over-analyzing the merits of a potential morning run versus the guilt and malaise of not going at all. Resignedly hoist body out of bed after less than ideal sleep (damn you, jet-lag, pre-dinner aperitifs, and enormous meal comprising enough food to feed a developing nation accompanied by a splash of your finest Californian white, plus the ever-present hard sell for dessert).

And I'm weak. It's not that much of a hard sell to get me into a dessert.

There is a suspicion that too much wine the evening before may actually impair performance. I know, not something I've ever heard of either.  But my less than Olympian efforts require some justification so it's worth exploring. 

The French promote a tipple as an aid to good health. I recently finished reading a book* which suggests that the aperitif-wine-dessert wine combination I stole from the French is in fact not only an aid to good health, but an aid to inspiring athletic achievement. 

To prove their robust theory, the French even host a marathon through the Bordeaux region where the winner's prize is his weight in wine. Evidently a reward worthy of running fast for, and about the only time when the more you weigh, the better.  Each water point - let's instead call them 'rehydration' stations - offer a selection of water, energy drinks, and crates of the region's most superior drop. As you can imagine, this type of marathon attracts highly-tuned athletes from far and wide.  Even the Kenyans and Ethiopians have been known to get in on the act.

I think this could be my kind of marathon.  

Quite possibly just the kind of marathon that may be able to tempt me out of retirement and straight into forging a spectacular comeback to the marathon scene after April's less than satisfactory performance. The scent of redemption hangs from the Bordelais grape vine. 

Foolishly I mention this in an email to Online Trainer. After all, reading the book was his idea, no doubt to entice me with an easy-breezy, wine-soaked 42km trot. Because of this, I expected Online Trainer to be enthusiastic about my interest; to offer a little general applause, perhaps even a touch of encouragement at being so brave as to allow my thoughts to stray into the realm of fresh challenges so soon after the last defeat.  

I was wrong.

Instead Online Trainer sensibly reminds me that, expensive French blends or not, 42km is still 42km. 

Hopes dashed. The romanticism of the Marathon du Medoc gone in a puff of boring reality.

Potential wine-soaked marathons aside, my current reality is wrestling with early morning holiday running motivation. And despite this daily tussle I am proud to say I have so far clocked up day after day of early morning runs.  My mother will complain that this is no holiday; that to run (or exercise at all for that matter) - particularly while on a holiday, for heaven's sake - is a folly that should be cut out immediately and replaced with far more enjoyable options. Like sleeping. Or lingering over breakfast. Or at a stretch, shopping (which is, arguably, exercise). 

I have shopped. Not at a real shop, mind you, but at an online one.  I have a new toy to keep me occupied on these runs. After a short visit to the App Store - conveniently located on my iPhone - for the absolute steal of $2.49 the Nike+ GPS app is now mine and allows me to record my every run. 

Gone are the days when I would simply send Online Trainer a short note stating "Run today - 12 songs worth". 

Now, just like a professional athlete, I too can enjoy reviewing all my stats. How far I have run. My fastest, slowest, and average pace displayed in real-time colour on a map recording my fastest pace in green (swift), slowing down through shades of oranges and reds as I tire (presumably to illustrate heat-inducing delirium). It will play my music or a selection of what it quaintly calls ‘Power Songs’. It will shout encouragement at regular intervals pre-recorded by Nike-sponsored athletes. It will allow me to make notes about my run (did you feel (a) awesome, (b) so-so, (c) sluggish, or (d) injured?).  I can log the weather, the type of surface I ran on, and receive a grand mileage total of all my runs to date which can be used to boost my running image.  And if this isn't enough, I can then upload the whole lot to the Nike website where it will provide me with trophies for achieving personal milestones and a myriad of ways of showing off my achievements to my friends.  Or even to people I've never met who happen to be logged in to the same website at the same time.

And all I have to do is press 'Go'. Talk about too much fun in just one app. 

So as I run along and suffer in the early morning Hawaiian summertime heat, sweating like a miner who has just worked a two-day shift in the pits of hell, I need not look at my watch or sully my brain with attempts to calculate distances or kilometre markers or how fast or slow I am running. I don't need to do any maths at all (which is fortunate because, given my challenges with arithmetic at the best of times, trying to count while even my brain sweats in the thousand percent humidity would make my life immeasurably difficult).  Instead I can soak up the ambiance and Enjoy The Scenery, as Online Trainer likes to say; take pleasure in a 'Smell The Roses' run (Online Trainer is nothing if not poetic).  Except this is Hawaii and there are no roses so it would have to be a Smell The Hibiscus run.

