The ability to be able to actually write while, no, as, the poetry for,s on your head, as the words like tendrils curl around each other to make a wall of red, green and yellow leaves, is a writers greatest joy.

To be able to grab a pen, the keyboard, the tissue paper as it hit you - nothing, nothing compares.

The muse goes away once you pay for the coffee, once you end the shower, once you get into the train.

The ghost is there like a dream in the first few seconds of subconscious wakefulness.

If you don’t hold on it, and manifest it on paper immediately, it will disappear. And all you will be left with are the black and white images and the moments emotion.

But the story itself, the indulgent crimson and the silvery prussian, will never be quite as beautiful when expressed as red and blue.

Gosh that was a bit intense. Just finished watching oranges and sunshine which is by far one of the most moving movies I might ever have seen.

Because it doesn’t even try to be.

Neither do any of the actors.

Because the story needs nothing. No frills, no script. It stands so tall on its own that one might wonder how it didn’t garner an Oscar. Maybe it did. Maybe, I don’t know. Sitting on a flight I cant check Wikipedia or IMDB. I saw it only because I wanted to download something to watch on my iPad for the long journey, and this was the first low cost iTunes rental movie that caught my eye. But at any rate, how well it did commercially does not bother me.

The movie tells the story of the forgotten generation. The generation that Kevin Rudd apologized for in 2009, my second year as an Australian migrant. The generation that I for some reason thought was connected to the aboriginal people? I had it mixed up with the stolen generation. I saw episode after episode of debate programs on national telly about it, but never once did anyone explain what had happened for some reason. And never once did I look it up really. It’s just assumed that everyone in Australia knows about this dirty little secret. Bet you that story isn’t in the australian citizenship test book on my desk hey?

It’s a true story of 130,000 young boys and girls who were given up for adoption across Britain in the 1950s, all below the ages of 13, some as little as 4, were migrated with the consent of the British government across New Zealand, Canada and Australia. Within Australia, they were packed off to a remote location in the outback of the desert where they - the aforesaid children - constructed huge children’s homes through forced labour. So basically, they were told their parents were dead, this was also unofficially indicated on the paperwork, and they were shipped, unaccompanied, in droves, on a month long ship journey from England to Australia. Hoards of them on a ship, no idea where they were going or why. Then upon arrival packed off to the wilderness. This was done under the aegis of the Christian church- as was the nature of child care and social welfare in those days. The brothers of the “parish” if that’s what we want to call them, were the wardens of the prison. For that is what it was. An Australian Alcatraz, too remote for anyone to find or run away from, where the child was made to feel they were indebted for life for the fact that they were given food and shelter (or whatever excuse for food and shelter it was. They each had a bed in an unventilated unseated room and one set of clothes - no shoes.) And incase it hasn’t already become apparent, or crossed your mind, just the way that the Khmer Rouge and the Abu Gharib prisons became stench houses of carnal dictatorships, so did this. Stories of the girls and boys being assaulted repeatedly by the brothers have been documented, scars that have left 60 and 70 year olds today that manifest in multiple failed marriages, substance abuse and post traumatic syndrome. It’s like Holocaust for children - only these kids had no idea what they were being punished for, some of them too young to even know they were being abused as they had no idea what the outside world was like. They were let go at 18 and had to then fend for themselves - lonely kids with no family, no idea of what a normal life looked like - and no educational or vocational skills to speak of sans the ability to work 13 hours a day cleaning floors, laying bricks or whatever utility they were tasked to as a child.

Sounds like a scene out of a Charles Dickens novel doesn’t it? I used to think the 1800s were bad. This was the 1950s. And this was what the Christian church and the governments of the most developed countries in the world were doing to their own kids.

Wherever they build a house of prayer
The devil always builds a chapel there
And it is found, upon observation
That the latter has the greater congregation

In 1987, when this came to light, both governments said they had done the best they could and they didnt understand why it wad such a big deal. No one died, they all grew to be productive members of society, what more could one expect the organizations in charge to do with so much liability post war? It took several years and public outrage before the government and the church took accountability, leave alone apologized.

We humans can be so bloody inhuman when no one is looking.

And then they fuss about taking on 7 people on a boat. I mean, seriously.

