1.6k in my shoes

A late post, handwritten in Alice Springs and rediscovered in Ardmore

Sometime in early December

In the last few months, I’ve run in some really cool places. I’ve run around lakes and along the Pacific Ocean, across the Sydney Harbor Bridge, around Royal Park, along the wharf in Port Douglas (one of my favorite runs — it ended at a park by the water, and I sat along the rocks and watched the sun set over the mountains), and now, I’ve run along the Todd River in Alice Springs. I don’t take walks, and if I weren’t a runner, I might’ve missed out.

My WWOOF host, Kris, directed me to a dirt path behind the house. It runs along the Todd River. The river, incidentally, is completely dry now, though I’m told it floods sometimes. Apparently, you can call yourself a local once you’ve seen the river flow three times. My hosts say there’s no wet season; every now and then, “randomly,” it rains enough for the river to flow.

My hosts have two dogs — Rocket and Spud, a puppy. Kris told me that, if I called for Spud, he’d join me for the run. Rocket, older and wiser, knows better than to run in the heat.

The last two mornings, Spud has magically appeared as I’ve headed to the back gate. He’s my trusted navigator. He led me to the path and, after our first loop around, back home (good thing he came along — I’m not sure I’d’ve recognized the gate). Spud’s no fool; when I headed out for a second loop, he stood at the gate and watched me run away, too hot for another go. He probably thinks I’m crazy for trying. In this heat, I haven’t managed more than 3 or 4k. I’m trying to add a bit each day, but I think I have to grit my teeth and wake up early, if I want a proper run. Maybe then, Spud might join me for the second loop.

On cleanliness, sort of

A week or two ago, I got a Facebook message from Elizabeth, a Haverfriend who’s spending the semester in Seville. In her message, Elizabeth told me that she’s already “grown so much as a person.” She asked about Melbourne, and I guess I heard a different question – have I “grown as a person” too? I’m not sure what it means, but whatever “growing as a person” entails, I thought it’d happen to me while I studied abroad.

I’ve told a few people – Mom, a few friends – that I feel wiped clean. I’m missing a lot of the nouns/verbs/adjectives that I’d usually use to describe myself. Musician (I don’t sing here), good student (I have no idea what my grades look like, because so much rides on final exams), leader of…stuff (no Tunes, no Tri Club, no clubs at all), generally capable of managing a busy schedule (no extracurriculars, except triathlon training and once-a-week volunteering). My own fault, if “fault” is the right word, because I didn’t look for choirs, clubs, research opportunities (I guess we can cross “motivated” off the list, too). An American friend and I agree that “Study Abroad Student” is itself an extracurricular activity; it’s plenty stressful, emotionally exhausting, and keeps you busy. And maybe I’m a bit burnt out from four rough semesters at Haverford, and wanted a break. But feeling so clean has been, at times, unsettling, and I feel restless.

But listen, it’s me. I’m not about to write a depressing blog post.

Not too long ago, I was Skyping with Rachael (another Haverfriend) and tried to describe the weird, clean feeling. (Insert comment from Mom suggesting that, perhaps, cleanliness feels weird because I’ve never cleaned anything in my life.) And Rachael reminded me that, when you’re stripped of all the add-ons – clubs, grades, activities – you’re left with the stuff that really matters. Here, I am still myself, and it’s nice to know that I don’t disappear when the other stuff does. (In the immortal words of India Arie, “I am not my hair”…okay, I know this is TOTALLY not what she meant, but hey, I think the interpretation works.) And I’m recognizing priorities and goals that, perhaps, I didn’t really recognize before – the sorts of priorities that, I’m fairly certain, have always been there, but have been hiding under choir rehearsals and meetings and essays and GPAs….

Okay, THAT’S what I thought Australia would be like

Sorry if this post seems a bit out of character — but I have a story that needs to be shared.

I’m training for a sprint triathlon on November 20, and today I ran a time trial at Prince’s Park. I was jogging to the starting point, and a PARADE of incredibly attractive, muscular young men in matching singlets ran past. In the opposite direction, so basically, an endless conveyer belt of hot dudes. COULD NOT stop laughing (out loud, by myself, with my headphones still in). I have no idea who they were, where they came from, or what they were doing, but I’m not gonna question it.

This morning, I ran in the Sydney Running Festival — a HUGE event that includes the Sydney Marathon, a half-marathon, a 9k bridge run, a 4k family run, and about 35,000 runners in all. I entered at the last minute, and on a whim, so I ran the 4k — by the time I registered, only the marathon and 4k had spots remaining… no way I’m doing a marathon on 24 hours’ notice, so I ran with the families. First things first: ten year old boys are FAST. Some of them flew by me (and their parents) before we’d finished our first kilometer, and I never saw them again. There was a kid/parent meeting point at the finish line — not for kids who’d lost their parents, but for parents who’d run too slowly for their kids.