My route from the Halekulani towards Diamond Head takes in many of the famous tourist sights.  The new all-glass Apple store along the main street, for example, where I usually dodge several savvy backpackers leaning against the store's front glass wall, tapping away on their iPhones and stealing the store's free WiFi even though the store is shut.  The Cheesecake Factory, where the early-morning scent of freshly baked I-don't-know-what (and don't say 'cheesecake') is so sickly sweet that the Husband refuses to ever eat there, despite it being the fictitious place of employment for Penny in The Big Bang Theory. The famous statue of Duke Paoa Kahanamoku - the Duke - father of Surfing, eternally covered in fresh leis of heavenly-scented Frangipani.  And of course, the most famous of all, the entire length of Waikiki beach.

In these early hours it is peaceful; bathed in the soft, striking glow bestowed by a rising sun. The sand is groomed neatly and I watch as other early-rising tourists, also drawn toward the beach, amble along wearing what I can only assume is their version of sporting attire.  Square, ill-fitting baseball caps (recently purchased from the nearest ABC Store), barely-worn, shiny new, white leather New Balance trainers (circa Seinfeld) all the while clutching half a gallon of Starbucks' over-sweetened brew in their chubby little hands.  In fact, it almost looks like a Seinfeld episode.  And that man there looks almost like George Costanza.

Then there are the other runners.  Serious, fit, tanned, lean, mean running machines. Well, maybe not all of them.  Some are old, some are slow, some overweight, others dressed in what I would call way too many clothes for this kind of heat.  Some even stop and (*gasp*) walk. Certainly not a habit Online Trainer would appreciate me learning. 

Diamond Head Road is always the moment of truth though. A person can bounce along with all the verve in the world because all of Waikiki seems to be flat, flat, flat until you reach Diamond Head Road.  Either turn around now (which means a round trip of about 6.5km) or take a deep breath, bite the proverbial hill-running bullet, head towards the sun and run up that mountain.  It ain't no picnic, I can tell you.

Pushing on slows me right down.  Nothing like a big hill in a thousand degree early-morning heat to ruin a good average pace. That hill and this heat is enough to bring an Australian arriving from winter to tears.  But I'm deydrated enough; I can't squander any precious fluid on tears.

To take my mind off the uphill battle I like to indulge in a few negative thoughts.  You know the kind.  Ouch, the legs. Can't breathe.  Dying.  I know; oh, the wretchedness of running along a beach in the stifling humidity of a rising Hawaiian sun while Sydney becomes more and more damp, waterlogged and cold with every passing insufferably rainy day. Poor me.

At the top of Diamond Head Road

There are two fairly immediate things which make this daily odyssey all worthwhile though. One is the stunning view from the top - all crystal-topped frothy waves glistening like diamonds under the intensifying sun's rays.  The other is the blissful knowledge that the return journey comprises a downhill slope and a flat homestretch.  A few tiny moments which offer what I like to call a ‘showoff opportunity’ to pretend I am a real runner, flying along at speeds much faster than I can actually ever really hope to achieve (I know this because my Nike+ GPS app shows this section in bright green - swift).

And finally, when I return to the serenity of the Halekulani, I know concierge will be waiting to obligingly hand me an ice cold bottle of water (although for some reason they don't have this at the ready for the Husband), as I look forward to diving into the still blue waters of the freshly cleaned pool.  Clothes and all.

Post-run, post-swim, still in
gym gear.  Happy now.

*  Bon Appétit by Peter Mayle

Waikiki: Poolside Rules according to Vigilant Chris

"Warm milk and a beer" requests a reclining Japanese man. 

Like me, Vigilant Chris, the poolside waiter, cocks his head to one side, attempts to hide the expression of bewilderment and revulsion and double-checks the order. The Japanese man nods. It seems Vigilant Chris and I both heard the odd request correctly. It is 32 degrees in Honolulu and I'd wager hot enough to grill some local Ahi tuna to the required rare on the searing but impeccably clean flagstones surrounding the poolside area, yet the Japanese man wants hot milk and beer.  As on old colleague of mine used to say, 'riddle me this'.

Vigilant Chris and I don't see eye to eye.  Stemming from a slight altercation by the pool yesterday, Vigilant Chris and I are now performing a standoff which looks set to last for the duration of my stay in Waikiki, if not for life.  It is doubtful either one of us will back down.  