I remember watching Anne of Green Gables as a child and thinking I was so lucky to have parents who could afford to have me. Seeing what lack of infrastructure as a child can do to a life has a huge impact on my personal value system - the joy of mentoring, my respect for my mothers work as a teacher, my respect for working women, hell, even my strong belief that one should get married when one if dead sure and have a bloody stable partnership before having kids - only so the kids can grow up without more personal demons than they already have to face on the playground.

Look, I’m sure there are much more angry stories out there. I’m sure journalists have ripped both sides to pieces. But it’s easy to do that, isn’t it? I guess my question to each journalist would be - what’s the point? Its like trying to provide compensation to soldiers returning from war. It’s never the money, is it? It’s never the revenge. It’s just doing our best to try and make it better hereon. And offering a genuine, heartfelt apology. In the end, that’s all one can do. Unless you have the strength
Ike Maragaret Humphries, the next door social worker who at the cost of her family and personal safety spent - and still spends - her life trying to reconnect child with parents, there is really no bloody point.

Every country has a history. Every history has messy, bloody, gory bits. But we can’t forget it. Just like a couple who cannot turn a blind eye to each others faults. If you screw up - you apologize, you make amends, and you move on. It’s the only decent thing to do. Its the only thing you can do. So no, this doesn’t make me sad to be Australian (well technically my citizenship test is in 2 months but still). It just reminds me that just like being Indian, just like being Hindu, just like being a girl, there are joys and sadnesses that come with each identity. Stereotypes - and those who break them. Life isnt always warm and sunny in Australia, and it isn’t always cold and gloomy in Britain. Life is - oranges, sunshine, and a little whole lot of rain to make us appreciate them both.

Also, if I have the guts to give up the money, once I have my citizenship and my MBA, maybe, just maybe, I’ll give up corporate in a few years and apply to be a social worker? I think I would really enjoy it, though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss the money and lifestyle. We will just need to find me a rich hubby methinks.

So I’m pretty much a British English speaker, with bits of nerd speak thrown in (I am guilty of using a smidgen of ghetto talk if someone sasses me). Being part of an American firm has introduced me to a variety of interesting quirks of the language here. Some of the funnies include:

Too funny. Too funny is to “That’s funny” as ROFL is to LOL. I think.

Yes Ma’am. Not to be mistaken for the sarcastic version we use to indicate someone is being bossy, Yes Ma’am is a genuine token of chivalry, in use when a stranger on the street says you are on Pennsylvania Street to when your manager says you’re on the right path with that report.

That’s the shit. Um, this is somehow meant to be a good thing…not really sure what American cuisine is coming to when we start to enjoy strange delicacies…

You the man. Who, what? Is wanted in a million states? And I’m a woman. A lady. Or at least, a girl. But don’t say “you the girl”. That’s worse.

I think the day that a child sees that their parents just have an ordinary love, is the day they give up on extraordinary love. They then spend their lives looking for a perfection that doesn’t exist, and all the beautiful stories that could be wilt at the crescent of blooming. And slowly the self prophecy snowballs, and the magnifying glass each relationship is put becomes, over time, a soiled wall, caked with the tears and dirt that get dragged into each break up. And one day, we realize we are all alone. Not only have we lost the ability to let someone in, but we are trapped in a room of glass our own making. We have forgotten what it’s like to even look outside, how to hear a knock, how to invite someone in to our place of shame.

Me:

O lovely Sunday with skies do blue
Whatever shall I do with you?
Spend you basking at the beach?
Or only keep remote in reach?

Sunday:
First, stop rhyming.

A delightful day indeed.

Started with a early morning doctor’s appointment that forced me to be dressed and set by 8am, and then an hour of sitting in a cafe by the Hampton train station and going through a latte, two poached eggs on toast with salmon on the side here while people watching as tons of families and dog walkers and cyclists made their Saturday morning brekkie pitstop at nearby cafes and fresh food shops.

This, followed by the discovery of by far the best second hand bookshop I have discovered in Melbourne. This adorable place, called Bound Words, is run by an elderly couple, Ailsa and Peter Zerbe. It has old style solid timber shelves, no advertising, and they still use the words “second hand” instead of “pre-loved” which sold me before I even entered. The couple lookout in op-shops and garage sales across the city to find their books, and while most are between $6 and $10, some full sets of classical authors and old style coveted coffee table books and reference books can come at a pretty price. I, of course, wanted everything in the store. I finally came out of there after an hour of deliberation with these four treasures:

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

The Prophet, by Kahlil Gihbran

Oscar Wilde: Plays, A Compendium (mainly to re-read A Woman of No Importance and The Importance of Being Earnest)

And this completely gorgeous 1930 blue faded copy of 1914 & Other Poems with 0.5mm thick pages that are uneven due to non-standard nature of publishing in those days (for only $6, replete with a light blue thick fountain pen writ inscription of “Dear  on the front flyleaf).