This event was AWESOME. I’m so, so glad that I showed up. The 4k finished early on, so I sat on the steps of the opera house and watched the families and the half marathoners finish. (See above — my view from the steps!) I met up with Ben, and we stuck around to watch the marathon runners come in. We kept trying to leave, but couldn’t stop watching! I’m looking for a better word than “inspiring,” but nothing comes to me now. I definitely teared up a couple times. Finally we stopped trying to leave, bought sandwiches, found a bench near the home stretch, and just watched. Such a great morning!

The Sydney Opera House by night

Last night, we saw Opera Australia’s production of Lakmé (Léo Delibes) at the Sydney Opera House. We bought tickets at the last minute, so we ended up with partial view seating along the side of the theater, in the first balcony level, right at the front. We missed just about everything that happened stage left, and we couldn’t really see the surtitles, but we had an awesome, up-close-and-personal view of the orchestra. Important take-away lesson of the night: at every level, conductors insist upon mouthing nonsense syllables at the orchestra — here, “waaaah, wah waaah.”

The Yarra River on our way home from the ballet

Last night, Tom and I saw the Australian Ballet’s final preview performance of Romeo and Juliet (Prokofiev). We weren’t crazy about the production — apparently the choreographer, Graeme Murphy, is known for his “audacious reinventions” (http://www.australianballet.com.au/whats_on/event_detail?perfid=1901). Of course, we LOVED the music, and the dancers blew us away. Just could have done without the flashforward to 1920, the Act II opener set in India, and the desert death scene…. Watching Romeo’s “monologue” during the balcony scene, I thought (again) of a quote from an Australian Envoronmental Philosophy reading:

“In a famous chapter entitled “The Body as Expression and Speech,” [Merleau-Ponty] wrote at length of the gestural genesis of language, the way that communicative meaning is first incarnate in the gestures by which the body spontaneously expresses feelings and responds to changes in its affective environment. The gesture is spontaneous and immediate. It is not an arbitrary sign that we mentally attach to a particular emotion or feeling; rather, the gesture is that feeling of delight or of anguish in its tangible, visible aspect. When we encounter such a spontaneous gesture…the bodily gesture speaks directly to our own body, and is thereby understood without any interior reflection….”

From David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous, 1996

On roots and wings

I’ve lived in Australia for two months. I spend most of my time with Australian students, but I have a handful of American friends, and we seem to agree that homesickness comes and goes: some days you feel it, some days you don’t, and it’s easily triggered by little things — something someone says, a song, someone’s status update on Facebook….

I miss the comfort of “home” — whether home means Elkins Park or Haverford. I have friends here in Melbourne, and I think they’re amazing. I like them a lot. I can go to them for help, for company, to hang out, or to go out; but there’s a naturalness and ease that comes with time — with knowing someone for a while, with living next to them — that I don’t think can develop in two months, and it’s that ease that I miss the most.

I miss the comfort of home, but it feels imprecise to say that I miss the people, because I don’t really feel that I’m without them. I’m beginning to believe that I carry my family and my real friendships along with me, and I know that they don’t go away when I go places. For my Australian Environmental Philosophy class, we read an essay by Ghassan Hage called “Roots will be with you always.” It’s a quick and easy read, if you’d like to have a look. I thought I’d share a quote:

“When we are pushed by a force, it can make us go forward. The same goes with a force that is propelling us. Yet there is one important difference: when we are propelled, the force that pushes us stays with us. There, it seems to me, lies the importance and the power of the roots that I am referring to: they are not roots that keep you grounded, they are roots that stay with you as you move. They are of the same order as the “with” we offer someone when we wish them: “May God” or “May the Force be with you”. It is a Heideggerian withness that gives strength to our being.”

On weird Australian sports

Before I arrived in Australia, I’m not sure I’d even heard of footy (Australian Rules Football) or netball. But here in Melborne, both are very popular (I hear that footy isn’t quite as popular outside of Victoria), and I’ve gotten myself to a couple Hilda’s games over the last few weeks. A tiny bit of background for anyone who, like me, has spent their life in an American sports bubble: to the uneducated American spectator, footy looks like a strange, chaotic football-soccer hybrid. There are 36 players on the field at once — 18 from each side — and goalposts on either end of the field. The object is to kick the ball through the other side’s goalposts. Legal forms of passing include kicking and “handballing” (basically, punching the ball); you can’t just throw it, and you can only run with the ball for 15 meters before bouncing it, touching it to the ground, or passing. And, to quote Wikipedia, “possession of the ball is in dispute at all times.” In other words, everyone’s constantly tackling everyone and trying to steal the ball. AND NOBODY IS WEARING ANY PROTECTIVE GEAR. And I’m pretty sure the only “illegal” way to tackle is by holding. And there are no offsides rules. So basically, this game looks like a MESS.

