Penguin seen, Halley do
Last week, we went to see the Fairy Penguins of Phillip Island. These penguins are popularly called, "Little Penguins." You know why? They're little. Shocking.
At most, they'd weigh a little over a pound. That's before they've molted, and after they've been gorging themselves on sea delicacies, like salt-water taffy, for weeks on end. They then hang out in their nests for a while and molt. Like after a long holiday, you just sit on the couch, watch tv and your peeling skin. Same thing.
It's dangerous for them to go back in before they've grown their new coats. Both parents take turns tending to the young. The young are loud and fuzzy. Make your own comparison here.
I know these facts and many more because the rangers at the preserve were terribly friendly and available. We all took advantage, separately asking questions to the rangers stationed around the area for approximately 17 hours, cumulatively. In fact, the four of us (me, Kim, Christine, and Eric) were the last ones out of the park, and had the boardwalks close down behind us as we were gently ushered to the front by a line, eight across, of rangers in official red ponchos - ostensibly so no one mistakes them for the jerks who paid $26 for the fancy green ponchos, or the cheaper jerks who paid $7 for the blue tarps/ponchos. These are not to be confused with our phyllum of jerk, who ignored reports of rain and said, screw it, I'm not buying a poncho, we're already wet anyway.
The rain stopped. The penguins were adorable. Tiny little things. Waddling in groups. They were like pods of waving fields of wheat, in miniature.
In theory, I *really* wanted to pick one up. I wanted to pick it up, kiss it on the keppe, and call it Pooh Bear. In reality, they are supposedly nasty to hold, would peck your face if you got close enough to kiss it, and definitely don't like being called Pooh Bear. Still, it was a quite amazing sight to see.
Around 9:00 pm, they start coming out of the sea after a day of fishing, to return to their mates who stayed back at the nests with the youngins, or if the babies were a little older, both went out to come home to anxious squalking. We paid a couple extra bucks to get to the good boardwalks, which are set up to give viewing spots for the penguins coming out of the water and all the way up into the hills where their nests are. So we got right up next to them. Close enough to get pecked, if they were tall enough to reach the boardwalk, which only put us about a foot off the ground, if that.
I watched a pair of baby penguins come down the hill from their nest. The bold one ran down it, making it known that they were there and they were hungry. The smaller one followed down slower, staying closer to the nest. And when it got too noisy, the little one would run back.
The adults came out of the sea in groups called rafts. The first back to shore waited by the water's edge for a bit. Probably saw a bird circling. Birds eat Little Penguins. Like late-night canapes. Soon, though, the coast was clear (literally), and they started running for the hills, down the walkway next to the boardwalk. They'd get tired and stop along the way. It's rough being a penguin. One even was scooting in on his/her stomach because walking was too hard after a day of good eatin'.
There's no photography allowed (don't want to scare 'em away), but the gift shop was happy to sell me some shots.
Earlier, we spent some hours around the island (only an hour or so drive from Melbourne), at the Nobbies. The Nobbies are large hills in the water. Get your mind out of the gutter. There's also a seal island there. I paid $2 to use a telescope to see out to the island for approximately 15 seconds. The seals weren't particularly easy to see, even then. But they were there, laying on the rocks, like big puppies in a basket. A very large, wet basket.
Along the coastline there, there's another boardwalk. It was an area "loved to death," where people walked on it so much, all the groundcover was gone, so were the native flowers that lived on it, as well as the nesting grounds for gulls and terns, and the little penguin burrows. The groundcover is back, thanks to protection agencies and the boardwalk, and the whole area is covered in green. It looks like the Irish countryside a bit. Only there's no peat, or even grass. The area is covered in succulents that look like jade plants, with little purple flowers.
To top off all the natural beauty were the bird carcasses from territorial fighting. Yum.
We found the town and found a dinner place. Our dinner was taking a while (it takes a while to grow the stuff for a salad), so I asked the waitress if we could have a piece of the cake to start with. She told me no, we had to have dessert after we ate our dinner. ...uhhh, okay.
By the time we drove home, we had pictures of me waddling around like a penguin, pictures of Eric with the Nobbies sign, and pictures of the sun peaking through clouds, turning the water golden. With a dead seagull in the background.
you know you're in a veggie, crunchy household when...
...you find something stuck to your foot and it's a linseed. From your soy and linseed bread. Organic.
You also know it when you have a conversation involving turkey, bologna, and schnitzels, and no one has to ask if any of these refer to real meat. Because of course they don't.
And now... your moment of Zen
Not quitting my day job.
It's so hot here.
How hot is it?It's so hot they shut off our hot water, figuring no one would actually be interested in using it.
Not a joke, really. Unless showering in ice water is funny to you. Then, yuk it up.
Seats worth getting arrested for
Wednesday night we went to the tennis. THE tennis. The tennis where we saw Maria Sharipova and David Nalbandian, $12 strawberries and cream, and small children scurrying across courts.
The Australian Open was very cool.