The road parallel will lead into Beach Road and Esplanade Road Brighton, through designer houses, and cyclists and joggers. I parked and read for a bit on the beach (lucky I keep a picnic blanket and straw hat in my boot for just such an “emergency”!).

Then it was back home to soak my feet in a pampering pedicure while finishing my current read..but wait, what should be on channel C31 but one of my favorite indie shows: ShelfLife, a sweet show that reviews books, meets publishers and up and coming as well as struggling writers. A real eye opener, this particular episode. They spoke to a independent publisher about the digitization of books. Now this particular lady allows her authors the options of putting a digitized version of the book online after 6 months of publication, with 60% of the profits going into the writer’s bank account, as against the 10% that mainstream publishing houses allow. But here’s the interesting part: to her, this whole e-book craze is but a passing phase. It is transcendent into a open source concept of publishing, if you will, where the readers of today, so opinionated, living in a world where journalism has moved into citizen microblogging (the Egypt crisis being a prime and supremely effective example of why citizen media is far more unbiased and democratic) and where the readers will pay not so much for the book, but for the ability to interact with the book as a media. To be able to share alternate endings, a picture of a place they holidayed at that may have been referenced in the book, a way to write fan fiction around it. This whole experience of a book is what will define its success - its ability to integrate various forms of modern media - facebook, twitter, tv, and the actual book itself, into a complete and 360 degree analysis.  Like the concept of an iPhone is only worth the apps on it, the book itself means nothing, it is what you have done with the experience of having read it that makes it meaningful. It basically takes book clubs and amazon reviews to a whole new level if you ask me. Exciting stuff indeed.

With that, I sign off, quite sure that the remainder of this day will offer more joys in my otherwise mundane week. Sayonara!

At the risk of sounding completely full of myself, I’m rather proud I survived yesterday. At 7pm I decided to go out as it was a Friday. Crazy.

Garage being 5 inches in water should have given me a hint.

Thank God I did, because as I switched the radio on, first thing I heard was - Frankston train lines suspended indefinitely. My sister was stuck in the city with no way to get home!!

Party cancel, mission get to city launched. North Road had nil visibility, after a while my brakes starting taking upto 10 seconds to take effect in the half foot water level puddles. Nil visibilty got worse. Minus something. Made it till St Kilda road, where trams were back to back and being evacuated by police. Traffic lights not functioning meant everyone was just taking it slow and driving when they saw enough space. Dangerous.

Kept ABC News Radio on. Heard St Kilda road been blocked by police seconds before seeing it with own eyes. Firetrucks and police sirens blocked the road, and one by one they let us through. My car got stuck midway in the water and we ( a policeman and a passenger from tram) had to push it through. Engine stalled. Restarted engine, was told by policeman turn back. Said can’t North Road worse than St Kilda road, look behind me. Sister in city. Better to reach city than turn back. Finally reached city, parked at Exhibition since MC roads reported worse off. Walk to MC. Grab sister. Storm subsides by 9:30pm. Start driving back around 10:30pm after roads have drained. Calm drive back. Cannot believe the change in an hour.

Garage now little better in flooding levels but looks like could get worse. Car on road or in garage? Radio says may be hail. Garage it is. Recover what we can from storage in garage.

Come home, fall dead asleep on couch.

What a day.