Now let’s compare to netball. To put it simply, footy is the men’s sport, and netball is the women’s sport. Netball is played on a lined court, with goal rings at either end. The object, of course, is to shoot the ball through the other team’s goal ring — but you can only shoot from inside the goal circle. You can only hold the ball for three seconds; then, you need to pass or shoot. There are seven players per team (on the court) and everyone is assigned a position, which restricts her to a particular part of the court. THE PLAYER’S POSITION IS WRITTEN ON HER JERSEY, so there’s no confusion. Contact is only allowed if it doesn’t interfere with play.

I’ve spent the last week writing a paper about gender performativity via language use: the notion that gender categories do not exist until the moment of an utterance, at which point the speaker brings his/her gender “into being.” In other words, gender categories are constructed, not preexisting. You’re not tied to a gender, and your gender isn’t tied to you, but instead you construct your gender when you choose to use particular language.

After all of my research, I SHOULD be pretty sensitive to gender stereotypes, and careful about generalizing gender, or about suggesting that any gender characteristics are innate, preexisting, or predetermined.

That being said…the football/netball comparison seems brilliantly and hilariously typical of the male/female dichotomy. The men’s sport is, from an outsider’s perspective, chaotic and disorganized. There are no offside rules or lines on the field; go where you want, whenever you want, and pass the ball however you want to pass the ball, with the exception of the SIMPLEST and MOST OBVIOUS method — throwing. Grab the ball from whoever, whenever. If you don’t have the ball and you want it, just steal it, using violence if necessary. And don’t wear a helmet, or any protective gear. Because that would just get in the way. And you wouldn’t look so tough. (A friend on the Hilda’s team was concussed during last week’s game, and told me afterwards that “that’s just footy.”)

For the women’s sport, the court is clearly marked and so are the players. Everyone has a position, and everyone knows exactly where they’re supposed to stand at all times. And just in case there’s any confusion, everyone’s position is written on their top, clearly spelled out for all to see. If you want the ball, you have to earn it — you can’t just tackle your opponent, or steal the ball out of her hands, because frankly that would be rude. You can’t interfere with someone else while they’re shooting; that wouldn’t be fair, either. And there is one way to pass the ball. You can’t just shoot from wherever; there’s a place for shooting, and you can’t have too many women in the goal circle at once, because that would be a little too messy.

I think we all know which game I’d prefer…

lost in translation

The language barrier never ceases to amaze me. Theoretically, we’re all speaking the same language (English, allegedly), but when I sit down to dinner with Australian friends, I find myself interrupting conversation every few minutes to ask for translations. Like American English, Australian English is littered with slang and figures of speech; some Australian expressions simply don’t exist in the American lexicon — others are comprehensible to me, but nonetheless strange to hear, as I wouldn’t use the words myself. For example, the students I live with say “keen,” “top off,” “shop” (not store), and “meant to” (in place of “supposed to,” which is rarely, if ever, used); I understand the words, but as an American, I wouldn’t use them in conversation. Still, it’s funny how quickly language adjusts. Today, I heard myself say “If I have scheme [i.e., work in the kitchens] at six tonight, am I meant to eat dinner beforehand or after?” and told Sarah via skype that “he’s definitely keen on you.”

On the other hand, I don’t use the brand-new expressions as easily, or as naturally, as I’ve taken to the vaguely familiar ones. I don’t think I’ll ever say “arvo” (afternoon), “spew” (vomit — okay, I guess we have that word back home, but I still think it’s weird), “what do you have on today?” (what do you have to do today), “how’re you going?”, “that’s all right” (you’re welcome), “singlet” (tank top), or “sally forth,” and I’m still struggling with “subject” (class). I can’t call my french fries “chips,” and let’s be honest — I don’t know if I can call my flip flops “thongs” or my sweaters “jumpers” with a straight face….

This afternoon, I ran along Swanston Street (a bit too crowded for running, but today the skyline looked so pretty that I couldn’t resist) and passed a group of skateboarding uni students. One of them offered me a high five and they all freaked out when I indulged him! The joke’s on them, though — it’s snot rocket season here in Melbourne…