Yesterday the Husband and I had committed the ultimate poolside sin of bringing outside food to the pool area and openly eating it. Because Vigilant Chris is vigilant he took keen note of our indiscretion, and in a moment of over-exuberant vigilance, shuffled past, suggesting that (despite being repeat hotel guests of some repute) no food was to be eaten by the pool other than that which had been purchased off a poolside menu.  Like the one suddenly being proffered by Vigilant Chris now, and naturally requiring the all-American tip.  I wasn't born yesterday. 

I am put out by this. In all the years I have been coming to this hotel never have I been scolded for eating non-hotel muesli bars, sandwiches, or imported energy drinks. It seems it is a new rule and one that I suspect Vigilant Chris made up on the spot in a moment of heat-induced, tip-seeking fury. And I'm not buying it (pardon the pun).  Calmly seething, I spent the remainder of the afternoon conjuring up ways to annoy Vigilant Chris by sneaking contraband food to the poolside, thereby doubling his Key Performance Indicators in what is obviously the carefully monitored luxury hotel performance area of Vigilance. Perhaps there is a poolside waiter's bonus resting on this?  Perhaps not. Either way, I don't care. 

A scuffle breaks out.  More Japanese. More demands, this time just for beer which it seems is the only English word the nearby Japanese couple know.  The male half of this young couple vies for one of my top three spots for The Darkest Tan I've Ever Seen - all current contenders are Japanese and all male (which will no doubt put Cousin Marilyn's nose well and truly out of joint). The female half is much fairer-skinned but alarmingly wears a bikini with all manner of unnecessary straps which crisscross the body in strange ways and can only be described as Tan Line Roulette.  Good God, woman, have you not thought this through?  

As even the most fledgling of bikini-wearing aficionados knows, the wrong tan line can render a carefully-gained syrupy golden tan completely useless and can take years to get rid of, ruining what may otherwise be a tan worthy of remembering. Let us not forget the Tan of 2009 - a tan so well-cultivated it lasted through an entire Sydney winter.  With no artificial help, I might add.  I have a strong policy against tans gained through electrical means. 

Deciphering the pigeon English, Vigilant Chris and I can just make out that beer was indeed ordered but never received. Which beer? Asks Vigilant Chris, mopping a dripping, furrowed brow. Who did you order with? 

Vigilant Chris is becoming short-tempered.  The late afternoon sun is searing, reflecting piercing rays off the nearby Waikiki sand and for Vigilant Chris, there is no respite.  Balancing a tray hour after hour catering to the whims of fanciful Japanese who demand such outrageous combinations as beer and warm milk has worn down his patience.   He has had enough.  Drawing himself up to his full height (which is sadly lacking), his tone becomes ominous. I will get you a beer (he emphasizes the "I"), and shuffles away, his white trainers squeaking on the wet flagstones under the weight of his well-fed American body.  

Through a combination of sign language, pointing and repeating the word "beer" twenty three times more than is entirely necessary, Vigilant Chris and I can just make out that it seems the confusion arose when an order was placed with a pool attendant instead of a poolside waiter; if indeed simply saying 'beer' several times could be interpreted as an order by anyone.  

I can understand the confusion. For the less poolside-savvy, the pool attendants ("they only do towels; no beer" hissed Vigilant Chris) are dressed almost exactly the same as the poolside waiter. A lovely uniformity no doubt intended by management which I am sure has caused headaches for Vigilant Chris on more than one occasion. 

So far it's been a long and trying day and Vigilant Chris is not happy. Which, as you can well imagine, I am enjoying immensely. Hence my own vigilant monitoring and eavesdropping. 

For our part, the remainder of the afternoon will be spent productively working on what I hope will turn out to be an enviable tan - enviable for a Sydney winter in any event but certainly no match to the current top three Japanese - interspersed with swims in the pool and the gloriously temperate, strikingly-coloured ocean. All followed closely by a taxing evening beginning with late afternoon drinks on the Lanai* and culminating in what will no doubt be a memorable dining experience of Hawaiian Fusion cuisine at Roy's restaurant, conveniently located right across the road.  While I will do my level best I know already that I won't be able to go past a shared starter of Roy's Canoe (a combination of practically everything in the entree section of the menu displayed in - yes - a long plate the size of a canoe), with a main of Roy's Trio - three types of local fish (Blackened Ahi tuna, Butterfish and Shutomi).