1. Samanthas character. Nuff said.
2. Chris Noth isn’t super fit, super smooth and frankly is a bit of a 
   sugar daddy with a tiny beer belly, even. It’s good that the guy Carrie is crazy about isn’t the fellow writer, the hunky family man or the glamorous Paris eurotrash. It’s a guy, just a guy, flaws, commitment issues, tv addict and all.
3. Carries book isn’t a success!
4. It’s ok to not be able to be a perfect mom.
5. Or the perfect wife/girlfriend. But you have to allow your husband/boyfriend the same liberty.
6. The girls cannot cook. (Charlotte can only do desserts.) But Big can. Oh dear. I’m in trouble, aren’t I.
7. Girlfriends. Are. Survival. (kisses to mine)
8. Fashion. Yes it’s a bit unrealistic, yes, so is the entire show, even patronizing and stereotypical at many times, but hey so was devil wears prada! Relax and have fun with it.
9. New York.
10. Two of the four girls choose not to have kids. And they’re not defensive or 
    any less womanly for it. And the other two are not any less career minded for having kids either.
11. Belief in love in a cynical world.
12. The attention to detail. In the apartments, the choice of mobile 
    phones, even the Getting Pregnant Naturally books that line Charlotte’s bookcases when she is trying.
13. Modern women can be suspicious and cynical about romantic gestures.
14. Marriage is not the final destination. It doesn’t even have to be part of the journey. Sometimes the closest people who taught you the most aren’t non-platonic. But they can still be your soulmate.
15. You can never know yourself fully, not at 20, 30, 40, not even 50. (Why do we even try as teenagers?!) So instead of trying to find someone *compatible* find someone who will go along with you on the ride of the ever changing you.
16. Don’t be scared to get real. You ain’t seen love till you seen love when the s*** gets rough. Be miserable together and b**** about life to each other :)
17. Cheating is never EVER on. Even when you leave, leave with class and grace.
18. Your relationship is yours. With your man, with your Mum, with whoever. Don’t copy what its supposed to be from the magazines or from anyone else.
19. He’s just not that into you. And guess what, till you leave him, the guy who is completely and totally into you ain’t never gonna find you baby doll.
20. The world is a beautiful place despite it all. Go and find your fabulous life!

I have written several posts elucidating my love for this country, and for Melbourne in particular. I especially appreciate the strong sense of camaraderie, the spirit of adventure, and the willingness to accept on equal standing the entrepreneurial skills of a goth punk tattoo parlour small business owner and an all star mba grad with two degrees in finance. But, as with any other culture, there are a few quirks that I really really wish would change.

1. Clothes, shoes: Same brand, double the price. 
2. Books: Same book, three times the price.
3. Cars: Don’t even get me started.
4. Sometimes, it is about inequality. Sometimes, the younger generation has to learn that they can’t count on the government in terms of support services - both financial and otherwise - to have their back when they make such obviously bad choices. 
5. There is a world off this island people!! Six whole continents of it! And its not just Bali and Thailand. Look at another continent, tune into BBC and ABC more than Channel 7 and 9. And London is not the only city to aspire to when shifting work settings. There is New York, Delhi, Dubai, Los Angeles, Hongkong, Singapore - a whole world of cosmopolitan cities that are waiting to be discovered. 
6. While on the subject of narrow mindedness, no, being born in this country does not give your kids more right over the jobs than an immigrant’s kid who has worked hard to achieve that citizenship status. Yes, your kids do have to work harder for jobs now because the “incomees” are giving them a run for their money. Guess what? This is an immigrant country. 80% of you came on a boat, or if you didn’t, your grandfather did. Get off your high horse.
7. And just because they look like porcelain dolls does not mean they are exotic. There are more Asians than all other natives put together in this world. So, really, who is the minority in this scenario? Think about that one. And get used to the smell of MaPoTofu wafting out of your neighbour’s window.
8. Not everyone has the privilege of being able to follow their dreams of starting their own business, or being a musician. Not all societies have as much infrastructure in place to support non-college grads in the workplace. Respect that, and have a little sympathy.
9. Women, if you want respect in the workplace, dress for it. Your fetish for bling bags, little bauble skirts, high heels that you obviously can’t handle, and skinny jeans needs to be left outside the workplace. No leopard print Diana Ferraris are going to be high enough to break that glass ceiling - and Swarovski hurts when you hit your head against it.
10. Oh yes, and skinny jeans. On guys. Aussie guys, you are so cute with your careless blonde hair and natural outdoorsy-non-gym-built muscle…so why, why, why would you do this to yourselves?! The boyfriend jeans of Australia are skinny jeans? Seriously?
11. Just because the city is safe at night and lacks street walkers does not mean you walk across the streets like you are one at 3am, at three degrees, alone, sloshed, in a tiny dress and no coat. That’s just plain stupid. If you ever live outside this country, you will get killed. Or worse.
12. And just because the driver penalties are high in this country does not mean you go through half your sandwich, stop, text back, and then look up at the clouds to see if it will rain as you make your way the pedestrian crossing. Yes, you have right of way. No, you do not own the way. Only cows have that right, in India.