To answer your first questions, yes, Sharipova's screams (outbursts of ravishment?) are even funnier in person. The harder she hit the ball, the higher pitched and longer lasting the grunts got. Like she was on a roller coaster or in bed with someone great. Even a well-behaved tennis crowd couldn't help giggling while the points were being played. Of course between points/games, the crowd got rowdy (and only moreso as the evening/beer went on).
She played an American woman, Ashley Harkleroad, who gave her a bit of a match. The crowd loves an underdog (and a longer-lasting match) and the American had major support from the crowd. You'd hear, "Go Ashley!" and then "Go, Masha*!" and back and forth until the serve began. But, of course, Sharipova won. She was powerful and tough in her short aqua tennis dress (with matching visor). The Russian women have been mentioned as the best-dressed of the tournament. Terribly important, you know.
David Nalbandian played a Swiss guy with a Polish name and everyone started making up pronounciations of it. Aussies like to shorten everything, so you can imagine the variations. 'Stan Wawrinka' became Rinky, Wa-ro...but usually it ended at Stan. The crowd was louder now and started shouting whatever... There was a "Go Leyton!" and an "Aussie!Aussie!Aussie! Oi!Oi!Oi!" Even though there were no Aussies playing. Seriously. The umpire dejectedly pleaded with the crowd "Please! Please! Please!" I think he realized the chant would just have to finish...
The weirdest moment was when the women's game started. I have never experienced 15,000 people shutting up all at the same time. From a roar to a pin drop. I could hear the players moving their feet on the court. Perhaps we could bring the phenomena to concerts, where all the people around you start singing along like they're in the shower and all anyone can hear is the asshole next to her. Unless you are at a John Tesh show. Then, by all means, encourage the singing.
Both Sharipova and Nalbandian are the #4 seed in the world now. "Tall Poppy Syndrome" prevents the Aussies from letting anyone get too big for their britches. You can rest assured the underdogs were well cheered for in each and every match. The weirdest one was a guy at the end yelling, "Finish him!" It was never clear who he was talking to.
Kim and I were sitting on one side of the stadium and the other four were opposite us. We were behind the baseline and off to the side a little, up on the upper deck. As it was got later and people were leaving, Kim and I moved down. We had made it to the top of the corporate seats (with small sign identifying the company) when the other group found us. Christine, Sarah, and Ali stayed there (and left soon after, around 11-ish), but Kim and I made a break for it, down to the front, and Eric soon followed. ("You guys just booked it! I didn't notice until you were already sitting! I had to wait.") Our method was waiting until there was a break in the game and people were moving in all directions. I was inclined to do the move down front in two jumps, but Kim just kept going. We made it to the sixth row from the court. Later, I came back from the bathroom and the two were a few rows closer.
Before a lot of people were moving, Kim and I were careful to lean forward so no one could see that we didn't have the passes worn to show we were supposed to be in those seats. We were generally nicely dressed so we didn't stick out terribly. We acted like we belonged there (rattling our jewelry) and no one bothered us, though I noticed the ushers giving funny looks to some people around us, later. "Why yes, these are our seats! We are
valued employees of Asian Accountants International!"
We ended the night in row four. If the space between the players and our seats were a house, we'd have been sharing tea in the sitting room. Tennis tea. Also known as beer. We could see the little ball handlers smiling to each other when they made a successful dash to one side or another, the plush set-ups of the very rich, and beads of sweat on the faces of the players. Row four, baby.
*Because she's such good friends with the 15,000 of us there that we can call her 'Masha'. 'Maria' is just what she gets called by people in the other stadium. And yes, 15,000. It looks huge on tv, but even all the way in the back in the stadium doesn't seem that far.
(The pics are posted. Click on
My Photos.)
Department of Wandering Where We Probably Shouldn't
In South Africa, if you see a sketchy alleyway, you avoid it. There's probably nothing but trouble down it. And if there wasn't already trouble down the alley, seeing you there, trouble would follow you in. You certainly don't go down the alley. In Australia, this is where one would go to find cool bars.
Last night, our heroes found one of these bars thanks to a guest starring role by Kim, Eric's very-much-fun visiting friend. She heard of this place called the Croft Institute, one of Melbourne's infamous side-street, back-alley, hidden-away bars. We enter exit the main drag to a Chinatown side street. Good sign #1. We finally find our turn-off alley - it is called Payne Place. Good sign #2. It just looks like a short bit of street with a dumpster, but up on the left, there's a turn to another alley. The whole way is well-enough lit a covered in colorful street art. Some spray paint graffitti, some polynesian-style painted heads, some intricate stencil art, and the requisite band stickers. In the second alley are dumpsters and the open back door to a kitchen. Turn right at the end, and we're in a really long corridor which (blessedly) has a small plaque saying 'Croft Alley'* up on the corner of a building. We're all laughing by this point, thinking that they just tell people a bar is down here so idiots, much like ourselves, will wander here to be found by those with malicious intent. We keep going, seeing that the alley eventually dead-ends. Good sign #3. But we keep going. At the far end, there is a small, lit sign that says "Croft Institute" and we are happy.