For Vigilant Chris it will be an evening attempting to forget today's recalcitrant hotel guests and prepare for yet another trying day of inventive poolside ordering, usually by the Japanese.

* "Lanai" is the Hawaiian word for terrace or balcony, and we have a very nice one off our room on the 16th floor with commanding ocean views all the way to Diamond Head itself.  Likely another blow to Vigilant Chris. 

Sydney: On a Night Like This

Apple is late. 

Normally Apple is never late.  With Fatigado in tow though, he is on occasion prone to being anywhere from 5 minutes to 5 hours late.  It’s not Fatigado’s fault.  He is Mexican.  And generally very tired. 

I’ve never been to Mexico but after meeting Fatigado my impression is that the other 111 million people who live there would all be similarly entertaining and delightfully contradictory:  tired when you should be awake, awake when you should be asleep, highly excitable about small things like stairs but excessively laid back about things like gunshot wounds; tall but short, thin but fat, honest gangsters and sympathetic criminals, hardworking idle farming corporate executives, really savvy facebook users, and all steadfastly patriotic about their tacos.   

I have this completely baseless image of the country being a little bit similar to Fiji.  Fiji, with its highly annoying ‘Fiji time’.  Or as I like to call it, Bula Time.  Or more appropriately, Bullshit Time.  If you have ever been to Fiji, you will have no doubt been subject to it. 

At first it is endearing.  You are a tourist after all and in no rush for anything.  Bulllaaaaahhhh, the locals hoot and wave in welcome as they slowly amble over.  Eventually, if you’re lucky, they may even bring menus.  And if you happen to catch them on a particularly attentive day, they may even take your order without you pestering them three times.  After that though it’s a lottery as to whether you’ll get your food any time soon.  If in fact at all.  Why?  Because if asked, they’ll tell you that it will come in ‘Fiji tiiiimmmme’.  A person could die hungry before being fed in that place.  My advice?  If you find yourself in Fiji and you suspect you will be hungry in an hour and a half’s time, order immediately.  You have not a moment to lose.

I know it might look like me,
but it's actually Kylie

This time though, the Sydney traffic is to blame.  And in fairness to Apple & Fatigado, mid-week Sydney peak hour traffic can always be to blame for just about anything.  Plus Kylie Minogue is in town for her second Aphrodite concert.  And we’re all going to see it.  I know.  Gay as.  In honour of Kylie I made sure I wore a sparkly top especially for the occasion.  In honour of the water theme, I made sure it was aqua blue.  And in honour of Ancient Greece, I made sure it was a floaty, see-through fabric.  I even wore my fawn-coloured suede high heels I bought in Athens while backpacking.  That's right.  High-Heel Backpacker does Aphrodite.  Unfortunately minus the Dolce & Gabbana.

Because Apple is a gallant, kind, thoughtful friend who has just bought himself a swanky new car he has offered to battle the horrific Sydney traffic and drive from one end of the city almost to the other in order to pick me up. 

As we waste a tank full of petrol idling in traffic while moving in tiny 1cm increments, Fatigado pauses in the middle of his latest facebook status update and, from the comfort of the red leather upholstered front seat of Apple’s new BMW asks if we have far to walk once we get there.  It’s not laziness (he swivels around quickly to make his point) it’s his sore leg – the one he hurt.  That’s what’s worrying him.  Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of movement.  The hands have started to wave and flutter.  Just a little, but the potential for a meltdown is there.

Unfortunately Fatigado is a little ahead of himself though since the three of us won’t be walking anywhere anytime soon.  We are jailed in a centre lane in the heart of an unmoveable CBD gridlock.  We might only be roughly 200 metres from our destination as the crow flies but since we’re not moving an inch*, no one will be walking anywhere.  Kylie Aphrodite will just have to wait. 

Fatigado would have none of it.  This is the very night he’d spent his entire World Trip pestering Apple for.  As Apple so candidly put it, he’d been banging on like an old screen door for months about seeing Kylie (he loooovvvvesssss Kylie) and a bit of gridlocked Sydney traffic wasn’t about to stop him.  He’d come this far already.  All the way from Mexico really.  Fatigado would rather die than miss Kylie wiggling and shimmying her Locomotion while every other queen in Sydney (except for cousin Wilma) converged on the Entertainment Centre to watch it, snap it, text it, facebook it, upload it, tweet it and talk about it for the next century. 