*Disclaimer: No victimization or generalisation intended. I am fully aware that there are several lovely Aussies who I am proud to call my friends who happily defy these general observations. *Insert more legalities here*

The epiphany hit me, as many do, in the shower. 

The reason I have been unable to write, despite so many false starts, despite reading so much, despite so many encouraging voices softly informing me of the lull in output, despite so much free time, is in fact, exactly that. Too much free time. Too many encouragers (is that a word?). Too much information.

And now, with my Mum in town in less than 24 hours, I suddenly have so much to write, so much to tell. Now, with changes on the horizon in less than 30 days, I suddenly want to think about what I will be leaving behind, and what I will be taking on. And now, with my calendar going from blank to full, I am suddenly inspired to do more. 

Without apparent incentive.

What changed?

It would seem that there is such a concept as too much of a good thing. With my GMAT out of the way - should I choose to go to graduate school in the next 5 years that’s the first step taken care of (I still haven’t figured out how I will raise $80,000!) - and my driving license duly acquired, there remained a large pile of books to be read. So I got to it. And facebooking. And tumblring. And web surfing. And reading about shares, and Marketing, and Economics, and Notorious B.I.G., and all my other “phases”, and all of Neil Gaiman, and what have you.

Guess what?

It was all too much.

Turns out, I just needed time away from all of it - movies, shows, even music, the interesting conversations, and all the information that is fed to us in so many channels all the time, everyday, that it leaves you feeling drained from the information overload. 

I have found, unsurprisingly, that my attention span has gone down drastically in the last one year. Part of this is my job, and the way it requires you to be able to re-prioritize 10 times a day, leaving a current task for a more urgent one. But part of it is also me. I choose to deal with my personal inbox, my work inbox, my iPhone, my texts, my personal calls, my desk calls, and my usual list of tasks from 10am - 7pm everyday. Thereafter, hitting the couch at 9 pm and then retiring at 1 am isn’t doing my brain any good. Friday evening is usually social time. By the weekend, I am too exhausted to do anything but minimal household cleaning and the necessary chores.

Worse still, I find my efficiency in each one of these activities is waning. And without efficiency, you don’t get results. And without results, you don’t get success. And without success, you don’t get enthusiasm. And without enthusiasm, you lose efficiency. And the cycle continues.

Until finally, I have lost touch with my friends overseas for “lack of time” (how? I have so much time on my hands), I have lunch with former colleagues far less than I would like to, I claim not to have time for all the things I want to do like go to the gym or take up salsa or read books (okay so this one doesn’t suffer). And I end up sleeping far more than I need to for lack of drive to get out of bed in the morning.

This is not efficient. Yet hundreds of Gen-Yers are doing this every single day. Its no wonder we feel like we are burning out by 25. There is too much information, too many goals, too many role models, too many under-30 achievers, too many Whartons, Googles and Zuckerbergs. Nothing you can do seems original, because, thanks to the internet, we know that all we can do is aspire. It has ALL been done before.

So the best I can do is empty out the superficial processing of a million facts, and make space for the deeper processing of a few.

And for this, I need quiet time. To sit and reflect. Not on people or information. But just to reflect. With an empty mind. 

An empty mind. So hard to achieve.

A college friend recently put up a blog link on Facebook that cites a Harvard report’s findings - the report states that $40,000 is all you need to be truly happy (in Indian living standard equivalent terms, this would be a just under 5 lakh rupees a year, or a mid-tier IT worker’s wage). 

I’m convinced.

For my birthday, I was offered a chance to be taken out for dinner anywhere in Melbourne. Now, not that I don’t enjoy the occasional gastronomical extravaganza, but sometimes a girl wants to eat somewhere fun, especially after work on a weekday. Fun, but not cheap. So we were trawling Malvern road, deciding between Il Divo and another similar sounding Italian soprano band name passing off as an elitist restaurant, when I saw Nicosia. 

To be accurate, its not Turkish. Its Cyprioc cuisine (yup, that’s a word, google it). Which, as it turns out, is even better. It combines the good marinated aromas of turkish doner, pide and is-this-ambrosia dips with the fresh Mediterranean crispness of calamari, prawns and a confusingly large array of fish mains and sides. 

Unfortunately for us, at 10pm on a Thursday night, the pizza ovens were off, but the Doner and Hellim pizzas come highly recommended. The sizzlers can be given a miss, for you are better off ordering an array of the entrees.