The place is very cool, very chill, but I think part of our immediate love for the place was due to simply finding it in existence. It's made out to be a re-creation, of sorts, of a 1950s/1960s chem lab. There a lab tables with a sink, stools, and enough test tubes and beakers to keep a kid up to no good for a week. There are low couches and low lighting along with other bar necessities. The third floor is an old gym that has fresh growing grass and a dj (open only on weekends, so we didn't see it, though we did jiggle the door handle to try to poke our way in). The second floor has doors marked "Officeology," "Alchology," and the Departments of Female and Male Hygiene. The white tile of the women's bathroom was joined by a small, odd-looking fountain I was afraid to touch (an old eye wash station? a urinal for a giant with a tiny bladder?) and a gurney bed. Of course there was.
After a few hours of cocktails, remembering what we could of grade school science songs**, pop quizzes to Sarah of the contents of exotic drinks, and chemistry pick-up lines (Is that a pipette in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?...and some titration jokes that didn't work out as well) we left. We ended the night at an appropriately-named Greek place called Stalactites. Nothing goes better with drunk fools than some late-night spanikopita, saganaki, and "meat" pies of unknown origin.
Tomorrow we go to the Australian Open. We're debating which colors we should dress in - Green and yellow would be fine, but would blend in with all the other Aussies. Red, white, and blue would be different and more likely to get us on tv, but we would hate to be mistaken for Brits. Or even worse, French. We might just have to go in our best 'tennis whites', enjoy a bit of the bubbly and forget about colors altogether.
If you hear any announcements of, "Would the obnoxious Americans please be quiet?" keep an eye out. It's probably us.
*The actual address is Croft Alley. Yes, alley. Not like the little side streets in Boston that are, for all intents and purposes, alleys, but are still given other titles like 'lane' or 'close' or 'place where you are likely to get mugged'.
**(with a snappy jazz beat) Paramecium: a single-celled, microscopic, slipper-shaped, an-i-mal.
I suppose there's no backing out now...
The blurb on the La Mama site is up.
Scroll about 2/3 down the page, under "Other Events".
http://www.lamama.com.au/news.htmlThey changed the text for the blurb a bit. I think it was better before, but I'll live.
Beggars can't be editors.
Good things come to those who nag
First group of pictures: posted
Click the "my photos" link at right. Unless you can't find it. Then you'll just have to have a good cry about it.
Close, but no cigar
There are a few new photos up (around Melbourne, before and after the Queensland trip).
Click on the "My Photos" link at right.
The photos of strange bugs, idyllic beaches, and sunburnt roommates will have to wait for another day...
It's a virtue, you know
I'm working on the photos, but here are a few to hold y'over while you wait...camped out in sleeping bags in front of the monitor, pressing the "reload" button with the hope and belief of the faithful and the young.
Good on ya' - keep going with that waiting thing.
The Great Barrier Reef out near the Whitsunday Islands. Chanukah/Christmas Day, 2005.
Sarah and I in our sexy stinger suits out on the reef, right before a snorkel. (Stinger suits so as to avoid possible severe nerve damage and long-lasting pain.)
Christine and Eric, halfway up a rainforest hike, Mission Beach.
Where the rainforest meets the ocean, the Beach Thing sprouts a new pod that will one day conquer the world.
If only such a faerie existed...
In our fridge: coconut rum, ketchup, grape jelly.
And yet, we keep opening the door expecting new contents to magically appear, courtesy of the Bubbie "You look hungry, here, eat something" Faerie.
Currently, Sarah and Christine are eating from a tin of heated up "savory lentils".
For breakfast around noon today, I had a spoonful of peanut butter. (Incidentally, that isn't a terribly unusual breakfast for me.)
It is time to go grocery shopping.
"I got it in a knife fight in Caracas..."
I am trying to resist the urge to scratch the mosquito-bite scabs that make a curious constellation on my right elbow. I got them all overnight, one night, out in Cape Trib (in the rainforest), where an ambitious mosquito enjoyed the buffet of my elbow sticking out from under the sheet.
And now, the scabs itch*. Yes,
scabs because I scratched 'em when I got 'em. You would've, too, so I don't want to hear any of this "Ooh, you shouldn't scratch them. You'll get scars..." I'm not so worried about the scars because I think that would be cool to say, "...and these scars are from the wildlife in the rainforest in Australia." Okay, maybe not. That sounded much cooler in my head.
Oh, and we're home (as of the wee hours of yesterday morning). Melbourne is cold.
More to come...(yes, including photos)
*They only recently scabbed up because in the tropics, the warm, bacterial saltwater prevents your booboos from healing. Or, if you manage to scab up, once you get back in the water, they come off prematurely. Disgusting scab commentary: just another serice we provide here at Halley's House of Eww.