I’ve seen our little Kylie in concert before.  In around 2002, 42@42 and I decided to make a last minute (what a surprise) dash to the box office on the night of her mid-week concert and see if we could score a couple of seats.  Score we did.  Front row and only ten pink feather boa lengths from the stage.

This time our seats might be further afield but we were smack in the middle with a direct view of the entire replica Parthenon spread before us.  Not a male dancer’s abs, acrobat’s upside down flipover twirl, famous Kylie bottom wiggle, glamorous designer costume change, sparkling boot or heel,  or water jet squirting over the expensive and exclusively designated Splash Zone would be missed from this vantage point.  It was gold.  No really.  We paid for Gold Tickets.

Apple has many talents but the one most prized on a night like this was his ability to make his new BMW behave like a Vespa and dart in and out of horribly congested traffic with only the faintest touch of delicate swearing and one or two mild honks.  I’m surprised he didn’t just get Fatigado to download an app that sounded like a siren and drive on the opposite side of the road like an ambulance would.  I was right there and I still don’t know how he managed to weave his way through it.  If it were left to me we’d still be sitting there in that traffic right now. 

Meanwhile, at the Kylie end of town the Husband sat alone in the Pumphouse Bar, waiting.  Having fixed his face into his most menacing “fk off this table and three empty chairs are mine” scowl (which quite frankly if you knew the Husband, wasn’t very menacing), he fought the Aussie Pub Battle of the Spare Seat War and was currently winning.  I might point out that this was no mean feat with Kylie right next door and ten thousand other people prowling for precious table space to rest their VB* on.  How much longer he could hold off being pummelled to the floor and tied to a spare pole while other aggressive Kylie fans stole his table was anyone’s guess.  If we didn’t get there soon, push would soon come to shove.

It wasn’t long after we arrived to rescue the Husband from a certain and thorough ball-kicking that Fatigado started to come to life.  I’m not sure if he actually logged off facebook but he certainly put his iPhone in his breast pocket long enough for his little face to begin to light up with anticipation.  In fact, if you’d been monitoring Fatigado’s status updates that day, you’d have been able to read about just how excited he was (well, almost – if you could understand the combination of Spanish, Youth Speak and abbreviations).  From what I could gather from the number of responses though, all of Mexico City was just as excited for Fatigado as Fatigado was for himself.  He and Kylie would soon be in the same room.  Together finally.  Just him and Kylie.  Plus a small entourage of hundreds, and ten thousand of her closest screaming fans.   

Kylie is fitted by Dolce & Gabbana

If we’d known there was to be a support band though we’d never have given up the table the Husband had spent all that time so bravely defending.  It seemed only 43 other people didn’t know either because when we arrived promptly at 8pm for Kylie, that’s all who was there.  Poor old Gypsy and the Cat (I know, never heard of them either but they seemed like a polite bunch of lads with an affinity for white t-shirts) were never going to garner any support from us.  We just wanted them to leave and bring Kylie out immediately.  It was a school night after all.

When the lights finally dimmed and the filmy white curtain lifted to reveal the Parthenon and a diminutive little Kylie perched at the top of a set of gilded stairs, the iPhone cameras went crazy.  Fatigado was beside himself with excitement.  Perched on the edge of his seat the entire time, he stared in rapt attention, hung on Kylie’s every warble, ogled Kylie’s every gorgeous Dolce & Gabbana outfit – each one more elaborate and impressive than the last - sang all the words to all her songs, and I think I saw him shed a tear or two when she finished her last encore. 

It has to be said, Fatigado has good taste.  Little Aussie Kylie knows how to do Spectacular.  She changed costumes more times in two hours than I could count with two hands and both feet, and all in under 20 seconds flat.  No sooner had she disappeared into the shadows underneath the Parthenon wearing what looked like an enormous black wedding dress, than she was being launched from a secret new entrance beneath the imposing Doric columns standing aloft a scantily clad male-drawn gold chariot wearing a new white and gold see-through chiffon caftan.  She had a team back there who could rival even the swiftest of Formula One Pit crews. 

I was pleased to see Kylie’s infamous cut-off denim shorts finally make an appearance.  As the concert progressed I confess I started to worry that all of her signature hotpants had been put out to pasture which would have been entirely unacceptable.  Fortunately Kylie didn’t disappoint.  While more Coogee Beach than Ancient Greece, the tiny denim shorts coupled with what looked like a to-die-for pair of glittering stilettos (only one pair out of a hundred reportedly worn that night) certainly sent the crowd beserk.