Before you even look at the menu, order 2 baskets of Turkish bread and their assorted dips platter. You will not regret it. Then, order the Meze, a traditional Persian mixed bag of hot and cold appetizers, zucchinis roasted to perfection, rare mushrooms marinated and grilled, meat vine leaves dolma and an assortment of other local fresh produce put to the test on their barbie. 

Once you’ve tasted these, you can choose between chicken and lamb pides, rolls, sizzlers etc, several sea food dishes including a mouth watering mixed fish plate (I am a seafood junkie) or one of their gourmet pizzas (also made on turkish bread).

Best enjoyed alongside a glass of their red house wine, or for the more discerning, Jacob’s Creek and a couple of other standard Australian fare.

For the little ones, there is everything from mini pides and pizzas to miniature versions of several favourites. This also makes an excellent casual lunch venue, and the slight tackiness of the Cyprioc bayside dock pictures and local handicrafts only adds to the charm, as an UrbanSpooner recently commented.

I was impressed by the excellent service, and medium wait, considering the quantity and variety ordered. The waitress seemed to really know her way around the menu, and much of what we ordered was based on her recommendation. Although this place is more family than romantic, the food in itself is the journey. Fresh, perfect, made with care. And it shows.

We paid $61 for our dinner for two, and we ordered 3 entrees, 2 bread baskets, dips platter, a mains and wine for two. I’d say that’s good value.

If you do happen to visit, let me know how you go. Any other recommended places in the Malvern/Caulfield areas?

I am writing from a Mac in a dark corner of Brisbane’s Sofitel hotel. The fun part: I ain’t paying. The hotel has a $20/hour charge, so I simply looked for a free WiFi - McDonald’s had one - connected to that and voila. Gorgeous.

The bad part: a 23 year old sitting alone at the reception of a city hotel at 11 minutes past midnight in a city she has never been to. She just blew up $200 to come visit a friend who will be in this town for less than 24 hours. That’s right, I apparently have truly understood the meaning of disposable income. Instead of buying a Fossil watch I’ve had my eye on for days (I don’t own a watch before you make this a double pass guilt trip) I decided to blow it on one day for a friend who herself was surprised because frankly, we aren’t that close! And Brisbane? Not Gold Coast - just Brissie.

I really shouldn’t be here. I’m sleepy, and I have been informed she might not even be staying at this hotel. Of course I can’t confirm till she gets off her flight, which is at 1 am. I’ve slept off twice in the chair, and one of the women out of the Malvern real estate catalogues has been staring at me from the bar for a while now. “Not pretty enough to be an escort, not dumb enough to be waiting for someone…what on earth is she doing here in flourescent sneakers when I’m wearing Chanel heels?”

So what does one do for one day in Brisbane. Probably not go to the famous Steve Irwin Australia Zoo - because that takes all day, $169 and let’s face it - the main attraction is dead.

So why am I here.

I AM BORED.

Life is fine, work is fine, I might get a chance to do some employer paid classes in Project Management soon. But I want nothing, need nothing more. I have family, love, friends, enough money. I am complacent. And it is an attempt to shake myself out of the reverie, I suspect that has led to this impulsive profit to Tiger Airways. What’s scary? I’m happy being as I am. Last weekend, I did nothing on Saturday, on Sunday I went to the gym and then ate French crepes amongst very Frenchie blokes and waiters in Degraves St, that very EuroTrash meets Carrie in Paris laneway in the heart of the city.

I haven’t even read a serious book in the last couple of months. Every one I pick up, Amartya Sen, Nadine Gordimer (one of whose short stories in the award winning Beethoven was one-sixteenth black was the autobiography of a tapeworm!) I put  down after the first few chapters. Chic’lit I have no problem breezing through. My brian is slowly being bleached blonde by the UV rays on Australian shores. And I DON’T care!!

I did have an interesting drive in to Brisbane though. After running past a desk that said I had missed the last train into the city, I found a bus service iosk. Bought a ticket was told to get into the “white truck” and pointed into a vague direction. Upon stumbling through what appeared to be a parking lot with no white truck in sight and after asking several people, a man called out my name, and asked if I was heading to Hotel X (which I was). Just great, Ashita, 10 min off the flight in a new city and you’re alone in a parking lot with a 50 something guy who knows your name and destination. Turned out he was the driver of aforesaid white truck, which had been held up since I hadn’t found my way to it.

Did I tell you I love Australia? I do.

But I STILL will not raise a family here. Nuhuh.