But it wasn’t until the water jets started spraying over the expensive Splash Zone, the crowd got wet, Kylie started addressing the crowd, and a little girl called Ashley came forward with an offering of a simple bouquet of pink roses that Sydney’s loyalty and adoration were firmly cemented once again.  Kylie had exceeded expectations for extravagance and charmed the audience with her Aussie unassuming nature.  Us Aussies - we like that in a person.  There's a real art to ditching the movie star attitude, the arrogance and just behaving as though you’re an ordinary person on the street and a few notable Aussies do this well: Hugh Jackman, Pat Rafter, and our little Kylie.  

So to rate the concert with an Aussie stamp of approval, I give the whole thing a two thumbs up.  I'll even throw in a couple of Mexican tears of joy, just for good measure.

*Did you see that?  The switch from metric to imperial measurements?  I throw these little tests in just to see if you’re paying attention.

*VB: Acronym for ‘Victoria Bitter’, an Aussie full strength beer made in Victoria (no surprises there).

Sydney: Spice I Am

My partially broken Blackberry rings.  A victim of one too many accidental drops, answering it requires a delicate balancing act of holding it horizontally to my ear so that the trackball doesn’t fall out.  This means my neck is bent to the right and my head is now lying pillow-like on my shoulder.  Yes, it’s as uncomfortable as it sounds.   Especially when you’re driving.

It’s dark, I’m not sure where I’m going, and I’m running late.  And the Husband is calling. 

“You on track to get here” he asks in his pleasant, easy-going, I’m-already-here-so-I’m-comfortable-and-relaxed voice, “I don’t think they’re here yet so I’m at the bar next door having a beer”.  The lights turn green, I need to turn right, there is Friday night traffic backed up behind me.  Irritably I snap that I’m not far away and (as the Husband keeps reminding me) rudely hang up, almost losing the trackball in the process.  The Husband’s timing can, on occasion be atrocious.

Add to this my previous boo-boo of almost making a right-hand turn the wrong way down a busy one-way street.  Not my fault.  It was very dark and very hectic and might I add, poorly sign-posted.  Got that, Clover Moore*?  Better signage, please.

Miraculously I score a car park practically within a metre of the front door to the restaurant.  Not that I realise my good fortune yet because at the time of parking the car I am still lost.  I know the restaurant is somewhere in the vicinity (and had I thought to look up I might have even seen the sign) but other than that, I could’ve been anywhere really at the King’s Cross end of Darlinghurst’s busy Victoria Street.

Because my friends (who we’ll call The Randies**) are meticulous, careful, thoughtful, detailed individuals they have considerately, after much time and trouble, booked a restaurant called Spice I Am.  I've spent a bit of time thinking about this name and I've come up with this: if you say it quickly in one breath - SpiceIam - it sounds a bit like Spy Siam and of course as everyone knows Siam was re-named Thailand in 1939 and it's a Thai restaurant.  Voila!!  Clearly a witty play on words.  Not much gets past me.

A spin-off to the original highly successful but more casual diner located in Surry Hills, this latest establishment is a classy, dimly-lit affair with dark wooden floorboards, exposed brick work and a heavenly assault of exotic spicy Thai aromas emanating from the open kitchen.  It excites the senses from the moment you enter.

A tiny little delicate-limbed Thai hostess attempts to welcome us however I’ve already spotted The Randies (who according to the Husband were apparently not yet here so how they snuck in without being noticed, I do not know) and scurry across to greet them.  As usual, they both look fabulous.  Tidy, neat, smart, stylish – and since I feel I can rightfully claim to have had a hand in it – glowing with fitness and shining with good health.  And it has to be said, wearing the best smiles I’ve seen on two faces since the Husband’s own beamed at me with full wattage right back when he was just a bloke in a bar.

I have a suspicion The Randies might be Planners.  I say this because these dinner arrangements were made over a month ago which is rare for me, I know.  From The Randies careful scheduling I can glean they must be very popular with an active, demanding social life which, much like the Brother’s Wife, is diarised to minute-by-minute precision.  The Brother’s Wife has in the past been known to provide availability for catch-ups in timeslots of 2.30-3.30pm on a Saturday three and a half weeks ahead of time.   There is no such thing as the whimsical Drop-In at the Brother’s house.

Me?  I generally don’t even book holidays that far in advance. 

Here's an example.  Recent evening plans changed dramatically in the space of a 5.06pm text.  I was all set to watch Gary give the MasterChef Master Class on how to make a Chocolate Marquise with Mascarpone Cream and Pedro Jimenez Poached Plums from the cosiness of my gas-heated home while feasting on an antipasto collection of Italian delicacies from Norton Street Grocer washed down with a spot of red when cousin Wilma’s text shrilled, demanding a 6pm meeting at the Coogee Legion Club for the Friday night meat raffle. 

Now I'm nothing if not spontaneous.   And who doesn't love an opportunity to win something?  Even if it is just a meat tray.  Diving into action, a series of texts were fired off to the Husband (“Get the 374 to the beach instead of the 339 home”), a rapid clothes change ensued, hair was made presentable, a slash of Chanel No.214 lippy was slicked on and I was barrelling down the 45km/hr wind tunnel that was the Arden Street hill in the evening’s blustery conditions before you could say “damn why did I bother with the hair”. 

And just to prove you can’t fault the impromptu night out, we won the meat tray and the fridge is now well stocked with lamb sausages, lamb chops and a large cut of lamb which, even after a bit of prodding and a good long look, we think might be shoulder but we're still not 100% certain. 

I’m not sure what brings on this hesitancy to plan ahead though.  It’s not that I’m worried something better might come along.  Not by any means.  It may be that it’s simply a hangover from my backpacking days.  

As a backpacker nothing is really planned, you see.  You just fill up your backpack, head off clutching the latest Let’s Go travel guide and hope for the best.  You can’t get lost because let’s face it, you have no real strategy beyond the vague notion of “travelling the world” (much to your mother’s horror and apprehension).  

So while you may be aiming for, say, Houston, you end up in Dallas because while you were driving you happened to be arguing with your South African Jewish travel partners about when the Messiah was apparently due to arrive on earth, and well, you must’ve missed a turn.  For the record, the premise of my argument hinged on what the global Jewish population planned to do if the Messiah didn't end up arriving at all.  Not just a possible late arrival, but a failure to turn up completely.  What then?  To productively counter this and provide food for thought, my South African Jewish travel partner snorted with derision.  His short and sharp response was this: He will come.  He just will.  After all, they've very generously given him a 6,000 year timeframe in which to do it.

Missing Houston doesn’t really matter though (well obviously - the Messiah’s impending arrival is far more important than getting to Houston.  Unless of course the Messiah was going to be in Houston).  Instead of whatever you were going to do in Houston (and after visiting the Houston Visitor Information website it seems there is a lot to do there – they even have a luxury bowling alley), in Dallas you can always sit on the grassy knoll, visit the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depositary, peer out of the very window from which Lee Harvey Oswald famously allegedly shot JFK, spend your Friday night preparing for your South African Jewish travel partner's Shabbat in your motel room by cooking up a kosher storm over your shared portable travel gas cooker (so small it looks cannily akin to a Bunsen burner) while one of you fans the smoke away from the fire alarm to avoid it going off, raising suspicion and being caught with enough butane in your room to blow a hole through the wall, and catch a Dallas Cowboys game.  Which, surprisingly enough, is exactly what we did when my South African Jewish travel partners and I ended up in Dallas.

It might not be the best idea to raise the backpacking lifestyle in front of The Randies though.  From what I can gather, there was a bad experience in New York which involved some budget accommodation, loud, thoughtless backpackers attempting to dine on Pringles and tuna in a courtyard right outside The Randies’ bedroom window, no blinds, an inability to close the window, and quite a lot of pacing back and forth while gripping one’s head in one’s hands in angst and sleep deprivation. 

I, of course, was not that kind of backpacker.  I am pretty sure I never ate Pringles and tuna together (although don’t quote me on that).  I do know we tried to smuggle kosher frankfurters into the Dallas Cowboys game so the South African Jews could eat.  In an effort to maximise the sale of hot dogs and beer though, the Stadium banned bringing in any food of your own and after a bag search revealed the prohibited contents, we had the choice of tossing the kosher frankfurters or being tossed out ourselves.  Texas isn’t as kosher-friendly to the observant Jew as it professes to be.

Back to the present and Spice I am.  Ordering a set menu (yes - spicy, tasty, exotic, fabulous), we ploughed through what seemed to be dish after dish after dish of spicy food – each dish more fiery, zesty, peppery and tasty than the last.  All accompanied by three bottles of wine.  Three.  How did we end up with three bottles between four people, particularly when one of us (me) didn’t get to drink all that much because they had the misfortune to be the designated driver?  Don’t know.  Clever sleight of hand probably on the Husband’s part.   

You’d think all of that would have been expensive, wouldn’t you?  Nuh.  In total it all turned out to be remarkably good value.  Made all the more ridiculously cheap after The Randies produced two Entertainment Cards entitling the bearers to something like a $100 off the total.  Not only were we eating and drinking like kings, The Randies had considerately made sure we were saving money as well.  You can’t buy friends like that.

And so it was that we devoured our way through a plethora of curries and chillies and roasted this and deep fried that, finishing off neatly with the dessert of the day which turned out to be a divine surprise of some sort of sweet sticky glutinous black rice over which was poured some sort of sweet creamy coconut type of milk, topped with a scoop of green tea ice cream ingeniously served in a glass just to make it appear even more chic and glamorous (and I’m sure tasted all the better because of it).   

To quote The Randies – delicious.  Just delicious.

* Clover Moore – current Lord Mayor of the City of Sydney since 2004

**The Randies are also host to the annual highly acclaimed and coveted Randy Awards.  You might have heard of it?  No?  Well, I am honoured to be the proud winner of the 2010 Randy Award for Favourite New Person of the Year.  It’s not often you get a text message like that on New Year’s Day.  I’m currently working hard to retain the title.

Sydney: Something to Declare

Showers.  That's what the weather forecast says.  I'm not sure what the weatherman's definition of "showers" is but the reality is that it has been bucketing down.  "Expect torrential downpours and prepare for a holocaust" is a more appropriate representation of this morning's weather. Not even the cab driver would get out of the car to help us with our luggage.  Said he didn't want to get "pulverised".  So he let us get pulverised instead. 

And this, to neatly top off my homecoming entry through Customs.  In my luggage I had French wine, fois gras (sealed in tins - try not to panic), French nougat, English truffles, energy bars, a whole box of muesli bars from Waitrose, and a caramel Easter egg.  A contraband apple I had been harbouring was ditched at the last minute and left on the plane. Australia are immeasurably fussy about the types of things we bring into the country - food, anything made from wood, shoes you may have worn to a farm or a park where animals might poo and you might be in danger of stepping in it, anything of a combined value of more than AU$900 (a very low threshold; I mean really - a person returning from a long weekend in Bali loaded up with all manner of shit they bought in Kuta could even breach this) - all are no-no's and require careful inspection before being granted entry.  

It's a treacherous road, the Something To Declare line.   All your bags are placed on the ground before you while you line up pensively behind them.  You know your bag is clean and you're carrying nothing more sinister than the caramel Easter egg - after all, you packed it - yet you can't help but worry all the same that somewhere someone has slipped something in without your knowledge (thanks Schapelle Corby). The feeling is a bit like expectant parents standing behind their toddler, hoping their 2 year old won't scream out an impromptu "f**k" (picked up at home from their father) followed by a swift kick to the shins of the customs officer (picked up at baby gym). 

Then come the dogs.  Unfortunately the beagle took a shine to the girly backpack Online Trainer had no longer wanted and given to me (probably because I had teased him incessantly due to its lovely peach colour) and kept returning to stamp on it, sniff it and apparently try to break into it.  While this might appear cute under normal circumstances, it is cause for great alarm when a trained border protection sniffer dog seems to think there is something in your bag worth hanging around for.  What the f**k had Online Trainer done with this bag before he had given it to me?  What had he been carting around in it?  I know he has a penchant for sports supplements but truly, this was going too far.  Even though it was only 14 degrees and I was dressed for the balmy climes of Singapore's 33 degree weather, I started to sweat.  Images from movies like Bangkok Hilton, the second Bridget Jones' Diary film, and snippets of that reality TV show Border Security skidded and collided through my mind.  This could end badly. 

The customs official swiftly picked up Online Trainer's girly backpack (now mine) and opened it.  Frantically I showed him where the food was, pulling out 6 energy bars, the box of muesli bars, the caramel Easter egg.  Is there any fruit in here? Was there any in here recently?, he asked.  I told him I'd just discarded an apple I'd been carrying.  This seemed to satisfy him.  He nodded.  "Residual Apple" he yelled to the dog handler as she dragged the beagle away and continued to move her way down the line.

Welcome home to Sydney.